365 days ago the world lost one of those that it had hosted for 58 yrs. This is not to say the man himself was lost. He only departed. He departed because this was not his destination. He was only passing through. He was a sojourner. 365days ago he left. Usually pomp and trumpets and a gathering of society's important people characterize the death of those that ere famous, powerful, re-known and sometimes even the wise and great. Human nature being frail and undiscerning as it is, easily removes the barriers that lie between the famous, powerful, rich, and influential on the one hand and the great or wise on the other.
I have had the privilege of at least once escaping from this common trap. I did when 365days ago on a Thursday like today 12th March 2009 one the great men and wise men of my lifetime left this life for the other. There was no pomp and publicity to mark his departure which nobody wanted it took place so soon. His name did not even grace the pages of the cheapest newspaper in Malawi on that 13th of March 2008. Yet I remain convinced that one the greatest men in my lifetime fell that day.
I am writing this piece in a room which has been my abode for the past six months whose address Bjornkarrsgatan 8A23, Linkoping 584 36, Sweden. Exactly at this time last year I was approaching Salima from Zomba to mourn and 48hrs later bury this great man Herbert Manthalu in Batumeyo Village, T/ A Mavwere, Mchinji. For most people getting where I have is one of those things that happen. For me it is the grace of God. Yet this man called Herbert who was my father ensured that the tender lives under his custody as his children manage to get the opportunities of life. What amazes me is the great wisdom this man had. For this reason I have called him a great man. The man was wise. The man saw for his children of which I am the second born among the six. Not only did he see ahead of the moment but he managed to see beyond what some men of letters cannot see for their kids.
The man had no greater education qualification than a Malawi School Leaving Certificate and some other Human resource management certificate or diploma which he got almost twenty years in public service. In simple terms his education was not any attractive. It was not great. This inevitably affected the shape and quality of life we led in the family. We were just kids of a government clerk whose wife was a mere primary school teacher. That is how it was, that simple and real. We spent a lot of time in Kasungu and were staying in by then a medium density location. Most of the neighbours were men of relatively big positions at their respective places of work. Generally, with an exception of a household or two, we were the most unenviable household as regards economic status in the neighbourhood. The man however did not submit to fate. He had failed to get a diploma in his life. His wife is only a primary school teacher with a Junior Certificate qualification. He had every justification to source hope for us from other things, elsewhere except in education. How could he prioritise this realm of education as though he or his wife were an inspiration and models to us? This is where traces of his greatness start to emerge.
Growing up in our home of four boys and two girls in that order of birth was interesting. We might have been poor but were rich in laughter. The home was always noisy. Noise of laughter and happiness of course. But this happiness would suddenly disappear once we had our dinner. The man would command everybody to get his books and be on the dinner table for studies. Were it to end there then it would be a very pale reason not enough to dismiss happiness in the home. It was thicker than this. A sizeable rod would always stand in the corner waiting for use. It could be called to duty once one of us was caught dozing. Mercilessly (but now I know hopefully and lovingly) the whippings would awaken you into reality. Sometimes powerful slaps would follow. Or if there is persistence in dozing, cupfuls of water even during the coldest month of June would do the trick. They would be poured out on your head till your clothes got drenched. No chance to go and change clothes. They should dry while on the body. I do not remember anybody who ever dozed over his book when it reached this far. This was when we were in primary school. Once you got o standard four you always knew moments of happiness were being shortened.
The moment you got to standard 8 where you sit for national Primary school leaving certificate examinations and get selected to secondary school it was much hotter and demanding. No more going out to play even on weekends. There was a timetable for studies not drafted by us but by him. It had breaks of no more than one hour. There was just no freedom but study. To make sure you are not just staying idle in the bedroom, he would administer a test may be fortnightly. Your grades in that test would tell whether you had been studying or not. Not only would the grades tell but a very strong whipping would follow to testify that you were not studying as seen by your failure in the test he gave us. There was as such no choice. You just had to get the good grades if you love living in peace. You just had to study. The results were overwhelming as I now see in retrospect. I can safely say that almost throughout our primary school the average position for each of the six children of us was position three. On very rare occasions was a child of Hebert Manthalu below position five. You knew the reward for such poor positions. I remember that when about three of us were in primary school attending the same school people would envy us. During the pupils' assembly on the closing day there was a public announcement of each class' results and the positions for everyone. Manthalus in their respective class would almost always be on position 1 or 2 or 3. That was it. Then the other folks would admire us and claim that we were an intelligent family. May be they were right. But I do not think that had they ever peeped into the routine of the rigorous study life in our home they would still firmly hold their claims. End of school terms were usually the best times for we could at last get praises from our father. Soon we would sleep and the happiness return unrestrained. But it would not stay long. Few weeks before opening gradually the 'normal' order would return.
Failing an exam or scoring an average grade was always a frightening thing. You always knew that there would be no peace at home. There were no other choices except to study and pass. Not just pass with average grades. But passing with brilliance.
When we got to secondary school the demands were the same. Aim high. Whenever the man met or had some new young graduate bosses whom he had to respect at his work place he would take it wisely. He respected them all. This is usually a problem in a culture where the young must always look up to and respect elders. But he did not let it end there. He would come home and motivate and counsel us to aim at going to university, whose only door was to have nice grades in the national examinations. He always said hard work is the key even for the most poorest of the poor. He emphasized hard work and personal commitment (uyikilako mtima – in his exact vernacular). About 80,000 post-secondary school students then fought for the only 3,000 university places. Your grades had to be good and better. The elder brother did it. Then I did it. My immediate younger brother did it. His younger brother did it too. He had barely finished a semester in his freshman year when the man who had sighted the success for him and forced him to walk in its way slept.
I had thought that now that I had had a bachelor’s degree then I should be contented and much more so should be my dad who had not even a diploma anyway be contented. I was amazed. He called us when my elder brother was about to start work. We needn’t be contented so he said. We should aim at getting a Masters degree. “The world is competitive these days." He would say. Such words? From one who has no tertiary education? I am amazed every time I look back at this. Soon my elder brother went to do a masters degree in the UK. He was always encouraging me to get the opportunity when I find it and that I should continuously be searching. I was searching. There was a time I was shortlisted for an MA in political science in our national university in 2007. I was not successful. My younger brother later told me that the man was very concerned that I had not been picked. He was always raising the issue when they were at home. I had been working though at the time, teaching at Mulunguzi Secondary School. The next year the same opportunity availed itself again to me. I did all I could in preparation. Again I was not successful. This time what made me bitter was not just that I had failed again. But even importantly that I had made the man my dad be even more worried and concerned. I had once told him the previous year that I was in the process of applying for MA studies in Sweden. I had talked about it with him only once. My mother later told me he had been earnestly praying for me to succeed on this one. When I received the news that I had been offered the scholarship I called my mother and broke it to her. After talking with her I hung up the phone. But this was not normal. I would not hang up after talking with her only. I had to talk with her husband, my dad as had been the norm. Not on this day though. Not over this news that I am too sure would have pleased him more than it did please me. I could not talk with him. I wished I had told him the news. But no! How could I? Do you talk with one whose body you have just buried a month before on a 15th of March 2008?
Today I have about two months to finish my MA studies. How I wish that man was there to see it all! But his absence does not make me bitter and bad. It makes me celebrate. It challenges on how to focus and live life. Seriously considering others. Today I am not engaged. Not even do I have a girlfriend. I have no wife and as such I am not a head of a family. Yet this does not prevent me from knowing what it takes to be a great father. I know though a distance away from the institution of marriage of how to be a great father. I have learnt it. I have seen it all in Herbert. Herbert Manthalu of Batumeyo Village, T/A Mavwere Mchinji.
I have had the privilege of at least once escaping from this common trap. I did when 365days ago on a Thursday like today 12th March 2009 one the great men and wise men of my lifetime left this life for the other. There was no pomp and publicity to mark his departure which nobody wanted it took place so soon. His name did not even grace the pages of the cheapest newspaper in Malawi on that 13th of March 2008. Yet I remain convinced that one the greatest men in my lifetime fell that day.
I am writing this piece in a room which has been my abode for the past six months whose address Bjornkarrsgatan 8A23, Linkoping 584 36, Sweden. Exactly at this time last year I was approaching Salima from Zomba to mourn and 48hrs later bury this great man Herbert Manthalu in Batumeyo Village, T/ A Mavwere, Mchinji. For most people getting where I have is one of those things that happen. For me it is the grace of God. Yet this man called Herbert who was my father ensured that the tender lives under his custody as his children manage to get the opportunities of life. What amazes me is the great wisdom this man had. For this reason I have called him a great man. The man was wise. The man saw for his children of which I am the second born among the six. Not only did he see ahead of the moment but he managed to see beyond what some men of letters cannot see for their kids.
The man had no greater education qualification than a Malawi School Leaving Certificate and some other Human resource management certificate or diploma which he got almost twenty years in public service. In simple terms his education was not any attractive. It was not great. This inevitably affected the shape and quality of life we led in the family. We were just kids of a government clerk whose wife was a mere primary school teacher. That is how it was, that simple and real. We spent a lot of time in Kasungu and were staying in by then a medium density location. Most of the neighbours were men of relatively big positions at their respective places of work. Generally, with an exception of a household or two, we were the most unenviable household as regards economic status in the neighbourhood. The man however did not submit to fate. He had failed to get a diploma in his life. His wife is only a primary school teacher with a Junior Certificate qualification. He had every justification to source hope for us from other things, elsewhere except in education. How could he prioritise this realm of education as though he or his wife were an inspiration and models to us? This is where traces of his greatness start to emerge.
Growing up in our home of four boys and two girls in that order of birth was interesting. We might have been poor but were rich in laughter. The home was always noisy. Noise of laughter and happiness of course. But this happiness would suddenly disappear once we had our dinner. The man would command everybody to get his books and be on the dinner table for studies. Were it to end there then it would be a very pale reason not enough to dismiss happiness in the home. It was thicker than this. A sizeable rod would always stand in the corner waiting for use. It could be called to duty once one of us was caught dozing. Mercilessly (but now I know hopefully and lovingly) the whippings would awaken you into reality. Sometimes powerful slaps would follow. Or if there is persistence in dozing, cupfuls of water even during the coldest month of June would do the trick. They would be poured out on your head till your clothes got drenched. No chance to go and change clothes. They should dry while on the body. I do not remember anybody who ever dozed over his book when it reached this far. This was when we were in primary school. Once you got o standard four you always knew moments of happiness were being shortened.
The moment you got to standard 8 where you sit for national Primary school leaving certificate examinations and get selected to secondary school it was much hotter and demanding. No more going out to play even on weekends. There was a timetable for studies not drafted by us but by him. It had breaks of no more than one hour. There was just no freedom but study. To make sure you are not just staying idle in the bedroom, he would administer a test may be fortnightly. Your grades in that test would tell whether you had been studying or not. Not only would the grades tell but a very strong whipping would follow to testify that you were not studying as seen by your failure in the test he gave us. There was as such no choice. You just had to get the good grades if you love living in peace. You just had to study. The results were overwhelming as I now see in retrospect. I can safely say that almost throughout our primary school the average position for each of the six children of us was position three. On very rare occasions was a child of Hebert Manthalu below position five. You knew the reward for such poor positions. I remember that when about three of us were in primary school attending the same school people would envy us. During the pupils' assembly on the closing day there was a public announcement of each class' results and the positions for everyone. Manthalus in their respective class would almost always be on position 1 or 2 or 3. That was it. Then the other folks would admire us and claim that we were an intelligent family. May be they were right. But I do not think that had they ever peeped into the routine of the rigorous study life in our home they would still firmly hold their claims. End of school terms were usually the best times for we could at last get praises from our father. Soon we would sleep and the happiness return unrestrained. But it would not stay long. Few weeks before opening gradually the 'normal' order would return.
Failing an exam or scoring an average grade was always a frightening thing. You always knew that there would be no peace at home. There were no other choices except to study and pass. Not just pass with average grades. But passing with brilliance.
When we got to secondary school the demands were the same. Aim high. Whenever the man met or had some new young graduate bosses whom he had to respect at his work place he would take it wisely. He respected them all. This is usually a problem in a culture where the young must always look up to and respect elders. But he did not let it end there. He would come home and motivate and counsel us to aim at going to university, whose only door was to have nice grades in the national examinations. He always said hard work is the key even for the most poorest of the poor. He emphasized hard work and personal commitment (uyikilako mtima – in his exact vernacular). About 80,000 post-secondary school students then fought for the only 3,000 university places. Your grades had to be good and better. The elder brother did it. Then I did it. My immediate younger brother did it. His younger brother did it too. He had barely finished a semester in his freshman year when the man who had sighted the success for him and forced him to walk in its way slept.
I had thought that now that I had had a bachelor’s degree then I should be contented and much more so should be my dad who had not even a diploma anyway be contented. I was amazed. He called us when my elder brother was about to start work. We needn’t be contented so he said. We should aim at getting a Masters degree. “The world is competitive these days." He would say. Such words? From one who has no tertiary education? I am amazed every time I look back at this. Soon my elder brother went to do a masters degree in the UK. He was always encouraging me to get the opportunity when I find it and that I should continuously be searching. I was searching. There was a time I was shortlisted for an MA in political science in our national university in 2007. I was not successful. My younger brother later told me that the man was very concerned that I had not been picked. He was always raising the issue when they were at home. I had been working though at the time, teaching at Mulunguzi Secondary School. The next year the same opportunity availed itself again to me. I did all I could in preparation. Again I was not successful. This time what made me bitter was not just that I had failed again. But even importantly that I had made the man my dad be even more worried and concerned. I had once told him the previous year that I was in the process of applying for MA studies in Sweden. I had talked about it with him only once. My mother later told me he had been earnestly praying for me to succeed on this one. When I received the news that I had been offered the scholarship I called my mother and broke it to her. After talking with her I hung up the phone. But this was not normal. I would not hang up after talking with her only. I had to talk with her husband, my dad as had been the norm. Not on this day though. Not over this news that I am too sure would have pleased him more than it did please me. I could not talk with him. I wished I had told him the news. But no! How could I? Do you talk with one whose body you have just buried a month before on a 15th of March 2008?
Today I have about two months to finish my MA studies. How I wish that man was there to see it all! But his absence does not make me bitter and bad. It makes me celebrate. It challenges on how to focus and live life. Seriously considering others. Today I am not engaged. Not even do I have a girlfriend. I have no wife and as such I am not a head of a family. Yet this does not prevent me from knowing what it takes to be a great father. I know though a distance away from the institution of marriage of how to be a great father. I have learnt it. I have seen it all in Herbert. Herbert Manthalu of Batumeyo Village, T/A Mavwere Mchinji.
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