THE START OF SOMETHING

This story was written as part of an anthology series with several other Zambian writers under the premise ‘What if Zambia was sold?’

The furious sun is beating down on my back relentlessly. It’s as though it too can tell that ‘something’ is about to change.  Straightening slowly, with one hand over my forehead, I look up at the unforgiving beast, and I curse it silently. I bend again, holding the ‘chipyango’ in my sturdy mahogany hand tighter, and I continue to sweep the dirt around my compound into a pile of leaves and sand, in a corner away from the front yard. There’s only one other time I felt the kind of heat I feel today. Many years ago, twenty, if I’m not mistaken. I felt this same heat and a buzz in the air. I looked up and saw large machines holstered over even larger vehicles- trucks that is. I should have known that was the beginning of the end.

‘It’s not so high up in the sky anymore,’ I think to myself, looking back down as I finish polishing the steps on my front veranda vigorously. The shiny bright-red colour of my front entrance will be the envy of all the women in my compound, I smile to myself.

Hmm ‘smiling’, I remember him smiling down at me. I think he might have even kissed me, were it not for the convoy of rumbling trucks bursting through our neighbourhood that day. I must admit that before that day, I never truly paid much attention to the news or any information that circulated in my community. I was happy living in my own little bubble of a world, waking up each morning to help my mother make and sell the most scrumptious ‘vitumbuwa’ by the roadside.

There is no buzz of machines in the compound today. Today, save for the few school children going to and fro, the streets are silent as I look over my front hedge and onto the road beyond. It’s almost as though no one has left their shack. Picking up the rug cloth, my ‘chipyango’ and cobra brush, I enter my quaint warm shack. The roof leaks when it rains, the floors are at least a solid cement, and the walls a mix of stolen bricks and metal sheets. It’s not much, but I try to make the best of it. We all do.

‘I can’t believe they have done this to us Zungu!’ Chanda says furiously, as I see the light in his eyes drain as they are consumed by a curious mix of rage and venom. He isn’t smiling down at me anymore and a shiver runs down my body, igniting goosebumps, despite the obvious heat of the day. Chanda notes this, he wraps his arms around mine and apologises.

Before that day, I never truly understood what Chanda was angry about. Chanda disappeared a few days after that. I finally knew the full scope of our situation and why he was so angry about those damn machines! But it was too late. They already had what they wanted, and I was left without my love. I’ll never forgive them for that.

The changes we went through during those early days took a hard toll on my only living relative. My mother, my sweet ‘Amai’. Within six years she was gone. Her illness in those last three months was stronger than my capability to pay for her medication. I must stop now, these negative thoughts are all too consuming, and I must focus on the task at hand.

The friction caused by my hands as they rub my clothes together is a somewhat soothing feeling. I dunk the clothing in the water giving it a last rinse before throwing it in the shallow dish beside me. I’ll need a refill of my detergent paste soon. Only if I find it to be affordable of course. Mr Musonda says soon we won’t have to worry anymore. I’m somewhat anxious of all that is to come. I can’t wait to see the look on all their faces when –I, when ‘we’ finally take back what is ours. When we all finally get our revenge and our justice. The thought leaves a thrill in my body. I leave the clothes to dry outside and proceed into the home that my Amai and I once shared.

I looked for Chanda everywhere. I never found him. His sister Carol says some men came for him in the night. She says they said they were there to teach him a lesson about interfering in the plans of the ‘higher ups’. They were there to shut him up for good, and make sure he and his friends could not damage anymore machines. Carol was left badly beaten that night. Those animals.

I lift my pot of ‘kalembula’ off the mbaula and dish out my sweetpotato leaves onto the same plate as my waiting nshima. I take the brazier outside and place a pot bathing of water on top of it. I’ll never tire of this meal. Despite my hardships and what I have been reduced to, I will always find this meal enjoyable. After all, it is the last meal I shared with Chanda.

I hadn’t heard from Chanda for months. None of us had. At this point, we all begun to lose hope. When a year had gone, I just knew he was dead. I could feel it. At that point I knew I could no longer sit back and watch things happen. My childhood neighbour Womba being evicted from her home a few months after Chanda’s disappearance was a trigger, and My mother dying was the final straw. At that point, the machines were a daily reminder of all that was taken from me, a sign of all that I would have to take back.

The moist chitumbuwa melting in my mouth is deliciously sweet. Afternoon tea is a highlight of my day, it’s something I always shared with my mother, a treat I always hoped to share with mine and Chanda’s children one day. I’ve removed the clothes from the clothing line and I’ve already had my bath whilst it’s still light. The dishes are clean and my small home is in a neat and orderly manner. The load-shedding should begin any moment now, and soon it will be dark. I should take a nap after my tea, I’ll need the energy.

Chanda is holding my cheek as his laughing eyes melt into mine, he is asking me a question. A very important question, I already know what my answer will be, Y- ‘Nko Nko Nko! The sound of a small hand banging on the door and hushed tones interrupts my glorious dream. I open my eyes to pitch blackness. The alarm on my small blue-screen phone buzzes and I see the time is already 9pm. I jump out of bed and dress quickly.

I open my kitchen door cautiously; Carol is standing there with a candle in her hand. The flame’s shadows are bouncing off her warm face illuminating her pretty face. Behind her two of our comrades Lwinso and Cliff are whispering of how we must hurry. ‘we don’t know who is in their pockets at this point, we must be careful’ Lwinso says, the urgency and fear in his voice is evident. ‘Quickly, the meeting is about to begin,’ Cliff adds.

I can see his face now, smiling down at me. My sweet brilliant Chanda. I can tell he is happy. He wants me to do this.

I close the door to my quaint little house soundly. A slight wind blows off Carol’s candle, and I embrace the darkness. I think we all do, as no one attempts to light- it-on again. Stepping away from the red steps of my kitchen door, I follow my comrades into the darkness. We must finish what Chanda and the comrades from years ago begun. We’ve spent too long suffering. No more poverty. No more silent protests. No more machines. No more hurt for me and my people. This meeting is the start of something new. The meeting we have tonight is the start of a revolution.