23/10/2025
GENUINE RECITAL, ⚠ LONG POST
On the sidelines of my recent career, I was deployed to a certain location that was geographically disadvantaged, and I served in a specific position after entering into a short-term agreement with one of the government departments.
It was fieldwork, moving from place to place, creating new moments and acquaintances. The work itself demanded more engagement with citizens, having a dialogue of about 5 to 8 minutes per client.
Then, boom! Two guys showed up looking for a service from me. They loved me so much for my noise and my friendly demeanor towards everyone. Physically, they were brawny, strapping men, and I honestly enjoyed their company as I served them one by one.
However, as a journalist, I started to deeply observe these two men who, at the time, seemed to be enjoying my lies in conversations that suited the environment well. I could tell that those sweet lies I kept telling them brought relief and put smiles on their faces, as they couldn't believe that someone as strange as I was kept shaking hands, calling them "cheif, madala, bro," and having such long conversations in that manner.
Then something pushed me to explore the best immediate way I could become a confidante to the two muscular boys while aiming to extract the burden I was suspicious of throughout our conversation. Yes, I looked young, and indeed I was.
I brought up a monetary subject, discussing investments while carefully ensuring that everything aligns with the village setup. Thus, when I realized that I would advance my agenda, one guy started spouting unsalable words: "Amwene, mumadziwa, inuyotu muli-bohboh, mukudya zindalama zabwino, ifeyo ayi-tu." At that moment, I realized that the two guys were surviving in pain. He continued, "Timagwira ntchito pa farm inayake kumtundaku, koma eeee amwene, ng'ombe ikutiko, sifeyo man mmmmhu!" Before he could finish, the other guy gasped for air; I knew that something heated would be said.
"Amwene abwana athu ndioyipa kwambiri, tikungogwirira mavuto nanga titani." I asked if their boss was a citizen. One guy responded, "Amakhala ku 47 uku wakomkuno tee, amabwera kumatipeza chonchimu, ndiye amatikalipira ngati ana." Then I took time asking about their working conditions and environment itself. " iiiih Chief, Timamwa madzi pa chithaphwitu penapake, mjigo kulibe uku, pomwepo timamwetsaposo ng'ombe za ku Farm-ku, kuliso nkhumba, nkhuku, mbuzi ndi a bakha tose timapita kumweko."
I was shocked. I realized that the two fathers couldn't just be heartbroken like that by exaggerating a situation. The journalism aspect started to convince me that I could do something. Fortunately, their map to the farm seemed to be a stone's throw from the place we were. I asked them if we could go together and witness the situation the next day afternoon. They, without thinking twice, nodded in agreement to my request, "tipite amwene mukaone, inuyotu sumungamwe, olo kusambapo m'manja sizingateke muonekeramu?"
It's too long; to be continued.
NOTE: This is a genuine recital, logically presented, and attached to the narrative are real pictures of subjects.
