Ever tasted chips mayaya?

We are in Mchinji where we have booked a room at St Andrews Jo Hotel. It is a small, but nice place with ever-smiling staff. Jean-Philippe actually likes a girl called Nalia who smiles even when she has messed up things.

“You know I like this girl. So innocent,” Jean-Philippe remarked as we took our late breakfast yesterday.

“Who is innocent?”

Jean-Philippe did not answer.

From our hotel, we have made excursions to Kochilira and Mkanda. Mchinji is not like Lilongwe. Here, in Mchinji, there is virtually no street beggar and everybody is busy making money. Unlike in Lilongwe, here, in Mchinji, no one blames politicians for their individual failures. Unlike in Lilongwe, here, in Mchinji, no one we have met believes a president, male or female, educated or uneducated, dead or alive, can change the economy of Malawi while its people are sitting phwii, busy discussing garbage or defecting.

What surprised Jean-Philippe was how clever and disaster-prepared the small entrepreneurs of Mchinji are. Last night, like almost every night since we came, Escom power went off. We walked out for a drink. But almost all shops had light. Jean-Philippe suggested that we tour the town centre before we settled for a drink.

Everywhere we went, from the smallest barber shop to the biggest Chinese shop along the Mchinji-Mkanda road, we were greeted by the din of electricity generators. 

When we finished our tour of the town centre, we went to a shabby-looking shabeen located near St Andrews Jo Hotel. 

When we entered the shabeen, we were befuddled. As soon as we sat down, a young man, who introduced himself as John, approached us. He greeted and asked us what we wanted to take.

“A beer, please,” Jean-Philippe answered.

“And you, sir?”

“I need something solid before I take anything haram.”

John smiled before saying: “We serve rice, nsima, fish, and, have you ever tasted chips mayaya?.

“What is chips mayaya?”

“It’s our specialty. Nobody in Malawi does what we do,” John boasted.

“The proof of chips mayaya is in the eating!”

John left and went to the counter to collect Jean-Philippe’s beer. He brought it back with a complementary snack.

“What is this?” Jean-Philippe asked as he took the snack.

“Taste it and you shall be satisfied,” John said like some Biblical sage.

John left for the kitchen. Jean-Philippe sipped his drink slowly. Meanwhile, a loud discussion, involving three youngish men, erupted in the shabeen.

“According to a recent study, 70 percent of Malawians don’t like her leadership and say she must resign because she has failed,” said one of the youngish men.

“A study that asked only people with cellphones and Facebook accounts can’t reflect national feelings,” countered another man.

“Even the People’s Progressive Movement says she must resign.”

“What? Has PPM ever suggested any tangible economic recovery policy apart demanding that the President should resign? Anyway, was it Katsonga or the PPM that made that ridiculous demand?”

“What’s the difference? PPM is Katsonga and Katsonga is PPM.”

As the discussion reached its crescendo, John, accompanied by Jean-Philippe’s innocent girl, Nalia, emerged with my chips mayaya. I tasted it and vowed not to take anything else until I returned to Lilongwe, the home of defectors.