The Poverty Problem

In mid-2023, I joined the Luwingu DWASHE team that was conducting an Open Defecation Free (ODF) verification in Tungati Chiefdom. Accompanied by representative from the Chief’s council mandated by the Chief, we were tasked with enforcing sanitation compliance. Households lacking toilets were to face penalties, often in the form of chickens. All was well until we visited a village called Mwamba Tungati. Our visit to this village revealed stark realities. At least to me. The pervasive stench of poverty was immediate upon arrival. Homes were incomplete or in disrepair, with crumbling mud walls and thatched roofs barely holding together. Children, dressed in dirty, stained clothes, showed signs of neglect, with some appearing not to have bathed or eaten in days. The absence of toilets underscored a critical sanitation crisis, contributing to health risks and perpetuating the cycle of poverty. Moved by the dire conditions, I urged the DWASHE team to refrain from imposing (traditional) penalties. Instead, we pooled resources and distributed K50 to select households to purchase essentials like soap or to support maize milling, offering immediate relief while emphasizing the need for hygiene and food security.

A striking observation in Mwamba Tungati was the predominance of women-led households, many headed by unmarried women and young mothers. According to the 2022 Living Conditions Monitoring Survey (LCMS), 60% of Zambian households live below the poverty line, with rural areas facing higher poverty rates (78.8%) compared to urban areas (31.9%). In Northern Province, where Luwingu is located, poverty is compounded by limited access to resources, with 1 in 2 children lacking proper sanitation facilities and 1 in 4 using unsafe water sources. This is a huge contradiction of realities considering that the northern part of the country has medium to high rainfall. The survey also notes that 36% of children live in crowded homes, a reality evident in Mwamba Tungati’s cramped, inadequate housing.

Many women in the village are single mothers, often abandoned by spouses unwilling to shoulder familial responsibilities. This pattern reflects broader social challenges, including gender inequality and early marriage. The 2018 Demographic and Health Survey (ZDHS) reports that 29% of girls aged 15 – 19 have been pregnant, with rural areas showing higher rates of early marriage and teenage pregnancy. These young women, often divorced or abandoned, face limited access to education and economic opportunities, perpetuating a cycle of multidimensional poverty. The LCMS indicates that 70.6% of children experience deprivation in two or more dimensions, such as sanitation, water and education, with girls in rural areas disproportionately affected.

The sanitation in rural areas is dire as only 19% of rural households have access to basic sanitation, compared to 49% in urban areas. Open defecation, which was prevalent in villages like Mwamba Tungati, increases the risk of diarrheal diseases whose frequency and severity. Malnutrition is another pressing issue whose risks increases with increased diarrhea. 32% of children under the age of 5 are stunted due to poor nutrition, a figure likely higher in impoverished rural districts.

In the heart of Mwamba Tungati, where poverty’s grip tightens around crumbling mud homes and the air carries the weight of sanitation struggles, women stand as the quiet architects of change. As primary caregivers, they weave hygiene and health into the fabric of their households. Fighting poverty and improving sanitation requires a multifaceted approach that addresses harmful social practices and builds social, human and resource capital. With economic and educational empowerment, these women - often single mothers bearing the scars of early marriage and abandonment - can break the chains of dependency and dismantle the cycle of poverty.

Having lived and worked in rural Zambia for years, I’ve seen how women bear the brunt of household responsibilities, especially in polygamous or single-parent setups, where gender disparities and inadequate infrastructure fuel a vicious cycle of poverty. Addressing the sanitation-poverty nexus demands a collaborative approach: government, traditional leaders, NGOs and international partners. Introducing or scaling up initiatives like Village Savings and Loan Associations (VSLAs) or Savings and Internal Lending Communities (SILCs) can provide women with access to small loans and financial literacy. These programs can enable them to start small businesses, eg selling hygiene products or agricultural produce, reducing dependency and enabling investment in sanitation infrastructure like latrines. Economically empowered women can afford essentials (e.g. soap, food, latrine materials) which improves household hygiene and reducing health risks from open defecation. 

Chief Tungati’s mandate to enforce sanitation, which led to his chiefdom becoming ODF by the end of 2023, exemplifies the power of leveraging local authority and resources. By harnessing and leveraging on the Constituency Development Fund (CDF), particularly its 20% allocation for women and youth empowerment, communities can implement sustainable solutions. In their hands, resilience and transformation both at household and villages levels is possible. Any society that is serious about ending poverty must work tirelessly to lift the economic status of women, who are actually the majority in the population. 

Tales From Kanele Bokosi One

You know, the most interesting stories often find you when you least expect them. I remember in July of 2018, I was attending a funeral for a workmate in Lundazi. During the colonial era, the Lundazi district commissioner was called Colonel Errol Button and everyone in the district received letters through the colonel’s post box number which was C/O Colonel Button, P.O. Box 1, Lundazi. Pronouncing colonel and box was too much for the locals, so they ended up saying ‘Kanele’ and ‘Bokosi’. Hence Kanele Bokosi 1 is the other name for Lundazi. This district commissioner used to live opposite the ‘Panadol House’ aptly named because newly deployed nurses would be housed there. And nurses administer Panadol. Yes, we are very creative with names in the Land of the Rising Sun.

Funeral gatherings are sticklers for gender segregation. Women usually spend their time inside the house and men would be outside. Where the men sit, the nights usually turn into theaters for comedy and stories. Occasionally, discussions would turn into classrooms with life lessons, the kind of stuff you will never find in the pages of books and Google would tell you that it has never heard of such (legendary) stuff. On this particular night, the fire was flickering, with hues of yellow, orange, red and blue. There was the usual chatter and the church choir was singing about 20 meters away. Suddenly, this voice, a low, reflective murmur started weaving a tale from a couch on my left. It wasn’t meant for anyone in particular, I don't think, but I couldn’t help but listen. And everyone seconded their ears to the man. It all started like this.

The man had fallen love. A love born by chance.

The lady entered his life like an unexpected breeze, soft and sudden, that hits one's face after opening a window to the hot October Siavonga heat. Like drinking water from a ‘Joe Saka,’ you know a hessian sack sewn around a plastic container. The sack is kept wet, which keeps whatever beverage inside the container nicely cold..

And tasty too.

She asked for little and revealed little about her own life. He gave her his thoughts, his time and his attention. He was a canvas, and she, with her quiet observations and sharp wit, painted new colors onto his world. She introduced him to South African musicians, the likes of Pat Shange, Sipho Mabuse, Chicco and others. She introduced him to the subtle beauty of abstract art, and to the joy of simply sitting in companionable silence, watching the world go by. Their conversations flowed effortlessly, from the profound to the absurd, often punctuated by her sudden, delightful laughter that made his own heart feel lighter.

Perfect poetry.

But deep down, he knew that she wasn't his, even though he held her as if she were divine. Every kiss felt like a borrowed feeling, sweet but slipping through time. She was thoughtful, a conversationalist, intelligent but also very opinionated. He’d often find himself marveling at the strength of her convictions, even when they clashed with his own. There was a fierce independence about her, a spirit that refused to be tethered, and he admired it fiercely, even as it underscored the fleeting nature of their connection. She wasn't his.

Like dew that vanishes with sunrise, the time to separate and go back to their mundane lives inevitably came.

She cried when they said their goodbyes, not loudly, but with a low, mournful sigh that seemed to carry the weight of all unspoken words. He smiled so that she wouldn't see that her leaving unstitched the broken parts of him, a silent unraveling of the threads she had so delicately woven. His hand lingered on hers for a moment too long, a futile attempt to hold onto the warmth that was already receding. She wasn't his, even though she whispered, "You'll be fine," a small, hopeful lie that neither of them truly believed.

The heart loves whoever it wants to love and doesn't avoid simply because it's forbidden, just like Romeo and Juliet, or Cleopatra and Mark Antony. It was like a beautiful song heard only once, one falls in love with it on a public bus, yet eventually forgets everything except the memories of the beautiful melody once heard. The melody of their time together, though brief, resonated deep within him, a poignant echo that would resurface in quiet moments, in the scent of rain, or the particular slant of the afternoon sun. He’d learned to cherish the fragments, the fleeting moments of joy and connection, understanding that some experiences are meant to be felt intensely, even if they aren't meant to last.

She wasn't his; that was the regular and undeniable truth. Some hearts visit, some just roam, and some hearts make you feel at home just before they go. And hers, he realized, was one of those rare, radiant hearts that simply illuminated the space around them for a time, leaving behind a lingering warmth even after the light had moved on. There was a grace in accepting this, a quiet peace in acknowledging that not every beautiful thing is meant to be possessed.

He didn't regret a single moment because if there was something life had taught him, it was to take responsibility and accountability for everything he did. Everything that happens to us, or everyone we meet, either gives or cuts the rope that facilitates our crossing of this chasm called life. So he claimed. She had given him something profound, a deeper understanding of love's many forms and a clearer reflection of himself. She was a signpost on his journey, a gentle push in a new direction.

She wasn't his, but he thanked the stars for aligning their signs, as she showed and showered love, albeit for a short time. Some good things don't stay, but their impact, like the lingering aromas of grilled meats and fishes on one's clothes after visiting Matebeto in Longacres, can transform the air around you long after it’s gone. She wasn't his, but the memory of her, vibrant and bittersweet, would forever be a part of the landscape of his heart.

And that was the tale this unknown man wove that night. It was the kind of story you rarely hear anywhere else, a true "classroom with life lessons" as I described earlier. If there's a moral to be drawn from it, I suppose it's this: the most profound truths about life and love often arrive unexpectedly, teaching us that while we cannot always possess what we cherish, the impact of such connections irrevocably shapes our journey. It’s a testament to the unique wisdom found in the unassuming corners of life, especially amidst the camaraderie of a Zambian funeral night, far removed from the pages of any book.

Mukuba and The Scavengers of Fortune

On Zambia's Copperbelt, copper runs in the veins of every town, overshadowed by the Black Mountains - towering slag dumps that look like slumbering beasts. Their rugged slopes tell tales of both prosperity and ruin. Theophilus Ngoma, a self-proclaimed small-scale mining magnate, wielded an iron fist, choking the region’s richest resource. His most profitable venture involved purchasing stolen copper cables, cathodes, and ores - basically anything bearing copper’s name - and selling them to eager buyers. Rumors swirled that he didn’t merely buy the loot but masterminded the thefts himself, orchestrating daring heists with ruthless precision especially in storage facilities and from moving trucks.

His enemies spat "Jerabo," a slur for subsistence miners, while his allies hailed him "Commander One." Politicians, depending on their needs, skillfully bestowed titles to coax favours from him. It enterprise was 

There were some rumours that some politicians actually engaged him to do much of their bidding, and some police officers were on his payroll.

No one dared work the copper slag dumps of the Black Mountains without his nod.

Theophilus's tactics, raw violence without any cloaked, kept smaller cooperatives and independent prospectors trembling. Like a mafia don, he enforced his rules with fists and fear, guarding his territory against rivals.

His every decision sent tremors through Kitwe’s markets and the lives tethered to them. Theophilus was a menace because of his full awareness that everyone feared him. He would even park his vehicle on the middle of the road whenever he felt like it. 

Yet, after the government changed in August 2021, Theophilus grew eerily quiet. His company’s pace slowed, and whispers hinted he was chasing ventures across the border in the DRC. 

This is because, in 2018, the government had ceded a 10% stake in the Black Mountain, once held by ZCCM-IH, to Jerabos. They called it youth empowerment and claimed that this decision had an opportunity to employ many youths who already relied on the slug. However, it mainly fortified men like Theophilus, legitimizing what was once illegal.

Since this was viewed as a politically motivated move, there was uncertainty when the political party in government changed.

Enter Lloyd Mukuka, a skilled but stubborn prospector who felt the shift as opportunity. Wherever he has worked, he traced the mine’s layout in a battered notebook, a habit learned from his father. 

His small crew had scratched out a living on modest claims, but rumours of a rich vein in the Chingola slag heaps ignited his pugilistic ambition. At their cramped home, his wife, Julia, clutched his arm, her eyes wet with dread. 

“Theophilus Ngoma’s silence isn’t retreat, Lloyd,” she warned, her voice low. “My cousin crossed him years ago. They found him murdered in a ditch. This is a trap. The perpetrators have never been caught, but there's no doubt who was responsible."

Lloyd set the ore down, his hands unsteady. “This vein could free us, Julia. Lesa tapela, atambika fye.”

Lloyd, fueled by a new drilling technique and memories of his father’s lost claims to Theophilus' empire, shook her off.

“This vein could change everything for us,” he said, his voice firm but his hands trembling. “Theophilus is distracted. I won’t let fear steal our future. My father lost everything due to fear of taking chances. I won’t let fear steal our chance.”

She shook her head in disagreement, her braid casting a show on the wall. “It’s not fear. It's survival. It is praiseworthy to be brave and fearless, but sometimes it is better to be a coward.”

Ignoring Julia’s pleas, he led his crew to a contested edge of Chingola, near Chililabombwe, where the Black Mountain’s shadow stretched long. Kunda Mapushi, a junior geologist from the Ministry of Mines and Mineral Development, had tipped him off about the vein. Lloyd had met Kunda at a mining meeting, where the young man’s sharp mind was overshadowed by his bitterness of wanting to have a share of Theophilus's cake.

Days into drilling, the air thick with dust and the whine of machinery, Lloyd noticed signs of trouble: a slashed tire on their truck, footprints near the rig at dawn. He brushed them off, focusing on the glint of ore in his samples. His crew worked fast, their drills unearthing traces of the vein he had dreamed of. But at dusk, engines rumbled beyond the ridge. A black Toyota Landcruiser idled, its tinted windows glinting like a predator’s eyes.

Theophilus emerged, flanked by a security detail, their rifles catching the fading light. His polished military-styled boots crunched the slag, camouflaging with the black dust-covered surroundings. Among them stood Chilufya, a former employee Lloyd had fired for skimming funds. Betrayal hung heavy in the air.

“Ba Mukuka,” Theophilus said, his voice smooth but sharp, “you’re digging in my mountain. You thought I wouldn't know? You are too young and too dumb if you think you can steal from me.”

Lloyd squared his shoulders, sweat beading his brow. He uttered the f-word twice, once sotto voce and once quite loudly and clearly.

“This is my find, Commander.”

Theophilus stepped closer, his presence heavy as the slag around them. “Join my operation, and I’ll let you keep a sliver. Refuse, and you’ll lose more than dirt.”

A spanner clattered as one of Theophilus’s men shifted, a warning. Lloyd’s heart pounded, Julia’s words echoing: It’s a trap. He glanced at Chilufya, whose smirk confirmed the betrayal.

“Yashani iyi nomba, yama? This claim is mine. I left Kitwe for you,” Lloyd said, his voice steady despite the fear.

Theophilus’s eyes narrowed. “This mountain has buried many of bold people.”

His men surged forward, seizing the rig in a swift, merciless sweep. Lloyd resisted, but a rifle butt struck his temple. He crumpled, and the crew scattered into the dusk. The next morning, Julia searched the site, finding only Lloyd’s broken drill bit, its edge stained with blood. He was never seen again.

Theophilus, unable to integrate Lloyd’s specialized equipment immediately, summoned Kunda Mapushi to his office overlooking President Avenue. The air was thick with cigar smoke. “Oversee this acquisition,” Theophilus ordered. “Ensure a smooth transfer. I’ll reward you when I return from Likasi in the DRC.”

Kunda nodded, but his eyes glinted with mischief. He’d long resented Theophilus and he also felt that his expertise was undervalued at the Ministry. At the Kalulushi site, he spotted small pockets of copper ore, too minor for Ngoma Mining’s sprawl but lucrative for a side deal. Late at night, he loaded a few tons into a truck, his pulse racing as a guard’s flashlight swept the yard. He delivered the ore to a Chinese buyer, pocketing the cash but glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting Theophilus’s enforcers.

When Theophilus returned, he noticed a shortfall in the output reports. His roar shook the office. “I think I have been robbed. Who dared tamper with my acquisitions?” he demanded, pinning Kunda with a stare.

Kunda, quick-witted, replied, “The Chingola deposits were overhyped, Commander. Ask the local prospectors, they’ll tell you the vein was weak.”

Theophilus sent men to The Space Platinum, where miners gathered to mourn Lloyd. An elderly prospector, his face weathered by dust and sun, spoke. “Lloyd was brave but foolish. The copper was small, not worth the risk.”

Kunda, standing beside Theophilus, shrugged smugly. “See? I told you, those pockets were nothing.” Theophilus nodded, but his jaw tightened, a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

Weeks later, a young prospector arrived at the Black Mountain after getting a loan from the CEEC, his tools gleaming with naive ambition. Theophilus’s men watched from a ridge in an idling Ford Ranger. At a community meeting in Wusakile, Julia listened as a politician praised “Black Mountain Youth Empowerment Programme,” promising more stakes for people if they vote for him. The room was silent, people exchanging wary glances. Julia clutched Lloyd’s notebook, its sketches a reminder of dreams crushed under the mountain’s shadow.

Epilogue 

Unbridled power that most Jerabos have, often bolstered by corruption, has crushed many individual ambition and justice. Despite initial appearances of opportunity, challenging an entrenched, Jerabos has led many to ruin. Furthermore, seemingly beneficial moves, like "youth empowerment programmes," can be co-opted to legitimize and strengthen existing illicit power structures, highlighting how easily systems can be manipulated to serve the powerful rather than the people. Supporting locals to effectively participate in mining, government needs to deliberately provide training programs, easy access to equipment and create fair market opportunities tailored to their skills and needs. We should also frame challenges with subsistence miners and Jerabos as opportunities for growth, reinforcing a belief in their ability to succeed with the right resources and in a legal framework. This way we can avoid child labour in mining, unsafe mining methods and actually empower youths.