By Burnett Munthali
Where were you on June 10, 2024?
It’s a question that has grown heavier with each passing day since that fateful Monday morning.
At first, it seemed like any other ordinary day — the kind you step into without suspecting that history is about to be rewritten.
The skies were clear, the wind was soft, and the rhythm of life pulsed on as usual, unaware that tragedy was tiptoeing its way into our lives.
I remember waking up to the familiar hum of morning sounds: the clatter of pots, the distant voices of schoolchildren, the usual bustle of Lilongwe’s rising heartbeat.
My phone buzzed, as it always does, but that morning’s notifications would not bring the usual stream of memes or motivational quotes.
Instead, there was silence.
The kind of silence that precedes the arrival of news too heavy for words.
When I finally unlocked my phone and saw the first headline, my breath caught in my chest.
“Vice President Dr. Saulos Klaus Chilima presumed missing after military aircraft fails to land.”
I read it again.
And again.
Each time hoping that I had misunderstood — that this was some poorly worded message or social media hoax.
But the more I scrolled, the more the reality sharpened into something undeniable.
It wasn’t just news.
It was a national heartbreak in the making.
For a moment, time lost its grip on me.
I sat still, as if moving would somehow shatter the thin barrier between hope and despair.
Within minutes, social media was ablaze — flooded with prayers, speculations, and shared disbelief.
Calls poured in.
Messages from friends, colleagues, even strangers — all asking the same thing: “Have you heard?”
Yes, I had.
But no, I wasn’t ready to believe it.
Throughout the day, I followed every update like a lifeline, clutching to the possibility that he — that they — would be found safe.
The search effort intensified.
Every passing hour without answers grew heavier than the last.
In moments like that, you realize how fragile a nation’s heart truly is.
We were all waiting.
Waiting for a miracle.
Waiting for someone to say they’d made a mistake.
Waiting to exhale.
And when the confirmation came — that the aircraft had crashed and there were no survivors — something inside of us collectively broke.
There are days that simply pass, and there are days that carve themselves into your soul.
June 10, 2024, was the latter.
Even now, the echoes of that day linger — in candlelight vigils, in hushed conversations, in the somber eyes of a grieving people.
I will never forget where I was.
Not just physically — seated at my desk, watching the news unfold.
But emotionally.
Spiritually.
I was in mourning.
I was in disbelief.
I was a witness to a national tragedy that words could never truly capture.
Where were you on June 10, 2024?
Perhaps not just a question of geography, but of memory, of emotion, of bearing witness to the fragility of leadership and the permanence of loss.
It was the day Malawi wept — not just for a man, but for a future suddenly interrupted.
And as the days go on, we continue to carry that memory.
Not as a burden, but as a reminder.
That leadership matters.
That life is fleeting.
And that some days never leave you — no matter how far you travel from them.
