In Malawi’s produce markets, an astonishing variety of fruit is sold throughout the year, although its availability is dictated entirely by the seasons. One season brings an abundance of mangoes, which remain plentiful for several months. During the same period, masuku (Uapaca kirkiana) also make their appearance. Earlier in the year, another cherished local delicacy—the masau fruit—fills the markets, only to disappear again after three or four months.
With very few exceptions, these fruits are harvested either from trees planted by our forebears or gathered from the wild. There is little sustained effort to cultivate new orchards or replenish existing stocks to guarantee a reliable supply in the years ahead. On one occasion, while travelling through Mwanza District, I observed that the tangerines which flood our urban markets during their season were all being picked from ageing trees. I did not encounter a single newly established orchard, nor even a nursery nurturing the next generation of tangerine trees.
It is therefore hardly surprising that we have increasingly turned to importing tangerines and oranges from neighbouring countries.
The situation is even more striking with wild fruits. To my knowledge, not a single Malawian has embarked on the deliberate cultivation of forests of indigenous fruit trees. Some years ago, I purchased seedlings of the nthudza tree from Mudi Nursery and planted them at my home in Chinyonga. Many people thought I had lost my senses. Yet, year after year, those very trees have rewarded me with abundant harvests of nthudza berries.
In Malawi, deliberately planting wild fruit trees would probably strike many people as an odd undertaking. Wild trees, after all, are expected to grow of their own accord, while we simply enjoy nature’s generosity. When circumstances no longer favour their survival, we quietly abandon them and cease trading in either the fruits themselves or the products derived from them.
We find ourselves confronting much the same problem in the charcoal industry. During a visit to Chikuli, beyond Chileka in Blantyre, I noticed young men producing charcoal from tree roots because every mature tree in the area had already been felled. In my view, the charcoal trade has become the greatest enemy of our forests.
Charcoal production would be far less destructive if those engaged in it consistently replanted trees to replace those they cut down. Such a practice would ensure that today’s harvest did not come at the expense of tomorrow’s forests. Sadly, the very notion of systematic replanting scarcely enters people’s thinking.
The explanation is not difficult to find. Trees require many years to reach maturity, and that long wait discourages investment. In Malawi, people are naturally drawn towards enterprises that promise immediate returns. Our banking system inadvertently reinforces this short-term outlook. Anyone who secures a loan is expected to begin repayments almost immediately, often within the following month, or risk losing the property pledged as collateral. Under such circumstances, few people can afford to wait five, six, seven or even ten years before trees begin to generate an income.
Consequently, we have developed a culture that falls well short of embracing long-term planning. It is a habit that is holding us back. Before Malawi Mangoes established its operations in Salima, for instance, mango cultivation was rarely undertaken in any organised or commercial fashion. The fruits sold in our markets were gathered from old village trees. Few people paused to consider what would happen when those ageing trees eventually ceased to produce their succulent harvests.
For several years now, social media has circulated a speech purportedly delivered by the late President Pieter Botha of South Africa. The speech contains several deeply offensive remarks about black people. Among its more provocative claims is the assertion that the average black person seldom plans beyond the coming year. There is both bad news and good news in reflecting upon that allegation.
The bad news is that there is, regrettably, an element of truth in it. If we are honest with ourselves, long-term planning has never been one of our greatest strengths. I recently learnt that Israel, despite being largely desert, is now home to millions of trees, each deliberately planted and recorded on a national database. Should one of those trees fall, the system immediately registers the loss and appropriate action is taken. That is what purposeful planning looks like.
The good news, however, is that our tendency to neglect long-term planning is cultural rather than biological. Culture is neither fixed nor immutable; it evolves, adapts and can be transformed. We are therefore entirely capable of changing our outlook. Each of us should search within their community to identify the areas where thoughtful planning is needed.