Mwai Mapemba

On Birthdays (Part 2)

With time, growth teaches you restraint.

You learn that not every misunderstanding deserves correction. Not every opinion requires a response. Not every battle is worth the energy. Silence, once uncomfortable, becomes strategic. You begin to understand that moving forward matters more than being understood.

You also learn that strength is often mistaken for arrogance. Confidence unsettles those who are still negotiating with themselves. Progress exposes insecurities. And when you refuse to shrink to make others comfortable, resistance is inevitable.

I have learnt that leadership is lonely. That decision-making carries weight. That being responsible means being blamed when things go wrong and forgotten when they go right. Yet, the reward is not applause; it is competence. The quiet knowledge that when things must be done, I can do them.

I have learned to trust my thinking. To plan, execute and adapt. To lead rooms, organise outcomes and remain steady under pressure. To accept that mistakes are part of growth, not proof of failure. To value consistency over excitement.

I have also learned that becoming better sometimes means becoming less available. Less reactive. Less explainable. Growth simplifies priorities and complicates perceptions. The more focused you become, the fewer people feel entitled to you, and that is not a loss.

All in all, I do not carry bitterness. I carry lessons. I do not carry grudges. I carry clarity. The road ahead remains uncertain, but I walk it with intention, patience and belief in the process.

I am still here. Still building. Still learning. Still becoming, on my own terms.

And that, for now, is enough.

On Birthdays (Part 1)

And when birthdays come around, they have a way of forcing reflection. Not the loud kind, but the honest one. The kind that looks back at the road travelled and quietly admits: this was not easy.

It has been a long journey. And the truth is, it is still unfolding. Growth does not announce itself (ochewa amati, 'Kukula saimbira ng'oma'). It happens gradually, through pressure, responsibility and persistence. As they say, we learn as we grow and sometimes, we grow because we had no other choice.

I do not have many fans. For whatever reasons.

What I do have, however, is a reasonably high number of people who do not like me. Not because of anything I have done to them personally, but because dislike, like gossip, is often inherited. Some learned it from others. Others accepted it without question. And if asked why, many would struggle to give a reason of their own.

But the unfortunate, or say fortunate, truth is this: I genuinely do not care.

I keep moving. With or without applause. And that, strangely enough, seems to bother some people even more. When you do not react, when you do not explain yourself, when you do not seek validation, resentment grows louder. Such is life.

What I have learned is this: progress does not require popularity. It requires discipline, clarity and the courage to keep going when misunderstood. Watching doubt turn into silence. Watching resistance turn into results.

That is how I have learned to survive. Always against the odds.

Over time, I have grown proud of myself. Not in arrogance, but in awareness. Of my management skills. My thinking capacity. My ability to organise, lead and execute under pressure. Of balancing study, responsibility, ideas and ambition without collapsing. Of building things where there was once nothing, even when resources were limited and belief was scarce.

I have learned to think independently. To question deeply. To lead without noise. To accept that not everyone will understand my path and that they do not have to.

To me, birthdays are not a celebration of perfection but of endurance. Not a declaration of arrival, but of direction. I am still growing. Still learning. Still becoming. And if the road ahead remains challenging, that is fine. I have already proven to myself that I can walk it.

With or without fans.
With or without approval.

Always forward.

[To be continued...]

I travelled the same road to and fro.

As roads are in Malawi, we all know, potholes everywhere.

On my way there, in the middle of dodging potholes, I found myself drifting into the other lane, the one meant for incoming cars. At that moment, it looked better. Smoother. Fewer potholes. So I ran to it.

Later, on my way back, I realised something strange.

I still had to run back to that same lane again, the very one I had run away from earlier, searching for a better part of the road, while now escaping the side that had looked better before.

Same road.
Same potholes.
Different direction.

Now I’m asking myself, is this just happening to me?
Or do roads just take turns being bad?
Or is it me… not knowing which side is better?

Which side of the road is actually okay?

On Man and Woman in a Relationship

Where does it all begin?

In Genesis.

“To the woman He said, ‘Your desire shall be for your husband,
and he shall rule over you.’” Genesis 3:16

That verse is often rushed past, argued against, or softened to fit modern comfort. Yet it speaks plainly about order, not value. About position, not worth. Leadership and submission were not introduced by society, they were acknowledged by scripture as part of human structure after the fall.

Men were designed to lead.
Women were designed to respond to leadership.

Not as slaves and masters, but as responsibility and alignment.

Now look at how it is going.

Today, relationships operate on negotiation rather than order. Tit for tat has replaced trust. If he doesn’t tell me what he’s doing, I won’t tell him what I’m doing. Communication becomes currency. Transparency becomes conditional. Respect is no longer given by position, but demanded through argument.

Naturally, men desire to call shots. To be informed. To be listened to. To carry final responsibility. Leadership is not control, it is burden. A man who leads answers for outcomes. A man who leads absorbs pressure.

Women, by nature, follow strength and direction. That does not mean silence. It does not mean weakness. It means alignment. Following is not inferiority, it is cooperation with structure. Every stable system functions because roles are clear.

But now, the idea is “50–50.”

Equal authority. Equal control. Equal direction.

Yet nature does not function that way. Two leaders in one space do not produce balance. They produce friction. When authority is split, accountability disappears. When leadership is negotiated daily, stability is lost.

I cook you wash dishes. Not cooperation, but competition. Not partnership, but confusion of roles. It may sound small, but it reveals something larger. A resistance to position. And relationships cannot survive long-term where position is constantly contested.

This is not about ability. Women are capable. Men are capable. But capability does not override design. Change may feel progressive, but nature does not adjust itself to trends. Once order is breached, consequences follow quietly.

Men become passive.
Women become hardened.
Respect fades.
Attraction weakens.

And love struggles to survive where polarity is lost.

Relationships do not collapse because roles are clear.
They collapse because roles are blurred.

Order is not oppression.
Structure is not abuse.
Leadership is not tyranny.

Some things work not because they are old, but because they are original.

And perhaps the crisis of modern relationships is not love, but the refusal to accept position as nature provided it.

On Relationships and Money

This is where many relationships quietly begin to fail.

Not love.
Not attraction.
Not commitment.

Money.

For some couples, love and money learn to coexist. They talk about it. Plan around it. Respect each other’s limits. For others, money becomes the unspoken fault line. The thing everyone feels but no one handles well.

Why does it go wrong?

Mentality.
Behaviour.
And sometimes, unnecessary joking.

Money exposes how we were raised, what we fear, and how we see ourselves. It reveals power dynamics long before they are spoken. And in relationships, it is never just about currency. It is about dignity.

There is an uncomfortable truth many avoid.

Women, by nature and by social conditioning, are often more comfortable receiving. Gifts, support, provision, they do not always interpret this as weakness. To receive can feel natural, even affirming.

Men, on the other hand, are often the opposite.

Many men are not wired to receive easily. Asking alone costs them something internally. It takes humility. Vulnerability. A quiet admission that, for this moment, they are not in control. And when that moment is met with teasing, joking, or dismissal, even playfully, something closes.

At first, they may laugh along.
But inside, something withdraws.

The request was not about money alone. It was about trust. Safety. Respect. And once shame enters, interest slowly exits. Men rarely announce this withdrawal. They simply become less invested, less present, less willing.

On the other side, another tension forms. And so both sides misunderstand each other.

Money then becomes a silent language. Who pays, who asks, who jokes, who avoids, who resents. Small moments accumulate. A joke here. A withdrawal there. And slowly, affection is replaced by tension.

Maybe, relationships and money can work together. But only where there is maturity.

Where asking is not mocked.
Where giving is not weaponised.
Where independence is not used to dominate.
Where provision is not used to control.

Money should serve the relationship, not define it. It should enable growth, not create hierarchy. When handled carelessly, it becomes the fastest way to erode respect and once respect is damaged, love struggles to breathe.

Perhaps the real issue is not money itself.

It is how we attach ego, identity, and power to it and then bring all of that into a space meant for partnership.

When money is handled with wisdom, relationships may grow.
When it is handled with pride or ridicule, relationships slowly decay.

And often, by the time we notice, the damage is already done.

On Stagnant Relationships

Not all relationships end loudly.
Some simply stop moving.

They reach a point where nothing is building, nothing is deepening, and nothing is changing. No growth. No direction. Just repetition. Days pass, conversations repeat themselves and effort feels automatic rather than intentional.

What once felt meaningful becomes routine.

In such relationships, progress is no longer expected. Any attempt to advance, emotionally, practically, or purposefully, is brushed off as a joke. Serious conversations are avoided or laughed away. Plans are postponed indefinitely. The future becomes a vague idea rather than a shared destination.

And slowly, meaning fades.

You remain together, but you are no longer going anywhere. The relationship exists, but it does not develop. Comfort replaces commitment and familiarity disguises stagnation. It becomes easier to maintain what is known than to confront what is missing.

Not every relationship is meant to last forever. Some are meant to teach, reveal and then release. And recognising stagnation is not failure. It is awareness.

Staying in what no longer grows does not preserve love.
It only delays honesty.

Sometimes, progress begins the moment we stop pretending that standing still is enough.

End that relationship!

On the New Year

Tomorrow is a new year.

Everyone is celebrating. Noise, countdowns, fireworks. But quietly, one has to ask, what exactly are we celebrating?

Life?
Yes. For that alone, we thank God.

Progress?
We tried. Some wins, some losses, many lessons. Not everything worked. Some plans collapsed. Others are simply unfinished.

But we are still here.

The new year does not arrive with magic. It brings no guarantees. Just another chance to show up, to be disciplined, to try again. Growth is repetitive. Learning is slow. Progress is rarely dramatic.

It is the same music.

And we go again next year. Not because it is easy, but because giving up is never an option.

Happy New Year.

On Relationships

We speak about relationships as though their meaning is obvious, yet very few of us ever stop to ask what a relationship actually is.

Is a relationship love?
Or is love something that can exist without a relationship?
Does one depend on the other or have we simply learned to treat them as inseparable?

Love, at its core, is a feeling, a choice, a disposition of the heart. A relationship, on the other hand, is a structure. An agreement, spoken or unspoken, about how two people will exist in each other’s lives. One can love without being in a relationship. And one can be in a relationship without love. We see this more often than we admit.

So what exactly is a relationship for?

What is its use?
What is its benefit?
What is its foundation?

In theory, a relationship should be a partnership that adds value. A space where two people grow, sharpen each other and move forward with greater clarity and strength than they would alone. It should be a support system, a place of accountability, safety, encouragement and shared vision.

But in this era, relationships often appear reduced to performance.

Everyone is expected to be in one. Being single is treated as temporary, suspicious or incomplete. Relationships have become routine scripts. Dates, pictures, posts, constant messaging and endless negotiations of attention. Days are spent reporting movements, explaining delays, managing jealousy and resolving arguments that repeat themselves in different forms.

Good morning, love.
How are you?
How is your day going?
Where are you?
Who were you talking to?
Why are you friends with him or her?
Take me on a date.
Buy me a cake.
Post me on your status so your friends can see.
You’re not giving me enough time.

And one begins to wonder, is this all a relationship is meant to be?

Is it merely emotional occupation?
Is it a status to be maintained?
Is it an obligation we enter because everyone else seems to be in one?

Or is a relationship supposed to produce something more meaningful?

A useful relationship should contribute to personal development, not stall it. It should support ambition, not compete with it. It should bring peace more often than it brings anxiety. It should make life clearer, not more complicated. If a relationship leaves one more distracted than focused, more insecure than confident, more stagnant than growing, then its purpose deserves to be questioned.

So we must ask ourselves honestly: where has my life been since entering this relationship?

Am I better than I was before?
More disciplined?
More self-aware?
More stable?
More purposeful?

Or am I simply in a routine. Emotionally busy, mentally tired and spiritually unchanged?

A relationship should not be entered simply because love exists, nor should love be forced into a relationship out of fear of being alone. Neither should be a prison, nor a performance. Life does not stop because one is in a relationship. It should expand.

Perhaps the wisest conclusion is this: relationships are not compulsory, but intentional. They are not proofs of worth, but tools for growth. And where growth is absent, presence alone is not enough.

Not every relationship is worth keeping.
Not every love must become a relationship.
And sometimes, walking alone is not failure, it is wisdom.

There was a time when Christmas arrived loudly.

By now, as children, one of us would already have asked, or better yet received, a Christmas cloth. Towns were alive then. Crowded. Bright. Tomorrow, without fail, we would visit that one supermarket to buy a pack of the original University Kamba Puff(okoma modabwitsa) and a bottle of Fanta, back when the bottle itself had a different shape, a different feel. Even the taste felt different.

Those were the days when rice was guaranteed. At whatever cost, rice would happen. A chicken would be chased, caught and sacrificed for the moment. Fireworks would dominate the night, dozens of them, running through the darkness until sleep surrendered. If you tried to rest early, midnight would remind you that celebration does not ask for permission. You waited. You listened. You joined in. Then you slept.

Good were those days.

Today, Christmas arrives more quietly.

The noise has faded. The crowds have thinned. The excitement has matured into reflection. We no longer measure Christmas by clothes or fireworks, but by presence, survival and memory. The year itself feels heavier now, carrying stories of effort, loss, persistence and becoming.

Today is 24th December.

And tomorrow, it will be exactly seven days to a new year. A week from tomorrow, it will no longer be 2025. It will be 2026.

That sounds exciting, even hopeful. But it is also sobering.

In the next 24 hours, we will hear stories we have sadly grown used to. Fatal accidents. Different in nature. Different places. The cost of haste, alcohol, exhaustion and misplaced celebration.

Moments meant for joy turning into permanent absence.

And so the questions return, quietly but firmly.
Was it a life well lived?
A year well spent?
A foundation laid for the next one?
Or simply a year that passed because life allowed it to?

Growing up teaches us that Christmas is no longer just about celebration. It is about caution. It is about gratitude. It is about choosing to live long enough to see another December.

So let us take care, good people.

Celebrate, yes, but responsibly. Laugh, yes, but wisely. Travel, but safely. Drink, but with restraint. Love, but with presence.

May we live to see next year.

And when we do, may we remember not only how loudly we celebrated, but how carefully we survived.

On Attention, Possession, Obsession or Detention

It rarely announces itself loudly.

At first, it feels like care. The frequent messages. The expectation to check in. The comfort of being thought of. It feels warm, even affirming. Someone wants you, consistently, insistently.

Then one day, you are online.

Not busy. Not distant. Just present elsewhere. And the silence becomes a problem. A question follows. Then another. Why didn’t you text? The explanation is never quite enough. Being available but not attentive feels like a violation.

From there, the rules quietly form.
If you are awake, you should text.
If you are online, you should respond.
If time passes, you should explain.

Attention stops being a gift and becomes a requirement.

You begin to realise that the relationship now has a schedule. One that competes with work, thought, rest and focus. Moments that once belonged to you are now audited. Every gap must be justified. Every delay interpreted.

And you start to wonder. What is this?

Is this a relationship or is it occupation? Is this connection or is it supervision? When presence is demanded constantly, space begins to feel like disobedience. Love starts to resemble obligation.
Life, after all, does not pause for affection. Work requires immersion. Growth requires solitude. Purpose demands attention. Yet in this arrangement, anything that draws focus away from the relationship feels like betrayal. As though love must be proven through uninterrupted availability.

But is life meant to be reduced to this?

Is love supposed to consume every minute or support the life being lived? Is attention a sign of care or has it quietly become possession? At what point does desire for closeness cross into obsession and when does expectation turn into detention?

Perhaps the most unsettling part is how normal this has become. Constant access is mistaken for commitment. Emotional dependency is confused with devotion. And exhaustion is brushed off as effort.

This is the world we live in.

A world where love is measured by response time. Where being unavailable feels offensive. Where choosing to focus elsewhere requires permission.

And yet, a life well lived cannot be lived on a typing indicator.

Perhaps love is not meant to occupy every moment. Only to make the moments it touches more meaningful.

On Posting Partners

It usually starts small.

A joke, perhaps. “You never post me.”
Then a pause. A longer look. A tone that carries more than the words admit. What was once said lightly begins to return more often, until it no longer sounds like humour, but concern.
In this world we live in, love is expected to leave footprints online.

A relationship can be healthy, consistent, and deeply rooted in private, yet still be questioned because it does not appear on a timeline. No photos. No captions. No status updates. And suddenly, something feels missing. Not between the two people involved, but in the space where others are watching.

Not posting becomes a story of its own.

It is interpreted as hiding. As uncertainty. As lack of pride. As absence of love. Whatever love means today. The explanation that one values privacy struggles to survive in a culture that equates visibility with sincerity. Silence online feels louder than reassurance in real life.
And yet, nothing has changed offline.

The conversations still happen. The care is still present. Time is still given. But it no longer seems enough. Love, it appears, must now be witnessed to be believed. It must be documented, shared, reacted to. A relationship not acknowledged publicly feels incomplete, even if it is deeply felt.

One begins to wonder, who are we posting for?

Is it for our partners, or for the world that now sits quietly inside our pockets? Is the photo meant to affirm love or to settle suspicion? To celebrate connection, or to reassure insecurity? When a private bond is measured by public proof, something subtle shifts.

Not posting does not always mean hiding. Sometimes it means guarding. Sometimes it means separating what is sacred from what is consumed. But in a time where everything meaningful is expected to be shared, restraint is often misunderstood.

This is the world we live in.

A world where love is questioned not by how it is lived, but by how it is displayed. Where absence online can shake certainty offline. Where intimacy quietly competes with performance.

Perhaps love has not changed as much as the audience has.
And perhaps the tension is not about posting at all, but about what we now need to feel secure.

On Love (Part 2)

If love is meant to be freedom, then we must confront an uncomfortable question: when did it begin to feel like captivity?

At what point did intimacy start resembling supervision? When did commitment quietly turn into control? For many, love now demands constant availability, emotional labour without rest and obedience disguised as loyalty. One begins to wonder, is this love or is it a softer form of slavery, enforced not by chains but by fear of loss?

In this climate, choosing solitude is often seen as failure. Yet is it truly wrong to choose peace over possession? To choose self-mastery over emotional dependency? To walk alone rather than negotiate one’s identity daily? Perhaps being alone is not the absence of love, but the refusal to participate in a version of it that diminishes the self.

These questions are not theoretical. They echo loudly in our social realities. Divorce rates, particularly among recent marriages, continue to rise. People commit with hope, yet separate with exhaustion. Could it be that we are entering unions without redefining love for the times we live in? We promise forever, but practise suspicion. We vow trust, but live by investigation. Marriage collapses not always because love disappeared, but because it was suffocated.

And then there is infidelity, increasingly common, increasingly complex. Is cheating merely moral failure, or is it symptomatic of something deeper? When every message is interrogated, when privacy is criminalised, when one feels perpetually accused, secrecy becomes inevitable. Not always out of desire, but sometimes out of rebellion. We dig so deeply for wrongdoing that we create the very behaviour we fear.

So where are we headed?

Perhaps toward a reckoning. Either love will mature or people will retreat. Either relationships will learn to coexist with individuality or solitude will become the safer option. This could be a bad place, marked by isolation, distrust, and emotional fatigue. Or it could be a necessary place, one that forces us to unlearn toxic intimacy and rebuild love on healthier foundations.

Love must not be slavery. It must be a partnership of two whole individuals, not a merger that produces one anxious identity. If love is to survive this generation, it must learn to breathe again.

Would I or you still choose to fall in love?