An Idiot’s Rants

by an idiot (probably one from Ndirande)

Everything about everything is nothing at all

You know them. You have seen them grow up, they may have raised you, and they have played with you. The type of people you ‘can’t tell nothing’. They finish your sentences, leaving your poor tongue hanging for dear life in your mouth, wondering…is this how this is supposed to be?

They know everything. Business? Oh, you can’t tell me nothing! I used to do that business. Actually, it’s not good because I failed, I don’t think you will make it. I know COVID-19 better than anyone. Why not take a slice of lemon with this amount of salt if you want to avoid it? Relationships? I have never had a failed relationship. All my baes and boos adore me. In fact I have ten of them now. All want to marry me. I am the goat. I am the plug!

You say it, they know it.

It’s such a sad state to be. The know-it-all state, that is. You do not learn anything new. People avoid you. People are scared of you. Meanwhile, the oblivion that comes with being a know-it-all eludes you of the sixth sense - that one that reminds you to stay grounded, look around and listen.

The youth are the most vulnerable people to this know-it-all syndrome. They are drinking from the fountain that keeps giving. Newly found freedom, the tip of the iceberg of success, a little money, a few titles and some hard earned little respect.

Maybe we should take a moment to listen.

To our parents. To our peers. To our bosses. To our juniors.  To strangers. To the world.

Maybe we should read more.

A book on fiction. A book on non-fiction. Some drama. Some self-help.

There is a long way to go before we can ‘take control of the conversation’. A little piece of advice makes Jolie a jolly boy. A little piece of reckoning makes Mary a merry girl.

Just saying.

But all in all, everything about everything is nothing at all.

Stay spicy!

To Ndirande Mountain with love

Ahtot Manje has taken over my mountainous Ndirande Township. I cannot walk a distance without seeing a drunkard dancing his illusions away in broad daylight to the beat of the Hiya Huwa hit. And then there are the children. Bless them. They have made a game out of the hit song. Instead of the usual ‘jingo, janga’, they now go ‘hiya, huwa, ha’! It’s nice. Some innovation right there.

And speaking of innovation - no man outside Ndirande has mastered the art of ‘mastering’ like a man from Ndirande. Anything you shall find. It is a field of many possibilities. People travel from far and wide to fetch for ‘ngini’ in Ndirande. The market of the township, a seemingly normal space, is surprisingly filled to its beam with items. Made elsewhere and made in Ndirande. The prices are always questionably generous. Giveaway prices. If you are wise you wonder why such is so. You cannot travel from Nchenachena to Ndirande for ‘ngini’ just to get it at MK5000. Smell the fish? Oh, this is Ndirande. A warm welcome to you!

Have you heard of digging a hole to cover another hole? In the end, you dig so many holes, you get exhausted because there is ALWAYS another hole to fill up. As I said, welcome to Ndirande.

This is the place where men have learnt to put their wallets in their shoes. Where women carry their money in their bras. No jokes. And speaking of money in bras, no one cares. The sweaty the better. After all, ndalama siinyasa. Imanyasa ndi ntchito.

As a ‘foreigner’ in this ‘world’ you may be very vulnerable to losing the shirt in your back of you are not careful. If you are naïve, you buy ‘ngini’ for 5 grand, you go home poorer than you came. Sometimes begging for free transport back home.

Ndirande is a network. If you do not know the code, better come with a friend.

My parents came to settle in Ndirande in the early 80s. I know the township better than the back of my hand. I can navigate through the impassable ghettos, the bathroom paths and I know the language spoken there. But I am AFRAID of my township. I have seen it at its best and at its worst. It is the mother of innovations. Ironically, it is the mother of breakers.

A word for the wise.

Don’t play games in Ndirande. You either end up cloth-less or lifeless. It is a catch 52.

Always come to the mountainous Ndirande with love.

Stay safe!

Oh, tell baby to shut up!

He almost makes me speak French. Not French the language but French the French.

In other words, my tired is very tired.

Publicity, either good or bad, is good publicity. Reputation, however, suffers from bad publicity, ergo; bad reputation is something down the toilet.

Please tell baby to shut up. He is irking people with his half-cooked music, pride and ‘mannerisms’. He is precious, when used sparingly, like pepper, but never good in huge doses. Some parts of the body have the sense of tasting too.

Should I talk about how he kept referring to the MK50, 000 that he sends to that old man? Kukumba anthu. Or should I talk about the way he tried so hard to embarrass that mentally ill man? So unnecessary. Management so poor. Someone needs to fire someone.

And who in the mother of Rose allows him such liberty to keep speaking with his thorny attitude?

Oh, please, for the love of the deities, tell baby to shut up.

Stay creamy!