Chadza

A Night at Queen Elizabeth Central Hospital: A Cry for Better Healthcare

The sun was beginning to set when my friend, Paul Kerias, and I boarded the school cruiser at the Malawi University of Science and Technology. The vehicle glided smoothly along the road, driven by a friendly and caring driver whose calm demeanor gave us hope during a difficult time. We passed the magnificent Golden Peacock Hotel and later Shopwise, formerly known as Shoprite, as we made our way to Queen Elizabeth Central Hospital.

Little did we know that our journey would become a lesson in patience, frustration, and the harsh realities faced by many Malawians seeking medical care.

Upon arrival, we were greeted not by compassion but by a disappointing security guard at the waiting bay. It was our first visit to the hospital, and everything seemed unfamiliar. Instead of guidance, we were met with indifference, leaving us confused about where to begin.

At the registration desk, questions came at us from every direction. Who are you? Where do you come from? What is the problem? Kerias was in too much pain to answer most of them, so I stepped in and spoke on his behalf. My only concern was seeing my friend receive the help he desperately needed.

The drama continued. After registration, we were instructed to sit on a bench near the office. Minutes passed. Then hours. Time seemed to stand still while Kerias's condition continued to worsen.
Unable to bear the uncertainty, I approached one of the nurses and politely asked where we were supposed to go next. To my surprise, she appeared irritated by the question. Without offering any meaningful assistance, she walked away with hurried steps, clearly annoyed. Her reaction left me speechless.

At that point, observation became our only guide. We watched other patients carefully until we finally discovered that we were supposed to proceed to the triage desk.

It was there that I witnessed what I can only describe as the rotten side of healthcare service delivery. From the outside, Queen Elizabeth Central Hospital presents a beautiful and impressive image. Inside, however, many workers appeared unwilling to assist patients. Some were absorbed in their phones. Others walked around with expressions that suggested they were merely fulfilling a duty rather than serving human beings in need. Compassion seemed absent.

Meanwhile, Kerias was visibly suffering. His cries of pain echoed through the waiting area. Anyone could see from his appearance that he urgently needed medical attention. Yet doctors and nurses moved up and down the corridors without urgency, often passing patients without even a greeting.

As the night grew darker, the number of staff seemed to shrink. Some nurses and doctors left for the day before their replacements had even arrived. Midnight approached, and our hope of receiving assistance became increasingly uncertain.

To my left sat a woman connected to a drip. Despite her pain, she managed a weak smile. We began to talk in our local language.
"What is the problem, Madam?" I asked gently.
"Abale, mmmm, I am in pain," she replied.
She explained that she had arrived at the hospital around seven o'clock that morning and had been waiting ever since. According to her, a doctor had briefly appeared, glanced through some medical records, and disappeared again without offering meaningful treatment.

Then came a whisper from another woman sitting nearby.
"They want two thousand kwacha. If you don't give them something, you may only be assisted tomorrow morning."
Those words sent chills down my spine.
"Angoni!" Kerias called out to me, using the nickname we often shared. "Why are they not assisting us?"
I could not bring myself to tell him what I had just heard. Kerias despised corruption. He believed deeply in honesty and accountability. Mentioning bribery would only increase his frustration.

"Let's wait, Angoni," I replied softly, trying to comfort him.
Behind us sat another patient heavily guarded by five armed police officers. They appeared desperate for assistance but remained trapped in the same endless waiting process. In that moment, it seemed that sickness, pain, and delay spared no one—not ordinary citizens, not police officers, not anyone.

The nurse eventually returned to collect health passports. One woman was called into the consultation room. Some people whispered that she had done "the needful." Whether the rumored K2,000 had changed hands, I cannot say. What I remember clearly were the murmurs of frustration coming from every corner of the hospital.

At exactly 1:15 a.m., after hours of waiting, Kerias's name was finally called. Relief washed over us. He entered the consultation room and was later referred for an injection. After receiving treatment, we were instructed to return the following morning to collect Omeprazole from the hospital pharmacy.

As we left the hospital in the early hours of the morning, I felt exhausted—not only physically but emotionally. The experience had exposed serious challenges within a facility that thousands of Malawians depend upon for survival.

This story is not written to condemn healthcare workers who work tirelessly under difficult conditions. Rather, it is a call for reflection and reform. The Government of Malawi, through the Ministry of Health, must strengthen supervision, improve staffing levels, eliminate corruption, and cultivate a culture of compassion and professionalism.

Hospitals should be places of hope, healing, and dignity. No patient should spend countless hours in pain while waiting for assistance. No citizen should feel compelled to offer a bribe to receive medical attention. And no visitor should leave a healthcare facility feeling hopeless.

It is my sincere hope that all stakeholders will work together to make our hospitals cleaner, corruption-free, patient-centered, and truly worthy of the trust that Malawians place in them every day.
This version is suitable for a school assignment, opinion article, magazine submission, or public awareness piece.

"Silence in the Market, A Story Still Unfolding"

This morning, I stand at the centre of a trading hub that should be alive with bargaining voices and the clatter of commerce. Instead, there is stillness. Shops are shut. Padlocks hang like unanswered questions. Even the dust in the streets seems undisturbed, as if business itself has paused to breathe.

Across Malawi today, from Lilongwe to Blantyre—and stretching into towns like Kasungu the same scene repeats itself. Traders have closed their doors in protest against the Malawi Revenue Authority’s enforcement of the Electronic Invoicing System (EIS). What began as resistance has now become a national moment of reckoning.

Reports confirm that in multiple districts, including Kasungu, shops dealing in electronics, hardware, and basic goods remain closed, with only a few essential services attempting to operate.

I walk deeper into the market. A woman approaches a locked grocery shop, knocks gently as if hoping the door might answer differently today. It does not.
“I just need cooking oil,” she says quietly. “Even sugar… anything.”
Her voice is not angry. It is tired.

Inside these closed shops are stories of survival pushed to the edge. Traders argue that the new system demands real-time digital compliance, yet many operate in an economy already strained by foreign currency shortages and unstable pricing. Some say the system assumes profits that do not exist, especially for those forced to source goods at black-market exchange rates.

What I am witnessing now is not just protest, it is withdrawal. A silent, collective decision to stop participating in a system perceived as misaligned with reality.

In Kasungu, local business operators speak of mounting pressure not only from national tax policy but also from municipal enforcement licensing fees, inspections, and compliance expectations stacking on top of each other. While official statements remain measured, on the ground the narrative is sharper: traders feel cornered, caught between government demands and economic impossibility.
By midday, the absence begins to ripple outward.

Minibus drivers complain of fewer passengers no shoppers, no movement. Street vendors sit idle, their customers gone. Even pharmacies report increased demand, not because people have more money, but because supply chains are disrupted.

The pain is no longer contained within business owners. It has reached the ordinary citizen the buyer who depends on daily access to basic goods.

Today in Malawi, as shop do close across cities and towns like Kasungu, a deeper truth emerge, then policy advances without grounding itself in the lived struggles of its people, it transforms from a tool of governance into a source of collective suffering, where the economy stalls not from refusal, but from exhaustion.

As a journalist standing in this unfolding moment, I cannot ignore the echoes from beyond Malawi’s borders.

In Zimbabwe, similar aggressive fiscal enforcement during economic instability drove many businesses into informality instead of compliance. The state tightened its grip, but the economy slipped further through its fingers.

In Greece, austerity measures imposed to recover public finances led to widespread closures of small enterprises, deep unemployment, and public unrest. Policy achieved discipline—but at a human cost that reshaped the nation’s social fabric.
Even in Kenya, recent tax reforms have sparked resistance when citizens perceived them as burdens disconnected from economic realities.

The pattern is clear: when governments move faster than the people can survive, resistance becomes inevitable—not always through violence, but through silence… like this one.

Back here, the day stretches on.
A young man sits outside his locked shop in Kasungu, keys still in his hand. “We are not refusing to pay tax,” he tells me. “We are refusing to disappear.”
That sentence lingers.

Because this is no longer just a story about compliance or policy design. It is about existence—of businesses, of livelihoods, of dignity.

As the sun begins to lower, the shops remain closed. But conversations are opening—among traders, among citizens, and perhaps, somewhere within government offices.
The story is still unfolding. And as I stand here, notebook in hand, one truth becomes impossible to ignore:

A nation cannot tax what it has already pushed to the ground.

Written by George Chadza (kasungu)