Power, we are told, is intoxicating. But in Malawi, it appears to come with a special side effect: selective memory and inflated self-importance. In every ruling party, there exists a sacred inner circle. The President’s “sharp guys.” The alleged masterminds. The political astrologers who claim to read the mood of the nation like yesterday’s newspaper. These are the men who whisper into presidential ears and convince themselves they are the spine of the regime. Without them, they believe, the sun would refuse to rise. History, however, has a wicked sense of humor.
During Joyce Banda’s reign, the late Ralph Kasambara was treated as though Malawi had run out of lawyers. Minister of Justice and Attorney General—two crowns, one head. A legal colossus, we were made to believe. The brain behind the throne. But while the country expected strategy, wisdom and stabilization, the courts later painted a darker portrait—plots, schemes, and the infamous Paul Phwiyo saga tied to the rot of Cashgate. Instead of fortifying the presidency, the so-called brilliance helped hollow it out. The result? Joyce Banda didn’t just lose. She sank. Spectacularly. The tragedy was not merely defeat; it was betrayal by those she trusted most to keep her afloat.
Fast forward and the Malawi Congress Party (MCP) found itself with its own constellation of “stars.” Men who strutted the corridors of power convinced they alone understood the political calculus. They built walls around the President so high that even common sense needed an appointment. Sean Kampondeni—trusted in-law and political gatekeeper-in-chief—perfected the art of insulation. Access to the President? Through him. Ideas? Through him. Oxygen? Almost through him. In politics, walls are rarely defensive; they are usually suffocating.
Talented minds who sympathized with the regime were treated not as assets but as threats in waiting. Street-smart figures like Ayuba James were pushed to the margins as though they carried political leprosy. Their only crime was competence. Their only offense was independent thought. In a government desperate for results, ability was treated like a contagious disease. Instead of being seated at the strategy table, they were exiled to the outer courts—watched from a distance, avoided, whispered about. And so the administration amputated the very limbs that could have helped it stand. Beautiful speeches flowed. Poetry in Parliament. Eloquence everywhere. But governance is not a poetry slam. Words, however elegant, cannot substitute bread on the table or fuel in the tank. Speeches must walk. In MCP’s case, they barely crawled. The ship began to tilt. Then it sank.
Then came the economic dream team—branded almost theatrically as SOSISA: Sosten Gwengwe at Finance, Simplex Chithyola at Trade, and Sam Kawale at Agriculture. A trio that promised to rescue Malawi “the MCP way.” The slogans were confident. The projections ambitious. The optimism contagious. But economics is allergic to slogans. It responds to discipline, production, confidence, and credibility—not acronyms that sound like a detergent brand.
Today, the same Sosten Gwengwe is reportedly requesting a new seat in Parliament, moving from the front bench to the back. It is not just a change of furniture; it is a quiet repositioning. A symbolic retreat. A calculated step away from the spotlight, as though distance might dilute responsibility. But in politics, you cannot relocate from the front row of decision-making to the back bench of convenience and expect history to forget where you were seated when the script was written. Let us not pretend this would be unprecedented. Gwengwe’s political passport is well stamped—MCP to DPP, to PP, back to MCP. Loyalty, in such journeys, becomes a seasonal garment. But here is the uncomfortable truth: you cannot be the architect when the building is inaugurated and a mere passerby when it collapses. Had MCP triumphed, would the SOSISA architects be requesting back seats? Or would they be reminding us daily of their genius? Leadership demands ownership—of success and of failure. If you were part of the engine room, you do not get to abandon the ship and claim you were merely visiting the deck.
The same applies to Richard Chimwendo Banda and others who held the levers of influence. Silence now is not humility; it is evasion. Graveyard quietness does not erase fingerprints. No one owns the monopoly of intelligence. No clique has exclusive rights to strategy. Politics is a jigsaw puzzle; the pieces rarely look alike. Those who think differently are not threats; they are missing pieces. When leaders shun dissenting but talented voices, they do not strengthen authority; they weaken survival.
MCP now stands at a crossroads: rebuild or recycle. Recycling the same faces and expecting a Mutharika-style comeback is political self-deception. The arithmetic does not favor nostalgia. The country is watching. The electorate is not amnesiac. The party needs renewal—tested figures like Eisenhower Mkaka, yes, but also fresh blood unburdened by yesterday’s miscalculations. Inclusive politics, not tribal arithmetic. Strategy rooted in performance, not proximity to power. If Chimwendo and company have exhausted their chapter, they should bow out gracefully. Leadership is not a life sentence.
Power is borrowed, never owned. Political “stars” often burn brightest just before they fade. Presidents must learn that brilliance is not loud proximity; it is quiet competence. Those entrusted with influence must remember that history keeps receipts. Malawi does not need more gatekeepers. It needs bridge builders. Anything less is just another sinking ship waiting for a headline.
