Author Archives: Mwizenge Tembo

Posted in Love and Romance

Memories of a Lover

By

Kamthibi and Trish were in Williamsburg that memorable weekend of the Fall in October. They parked their red convertible car on the lovely Winery Grounds surrounded by acres of grape plants.  Holding hands, they excitedly floated into the Italian festival grounds. There was plenty of wine, colorful art, crafts, drinks, bread, sausages, a thousand aromas from open Bar-B-Queue grills, loud voices, laughter, then the music under the huge tent.

The woman who had satiated Kamthibi’s life-long romantic dreams for the first time in fifty years was with him. It was a magical experience. When they finally sat under the huge tent to listen to the band, that’s when it happened.

The music, like an incendiary device, tagged at the chords of the romantic feelings that enveloped them. His soul yearned for the bygone mysterious distant past that is shrouded in a mist of desires and memories that make the heart ache with infinite sadness and joy. He  realized then why people sometimes fall to their knees and choose to die for romantic love. There was an instrument in the band that continuously slashed open his deep romantic feelings and desires that could only be consummated in the aura of his lover’s sacred presence, laughter, and teary smiles.  Trish  helplessly wiped her eyes as he squeezed her.

The area in the tent around them glowed, as it was pregnant with the electricity of deep emotion. Men and women were drawn to them.  The experience has been etched in the deep crevices of Kamthibi’s memory forever. Kamthibi wanted to see the Tarantella Band again. He couldn’t tell whether he would be disappointed when he saw them again. He was going to break a very important rule of life that he learnt many years ago: never try to recreate anything good that you experienced spontaneously once. The second time will never be the same.

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The unpublished except from the manuscript of the Romance-Adventure novel: The Bridge by Mwizenge Tembo published in 2005.

Posted in Education

Challenges of Village Library Project

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Over four decades ago, a young village African boy was summoned urgently from his goat herding chores. His uncle told the boy to wash his body, comb his hair, wear the brand new khaki uniform and the uncle was going to take him to the nearby Boyole Primary School for his first grade. The class was already in session as the uncle let the boy’s little hand go, and the teacher welcomed the boy and directed him to squeeze between five other classmates on the small classroom desk. The class of forty students was in the middle of a religious knowledge class singing a song in the Tumbuka African language: Chinjoka chikulu chikamnyenga Adam, (A big snake tempted Adam), Adam na Eva (Adam and Eve). The teacher was drawing a big long snake across the black board as the class sung the song. That African young boy was this author.

The class couldn’t have been worse equipped. No one had a pencil or a book to take home, and any writing was done in class sharing a few pencils and pieces of writing paper among several students. The entire class had only two tattered textbooks to learn how to read English. The teacher would ask each student to read aloud several sentences in each paragraph. The teacher would correct our pronunciation as each one of us read hauntingly. After each student was finished with his assigned sentences, the next student stood up to continue where the previous student had stopped. That’s how I learned how to read.

I was not introduced to many books until I passed a major exam and and was among the few who qualified to go to Chizongwe High School. I have been in love with books since then. Several summers ago  in 2006 when I visited my home village, I noticed that my seventeen year-old nephew who was in the ninth grade at the village school, had his precious candle on in his hut at three each morning. I asked what he was doing. He said he was reading his class notes. There were no books available. I talked to my brother, my parents, and others in the villages about a village library. Within a few weeks, three meetings were held attended by men, women, and many retired people in the area. The Village Library Project was born: The Zambia Knowledge Bank Libraries: Nkhanga Branch. The project had zero resources.

So we all went to work. I started the Village Library fundraising campaign in December 2006 in Michigan, Bridgewater, Harrisonburg and the Valley among friends. The Library will serve students, men, women, and professionals in fifty villages, fifty square-mile area, and about a hundred thousand people. The Librarians at Thomas Harrison Middle School (Sandra Parks and Peggy McIntryre) and teacher (Michele Hughes) at Wilber Pence Middle School held successful book donation drives. The construction committee in the village and volunteers molded and kilned twenty thousand bricks.  Many friends and relatives donated time, money, and over eight hundred books were been shipped in April 2007. A ton of donated books are still sitting in my basement for lack of shipping money.

If ever there was an opportunity in which so little has already done do so much, this project is a good example. The foundation slab for the thirty-one hundred square foot library was completed on July 23 2007. I was there in the village for 8 weeks. It was very hard work but so satisfying to work together with a large number of people in the community who were building a dream. Over twenty thousand dollars is now required for building the walls of the  library and metal roofing which will change many people’s lives and generations for the better. Although the African country of Zambia has a literacy rate of an estimated 75%, comapred to America’s 99.0%, the rural areas of Zambia may have a lower rate as their conditions for education may not be as good as in the more urban centers. On the other hand, one of the poorest African countries such as Niger may have a literacy rate as low as 12.3%.

The most unforgettable rewarding experience for me this past summer was during the laying of the foundation and the arrival of the first shipment of some of the donated books from the Shenadoah Valley. Often news about Africa in the US tends to focus on the HIV-AIDS and other killer diseases, economic decline, people living on one dollar a day, unemployment, and poverty. But often we ignore that there are millions of people who go to school, want to read, work hard to support themselves although with modest resources and opportunities. This library will help those people. I have experienced one of those rare precious opportunities in which someone like me who struggled when I was growing up and became successful can truly return to my roots and help to give back. Many people in the local community, including the Bridgewater College students and faculty, have decided to help as individuals.  If you can donate any amount to help in this effort, please write the check to: “Bridgewater College,” the memo on the check should indicate “Zambian Library project” If you would like to find out more about this project see www.bridgewater.edu/zanoba

Posted in Village Childhood

Kamthibi Diaries: Diary of a Young Teenager

By

Unedited Diary of a Young Teenager – Book One

August, 1969

I went home that day semi-discouraged and encouraged. I had very high hopes, expectations, dreams and imaginations about my school holidays.

On the other hand, I had planned with my best friend to go for a picnic during the holidays. We planned to buy fishing hooks, lines, and packets of pullets for bird air gun. We would go down the Rukuzye dam for fishing and swimming. Later in the day we would collect my air gun and his and go for hunting birds around the Rukuzye River, and return in the evening probably with large quantities of fish and stupid birds of the Rukuzye. Those were our plans.

But suddenly, like a flash, my best friend died one week before the holidays. Sorrow wounded my soul and I was deeply grieved. Tears once came to my eyes but my thoughts went back to the time when my younger brother died of rabies Tamanda Upper Boarding School. I had cried and my bed sheets had become wet with what had felt to be hot tears. The head teacher had called me to his house. I went there and wondered what he would say to me. I realized afterward that the whole point was to comfort me. I was given a cup of coffee and he spoke to me some comforting words. He told me that time for writing secondary school entrance examinations was nearing and I should forget all about it. At that point the tears had disappeared.

I felt pity for my dead friend once more when I thought of sleepless nights when we used to chat together about some adventure in boy life. I remember, one night my brother-in-law had to come and knocked on our bedroom door to advise us not to make noise and we kept on chattering in low tones. But now he was gone.

“I should forget all about it,” I said to myself.

But that atmosphere of sympathy hang on me for some time. I would have missed him a lot if I had decided to go home for my holidays. So my mind was diverted completely to another course. Therefore I chose to go to the City of Lusaka. On the school closing date, I went home and collected money for transport from my father. I came back happy in mind and awaiting for night to come which would give away the scent of the following day. Since the school was closed, I slept late that night with my friends.

The morning was cool, no signs of sun rise yet. I looked through the window and saw that it was cloudy all over. I went to wash my face and still no sun. So I knew that it would be a cool day. I was just packing after dressing when the engine of a fiat bus sounded in the school road. Probably it was a Msoro bus but news came that it was going to Lusaka. So early! Some boys were still asleep they had to be woken up. They dressed and shuffled their blankets quickly into their suitcases. We all rushed to the car park where the bus was standing still with no signs of hurry. I bought a half fare ticket and boarded the bus with my small hand suitcase specially taken for the journey.

Boys had already began sucking at their cigarettes immediately after taking their seats. The driver in every one’s eyes promised to be good particularly at fast driving. They whispered to say he was very young and fit.

Presently the bus was full and nobody was entering any more. In other words all the Lusaka route boys were in. He started the engine and pressed upon the accelerator resulting into the sound of G-y-i-me! G-y-i-me! Off we went.

We were all disgruntled during our journey judging from the atmosphere in the bus.

To begin with, the constant unnecessary stops he made were not comforting. He packed us like sardines. From the door, near his seat, in the seats, it was everywhere people. When it stopped one felt as if one was in an oven. Small children and babies were yelling. I was told that children don’t take in enough oxygen. One child was thought to be sick. It cried and gasped like a long distance runner.

At Nyimba, after a rest of about one hour, everybody was in to resume the journey and the driver was at the wheel too. Among the entering people, there came a man in dark brown jacket, dark trouser and white shirt.

“Ey! you two boys come here!” he exclaimed. “Stupid, come out! You fools!”

The two Chizongwe boys stopped talking and rose to go out.

“Why do you dare insult him!” the man continued. “You are very foolish boys. Quickly! Come out! You are going to remain, this is Nyimba if you don’t know. Come out! and collect your suitcases!”

We didn’t know what was happening. They went out into the darkness. We couldn’t see what was happening outside since bus lights were on. Four big boys from Chizongwe went out to help or probably to see what was happening. Everyone asked his neighbour what had happened. Nobody knew. At this point, the driver went out also. Shortly after 10 minutes they all matched in and settled down. We went on.

After 30 miles of travel from Nyimba, some boy was alighting and while he was looking for his suitcase which was underneath the others, the driver began.

“These boys are very talkative. I advised them earlier on not to talk too much. Without me they should have remained no doubt. That man was the Bus Inspector. He was outside the window and he heard them insulting me. I didn’t hear them but the inspector heard. The boys think because they have “forms” they can insult anybody anyhow? This is very bad. They were going to sleep there and the police would come to collect them to Chipata instead of Lusaka. You young men should take care.” From that moment the journey went on with utmost silence. People were all asleep. We arrived at Kamwala bus terminal in Lusaka on a Sunday morning at about six o’clock.

I got a lift to Olympia Park area with some other  two boys. The taxi at last turned at 6 Machester Road and I went to find out whether people were up yet since it was so early on a Sunday morning. A face opened a curtain a little on a Sunday morning. A face opened a curtain a little and saw what was outside. He had obviously seen me. He opened the front door and said “Oh! at last you have come!”

Uncle Chambula got my suitcase. I paid the taxi driver and he drove off. He took me into the strange house. The first thing I saw was a living room, with nice sofas. A radio gram, a good carpet and some house decorations. He took me to the spare bedroom.

“Have you had sleep?” he asked.

I said “No.”

I had sat up all the night long. He told me to have a sleep first. Although I told him I had enough blankets. He gave me another one. It took me long to sleep. The engine was still rattling in my mind and ears. I looked through the window before sleeping, I saw a small girl of about 13 drawing some water from the garden tap. I didn’t know who she was. Probably Jennifer? Can’t she be Theresa? I would see later. I covered myself with the blanket and slept.

I woke up and found out that I had dreamed nothing. I got out of bed and sat up. He showed me the bathroom and the toilette. I body washed myself with warm water coming from a geyser. After washing my weariness disappeared and instead there came a feeling of being at home. I went into my bedroom and dressed myself into proper and clean clothes.

Immediately after dressing, I was taken to the breakfast table. On the way he drew behind my long sleeved shirt and asked whether I had any watch. I said “No.”

I had a cup of coffee, slices of bread with fried tomato in between them. I warmed up once more. I remembered that it was  two days before when I had taken some warm food. At the table I was greeted by his wife, Aunt NyaDindi, who had a new baby boy born on 1st August. I told them of how I left parents at home and how I had managed to find my way to the house. They told me that they had gone to the bus station 5 times during the previous day hoping each time that I had arrived. After breakfast I was given a new watch and a new shirt. I was then told to prepare for a football match, while he went for prayers. For the  first time in my life, my wrist had a watch of its own.

We had a delicious lunch. The nshima was in the center. Everybody served himself while charting about some important views of Lusaka.

At two I was beside him in the Vauxhall car. We set off Woodlands Stadium.

After two corners, we were in the Great East Road again, this time going towards the Chipata round about. Before we could reach it, we turned to drive in the New Castle Street up to where the  street joins Churchhill Road. We parked at the petrol station for the car to drink two gallons of petrol. We proceeded to reach A Nkhazi’s house. I thought it was an office. But I discovered two weeks later that it was a house. I said how small it  was! He went out and I was left alone in the car. I leaned on the door with the side glass winded in. I felt very proud for the first time. The young woman came and she sat in the back seat and she alighted somewhere near Katungu bar,

We were late  for the curtain raisers. People were cheering aloud. What a vast number of people were there! I thought to myself. Before leaving the car we made sure everything was locked and that the car was packed in a place where it would be easy to get away after the match. In a new shirt, watch, and a good trousers I thought I looked a real boy.

That was my first time to see the famous zoom soccer star in full swing and prooved the constant praises in newspapers and many a mouth of people.

At six p.m we were back at the house, but the routes we travelled had completely confused me. So I remembered nothing otherwise very little.

Two days later I decided to go alone into the city to have a glance at it. I went during the late hours of the afternoon at about three o’clock. I went through the main roads without taking any short cuts in case they led me to unknown places there after get lost. I once more went through Manchester road, Chepstow road then the Great East Road, and up the New Castle street to where we had previously driven through by car. I once more arrived at the petrol station where the car had drank two gallons of petrol. I walked with care and kept each sign of the way back to the house. I turned right of the Church hill road towards the Cairo Road. I went over the high ridge with the train dashing underneath. I entered the Cairo road with anxiety. I had heard many stories of its beautiful flamboyance and its fame in many accidents due to the fact that it is always busy during working hours. I feared to cross these busy roads before looking at how owners of the city crossed and I would follow their example. I had quite a different imagination of the famous Cairo Road before. The two pictures didn’t match at all. During this time I managed to see how the robots function to help the flow of traffic. I bought an exercise book and a pen which I would use when writing an essay which the teacher had told us to write. I would write about the car which was at close hand. He had told us to write about any machine which has an internal combustion. I saw some good nice novels. But I had very little money. I reached home very late because I had taken long roads instead of taking short cuts.

After supper, I asked Uncle Chambula about how the robots operated.

“That is what we refer to as a highway code. You have got to follow the rules and directions otherwise you can be in a serious accident.” he said.

He explained everything for example, he said the pedestrian crossing is there to help those on foot to cross the road with less difficulties. He also said that, the one way road is there to prevent accidents. Afterwards I moved with less fear of getting lost since I had known the center stores of Lusaka and I had also known the main signs of the way if I happened to get lost.

Jennifer was a 13 year old young girl. She was relatively very short and skinny. She was one of the people who kept their hair carefully and done at times. She was very clever and talkative. I liked her for the qualities which fitted almost exactly with mine. We called her Jenny.

Thereza was 16, short, plump, girl with very small hair which couldn’t by any means get done but she used to comb it beautifully. She was less talkative and got all work done immediately after being told by the mother. Jennifer liked mini skirts but Thereza didn’t like them. We called her Treza.

Judy was a six year old eldest daughter of the family. She was skinny and clever too. One day, talking to me, she said,

“Kamthibi, come here. I want to tell you something in the bedroom.”

I said, “Oh! you can tell me just here,” and I put my ear close to her mouth. She said whispering; “Mr. and Mrs. Martin were kissing each other on their door step this morning,” and I laughed. How did she know that that was a secret? Mrs. Martin was a housewife. Mr. Martin was working in the city. They were both Africans.

Tyson was the eldest son of the family two years old and known as Ty or “Mdala”. At this age he was unable to eat nshima and as a result he ate farex porridge only. The second son was 1 month old known as Thomson.

Ledu Himba was a relatively tall man. A good houseboy. He was 20 but unmarried. I read one letter from his girl friend in broken English. She was telling him to stop visiting her since he wanted her to visit him instead. He was very funny. He drunk a lot too. He had written to Theresa that he wanted her.

Sophia was the new arrival in the family. She was about 17. She was taking care of the new born baby while Aunt NyaDindi the mother was at school teaching. Theresa had gone to her friend Dorothy. At Dorothy’s house there was John who told Theresa that he (John) was coming to see Sophia, the new house girl, because Ledu Himba was very sleepy. Ledu Himba was mad with rage when he heard this. Blinded with furry he went to ask John about this. John denied it and Theresa admitted that she was just joking.

With in a few days Jennifer was a partner in playing. We were in very close contact.

Judy was learning at Olympia Park school and she was very proud of it. She had influenced all the young ones, for example class music. There was one song which she had taught me:

One little finger,

One little finger,

Tap!  Tap!   Tap!

I asked Jennifer to show me her class exercise books. She showed me one. I asked her to show me some more but she refused. I rushed to her bed room. But she ran after me in pursuit. I didn’t know where the case was. She ran and took the book case from the ward robe and I was unable to get it. She was doing well in class.

Uncle Chambula was very funny at times. He didn’t take any beer at all. After returning from work he would complain of hunger and that hunger had produced babies in his stomach. His wife would hurry up in cooking nshima. On his arrival from work his son would say “Hullow, Mwana” in a childish manner. Closing his car his father would say; “Hullow, Mwana!”

Ledu Himba complained that he had no money. He asked Aunt NyaDindi to lend him 5 ngwee for a candle. The housewife gave her money. On his way to the grocery he was tempted to go for gambling so that he would gain some more money. As a result he slept in darkness because he had lost five ngwee during gambling. But one day he had won a pair of trousers in gambling by luck.

All these people played their part in amusement during my stay. After the month, we went to shop with Jennifer. We first went to Ankhazi’s house to hand some vegetables. We arrived at Mwaiseni store at about 9 o’clock. Jennifer was down stairs and I went up stairs to the clothes department. I hesitated whether to use the conveyor belt or not. But I had never tried it before. So I went round up the steps to up stairs. Presently, Jennifer came to give me some advice on which shirt to get. She told me that somebody wanted to see me. I asked who it was. She said she didn’t know them. We continued shopping. Then we asked the sales lady where we could find hair pins. She caught me by the shoulders. We both bent just to look between the two walls, with the moving conveyor belt directly in front of us. What a nice perfume she had. And she whispered while making some signs with her hand.

“A mahair pins mwana.”

We went down stairs and got the hair pins. I asked Jennifer to show me the people who wanted to see me. This was after buying my new shirt, shorts, socks and an underpants which amounted to Six Kwacha. She directed me to the man on the counter. He just laughed and spoke something in Bemba. He told us to go. Later on Jennifer told me that the men thought Jennifer had come with an older sister whom they could coax for a date. I was taken aback.

In the afternoon, I decided to write a letter to the Zambia Mail column of free for all. When writing I remembered the coming day. I wrote this:

OVER CROWDING BUSES

It has been discovered that when schools close parents seem to go on holiday too. The same thing happens during the opening of schools. Therefore I think it is advisable that parents should try to fix their time for going somewhere depending on the period of closure and opening of schools. This I think is necessary just to give chance to school boys and girls to rush quickly home to start spending their limited holidays. Otherwise if this goes on any longer, it will result into risking one’s life to get home quickly. Since if you stay at a station for a longer period, it may result into different things all together. For instance, thieves may rob you, money may finish and no food as a result.

I know that there are some parents who go somewhere at that time for some very important duties. The parents I mean are those, for example, who go to look for work, to visit their son in the city. Such parents I think can wait a bit longer to let the school transport periods go over and then they can start their journeys later.

Anyway, this is just a suggestion to parents otherwise their children will suffer the consequences of life.

I ended.

I didn’t post this letter. And yet it was nearer there. But I just felt very lazy to post letters. I thought to myself, but some parent may say everybody uses his own money, so why should he stop going on a journey? That is true yes but it should depend upon some one’s business. Anyway, after all I wasn’t going to post it.

On a Sunday afternoon I went for pictures at Calton Cinema. I had known short cuts by now. I took 30 ngwee for the entry fee. I arrived at the door rather late because they were already through with the introductory part. Afterall it wasn’t important. If somebody asked how the film was, I wouldn’t speak of the first small introductory part. I bought the 15 ngwee ticket and went in. The room was quite carrying many people. It was as dark as a moonless night except for the side exit lights. The film was a nice attractive one. About the beach boys at the beach with their girls at the club. The film ended very late.

When the day of departure came, Ledu escorted me to the station on Friday morning. The Chipata bus line was very long. I was discouraged. We sat there all day with my school mate George. After missing all the buses Uncle Chambula came at 7 o`clock to collect me to the house  with his car. I was back the following morning in his car. After having no chance of buying a ticket that day, I decided to sleep at the station with some school mates. It became so cold at night that I couldn’t feel that I was covering myself with a blanket.

The following day was a critical one. There were many people on the Chipata line and as a result no proper line could be made. People were just pushing each other. Police came to help. By chance Evance, a school mate bought tickets for us. We hastily boarded the bus.

It was a Sunday hot afternoon. All the Lorries seemed to have died. Except for an occasional hooter of the train and the cars passing by seemed to be moving silently. The round-abouts and the Cairo Road seemed to be feeling lonely. The people in the shops’ corridors were not moving briskly like during any other days of the week. The loaded bus moved like a hungry centipede. The city wasn’t as lively as usual. All these left a departing impression with the city life.

The people in the bus weren’t active at talking. They all seemed to be murmuring.

After the Luangwa Bridge, I already started sleeping after that sleepless night and toiling in the sun. I was glad because the journey was mostly going to be done in darkness because I was so dirty.

Next to us was Joyce the girl we had recently known in the bus. She was attractive. We giggled with George speaking and discussing about her. Shortly afterwards, George gathered courage and went to sit beside her. They lowered their heads under the seat in front of them as if tying their shoe laces. They didn’t seem to be speaking. When the bus inner lights were on, people were surprised to see the change which had occurred during the darkness. From there, I couldn’t open my eyes until our arrival in Chipata. I was surprised to see the big welfare hall and the bus station. I was relieved on the other hand to be back home safely. My lips had been cracked while at Kamwala and now I didn’t feel at ease at all.

Joyce disappeared with an escort to the houses which were formerly for Europeans.

November, 1969.

Everybody in Form I, III, and IV  became more happy as the water shortage crisis became more acute at Chizongwe Secondary School. Because that meant the scent of an elongated school holiday. This was late November 1969. We couldn’t read, everything in school was disturbed because of the absence of one thing “water.” Already two boys were in the hospital because of diarrhea and many more automatically would go. Due to that trouble, part of the school had to close earlier while Forms II and V stayed to write their final examinations which would decide and determine their unknown future.

With the necessities of a newly established Chipata Dzithandizeni Nutrition Group depot, I went home with Mr. Leverkusen, my math Dutch teacher, the following day on a Saturday cloudy morning. Miss Spencer my Canadian English mistress  had to accompany us. We arrived at my home after about 25 minutes of driving along the Lundazi road. This was at Kaulembe School where my sister and brother-in-law were both teachers.

We entered my sister and brother-in-law’s house and led them to the seating room which was rather too small. I gave Mr. Leverkussen and Miss Spencer seats. Mr. Mthetwa private nutrition salesman at Mr. Leverkussen’s house was given a seat too. My sister came in with minimum surprise because she had been told before of our coming.

Mr. Nkhata broke in with an automatic smile on his face. He greeted them and introduced them to him and vice versa. They started talking about nutrition depot and how it operates. Shortly, coffee was served with slices of bread. They stayed for an hour talking, they would go in and out of the nutrition topic. We would joke and laugh. Then Miss Spencer asked; “I wonder how this book for Canadian students is found in Zambia?” Mr. Nkhata said: “Well, it is one of the Canadian sisters who gave it to my wife when she was schooling.” Presently they both departed leaving a very warm farewell.

At the school where my brother-in-law taught, the school boys and girls were going by lorry to Tamanda Upper School for football matches. I refused to go with them and instead I went to fix or hang some posters about nutrition along the roads.

The school day for ballroom dance came and I was filled with uttermost excitement. But on the other hand I didn’t know how to dance it. I would learn and that word gave me a lot of encouragement so to speak. I brushed myself and put on nice clothes. When we entered, the radio gram was already there and everything available; ladies of any age but not more than 20 years and less than 8. Gentlemen were many, but the rest of the school teachers had not yet arrived. Nevertheless, we commenced.

We began with “Torture” by the Everly Brothers. Everybody took his partner but I couldn’t because I didn’t know how to dance it. After watching 4 records being danced to, I fell too for one lady and I tried. But I had many disadvantages; we couldn’t take an immediate corner and the quality of the dance itself wasn’t so good. Constant misses of steps were very disturbing. I had to admit before each girl that I didn’t know how to dance it. After many records I warmed up. One thing was no lady tried to resist if I tried to pick her up for a dance. I noticed many ladies taken aback if I went for them for four consecutive times. But one thing I found hard was I always failed to dance with a lady who didn’t look good before my two eyes.

There was a relation between us now. Every girl with whom I had danced previously used to either smile, look away or stoop with shyness.

When I thought back, the dance was so enjoyable. I had never dreamed of holding a girl by the waist and her breasts warmly touching my chest occasionally. But there was one thing which I had always thought of but why don’t the forces of nature react? I proved it this time. Nothing happened really and my curiosity was overcome. The next time, I would try to make it even more enjoyable I concluded.

There were a number of records which reminded me of dancing time. For example, “Listen to the ocean”. The others like ones sung by Virginia Lee remind me of the moment I was waking up in the morning because they were usually put on the radio gram during that time.

Hunting with a bird air gun was my main hobby for pleasure. My hunts left a good effect upon my sister and brother-in-law especially because I brought with me about 12 birds each time and this way I would save them the trouble of looking for nshima’s partner. This also revealed my aiming talent with my air gun. The school boys and girls knew this because the children would sit there with a plateful of birds while uprooting their feathers. I was proud of myself for being so good at long range shooting. This made me feel like a knife which is sharp on both sides both academically and at home.

I had never seen a girl as shy as Sophia before. After dancing ballroom with her, I never had a chance to look in her face even at a distance of 40 yards. If we happened to be at a place with an unavoidable closeness, she would always find a way of hiding herself. I had never made her talk except during ball-dance. Apart from that nowhere else. She dodged in a reasonable manner. I don’t know whether my only eyes would kill her. But she wasn’t as shy with boys of her school.

Days flew by at a tremendous speed like that of Apollo 11. With usual happiness days still passed. The closing night came, we had been sleeping at 2 a.m for the past 2 days. The concerts were presented by various groups of the school and finally the results of different grades’ terminal exams were announced. The school closed.

Happiness had been deprived of me. From that very night loneliness came on me. I had been enjoying for the past 2 weeks. Hunting, looking at the school girls, looking and studying their differing characters and their responses. Besides all I had danced with a lot of them for the past 3 joyous ball dances and all these contributed to my unhappiness. Misery started right from the time I opened my eyes the following day. Playing records couldn’t amuse me neither hunting. A natural depression had crept into my mind. I had no power, completely discouraged. I wondered what my real holidays would become of while seated on the arm chair. I was feeling sleepy. The word natural depression seemed to prick my ears. My brother-in-law asked what was wrong with me. I said nothing.

Sophia, Misozi, Sarah all these girls had left yesterday. People whom I had enjoyed to see, people whom I had liked to speak to, people whom I was happy to study their differing characters, they had made my stay a bright and comfortable one. I remembered when Sophia failed to approach and meet me she turned and went through the village to another short path. Misozi was always ready to dance without any doubts. She just gave herself up. Sarah and Sophia were the first two girls I had learnt on how to dance ballroom with. I wasn’t going to see their faces anymore. Probably Misozi who was the nearest to me. The more I thought of them the more my heart became heavy.

To cheer up myself, I took the bird air gun for hunting but that couldn’t do either.

My thoughts went deeper into the holidays. My friend Isaac was going to Ndola, Samson to Lusaka, Philip to Luanshya. With whom will I stay? That was the main worry adding to the ones which were already there.

I almost thought all night and finally made a conclusion to go to Lusaka again for my holidays.

There were a number of things which father was going to consider. I had gone there in August, he didn’t actually allow me, but with the help of brother-in-law I had gone to Lusaka. Mother was away to Lumezi and therefore father wouldn’t make immense decisions like this one on his own. Otherwise he would prove to have been wrong later.

I was in despair already, before I could go to ask for transport money. I am a boy I thought to myself I should have a try first. I went to his home, and found he wasn’t there. I left a letter demanding for permission and transport money.

The following day I went and collected K10 for transport. I was filled with joy and relief. Brother-in-law and sister wondered what had happened to father to allow me to go to Lusaka again.

————–End of Book One——————-

Posted in Village Childhood

The Ghosts of Man-Eating Lions

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I must have been about seven years old. My dad had gone out of town on business riding his bike through sixty miles of dangerous desolate wilderness in Luangwa Valley of the Eastern Province of Zambia in Southern Africa. At that time there were fewer people but many wild animals everywhere. He had travelled to Fort Jameson (now Chipata) on business from Chasela Primary School where he was a teacher. My mom asked me to leave my bedroom and instead to sleep in my dad’s bed since we were by ourselves that night. It was 7:00 pm and the yellow paraffin or kerose  lamp was burning and flickering on mom’s small bedside table. My mom had just finished giving my seven month old baby sister, Ester, a bath. Ester was whining and fussing with mom bugging her to apply the Vaseline on herself. My mom was saying no and will she please go to sleep when all of a sudden:

“Aaaaaaaaaargh!!!!!!” One lion roared with the deepest bellow literally five feet outside our rickety bedroom door and window.ManEatingLion

“Aaaaaaaaaaaargh!!!!” The second lion roared in response. Our whole small 4 room red brick house shook and vibrated.

My mom hastily blew out the kerosene lamp. My sister tried to dive under mom to hide. I was so scared I could not move to hide under the covers. My little heart may have stopped. The plates, dishes, pots, and pans rattled on the kitchen shelves as some crashed to the cement floor in the kitchen. Some rats fell with a thud from the grass roof. The two lions continued to roar in tandem.

There was loud commotion in the nearby Chibande large village as playing children screamed and fled in terror. Mothers desperately yelled calling their children by name to please run home. Most kids ran into the nearest house for cover for that night as there was no time to run to their parents’ house.

My mom and I did not get out of the house well until the sun had risen up to nine hours the following morning. First, my mom prayed to God for having saved our lives that night. She then gingerly opened our small wooden bedroom window and carefully peaked outside to make sure the lions were not waiting anywhere outside. That’s when we walked out of the house.

The terrible memories of that night decades ago in Zambia came back because of a book a work mate had given me to read. Coincidentally, my car broke down over the weekend and I could not go anywhere. I read the 275 page Philip Caputo’s “Ghosts of Tsavo: Stalking the Mysteries of Lions of East Africa” in one day.
“The Ghosts of Tsavo” rekindle both the terror and deep mystery that man-eating lions still invoke in history and contemporary times on the African continent. The book is an adventure thriller that offers convincing insights into how and why some lions stalk, kill, and eat human beings in a shockingly brazen fashion. Some parts of the book are shocking and brutal in their detailed descriptions.

In “The Ghosts of Tsavo” the saga of the Tsavo man-eating lions happened in the late 1890s in East Africa. But I was surprised about a similarly shocking episode described in the first opening chapter of the book of a man-eating lion in Mfuwe in the Luangwa Game Park as recently as 1991. This episode is much closer to home. I lived in the area with my parents in the 1950s when I had the closest call with lions. I have since then visited the Luangwa Game Park in Mfuwe several times and as recently as July 2009.

The book has three major themes: First, the details of the adventures, investigations, the research and the sheer thrill Caputo experienced in actually visiting many of the places in Africa where man-eating lions still exist. Second, the conflict, tensions, and ambivalence Caputo exposes between human beings, tourism, the mysteries of lions in the African natural habitat, and wild life conservation. Lastly, Caputo explores some of the scientific evolutionary questions that still have to be resolved about the relationship between man-eating lions and their status in the Darwinian evolutionary process.

The detached average reader whose closest encounter with a lion may be the docile lion in the local zoo, may not fully appreciate both the terror and sheer mystery man-eating lions evoke. The “Ghosts of Tsavo” is both thrilling and educational. The book made me relive some of the old memories including the family legend of my grandfather who was mauled to death by a man eating lion in 1941 in our home village in Lundazi. That is another story.

**********************
[I met my kid sister Ester on August 2 2009 at the Arcade Shopping Mall in Lusaka. The thing with younger siblings is that one can’t believe they can get older. She lives in Sinazeze in Southern Province on the bank of the Kariba Dam with her husband and their now grown childrnn. We had such a great time for two hours laughing about old times. We had last seen each other over 20 years ago, in 1989. She made an effort to travel so that we could see each other before I returned to the States. It was such a blessing to see her and for her to meet her nephew. i.e my son.

Posted in Village Childhood • Zambian Life

I am Glad I am Not In Jail

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As a child growing up in my home village in Lundazi in Eastern Zambia in Southern Africa among the Tumbuka people, an incident changed my life forever. I was in the middle of a squabble with my little cousin that escalated into a risky duel with tiny twigs. My grandmother shouted at us to stop. We froze. She then said to me if I poked my little cousin in the eye or killed him, did I know what the Muzungu or white British colonial court messengers and police would do? They would swarm the village, slap painful metal handcuffs on me, and haul me away to jail. She said when you kill someone they will nyonga or hang you. Except nyonga has a much more ominous meaning in Tumbuka. Nyonga is when my grandmother and other women at the river were washing clothes and they would wring or twist them hard to remove the last drop of water. The thought that that’s what they would do to my neck if I accidentally murdered my little cousin scared me.

Then my grandmother said if I stole or broke the law, the same police would haul me to jail where they would feed me salt day and night as punishment. The idea of eating salt with nothing else for months and years just appalled me. From that moment onwards I decided that I would not fight, steal, kill, or break the law for fear that I would go to jail or worse be nyongad.

These thoughts were going through my mind many decades later sitting in my back yard during a North American afternoon in Bridgewater away from that little village. After weeks of relentless 95 degree heat days with oppressive humidity, this past Saturday was one of those rare near perfect summer days. I had slept well the previous night because the cooled down air had gently breezed through the shatters of our bedroom window. The sun was bright, the sky was blue with some scattered clouds and the humidity must have been down to zero. I couldn’t go to the office because the house keepers at my office were doing their annual summer August waxing of the floor. Everyone was forbidden to walk into the building until Monday. I joyfully worked in the yard all day; something that I could not have done days before because some men died of heat exhaustion risking mowing their lawn at noon in 100 degree humid temperatures in the North East.

I mowed, weed wacked, and I stared at the jungle of weeds that I was going to attack next in my vegetable garden, when it hit me. I wasn’t sweating or tired. Why was I wasting this precious day? That’s when I decided to just sit under the shade of the pine trees and really enjoy the day. There was no radio, no cell phone, no TV, no book. I heard and observed the different bright colored birds drinking and flying around my neighbor’s small drinking fountain.

Then a bunny rabbit hopped two feet into my yard maybe realizing the dogs Max and Nyika were inside the house. The rabbits and my  neighbor’s three cats always play the chasing ritual with our two dogs. The rabbit just sat there wiggling its ears. Bees, butterflies, and other insects were busily buzzing around the large flowering hibiscus shrub that I had to trim three years ago. Then I saw a large bee. It rested on the clothes line next to the shrub for a split second then buzzed on the first flower. No, it was a humming bird.

In spite of all of life’s endless problems I began to appreciate how lucky I was to experience that day, that moment of utter freedom, and serenity. This is the moment and time that I am glad I am not in lifeless jail walls  in a twelve by sixteen cell with a toilet in the corner.

I thought of my grandmother, my parents, and all the people dead or alive that I care for in my life. My wife came out of the porch door with huge sliced pieces of chilled large watermelons. We devoured them with juices dripping to the grass. It was tempting to blurt to my wife that I was glad I was not in jail. But then I thought better of it.

Posted in Education • Village Childhood

Thanks to all Teachers

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We all at one time or another thank someone who played a very important role in our lives. This could be a parent, a friend, an uncle, aunt, a teacher, or just sometimes a total stranger who was kind to us at our greatest moment of need. We might express our thanks and gratitude for good health and be lucky and blessed enough with the bounty of food on our tables when others in the world, sometimes even our neighbors were starving. But who should we thank during our birthday, wedding anniversary, or Christmas? Should we thank Budha, Jesus Christ, God, Yaweh, or the very Allah on behalf of whom some terrorists claim they carry their dastardly acts?

The most appropriate person to acknowledge most to the time is the teacher, especially one who inspires and ignites in the students an intense motivation to achieve their dreams. I had such a teacher who I have never thanked publicly. I still vividly remember him forty-five years later after my Ph. D., having a family and a teaching career. This was an African Headmaster and seventh grade English teacher at Tamanda Boarding Upper primary school. This school was located on a remote plateau literally on the British colonial drawn border in the countries of Zambia and Malawi in Southern Africa. We had limited facilities but our teachers gave us the best.

The daily routine was grueling. But it was particularly so on a chilly morning when I decided to be tardy and skip my early morning chore of sweeping the school Assembly Hall. The floor was so dirty that as soon as the school teachers entered the assembly, the first announcement from the Headmaster’s lips was for Mwizenge Tembo to see him in his office after the assembly. The Headmaster sternly asked me why the assembly Hall floor was unswept and dirty. I had no answer. My tears did not help either as he gave me two swift strikes of the cane on my rear end. When they saw tears on my cheeks, my classmates did not need to ask what had happened. I never skipped my chores again and didn’t dare complain to my parents either because they would have supported the headmaster.

One chilly morning, Mr. Phiri digressed from teaching English, and asked the class what we wanted to be after completing school. My classmates and I looked at each other blankly in stunned silence. What could kids in a rural African village school dream about after finishing only Grade Seven? Then Mr. Phiri gave us his memorable talk.

“What’s the matter with you!” he raised his voice and he said almost whispering: “You are young. The future for all of you is wide open. Our country just got its independence 2 years ago. We will need doctors to cure disease, pilots to fly planes, locomotive drivers to run trains, bankers, teachers, surveyors, architects to design homes, engineers. Any of you could even go to college at the new University of Zambia, get one or two degrees and become professors. You need to know not just about our school, our chief, your village, or our country, but about the world. Did you know that as we speak in the classroom now, on the other side of the world in Japan its midnight and people are asleep?”

I smiled and looked around my classmates. That was it! That was fascinating class for a kid who had only known about herding goats in the village at this point. My imagination was ignited and a seed was planted. I begun to dream night and day about going to University of Zambia if I worked hard. Our imagination as students was further ignited when word came around that our government of Zambia was raising funds all over the country to build the University of Zambia. This would be the highest educational institution in the land where students would gain degrees. Everyone donated ten ngwee ot ten cents toward the national project.  I qualified to go to Chizongwe Secondary School, then qualified to go to our only national University of  Zambia at the time and later went to do my Masters and Ph. D. in the United States.

Later that year when I was still in seventh grade at Tamanda Boarding Shcool, the Headmaster received an urgent letter from parents. He had to inform me in his office that my younger brother had passed away. I couldn’t go home for the funeral as my home village was too far. As I was weeping in the dark with deep grief alone lying on my dormitory bed that evening, I was summoned to the headmaster’s house. Students were often summoned to his office but never to his house. His wife made a cup of tea with some buttered scones. I wiped my  tears as I sipped the tea. Mr. Phiri said he was deeply sorry about the loss of my brother. He wanted me to be strong because the big all important high school entrance exam was only three months away. He wanted me to pass, go to high school and may be University. This would be my only chance.

Teachers play many different complex roles. However, what is paradoxical is that people can also become excellent teachers of the extreme hatred as demonstrated by the Hitlers of this world and as demonstrated by the tragic terrorist events of September 11 and many others since then.  If ever you have taught in a classroom, may be you are a parent, scout leader, trained police officers, members of the armed forces units, fire fighters, emergency service personnel, or have inspired young people  to learn any useful skill or to do be good human beings, you are a teacher who should be celebrated and thanked. For  teachers not only inspire us to read and write,  but chances are that you and I are reasonably decent human beings because of teachers who may have prodded us when we were slacking and motivated us and gave us self esteem when we felt the least confident.

Posted in Village Childhood • Zambian Life

People Passing Through Our Lives

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As I look back on my life, I believe many people come into our lives and impact us significantly for a short while. Then they disappear never to be heard or be seen again leaving us with a wonderful story with glowing warm memories to last eternity. Sometimes in moments of contemplation we wonder why the person crossed our path. Sometimes we just wonder what happened to the person as we are left without conclusions. This creates the tension that is mystery in our lives. That’s why we find nostalgia to be so sweet. Our expectations of always expecting a neat ending to a story with mystery solved is a popular Hollywood myth that today overwhelms all of us. A story has to have a conclusive ending often a good one. I have come to the conclusion that whoever crosses your life, enjoy and cherish the moment with them, because once you part they may never cross your life again. This childhood story probably best makes this point.

Mgubudu stores is still located about 25 miles north of Chipata on the Lundazi road in the Eastern Province of rural Zambia in Southern Africa. The shopping center with its 6 Indian owned shops at the time was a vibrant shopping center in the 1960s. Trucks, buses, travelers, shoppers, villagers, professionals from fifty square miles mingled there. After cycling for 8 miles one late afternoon from Kasonjola School where he was a teacher, my father bought a cold coca-cola and was sipping it sitting on the stairs of the shop. He saw a man wandering past the shop.

The man was four feet nine and filthy. He had dusty bare feet, shreds of rags for clothes; he had patched lips, and looked tired. His neck less head rested on his hunchback. My father greeted the man. The man spoke Tumbuka which is our mother tongue. My father asked the man’s name and asked him why he was so far from the town of Lundazi which was nearly hundred miles away.

The man said he had not eaten for days. He had had only one lorry ride on the way but had walked most of the way for weeks in search a job. No one would give him a ride because he did not have any money. My father got out a susu (six pence) and bought the man a coca-cola and a bun. He thanked my father profusely. The man said he had been living in poverty in the village. He was looking for any work so that he could buy some clothes. But most of all he wanted to save some money so that when he returned to his village, he would be able to marry a woman from the lobola (so called bride price or bride wealth) he would save.  After they had had a long conversation, my father had the man ride with him on the back carrier of his Humber bicycle.  He brought the man back to our house.

My mother forbade us from staring at this short, filthy, hunchbacked man. As soon as they arrived, my mother immediately put some warm water in the bathing shelter and a bar of soap. The man scrubbed off all his dirt and my mother gave him a meal and a pair of my father’s old used clothes.

The man’s name was Sekelelani which means be happy or laugh. So it was that Mr. Sekelelani arrived one evening into our family of 9 children. We did not need the help because my father was a teacher and the little plot of land we grew crops on was to supplement our food. Mr Sekelenai was to help us work in our 2 acre field growing maize and peanuts. My father paid him One pound 5 shillings a month. He saved the one pound for him in an account and gave him the 5 shillings every month. My mother cooked and served him meals. My father gave him some used clothes. Because he had a hunch back, he never wandered away from our house into the villages because people stared and sometimes made fun of him even when he took short strolls near our house in the evening. He was very self-conscious. He had  a great laugh and broad smile and we kids were very fond of him and were always listening to his many funny stories. My mother sometimes teased him in the evening as we sat in the moonlight outside after dinner. My mother would ask him why he was not married yet.

Mr. Sekelelani would always laugh and say: “Mrs. Tembo, women like me, I know how to talk to them…….”

Twelve months later, we were all sad to see Mr. Sekelelani leave one morning. My father gave him the twelve pounds cash he had faithfully saved for him and a small suitcase with a blanket and some clothes in it. We escorted him to Mgubudu Stores where he boarded the bus to his home village in Lundazi. We never saw or heard from him again.

Over the years I had always wondered and have been intrigued by my father and mother’s partnership. They were such a kind people when we were growing up. They brought so many strangers into our home and into our lives as children. They treated them all very kindly. I have always wondered what happened to Mr. Sekelelani. Did he go home to a hero’s welcome? Did he marry and live happily ever after?

Posted in Nature

The Beauty of the Natural World

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The natural world in all the tropical areas of the world has some of the most fascinating animals, plants, insects, and the large variety of creatures both large and small. Savannah Zambia in Southern Africa is different in that during the dry hot season, the grass turns brown and the earth turns brown and dusty. Most of the plants and small creatures go into hibernation, plant seeds become dormant, and many creatures simply hide.  All of this changes when the first rains fall in November. Suddenly there is an explosion of life as grass germinates, trees grow green leaves, all kinds of creatures and plants come to life. It is one of the most beautiful times of the year. When I visited the village in December 2011, I took many tours of nature. My two small nephews in the village tagged along some of the times as I went around in the bushes around the village to admire the many plants and insects that crawled around. The insects have been given the Tumbuka name and the generic English name.

 

chidodo Chidodo chobilibila – unknown

kaciwaiaKaciwala kadoko – Small Grasshopper

insectsUnknown

plantUnknown

Nat6ChenjeziDragonflyChenjezi – Dragon Fly

Gulugufe butterflyBulaula or Gulugufe – Butterfly

ChiwalaGrasshopperChiwala chamabanga Many Colored Grasshopper

Mango branchMango zakupya na zibisi – Ripe and unripe mangoes

ChibabviChibabvi – unknown

green bananasNthoci zibisi – Green bananas

young boysMy Young Nephews

Posted in Travel

Why Does God Do Good Things for Fools Like Me?

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Dispatch from Ibex Hill/Chainda in Lusaka in Zambia in Southern Africa

My great and deep admiration for the First President of Zambia, Kenneth Kaunda, begun when I was 13 at Chizongwe Secondary School in Chipata. Students had marched to the main road to see and wave at the President as his Mercedes Benz drove from the airport to Chipata where he was to address a major rally at Mpezeni Park. I saw him for may be a few seconds as he waved his white handkerchief through the back window. I began to wonder how it would feel like to see him in person and let alone shake his hand.

My admiration thickened when I was at the University of Zambia. I had the insatiable craving to read books outside my required readings in sociology and psychology. I scoured bookstores including Kingstones in Lusaka every week. Instead of buying beer like most of my peers would do if they had some pocket money, I would secretly buy books and read them instead. I must have been one of the worst fools in the world. This is how as a student I came to read Kaunda’s “A Humanist in Africa” which fascinated me because I felt President Kaunda was describing my life in the village and the traditional Zambian philosophy. Then I read: “Zambia Shall Be Free” and then later “Letter to My children”. I have read all of his books many of them I have read more than twice because the philosophical ideas he expresses are so compelling.

Many decades later I had the first opportunity to meet my hero. The circumstances were unusual. President Kaunda was spending a year at Boston University in the United States in a program of retired African presidents. My boss, President Stone of Bridgewater College in Virginia where I am a lecturer, asked me if I could negotiate for President Kaunda to come and address the small liberal arts college of mostly 1600 white students. I told him President Kaunda did not know me. I did my best to lower expectations. After being in contact with his staff for many months of his extremely busy schedule, I volunteered to go and visit with President Kaunda for even just five minutes because he is such a busy man.

I flew to Boston and rode the train to President Kaunda’s flat. I was very nervous and had carefully memorized what I wanted to say. I just hoped what happened to me when I was 14 years old when I first met the smashing beauty Lina Phiri would not happen again. During that unexpected encounter on a rural road, my tongue was locked, my mouth was dry, and I couldn’t remember breathing as I walked beside her for a mile which might as well have been 20 seconds. I share that memorable disastrous episode in my international romantic thriller novel: “The Bridge” which only 11 Zambians have read but which hundreds of American students have thoroughly enjoyed. When I entered his flat, President Kaunda was sitting on a chair and there was already another chair next to him. He rose as I shook his hand and I embraced him. My heart was racing. We greeted each other. I sat down. It was happening again. All the sentences I had carefully memorized evaporated.

“Do you want to go and play golf?” President Kaunda suddenly asked.

At first I looked behind me thinking he was asking someone else behind me or one of his aides.

“Yes,” I quickly replied. What was my hero trying to do? Ruin my sedate life? How could I play golf with my hero President Kaunda?

I thanked my lucky stars that I was familiar with golf. I have never been athletic. But 16 years earlier when I was doing my Ph. D., I happened to have taken five short lessons in golf. I wanted to know just how to whack the ball in the front direction, the names of the various golf clubs and may be how to score in golf. Winning anything was not even in my thought process. President Kaunda asked his aids to get me a spare golf shirt and shoes. He was paired with me in our own golf cart and there was another Boston University official with his grown son.

I could not believe that I was playing golf with my lifetime hero President Kaunda. I wished my parents, my wife, my children, my friends, Chizongwe Secondary School student classmates, the girls from St. Monica’s Secondary school and including what the Bembas call chipesha mano Lina Phiri could see me. Since this occasion was once in a lifetime when all the stars are lined right, and since I could not record the entire stunning experience, I knew I had to enjoy every second. I noticed every blade of grass, every swing the President made, and we laughed. During the 18th hole in the late evening it begun raining. Is this what it felt to die and go to heaven? I asked myself. Although my return flight to Virginia was the following morning, I was willing to leave at that time and spend a night at a motel. But President Kaunda would have none of that. That’s when I began to realize that good things sometimes happen to fools like me. He was going to take me out to dinner and I was to sleep in one of the spare bedrooms. President Kaunda, his aids, and I went to a fabulous dinner at an Indian food restaurant. Later that night I bid President Kaunda good night since I was going to get up early to go to the airport. Since that memorable day when I first met my hero, I could die and I would have a smile on my face as the grief stricken mourners close the cover of my coffin and lower me into the grave.

*******************************

Mwizenge S. Tembo has just published the book: “Zambia Hunger for Culture”. You can buy it by asking your nearest bookstore to order it or you can simply look it up on the internet: www.tembohungerforculture.com

Posted in Travel

Dangerous Journey to Chasela

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Sometime in late 1959, my mother arrived back at our village in Chief Magodi in the Lundazi District of Eastern Zambia in Southern Africa. I had lived with my grandparents, uncles, aunts, dozens of cousins and other kinship member. The village may have had a population of over 200.  For two years I was first herding goats and later doing Sub A at the nearby Boyole School. My mother had come to get me to join the family in the Luangwa Valley where my father was a schoolteacher.

We caught the then Northern Rhodesia Central African Road Services (CARS) bus at Hoya on the Lundazi-Chama Road. When the bus coming from Chama finally arrived, it was exciting. There was dust, passengers coming out, all the relatives who had escorted us saying goodbye to me and my mother. The smell of burning diesel fumes was very strong, strange, and new. When I stepped foot into the bus, it was all shaking, trembling,  and rattling from the idling engine. We rode the bus for half an hour and we arrived in the tiny provincial district of Lundazi.

My mother and I spent a night at the rest house in Lundazi. It was a huge building with tiles for a roof. It had upstairs and downstairs. It cost you six pence for upstairs and 3 pence per night for downstairs. The following day at noon, we boarded the bus for Chief Mwanya.

The bus drove really slowly as we quickly reached the outskirts of the tinytown. The road was narrow and bumpy at first. Later on the bus picked up speed. It was going so fast and trees were zooming by so close to the road I wondered how the driver missed crushing into them. The repeated bumps, swerves and ups and downs were so violent and nerve jarring that adults, including my mother, were vomiting out of the bus windows. I stood all the way and was enjoying the experience.

At 3:00 pm that afternoon, we arrived at Lumimba Catholic Mission station. We all came out for refreshments. There were streaks of vomit  all along the bus outside. None of the adults could eat because their stomachs were so upset. My mother bought me nshima with delicious chicken and I ate it all, wiping the plate clean.  I was very hungry.  At 6:00 pm that evening we arrived at Chief Mwanya’s palace. My mother and I spent a night at one of the chief’s guest houses since the Chief knew my father as the head teacher  at Chasela Primary School.

Early the following morning, my mother and I set off on foot for Chasela Primary School. But first she went into the bush and broke a small branch of the mnyongoroka tree. She stripped the fiber and broke the stick into 4 pieces which she threw in all four directions; North, South, West, and East. My mother was carrying a bundle on her head of our clothes and blankets.

I was small so my mother had to walk at my slow small boy’s pace. By 9:00 am, the searing valley heat was on and we were walking bare feet. By noon, our drinking water was gone, I was trotting as the ground was scalding my feet and I was crying and asking my mother to carry me. You could smell and see the seething heat which could have been easily atleast 100 degrees Fareinheit. The earth, dust and dirt were hot. My feet and legs were aching and threatening to turn into jelly every step I took. My mother kept saying we were almost there and “your dad has nshima with chicken ready and plenty of drinking water”.

At one point my mother pointed to a distance where we could see some baboons and herd of buffalo. I was by now bawling with both my hands behind my head and pleading with my mother for us to stop. She said we could not afford to stop and rest, as there were too many lions, leopards, and hyenas that came out at night. We had to get home before sun set. We could be meat. This was true. We had to get home before dark.

She kept sweetly encouraging me to walk a few more yards with: “The house is just beyond those bushes”. At 3:00 pm, we finally arrived at the house. I had walked ten miles in seething heat and bare foot. I collapsed, did not eat dinner and slept all night. The following day I could hardly walk as my feet and legs were swollen. This is where I was to live for the next 2 years; a place among the Bisa people in the Luangwa Valley with incredible wild life everywhere everyday. When I was older, she explained that the twigs of the mnyongoroka tree that she tossed in four directions were meant to ward off all dangerous wild animals along the way. Indeed, that whole journey not a single dangerous wild animal crossed our path. This area at the time was teaming with dangerous wild animals night and day.

Incidentally when my boys were small they used to like the game “bus ride to Chasela” with daddy. I would put them on my knee, bump them violently up and down, half tip them over on sharp bends, and they would pretend to throw up like grandma did.  They would giggle and scream because it felt like riding a roller coaster at an amusement park. They all loved the ride and begged me to give them the ride to Chasela during any spare moment when they wanted to have some fun with daddy.

Posted in Travel

The First Time I Saw a Train

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I was a thirteen year-old village boy who was going to see it for the first time any minute now. My dad and I had just completed a grueling sixteen hour bus trip from the country. We were dusty, black and blue just from the physical pounding we had endured while riding the bumpy bus on a dirt road. We had spent the night at the station and we were seconds away from seeing it. I stared in the southern direction with great anticipation as it approached.

First it was the loud moaning piercing steam whistle blow that echoed around the adjacent downtown sky scrapers of Cairo Road in Zambia’s Capital City of Lusaka. I saw the billowing thick black smoke. Then the train platform vibrated as the massive engine thundered by amidst a loud cacophony of screeching metal, sparks, and jets of white steam furiously shooting from the sides of the massive engine. The train gradually ground to a halt. Suddenly doors flung open and people poured out of the passenger cars like ants as my dad and I excitedly moved forward to board the train. The legend and my dream of the train had met with my reality. I was ecstatic. It was just as my uncles had described in the village and even more exciting. This was to be for ever my life before and after I first saw the train. I have been in love with the train ever since.

My uncles had traveled from our African village to work in plantations one thousand miles away in the former British colonial Southern Rhodesia and now Zimbabwe in the 1940s and 50s. Some relatives had gone as far as Johannesburg and Cape town in South Africa which were almost two thousand miles away. They told riveting stories about the train on their return to the villages.

The train was an imposing technological phenomenon. But there is an aspect of it that creates tremendous enchantment. I experienced the wonder during that first train ride from Lusaka to Kitwe in Savannah Africa over three decades ago. My dad and I were in a third class car and I stuck my head out of the window to a vista of short prairie grassland interrupted by commercial farms, grass hut villages, valleys, and grazing live stock. At the first stop people ran to the sides of the train with oranges, guavas, bananas, biscuits or cookies, the famous yellow chikondamoyo home- baked buns spread with jam or butter, boiled eggs, and an assortment of soft drinks. I had been warned that there traders often ran away into the bush with your change if you were not careful during the hasty transactions. Some crooked passengers also deliberately delayed in paying the traders until the train would take off with the trader running along the train shouting for his or her money as the train picked up speed.

Since that first memorable train ride, I have come to understand why the train as a technological marvel became such a legend and inspired so much imagination. At the time of my first train ride there was a famous song in Zambia among the Nsenga people of  Petauke in Eastern Zambia in which someone in the country side was longing to travel to see the train before they died. Alick Nkhata was one one of the most popular Zambian singers in the 1950s. The song is on Alick Nkhata’s CD “Shalapo”.

Nsenga Zambian Language

Naima naima neo
Naima
Naima nkaone njanji
Ningafwe osayiona
Maye we ehhh
Olile olile
Ningafwe osayiona
Maye we ehhhh.

English Translation

I am leaving, I am leaving
Yes, I am leaving
I am leaving to go
And see the train
Before I die
Yes, to see it
Before I die.

Many people at the time described the train as “moaning” and the loud chugging along was characterized as “nashupika” which is an indigenous word for  “to suffer”. They were almost attributing human qualities to it.

Memorial Day signals the beginning of the long dog days of summer travel in America, a reminder that the train was a staple of the  American frontier in the West that inspired numerous Cowboy-Indian movies. Travel also became possible between the South and the burgeoning city life of the Industrial North-East cities such as Chicago, Memphis, Detroit, New York and Boston. Ray Charles’ version of “Chattanooga Choo-Choo” in the “The Genius Hits the Road” album and James Brown’s “Night train” are some of my favorites. Perhaps the most touching impact and enduring legacy of the train is in Blue Grass mountain music of West Virginia, Appalachia to Kentucky.  “Oh, train I can hear your whistle blow…” is one of my favorites by the Seldom Scene.

Posted in Travel

Has AIDS Changed Social Life in Zambia?

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Note: This article was written on November 22, 1988 in Lusaka in Zambia

Has AIDS changed social life in Zambia? AIDS is a terrible, incurable, fatal disease that renders the body’s immune system vulnerable to disease. It can be contracted through blood transfusion, exchange of body fluids with an infected person, and through sexual intercourse with an infected person. Because sex is a likely source of infection, have men and women changed their relations in public social places like bars, parties, discos etc.?

Two experiences recently suggested to me that Zambians may be changing their social behavior towards the opposite sex in public places. One incident was at a popular night spot in Lusaka and another in Munyumbwe in the Gwembe Valley in the Southern Province of Zambia.

Late on a Friday night in my local club in Lusaka, a long time friend talked me into visiting one of the local night spots. I had not been to one of these places since the 1970s in my hey days of youth. I am not a fontini (square) but I have read, heard, and seen enough about AIDS to realize the seriousness of the disease. I did not know how much of this information I had internalized until we entered the night spot.

After paying our dues at the gate, my friend and I stood near the door to survey the situation. The rhumba music was blasting and good. There were red, blue, and white fluorescent lights flashing everywhere. The cold one was really cold and plentiful. Men and women seemed to spend a great deal of time milling around and not dancing close to each other in pairs. I saw a couple dancing and another totally strange man cut in and dance with the lady. I expected ugly faces, violent gestures, blows, and blood. But the men simply smiled at each other as the other man went his own way with a look of vast relief on his face.

I could not understand what was going on. Ten to fifteen years ago, men and women went to these night events glued together in twos like Siamese twins. You often got the man’s wrath if he so much as went to the toilet for five seconds and zoomed back to find you talking or dancing to his girl or prospect.

Since we had walked in, two women had been dancing on their own as partners. One of them walked over and tapped me on the shoulder.

“Finshi muletina tuyeni tushane!” She said. (Let’s dance. What are you afraid of?)

Did I have fear written all over my face? How did she guess? This made me even more apprehensive. Bells began to ring in my head. Was she a carrier trying to lure me into death? I nervously shuffled my feet to the nice rhumba song and clearly she could see my mind was not in the song or in her. When the long rhumba song finally ended, I mumbled a thank you. I heard the woman remark to her friend:

“AIDS nayichinja mano ya abaume.” She said. (AIDS has changed the thinking of men.)

A few days later, my employers sent me and another company colleague to Munyumbwe in the remote Gwembe Valley in the Southern Province for work. Munyumbwe Sub-center is located 45 kilometers from Chisekesi through difficult hilly terrain in the valley escarpment in Southern Province. There are steep rocky slopes. Most of the cars that limp along and fumigate our city roads with thick black smoke would not make it in this terrain.

During the few days we were in Munyumbwe, we had memorable experiences. You cannot experience and appreciate the geographical and cultural diversity of Zambia unless you travel. The people were nice and friendly. For a long time, I had never seen so many twinkling bright stars in the dark night sky. The usually scarce drink had just arrived at the only local bar. After work, my colleague and I decided to go there and relax.

We were jovially talking with some of our newly made men and women friends and acquaintances when it happened. An obviously good looking woman wearing a dark blue dress joined us. She was well groomed. The woman walked to our group greeted and joined us. As it often happens, the conversation somehow drifted to social life and AIDS. The woman in the dark blue dress took over the conversation with a smile, radiating voice, and her eyes twinkling with warm remembrances of better times.

“There was a time,” she said. “When a friend of mine and I used to cause havoc at this bar. At 16.00 hours my friend and I would bath, do our hair, put on attractive dresses and latest shoes. We would put on just a dash of sweet perfume. Then we would saunter into this bar. At the sight of us, men would drool, freeze in mid air with bottles of drink in their mouths, and some men would break their necks trying to look and follow us around with their hungry eyes.”

We all roared with hearty laughter.

“What about now?” one man asked.

“Now it is dangerous,” she said slowly shaking her head. “With AIDS life is different. Now if a man proposes you at the bar, you have to think a hundred times. Is he really worth dying for? Do you love him enough to die? Often the answer is no.”

We offered the woman a drink. She refused. She said she had come on her own for two only and that was enough. She had work to do the following day. She bid us good bye and walked away into the night in the direction of the village. Not one man among many of us offered to walk her home. Although AIDS is such a deadly and devastating disease, experiences like these make one optimistic that people in Zambia will change their attitudes, social practices, and survive the disease.

Posted in Travel

Are You Sleepless in a Glitzy Hotel Room?

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It was 2:00 am and I was still tossing and trying to sleep in my sparkling clean hotel room in Richmond in Virginia in May 2010. At 5:00 am I finally sat up in exasperation. My heart was racing. My whole body was so wired up it’s as if I had drank fifty cups of strong coffee and a jolt of horse tranquilizer. I was peeing every half hour. I bolted out of my room as soon as there was light. I sat in the hotel garden in my robe pretending to enjoy the morning fresh air in the flower garden.

I had spent a retreat there three years before and I had enjoyed my stay. What could be wrong? I lied to my generous hosts that I had an emergency at home. I did not want to disappoint them. I was feeling so unwell that I cut short my retreat and went home. I dismissed the whole thing as a fluke.

In early June, members of my wife’s family from out of state were staying at a glitzy high-end hotel in Gettysburg Pennsylvania. They booked us a room and invited us to join them touring the famous Civil War historic sites. We could not pass up the occasion. After tossing for a couple of hours again, I got up at 3:00 am. My heart was racing. I told my sleepy wife that I would spend the rest of the night in the car in the parking lot. At 7:00 am I called my wife on the cell phone to wish her a good morning. We discussed our next course of action while I was sitting in the car.

We broke the disappointing news to the two family relatives that we would be driving back at the end of that day. We enjoyed ourselves as much as possible. But I felt bad to be a party spoiler although everyone said they understood. But I also know that people are very skeptical that a clean sparkling hotel room can cause any discomfort in anyone who is a normal human being.

I did some research on the internet. What I found out alarmed me. There are people who develop chemical sensitivity to hotel rooms. I was doomed. After spending so many years traveling and spending numerous nights in all kinds of hotels, I would now be confined to one-day trips to anywhere.

Two weeks ago, an unexpected rare opportunity came up to attend the Clarksville Writers Conference in Tennessee. It would be a 9-hour drive and I did not know any uncle there at whose house I could crash on a couch. I booked a room at the Riverview Inn. A few hours later, I called the hotel manager Leslie Capp and said: “By the way I have a problem”. The response by e-mail stunned me. They would give me a room which the housekeepers would vacuum, clean with no chemicals, no fragrances and no air fresheners. My bed linens would be washed in special hypo-allergenic detergent. I was so ecstatic that they understood. I did not want to take any chances though. I asked them to put a cot in my room just in case. I brought with me blankets, sheets, and a pillow from home.

When I opened my hotel room, it was air-conditioned and it smelt very clean which means there were no obvious chemicals or none at all in the air. Later that night, I apprehensively crawled into the bed between the fresh hotel sheets. I woke up at 6:30am after the most restful sleep I had had in a while. The tiredness from my previous day 9-hour drive was gone. I drew the curtains open and there was the beautiful Cumberland River in the fresh morning sun. My conference started at 8:00am.

I was so excited I went downstairs and profusely thanked everyone of the hotel lobby clerks and sang the praises to the manager. I thanked the housekeepers when I saw them in the elevator.

I had such a wonderful time attending the conference meeting wonderful people and learning more about Southern history and hospitality. As I was driving back through the wonderful State of Tennessee, I couldn’t help but think that many civilizations have perished in the past due to something catastrophic happening to them. May be what will kill our civilization are the toxic chemicals we eat and breathe every day which we have convinced ourselves are necessary, safe and harmless.

Posted in Travel

My First International Flight

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Part One
The build up to my first International Flight started one morning when I lived in Lusaka in February 1977. I received in the mail the acceptance letter to go to Michigan State University for my Masters Degree. My two housemates and very close friends immediately began to spread the news. The flight was in Mid September and I had all those months to bask in the glory and sheer buzz. Two weeks before my departure that Sunday morning though, one of the most cruel things happened.

Word spread that there was going to be the mother of all parties on Saturday night in Kitwe at one of the close bachelor friend’s house. I was flying out of Lusaka International Airport that Sunday morning at 10:00 am. All the beautiful nurses from Mufulira Hospital, Kitwe General Hospital, Ndola, and Lusaka were going to be there. There was not only going to be plenty of Mosi but the just released heavy music from the Nigerian Fela Ransome Kuti, the new album “Gentleman” or “Gentomani” was going to play all night. Since I was a party animal, this created a dilemma for me. My two dear friends began to tease me mercilessly; that I was going to miss the beautiful girls, the music, the booze.

My friends suggested that I go to the party that Saturday night. Then at about 6 am that Sunday morning one of the friends who owned a red Fiat 127 could drive me to the Ndola airport where a Zambia Airways flight was leaving for Lusaka at 7 am. I could then make the connecting flight to London at 10 am in Lusaka. I thought of all that could go wrong, I dropped the idea. But I was still so torn that I agonized about this for two weeks.

Part Two

My two dear housemates and friends left Lusaka for the party in Kitwe that Saturday morning. I spent most of the day packing feeling rather morose, lonely, and sad. In the evening I went to the nearby Kaunda Square Shebeen for a few last Mosi to bury my sorrows. When I woke up in the morning, I discovered that my packing had not gone very well the previous night. So I got a taxi and quickly dumped all my stuff in it and drove to my uncle’s house in Northmead where I deposited everything I was leaving behind which was a lot. I was late arriving at the airport. I arrived at 9:00am and the plane was leaving at 10:00am. I should have been at the airport two hours earlier. There were massive crowds at the Zambian Airways check-in counter.

As I checked in, I overheard alarm between the two Zambia Airways women employees. After a brief argument, one of them said to the other:
“Just push him there. After all it’s not your fault that they made a mistake”.

I didn’t pay attention to all to this detail as I just wanted to get on the plane. It was hot and I was sweating. As I finally walked into the International Departure lounge to sit down and catch my breath, I heard this on the public intercom.

“Will Mr. Tembo, passenger to London please report to the nearest phone. Will Mr. Tembo, passenger to London report to the nearest phone. Thank you.”

I rushed to the nearest phone.

“Hello, Mwana Mwizenge,” a very deep rusty sleepy voice said. “I thought I should say bye to you.” It was my friend Ben calling from Kitwe.

“The party ended at six this morning. You remember that girl, Jane Lungu, from Kitwe Nursing School that you had an eye for? She was there and was asking for you. Mary Mafuleka from Ndola was there too. Banda (the host) had emptied several crates of mosi into the bath tub and put in it some huge blocks of ice from Lakes and Fisheries. The Mosi was cold. We danced all night. Banda just drove 4 girls back to Mufulira.”

I could have strangled the son of a gun if he had been three yards from me. How could he be so cruel? We made some small talk.

“Please, send me some blue jeans when you get to America. I am going to sleep now.” He hang up. I placed the phone on the receiver very slowly all the while contemplating what could have been if I had been at the mother of all parties.

Part Three

Passengers were already heading out of the only gate to board the plane. Once I had entered the very first cabin, the hostesses welcomed and directed me to about the fifteeth row seat at the very back of the first cabin. She offered to put my coat away and immediately asked if I needed a drink. I was beginning to like this already. It was better than what my uncle had said about hospitality on international flights. The Boeing 707 was jammed judging by the hordes of people who walked by and disappeared to the back of the plane beyond the thin curtain.

We took off as if going toward Chongwe or the Eastern Province along the Great East Road. But soon we sharply veered left. The beautiful Zambia Airways hostesses kept asking me practically every few minutes if I was comfortable, needed anything, if the air conditioning needed readjusting, or if I needed a glass of red or white wine, a soft drink, or a beer. I didn’t want to appear to be a fontini like Zambians would say. So I declined the offers and instead lay back contemplating the mother of all parties that I had just missed in Kitwe. The traffic of hostesses between the front and rear of the plane was thick with assortments of drinks and monies going back and forth. Soon meals were served. I sipped my second coke and soon had to go to the bathroom.

After I used the bathroom, out of sheer curiosity I pushed the dividing curtain and peeked to see what was behind it. The plane stretched for what looked like a mile behind the cabin I was sitting in. People were packed and squeezed shoulder to shoulder like sardines. They were buying their drinks. I didn’t have to buy my drinks. That’s when the eureka moment happened. It hit me: “I had been put in the first class!” Zambia Airways had overbooked the economy class. I had arrived late and so I had been pushed into the first class.

Things began to go through my head as I sat down in my first class seat with lots of room to move my elbows. I could ask for any drinks, any food, anything short of asking the gorgeous hostess for a date or to sleep with me. I wanted to start with red wine, then may be white, may be green, yellow, may be all the colors of wine available. Wait, may be I could drink mosi first, and then try German, Italian, and other foreign beers. But I didn’t want to pass out on the plane and arrive in London in bad shape. Then I could really be a fontini. So it was that afternoon that I settled for large generous glasses of red wine, and asked for various magazines to read.

As we flew over the red sands of the barren Sahara Desert, I was on my second glass of wine and holding my own and trying to look very cool and sophisticated, or like I belonged in the first class. Something told me that the hostesses were not fooled and probably most of the regular first class cabin passengers were not fooled either. This did not deter or faze me. I didn’t drink anything the last hour as we flew over Southern France before we landed at London’s Heathrow International Airport. The sunset cast golden red rays in the cabin as the plane smoothly touched down. Everyone in the cabin clapped and cheered including Zambia’s Minister of Foreign Affairs at the time, Siteke Mwale, who was sitting eight seats in front of me. I didn’t know at the time that something would happen to me that night at the hotel that would threaten to abruptly end my first international trip.

Part Four

After coming out of immigration and customs, I caught the courtesy bus to the hotel near Heathrow Airport where I was to spend the night before the connecting flight to America the following day. I checked into my immaculately clean room. I took a shower, put on some clean clothes, and went downstairs for dinner.

When the waiter brought the menu, I didn’t recognize a single food. I didn’t want to eat a salad because the idea of eating raw green leaves like a goat would in the village back home did not appeal to me. When I went through the menu the second time, I recognized a dish that said: “Rice with curried something”. I pointed to it and asked the waiter to serve it to me. After all, rice was the closest to the Nshima traditional Zambian traditional staple meal.

Back in my hotel room, I suddenly became very nauseous. I began to breathe rapidly and soon there was sweat all over my body especially my face. I thought I was going to die alone in London on my very first trip abroad. What a way to die! But I had faced so much adversity in life since I first went to Rukuzye Primary Boarding School alone for my Standard two at the age of nine years in 1963. This was going on for an hour and I was going to give it another 10 minutes before calling the desk for medical help. The nausea was so bad that I rushed into the bathroom as I heaved out everything in time uncontrollably. I got violently sick atleast five times in the toilet. Suddenly I felt so much better.

I laid on my bed for a while and if the symptoms came back I would then report to the hotel desk. I suddenly felt hungry. This was a good sign. I drank lots of water to avoid dehydration. But I was not about to eat anything from the hotel again. I made a cup of black tea in my room and sipped it slowly. I soon went to bed and slept soundly.

When I woke up in the morning, I felt fine. I took a shower and skipped any meals at the hotel. I caught the courtesy bus and was in the Heathrow International departure lounge by 10 am. My plane to Chicago was at twelve noon. I ate some breakfast and enjoyed a Castle Lager, which is a kissing close cousin of the Mosi beer.

Part Five

There was a huge wall in the big crowded Heathrow Airport lounge which had all the departing international flights listed. When the just departed planes were removed and the ones ready for boarding added, there were loud rapid continuous rattling sounds like thousands of falling dominos as the words and numbers were moved up, some down, and some disappeared. This was amidst continuous echo of intercom announcements informing passengers of boarding planes and other sundry information.

I saw a tall skinny brown African man with a goatee beard walking. He was in a hurry. I recognized him as Gwangwa Mzeta a South African who worked with the Pan African Congress (PAC) of South Africa. I called his name and he called mine. We shook hands vigorously as we laughed. We had shared the house at the Institute in Lusaka with his African American wife and their 8 months old daughter. She was conducting research for her Ph. D. dissertation. They had left Zambia months before perhaps never to meet them again.

“Tembo,” he laughed. “The world is small. Who could have thought of all places we could meet at Heathrow. Where are you going?”

“To Michigan State via Chicago,” I replied. “And you?”

“I am going to Stockholm for a PAC conference. You know the revolution must go on,” he said as he glanced at his watch. “As a matter of fact I must rush to catch my plane. I can see you are liberating that Castle Lager,” he laughed as he pointed at my half full glass of beer.

“Oh, yes,” I replied as we slapped hands. We laughed heartily again as he walked away.

At noon, I boarded the TWA Boeing 747 for Chicago. The plane was so massive compared to the Boeing 707. I sat somewhere toward the back close to where all the smokers congregated. I paid some money for earphones so that I could listen to music and whatever else was on the channels. A few hours into the flight as we flew over the vast blue Atlantic Ocean, I fell in love with the Jazz channel.

It had music by Louis Armstrong, Ray Charles’ “Georgia on My Mind”, Billy Holiday, and many other Big Band era American Jazz Greats. I was in heaven listening to the piercing saxophone of Armstrong in “When it’s Sleeping Time Down South”, then Glen Miller’s “Chattanooga Choo chooo..” and especially Woody Herman’s “Wood Chopper’s Ball”, Benny Goodman and Count Bessie. At one point several times during the flight I wandered to the front of the plane to peek at the flight cockpit of the 747 with those zillions of instruments.

We landed at O’Hare International Airport in Chicago at 4:00 pm. As I was going through immigration, customs, and finally the baggage claim area, I noticed that American officials seemed very casual compared to their British counterparts. This was the most anticipated part of my trip. How would America look like? What about the people? I was very nervous and tense. As I walked out of the arrival lounge into the street to go to the domestic flight gate, something shocked me as being so wrong.

Americans were not wearing gun holsters and carrying one or two pistols in the holsters ready for street gunfights. I looked at the men and women walking about. I could not believe it. Sure someone besides the police had to carry a visible gun. Was this really America?

When I walked into the bathroom at the domestic departure lounge, I tightly clutched my briefcase under my armpit as the other hand nervously navigated my use of the urinal. When two men both stepped up to the urinal on both my sides, I tightened up. My eyes rolled sideways like a chameleon to see what the two men were up to. I was sure I was going to be mugged any second. I expected anyone or both of them to stick a gun in my rib cage ordering me to give them all my traveler’s checks. When they both walked out harmlessly. I breathed out.

After being in the domestic departure lounge for an hour waiting for the plane to East Lansing, I concluded that all the stereotypes I had held about Americans had been wrong. I had watched too many black and white cow boy movies when I was at Chizongwe Secondary School in the 1960s. After all, the people were just normal. Some of the few African Americans I saw looked just like Zambians back home.

The End
If you liked this story, you can read a whole novel I have written titled: Mwizenge S. Tembo, The Bridge, Lusaka: Julubbi Enterpriese Ltd, 2005, pp. 190. Available at Book World at Manda Hill Shopping Mall in Lusaka, from Lusaka Cell 095- 576-1375, and from the author. There is a blog about the novel on this same web page. The novel The Bridge can also be browsed on line on Google.

http://www.bridgewater.edu/~mtembo

Tags: adventure, travel

[1] AUTHOR: Mwizenge S. Tembo was born and grew up among the Tumbuka people of Eastern Zambia. He obtained his B. A. at University of Zambia, M. A. and Ph. D. at Michigan State University in 1987. He worked for ten years at University of Zambia before he came to Bridgewater College in Virginia in 1990 where he teaches Sociology. He is Professor of Sociology. He has just published  a novel of a love story between an African man and an Irish woman titled: The Bridge: a Transoceanic Love Story.  It available at Bridgewater College Bookstore and amazon.com

Posted in Travel • Village Childhood • Zambian Life

Sacred Cows and Myths are Broken

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In September of 2002 sacred cows and myths were broken in my African home village. The wider implications of the breaking of these myths are still unclear. It all started when the Tembo family decided to purchase two bulls to help with plowing crops during the coming growing season, which starts in December. The 2001 drought that affected large regions of Southern Africa was already hitting many village families whose harvests had been poor at the end of the growing season the previous April. Our family decided to increase the chances of improving next year’s subsistence farm yield as well as the cotton cash crop through the purchasing of two bulls.

Although I was born and raised in the African village, I have lived in the US for more than twelve years. Since my urban and American good looks and good clothes, shoes, hefty appearance, (fat by African standards) and smooth skin would immediately double the price of an average bull, my brothers 35, and 39, agreed to scout numerous villages for bulls. Once they found them, I was to show up at the last minute to close the deal.

My brothers scouted by bike a three hundred square mile area of dozens of villages in the Lundazi district covering the Chiefdoms of Magodi, Phikamalaza, Kapichila, and Zumwanda. What they encountered always breaks the average Westerner’s heart: people experience visible poverty when they own anywhere from ten to hundreds of cattle. They are unwilling to part with them despite the obvious attraction of receiving rare large sums of money in exchange. Two long days later, my brothers finally returned with some good news. They had found five potential bulls at a small village on the Eastern side of the district in Chief Phikamalaza’s area close to Zambia’s international border with the country of Malawi.

Early the next morning, we set off for the village on bicycles. By this time, I had been in the village for three weeks. I had made two long forty-two mile trips by bike and numerous miles of bicycle riding in African scorching heat without needing a sip of water. We arrived at the village at noon. As arranged, the forty-one herds of cattle were not released yet for the day from their kraal for grazing. The owner was Aliboo; the man in the town of Lundazi who owns a chain of lucrative businesses including wholesale and retail trade, bus and truck transportation, buying and selling of corn, peanuts, cattle, goats, and sheep. He was the Bill Gates of the small rural district.

The Chief Herder and caretaker, a young man in his mid-twenties, and his two assistants led us to the kraal. There was pandemonium in the kraal as the designated animals milled around to elude capture. The five bulls on sale were reluctantly pointed out to us. We picked two of the youngest, healthiest looking and strongest looking bulls. The herder looked as sad as if he had just lost someone very valuable and dear to his heart. He reluctantly strapped to a yoke the two bulls for the long return trek to our village.

After the formal transactions of the purchasing of the bulls were over, the herder pulled me aside. He expressed his tremendous regret and sadness that the two bulls had to leave. He expressed deep fondness for them. He reminisced how he had broken them as juveniles to become his most favorite haulers and when plowing the fields. It dawned on me then and there that there is more to selling and agreeing to part with an animal.

At two in the afternoon, the two cattle, my two brothers, two young boys who were escort herders and I, started the thirty-five mile walk to our village. My brother had already nicknamed the young red feisty bull “Gumuza” which means to “husk corn” and the calm black one “Boma” which means “town”. We briskly walked and chatted in the sizzling African afternoon sun passing several villages and a school. The two escort herders frequently whipped the young bulls back into the narrow dirt road and bush paths each time the animals broke and wildly wandered off into the bush.

At sunset, we arrived at a stream on the Western side on the outskirts of the Lundazi town. The escort herders released the two cattle from the yoke although they were still tethered to along rope. The bulls grazed for a while and drunk some water in the nearby stream while we sat down to rest. Our dinner comprised three small buns for each person with some margarine on them. We downed them with a cup of plain water sweetened with a couple of teaspoons of sugar stirred into it using a small twig.

As darkness fell, we began walking the rest of the twenty-three miles to our home village. In the moonless dark night, we followed the light glimmer of the narrow small dirt road. The flashlight drove the bulls berserk becoming belligerent and wildly taking off into the bush. We could not use the flashlight. We passed many villages and three schools with our hoofed merchandise. Two trucks passed us carrying gigantic loads of cotton from the scattered village markets back into the Lundazi town. Hour after hour we placed one foot in front of the other. We plodded along and sweated as we followed the faint glare of the narrow, meandering, rough, and sandy dirt road.

We were a few miles from our destination and we had been walking for a total of nine long hours. We were all so exhausted that each one more step required much more will power than energy since there was practically no energy left in all of us including the two bulls. At one thirty in the morning we finally arrived at our village. The two bulls; Gumuza and Boma were released from the yoke and feasted on some raw pumpkins. My sister-in-laws cooked a long awaited hot meal as we talked to my mom and dad about our long trip. I was already thinking of the two young bulls, Gumuza and Boma, not just as beasts that can be sold at a whim. They were part of the family. Even the young eight and ten year old nephews, who were to herd the cattle, were roused by the excitement and woke up to admire the two new members of the Tembo family as they grazed behind my house in the dark. I finally understood why pastoralists everywhere in Africa and the rest of the world are often reluctant to part with their animals even if they have a large herd. Two myths were broken:

  • That a “fat” African who has lived an American life style of a soft life cannot ride a bike for numerous miles let alone walk for thirty-five miles. Incidentally being “fat” is so rare among the people in the villages of Africa that it is seen as a culturally positive thing. A young American Peace Corps volunteer was shocked recently when she was called “fat” when she first arrived in the village. But she has since learnt that being “fat” is used in a positive sense among the Tumbuka people and traditional Zambians and rural Africans in general.
  • The second myth is that peasant cattle owners and pastoralists in traditional rural Africa are irrational when they refuse to willy-nilly sell their animals even sometimes in the face of hunger and starvation. They perhaps truly love and sometimes deeply care more for the animals than their own lives, money and material modern consumer commodities.
Posted in Travel

Letters to My Grandfather

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Letters to My Grandfather in the Village in Zambia

*These letters were written in December 1977.

Dear Grandfather,

I should have written you this letter a long time ago.  But I was so busy with my further education and daily wandering that I could hardly find the time at all.  But I hope you and the village are alright.

I know that the rain has now started pouring and you will soon start planting crops.  Perhaps you already have calabashes full of those delicious mphalata flying ants that come with the first rains.  I wish you could dry some, salt them and post them to me here in America.  But probably they would be rotten by the time they got here.  And also since the Americans would not know that one can eat them, perhaps the immigration officials would charge me with a criminal offence; importing foreign insects without an import license or the state Health Department would declare it a health hazard.  Let me not bore you with this unimportant subject.  I know you are anxious to hear about my journey.

As you know I am still a bachelor; (you would say I sleep in ashes) the morning I left my flat in our capital city of Lusa, I could not eat anything because I had no time to cook.  I had to pack my suitcase and transfer some luggage to my Uncle Kakoba’s house for safekeeping.  When I arrived at the balaza la ndeke (airport) the sun was very high in the sky and it was getting hot.  I was sweating because the previous day I had been to a bar to drink home kamulaile mosi beer for the last time.

I know that you have seen small aeroplanes at the boma; but the plane I rode was very big.  It stood there like a big bird with its wings outstretched in the burning sun.  When its stomach was opened, it began swallowing us one by one.  We were about two hundred people; Indians, whites, and we black people.  This plane was so big that the entire village of Mtema could have come in and there would have been enough space left.

When I entered I found beautiful black young girls standing by the door greeting everyone coming in.  The inside of the plane cannot be compared to the dirt floor of your thatched house!  The floor is made of smooth wood covered with very thick beautifully colored cloth.  Although this cloth is so beautiful people still step on it; it is for the feet.  You would have thought people who have ragged clothes like you would have been better off wearing them.

When I sat in a chair, I felt as though I was seated in a house.  Meanwhile the girls would not let us, their guests, remove our own jackets.  They asked if they could put them away for us.  Although it was hot, cold air was being blown through pipes to make us cool and settle our hearts.

After a long wait, there was a voice heard from the ceiling; “Kakani bande!” fasten your seatbelts!  Before you begin assuming that there is witchcraft in an aeroplane; how can a voice come from the roof?  I was told later that the men who were flying the plane (pilots) were in a separate room in the front.  From this room and through wires fixed inside the ceiling, they could speak to all of us.  We had to tie ourselves across the stomach against the seats.

Then the thing jerked forward, it began to move very slowly.  Then it began to trot, walk, or kundondomela, then it trotted; finally it began to run so fast that my stomach felt as though it was being squeezed.  This is why some people vomit!  Then I saw that we were leaving the ground, the roads and houses were looking smaller and smaller.  There were no bumps, so swaying like in a bus.  In fact we were able to drink water, tea, fanta, and cocacola, and beer without having it spill.

Inside the plane there are toilets; you can help yourself even if you are flying in the air.  The young girls served us food.  But the food was strange and very small in quantity.  Even a young child of Mtema village could not have been satisfied.  They put on a tiny piece; small relish like the leg of a chicken, a small piece of cow meat and some reddish soup.  But one good thing is that we were still able to drink our home beer.  I kept on sleeping and waking up the whole day and I still found we were still flying in the air.  At sunset we arrived in Britain or mangalande and the big famous city known as London.

When the plane stood still, the young girls stood at the door again saying farewell to us.  London Airport is very big.  At one shot of the eye you can see so many planes that it would take you a long time to count.  This is where aeroplanes from different parts of the world meet and people too.

When I walked down the plane I discovered that Britain was a very cold place compared to Mtema village.  Our coldness there cannot be compared to theirs.  We all went into a big hall where there were many people collecting their luggage.

I was to sleep in London and catch another plane to go to America the following day.  It is like our bus journeys from Mtema village to Lusaka city; you normally sleep at Egixikeni to catch another bus for Lusaka the following day.  Where as you know where to sleep at egixikeni, I did not know where I was going to sleep.

I was told on the plane that there was a room reserved for me in a place they call a ‘hotel’.  But I did not know where this place was.  You can imagine in what trouble I was.  Every one of those white people I asked did not know.  Until finally I asked an old white man who told me I would have to catch a bus to get to the place.  You cannot compare London to Lusaka.  London is big.  Comparing Lusaka and London is like comparing a breast fed baby to an old man.  Up to now I cannot remember where exactly I spent the night.

The hotel was a very quiet place.  People speak in low tones.  I got keys for my room.  As I walked to my room I saw a group of white men sitting at a bar drinking beer.  I was amazed.  What were those men doing drinking beer and not being able to make noise or at least talk loudly.

Mtema Village

P. O. Egixikeni

Zambia

Posted in Food • Humor

Do You Have Cravings for Truly Zambian Food?

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For a traditional Zambian who lives so far away from home, life overseas is not all enjoyment of cheap blue jeans, night clubs, and easy life. There was a Zambian whose name will not be disclosed as authorities and perhaps the Interpol from the overseas country might still pursue him over international waters and land. He was a single young man living in one of a group of modest apartments on the fifth floor. After he had been in the overseas country for one year, he had dined on enough chips, hamburgers, an assortment of sea foods, chicken cooked in a hundred ways, sea fish, noodles and spaghetti. He terribly craved finkubala, (dry roasted caterpillars), chiwawa (pumpkin leaves) kapenta, delele, and fyakusashila (green leaves cooked with peanut powder). But most of all, he craved for a nice, little, salted, and Zambian well charcoal-roasted bird like a pigeon.

He had an idea. City tame pigeons usually played and perched outside on the ledge of the kitchen window of his apartment. One morning, with a hawk’s eye, he made sure no one was looking. He quickly slammed shut the open kitchen window. Four of the eleven pigeons were flapping in his kitchen. He wildly swatted at them with a towel and dove at one of the most dazed ones. In the confusion he apprehended only one and three escaped through the window which had swung open because of his strong breathing. He had a very delicious lunch of nshima with the well grill-roasted bird.

The delicious bird was hardly digested when there was a knock on the door. He opened the door and almost dropped dead. It was the long arm of the law – a police officer.  He politely told the Zambian gentleman that a neighbor with binoculars reported a suspicious activity in which eleven pigeons were seen in the vicinity of his swinging kitchen window and only ten were eventually seen to fly away. If deported, this could have turned into an embarrassing international diplomatic incident. After somewhat regaining his composure, the Zambian put up a courageous argument about counting of flying birds being difficult from a distance even if one had a degree in mathematics.

The police officer politely warned him that it was against city ordinance to cage, capture, restrain, sell, or dispose in any way of city public property without the express permission from the mayor. For the rest of his overseas stay, the Zambian suppressed his cravings and yearning for Zambian home food until he had landed at Lusaka International Airport in Zambia’s Capital City.

Posted in Humor

Do You Have a Spare Tire?

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The last time I shopped for clothes was a couple of years ago. Early this fall I discovered that all my dress shirts were fraying around the collar. Many of my long dress pants had either emergency mending, or were hugging my mid section really hard or had patches in secret unmentionable places only a wife knows. My wife finally broke me down. I had to go shopping for good looking work clothes. I do not exactly have a phobia about shopping but what I experienced was enough to make me have one.

I shopped all day at the mall. What I learnt was a sharp lesson in vulgarities of human anatomy and physiology. I tried on perhaps two dozen long pants of varying sizes, styles, and cuts. Some of the latest really hot chic fashion long pants made a humiliating air bag in front of you know where when I tried them on. None of them fit me. The pair of pants that fit had to have the bottom shortened which was going to take a week. All in all it was a painful exercise. T o add insult to the pain, the department stores also have a rule that you can only take a limit of five pairs only into the small booth to try them on.

After my head had cooled down after my long, trying, and frustrating day, I reflected on my fate. It occurred to me that standard size long pants do not fit me because my anatomy does not really fit the profile of the average man my age. After being alive for more than a good third of a century and some, a man can no longer wear size thirty-two.

Numerous years of consuming foods of various challenging quantities and texture begin to take their toll.  All those Thanksgiving dinners, summer grills and picnics to commemorate birthdays, religious holidays and patriotic national days begin to show. Men in their short lives ingest drinks that are green, white, golden, black, with a high and low viscosity; some of them mind altering and others thirst-quenching. All of this eating, drinking and constant merry making generates a spare tire and a half somewhere in the middle of the man’s waist. Standard size clothes therefore can never adequately accommodate the spare tire.

When my dad was my age, his spare tire made him look as though he was seven and a half months pregnant. He was at the time a willing victim of the various delicious entrees my mother prepared and different types of mind altering adult beverage with high viscosity he was in the habit of consuming called chibuku in Zambia. At that time, his favourite coat fit him perfectly around the shoulders and arms but he could never button it shut.

I am not exactly in this same type of predicament but very close to it. My spare tire looks like I am barely four months pregnant going on to five. My height is not quite average and my legs are rather skinny or let’s say slender for my frame. Which clothes manufacturer is going to cater to men like me and many others I encountered during my failed clothes shopping spree? As I tried my twenty-sixth pair of pants in the department store that day, I came out of the booth to look in the long mirror. At the same time, out came a man shorter than me. He had a spare tire that made him six months pregnant. The long pants fit him around the waist, they were bunched and crinkled around the knees and the bottoms of the pants were piled around his feet. I could not even guess what size those pants were.

His wife said: “They fit you nicely, honey.”

The man and my eyes met and he had this smirk-grin on his face that seemed to say that he and I were in the same boat. I sometimes wish there was someone out there willing to make some easy money. I would soon rather send my worn out long pants that fit me perfectly to a manufacturer who would make me new duplicates of the same pants. I would rather do this than go through the pain of clothes shopping.

Posted in Humor • Zambian Life

Burglars and Home Security

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When Erma Bombeck complained that it takes so long to secure the house (Detroit Free Press: 03-02-90) before she and her husband retired to bed because of increased crime I was amused. Because it sounded more like the neighborhood I lived in until recently – only a hair worse.

Burglarizing homes and stealing of cars at night while owners are enjoying their sleep is so common that securing homes and property has become very demanding. Our home was surrounded by an eight foot brick wall with jagged sharp glass along the top edge.

Before going to bed every night the security routine was that we first locked the metal front gate between the walls entrance. We made sure the two dogs were fed, alive, and barking and the outside security lights were switched on. Then I practically disassembled the automobile engine and took it to the security of our bedroom upstairs. The front and back doors were triple locked and all windows around the house were shut. Valuables like T.V, stereo, and computers had to be shipped from the living room to our bedroom. All the doors leading from the kitchen to the dining to the living room were locked. In the morning all of this had to be undone including reinstalling the car engine before driving the kids to school at 7 a.m. The bit about undoing the car engine might be a little exaggerated but doesn’t this sound like What Erma Bombeck was describing but only a tad worse?

Incidentally, this was life in the Capital City of Lusaka in my home country of Zambia until recently in December 1989. Yes, many Americans and millions of Zambians live there and it is no more dangerous than in many neighborhoods here. My wife and I and the two American neighbors we knew were never robbed. Except one  time when I parked down town Lusaka and my spare tire  was stolen. But then I had parked there safely millions of times before the incident. Perhaps the lesson in all of this is that it doesn’t matter where you live in an urban environment these days, the world is becoming more similar than different. Urban crime is escalating in most cities of the world.

****Unpublished article to the features editor of the Detroit Free Press, 321 W. Lafayette, Detroit, MI 48231, 7th March, 1990. After many visits to Lusaka in Zambia since 1990, the urban crime is not as bad as it was in 1989.

Posted in Education • Humor

Children Scare Me

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I love children. But it is the five year olds that scare me. My anxiety and fear are not so much over what they do, but what they can say, where, and when. This was brought to me recently when I had to interact with a group of very cute five year olds. My son’s kindergarten class was having a “parent(s)-eat -lunch-with- their-kids” program. As a precaution, I made sure I wasn’t dressed as a clown. I took a bath, wore a regular nice shirt, shoes, pants, and even a tie. I drove through the rain and made sure I had an umbrella to avoid being a soaked father; then I could have looked worse than a clown.

As soon as 1 walked into the class, I was greeted like a celebrity and was surrounded by excited kids. 1 felt like 1 was a rock star. 1 could see my son was very proud to have his dad there.

“So you’re Mike’s dad!?” one kid asked or sort of stated.

“You look Just like your son. Mike”(not his real name) another kid quipped.

“You must be twins.” (Ever hear of twins being born thirty years apart? one asked me.)

“Why do you have balls in your hair?” another kid asked. (I have very curly hair.)

Then my own son said:

“My dad’s hair is turning white. He is an old man.”

They all giggled.

With my son joining in the offensive, I felt helpless and vulnerable.

1 was saved from this bombardment when another male parent walked in. Then one kid said to another; “My dad is bigger than yours”.

A courageous parent tried to smooth things over and said:

“Com’on Joe, dads come in different sizes.”

The continuous action and body movements the children made were incredible and made me momentarily dizzy. We ate an enjoyable and amusing lunch as the French fries were in the shape of letters of the alphabet. We took the opportunity to ingeniously brush up on the letters of the alphabet. One of the children took some liberties and reversed the order of eating and started with the ice cream dessert. Predictably, she never made it to the main course: a meatball sandwich.  Being a responsible parent, I was tempted to report the kid to the teacher and write down the kids’ name and his home address, and phone number so I could inform her parents of the naughty behavior. But I thought better of it.

I commended the teacher for doing such a wonderful job handling these active but curious kids. I had enjoyed the visit. But as I left I could not help but feel relieved that I had escaped just in time to avoid becoming a P.O.W. of that class of kindergarten kids.

****A version of this article appeared in: Mwizenge S. Tembo, Kids Scare Me, The Bridgewater College Talon, February 11, 1991.

Posted in Humor • Zambian Life

Themba Chako Radio Comedy

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Radio Chikaya in Lundazi
Who are the Tumbuka people? They live in Zambia, a country with a population of 10 million people with 2.02% annual growth rate. It has a life expectancy at birth of 43, and adult literacy rate of 78.2% 1. The country is landlocked and shares borders with seven countries; Malawi, Mozambique, Zimbabwe, Namibia, Angola, Congo, and Tanzania. The Tumbuka are one of the many  Bantu ethnic groups that are found in Southern Africa. The Tumbuka speak Chitumbuka which is one of 72 bantu languages and dialects that have been recorded in Zambia. They are located in the Eastern Province of the Southern African country of Zambia straddling the border between North-Eastern of Zambia and Northern Malawi. Approximately 750,000 Tumbuka people live in Malawi and 400,000 in Zambia 2

Since the early 1920s when the British established and colonized the then Northern Rhodesia, now Zambia, the Tumbuka have maintained their traditional lifestyle, cultural values, and subsistence farming. But their life has also been influence by Western medicine, education, and Christianity. The Tumbuka who live in the Lundazi district of Zambia  where this radio comedy was broadcast, are predominantly subsistence farmers growing maize or corn as the staple food including peanuts, beans,  peas, finger millet, sweet potatoes, cassava. The Tumbuka grow and sell cotton cash crops. They use the cash proceeds to pay school uniform and fees, modest clinic fees, and the purchase of modern consumer goods such as bicycles, soap, radios, batteries, sugar, clothing, and traditionally brewed beer. They also raise livestock such as chickens, goats, cattle, and pigs.

The Tumbuka still lead a predominantly traditional life style in which family and close kin reside in small villages surrounded by farm lands divided according to the needs of each family. The Zambian government provides clinics, schools, and agricultural extension services. The Tumbuka have certainly been influenced by modern institutions such as schools and clinics. For example, dozens of schools including Lundazi Secondary School, Musuzi and Mphamba Basic Schools, Mchereka Schools are located in the town of Lundazi and surrounding region where these radio programs were recorded. These social influences may have created some unique ways of approaching life.

Radio Chikaya is broadcast everyday predominantly in English and Tumbuka. The one hour weekly Tumbuka show is the character Themba Chako. When I first heard the Themba Chako program, I almost on my food with laughter. It was in the evening under moonlight 30 miles west of Lundazi in my home village. We were eating dinner with my family. The 4 radio programs of YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U9jJZwdcLZE
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5TLbQBKBn2Y&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CG6y5wtLBHs
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9aJFZffFKVA

1 F. Jeffress Ramsay, Global Studies: Africa, 8th ed., Guildford, Connecticut: Dushkin/McGraw-Hill, 1999, pp. 166-167.

2 The Tumbuka of Malawi and Zambia, www.imb.org/southern-africa/peoplegroups/tumbuka.htm

Posted in Dance and Music

The Ballad of Tuku Music

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A Poem

The song on is just killing me
The heavy rhythm
The rich booming voice
The lyrics ignite in me
A wistful  longing
A wistful longing for that sweetness
The innocence from the distant bygone past
In my beloved homeland African village
The swift flow of the Lundazi river
Oh! How I yearn
For the sweet smelling scent of fresh water
The song is just killing me

Grandmother NyaMwaza calling
Her voice echoing in the tall trees
Of the nkhorongo wilderness
Mwizenge iwe  UUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Where njiba wild pigeons sing all day
It’s a tearful longing for a carefree past
A life and sweet land that my grandfather left
For Zibalwe and all the seventeen villages
Mtema, Kapyanga, Kamzati and fourteen others
Swaying the body to the music
Oh! How dancing is so irresistible.
The song is just killing me

The music stirs the deepest part of my soul
A few tears of pain and joy
Roll down my cheeks
The song touches tender cords in my soul
The Tumbuka say: nyimbo yudinginyika.
The song “whines” and “bemoans”.
The past that stretches a thousand years
The sweet primordial past
Oh! How the English is such a prison.
English is such a cage
The song is just killing me

October 1, 2004

When I first listened to the Oliver Mtukudzi song  “Ngoromera” it involved my deep memories from my childhood past. The poem above simply poured out of my heart.

 

On YouTube:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=65rsgfztQhg

Posted in Dance and Music

Tuku Music Ballad II

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July 2004

The second song on the his CD is just killing me; the heavy rhythm and the

rich booming voice and lyrics ignite in me a yearning and longing for that sweetness from the distant bygone past in my beloved homeland; the swift flow of the  fresh smelling water of the Lundazi river.

My grandmother NyaMwaza calling for us and her voice echoing in the tall trees of the  nkhorongo wilderness where njiba wild pigeons sing all day. It’s a tearful  yearning for a carefree past; a life and sweet land  that my grandfather left for  us at Zibalwe and all the 17 seventeen villages; Mtema, Kapyanga, Chipewa  and many others.

I can’t help but dance. This music will stir both  your  soul and spirit. You may need ti wipe your tears with the back of your hand; a few tears will flow.

Three of the songs may touch those taut cords in your soul in this manner.  The Tumbuka may say: nyimbo yudinginyika.  Closest translation being that the song “whines” or “bemoans”. English sometimes is so inadequate. Tuku  music is actually a descendant of the Mbira music from the Shona. Have you ever listened to the original Mbira as recorded from Rhodesia Highfields?

Posted in Dance and Music

The Kalimba Music of Washeni Zulu

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Some of my most favorite traditional music is that accompanied with the traditional kalimba in Eastern Province of Zambia. Westerners call the instrument “finger piano”. It has such a special soulful and spiritual resonance. Some of my early favorites were by Msamalia Mwanza who I use to listen to on Nyanja or Home Srvice of radio Zambia from the 1960s.

When I was working at the Institute of African Studies in Lusaka in 1989, I heard the beautiful kalimba sound as I came out of my car to walk to my office. I followed the sound to one of the modest residences at the institute. It was the great Washeni Zulu. I had heard his music on radio Zambia. I could not believe my eyes and my ears. Here was great treasure.

YouTube has a clip, linked here.

He was a blind but short perhaps middle aged man. He was singing with a woman who gave him the lovely backing vocals.

After I introduced myself I asked him if he had thought of going to recording studio in Lusaka to record and sell his music. He replied that he had no way financially of doing it. I told him I was not a professional recorder. Could I come later to record his music on my audio tape recording boom box.  He agreed.

So it was that later that day I went to his house with fresh batteries and one audio tape recorder. More than twenty years later I was to record his music into a studio version of a CD that I could sell. Each time I returned to Lusaka, I tried to find out where Mr. Washeni Zulu was. He lived in the area of Luangwa district on the border with Mozambique on the banks of the Luangwa River before it pours into the Zambezi.

This is one of my most favorite of his songs. I recorded it in April 1989 and                                                           transcribed and translated it into English on June 29, 1992 in the United States.

Washeni Zulu’s songs are very powerful as they reflect and are a commentary on life’s problems and troubles. This song addresses the change from a traditional to the modern urban life style. This change has introduced tremendous conflict and stresses in the Zambian society. The lyrics of this song by Washeni Zulu are a commentary on the life and conduct of  some Zambian young women in the city  and how they relate to their mothers. The song is called in Nyanja or Nsenga as “Lifiti Yinkhale Ng’anda” meaning making the car rides your home. Young women in the city like to hitch rides from men with cars and money. This is the song is partilularly rich because it has everything in it: poetry, humor, and criticism.

CAR  RIDES  ARE  YOUR  HOME

by Washeni  Zulu

Every other line in the refrain: (Your daughter is a chungwa; meaning irresponsible, misfit or scandalous)

Washeni: Car rides are your home

Refrain Response: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Car rides are your home

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Let it be your home, your daughter has run away from her husband

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: She wants to wander around

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: She wants to wander around, when she hears the sound of a car her ears peck up

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Her mother asked her where she was going

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Chickens cry kokoko

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Water splashes, splash splash

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: The cat cries, meow meow

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: She walks about with red eyes

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Children these days have no respect

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Slapped her own mother, slapped her

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Insulted her own mother saying she is a square

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Too many cars that drive by on the road

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: How do you know it belongs to Mr. Banda?

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: You have to know the sound of the car

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

 

Washeni: My daughter you seem sheepish

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Are you ill? Mother,  I have a headache

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Your daughter is lying, She has a disease

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: My daughter brings the beef, where did you get it from?

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: I will hide it behind the door mother, because I am afraid you will beat me

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: I cannot beat you

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: I can’t beat you, only your father can beat you

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Bring the beef here so I can taste it

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: After tasting it her mother found it was delicious

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

 

Washeni: Her mother danced around

Washeni: Her mother danced around

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Her mother even tripped on the ground

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Her mother sustained cuts on her forehead

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: She had cuts on her knees

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: When her daughter returned from the city, returned from the city

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: She had all these expensive knick knacks

Washeni: She had all these goodies

Washeni: She had all these goodies

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: She had tons of sugar

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: When mother run to meet her daughter, she tripped and fell on a stone

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: My daughter, what do you have in your hands?

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: What I have, mother, in my hands is a piece of cake

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Let’s taste the cake, her mother tasted it

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: The mother was so ecstatic

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: She had to be cautioned

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Her mother was told to dress decently, to wear better clothes

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

 

Washeni: Lady, there are people outside

Washeni: Lady, there are people outside

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Some things in life need quick action

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Lady, some things are in the bush

Washeni: Some things come late my daughter

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Things are mgaligeti my child

Washeni: Things are mgaligeti my child

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

 

 

Washeni: Car rides are your home

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Car rides are your home

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Let it be your home, your daughter has run away from her husband

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: She wants to wander around

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: She wants to wander around, when she hears the sound of a car her ears peck up

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Her mother asked her where she was going

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: I am going to your son-in-law

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Who is my son-law?

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Who do you ask, mother, remember he brought meat?

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: He brought meat on Sunday and brought corn meal

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Chickens are giggling and cry kokoko

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Water splashes, – splash – splash

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: The cat cries meow meow

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Look here she comes with red eyes

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Washeni: Children these days have no respect

Refrain: Your child is a misfit

Posted in Dance and Music

James Brown

By

The year was December 1970. James Brown came to the Southern African country of Zambia. He performed in the Capital city of Lusaka and the Dag Hammarskjold Stadium in Ndola on the Copper belt. What followed the next three years was incredible. Zambia was gripped by the James Brown mania. Students who had spent school holidays in the city took to rural boarding schools the James Brown and his Famous Flames dance. People were wearing tailor made James Brown suits. Many buttons and records were sold. The radio stations were buzzing with his music. James Brown, the great black American singer and stage performer, commanded great respect, awe, and enthusiasm among millions in America, Africa, and the rest of the world. This was also the time when the black Civil Rights movement was at its peak in the USA and Africans were gaining independence from European colonialism.

“James Brown: The Godfather of Soul” by James Brown with Bruce Tucker is Brown’s autobiography. Reading the book quenches the burning curiosity about this famous black man. Who is he? Where and when was he born? How was his childhood? How did American racism affect him? How did he become famous? The autobiography answers most of these questions. He was born of very poor parents in the Southern part of America in rural Augusta in the State of Georgia. His parents separated when Brown was four years old. He was subsequently raised by an aunt in a very bad social environment of poverty, hunger, prostitution, squalor, lack of job and educational opportunities for blacks, and racism. As a young teenager, he dropped out of school, got involved in delinquent behavior and spent some of his teenage years behind bars. It was during this time that he was attracted to and interested in church gospel singing, playing the piano, music and dancing.

After his release from prison, he was on his way to national and international fame as the most creative, energetic, and entertaining pioneer in soul music and funk. From the autobiography, the reader gathers that Brown was a very ambitious and determined man driven by his desire to succeed, be a proud pioneering black man, and be the best stage performer while always being on the cutting edge. The long list or “discography” at the end of the book of his known recordings over three decades is testimony that James Brown is indeed the God Father of Soul.

The epilogue to the autobiography is somewhat disappointing. James Brown was jailed in 1988 for driving away from the police. Other charges of wife and drug abuse are apparently mere concoctions, unsubstantiated allegations, and rumors meant to unjustly crucify this famous and uncompromising black man by the Southern racist judicial system.

For the reader who heard about, enjoyed and danced to James Brown music, and was there at the peak of his career and international fame, the book is simply a joy. It confirms some of the seemingly exaggerated anecdotes at the time that frequently filtered through the international grapevine. ,For example, that when he performed live on American television, the rioting in black ghettoes in America stopped. That when he performed before a sellout crowd of 90% white in England, Brown screeched: “Say it loud!!” The huge crowd responded and yelled: “I’m black and proud!!!” For how else could they have responded? His performance was so electrifying that crowds often tore up James Brown’s clothes. In perhaps the only recorded James Brown’s performance in the Capital city of Lusaka, I saw a man in the front row of the audience at Mulungushi Hall tear his own shirt to shreds due to sheer ecstasy at seeing James Brown perform.

International readers might be disappointed because the performances in Europe and African countries like Nigeria, Zambia, and Zaire only get a few paragraphs in the book.

Otherwise the book is an inspiration as James Brown had a less than a seventh grade education, grew up in poverty and racism, and yet defied all the adversity to become the most famous man in soul music, the hardest working man in show business, and The God Father of Soul.

I recommend this book for scholars of black American history, contemporary race relations, history of American popular music, soul, and Rhythm and Blues, and the relationship between the civil rights movement of the 1960s and evolution of popular music in America.

********* James Brown with Bruce Tucker, The God Father of Soul,  New York, Thunder’s Mouth Press, 1986 and 1990. 352 pp. 13.95 US dollars Paper Back.