I STAND WITH JANE ANSAH

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When the cost of living rose under President Chakwera, Malawians cried real tears. Not Instagram tears. Not crocodile tears. Real tears that taste like salt and unpaid bills. They complained, protested, grumbled because the struggle was real and the wallet was empty, it wasn’t fake life.

Meanwhile, in the shadows, the opposition threw a party. They prayed for more economic thunderstorms, not because they hate rain, but because angry voters are like an Uber ride to State House. If things get bad enough, the keys of power just slide into their hands. Once inside, their hands will be slippery with “opportunities,” comforts, allowances, and the sweet perfume of freshly signed cheques. So they fanned the fires while pretending to fan us with sympathy. We cried for life; they cried for votes.

As for the rumoured state of the State House? Apparently, it was like Jerusalem during Nehemiah’s time, walls crumbling, gates in ashes, floors decorated with mysterious substances allegedly spread like butter on bread. They screamed “DEPLORABLE!” louder than Nehemiah himself. But when journalists asked to see this modern Jerusalem, suddenly the gates were shut. Why? Because transparency kills a good political horror story.

Do you think they cared about missing dogs? Please. They cared that the story barked loud enough to wake voters. Rage is currency. Outrage is campaign fuel. The goal is not justice; the goal is optics. They are not angry because something is broken, they are angry because they want to be the ones sitting inside when the pot boils with potential.

If only we had medicine to see inside politicians’ hearts. We would vomit. Daily. Respect would disappear like fuel at a filling station during crisis week.

But politicians thrive on our ignorance. They dine on our anger. They specialise in emotional puppetry. And so Jane Ansah? Ayi ndithu, she might just be a casualty of the 2030 engine already revving. A sacrificial lamb on the altar of ambition.

Let’s be clear: a Vice President cannot just wake up, book a flight, pack Samsonite, call up the cousins, approve their own budget, stamp their own papers and jet off. That only happens in movies and WhatsApp conspiracy groups. In real life, there’s Foreign Affairs, Finance, technocrats with thick files and thicker heads, and finally the President’s signature. If that chain approved the trip, then the chain is the problem, not just the hook at the end.

So yes, maybe the trip was expensive. Maybe the budget was bloated. But why did this file grow legs and leak into the public, while others stayed locked up like family secrets? Who decided this was the perfect political grenade? Someone somewhere is smiling, because Ansah’s image has been served as political breakfast. Convenient, isn’t it?

And don’t get me started on “private trips.” The only thing private about politics is what they don’t want you to know.

Politicians feed us curated anger. Designed sadness. Manufactured hope. They are puppet masters, and we are the unwilling cast of a national puppet show. And the strings? Government resources.

So if we want to blame Jane Ansah, let’s blame the whole system, the full machinery, the structure, the laws, the offices, the signatures. Let us not pretend the sin is hers alone. Unless, of course, it’s easier to blame one woman than an entire system of men with pens.

So yes.

I stand with Jane Ansah.

Written by

Shadreck Chikoti

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