Almost everyone wants to be in Parliament. For those who are already there, they say they are qualified and they deserve to be in the House.
They passed the proficiency test. They can speak English. That’s good! They can manage to write in English. To them, all is well. At least if an MP can control the pen to write and say some sense in English, it is all fine – that is a threshold enough to gauge the MPs’ mental and intellectual malnourishment.
At the time of the test, those that had an MSCE certificate or any qualification above were exempted from the examination. How should a nation examine someone who is well educated? They know a lot. If they posses the basic MSCE certificate, it means they at least know the basics.
The syllabus covers a good number of basics, enough to make an individual well-informed.
Although the proficiency test was introduced, with some pain, I fail to grasp the reason for its set up. If it is only to see how fluent one is in English, be it written or orally, as a nation are we helping one another? Is the mere understanding of English a reason enough for one to qualify for a seat in the House?
This coupled with the strange calls by almost every celebrity that they want to stand as MPs, jittery I am failing to appreciate the whole situation. Something needs to be done. Not to bar the aspirants, but at least to separate chaff from the group of many aspirants. At least to see how ready they are.
Being an era of globalisation, where what is happening in USA or Britain, South Africa or Zimbabwe can have a bearable effect on the people, it high time we critically analyzed those to make laws for us in Parliament. Those to be in parliament need to have at least basic knowledge on different things. How many MPs have been quoted saying something on EPAs, AGOA, the once looming economic recession, the economic slow down, the global warming, the oil prices, and many issues that in one way or another impact Malawi.
In other ways there is need for a mechanism that surely should sieve the MPs or those aspiring to become one. The honourable ladies and gentlemen face issues of all extremes – most of them of the great importance to the nation. There are crucial decisions that the MPs are supposed to make. And they do that.
But despite the proficiency test, it is only few individuals who take part in the deliberations. Others just follow where the wind is blowing without scrutinising the contributions.
There have been few who are opinion leaders in the House, with the rest being reduced to mere opinion followers. There have been some issues that the MPs have failed to participate in. Chances are high that some of the MPs are always mum not that they don’t know how to speak English but because of the barrier in understanding things.
In other words, members of Parliament need to be well versed in issues from different spheres of life. They may not have knowledge of everything, but they need at least to have an overview of the current affairs as it is happening around the world. They must know other issues as well not only English.
My point of view is that English test is not enough in all senses. There is an urgent need for a special screening process that apart from gauging them in English, the MPs basic knowledge and reasoning in politics, economics, religion, environment and other issues that directly or indirectly will have an effect on the formulation of laws in the country must also be scaled.
Just like it happens at the interviews or entrance examinations in universities, some people may qualify but still there is a process of verifying if the person qualified is indeed qualified enough. Other MPs are educated but that can not guarantee that their mental capacity will contribute to the country’s development.
With the frightening influx of aspirants to be members of Parliament, some of them looking as if there are running away from poverty, it is necessary to screen them and see if they can contribute anything meaningful.
At this critical time when the nation is at its preparatory phase in readiness of the 2009 General Elections, that responsible need to re-examine the requirement of proficiency test.
This should be considered because whatever decision the MPs make, it has a long term bearing on the way the country is run. They need to be people equipped with enough knowledge that can help the country.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
THE RETURN
The sound of keys is forced into the rim lock, followed by the opening of the door. Inside it is pinch dark. Very dark! The stout policeman is standing on the doorway. He signals me to follow him. Is this the way out of here? One question after another made jingles in my mind. Inside there, it’s hell. I don’t want to propound that I have the whole lot of shrewdness, but when it comes to facing these issues, point black is the only way I believe can help snap a true picture. You see inside there its broil as if you are bread ready to be supplied in town the following morning.
At times when you are inside there you tend to lose hope. Sometimes in the pretence you look callous. That is but just one of the very many ways for surviving in those rooms.
The very first day I stepped in those cells, under the cloud of consternation, I thought the world was against me, I was deplored of my sentencing. The conditions inside there are perplexingly perilous where diseases are transmitted at superhighway velocity. It’s by sheer lucky that Ebola is some miles from here.
I will not tell you the reason why I found myself behind those bars, may be its high time the investigative journalists did their noble gamble once again on me, because I believe if I can divulge, even succinctly in clues, the reason why I was behind those bars those responsible may throw me in jail again. I said gamble? yes. If journalists touch the wrong nerve you know the price that these scribes pay. Its hell man!
“Ah!” I sighs a relief, wind blowing all over my face. Rooted at the gate, yet fidgeting, I don’t know which way to take. Fifteen years in jail have for sure pooh-poohed me. Like a maniac man my head is almost rotating in state of puzzlement. My eyes in the socket are failing even to identify the very road I am standing on. Since I have been in prison I have been told that four elections have take place.
“Atcheya!” a boy putting on a jersey like that of Bata Bullets yells at his friends. Then a fleet of yellow pick-ups, cruising to kill, women on board very frantic, passes by. “Atcheya! Atcheya!” Songs by women constipates the atmosphere, all in yellow, may be their blood as well, I guess. “Who is this that is very popular?” I quiz myself.
Someone, harsh voiced, red-eyed with traits of handsome face traceable comes selling brick like scones. “Madala Bin laden for sale.” Luckily, by the time I went to jail I was in the third form, a thing that helps my eyes do the looking, brainpower do the interpretation and my lips pronounce what was embossed on the T-shirt as “Bin Laden.”
“This is the notorious bomber…. Like the scone once you eat it, hunger will be bombarded, “ he says after realizing I am looking at his T-shirt with a great curiosity.
At least I know that the president of our country is a man, though I have forgotten his name. The certain politician, who for two years joined us in cell, at least pumped some senses in my forgetful mind.
The infrastructure has changed. Roads, buildings, telephone lines. The list is elongated. Some people are even walking with lineless phones. They call them cell phones, the Bin Laden seller tells me.
“Hey this is your bag. Don’t forget it wherever you will go,” says the policeman. “Your village is Khakwe near Ntcheu Boma.”
“Oh Khakwe, I almost forgot it”.
They offer to take me because there is a vehicle heading to Ntcheu. I am in a very different world, a planet I don’t’ know. I peep outside pulchritudinous women are everywhere laudable to cause luscious wave in my body. Women walking almost naked, I close my eyes. They are in dishabille.
“If I rape them, who is to blame?”
“What!” Raucously a policeman shouts at me.
At around I pm the vehicle arrives at Ntcheu Boma. The day is sizzling with the sun swaggering down the sky. Yawning rankles me how ravenous I am. The money I am having is an only MK100 of 50-tambala notes. The moment I entered the prison it was equivalent to US$25, but now it’s even less than a mere Dollar. I shake my head. As I count K20.00 of 50 tambala notes to buy Bind Laden scone people’s eyes pierce at me, though with a great curiosity.
“Now we have K10 made of coins,” says the shop owner, flashing a gaze of sympathy at me. My heart sinks. Why are people looking at me like that, I murmur under my breath. He is a man of oval face, rambunctious in whatever he does. We agree to strike a deal. He buys MK80 made of 50 tambala notes at MK5000 with clothes as part of the deal, I agree, I have insatiable thirst for money.
After filling my tummy to the capacity I set off to my village. This means I have to hop on another 5 km of land with a scorching sun enjoying the better part of my body. At a pace of a millipede, I carry myself.
“As I was filling my tummy I got the wind of many words,” I say to myself. The cacophony of words, my short life, has never tortured my eardrum. The eloquent shopkeeper talked of “impeachment.” Then the whole chain of words followed “Induction”. “Defection,” “Witch hunting,” “constructive resignation,” “Starter Pack” “Political Prostitution.” The list is endless. No any grain of ribald!
With 15 years I have been rotting in jail I hear many people become instant millionaires. Even Nyozani probably the dullest guy in our class was appointed as a minister and got very rich. It is also being said that more crimes have been committed, yet the poor are the ones that are saturating in our prisons. Yes true.
One thing is putting me on the tenterhook; since I have been here I haven’t met anybody I know. Far down the path, I can see the ground on which we used to play Chipuka. Examining the houses, you find that there is either health with no occupants or only remains can be seen.
I approach this banda house. At first my heart is bubbling in unimaginable solution of happiness and anticipation, of course to meet my long time friend. A person who all of the sudden his face in my mind has just snapped in. Now he is my only raison d’etre. . His name is as simple as Munganya. He is the only individual who frequented the prison in the earliest days, only to stop for the reasons I don’t know. Now am 35,he is my age mate.
I cover some few metres, but to my dismay the house looks abandoned. “Good heavens,” I cry, the only hope for the living I have is on breach of slipping away.
I feel perspiration standing out on my forehead. Eerie silence engulfs my surrounding; I am riddled by the stillness the village is hosting.
Very few houses seem to have people and even though that is the case, most of those houses are child-headed. That I will find someone at home doubt monopolises my psyche. The very same home I enjoyed looks gloomy. I am lucky at least my mother is there. She welcomes me. She hugs me. Happiness can been read in the eyes of the old lady, especially to see her only child back.
“Welcome home achimwene,” For the first time in more than 15 years comforting words are said to me, Her love is till tender though herself in senescent.
I ask about the village, Her expression obfuscates, cheeks are bathed in moist, her white blouse plays host to the glittering drops of tears.
“There is a monster. It has terrorised the whole village. Now only the children, who are being called orphans are looming every pocket of the village,” She reveals it all.
“They call it Aids. It kills. Now they say in towns and cities it is for sell. People are walking almost naked. But if you don’t do skirt chasing, you are assured of not getting caught by it. Even when positive just live positively.”
“Where is Munganya?”
“Come as well. He developed narcissism.”
Now I cannot do otherwise. Tears are running down my cheeks. That is the only opportunity I cherished and looked forward to. Now shattered like a broken glass tumbler. My heart is sinking. My mind is tumultuously interpreting the surrounding. My eyes are but giddy. In me I can hear myself vituperating. “Why can you go so soon.?”
It’s time to sleep. Mama says good night. My life is hopeless. I take the rope. Everything is intact. I step on the stool; the voice fills the air, “Pachanya!” It’s mom.
I throw myself, swinging in the air, my head ballooning, eyes to the point of bursting, and in nose blood smells. A crack! I am on the floor. Darkness, starts all are over my face.
In a flash cars scream outside, Policemen are already in the house.
“The man you talked to and had lunch at his shop has been found to be possessing counterfeit money. Since you are the one who had the transaction with him you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent because anything that you would say will be used as evidence against you in the court of law,” with admirable authority one of the cops says.
At times when you are inside there you tend to lose hope. Sometimes in the pretence you look callous. That is but just one of the very many ways for surviving in those rooms.
The very first day I stepped in those cells, under the cloud of consternation, I thought the world was against me, I was deplored of my sentencing. The conditions inside there are perplexingly perilous where diseases are transmitted at superhighway velocity. It’s by sheer lucky that Ebola is some miles from here.
I will not tell you the reason why I found myself behind those bars, may be its high time the investigative journalists did their noble gamble once again on me, because I believe if I can divulge, even succinctly in clues, the reason why I was behind those bars those responsible may throw me in jail again. I said gamble? yes. If journalists touch the wrong nerve you know the price that these scribes pay. Its hell man!
“Ah!” I sighs a relief, wind blowing all over my face. Rooted at the gate, yet fidgeting, I don’t know which way to take. Fifteen years in jail have for sure pooh-poohed me. Like a maniac man my head is almost rotating in state of puzzlement. My eyes in the socket are failing even to identify the very road I am standing on. Since I have been in prison I have been told that four elections have take place.
“Atcheya!” a boy putting on a jersey like that of Bata Bullets yells at his friends. Then a fleet of yellow pick-ups, cruising to kill, women on board very frantic, passes by. “Atcheya! Atcheya!” Songs by women constipates the atmosphere, all in yellow, may be their blood as well, I guess. “Who is this that is very popular?” I quiz myself.
Someone, harsh voiced, red-eyed with traits of handsome face traceable comes selling brick like scones. “Madala Bin laden for sale.” Luckily, by the time I went to jail I was in the third form, a thing that helps my eyes do the looking, brainpower do the interpretation and my lips pronounce what was embossed on the T-shirt as “Bin Laden.”
“This is the notorious bomber…. Like the scone once you eat it, hunger will be bombarded, “ he says after realizing I am looking at his T-shirt with a great curiosity.
At least I know that the president of our country is a man, though I have forgotten his name. The certain politician, who for two years joined us in cell, at least pumped some senses in my forgetful mind.
The infrastructure has changed. Roads, buildings, telephone lines. The list is elongated. Some people are even walking with lineless phones. They call them cell phones, the Bin Laden seller tells me.
“Hey this is your bag. Don’t forget it wherever you will go,” says the policeman. “Your village is Khakwe near Ntcheu Boma.”
“Oh Khakwe, I almost forgot it”.
They offer to take me because there is a vehicle heading to Ntcheu. I am in a very different world, a planet I don’t’ know. I peep outside pulchritudinous women are everywhere laudable to cause luscious wave in my body. Women walking almost naked, I close my eyes. They are in dishabille.
“If I rape them, who is to blame?”
“What!” Raucously a policeman shouts at me.
At around I pm the vehicle arrives at Ntcheu Boma. The day is sizzling with the sun swaggering down the sky. Yawning rankles me how ravenous I am. The money I am having is an only MK100 of 50-tambala notes. The moment I entered the prison it was equivalent to US$25, but now it’s even less than a mere Dollar. I shake my head. As I count K20.00 of 50 tambala notes to buy Bind Laden scone people’s eyes pierce at me, though with a great curiosity.
“Now we have K10 made of coins,” says the shop owner, flashing a gaze of sympathy at me. My heart sinks. Why are people looking at me like that, I murmur under my breath. He is a man of oval face, rambunctious in whatever he does. We agree to strike a deal. He buys MK80 made of 50 tambala notes at MK5000 with clothes as part of the deal, I agree, I have insatiable thirst for money.
After filling my tummy to the capacity I set off to my village. This means I have to hop on another 5 km of land with a scorching sun enjoying the better part of my body. At a pace of a millipede, I carry myself.
“As I was filling my tummy I got the wind of many words,” I say to myself. The cacophony of words, my short life, has never tortured my eardrum. The eloquent shopkeeper talked of “impeachment.” Then the whole chain of words followed “Induction”. “Defection,” “Witch hunting,” “constructive resignation,” “Starter Pack” “Political Prostitution.” The list is endless. No any grain of ribald!
With 15 years I have been rotting in jail I hear many people become instant millionaires. Even Nyozani probably the dullest guy in our class was appointed as a minister and got very rich. It is also being said that more crimes have been committed, yet the poor are the ones that are saturating in our prisons. Yes true.
One thing is putting me on the tenterhook; since I have been here I haven’t met anybody I know. Far down the path, I can see the ground on which we used to play Chipuka. Examining the houses, you find that there is either health with no occupants or only remains can be seen.
I approach this banda house. At first my heart is bubbling in unimaginable solution of happiness and anticipation, of course to meet my long time friend. A person who all of the sudden his face in my mind has just snapped in. Now he is my only raison d’etre. . His name is as simple as Munganya. He is the only individual who frequented the prison in the earliest days, only to stop for the reasons I don’t know. Now am 35,he is my age mate.
I cover some few metres, but to my dismay the house looks abandoned. “Good heavens,” I cry, the only hope for the living I have is on breach of slipping away.
I feel perspiration standing out on my forehead. Eerie silence engulfs my surrounding; I am riddled by the stillness the village is hosting.
Very few houses seem to have people and even though that is the case, most of those houses are child-headed. That I will find someone at home doubt monopolises my psyche. The very same home I enjoyed looks gloomy. I am lucky at least my mother is there. She welcomes me. She hugs me. Happiness can been read in the eyes of the old lady, especially to see her only child back.
“Welcome home achimwene,” For the first time in more than 15 years comforting words are said to me, Her love is till tender though herself in senescent.
I ask about the village, Her expression obfuscates, cheeks are bathed in moist, her white blouse plays host to the glittering drops of tears.
“There is a monster. It has terrorised the whole village. Now only the children, who are being called orphans are looming every pocket of the village,” She reveals it all.
“They call it Aids. It kills. Now they say in towns and cities it is for sell. People are walking almost naked. But if you don’t do skirt chasing, you are assured of not getting caught by it. Even when positive just live positively.”
“Where is Munganya?”
“Come as well. He developed narcissism.”
Now I cannot do otherwise. Tears are running down my cheeks. That is the only opportunity I cherished and looked forward to. Now shattered like a broken glass tumbler. My heart is sinking. My mind is tumultuously interpreting the surrounding. My eyes are but giddy. In me I can hear myself vituperating. “Why can you go so soon.?”
It’s time to sleep. Mama says good night. My life is hopeless. I take the rope. Everything is intact. I step on the stool; the voice fills the air, “Pachanya!” It’s mom.
I throw myself, swinging in the air, my head ballooning, eyes to the point of bursting, and in nose blood smells. A crack! I am on the floor. Darkness, starts all are over my face.
In a flash cars scream outside, Policemen are already in the house.
“The man you talked to and had lunch at his shop has been found to be possessing counterfeit money. Since you are the one who had the transaction with him you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent because anything that you would say will be used as evidence against you in the court of law,” with admirable authority one of the cops says.
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