Culture, Identity and the Next Generation

Being a storyteller is one of the greatest gifts I have received. Stories open doors to new worlds, forgotten traditions, buried wisdom and lived experiences from all walks of life. As a writer and podcaster, I get to engage with people from different disciplines, cultures and generations. And recently, I have been honored to join the organizing team for Malawi’s upcoming Cultural Day event on August 23, 2025 hosted by Ngale Arts 428 at Kigali events Centre in Lilongwe, Malawi.

This isn’t just another event for me. It touches a deep concern I have carried for years: the slow erosion of our culture.  The event will be a vibrant celebration of everything that makes us uniquely Malawian. It’s about traditional dances, local foods, indigenous games and the everyday practices that define us from our roots. It’s an amazing experience that will bring together cultures from across the country; from the Sena to the Chewa, Ngoni to the Tumbuka, Yao to the Lomwe and many more. Whether it’s the beat of the drum, the scent of Mbewa or Kondoole on the fire or the rhythm of Mapenenga in full motion, this day is about reminding ourselves and teaching others what it truly means to be Malawian.

Growing up, I lived with my grandmother; our family’s storyteller. Every night after supper, she would gather us around and narrate Nthano (folktales) in tumbuka (on of the languages in the northen region of Malawi). One that still sits with me today is the story of Ngoza and her sister. Ngoza, wealthy and proud, mistreated her less fortunate sibling after their mother passed away. But karma came back through the ghost of their mother, who punished Ngoza and rewarded the kind-hearted sister with blessings.

Today, this might sound like just another folktale. But back then to us, it was a moral compass. It taught us about kindness, humility and the value of solidarity and family. These were more than just bedtime stories. They were life lessons passed down from generation to generation.

In my undergraduate dissertation back in 2012, I explored how solidarity among African natives has diminished over time, especially under the influence of western culture. What we once cherished; our dances, our songs, our shared meals, our oral traditions, has been diluted. Today the generation we are raising knows more about video games, fast food and global pop culture than they do about Gule Wamkulu, Chioda or traditional Malawian recipes (Zikanyanga, Thobwa, Nkhobe) passed down through generations.

We’re raising a generation that is slowly becoming one that doesn’t know its roots. And a generation without identity? That’s a lost generation. The effects might probably not be felt immediately but overtime.

When we lose our culture, we lose our grounding. We forget where we came from and that shapes where we think we can go. Without intention, we risk becoming cultural ghosts; living, but disconnected from who we truly are. This and more is why what Ngale Arts 428 is doing matters to me and I choose to believe, all of us. The Cultural Day isn’t just an event. It’s a movement. A reminder. A celebration. A call to intentional cultural preservation.

From traditional dances to indigenous foods, folktales to crafts, this event is about reviving and showcasing Malawi’s cultural richness to both Malawians and non-Malawians alike. Young or old, this is our heritage. And am deeply proud to be a part of the organizing team.

I would like to remind us though that, preserving culture doesn’t begin on big stages. It starts at home. It starts with a grandmother telling a folktale, a mother teaching a traditional recipe, a child learning a local dance or a father passing down a proverb.

My hope is that this event will ignite curiosity, spark conversations and plant seeds, especially among young people. About who we are and what we must preserve.

Because culture isn’t just what we do. It’s who we are.

When Silence Brings Loud Lessons

Two weeks ago, I broke my phone. Yes, my bridge to the world, slipped from my hands and landed in a tragic mess. Since then, my online presence has been on life support. For someone who’s usually present in the digital spaces, this sudden silence might have felt odd to those who know me well.

Yesterday, something happened that completely warmed my heart. I got visitors. And not the “I texted you on the way” kind. No! Unannounced!!! They just appeared like sunshine through a cloudy day. Some of my children (who I know will read this); knocked off from work and decided to land at my doorstep. No warning. Just vibes. And can we talk about the audacity?  Yes, of just showing Up!

You see, I’m not used to people popping in without a signal. My first words? “Are you guys on holiday or what?” They laughed. Then they said, “We just missed you and wanted to check on you.”

My heart melted a little. Here’s the thing: for those of us who mentor, we’re somehow through life’s course wired to give. We are the ones checking in, pouring out, encouraging and pushing others to rise. Rarely do we pause long enough to be on the receiving end. And when it happens? When someone decides you’re worth the effort of showing up for? It humbles you. It fills a space you didn’t know was empty.

Fast forward to today. Another knock on the door. Another unannounced guest. She had tried calling,
but of course, my phone is still somewhere in tech heaven. So what does she do? She shows up. First words out of her mouth: “Kusowaku bwa? Why are you missing?” she asked, loud as ever, before even stepping inside. I threw the question back: “Why are you looking for me?” Without missing a beat, she shot back, “Because your phone is unreachable!” We both cracked up. We talked. We laughed. We shared those loud, happy moments that only happen when someone decides your presence is worth more than a WhatsApp message.

Later in the evening, just as I was about to sink into my usual routine; thinking, mapping out things, lots of ideas in my head, my husband’s phone rang. One of my children was on the line looking for me:

“Ma'am, are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Everything okay? All is well. What’s with the sudden interest?” I wondered.

He laughed and continued, “Ma'am Caris is worried about you. She says you’ve been awfully quiet and can’t reach you.” Now, for this story, I’ll call this very special friend of mine, Caris. It means kindness and love; all the things that perfectly describe her golden heart. I immediately reached out to Caris. When I explained my phone situation, she simply said, “I just wanted to check on you and make sure you’re okay.”

And that… that did it!  My throat tightened. My eyes teared a little. Because that small gesture, that soft concern, screamed a truth I had almost forgotten.

Here’s what I’ve come to realize through all this: sometimes silence makes room for love to speak louder than words. When life forces us offline; whether by choice or circumstance, it creates a gap that others can choose to fill. And when they do, it’s beautiful. We often assume people only notice us when we’re actively present, posting, talking, showing up. But when you go quiet and someone takes the time to check in, it’s their way of saying, “You matter.” Then there’s this other lesson that hit me hard: giving feels good, but receiving is deeply healing. 

Many of us, especially those who mentor or lead, live in a constant posture of pouring out, advising, encouraging, being the strong one. It becomes second nature. But when the tables turn and someone simply says, “I just wanted to see if you’re okay,” it humbles you. It reminds you that you’re human, too; that your presence matters enough for someone to seek it out.

And finally, presence beats perfection every single time. Those unannounced visits, those random calls, those unexpected laughs in the living room; they carry more weight than any perfectly planned gesture. They don’t need filters or scripts; they are real and filled with heart. 

So, to my beautiful circle: Thank You! Zikomo! Yewo! Gracias! Merci! Asante!. Thank you for reminding me that love doesn’t always send a calendar invite or write the perfect text. 

To everyone reading; Sometimes just show up, knock at their door, text and laugh loudly in their inbox because that's what love sometimes looks like and its a great reminder that we all need a shoulder to lean on. And that is more than enough to keep the world going.

Echoes of the Oldies; A Walk with Malawi's Music Veterans

Allow me to first of all introduce Rudo. Rudo Mkukupa Chakwera is a prominent Malawian gospel and Jazz singer well known for her amazing vocals. She is the daughter of late Isaac Mkukupa, a renowned Jazz Musician.

I met Rudo under circumstances I still can’t fully explain. But one thing is certain; We were meant to cross paths. We first worked together through Girlfriends In Faith, the mentorship network I founded for University girls. When Rudo shared her passion and vision for her Charity, I knew instantly: we had to work together. And so we started.

On July 9, 2025, we began a journey that speaks directly to the core of who I am, an Arts enthusiast, a Storyteller and as a Digital Creator. It's a  journey rooted in arts, storytelling and culture.

Together, we set out on a journey to meet Malawi’s Veteran Musicians based in Malawi's central region; legends who had been eagerly waiting for this day to come. It is the start of something bigger than a visit or a meeting; it is the beginning of a mission.

It should be emphasized that these artists are far from ordinary. Their voices and talents shaped Malawi’s music scene as far back as the 1960s. They crafted the melodies that raised generations; the songs our parents cherished and the ones some of us grew up enjoying.

Yet today, many of them live in silence. Forgotten by the industry they helped build.

The questions echo:

Where are they now? What became of their music? What does their future hold?

Rudo carried these very questions in her heart and from them was born a project to reconnect with and honor these pioneers. Ladies and gentlemen, these musicians deserve more than nostalgia. They deserve respect, visibility and celebration. They gave us the soundtrack of our lives. These are not just vocalists and jazzmen. They are keepers of memory; custodians of rhythm and messengers of history. Their melodies told our stories before we could write them. Today, most of them live quietly in rural villages, far from studios and stages, perhaps tending maize or potato fields, with nothing left of music but fading memories.

I was deeply moved to uncover the story behind one of the favorite tracks from back in the days: “A-Molotoni.” Hearing of it again, and learning about its roots, brought a surge of emotion; the kind that reminds you why you do what you do. This journey is not just a  mere journey. It's a calling.

Meeting and hearing these veterans tell their stories sparked something in me; curiosity, joy and an undeniable pull to be part of this mission. This is a mission of not only honoring the past; its about educating the future. The work with these veterans is in a way an act of cultural preservation and arts education. By among others, capturing their stories, their songs and creative processes, we will build a living archive that can inspire the next generation of artists and educators.

So, what’s next? We will soon find out.

But for now, know this: our veteran musicians deserve the honor that’s coming. 

This is not just work. This is purpose!

Hope In the Shadows

Sometimes, some stories linger in my mind, refusing to let go. Today, one such story has been with me and the lessons it carries are deep. I have always said, mentorship is not just about giving; it is a journey of learning aswell. We absorb wisdom, not to pile it, but to share it for the betterment of our society. I have always believed that the knowledge we gain should be a weapon for transforming lives and changing the narrative around us.

During one of our ministry events at one University, my husband and I met a young girl. She was at the time, a third-year student. The event lasted all night till dawn and by 3 AM, exhaustion weighed heavily on my legs and knees. I decided to step away, to rest a little in the car while the event wrapped up. My husband was with me when one girl approached us. I will call her Hope. A little detour, I name these girls in my stories not just as a label but based on what I believe they embody. In her, I saw resilience, a quiet strength waiting to bloom. And so, I will call her Hope.

Hope approached us, her appearance both confused and oddly composed. Something was clearly weighing on her heart. She hesitated, then finally spoke. “If not for this event, I wouldn’t have met you because I had planned to go home today.” She said as she showed some excitement that she met the people she wanted to meet. I was curious. “Oh? Is the semester officially over or are you just heading home early?” “No,” she replied. “That’s part of what I’m about to tell you.” She took a deep breath and continued, Her words measured but heavy.

“You see, I have both my parents. You’d think they weren’t my biological parents, but they are, 100%. Yet, they make me feel completely alone in this world. I am the firstborn and the first in my family to walk the corridors of a University. One would imagine they’d be proud to say the least, excited even. But no. My selection to University was just another day in their lives. That, I could have ignored. But what I cannot ignore is how they have forgotten they even have a child in school.” Her voice wavered, but she pressed on.

“Since my first year in school, my parents have never called me. If I don’t call, we don’t talk. They show zero interest in my life, my studies and worse in my struggles. When I go home for the holidays, I arrive with little or no notice. No warm welcome, no ‘we missed you.’ Just the same toxic environment, where they are constantly fighting, arguing or shouting at us. Just chaotic really. My home is toxic; home is traumatizing.” Tears welled up in her eyes and we could feel the weight of her pain. The pain of a child who couldn’t understand what she had done wrong to deserve such neglect.

As we spoke further, we learned that Hope had been fending for herself. She ran small businesses in school to cover her needs while her parents, who owned thriving businesses back home, rarely sent her any money. When she did call to ask, it was like rolling dice, sometimes which are probably the best of all, they simply said they had nothing to give her. Other times, it was worse. The Father would deflect, saying, 'I don’t have any, ask your mother,' and it would be the same with the mother. And when Hope asked either one of them as instructed, it would spark an argument between the parents, blame tossed back and forth, frustration boiling over, leaving her stranded in the middle of their never-ending battle. The burden seemed to be crushing her.

Her mind had spiraled into darkness, her heart growing weary. Staying in school felt impossible because her mental health was in shambles. That day, she had decided to leave. Not just campus, but education altogether. She thought that maybe, just maybe, if she dropped out, her parents would finally take notice. Perhaps then, they would be happy. Her pain was heartbreaking. We worked with Hope, offering her guidance, support and the help she needed. But even as we stood by her, we understand this alone was not enough. Healing could not come solely from external hands, it had to start where the wounds were first inflicted.

Dear Parents, Hope is not just one girl. She is the voice of countless others crying for help in silence. Many of them need parents who are not just present by name, but who take responsibility, who show love and support. There is no excuse, none, that justifies subjecting our children to mental and emotional neglect.

Hope will find help from people like us and from health professionals who care. But no amount of external help can fully heal her if she returns to a home filled with toxicity and pain. Healing starts at home. A healed home raises a healed child and a healed child grows into a responsible adult who will in turn, raise a healed and healthier generation.

Can we rewrite the stories of generations to come for a better world? Yes, we are capable!

...AND THE GREATEST OF THESE IS LOVE

 

In 2024, I met a girl who at a single glance, captured my attention. There was something about her; an unspoken radiance, a silent strength. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it but I knew she was special.

Now, if you know me, meeting and connecting with young girls or young women is nothing new. But this girl, who for the sake of this piece I will call Nia, was different. From our first encounter, she struck me as joyful, bubbly and remarkably intelligent. She had an energy that was both refreshing and contagious. Above all, she was beautiful not just in appearance but in the way she carried herself, in the spark of life that danced in her eyes.

We exchanged a few words that day, a brief conversation that left an impression. As time passed, our interactions became a little more friendly; just a few polite greetings here and there over WhatsApp. At that point, she was just an acquaintance, nothing more.

Then one night, around 11 PM, my phone rang. I sleepily reached for it, barely registering the name on the screen. Nia! Why is she calling me this late?

And then it hit me, she had texted earlier in the day that she wanted to talk. Still sleep weighed heavy on me and for a moment, I debated whether to ignore the call and respond in the morning. But something in me whispered otherwise. No one calls at this hour without a good reason.

Anyway, I answered.

"Hi… I’m so sorry for calling this late,” she began; her voice soft, almost hesitant. “I was still at work and I hope you were not sleeping, If you were I don't care if I woke you up because you are my friend now.” She said with a mocking laugh! 

“It’s alright,” I replied, my voice thick with sleep and exhaustion.

Then, silence. She laughed a little. You know that forced laughter debating where to begin. And then before I knew it, she broke.

Tears! Desperation! Pain laced with exhaustion. I listened as Nia cried, her voice trembling with the weight of burdens too heavy for someone her age. She was overwhelmed, lost in a storm of struggles, longing for the mother she had lost about 8 years ago, wishing life would ease its harsh grip. She envied her peers who moved through life effortlessly while she stumbled under responsibilities too large for her young shoulders.

For fifteen minutes, I said nothing. I just listened. You know, I have mastered the art of listening through mentorship. The soothing power that listening brings to the heart is unmatched. 

I listened to a soul caught between despair and hope, to a heart both fragile and unbreakable. You see, this is what makes Nia special and my heart smiles at this amount of strength and resilience. 

And when the moment felt right, I spoke; offering whatever words of encouragement my tired mind could muster. We prayed together and I reassured her that she was not alone.

Later, I came to learn Nia’s full story. She is 25. She lost her mother at age 17. Soon after, her father abandoned her and her younger siblings, forcing her into a role she was never prepared for. She became both mother and father to them, sacrificing her youth to ensure their survival. Every day has been a battle, working, studying, scraping together what little she could, to provide shelter, put food on the table and keep them in school. Life has barely been about her. 

Kind-hearted people stepped in along the way, offering her a job and providing bits of support for her to bounce back in education. But the truth remains, she still struggles to keep the roof from caving in on her family and she had been robbed of her childhood. She made the ultimate sacrifice, choosing her siblings' future over her own. While others her age were chasing dreams, Nia had simply been trying to keep her family afloat. And yet, she remains kind. She remains strong. And above all she is resilient! 

Nia has supported her siblings so well that one of them, now walks through the corridors of a public University while the other is thriving in secondary school. With their progress comes greater financial demands but Nia shoulders them with courage and unwavering determination. At the same time, she is trying to find her own footing, ready to step into the path of her long-held dreams.

No child should have to endure what Nia has. And yet, she has. She is a survivor, literally!

To be honest, Nia's story haunted me for days but the more I learned of her resilience, the more I believed in the greatness that awaits her. You haven’t heard even half of what Nia has survived; from wandering homeless with her luggage in search of shelter to  curling up on the cold floor, tears falling as the pain of hunger tortured her.

To me, Nia is no longer just an acquaintance. She is a part of my life. I seek to hold her hand, walking beside her, step by step as she inches toward her light. And in this journey, I have learned something profound:

In a world that values material things, I have discovered that the most precious gift is something intangible, something boundless. There is a lot we can do for others. We all have a part to play. We all are surrounded by Nias who are in need of somebody to lean on. We don’t need to have much to help someone hold on to life. We all have a lot to offer in this world; Love, money, encouragement and all kinds of material things,

…..And the greatest of these, is Love!

MEET THE FOUNDER

THE MOTHER AT GIRLFRIENDS IN FAITH

Many have  failed to figure out who I am. Now Let's talk about me, shall we? 😆

To many, I am a mystery; unpredictable, as they like to say. To those who know me well, I am fun to be around, even talkative. But truth be told, I don’t entirely see myself through their eyes. I have always thought of myself as calm, composed, and maybe even a little shy. Introverted, if you will.

One thing has always been clear, though: I know my creative power. I’ve always been the one to dream up ideas effortlessly. Ideas of change, growth, and transformation. Stagnation? I can’t stand it. Failure? I refuse to befriend it. I thrive on building something out of nothing, on shaping what seems out of place into something extraordinary. Those who know me best will tell you this: I am an advisor of transformation.

And that’s where Girlfriends in Faith comes in. This is more than just my brainchild; it’s my dream turned reality. Once, someone asked me about my calling. My answer? “A mother.” At first, it may sound ordinary. But hear me out.

Yes, I am a mother to two beautiful children, but the kind of motherhood I’m talking about is something entirely different. This is a calling that goes beyond biology. I’ve been called to mother generations. To stand by those who cry in the dark, to listen to their fears, to nurture their dreams, and to provide for emotional needs that the world often overlooks.

Here’s the part no one talks about. As a mother of many, I have seen nights turn sleepless because one of “my kids” needed saving from the depths of suicidal thoughts. I’ve spent early mornings holding space for someone who just needed to cry and be heard. These moments, though heavy, are precious. They’re the moments I’ll miss when my girls are grown and walking their own paths. They define what it means to mother a community, to love unconditionally, and to guide selflessly.

Mothering this community, however, is not a one-person job. I am forever grateful to the amazing women who have worked alongside me, making this journey easier and richer. Together, we are raising a generation of strong and responsible people.

My girls? I love them with every fiber of my being. The door to my life remains open for them all because that’s who I am. I am a mother.

A mother of faith. A mother of hope. A mother of transformation. And for this, I will always be grateful!

Reflections on My Mentorship Journey:

 

Shaping Lives, One Lemonade at a Time

I can’t quite remember the moment I consciously decided to become a mentor. It wasn’t a sudden epiphany or a loud declaration. Instead, it feels as though I woke up one day and realized I had been shaped, molded, perhaps even born, for this role. Somewhere along the way, I embraced the saying: When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Life, in its unpredictable generosity, has handed me enough lemons to make lemonade for generations.

Looking back, I see that those toughest times were not just trials but lessons. Without them, what tangible wisdom could I offer to others navigating their challenges? I’ve found my calling in guiding young people; a fragile yet resilient people. For me, working with them goes beyond mere profession. It’s a purpose; a mission!

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Beginning the Journey with Girls

My mentorship journey began with girls. Their stories found their way to my heart and my desk, demanding solutions to challenges that seemed overwhelming. You see, these young girls face a web of challenges, both in school and beyond. Without proper guidance, they risk losing themselves, making decisions they might regret simply because no one showed them the way.

One recurring challenge they face is a lack of parental guidance. I’ve mentored girls whose parents didn’t know their favourite food, their fears, or even their dreams. Some parents barely communicate with their children, and I fear that some will acknowledge their child’s existence when it’s too late; when they’re gone.

This disconnect is heartbreaking. I’ve met girls who trust strangers more than their own parents, not out of rebellion but out of necessity. It begs the question: Why bring a life into this world if you’re not ready to embrace the responsibility of parenting? Through mentoring, I’ve learned that parenting goes far beyond providing financial support. It’s about being present, emotionally available, and creating a safe space where children feel valued and understood.

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A Lesson in Empathy: The University Dropout

One encounter stands out vividly. I met a young girl, lets call her Malaika, who was on the verge of dropping out of University. Her parents, though financially stable, failed to provide financial and emotional support. Her home was a battlefield of arguments, and her school life was marked by a deafening silence from her family. She felt invisible, as if her existence didn’t matter.

Malaika was ready to throw her education away, seeking peace elsewhere. I stepped in, offering mentorship and emotional support. I offered to "parent" her, nurturing her academically and emotionally. She stayed the course! I am sure when she graduates, her parents will likely show up at the ceremony, proudly claiming her success. Yet, they’ll never know how close she came to giving up or how much of her strength came from strangers.

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The Role of Mentorship in Shaping Generations

Stories like Malaika’s  remind me why mentorship matters. As mentors, we sometimes fill the gaps left by absent guidance, offering hope and direction. But we can’t do it alone. It’s time we all take collective responsibility for shaping the next generation. Let’s raise children who grow up in homes filled with peace, safety, and support. Let’s create a future generation of empathetic, responsible, and resilient people.

For every young person I’ve mentored, I’ve learned just as much as I’ve given. They’ve taught me the power of perseverance, the strength of vulnerability, and the value of a listening ear. Mentorship is not a one-way street; it’s a dance of mutual growth and shared humanity.

Life gave me lemons, and I turned them into lemonade, not just for myself, but for every young person I’ve had the privilege of mentoring. Together, we’re building a world where no one has to face their challenges alone, and that, to me, is purpose fulfilled!

Land of a Thousand Hills: Easy on the Eye

In 2023 I connected with Rwanda’s capital city. One that sprawls across numerous hills, ridges and valleys.

 Before I travelled to Kigali, I learnt that Rwanda was a land blessed with creativity in Arts and one rich in culture.

Walking in the streets of Kigali, I saw that the city has clearly expressed an effort to connect people through Arts and Culture.

After learning that Kigali was a hub of creativity, I promised myself I was not flying back to Malawi without a visit to one of the Arts Centers in the city.

Since establishing an Arts Center is one of my dreams, I made it a point to visit one center even amidst my busy schedule.

Inema Arts Center is a small but an amazing creative hub that spurs creativity for personal, social and economic growth. The center is simply pretty as a picture!

It was amazing to learn that the center works with orphans offering them an opportunity to discover and use their artistic talent and mentors in art as a skill, a talent, an occupation and survival skill.

Establishing an Arts Center is my dream and the bigger picture is Impact!

Arts For Social and Economic Impact

 

THE CREATIVITY THAT IS ARTS

While the Arts have and continue to play an important role globally, in curriculums of most Developing Countries in Africa, Arts is undermined. In Malawi, for instance the success of students has mostly been measured by classroom credit hours in other subjects but Arts.

My passion for Arts began 20 years ago when I was in primary school. I remember loving music and dance. Among all my friends, I was well known as the dancer.  When I was 10 years old, I loved the Congolese genre of music called Rhumba. Rhumba was the music. The beat in rhumba felt like nothing else.

I grew up in church. When I was in secondary school, I envied the choir members at our local church. I was curious to know what made the jazzmen and vocalists unique. Why were they able to make music while the rest of us couldn’t?  The piano players were always my favorite.  Somehow, at the age 15 my ears had already learnt to distinguish a good pianist from a not so good one. My mind had already started creating rhythms of how I thought every song should go. My mind produced some really good music I must say.

Growing up, I struggled to express myself and became the shyest among my school friends. Eventually, I figured that if I learnt music, I was going to be able to express myself better.

After I was accepted to pursue my studies at the University of Malawi, I listed music as one of the courses. My parents discouraged me from pursuing music. They believed that there was no future in music and it was only going to be a distraction from studying “the real courses”.

     
I don’t blame my parents. Society has viewed arts as nothing but a sideline. In this side of the world, one is not expected to have their life rest solely on the arts. This way you will be labelled jobless. I still attempted to venture into music. In 2008, I recorded a song tittled Dzuka (Wake Up). The song enjoyed airplay on one of the local radio stations in one of the cities in Northern Malawi. I later recorded another song with one artist from the same city. It felt that I belonged to music but I was restricted. I couldn't go on.

Back in 2010, I aspired to take guitar lessons. 13 years later, I have begun living the dream. The dream is to play piano. The bigger dream is to see Young people grow their artistic skills. To see the arts industry grow and to see young people learn and embrace the art of creative entrepreneurship.

Throughout my years of work, I have come to learn that Malawian communities are a hub of creativity and talents (including fine arts, performing arts and crafts).  I believe that one way to deal with youth unemployment is to empower the youth to develop creative thinking skills through arts thereby shaping a creative, flexible, and entrepreneurial society.  I believe that creativity is an asset for our young people especially at the stage when a whole range of opportunities exists. When there is room for creativity and growth.

I long to see our societies in Malawi highlight the importance of Arts and embrace Arts for Social and economic impact.

That is why my I am more passionate about establishing arts and creativity programs for youth. 

If you're interested to partner or have more ideas around such programs email me at: wpotolani@gmail.com 

Arts Education and Creativity in the Malawian Arts Industry

Creativity in the Malawian Arts Industry 

I recently wrote a piece about Arts Education and how we can advance Creativity in the Malawian Arts Industry. Arts is one of my passions and I believe that the establishment of arts  centres will contribute alot in the Arts industry and Arts Education in Malawi. I partnered with the Arts Education Partnership in Denver to publish this blogpost and it has been published on their website.

Please read my blogpost on:

https://www.aep-arts.org/arts-education-and-creativity-in-the-malawian-arts-industry

Enjoy!