SWAMPY TALES

Each day is someone’s birthday. And this day is celebrated by many for the phenomenal event to either give thanks to parents, God or just to acknowledge the fact that they were born. Some of these birthdays coincide not only with good luck but with terrible happenings. My birthday is such a one! Don’t judge me wrongly, Pal, unforeseen circumstances do happen to everyone. That day I opened my small eyes to a dazzle of light on the earth, to feel the temperature outside another human being, to gulp some oxygen through my own narrow nostrils, smell natural and artificial fragrances for the first time, and of course, announce my triumphant arrival by way of an askari loud cry; I never even knew that on that same day, six decades ago, somewhere within the boundaries of a British Protectorate called Northern Rhodesia, where I was being dandled by an excited group of women, a white settler had died of lion wounds. Picture Credit:  Elie Khoury To tell you the truth, I’ve never seen a lion at

    If you can answer this question honestly, then you will not be afraid to answer others who may want to know more about you by posing the question, “Who are you?” Everyone has a story. In truthfully telling that story is embedded the exact characteristics that define them. If you do not tell your story, others will; and usually, you will not completely be happy with stories told about you by strangers.   This is true about an individual, family, race, or tribe.  For a long time, many people have told stories of the Unga people of Bangweulu swamps. Some of them it is because they have stayed with us for some time, some have visited for a short time, some have inquired, or formally, did some research about the tribe. Others have been in the area because duty called and wrote what they heard and saw. The fact that they are not Baunga, some of their stories are biased, based on opinion, events of the moment, and skewed judgment. Of course, some agree that little is known about the Baun