Jack Zimba

A place called Kikonkomene · · · · · JACK ZIMBA RECENTLY I returned to a place I had first visited 17 years ago in Kasempa, North-Western Province. It is a place with an unforgettable name and unforgettable misery. After negotiating our vehicle between nondescript brick-and-mud houses, we burst into a small compound on a hillside with rolls of small brick houses. Coming to a stop, our vehicle was soon surrounded by curious faces, children in tatty clothes peering inside the vehicle, while the adults sat idly outside their houses. A one-legged man sat quietly on the door-step of his house, his chin cupped in his hand, while an elderly woman with crooked legs hobbled across the compound, supporting her body on a long stick. Outside a nearby house sat a half-blind woman with her daughter and grandchildren, while at the next house sat a man and his wife. The man had stumps for his feet and his right hand was bound in a dirty piece of cloth. I had come back to Ki

Rejoice Mushala: I liked the way he walked and he had a beautiful smile. Adamson Mushala in 1975.  Mushala's body is paraded in Solwezi in November 1982.   Adamson Mushala: As told by his wife JACK ZIMBA ONE day in December 1972, Adamson Mushala bundled his wife and five children, including a two-weeks-old baby, into a brand new Land Rover 109 station wagon and drove off from his home in Mufumbwe. He had told his wife that they were going to attend a friend’s wedding in Mongu, Western Province, but they soon found themselves crossing the border into Angola. That was Mushala’s escape out of the country to begin his armed rebellion against the Kaunda government that would last from 1976 to 1982. Before he was finally killed by government soldiers, Mushala had morphed into an enigma who inspired both fear and admiration. Thirty-six years after his death, his widow, Rejoice, remembers a smartly dressed gentleman with a beautiful smile. On the wall of her

  Vincent lies in her hospital bed. The nursing staff are giving the little boy special attention.   SOS for little Vincent ·     Boy remains alone in hospital after mother dies in hit-and-run JACK ZIMBA ON THE night of September 2, a little boy called Vincent was crossing Kafue Road with his mother, who was carrying a baby on her back when, in a flash, screeching of tyres and a bang, his life was changed forever. The family was hit by a speeding vehicle on the freeway. Vincent’s mother and his younger sister called Charity died on the spot, but the 4-year-old boy survived the impact. The driver of the speeding vehicle did not stop to check on the victims, and the only witness to the fatal incident was a man and woman traveling in a vehicle a few metres behind. In a statement, police timed the accident at 20:39 hours, and named the victims as Albina Mulenga, 35, and her four-month-old baby who died instantly, while Vincent was rushed to the University Teachi

Unmasking the nyau The nyau characters represent various forms, but animal figures are the most common. Pictures by JACK ZIMBA Some characters are beautiful. This makanja from Malawi stood about five metres tall. A nyau performs with a python.   Gule Wamkulu is a prized Chewa culture recognised as intangible heritage by the United Nations agency for cultural preservation, UNESCO, in 2014. It is performed by men who belong to the secret society of the nyau. Our reporter, JACK ZIMBA, who attended the Kulamba ceremony of the Chewa, gives insight into the society and the centuries-old culture. THEY strolled into the arena, howling and barking like wild animals, their bodies smeared with mud and their faces covered with masks, to perform before an enchanted audience during the Kulamba traditional ceremony. The Kulamba brings together the Chewa from Malawi, Mozambique and Zambia at Mkaika in Katete, where Chewa chiefs – 292 of them, representing over 10 mi

Living down and out Keeping warm by a fire. Pictures by JACK ZIMBA. Beauty says she wants to own her own shop. A boy displays a V symbol. Still can smile. The kids play soccer.   JACK ZIMBA THE morning rush-hour traffic is heavy and slow on the fly-over on Church Road, Lusaka, as people get to their daily work. But under this same bridge, it is a different day for homeless children who have made this sordid place, reeking with urine, their home. I find about 25 kids, some as young as 10-years-old, including girls, huddled together under the bridge. Almost everyone has a small bottle of bostik held to their mouth or concealed under their clothing. They sniff on the clear liquid for a kick. The feeling is like sniffing petrol. When they are high, the kids become zombies. Their speech becomes slurred, their eyes squint and lips become dry and parched. Others seem completely out of sync with life itself, whether due to substance abuse o

Fr. Thomas is dean of the cathedral.   The people’s cathedral Thousands have passed through its door, dead or alive JACK ZIMBA   V ERY few places in Lusaka have such a unifying force as the Anglican Cathedral of the Holy Cross, and perhaps none comes close to its architectural magnificence. Many times, I have come here for the sad reasons – a funeral service. I have seen so many tears in this place. I have seen many caskets carried into the cathedral and carried out for the final journey to the other side. I have heard numerous poignant eulogies by heart-broken relatives and friends. I have heard many fervent prayers in this place, many beautiful sermons and boring ones too. I have heard singing like the singing of angels and awful singing too. Sometimes, I worry at the rate I have to return here for a funeral service for a government official or other prominent people. Last week, I was here for Minster of Gender Victoria Kalima’s memorial, an