In the heart of Kamanga compound, where my first venture into business took root, the ambiance was set against the flickering glow of paraffin lamps. The name Kamanga was drawn from the Chewa language, translating to 'to tie.' This community received its name in 1967 as a homage to Mr. Reuben Kamanga, the Vice President of the Republic of Zambia during the UNIP government.
Situated
approximately 14 km from Lusaka's central business district, Kamanga was an
unplanned and poor settlement grappling with the absence of fundamental amenities such
as water, schools, and improved sanitation.
Here my childhood unfolded with the rhythm of the 1990s: high inflation, political assassinations, a liberalized economy, an influx of NGOs and everything else in between. I did my grade 2 to 7 at Kamanga Primary and was one of the 7 students who made it Munali Secondary School where Only The Best Was Good Enough. I had started my grade 1 at Chibote Farms which was subsidiary of Chibote Group of Companies, owned by one of Zambia's finest industrialist, Benjamin Yoram (BY) Mwila. Post Munali, my secondary education concluded in Chongwe at Chongwe Secondary School.
In Kamanga, the theater of my dreams, was where I spent 6 of my formative years, culminating into my teenage years. The rustic charm of Kamanga wasn't just about the humble lighting source but also the clandestine enterprise that emerged from it – the paraffin trade.
A tradition that faded with the
introduction of candles and later electricity, I ventured into the world of
selling paraffin and streets of Kamanga became my playground as I moved
shouting ‘palafini’ every evening. Most households had homemade lamps made from
empty bottles of mayonnaise picked from well to do neighborhoods or better still from clay. For me, however,
each paraffin transaction was a lesson in resourcefulness and the savoring of opportunities
and options that came with having money of my own.
But Kamanga was no ordinary island; it was a tapestry of contrasts, within and with its neighbours. To the east lay Chelstone, a hub of menial jobs where Kamanga residents eked out a living through tasks like house cleaning for women and landscaping and guarding for men. Meanwhile, to the west, Chamba Valley exuded affluence, an elusive realm filled with whispers of the privileged few who called it home behind tall wall fences. And of course, there was Hybrid Poultry Farms where hordes of people would show up at least once per year to buy chickens especially for the festive ceremonies.
In the north, there was a sprawling
dumpsite which served as an unusual bounty for the locals. Madido, we called the dumpsite. As the Zambia Consumer Business
Corporation (ZCBC) dump trucks showed up, a carnival of scavengers, including
myself, would be following behind and descend upon the discarded treasures.
Expired groceries became a treasure trove, transforming the lives of Kamanga's
residents. Canned beer for the jubilant drunkards, meali meal and canned foods
for grateful households – the dumpsite was an unconventional marketplace that
painted our lives with unexpected abundance.
One man’s trash is definitely
another’s treasure. Life.
Heading south, beyond the makeshift stalls and bustling homes, a multipurpose sports ground emerged. More like slumped as it was in a depression. Beyond that lay a dense forest stretching almost to ZCBC and the Great East Road. The forest became a realm of childhood adventures, where we role played every episode of Tour of Duty and embarked on daring escapades using Pendelo Guns, Bow and Arrows and anything we could turn into a weapon. Urban legend had it that this mini forest was lurking with Ninjas - yes the same black costumed, stars (shuriken) throwing, sword wagging, and martial arts practicing Japanese warriors - who would brutally kill anyone who was unfortunate enough to meet them.
Kamanga, with its unique blend of
struggle and triumph, was a microcosm of life's contradictions. The island's
vibrant tapestry unraveled along its winding streets that turned into streams
whenever it rained, meeting places on most days, and a news center to get the latest happenings in the neighborhood. My childhood in Kamanga wasn't just a
chapter; it was an odyssey of resilience, camaraderie, and the pursuit of
dreams against the backdrop of a flickering paraffin-lit past.
In the midst of paraffin transactions, scavenger hunts at the dumpsite, and escapades in the enchanting forest, Kamanga revealed itself as a vibrant tapestry of resilience, resourcefulness, and unexpected wonders. Little did I know that these seemingly mundane elements of our daily lives would weave together to create a rich and captivating chapter in the story of a shared past.
Like Joe Cocker reminded us in his song N’oubliez Jamais, I never forget the experiences, moments and people that contributed to who I am. Today, I toast to the ones here today; I toast to the ones that I lost on the way on this pilgrimage called life.
