SWAMPY TALES

Why did that happen only to me? Why was I born from these parents? Why me in this country? Why me this and why me that? If you have ever asked yourself such questions, you are not alone. I once did. The good news is that there is a purpose for your situation. It is because you have a unique story. Your story is fantastic because it could be a lesson to others. Or it could be many lessons to many different people. To some, your story could mean an inspiration, a message for habits, a lifestyle, or an upbringing to embrace or avoid. Regardless of where we are born, these lessons abound. It is folly, therefore, to look down at your life, ancestors, village, country, gender, or family and think you could have been better if you were born differently. That life could have been fairer if it took you away from where you are. If you find yourself in a tight situation that makes you think you could have been better if your circumstances at birth were different, know you are not working on impro

  One of my dear sisters recently said, 'Home is not where you live, but where you belong.' My Chafye Tour/Family This post proved true as I experienced it when I visited Lunga, particularly Chafye Island, last April 2023. After a long time, I checked on my sister and her children. I travelled from my habitat in Ndola from 05:30hrs in the morning, arriving in Chafye at 19:30hrs. This trip was a combination of a journey by public bus and a voyage by public and private boats. The swamps are as pristine as I saw them many years ago. However, the village has grown significantly. Many youths who had just heard about me were just as anxious to see me as I was. Everything fell in so naturally. I enjoyed the camaraderie I yearned for in the last fifteen years. Indeed, I received a thunderous welcome on the eve of the Social Cash Transfer disbursement day! You guessed right what transpired the following day. Merrymaking! Please note that I am not exaggerating by using the word

One of the listeners to my radio dramas asked how I manage to imagine things that usually make sense. Deliberately, I did not answer him. Instead, I led him to imagine a situation that involved our grandfathers. "If your ancestor who lived around 1900 resurrected today, would he rejoice or lament about your way of life?" "Of course, if he is like mine, he would find his village desolate. How quickly everyone deserted the once-upon-a-time beautiful village knit by kinship would strike him. He would see that the soil is the same while the rivers have become distant. The swamp that barricaded his village has dried up. He would note the same bare open space with no trees. He would wait to see some animals wandering around but will find none. Those birds he used to prey on would have significantly diminished. He would expect the rainy season to have ended by April but would find it raining in July. "He would take a walk into the nearby villages. No one would recogn

Life is all about basics. I listened to one supposedly learned person in an intense argument in one of the many minibus-political debates I have heard. The educated fiercely attacked the governance of the FTJ Chiluba government. He stated that the many challenges Zambia was going through at the time were because of the president’s primary education. He further condemned the establishment of Basic schools, which, according to him, did not add any meaningful value to the country. Finally, he encouraged people to vote for university graduates in future elections. In response, the opponents gave an example of the early Kaunda days. They stated that Dr. Kaunda did very well in his first ten years of rule despite having just attained a ‘basic’ education. They indicated that Dr Chiluba had, in fact, numerous cabinet ministers who were highly educated. This debate got more intense as those supporting graduates and non-graduates joined. Each contributor had their reasons for keeping their

How should I summarize 2022 in a single word? Challenging. I silently had to cope with failures and console myself with some successes while I received some undeserved blessings. Among my significant failures was the inactivity in the association I hold dearly, The Lunga Development Association. Just imagine you are the chief executive officer of a supposedly community-led developmental organization that turns into a political battlefield by members who call themselves brothers. You question your leadership skills to hold the team together. Members poke every developmental proposal with criticisms of all hues as they pull in different directions. We had to put up with those within us who, naturally, viewed us with suspicion and whose goal was to see us get nowhere in our plans. We had many who pretended to support the dream while they believed not in our aspirations. This resulted in the group remaining but a chat platform where we posted motivational and religious quotes that me

My great-grandchild will probably wonder who a mail runner was. Unless we excavate and thoughtfully unearth hidden layers of civilization to see where this indispensable service provider then belonged. While mail runners in other parts of the world were in the ancient or mediaeval times, we had ours in colonial and modern times. Yes, as late as the fifties. For us born frees, we are accustomed to current courier services, including today’s bus driver/conductor arrangement. Everything looks so simple and automatic. You can send your parcel or documents from the Mwami border to Kasumbalesa within a day and almost effortlessly track its movement. It was not that easy a few decades back. In Ng’ungwa lived a speed walker nicknamed Nkana.  Why Nkana? “Nkana is a section of the city of Kitwe, Copperbelt Province, Zambia which started in the early part of the 20th century as a railway station to support the growing complexity of copper mining operations. It was named after Chief Nkana, t

  MAANE MEKA It happened one evening. I was returning from school, bypassing an old man's hut in the village. My path passed near his hut, overshadowed by long, tall grass. I heard a faint, hoarse voice following me through the grass. I stopped and stooped to see where the voice was coming from. I realised there lived a very old but cunning man who was not well looked after by his relatives. Reason? He is the number one suspected witch in the community. Sweet honey I fought and defied my fear of meeting him. I had heard terrifying stories about him bewitching people and conning unsuspecting adults and children. People believed he gave people charms for ailments and funny problems, such as failure to hook up with the desired girl. He was also known to have been a hilarious storyteller. I approached him, his walking stick in one hand and an empty hard-rind gourd in the other, by the tattered mat on which he sat helplessly in the remnants of his veranda. He asked who I was, and I