On the 18th of January, I landed in Madrid and connected straight to Barcelona—a city I did not expect to visit, but one I would soon come to love. Every step felt like a lesson, every corner an invitation to understand how cities can work for people. What fascinated me most was not the monuments or museums, but the life of the city itself—its pulse after dark.
Barcelona at night was alive. Streets were busy, cafés still open, taxis weaving, music flowing, people moving with energy and purpose. It reminded me of Nsungwi, Mchesi, Chinsapo, or Area 23 in Lilongwe, where vendors sell until midnight and kabaza riders ferry those who partied a little too hard back to the comfort of their homes. But here was the striking difference: in Barcelona, the vibrancy of nightlife is woven into the very fabric of the city, while in Lilongwe, such activity is pushed to the so-called “ghettos.” In our Central Business District, the lights go out by 6 p.m. The potential of the city shuts down before the sun has even disappeared.
This is not just a missed chance for entertainment. It is an economic loss. The extra hours beyond the formal workday could fuel a second wave of productivity. Yet the way we have designed our city life robs the CBD of its full potential. Consumers with disposable income rush home instead of spending. Workers who could benefit from extra shifts in restaurants, shops, or offices are denied that chance. Transport operators who could earn from night-time mobility find their markets dormant. In economics, we call this opportunity cost—and Lilongwe is paying it heavily.
The question is not whether change is possible. The question is whether we have the courage to redesign. Cities, after all, are human inventions. They can be reinvented. Jane Jacobs, the iconic voice of modern urban planning, once wrote: “Cities have the capability of providing something for everybody, only because, and only when, they are created by everybody.” Her words challenge us to rethink what we accept as normal in our city planning.
Recently, the government announced the creation of secondary cities—an initiative to curb migration and spark new economic zones. It is a commendable step. But perhaps the seeds of transformation already lie within our so-called ghettos. Nsungwi, Area 23, and Chinsapo are not dead ends—they are emerging economies. If we chose to see them differently, they could become cities within the city.
The Land Bill has already been reformed. Imagine using it not only to regulate land ownership but to redesign these areas into vibrant urban communities. Affordable apartment blocks could replace scattered housing, road networks could be redrawn, and social services placed within walking distance. Landowners could still hold equity—given a modern home while their plots accommodate high-rise apartments for others. In time, we would not only have a skyline in the CBD but multiple skylines—Chinsapo rising with smart housing, Nsungwi crowned with malls, Area 23 lined with cafés and offices.
Is this a dream? Perhaps. But history tells us it is possible. The Europe we admire today was not born glamorous—it was rebuilt from the ashes of poor planning and war. Slums were transformed into livable cities through courage, vision, and deliberate policy. As Richard Florida, a leader in urban development, has argued: “The great challenge of our time is to build cities that are not just engines of growth, but places of inclusion.”
Lilongwe is flat, spacious, and full of promise. It is easier to build here than in the crowded metropolises we admire. We only need imagination and will. Our city does not need to close at six. It can breathe longer, work harder, and live fuller. The night can belong to the CBD, just as much as to the ghetto.
The real test is whether we are bold enough to claim this future.
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