Amazing Art Network (2025)

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31/07/2025

Manifestos & Heartbeats❤️
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The crowd had been standing for nearly two hours, shoulders pressed against shoulders, phones raised in the air and plastic bottles being passed around like shared secrets. People whispered of free maize flour and job announcements, but mostly they waited.
Waited for the man in the man himself.

I stood too. Not because I was a believer, but because sitting would have made me a target. No one sits at a presidential campaign rally, especially not when the candidate is ‘just five minutes away’ like for the third hour in a row.
That’s when I saw her.

She stood two rows ahead, off to the right, near the edge of a Tikonze Party Poster. She wasn’t waving a party cloth. No party t-shirt. No face paint. Just a long white T-shirt tucked neatly into rust-brown pants, and a black scarf tied around her waist like she had dressed to look composed, yet quietly rebellious.
She was stunning.

Not the loud kind of stunning, not the type you whistle at in minibuses. No. This was a woman people noticed in silence. Skin like the soft burn of midday sun, cheekbones shaped by God’s own thumbprint, and eyes far away. Very far. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t restless. She just looked like someone who had walked here with her heart trailing behind her.
Beautiful, yes. But off. Just slightly. Like a song that was in key but missing a beat.
And I don’t know why, but I kept watching her.

A Kabaza guy next to me cracked a joke about the aspirant arriving by helicopter to avoid the fuel lines. Someone behind him muttered that the helicopters were also waiting for diesel at Puma. Laughter rolled through the crowd like thunder over dry ground. I tried to laugh too, but my eyes kept drifting back to her.

She didn’t laugh. She didn’t talk. She didn’t shift on her feet like the rest of us who were growing tired. She just...sat. Still. Like someone who had nothing left to protest.
That’s when I knew: She didn’t come here for politics either.
I took a careful step closer, pretending to adjust my cap.
“Do you think he’ll actually show up?” I asked, softly.

She turned her head slightly, not surprised, not annoyed. Just... acknowledging me.
“They always show up. Eventually. Just long enough to remind us they exist.”
Her voice was light but precise, like someone who read books at night when the power was out.
“So you’re a believer?”
“No. I’m just heartbroken.”
She didn’t blink. Didn’t smirk. Just said it, like a weather report.
I said nothing for a moment. Just nodded, because what could you possibly say to that?
“Breakup?” I asked, carefully.
She looked away, toward the distant stage still empty except for sweating security and party youths rearranging plastic chairs.
“Three years. Said he needed someone more ‘settled.’ Then he got engaged. Yesterday.”
I didn’t ask more. The crowd surged forward, reacting to movement on the stage. The DJ shouted something into the mic. A group of university students started singing “Amatinena kuti sitibwela.... yes that song...

“So you came here... to do what?” I asked.
She shrugged.
“Disappear in a crowd. Be reminded that some people lie better than politicians.”
I laughed, softly, and she finally smiled, a real one, with edges.
The rally roared as the opposition presidential aspirant finally walked up to the podium, waving like a savior. The speakers crackled to life.

He started with fuel shortages “a crisis he claimed was created by a corrupt regime,” he said. Then moved to forex problems “a symptom of failed leadership.” Promised new hospitals, student loans, and solar-powered water pumps for every village. Somewhere in the speech, he mentioned a plan to stabilize the kwacha by the end of September. No one asked how.
But we weren’t listening anymore.

She turned slightly toward me and said, “You know what’s funny? He and my ex say the same things. Just with different vocabulary.”
I chuckled.
“You’re dangerous,” I said.
“No,” she said, “just tired.”
The crowd cheered. I watched her close her eyes briefly, like someone praying not to cry, and when she opened them again, she looked directly at me.
And that’s how I met her, not in a café, not at a wedding, not through mutual friends.
But at a campaign rally neither of us believed in, during a season when even the ground we stood on was too dry to hold hope.

21/05/2025

“ndimati mukakhale pampando uwo patsogolopo. Timafuna tikolope.”
mayi yemwe ankakolopa pamalo ndidaliwo adalankhula uku akuloza padali mpandowo.

M'mutu mwanga munkayenda zambiri tsopano. Ndidali nditakumbuka zomwe Lilian adalankhula usiku wapitawo. Chisankho chidali changa, kuchita nawo mayeso oyambira ntchito yomwe ndidaifunitsitsayo kapena kumutsatira Lilian kubwalo landege.

Pakutha kwa mphindi iliyonse, ndinkazifunsa. Kodi iyeyu adapangidwila ine? Kapena mtima wanga uli paphuma?
Bwanji maloto athu atakanika?

Mafunsowa ndi omwe ankapangitsa kuti ndikhazikike osasuntha pampando ndidakhalawo.

Ndende yomwe ndidali otsekula zitseko zake adali ine mwini.
Palibe ankandikakamiza kuti ndizimuganizira motero. Koma kumuleka kuti abwelere kwawo, kunkatanthauza kuti lilipo tsiku lina lomwe ndizamuwone patsamba lamchezo atakwatira ndi munthu wina.

Ndikayang'ana udindo omwe ndidali nawo, ntchitoyi idali yofunika. Mbali inayi ndikayang'ana Chikondi; Lilian ankayenera akhale pamwamba pazonse.

Posakhalitsa dzina langa lidaitanidwa. Ndinkayenera ndilowe m'chipinda chokachitira mayeso antchitoyo.
Nthawi idali ndendende 9 koloko ndipo Lilian ankayenera kunyamuka mphindi makumi awiri otsatirawo.
Ndidaimirira chiganizo chenicheni ndisadapange.
Sindikudziwa mukadakhala inu mukadatani.

19/05/2025

A BULLET TRAIN TO HELL
CHAPTER 5

Every file has a weight to it.

Some weigh heavy because of the stakes. Others because of what they say about the person holding them. The appeal sitting on my desk that Monday morning felt heavier than any I’d handled in years. Not because it was urgent, but because it was honest—soaked in quiet desperation, like a man knocking from the other side of a sealed door.

Michael Ziba. 34. Convicted of killing a store clerk during a robbery in Blantyre five years ago. Sentenced to die by hanging. The prosecution had paraded a confession, a jailhouse snitch, and shaky CCTV footage. Now, with a new legal aid application and two key witnesses recanting, the appeal had found its way to me—Nyondo & Associates. The last stop before the gallows.

I stared at his picture: tired eyes, overgrown beard, and a faint scar above the right eyebrow. Not the face of a monster. Just a man who hadn’t seen sunlight in half a decade.

“Boss,” Thomas said, poking his head in, “his sister’s downstairs. Says she wants to speak to someone who still believes in mercy.”

I rubbed my temples. “Let her up.”

A few minutes later, a woman entered—mid-thirties, skin dulled by stress, dressed in second-hand clothes made neat by effort. She clutched a worn envelope.

“I’m Angela,” she said. “Michael’s sister. Thank you for seeing me.”

She sat down across from me and took a shaky breath.

“My brother didn’t kill that man,” she said. “He was there, yes. But it wasn’t him who pulled the trigger. He went to steal food, not a life. He confessed because they beat him, sir. They broke his ribs.”

“Do you have proof?” I asked, already hearing the internal gears of legal skepticism.

She nodded. “He sent me this.”

She slid a letter across the desk. Written in small, tight script—almost like he had to fight for space and sanity—it detailed his interrogation, the threats, the blood. He named the real shooter, a man now serving time for a different crime in Zomba.

I read the letter twice. Each line an echo of something I’d heard before but never really listened to.

“I’m not asking you to lie for him,” Angela said. “Just... ask the right questions. The ones his first lawyer didn’t care to ask.”

Later that afternoon, I walked to the visitation center at Maula Prison. A favor called in, a pass issued. Michael sat behind the scratched plastic divider, thinner than his photo, but more alert.

“You’re Adam Nyondo,” he said. “I watched you once. The news. The corruption case.”

“I’m not here to relive my press moments,” I replied. “I’m here because your sister hasn’t stopped fighting for you.”

He looked away. “She shouldn’t have to.”

“You confessed.”

“I lied.”

“And the snitch who testified?”

“He was offered a reduced sentence to say what they needed.”

I studied him. No fidgeting. No misplaced eye contact. Just tired honesty.

“You understand,” I said slowly, “that if I take this case, I’ll be scrutinized. People already think I bend the law. Taking a convicted murderer’s appeal won’t help my image.”

He chuckled, dryly. “What does image matter in a country where truth is a rumor?”

That line stayed with me.

The next morning, I dropped Nyasha at school. She was unusually quiet.

“Everything okay, champ?” I asked.

She nodded. Then, after a pause, “Are you ever scared, Dad?”

I blinked. “Scared of what?”

“Of doing the wrong thing. Of not knowing if you’re helping or hurting someone.”

It felt like she had read my case file.

“All the time,” I said softly. “But I try anyway. That’s the only way I’ll ever get close to doing something right.”

She smiled. “I told my teacher you were the kind of lawyer who fights for people when no one else will.”

I swallowed a sudden lump. “I hope I deserve that.”

At the office, I found Thomas sorting evidence binders like they were sacred scrolls.

“Want to learn how to get someone off death row?” I asked.

He blinked. “Is that a trick question?”

“No. It’s your next assignment.”

We spent the next few days digging. Old testimonies. Missing pages from police reports. The original defense’s lack of cross-examination. I visited the store where the murder happened, spoke with the retired shop owner’s daughter—who remembered Michael coming in often for bread, never with a weapon.

And then the clincher: a statement from the real shooter, buried in Zomba Prison records, confessing privately to another inmate that he fired the shot. Uncorroborated, but enough for a hearing.

When I walked into the judge’s chambers two weeks later, I wasn’t carrying a case. I was carrying a man’s last breath.

And this time, it mattered.

Later that evening, I met Chikondi again. She was showing.

We sat on a bench near Area 3’s botanical gardens, under a sky slowly losing its stars.

“I went to Musa’s grave today,” she said quietly.

I said nothing.

“I asked him to forgive me. I don’t know if the dead can hear the living, but I said it anyway.”

I nodded.

Then, unexpectedly, she reached into her bag and pulled out a small envelope.

“It’s the first scan,” she said. “In case you want to keep it.”

I hesitated, then took it. Not for her. For Musa. For the boy who used to dream about being a father, even when life offered him every reason to doubt joy.

“I’ve started therapy,” she added. “I need to learn how not to self-destruct when I feel invisible.”

“Good,” I said. “That’s good.”

We sat in silence a while longer. No need for more words. Some pain doesn't need dialogue. Just presence.

When I returned to my apartment, I found a note slipped under the door.

“Keep going. The city needs you. Even when it doesn’t say so.”
— Lindiwe

I smiled.

Then I poured a glass of water—not whiskey—and looked at the scan again.

Somewhere between Musa’s death and this unborn child’s life, I had started changing. Not dramatically. Just enough to notice.

I wasn’t fixed.

I wasn’t redeemed.

But I was beginning to remember what it meant to fight for the people the world forgets.

Not because it makes me a hero.

But because it might be the only thing left that makes me human.

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