JOHN KANGULU MACHELETA- MUWELE'S HERO

  It all happened like a dream.

 Fewer people remained in the village because many were in Nkutu, the seasonal farming camps. The rainy-season weather was cold, with sunshine showing up in an on-and-off pattern. Tall, green grass characterized pathways as the smell of ripe mangoes filled the air.   I woke up to the news that Mungwi Boys Secondary School had selected us, with two others.

 Rasford was beaming with joy when he came to announce the news, braving heavy morning dew. His admission forms were well-tugged in his pocket when he joked that we had all failed for the second time before he patted me on the back and told me to relax and go and collect my acceptance letter. My heart sunk in relief.

 Ten others were to attend different secondary schools from Muwele Primary School in 1981. Our long wait for Grade 7 results finally ended around mid-February. I dashed to see the Headteacher in a flash, Mwansa in tow. I can’t remember having any breakfast that morning. It was like all the chirping birds along the way sang “Congrats!” My friends had collected their letters the previous day.

We celebrated the day with my two friends, Francis Katapula (late) and Rasford Mwansa Chipi. The feeling was great, especially since we could not make it the previous year. We were all “Repeaters.” We discussed what the future would be after that day. We had a mini banquet of delicious, specially prepared Nshima and chicken, with which Rasford was honoured by his parents for finally making it to Form 1. 

After a lot of merry-making and making rounds in the village telling everyone who had qualified, we parted to go and make travelling plans.

Did I say travelling plans? For my friends, yes. I had no feasible plan. I could start from nowhere. My guardians had saved no money. I had worked with my older brother-in-law, who took me under his wing in a fishing camp as my Mukolombeshi (boss) on a school holiday, but we did not sell the fish. 

My first thought was to go and ask for my share of my labour from my brother-in-law. This trip was a daunting day’s voyage by canoe to Myunga fishing camp. It was a journey mixed with hope and despair. What if my Mukolombeshi had sold the fish and used the money? I left the camp two weeks earlier to go and check for the examination results. Where else would I ask for help? If I did not raise enough, what would happen? How would I feel after all my 12 other “Secondarians” had left leaving me? What would my future be? 

I set off early in the morning, ignoring the morning drizzle. It was cloudy, and all signs pointed to a heavy downpour. I punted the canoe furiously, non-stop, in a solo regatta style as it rained continuously. The heavy rain sometimes blurred my vision, I could not see that far from the waterway. I was sweating heavily under wet clothes as rain washed me incessantly until I reached the camp early in the evening. My arms were painful, my head feeling like I was banging it against a tree.

 I found my sister alone. Her husband had gone to a funeral in Chafye, and she only expected him back after two days. They did not sell the fish yet. A reasonable heap lay waiting in Mukungwe (storeroom), giving a slight hope that I may be lucky. I ate my nshima in anxiety. My favourite Mpende tasted like dry grass. I had no appetite for food. I had a week in which to report to school. I folded myself under a blanket in a small hut and tried to sleep by the fireplace, but sleep had dodged me. The slow-burning fire could not warm me enough to drive away self-inflicted insomnia. All I wanted was to see what the other day would contribute to my fate.

My boss never showed up for three more days. He had been having a good time in the village after the burial of his nephew. I had started failing to eat normally. Most of the time, I stood like a scarecrow, facing the direction where Mukolombeshi would come from. My sister was very sympathetic and worried as well.

 The thought of all my friends going and leaving me behind caused nightmares for me. It was agony. Finally, Mukolombeshi appeared on my fifth evening of what seemed like a year’s wait. He quickly arranged to sell some fish for me, but we did not raise enough money to enable me to travel to Mungwi from my remote Primary school in the Mpika district (Now Lavushi Manda).

I got back, paddling like a lunatic on my way to the base, only to find my guardian had done nothing still. What should I do? By now, all my friends had gone. I had another week of hopelessly languishing in the village. People started showering on my sympathies and regrets, worsening my slim hope.

I did not know my teachers understood my challenges well, even before I left to look for money. They had engaged my uncle, the PTA committee, and the area councillor while I was away. They had vowed that the community must do something for me. You may want to know that the same community had angrily besieged the school some previous year, to complain when only three pupils related to teachers, were selected. Now it was the teachers' turn to vent their anger and pressure on community leaders for failing me. What should they do?

Mr. John Kangulu Macheleta (late), the area councillor then, had to take it personally. He was a shrewd entrepreneur who already had some of his children graduate from the University of Zambia and other colleges. He was a generous, hard-working leader who always preached education in the village. He took my uncle to task for failing to plan for me even when it was clear to all that I would likely be among the selected. Under pressure, my uncle had to sell his only furniture in the house, his mahogany, nice-looking four-sitter dining suit, to him. Ba Kangulu did not need the furniture as he had his already. However, because that was all my uncle could sell, and no one else had the money to buy it, he was forced to buy it for my sake.

That lucky morning, I received the money. I immediately trotted to Chiunda Ponde, 45km, to go and board a Tata bus which served the area twice a week. I ran like an athlete in a marathon, barefoot, without a travelling bag, but for a diaper bag donated by my sister. I had only enough money to get to school and buy a pair of uniforms, shoes, and a few books. I needed to catch the bus, or I would have to wait one more week. There was panic at every step. Fortunately, I found the bus had broken down. We had to wait for mechanics from Mpika.

I described my travel to and arrival at Mungwi in my post HERE. I was three weeks late, only to report when schools were about to close. Fortunately, the school was compassionate and admitted me. Did I tell you that two of my primary school teachers also contributed money for my travel?

 I will always treasure the commitment of my teachers and the generosity and leadership of the late Mr. John Kangulu Macheleta for the foundation to build me a future. He did not only end up helping me. I learned later that wherever he met students from Muwele, he would assist them with whatever they needed. He once attended a UNIP party political meeting in Mungwi two years later. Surprisingly, Ba Kangulu donated part of his sitting allowance for us to travel back home for our holidays. Mr. John Kangulu Macheleta was a hero, a UNIP party stalwart, and a respected community father figure for Muwele. I always remember the man with a lot of gratitude. 

You can read more about my swampy stories Here and in this book compilation.

Chief Chiunda Ponde and his advisors in the 70s- Picture Credit: I.P.A Manning