I am writing hoping that my August letter to you found you in good health. November is folding her mat ready to go to give room to December, yet you have not responded to my letter.
Unrequited friendship hurts so much dear Joyce but, knowing that friendship must survive trials, I have gathered courage to write you again.
Joyce, today is the last day of November and if you remember very well in the past, before we incensed the gods with our worshipping of mortals, we used to have rains already by this time. But, look now, there is no sign of it.
I am talking about rain because it always reminds me of you. Every time the rain comes I remember that rally in Balaka when you were still the arch nemesis of government. I still remember how you curtailed your speech because you were concerned about the people who were being drenched by the rains. You were the people's mother then, dear Joyce.
Dear Joyce, I know the blare of sirens on your obscenely long motorcade and the din of the flattering praise songs are too loud for you to listen to any voice of reason while the tinted glasses of your fuel guzzling machines of cars are too blinding for you to see the reality on the ground. That is why I have laboured myself to write this secret note to you just to let you know how things are out here.
Dear JB, out here people have fermented anger and, already, some have started wishing they could go back to DPP's Egypt other than continuously wander in the PP desert where life is even harder than before.
If you remember very well, you used to climb on the anthills praising yourself for ending the boring fuel queues that characterised the then Bingu regime. But, look now, the queues are now back and,without an iota of shame, you start blaming a dead man instead of owning up the mess.
Dear Joyce, people out here are angry with how your government is splashing out cash in these economic hard times. I will take it that you are not aware of what is happening because you are busy gallivanting to petty rallies instead of being in the office to sort out national issues, but I just wanted to let you know that someone is busy signing cheques with reckless abandon.
People are being paid millions from government coffers yet we are telling ourselves that we need to belt up to survive these hard times.
Dear Joyce, I and many others have with dismay noticed that, just like your predecessor, you have developed some arrogance. I was not an inch happy with your response about going to town playing Santa instead of leaving the job to DCs and the like.
Your argument that you cannot stop distributing maize because you have been into charity from time immemorial is so base and unpresidential. You should, dear Joyce, remember that you are now Malawi's CEO, a job that demands some charisma and decorum other than the simplicity of running a foundation.
By the way, I nearly forgot this other tale that you are continuously telling us at almost every function. According to my count, it has been five times since you started narrating how, sometime in 1984, you had a rough ride during child birth. It might be an unforgettable moment for you and your family, but I am of the view that we have had enough of it. We need speeches (and they must be followed by action) that will inspire national development, and not those family tales.
Dear Joyce, I almost laughed my lungs out when I read somewhere that some back street magazine has rated you number 22 in the world as far as having some substance upstairs is concerned. You and I know this is some flattery of the worst kind.
It is my fervent prayer that you will not be pampered by this false honour. The West,dear Joyce, has a predilection for people who play puppet and rubberstamp. Anyone who accepts the West's selfish economic dosage, embrace their devilish culture and speak their language is called a great thinker while one who questions them is labelled arrogant and dictatorial.
Joyce, you can trust me that none of your trusted lieutenants will come to you and tell you where things are going wrong. All they do is help you plunder the little resources we have and, in the end, abandon you, leaving you with a battered resume as another tragedy of Malawi's presidency.
I will be a bad friend if I do not take a moment to thank you for your reversal of some draconian statutes that nearly choked us to death.
But you see what dear Joyce, even though there is some relief in terms of governance compared to the autocratic era that ended seven months ago, people are still dying unnecessarily in hospitals, utility bills continue to harass us while education continues on its down ward spiral.
Dear Joyce, as they say that sailing a ship looks easier when you are not the captain, I just wanted to remind you of your own words when we were together in the political wilderness.
I still remember how you blamed the giant of Goliati Village for being responsible for the erratic water supply, electricity black outs, fuel and forex shortages, corruption, nepotism and all the wrongs of that time.
But, dear Joyce, now that you are at the helm, should we say there is any change for the better? Aren't we worse than before?
Let me end by singing you a refrain from a song that one Billy Kaunda crafted when politics was just a muse to him. It goes like:
Mfumu Herode atapha Yohane/ Anthu opusa anamuombera m'manja/Atamva kuomba m'manja anazipopa/ Anafuna winanso woti aphenso/ Akanamuzuzula akanaopa...muimbilanji mmanjamu zilizonse?Mukuputsitsa akulu. (when King Herod killed John the Baptist/ Fools clapped hands for him/ Hearing the hand clapping/ Herod was pampered and wanted to kill some more/ If he was condemned he could have been afraid/ Why do you clap hands for everything? You are making fools of elders)