In 1975, a local enterprise known as the Central African Transport Company—affectionately referred to as CATCO—embarked on an ambitious venture to produce its own pick-up trucks. These sturdy vehicles were christened “Zonse”. According to Mr J. Cottinghham, the company’s General Manager, as cited in a 1975 edition of the Daily Times, the CATCO assembly plant boasted the capacity to craft three trucks each week.
The name “Zonse”, meaning “all” in the local tongue, was no mere accident. It perfectly encapsulated the truck’s intended role: a versatile, all-purpose workhorse designed for the rural farmer to ferry both farm inputs and produce. Engineered with delightfully simple technology, the Zonse required no intricate skills or complex machinery to repair when it faltered—qualities that made it ideal for the rustic conditions of Malawi’s countryside. Indeed, vehicles with straightforward mechanics prove far more suited to such environments than their over-complicated counterparts.
One need only cast an eye back to the original Land Rover, a paragon of rugged simplicity. Until quite recently, one could behold numerous Land Rovers clustered at Tsangano turn-off, often found receiving makeshift repairs from village mechanics beneath the shade of mango trees. In fact, their ubiquity was such that one part of Chirimba in Blantyre came to be affectionately known as “pa ma Land Rover”.
Yet today, five decades after the first Zonse rolled out of the assembly line, not a single specimen remains on Malawi’s roads. Something, undeniably, went grievously awry.
It pains me to reflect on numerous once-promising projects that might have elevated Malawi’s fragile economy far beyond its current state, only to have stalled and fallen into oblivion. A stroll around industrial sites such as Lafarge (formerly Portland Cement), Nampak (once Packaging Industries Malawi), Admarc, and a myriad of other factories scattered through Blantyre reveals forlorn railway extensions—rail spurs—that curve into their yards. There was a time when these trains hauled raw materials to and finished goods from these factories, and rail transport, being by far the most economical means of moving bulky cargo by land, rendered these enterprises fiercely competitive. Until recently, these rail lines lay partially buried beneath silt and weeds, disused and unserviceable—mere relics of a prosperous economic past. Truly, something went terribly wrong.
Nzeru Radio Company once crafted exquisite wireless sets and later ventured into producing radiograms—units combining radios and record players in one harmonious assembly. In time, they even began manufacturing Sun batteries. Today, however, none of these products is made on Malawian soil; whether the company itself still exists is a question shrouded in uncertainty. Something had gone gravely awry.
I have previously recounted how Lever Brothers (now Unilever) and BAT once epitomised the pinnacle of Malawian manufacturing. Alas, today the Lever Brothers plant stands little more than a ghostly remnant. The once bustling factory building now has new owners. The BAT premises have been repurposed into a bustling shopping mall, hosting myriad retail businesses. Once again, something has gone dreadfully wrong.
Our nation has suffered missteps—politically, socially, academically; the litany is sadly endless. We stand at a crossroads, desperate for renewal and revitalisation. We have taken far too many shortcuts on this journey. Some years ago, I was struck by a tale comparing Malawi’s football coaching carousel—a staggering sixteen coaches in as many years—with Germany’s stability of just ten in ninety. The then German ambassador suggested this was emblematic of “the Malawian way of thinking”: adept at misdiagnosis and, consequently, prone to administering the wrong cures. My own view is that the woes of our football lie less with the coaches themselves and more with the absence of a coherent, long-term plan to nurture and build a formidable team.
Yes, we often apply the incorrect solutions to our challenges. Someone, no doubt with considerable conviction, once believed articulated trucks were the panacea for our transport woes, yet these beasts are tenfold costlier than trains for hauling heavy cargo. When Zonse trucks arrived, perhaps some thought it easier, or cheaper, to import ‘better’ vehicles rather than support this locally born innovation—thus extinguishing a precious flame of vision. We ought to have stood steadfast behind our Zonse, just as the Indians have loyally embraced their Tata. We desperately need to cultivate patriotism—true support for our own ventures, granting local ingenuity the chance to flourish. This, naturally, does not mean giving local manufacturers licence to become arrogant or to gouge consumers with exorbitant prices; that too would betray genuine patriotism.
As a nation, we need to conduct an honest search within ourselves and find out if we have been part of the problem or part of possible solutions.
