Time is money, or so the well-worn adage reminds us. Yet in Malawi, one cannot help but feel that time is seldom accorded the same reverence it enjoys in much of the developed world. Perhaps this is because we do not instinctively associate it with economic value; the relationship between time and money remains, for many, somewhat abstract and indistinct. Where that connection is blurred, urgency tends to dissipate, and with it, the discipline that punctuality demands.
During my first year as a student at Watford College in the United Kingdom, I lived a good five kilometres from campus and therefore relied on public transport to attend lectures. On my very first morning, I arrived at the bus terminal and noticed a timetable prominently displayed on the wall. Having come from Blantyre—where the Cityline service operated with little regard for any formal schedule—I dismissed the timetable as little more than a decorative fixture. After all, with so many stops along the route, it seemed wholly impractical to expect any meaningful adherence to time.
To my utter astonishment, however, three minutes before the stated time, I saw the bus appear around the corner, some three hundred metres away. There was one stop before mine, yet, true to the timetable, the bus arrived at my stop precisely at the appointed minute. I stood there, momentarily disarmed, as my assumptions quietly unravelled before my eyes.
This was no isolated occurrence. The same pattern repeated itself day after day, with a consistency that bordered on the uncanny. On the rare occasion that the timing faltered, it did so by no more than a minute or two—a negligible deviation by any reasonable standard. This stood in stark contrast to the situation back home, where, apart from the Express Bus and the Coachline services of those days, buses scarcely adhered to any defined schedule. Regrettably, the situation has since worsened. Today, the ubiquitous minibus—the backbone of public transport—pays scant regard to time, and often even less to other road users.
Some years ago, I found myself driving from Blantyre Mission to the Makata Industrial Site. With Makata Road temporarily closed for renovation works, I briefly considered taking the Masauko Chipembere Highway and reconnecting at the upper end near Kamuzu Stadium. However, that route struck me as unnecessarily circuitous, and so I opted instead to pass through Ndirande.
In retrospect, it was a thoroughly misguided decision. Upon reaching the central market area, traffic ground to an abrupt halt. A minibus driver had stopped his vehicle squarely in the middle of the road, effectively blocking all movement behind him. Five long minutes passed as we collectively wondered what could justify such an obstruction. Then, without warning, the driver began reversing into a congested area where other minibuses were already parked on the roadside. The manoeuvre caused further confusion, exacerbated the congestion, and prolonged the delay for everyone unfortunate enough to be caught in it.
By the time I finally arrived at Makata, I was ten minutes late for my appointment. While this caused me no small measure of discomfort, it was evident that the minibus driver remained entirely untroubled. To him—as, indeed, to many of us—time seemed to carry little weight. It is a sobering reflection of a broader cultural disposition, one in which punctuality is rarely enforced and seldom expected.
It is not uncommon for events in our setting to commence an hour or even two behind schedule, with scarcely a murmur of concern. On several occasions, I have been invited to coach choirs, only to arrive punctually and find myself entirely alone. Gradually, individuals begin to drift in—some thirty minutes late, others even later—without the slightest sense of urgency or apology. Such habits, though often dismissed as trivial, carry profound consequences. In truth, a significant portion of our collective inefficiency—and by extension, our economic struggles—can be traced to poor timekeeping. Were we to treat time with greater seriousness, we would undoubtedly become more efficient, and with efficiency would come increased productivity and, ultimately, greater prosperity.
The buses in Watford, it must be said, were seldom full. Yet they operated with remarkable efficiency and, by all appearances, must have been financially viable. The staff seemed well remunerated, and the system itself was refreshingly straightforward. There were no conductors; passengers paid their fares directly to the driver. On occasion, drivers would change shifts at a place known as Garston Garage. The first time I witnessed this, I observed one driver disembark and calmly make his way to the car park, where he entered his own vehicle and drove off.