This morning in the wee hours of the night, I was awakened by a sobbing and broken Niece to tell me that The baobab tree had fallen in Malawi. Any call in the middle of the night never brings good news.
David Rubadiri, a poet, playwright, author and diplomat breathed his last after a long illness.
David was one of Africa’s most anthologized and celebrated poets. A great and deep thinker, a man of few words but who chose his words with the exactness of a sculptor.
He authored “Growing up with Poetry”, “Poems from East Africa”, “Come To Tea” and his popular “No Bride Price” published in 1967 — a swift-moving novel set in a new African nation chronicling the challenges of Lombe, a young ambitious civil servant who struggles to navigate the corridors of power and falling foul of his Minister. This novel made Rubadiri a household name throughout E. Africa.
Unlike many an African writer, David writes with ease and simplicity but captures the attention of his readers, shying away from using un-necessarily complicated words. But he never avoided raunchy language if he ever had to use it. He truly was an original. A brilliant wordsmith. In the words of a Malawian proverb, “Buffaloes are held by ropes, man by his words.”
Through his many poems, you read his soul and understood what made him tick. They all reflect his inner thoughts and the personal conflicts he dealt with on a daily basis, like all mortals.
David liked to dress casually, often in his signature tweed jacket or cardigans. He never wanted to draw attention to himself. But he was meticulous. He had a special way about him, attracting those around him to pay attention to his accurate words and well coined phrases.
His simple ways and soft-spoken manner made him the quintessential diplomat he was. In 1964 he was appointed Malawi’s first Ambassador to the UN following his country’s independence — the first among a new breed of African diplomats from Sub-Sahara Africa.
He truly fit the Malawian proverb, “ A diplomat should be yielding and supple as a creeper that can be bent but not broken.” In 1965, only one year as ambassador, he resigned in protest against President Kamuzu Banda’s autocratic rule, and there begun his exile from the motherland. But David never felt exiled. Africa was home. He was of Africa.
My dear friend, mentor was a proud African, a patriotic Malawian. And yes, an original OB — Old Budonian, whose membership I proudly claim.
It was a thing of beauty to watch David play cricket. He was as stylish as he was good at a game he loved so much. He held the bat in style like he held his most potent weapon: a pen.
As we prepare to bid him a somber goodbye, before we send him to join the ancestors, let me borrow the words of a poet where mine come short;
” I can’t help but feel defeated,
or even may be a little cheated.
But how very selfish would I be,
to hope and pray you could stay with me.
So as you laid there tubes running to and fro,
I had to tell you “It’s ok to go”
Say “Hi” to loved ones waiting on the other side.
I know some day, you will be there when I take the ride.”
Fare thee well, my friend, sweet African prince. You may not have touched the heaven, but you are now among the stars. There will never be another like you. Thank you for letting me be your friend.
