IN 2000, when I turned 16 and was now eligible to travel on my own passport, I decided to apply for one. By this time, I had already been in and out of Malawi on several occasions, on either of my parents’ passports. You can understand my excitement at the thought of owning this document – the prestige among peers, the satisfaction of presenting it to border authorities and of course, the occasion to relish various immigration stamps and the memories they come with.
As it turned out, however, it was not as easy as it seemed. There were a number of significant obstacles that stood in my way. Read More
With the late Raphael Tenthani, the Blantyre-Lilongwe road trip always had to be
punctuated with a stopover, somewhere around Ntcheu, for ngumbi or mbewa or both, depending on availability. It just had to happen. One evening, we ran out of luck. Or so I thought.
Driving to Blantyre, we left Lilongwe quite late and by the time we got to Ntcheu, the
The writer with Raphael Tenthani
young boys and girls who would normally wave their goods to passer-by traffic had retreated to their homes. But Raphael, like a stubborn little child, wanted his fix and we had to look for it. So, in the thick of the night, we parked our car on the main road and started the search for ngumbi or mbewa or whichever was available.