By Burnett Munthali
Counsel Sylvester Ayuba James recently took to his Facebook page to share a striking reflection on the late Chikumbutso Mtumodzi’s political journey and what it reveals about the culture of political allegiance in Malawi.
In his post, James outlines a clear pattern in Mtumodzi’s political affiliations—he began in the United Democratic Front (UDF), moved to the Democratic Progressive Party (DPP), later joined the People’s Party (PP), and finally aligned himself with the Malawi Congress Party (MCP).
This succession of political migrations paints a picture of a man whose loyalties were fluid, shaped more by convenience than conviction.
Despite this, James remarks that Mtumodzi—because he hailed from Dowa, a district often considered an MCP stronghold—believed himself to be more MCP than individuals like James himself, who have never wavered in their political affiliations.
James’s post carries a tone of disappointment and introspection, especially as he reflects on how those in power often placed greater trust in Mtumodzi’s supposed loyalty to the MCP than in that of others whose loyalty had been steadfast and unquestioned.
The irony is striking: someone whose political identity was molded by expediency was nonetheless seen by many as a pillar of MCP fidelity.
James recalls with bitterness how Mtumodzi played an instrumental role in fueling online attacks against him, often through coordinated stoning campaigns by what he terms as “paid puppies” working within the system.
These attacks, he implies, were not random but calculated and funded efforts to discredit voices like his who perhaps did not subscribe to the dominant narrative or power structure within the party.
The metaphor that James uses is particularly provocative—comparing such political figures to prostitutes who move wherever money flows and only remain as long as the resources last.
He clarifies that the comparison is not meant to strip such individuals of their humanity, but rather to emphasize the nature of transactional political relationships.
Even in death, James suggests, the legacy of such individuals must be told in full, not cleansed or rewritten to suit the comfort of the moment.
To him, honesty about one’s past remains essential, no matter how inconvenient that truth may be when someone passes away.
He concludes his post simply with “Good morning,” as if to signal a wake-up call to his readers—perhaps an invitation to reflect on the state of Malawian politics, loyalty, and memory.
The post touches a nerve in a political culture where allegiance often shifts with the wind, and where truth-telling is sometimes sacrificed on the altar of posthumous decorum.
It also challenges us to examine the dangerous politics of gatekeeping and selective amnesia, especially when it involves those who wielded influence through patronage rather than principle.
James’s remarks are not merely a personal vendetta; they are a broader critique of the political landscape that celebrates convenience over consistency and performance over principle.
In a nation still healing from decades of political turbulence and distrust, such honest reflections, however uncomfortable, may be necessary to reset the moral compass of leadership and citizenship.
The story of Chikumbutso Mtumodzi, as narrated by Ayuba James, forces us to ask: What does loyalty mean in Malawian politics? Who defines it? And what happens when truth is sanitized to preserve legacies?
It is a conversation we must have—if not for the dead, then certainly for the living and those yet to lead.