SWAMPY TALES

A WET DISTRESS CALL FROM LUNGA! This long year, you will not find anything as wet as this call in Lunga wetlands!   Picture a family of eleven hungry boys and girls aged between one and nine surrounding a small pot. In it, is but little nshima . A piece of leftover bony-meat submerged in unseasoned gravy in a plastic bowl is placed beside the pot, in the center of the eleven-man team eagerly waiting for a signal to start munching. Parental refereeing is evidently missing.   They have gone searching for possible donor-pledged food packs from overwhelmed local government officials. You watch scantily dressed kids dipping a few fingers in a bow of water as a mere mandatory ritual; certainly not for health reasons! All eyes on the ball.   Ready- to- attack positions taken! But one necessary act is yet to be done. The meat has to be shared by Chakanya (sharer), the eldest person around. While Chakanya is struggling with the bone, siblings can’t wait for him to execu

An excessive sentimental yearning of some past period or irrecoverable condition, termed nostalgia, is exactly what I felt when I traveled to Ncheta Island, my place of origin. Thinking about Lunga  As our boat approached the flooded villages, instead of feeling sympathetic, my memories took me back to the time when conditions like that provided cherished opportunities to us, boys, to search and find small fishes that we slew for pleasure . Wading through ponds going fishing without a canoe (kufushila) was a prized pastime. That day reminded me of times men brought in tasty, gigantic tiger fish or bream which, when cooked, tasted more like steak; and needed no artificial spices.   Back then, came mid-days when men gathered in one place, nsaka, where it rained nshima, our main dish. If you were an obedient boy, you feasted with the village elite and you were encouraged at the end, to take away the leftovers of chunks of fish, which was a great honor! How I fondl

UNGA TRIBE STORY – AS IT SHOULD BE Reading excerpts of a book about Unga tribe written by our colonial District Commissioner many years before I was born, aroused my interest. The parts I read were heavy on the Ungas’ fishing occupation and had scanty information about our whole way of living.  I searched the internet, libraries and other sources of information to find out if there was anyone, dead or living, from my tribe, that is; who has ever tried to tell our own story. I found nothing. The closest I came was some research work students did in their theses (about our fishing activities), for their degree examinations . It made me think. Where are all the educated men and women from Lunga? Why would I fail to tell our own story? I have lived the life others are writing about. I understand better why certain things are done in a way and religiously support our belief system. Why would I let someone else empathize my feelings and pen them down when I can do so myself? D