Fiery and unapologetic, the late reggae icon Peter Tosh never bowed to labels or ideologies that did not sit right with him. When Grenadian Prime Minister Maurice Bishop invited him to a socialist summit, Tosh showed up—but not to conform. As soon as someone addressed him with the revolutionary greeting, “Comrade,” he shot back without missing a beat: “I man don’t come red, I come black.” With that sharp retort, he made it clear—he was not there to pledge allegiance to any political movement. He was there as himself: a proud black man, unshackled by party colors or doctrines.Many a Malawian would have seized that moment to blend in, eager to be seen as part of the inner circle, especially if perks were involved. A typical Malawian would have gone out of their way to embrace the “comrade” title, perhaps even throwing in a clenched fist salute for good measure. In a society where recognition often translates to opportunity—financial or otherwise—few would risk standing out for the sake of principle. Tosh, however, was cut from a different cloth.Years ago, while serving as the master of ceremonies at an event, I made the unfortunate mistake of leaving out one “important” figure in my salutations. He wasted no time in letting me know he was not amused. To smooth things over, I had to subtly work his presence into my remarks later, making sure the audience understood that my earlier omission had been an honest mistake. In moments like these, you truly see how much weight some people place on public recognition.
Malawian public speaking, especially at rallies and formal gatherings, often feels like an endurance test in protocol. Before a speaker can get to anything meaningful, they must first wade through a long and tedious roll call of “dignitaries,” each name carefully enunciated with the proper honorifics. The real irony? Even if there are multiple speakers, each one is expected to repeat the same exhaustive list, as if the audience has suddenly developed amnesia. It is not uncommon for these drawn-out salutations to take up half the allotted speaking time, leaving actual substance as an afterthought. It is a ritual deeply ingrained in the culture—one that values recognition almost as much as the message itself.In Malawi, the craving for recognition often spirals into absurdity. You hear people declaring, “I am Honourable so and so” or “I am Dr. so and so,” as if these titles alone were badges of true merit. But genuine honour is not self-proclaimed—it shines through in your actions. The way you carry yourself speaks louder than any introduction ever could. It is a social paradox to trumpet your honor while behaving in a manner that contradicts it. True dignity, after all, makes its presence known without so much as a whispered claim.The Book of Acts gives us a striking lesson in identity—one that feels especially relevant today. We read about a group of believers who embraced the teachings of Jesus, meeting regularly for fellowship and the breaking of bread. They simply lived out their faith. Then, as Luke records, something remarkable happened: outsiders, observing their way of life, gave them a name—Christians. They did not declare it themselves; it was their conduct that set them apart. In a world where people are quick to label themselves, this moment in history reminds us that true identity is best recognized by others, not self-imposed.The people of Antioch must have seen something strikingly different about this group. They must have noticed the way these believers shared love—not just among themselves, but with others. Unlike the rest of the city, where disputes and vengeance were the norm, these people refused to fight back. When wronged, they did not retaliate with anger but responded with kindness. Such a radical way of living could not go unnoticed. And then, it must have clicked—these people resembled the man they had heard about, the one called Christ, who had spent years teaching love, forgiveness, and peace across Palestine. And so, without any formal proclamation, they gave them a name: Christians.There is no need to pile on accolades when introducing yourself—true worth does not need a loudspeaker. Your values, your abilities, and your character will speak for themselves. Given time, people will recognize and address you with the honour you deserve. If you truly embody dignity and integrity, those around you will not need a reminder; they will see it in the way you carry yourself. So, let others, not yourself, sound your trumpet, honourable friend—if, indeed, there is music worth playing.