The morning Adhaan echoes across the small village in Mangochi as dawn breaks. Inside a modest home, a sheikh completes his Tahajjud prayers with trembling hands—not from spiritual passion, but from hunger. By sunrise, he will transform into a vessel of divine wisdom; by sunset, he will be merely a man who cannot pay his children’s school fees.
Can Islam survive when its leaders cannot thrive? This existential question haunts Malawi’s Muslim communities as economic hardship threatens the future of religious scholarship and leadership.
“You don’t generate any income for us.” These cold words, spoken by Islamic organizations to justify meager wages, expose a crisis that extends beyond individual hardship to the very preservation of faith.
For six months, we’ve been speaking with sheikhs across Malawi, gaining unprecedented access to their private struggles and hidden pain. What we discovered reveals how spiritual calling collides with economic reality.
“It’s a monthly song of sorrow,” confesses Sheikh Ahmad (not real name). “The monthly income I get does not serve all monthly expenses. I ignore other important things just to reach the end of the month happily.”
This sheikh, who asked to remain anonymous for fear of losing even his modest position, earns less than half of what teachers at government schools receive. Yet his responsibilities – leading prayers five times daily, teaching Quran, counseling families, conducting marriages and funerals – often exceed 60 hours weekly.
“Being a wife to the sheikh brings me much joy. People respect you and your family. It helps us to teach our children about our religion, restraining them from doing haram things and showing a good pathway,” says Sheikh Ahmad’s wife.
But respect doesn’t pay bills or feed children. Behind closed doors, this family’s reality is starkly different from the dignified image they must maintain in public.
“Sometimes we lack money even to buy soap for washing clothes. My children were removed from good schools. They were deployed to nearby substandard schools for easy mobility, a place where they can just walk a distance because we can’t afford school bus fees,” Sheikh Ahmad’s wife recalls.
The impact on the next generation is perhaps the most troubling aspect of this crisis.
She continues, “This demotivates the children from admiring their father or having desire to become a sheikh one day, because they see that the daily life of their father is always a hell—he struggles to provide for the family.”
Later in the day, the sheikh leads prayers at the local masjid. Community members listen attentively to his sermon, nodding with respect at his words of wisdom. They seek his counsel on marriages, business ventures, and family disputes—his knowledge is valued, his opinions treasured.
Yet this same respected figure will later walk eight kilometers under the scorching sun to attend a community function, arriving sweaty and untidy because he cannot afford other transportation.
“It is sad that the sheikh has been invited to be a guest of honor but is walking long distance, in a scorching sun to arrive there sweating. This makes people not to respect him,” says Sheikh Ahmad’s wife.
This contradiction—spiritual authority coupled with material deprivation—creates a cognitive dissonance that undermines the very institution of religious leadership. The sheikh is simultaneously elevated and diminished in the community’s eyes.
We spoke with Sheikh Musa Matola of the Malawi’s Council of Ulamah, who acknowledges these challenges but points to both spiritual and practical solutions.
Sheikh Matola: “What keeps them going is the realization of the fact that what is in hereafter is more than what they are experiencing now.”
But even Sheikh Matola recognizes that spiritual rewards don’t eliminate the need for material support in this life. When we asked why sheikhs aren’t provided the same benefits as other professionals – health insurance, pension plans, housing allowances – the answers revealed deeper systemic issues.
“They tell us point blank: ‘You don’t generate any income for us for you to demand a salary increment every year. Those people you compare with generate money for me, that’s why I consider them with salary increament,'” another sheikh told us.
When they ask for an interest-free loan, they are often slapped with a response that makes them never dare to ask again.
“We are not a money-lending institution,” they comfortably say – with not even a hint of remorse.
This response, given by some owners of prominent Islamic organizations, exposes a fundamental misunderstanding of religious leadership’s value. These same organizations often run profitable businesses alongside their Islamic activities, raising questions about priorities and resource allocation.
Not all institutions claim to approach their sheikhs’ compensation this way. One director of a prominent Islamic charity organization, who spoke on condition of anonymity, offered a contrasting perspective.
“We have different pay scales for different roles,” he explained. “Qualified graduate sheikhs who work as inspectors, teacher trainers, and in other specialized roles can earn up to 450,000 kwacha. Meanwhile, mualims receive a minimum of 90,000 kwacha, depending on their length of service. No sheikh gets less than 100,000 at our institution. We always make sure that their welfare is taken care of.”
He frames the issue as one of limited resources: “We can only pay what our resources allow. The reality is that our funding has limitations.” The organization also raises concerns about accountability: “Some mualims work only from 2pm to 3 or 4pm instead of the official 8-hour workday. They think because it’s about deen, they can have their own rules. Some even miss their classes.”
Regarding interest-free loans, he explained their reluctance: “We tried to offer loans, but unfortunately, some people abused the system. There were cases where individuals would resign the day after receiving a loan, leaving the organization financially strained.”
If this organization’s claims about compensation are true, it only highlights the discrepancy in how religious leaders are treated across different institutions. But our investigation revealed even more troubling practices throughout the sector.
“Some organizations also threaten to fire or even fire the sheikhs who do side business. This is colonial thinking and attitude,” one prominent sheikh lamented.
On the subject of side businesses, the director we interviewed expressed qualified support: “Let them hustle, but they must remember their primary work.” While acknowledging that religious teachers can’t always be fully involved in business ventures, he suggested employing someone to manage these enterprises while ensuring availability during official working hours. “Punishing them for side hustles is not a constructive approach,” he admitted.
Another sheikh explains how control extends beyond employment itself.
“When other international organizations come and offer to just top up salaries for the sheikhs or boost their welfare, the current employer removes the salary or stops the other organizations from doing the same. Some local organizations have also manned some areas to say this is our area and no other organization can go and implement projects there, yet the sheikhs who are working for them have miserable lives… stopping people who could assist.”
As evening approaches, Sheikh Ahmad returns home, having fulfilled his spiritual duties for another day. But now he faces his wife’s worried eyes as she whispers about overdue rent, unpaid school fees, and mounting debts.
“As a family man, I just feel like I’m denying my children their freedom because I can’t pay for their school fees properly and I can’t buy them school supplies,” he says.
This tension—between divine service and human needs—creates moments of profound doubt.
“Sometimes he thinks of quitting. He comes home to find nothing for children to eat, bills piling up, and he starts questioning himself,” narrates his wife.
Yet even in these darkest moments, faith sustains this family.
She continues: “I always encourage my husband to take heart, comforting him. I tell him not to quit—Allah is watching because whatever he is doing is a calling and solely for Him.”
The question of the future hangs in the air. The sheikh’s children – bright, capable young students – watch their father struggle. What lessons are they absorbing about their own potential paths?
Yes, the sheikh’s imaan can be strong and extraordinary, but as a human being, his wife sometimes faces the reality.
“When I think about the future, it stresses me. Where are we going to stay once my husband retires? What about education for our kids considering that it is becoming more expensive every day? I see no future.”
The implications extend beyond one family to the entire structure of Islamic knowledge transmission in Malawi.
“This is what also discourages other single Muslim women from marrying sheikhs because they don’t want to suffer,” she explains. Is she regretting her choice? No, her imaan is so strong as she has always been a pillar for her husband.
Are we witnessing the final generation of traditional Islamic scholarship in Malawi? When economic forces and religious preservation become mutually exclusive, which force ultimately triumphs?
Despite the challenges, there are pathways toward a more sustainable future for Islamic leadership in Malawi. Sheikh Matola offered several practical suggestions.
Sheikh Matola: “I encourage sheikhs to consider doing side business so that they can be able to sustain their families.”
For communities, he urges greater financial support.
“I urge communities where many sheikhs work as volunteers to consider paying zakaat, Sadakah or lillah so that they can take care of him.”
The organization director we interviewed echoed this sentiment from a different angle: “We need to move beyond just writing proposals for mosques. Many mosques stand empty much of the time. Each mosque should incorporate a school block for both Islamic and secular studies to maximize resources and impact.” He observed that less than 2% of Muslims understand about paying zakat from farm yields, indicating a need for education on religious obligations.
Looking to the future, Sheikh Matola emphasizes education as a critical pathway.
“I encourage aspiring sheikhs to do both Islamic and secular education. The sheikhs should also encourage people where they are serving to encourage their children to do both… I think that’s the only way we can end the challenges.”
Finally, he emphasizes community economic development. This dual approach to education could produce a new generation of sheikhs with greater economic resilience and broader career options.
“We can’t be begging forever. For those who get fired because of side business, they can find ways to do business without themselves being involved full time.”
The organization director we spoke with suggested a similar community-wide effort: “We need to open factories and develop our own resources. Islamic leaders should collaborate with other Muslim professionals. We must work together as one ummah.”
Sheikh Ahmad and his wife, whom we’ve followed throughout this story, had their own suggestions for reform.
“Organizations that employ sheikhs should consider not only giving them higher salaries… but in addition to the salaries, they should give them other benefits such as loans to start desired businesses. They should also provide or arrange workshops for sheikhs at least twice a year. These workshops where they can get to know each other, share experiences and strength to overcome some weaknesses,” he pleads.
His wife wishes there was a review of a life of a sheikh.
“These are people who are holding the flag of the prophet. They are the ones making the religion intact. Let them be provided a house, put on a medical scheme and their children sponsored education from secondary to university.”
As night falls and the sheikh performs his final prayers of the day, we asked him why he continues despite these hardships.
“The main task that the sheikh does is for Allah’s sake. So, he just has to pay more attention to that to avoid being questioned by Allah on the Day of Judgment.”
As darkness settles over their humble home, the sheikh reads Quran to his children by the light of a single bulb. In this tableau lies the central question that will determine Islam’s future in Malawi: Can faith alone sustain its guardians when daily bread is uncertain? When a religious community prospers while its spiritual leaders falter, what does this reveal about its true values?
The sheikh’s hands tremble slightly as he turns the worn page of his mushaf. He has chosen a path that modern economic systems cannot properly value—a path increasingly untrodden. His children may be the last generation to witness this living tradition in their home.
“May Allah grant us understanding of the Deen, and respect the scholars as they are heirs of the prophet,” he hopes.
His prayer echoes across Malawi’s mosques and madrasas, challenging a community to decide: Will these heirs be honored or abandoned? Will this inheritance be preserved or squandered? The answer lies not in divine intervention but in human choices—in salaries paid, in benefits extended, in dignities preserved, in futures secured.
The future of Islam in Malawi may depend less on theology than on economics. For when faith demands poverty from its guardians, eventually it will find itself with no guardians at all.
