The meteoric rise of Dr Kedmon Mapana

DAR ES SALAAM: THERE are weeks when the universe wakes up, stretches in that leisurely cosmic manner, points directly at you and proclaims with suspicious excitement, “Yes, you. Today, you shall suffer recreationally.”

Mine was exactly that.

A week so spectacularly disastrous that if Netflix bought the rights, they’d slip it somewhere between psychological horror, experimental comedy and documentary for educational purposes.

And like all tragicomedies worth retelling, it began with the true villain of my household: My laptop.

This machine, a relic so ancient that carbon-dating might reveal it predates the Berlin Conference, has served faithfully since the era when dinosaurs sent SMSes on Nokia 3310s.

The logo evaporated somewhere during Kikwete’s first term. If future archaeologists stumble upon it, they’ll likely mistake it for an errant meteorite.

Opening it is an act of courage. The screen lights up with all the enthusiasm of a government office clerk at 4:59 pm on a Friday.

The fan wheezes like a jazz saxophonist in the final stages of spiritual ascension. When it boots, it does not simply load—no, it “reflects,” like a philosopher hesitant to rejoin society.

But even this faithful fossil turned on me. And the coup de grâce? Writer’s block.

Not the polite, socially acceptable writer’s block where you stare at the ceiling and sigh poetically.

No, this was the industrial-strength version—one so violent it could qualify as a natural disaster.

By Wednesday, even my thoughts were buffering. I sat there, glaring at the blinking cursor, waiting for divine inspiration. But the universe had wandered off, probably to attend another wedding.

Sentences collapsed midway. Paragraphs marched in circles like confused Boy Scouts. Even my metaphors unionised and staged a sit-in.

In desperation, I attempted all the rituals recommended by ancestors and productivity gurus. I made tea. Nothing.

I paced, producing the emotional aura of a suspect in a low-budget true-crime documentary.

At one point, I opened a blank document, cracked my knuckles like a Bongo Movie hero entering a climactic duel and whispered, “Today, we create magic.”

The page remained blank. Magic had packed its bags and emigrated. Meanwhile, everything unrelated to my assignment became irresistibly fascinating.

I studied flamingo migration with such zeal that Darwin himself would have nodded approvingly.

I reordered old camera lenses with bomb squad precision. I cleaned a drawer untouched since Simba SC last won something that mattered.

I even considered starting a podcast dedicated solely to reviewing mukbang videos. Anything, absolutely anything, except writing.

Occasionally I’d return to the laptop. It responded sluggishly, as though it had joined a labour union and was demanding compassionate leave.

The keyboard felt like a lukewarm stone tablet. The cursor blinked with the smugness of someone who knows they’re winning.

This, my dear reader, was the Great Depression of Ideas. To those blessed souls whose brains obey like well-trained puppies, let me explain this affliction:

Writer’s block is when you arrive at your desk armed with passion, duty, caffeine, hunger and a pending M-Pesa message reminding you why you must work and your brain calmly informs you, “No service in your area.”

Each attempt at writing felt like decoding ancient hieroglyphics. My neurons crawled into a hammock and refused to participate.

In desperation, I turned to the world for inspiration. First, I tried the semi-new, semi-old Ministry of News, Culture, Arts and Sports.

A ministry with the identity stability of a teenager, too mature to be hip, too young to be respected.

The Wachambuzi, our national fraternity of PhDs in Hot Air, kumbe had already dissected the new appointments with surgical precision. Everything had been analysed: Roles, responsibilities, demeanours, accents, even hairlines.

Poor Gerson Msigwa was trending for being triple-booked—Permanent Secretary, Government Spokesperson and famous custodian of Kapu la Mama.

The nation debated him with the intensity usually reserved for soap opera finales.

Leftovers for me? None. Not even cold tea.

Next, I attempted football. Surely, the World Cup qualifiers would offer fertile ground.

But alas! The Wachambuzi Republic had already convened at dawn.

They dissected Fiston Mayele’s penalty against Nigeria so intensely, I’m convinced someone produced a 38-slide PowerPoint on his shoelace angle.

Then came the Play-Off Draw. And not a soul operating at full dramatic capacity could match the chaos FIFA served.

New Caledonia against Jamaica? It felt like someone spun a globe blindfolded and picked the two unlikeliest wedding guests and forced them into a duel.

Bolivia versus Suriname? A matchup arranged like two distant cousins shoved to share a bench at a family function.

All this, only for the winners to face the real headmasters waiting in the corridor: Congo DR and Iraq.

Strict, unblinking, arms folded, like mathematics teachers prepared to decide the destinies of trembling children.

Zurich unveiled this spectacle with its own theatrics. A glamorous cast including Melanie Winiger, Manolo Zubiria and three football legends who looked like judges on a global talent show.

As Guadalajara and Monterrey prepared to host this drama in March 2026, the world waited.

Four more Europeans would join. Tears would fall. Dreams would rise. And heartbreak would travel, as it always does, first class.

But still by the time I logged onto social media, all that remained for me was a humble “Amen.”

Then, just as despair settled in, divine intervention— of the Tanzanian variety— arrived.

“Mungu si Athumani,” as our ancestors wisely warned, that God is not Athumani.

A reshuffle. New appointments. And at the centre of the commotion: The Ministry of Youth, newly minted and glowing with political novelty.

Enter Dr Kedmon Mapana, the now former Executive Secretary of the National Arts Council, affectionately known by its Swahili acronym of BASATA.

Oh—wait! Before I dive too deep, did I mention Bakari Machumu stepping in as the new Director of Communications at Ikulu?

My apologies.

It seems Machumu’s very first assignment at Chamwino was drafting the very statement that threw the nation into excited confusion.

According to his neatly crafted announcement, Ms Jenifa Omolo takes the helm as Permanent Secretary.

But it was the revelation that Dr Mapana would serve as Deputy Permanent Secretary that truly sent eyebrows nationwide into low Earth orbit.

Because this wasn’t just a promotion. No, this was teleportation. A bureaucratic comet blazing past the usual career ladder.

A leap so dramatic he practically broke atmospheric friction on the way up. A guy who didn’t climb the ranks, he launched through them.

From the lecture halls of UDSM, where he inspired, disciplined and occasionally petrified creative art students, to the labyrinth of Magogoni, reserved for the chosen few.

Mapana leapt as though gravity was merely a suggestion. At BASATA, he had been nothing short of a cultural surgeon.

He didn’t manage; he jettisoned inefficiency.

Artists arrived trembling, unsure whether they’d emerge sanctioned, summoned or spiritually rearranged.

But they left smiling. Worshippers of order. Even Miss Universe candidates walked better under his watch.

Mapanaism, permit me the liberty, is a style of leadership few mortal souls can replicate.

It fuses fatherhood, diplomacy, artistry and a generous splash of spiritual engine oil.

Now he ascends to youth leadership, leaving behind a vacuum at BASATA hotter than pilau cooked by an aunt famous for seasoning with rumours instead of spices.

Who shall wear his industrial-strength size-72 gumboots?

The job requires intellect, charm, patience and the unique ability to manage artists who demand a leader capable of functioning as prophet, therapist, referee and nightclub bouncer.

If anyone deserved a meteoric rise, it is Dr Mapana.

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His career arcs across the sky like a Diwali rocket— bright, loud, ambitious, slightly terrifying, but thoroughly unforgettable.

And so here I am, after a week of suffering, my deadline finally met. Writer’s block slain. Inspiration restored. All thanks to the cosmic spectacle that is Dr Kedmon Mapana.

And if writer’s block dares return next week?

I shall take my humble plastic chair, march to the Ministry of Youth and sit outside patiently.

Because where Dr Mapana walks, stories follow. And they are always as wide, wild and wondrous as his name