“Mbuya,” said my dad after a long pause. He always affectionately called me Mbuya because he named me Emily after his grandmother.
“How are you?”
“I am well.” I said, not wanting him to fuss about me.
“How is everybody in the village?”
“They are all well and they send you their greetings,” I lied.
The truth was that I ran away from the village two months before I made my way to Kabwe.
Welani was one of the boys in my class. He and I shared a secret. One day I caught him cheating in class. He was peeking at my answers during a Maths test. On the way home, I confronted him. He denied it, but I knew he had been cheating. I was so angry that I beat him up, although he was bigger than me. I never told anybody of this fight. Welani was too embarrassed to tell any of his friends.
After that we became friends.
It was Welani who first confirmed my suspicion that other students were avoiding me.
“Emma,” he said, “I want you to know that I don’t believe that your dad is a killer. But that’s what everybody in school is saying.”
“Let them talk.” I shot back. Deep down in my heart, I was sad that people would turn against my family when we were grieving.
“Some are saying even your grandma thinks your father is guilty.”
“That’s a lie,” I hissed, and walked away. I didn’t want him to see the tears in my eyes. As much as I hated to think about it, I had my own doubts about grandma.
I wasn’t particularly close to my grandmother. I did not like her because of the way she treated my dad. She made no secret of the fact that she had wanted my mum to get married to Mr Saukani, a teacher at our local school. He was from around the area and was respected in the village. Dad, on the other hand, was originally from Mozambique. He met mum while visiting his friends who lived in our village. One of them was aunt Jessie’s brother.
Grandma was always talking about how well Mr Saukani had done in life. He had over thirty cows. His house was one of the biggest in the village. He had two shiny silver bicycles with big tyres. He bought them in Johannesburg. He loved telling stories about his train journeys to South Africa where he had a brother who worked as a miner in the gold mines. The brothers built their parents a beautiful house next to their old one. Grandma was not alone in wanting her daughter to get married to the teacher.
My father, on the other hand, just had his patch of land where we grew Maize and vegetables. He had never been on a train, but he loved my mother and he loved me. Where most women had to go into the forest and carry heavy bundles of firewood on their heads, my dad would take his bicycle and load it with firewood. He would have collected water from the river as well, but mum would not have it. “What sort of woman will people think I am if my husband is the one who goes to the river with women from the village?”
In the evenings, we sat around the fire. He sat on his stool while mum and I sat on a reed mat with our legs stretched out in front of us. Dad would talk about his family and tell stories. I loved the stories where he sang. He had a very nice voice. Mum knew all the songs and she would sing along. I learnt most of them.
Grandma always found something to criticize about my dad. It came as no surprise that she sided with those who believed that my father was guilty of killing the van driver.
When I asked for transport money to go and visit my dad in prison, granny said, “I know he is your father. But if he had been a real man, he would have provided for his family. His wife would not have needed to go and sell vegetables at the market. My daughter would still be alive. I am not going to give you money for you to waste on visiting a man who is no good for anything.”
Two days later, grandma called me. She seemed very cheerful. I went and sat down on a reed mat next to her.
“I’ve got good news for you,” she started.
“Yesterday, while you were away at the river, I received a delegation from Chief Mukuni’s village. The Njovu family want you to get married to their son, Tenthani. I accepted the message and asked them to wait until your grandfather comes home. Then we will make final arrangements. They are a good family. Your mother would be proud of you.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. As I wiped them with the corner of my Chitenge, she said, “Don’t worry. He will look after you.”
I felt betrayed. My mum had decided to die, my father was in prison and grandma was plotting to sell me into a life of slavery to a man old enough to be my father. I felt angry at all of them, especially my mum.
I wiped the tears from my eyes. That was the last time anybody saw me cry.
I didn’t say a word. I silently stood up and went to my hut. My mind was made up. I needed to talk to my father. I needed to find out the truth from him and to let him know what grandma was plotting..
I got my biscuit tin from under my bed and emptied its contents on my bed. I had two hundred and fifty Kwacha and thirty five Ngwee. This was enough for my bus fare out of here.
That night I packed my small canvas bag. While the village was asleep, I quietly slipped out of my hut and walked to the roadside.
Two days later, I made my first journey on a UBZ (United Bus Company of Zambia) bus to Lusaka. Now that is another story in itself.
Lusaka was not what I expected. I’ve never seen so many cars and people in one place. Then there were the buildings. Entire villages were built one on top of the other.
From Lusaka, I hitch hiked to Kabwe. Getting to Kabwe was an achievement that filled me with admiration for my own abilities. But as I sat opposite my dad in Mukobeko Prison, all I could think of was that I wished there was a way I could free him.
I spent the following two days sleeping under a shrub near the prison. I cried myself to sleep each night.
On the morning of his hanging, I arrived at the gates at four o’clock in the morning. The guards told me that I was too young to witness the hanging. They refused to let me in.
No one went in to console my father.
After the hanging, people trooped out of the prison. Tears were rolling down my cheeks as I walked aimlessly around Kabwe.
This continued for two weeks. When I got hungry, I looked in garbage bins for scraps of food. In the night, I sheltered under hedges and slept.
Then I had my dream.
In the dream, my mum was plaiting my hair. We were chatting and laughing. She said I needed to look my best because we were going to the city market the following day.
Everything looked very bright and colourful in the dream. My mother was vibrant and her words were clear. It was just like in the old days.
When I woke up, I headed for the intercity bus terminal public toilet. I washed my hair for the first time in a long time. After washing and drying my Chitenge cloth, I wrapped it around me while I waited for my dress to dry.
I felt cheerful because I felt my mother’s presence. She and I were going to the market.
When I got there, one of the first people I saw was a Lenje woman carrying a huge bundle of vegetables on her head. She was struggling to put it down. I helped her ease it to the ground. She offered me a few bundles of the pumpkin leaves. I declined. Then she asked if I was here to buy or to sell. I said I was waiting for my mother.
I offered to help her arrange her bundles of vegetables while I waited. That was the beginning of my friendship with aunt Mildred. It lasted one year.
She believed my story that I arrived on an earlier bus from Lusaka and that my mum and I came to Kabwe to visit my mum’s brother. After that, she believed that each morning I came from my uncle’s house.
Aunt Mildred was impressed with my handling of vegetables and said she admired how I could outsell any of the ladies at the market.
We became partners. We went to source fresh produce together from the farms around Kabwe. My favourite items were watermelons. They had a good profit margin.
Within a year, I had saved up enough money to afford my own market stall. I wanted a bigger market. I decided to move to Lusaka where I got a stand at Kamwala market and rented a room in Chawama shanty compound.
Stanislaus was one of my first customers who became a regular. Each week he came to buy fresh vegetables and fruit.
He was also a very handsome young man. I started looking forward to Thursdays, when he always breezed into the market dressed in his smart blue track suit with two stripes running down the sides.
I wondered whether he had a girlfriend, so I secretly followed him to his house in Chilenje. I worked out who his friends were and where they lived. I established that he did not have a girlfriend. I also discovered that he worked as a clerk at the Central Statistics Offices near the University Teaching Hospital (UTH) in Lusaka.
I liked him alot, so I “arranged” a meeting.
I knew that he frequently visited Joyce. Joyce was the elder sister of Michael, one of his workmates. The two of them were close friends. At weekends they usually visited Joyce. She was married and had two children.
I recognised her when she came into the market to buy vegetables one Saturday afternoon. I struck up a casual conversation with her after giving her a generous discount. She became one of my regular customers. We got talking and became friends. Later, she invited me to her house to do her hair. After that it was just a matter of time before I “bumped” into Stanslous.
He never suspected a thing, believing that it was a coincidence that Joyce also happened to be one of my customers.
Stan always made time to listen to me. He made me laugh.We started spending a lot of time together.
I told him that I grew up in Lusaka. My parents were from somewhere near Chadiza in Eastern Province. I was an only child brought up by my grandmother. I lost touch with my parents when my father went to work in the gold mines of South Africa. My mother went to look for him and never came back. My granny is dead and now I have no family left.
I could not bear the thought of him wondering whether my father was a killer.
One day, a Police Land Rover drove up to Kamwala market. Two police officers stepped out. They were making inquiries about a bale of fish someone had reported missing from the market. The officers were smartly dressed, especially the lady. Her hat was balanced on her head as though it could drop at any moment. They wore boots that were so shiny that you could see your face in the reflection. I liked the way she looked men in the face and asked questions.
When they got back into the Land Rover, I walked up to her window. She wound down her window and said “Yes?”
I was smiling as I said, “I like the way you look. I like your job. How can I join the police force?”
She almost smiled. “You need training at Lilayi Training Camp. Just apply.”
I knew I did not have the qualifications to go for police training, but a plan was forming in my mind.
The Bridge – kitweonline
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