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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
