Lessons from Edward Chitsulo’s short life

Edward Henderson Chitsulo, aka Moya KL Mphwanye, SP, OSP, OLT, was different things to different people. As we heard during his funeral at Ntepele village, T/A Likoswe, Chiradzulo last Tuesday, he was a great father, uncle, brother, son, friend, village sage and mbwiye.

In the field of journalism and creative writing, Chitsulo was the guru of page design, news editing, trainer of trainers, media manager, leader, coach and mentor. He was so dedicated to work that at times he even failed to go out for lunch. Apart from media management, he wrote two influential columns, Letter from the Capital and, of course, Raw Stuff. He was in the process of writing a novel, The TB Ward, which we, his lieutenants and friends, will ensure is published before we, too, expire since moto umapita kwatsala tchire.

From this week, we will be sharing with you great lessons from his life.

Lesson 1: Don’t Steal

When I arrived in Blantyre in November 1997 to take up a position as senior course manager for academics at the Malawi Institute of Journalism (MIJ), he was senior course manager for logistics. Together we planned, taught courses and sought funds to keep the MIJ running.  Although I had known him since 1985, this was the first time we had sat down and worked together.  One Friday morning, he called me into his office and asked me why, in 1985, I had not taken up the post of reporter at Blantyre Newspapers Limited (BNL). I explained to him how scared I had been when I faced then BNL chairman, JZU Tembo, alone, for the first time in my life. Following that encounter, Tembo must have ruled me out as a coward and a jittery villager who could not cut it in journalism. When I explained to my father how the interview had gone, I was advised to try elsewhere.

“I see,” Edward said, removing his glasses to clean them with a white handkerchief, which he always carried in his shirt or jacket pocket.

“Sure,” I said, sighing.

“Now let me tell you. This is Blantyre. For you to survive you need to know people. Don’t be scared by any service provider. So, if you don’t have money, put on your jacket and tie and go to your bank manager. Tell him who you are and why you think you deserve a loan,” he advised.

“And if he refuses to give me the money?”I queried.

“Smile at him, praise him, praise his bank, and insist that his job is to loan people money so that his institution makes profits!”

“Sounds great,” I said, smiling like all typical Chinthechian Tongas do.

“Next I will introduce you to Mayi a Leya!” he promised.

“Mayi a Leya?”

“Yeah. She is a girl from home and she is my major provider of fresh vegetables, tomatoes, and other kitchen ingredients,” he joked.

“For free?”

“No, no, no. Quid pro quo. She doesn’t operate a charity. You collect as much as you want and pay later. That’s how we survive in Blantyre. Use your public relations skills to soften people to get what you want. That way your wife and children will eat; but thou shalt never steal. That’s the greatest commandment,” he advised.

“That’s not what I learned. The greatest commandment is “love your neighbour as you love yourself!”

“Mudzagazidwa!”

“What’s that?”

“Unless you want to be dispatched back to Chinthechi in a coffin, just don’t love your neighbour’s wife. Mwavwa ada?”

Lesson 2: Save for your children’s education

During the lunch break that day, Edward took me to the senior staff common-room at the Malawi Polytechnic, which lies just across Chipembere Highway. There he ordered a meal for me and for himself. To everybody who came near us, including Grey Mang’anda, then senior lecturer in communication, he introduced me as his Tonga friend from the north of Malawi.

“I am not from the north of Malawi,” I protested.

“But?” Mang’anda wondered.

“I am not Tanzanian because that’s what north of Malawi means,” I said.

“Point taken. How many children do you have?”Edward asked.

“Three,” I said.

“Great. Open a fees account and deposit just K1000 per month. By the time they get old enough to go to secondary school, you will have enough money to pay for their education,” Edward said as Grey Mang’anda looked on.

“And you, how many children do you have?”

“One!” Edward said as Mang’anda giggled.

“To me all my children are like one. I treat them equally, that’s what I mean,” explained Edward, the man whom no organisation decided to honour in his life. Instead he introduced such titles a senior don, senior practitioner and awarded himself such titles as OSP (Order of Single Party) and OLT (Order of Lazy Tribalists).