The Other Side of Journalist Patrick Msowoya (1981-2013)

Msowoya at the AU headquarters, Ethiopia, in 2013

ON JANUARY 3, 2015,  songs and prayers were the prevalent mood when we gathered at Chiputula Catholic Church, Mzuzu, to remember youthful journalist  Patrick 'Mzozodo' Msowoya.

Throughout the memorial mass, it was no secret that Patrick was a sun that dawned at dusk. He was no Giddes Chalamanda, an octogenarian who seems to see the shiny side of his much-loved music in the grayish years of his life. He was a journalist learning to overcome a chapter many loved to hate with all their ideologies. He was a life greater than his shortfalls.

When I first learnt about his death on December 31, 2013, my memory raced back to events of a few months earlier when the  fallen MBC reporter had just had his first State-sponsored tour of duty to the African Union (AU) summit in Ethiopia. It seems the works of his hand were so spectacular that a few months later we saw him head for the coveted United Nations General Assembly with then president Joyce Banda.

Certainly, he was not the first or last Malawian journalist to undertake the UN assignment. But this was not going to be an ordinary sight for some of us  because our man in the US was the one and only Pat—the same Mzozodo whose generous  sense of entertainment  once left  media heads wondering: What good can come from him?

Seeing him reporting from the shores of North America signaled a renewed confidence in the man who had become accustomed to being underrated and over-judged. It vindicated an overpowered belief in his over-doubted potential which I first encountered as flickers of hope when we first worked together at Times Group's bureau in Mzuzu in 2006.

"I am not here to please everybody," this perfectly summed up Mzozodo's perspective of his world, a feeling that he might have acquired from a friend of his, the late Daniel Simbi Chiumia, who was an ardent fan of 'I am that I am' hitmaker Peter Tosh.

Msowoya's grave at Zolozolo in Mzuzu

According to his family, Mzozodo, a son of Mrs Anne Msukwa and Mr L.C Msowoya, was born on January 21, 1981 in Rumphi. He did his primary education at Mphompha and Usowoya in his homeland—Rumphi Central.

When I first met him at St Patrick's Seminary, he was in Form Three and me just a Form One tadpole. Until he sat the Malawi School Certificate of Education (MSCE) in 1999, I knew the deceased as a modest jovial character who never tired keeping us smiling—thanks to the innocent things he usually  did and failed to do.

As a matter of fact, there wasn't much to write home about Mzozodo as a writer.

His belonging to our beloved alma mater's writers' club was largely due to his impeccable computer skills. He obtained a Pitman Certificate in word processing at the hands of Father John Ryan when he was in Form 3. A year later, he was a part-time teacher of computers and in charge at St Patrick's Giroud Computer Centre. Therefore, it was not a surprise when the Seminary in the shadow of Vyeyo Hills in Rumphi engaged this tech-savvy son of hers as a computer trainer soon after the exam.

But it appears Mzozodo was born to amaze us. He chose priesthood. He went to Christ the King Formation Centre, a bridge of spiritual and vocational discernment between the minor seminary and its higher cousin—Kachebere Major Seminary. He was only there for weeks before he found himself on a bus home, a path of no return.

After leaving the house formation, Mzo went to study journalism and media studies at the Polytechnic where he was a friend of many yet an enigma better understood by the lowly of Zingwangwa than his college mates.

 As a university student, he worked as an intern with Mana, Nation Publications Limited and MBC, a period when his career choice made the likes of Steven Pembamoyo and I throw journalism into our professional options. After all it was not evil for ex-seminarians to take this road less traveled!

However, it was in 2006 when I first worked with the man I always looked up to  and in no time I realised not many movers and shakers in this media world of ours did believe in Pat's abilities and post-work jazz.

The setting of our professional meeting was Times newsroom in Mzuzu following a difficult two years when my senior  had 'accepted' to work without pay with Democratus and other on-off media outlets just to keep himself relevant. His messiah? The then Times' bureau chief MacDonald Bamusi, who roped in the unorthodox Mzozodo as a correspondent and gave him the rare liberty to work as a resident writer ( and so humane is Bamusi that he extended his benevolent hand to me when I almost ended up in Pat's  situation in 2008).

When I went to Times (Mzuzu) as an intern, Bamusi had just left and Tayanjah-Phiri was due to join us a few weeks later. Mzo was made interim head of the bureau owing to his seniority at St Patrick's and in the profession. Working with him was fun, add or subtract a widespread feeling among journalists that seemed to say: "Ignore that unemployable drunk."

In the newsroom, the man from Mphompha hills was a blessings as well as a lovable professional. A tireless exemplar of how to gather and write news. Hard-working. A great mentor. A rare writer. A firm believer in brevity. A maker of no vain jokes. A friend.  He was almost everything the majority of  critics of his confessed love for the bottle often keep  under lock and key.

Pat had both the computer aptitude and the diction to assemble a spectacular 1000-word story in 30 minutes, but he loved to keep his articles short, simple and straight forward. A personification of precision.

Pat was visibly a weakling, a frail figure of fragility, but he never shied to stand for his space and rights. A tale of forthrightness who never feared to engage 'gigantic' Tayanja in a battle of personal values without losing a piece of hair.

Pat never fancied to become an editor, but every story he touched was dynamite. His interrogation skills. His attention to detail. His grasp of prepositions. His insistence on punchy leads. Oh boy was he a teacher always alert!

This is why I felt almost orphaned when Mzo was finally employed by Times and posted to Lilongwe bureau. But the bosses who took away our Mzozodo gave us Uncle Tayanjah.

There was a glittering side to the Mzozodo the print media surrendered to the electronic side of the fence where he worked as a reporter, senior reporter, producer and so many things with MBC from 2007 to his hour of death 2013.

Surely, it did not come as a surprise to hear MBC director general Benson Tembo and his team crediting Mzozodo for virtues of simplicity, precision, attention to detail, infectious smiles and many other things the man  taught me during our boyhood encounters.

The only surprise was this: Why did it take so long  to [realise and] proclaim that Mzozodo was a gem?

Why did we throw away the bustling baby together with the dirty water when the bathing was almost over?

What if we  had  ignored his childhood trips to Mtangwanika village near St Patrick's. What if we had not dwelled much on how he used to spend  his early earnings in the slopes of Zolozolo. What if we had ignored his nights out in Chilomoni. What if we had ignored the contents of his bottle. What if we had ignored his escapades where angels fear to tread.

Msowoya on his last mile

A husband and father of two, Mzozodo always cherished doing more, better and faster than an average mind.

He usually did what he did wholeheartedly. He was a master of his world. A true Mzozodo. A champion.

But most importantly, when he realised his all had been said and done,  he did not try to extend  the mortal limits of his temporal self  but  accepted to surrender himself to the immortal grace of God. A few days before his death at Mlambe, Mzozodo made peace with his creator and received the holy sacraments of marriage, atonement, Eucharist and viaticum (the last sacrament meant for the sick and the dying).

It is never too late for the living to reunite with God.

This is what Father Phiri underscored when we met again at Chiputula Catholic Church, where we saw off our Patrick's body on January 2 , 2013, for a memorial mass. May his soul rest in eternal peace.

Throughout the memorial mass, it was no secret that Patrick was a sun that dawned at dusk. He was no Giddes Chalamanda, an octogenarian who seems to see the shiny side of his much-loved music in the grayish years of his life. He was just a journalist learning to overcome a chapter many loved to hate with all their ideologies. He was a life greater than his shortfalls.