Monthly Archives: May 2025

by

Mwizenge S. Tembo, Ph. D.

Emeritus Professor of Sociology

Since I came to the United States 48 years ago in 1977 to graduate school at Michigan State University to pursue my master’s degree in Sociology, I have lived away from members of my family in Zambia in Southern Africa. I lived 8,000 miles or 13,000Kms, and 18 hours flight from my family members. The cheapest round trip air ticket ranges from $1,200 to $2,000.00 or  K32,000.00 to K54.000.00 by today’s Zambian Kwacha. Work schedules were very demanding. The painful regret I have had to live with the rest of my life is that it has been impossible for me to visit the sick, attend weddings and funerals of close family members and childhood friends. It was most painful during the era before the cell phone. Because I was lucky to even receive letters 6 weeks later informing me about some significant events. Buying postage stamps was too expensive for many of my relatives.

The funerals over the years that I could not attend were my mother Enelesi Kabinda in 2018, my nephew Victor Mayovu, my uncle JJ Mayovu, my aunt Mrs Rosemary Nya Zghovu, my niece Dora Mayovu, my sister Mwangata, Christina, Bridget, Mrs Zimba, numerous nephews and nieces, and close friends such as Mike Moono and my dearest friend Dr. Vincent Musakanya who passed away in UK in 2019.

I received a phone call in February from one of my adult nieces, Mable, that my 84-year-old brother-in-law Mr. Mtonga was very ill. In fact he had been sick for months and was bedridden. My 78-year-old sister Stella was nursing him at home. I talked to my brother-in-law. He sounded frail as I could barely hear his voice on the phone. To cheer him up I said I would bring him some music so that he and my sister could dance ballroom once again next time I saw him.

He and my sister loved to dance ballroom to Jim Reeves; they danced the twist to the Beatles music when they were a young dating couple in romantic love in the mid-1960s when I was 11 years old. My promise would have been empty promises except that since I retired, I had already planned a prior visit to go home to Zambia to visit relatives especially my father who is 105 years old. I kept praying that my brother-in-law would still be alive when I arrived in Zambia the next month.

Zambian and African marriages are not only a union of a man and woman but a union of two extended families. This is what I loved the most when I was growing up. When Mr Mtonga and my sister married, they created a spectacular home where all the young relatives from both sides of the family  assembled and lived. Since they had a large stereo record player in their small 2-bedroom home, I was introduced to music, ballroom dance, and Rhumba dance. I was introduced to photography as a hobby. I had warm memories as a 14-year-old spending time at their home during school holidays from Chizongwe Boys Secondary Boarding School from 1967 to 1970.

The moment of visiting with Mr. Mtonga finally arrived after my two months of prayer and anxious anticipation. My sister took 6 of us close relatives into his bedroom. I was both relieved and shocked to see his physical state. He was laying down on a mattress with blankets and other covers around him. He was half propped up with pillows and cushions. He was not the vibrant Mr. Mtonga I had last seen 23 years ago in 2002. He was small and emaciated. He smiled with his white sparkling eyes when our eyes met. I shook his hand and clasped it for a while. I talked about my long journey from the United States and my fond memories of him at Chalumbe Primary School where he and my sister had been teachers.

There was no time to waste. I had bought the 3 CDs boxset of his most favorite music to which he and my sister had danced ballroom; country singer Jim Reeves. I had downloaded over a hundred songs to my laptop.

I whipped out my laptop and played the first song: “Distant Drums”, then “Guilty”, “He’ll Have to Go.” “Welcome to my world”. As he heard each song, his lips moved, his face brightened. I could see his mind and brain grinding to warm memories from 58 years ago. This was such a joy to see and witness. I suddenly had an exciting idea. 

As the 6 relatives were chatting with commentaries, I asked my 78-year-old sister to dance ballroom with me as her husband watched. My sister was wearing a bright yellow top and skirt. This is how my 78-year-old sister danced ballroom with me her 70-year-old little brother. We danced to Jim Reeves’s “I can’t stop loving you” for 3 minutes. Mr. Mtonga beamed with excitement and looked like he wanted to stand up and dance. I took photos of Mr. Mtonga and my sister as they sat together as my sister muttered proudly: “This is my husband.” We left as Mr.Mtonga looked tired. He was like a baby who had had too much excitement for a little too long.

The following day at 1400 hrs. or 2:00pm, I got a cell phone message that my brother-in-law Mr. Mtonga had been rushed to the Chipata General Hospital emergency room where he had passed away peacefully at 9:00hrs or 9:00am. I began to cherish my last moments with him. As days passed, I began to think, “Did I contribute to his death when I helped create a moment of so much joy and excitement in him during what turned out to be his last precious hours of life?” What do you think?

by

Mwizenge S. Tembo, Ph. D.

Emeritus Professor of Sociology

(Warning: The last part of this column channels the Martin Short character Ed Grimley of Saturday Night Live (SNL) television series in the United States in the 1980s)

After 16 exhausting hours from Dulles International Airport in Washington D.C, the excitement of the final descent to Lusaka Kenneth Kaunda International Airport in Zambia in Southern Africa is overwhelming. It is hot and the rainy season is steaming humid outside the airport terminal. I chat with the taxi driver who is taking me to the Rnbnb or Serviced Apartment across the city. The bill boards have large photos of Zambia’s six deceased Presidents over the last 60 years of Zambia’s independence from British colonialism in 1964. This is reflection of Zambia’s fortune of having a robust peaceful democracy devoid of deep violent and deadly political scandals, coups, and other national political tragedies.

Jet lag is no longer a minor inconvenience that lasts maybe only two days at the author’s age of 70. I needed to recuperate in my apartment for a few days before taking the challenging and grueling 753Kms. or 467-mile bus trip to the village in the remote district of Lundazi in the Eastern Province of Zambia. Each time I visit my 105-year-old father, I rightly have a well-founded fear it might be my last visit to see him alive. It is such a great rare privilege for a few people in Zambia let alone in Africa and the Third World countries.

I arrive at the bus terminal on Freedom Way at 3:30am as the bus was departing at 4:00am. Unfortunately, the bus had only 7 passengers for a 50 passenger capacity bus. So last minute the bus company used a taxi driver to quickly whisk us to board another bus that was going to Lundazi at the main massive Intercity Bus Terminal. Once we arrive there, we were quickly lead through a maze of over 50 buses that were departing and some arriving from all parts, towns and cities of Zambia

After 12 grueling hours, I arrive in Lundazi. After all the passengers had claimed their bags, I could not find mine. My bag was lost. But how? The bus conductor said he had just received a cell phone message. Another disembarking passenger 80 miles or 128kms earlier at Kaulembe bus station had mistakenly offloaded my bag because the size and color were very similar to hers or his. My bag would be brought to me the following day. How could I lose my bag in tiny rural  remote town Lundazi?

How could I explain this to anyone? I had travelled and flown for more than 50 years or may be since I was 10 in 1964 when I first travelled by bus going to boarding school. I had never lost my bag. I now wish my bag had been lost while I was flying between Los Angeles, New York, London, Zurich, and Casablanca or may be between New York and Abudabi; Flying between exotic places except travelling by bus from Lusaka to tiny remote Lundazi. All my bathing stuff and change clothes were in my bag.

During the night at the Lundazi Castle Hotel, I had nightmares about my missing bag. What If I just never got it back? There were so many irreplaceable items in it.

The following day, the young Billie bus officials happily gave me back my bag. I rushed to my hotel room and first placed my bag in the middle of the room and stared at it. It was all intact. This is when the Martin Short character Ed Grimley took over in my excitement. I jumped around my hotel room with joy.

“I am so excited to get all my stuff including my electric shaver and vlogging camera. I am feeling so mental with sheer joy!! But what if I opened the bag and there was nothing but a huge stone in it? I would be so sad. But if I found all my stuff intact, I would be so thrilled!! I would take three baths and change my now stinking underwear. Maybe I should not open the bag until the morning so that I would not be disappointed. But then I would not be able to sleep just thinking about what could be inside the still locked bag. What if the person carefully picked the lock? What if nothing has been stolen? What did the person who got the bag by accident think? Was he or she tempted or not tempted to open it? Were they afraid of witchcraft? Maybe they thought it was a sting operation from the bus company and the Zambia police and American President Trump’s FBI? I would like to meet the person who had my bag for 12 hours? What was in their bag that they left with the bus?”

I was relieved and glad when I opened the bag that everything was there and untouched. Have you ever lost a bag while traveling?

by

Mwizenge S. Tembo, Ph. D.

Emeritus Professor of Sociology

Once I arrived by bus in Lundazi recently, I faced a special challenge. The bus station was being renovated. So, the entire area was blocked off. No one was allowed to walk through to the shopping center and market. You had to walk all the way around Tigone Motel and Castle Hotel to get to the Shops and Market. After asking around, I was told there was a short cut. I was shocked that it was very narrow. I was nervous and anxious. The local Lundazi people were just walking through it with no thought. I stood there for a few minutes. Would my big fat American body walk through? What if I got stuck and they had to contact the police to use a crane to extract me? I was relieved when I was able to walk through without having to twist my body sideways to walk through like nkhara or a crab. Most if not all Zambians are so slender or slim.

by

Mwizenge S. Tembo, Ph. D.

Emeritus Professor of Sociology

After flying for 16 exhausting hours from Dulles International Airport in Washington D.C, the excitement of the final descent to Lusaka Kenneth Kaunda International Airport in Zambia in Southern Africa is overwhelming. There is the slight jerk of the plane’s initial thud of spinning tires first kissing Zambian soil and a whiff of twirls of brief blue smoke from the tires’ initial contact with the tarmac. I look at both sides of the runway. It is the rainy season, plush green in contrast to the dead brown bare trees in hibernation in the especially brutal winter in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. The thrill of arriving at my childhood home never gets old.

The next week, I travelled for 11 grueling hours by bus to my home village in the remote provincial town of Lundazi in the Eastern Province. I was visiting my 105-year-old father. My mother passed away in 2018 at the age of 88. Arriving by taxi to this village through tall grass with non-existent roads to the end of the world is testimony to the power of family and love. I am 70 and grew up in the village as a 6-year-old 65 years ago in 1960.

My village has over 300 men, women, children, young and old residents. According to our Tumbuka tribe traditional kinship relationships and clans, I am agogo or grandfather to most of the children. A dozen of the children 6- to 8-year-olds gathered curiously to greet and see agogo ba ku America (grandpa from America). I told them to go and get some red clay from the anthill so that we could do something I did when I was a child a long time ago in 1960. We used to mold figurines of people and animals, I told them. The children looked amused.

“I will mold and show you a wheel for the first time!” I said. “Since there are no wheels anywhere here in the village, in Lundazi, in Zambia, and even in America. There are no wheels anywhere in the world!!” Since the children attend Boyole School, one of them raised his hand with a smile as if in a classroom.

“But grandpa from America, you must be blind,” he said. “My uncle just rode his bike to Nkhanga shops. The bike has two wheels!!”

The children laughed. The kinship relationship expects and endorses grandpa and grandchildren to have often brutal teasing and joking banter going back and forth.

“You listen to me!!!” I barked. “I am telling you there is no wheel. I am telling you because I am a professor and a genius from America. I will arrest you now for defying me the genius.”

I proceeded to make small strips of tiny fiber from the chiyombo tree bushes. I was going to use them just as plastic handcuffs, also known as flex cuffs. The children fled into the bush laughing.

This is parallel to the unfortunate fate of Trump’s tariffs. Why reinvent the wheel when the negative impact of tariffs have been well known since Adam Smith’s  “The Wealth of Nations” in 1776 which is 249 years ago?

Every newly elected President has the right to try to implement their own new policies. But they have to be done and planned in a proper way. Signing hundreds of executive orders does not replace carefully crafted good legislation passed through Congress. After a hundred days, we are all waiting like the passengers of the doomed Titanic, for the devastating impact these tariffs will have on the economy and our everyday lives.

Over the last 249 years and even since I took an Econ 100 class as a sophomore 51 years ago at the University of Zambia in 1974, the negative impacts of tariffs have been well known; increased consumer costs, reduced economic competition, long term economic decline, and trade wars in which other countries retaliate. One wonders why Trump and MAGA supporters would describe tariffs as beautiful? Paul Krugman the 2008 Nobel Prize winner in Economics, was discussing   the negative impacts of tariffs this morning on National Public radio.

The stubbornness and recklessness with which these tariffs are being implemented guarantees only that Trump will stay in the news every single day during the next four years. There won’t be any meaningful benefits. Congressional Republicans and MAGA faithful will continue to support these policies even though they will hurt even the very Trump political supporters and voters. These are probably the 39% in the opinion polls who still think his performance as President during the first 100 days is excellent. The nation is living in the Twilight Zone.