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.

Of Larvae and Leaders

From 2007 to 2009, I studied forestry at Zambia Forestry College in Kitwe’s Mwekera, a transformative experience that earned me the stripes to be called a ‘Kapenda Mabula’ (Tree Leaves Accountant). It was baptism by fire, with 16 courses to tackle in the first term alone. Among them was Beekeeping, a niche course at the time but has revealed profound metaphors for leadership, human potential and social cohesion in retrospect. Beekeeping, also known as apiculture, is a vital practice with multifaceted benefits that range from honey production to forest conservation.  We learnt about things like honey bee biology and behavior, apiary management, harvesting quality honey, beekeeping equipment, and addressing problems such as bee pests, predators, and diseases. Recently, it is being promoted more as a tool for forest conservation and sustainable livelihoods for communities.

This course was anchored by a very good man who went by the name Benious Ikachana. God bless him.

Now, honey bees are social insects, which means that they live together in large, well-organized family groups. Social insects are highly evolved insects that engage in a variety of complex tasks not practiced by the multitude of solitary insects. Communication, complex nest construction, environmental control, defense and division of the labor are just some of the behaviors that honey bees have developed to exist successfully in social colonies. These fascinating behaviors make social insects in general, and bees in particular, among the most fascinating creatures on earth.

In the early 20th century, French mining engineer Henri Fayol developed what we globally call The 14 Principles of Management. Upon examining these principles, however, one will realize that they mirror the natural behaviors of social insects like honeybees. Bees, not Fayol, should be considered the true pioneers of Modern Management Theory, but true to the age old saying, "Until the bee learns to write its story, the tale will always glorify Henri Fayol."

A bee colony typically consists of three kinds of adult bees: workers (all females), drones (the males) and a (single) queen. A serious caste system is observed which is also called eusocial. Several thousand worker bees cooperate in nest building, food collection, and brood (offspring) rearing. Each member has a definite task to perform, related to its adult age. But surviving and reproducing take the combined efforts of the entire colony. Individual bees (workers, drones, and queens) cannot survive without the support of the colony.

The queen has two primary functions: one is reproduction and the second is producing pheromones that serve as a social “glue” unifying and helping to give individual identity to a bee colony.

When the queen bee (leader) dies, however, bees don’t descend into panic or despair or succession conflicts like we usually witness in humans. Instead, they respond with purpose, revealing a profound lesson about leadership, potential, and the power of nurture. This natural process, both scientific and poetic, offers a blueprint for how humans can cultivate greatness in themselves and others.

The Transition

The death of a queen is a pivotal moment for a beehive. Without her, the colony’s rhythm falters as her pheromones, which unify and direct the hive, fade, and her egg-laying ceases, threatening the future. Yet, the hive doesn’t collapse. With remarkable resilience, worker bees begin a deliberate process to create a new queen. This isn’t a frantic scramble but a calculated act of adaptation, driven by instinct and collective purpose.

From a sea of ordinary female larvae, a few are chosen, not because they’re inherently exceptional, but because they have potential. These larvae, no older than three days, are indistinguishable from those destined to become workers. What sets them apart isn’t fate or lineage but a single, transformative act: they are fed royal jelly. This is a nutrient-rich secretion produced by nurse bees. This “nectar of transformation” rewires their development, turning a common larva into a queen capable of leading the hive.

Nurture Over Nature

The creation of a queen is a typical example of nurture over nature. In bees, any female larva has the genetic potential to become a queen, but only those fed royal jelly undergo the epigenetic changes that unlock this destiny. This special diet triggers the expression of genes that lead to a larger body, reproductive organs, and a lifespan far longer than that of a worker bee. A queen bee lives up to five years compared to a life expectancy of six weeks for worker bees.

Royal jelly isn’t magic; it’s a concentrated blend of proteins, sugars, and vitamins that fuels this metamorphosis. The chosen larvae are bathed in it, housed in larger cells to accommodate their growth. Over days, they transform, emerging as queens ready to restore order. Often, multiple larvae are nurtured as potential queens, but only one will reign. Typically, the first to emerge eliminate her rivals to claim her role.

This process underscores a critical truth: leaders aren’t born; they’re made. The hive doesn’t wait for a predestined leader to appear. Instead, it invests in the ordinary, providing extraordinary support to unlock latent potential.

Leaders Are Born from Crises

In the hive, a queen’s role is to bring stability and continuity. She lays thousands of eggs daily, ensuring the colony’s survival, and her pheromones maintain social cohesion. When a new queen takes her place, the hive’s rhythm returns as workers resume their tasks, and the hum of activity fills the silence left by her predecessor. Crisis, in this context, doesn’t create chaos; it creates leadership.

This resilience is a powerful metaphor for human systems. Like the hive, we often face moments of loss and disruption, whether it’s the departure of a leader, a personal setback or a societal challenge. The hive teaches us that these moments are opportunities to cultivate new leaders, not from a select few but from the many. Greatness isn’t confined to those with titles or pedigrees; it can emerge from anyone given the right support.

Leaders Are Among Us

The hive’s lesson is clear: potential is abundant, but it requires nurturing to flourish. Just as royal jelly transforms a larva, extraordinary care, education, mentorship and encouragement can unlock human potential. Don’t let potential die on your watch. Do something about it and when you are old and grey, you will be glad that you did. Too often, we limit our search for leaders to those who already stand out, overlooking the quiet potential in the ordinary. What if we invested in people the way the hive does, feeding them the resources and belief they need to grow?

This isn’t just about individuals; it’s about communities. The hive thrives because every worker contributes to the queen-making process, from producing royal jelly to tending the larvae. Similarly, we can build systems that uplift everyone like schools that inspire, workplaces that empower and societies that provide opportunities for all. When we “feed each other better futures,” we create a cycle of growth and leadership.

I will conclude by emphasizing that we need to rethink how we identify and nurture potential. Let’s commit to being the nurse bees of our world, offering the “royal jelly” of support, resources and belief to those around us. By doing so, we will raise more leaders who emerge not because they were destined but because they were given the chance to become. While talent and hard work are universal, opportunity is not. Someone has to give it before the fire goes out while waiting for a stroke of serendipity. Our humanity is contingent on the humanity of others. I think it is in everyone’s interest to contribute to social advancement by thinking of ways to create more leaders. The future is bleak unless we can crack this code. In a world full of uncertainties, the beekeeping lessons I learnt from Mwekera offers a timeless truth: crisis can be a catalyst for renewal, and leadership can come from anywhere.

 

Crossing Roads at the Crossroads

The first bomb fell at dusk on a humid night in 1977, a scream of fire that split the Senanga sky and drove four boys – strangers then – into the shadowed belly of a sishete, maize granary. Akeende, the reckless dreamer, had tripped over the sishete’s low wall in his panic. Inambao, quiet and watchful, pulled him inside. Nawa, wiry and suspicious even at ten, hissed at them to hush. And Muyambango, bold and grinning despite the chaos, shoved the door shut just as the earth shuddered. Outside, apartheid South African Air Force rained hell on the Zambian district, hunting the South West African People's Organization (SWAPO), a black independence movement from Namibia, which had established a base there. This was the context of what occasionally turned their village into a battlefield.

In those fleeting childhood days, their laughter rang sharp and defiant through the acacia trees, drowning out the distant rumble of the US made Bell P-69 Kingcobra warplanes. The world seemed vast, ripe for adventure even when the raids burned their homes and scattered their families. The brotherhood was formed through a thread of innocence in a tapestry of war.

20 years later, on a somber day in 1997, the air in Mazabuka hung heavy with the choking smell of molasses and the sting of unshed tears. Akeende clutched a worn photograph as Muyambango’s coffin sank into the red earth, the preacher’s words lost to the hum of flies. Inambao stood rigid, eyes tracing the crowd, while Nawa kicked at the dirt, muttering something about wasted years. The four had once been inseparable, leaving Senanga’s ashes to chase dreams at the Nakambala Sugar Plantation as sugarcane cutters – a brutal job but steady ticket to something better. Muyambango had had been the de facto leader in the group, his charm and calm lighting the way.

But now he was gone in some unclear circumstances. As the coffin vanished beneath the soil, a swarm of bees flew overhead, an omen that was difficulty to ignore. The funeral ended in silence. At Muyambango’s shack, the three rummaged through his meager belongings: a machete, a cracked radio, and, tucked in a sock, his entire savings. “We need to take these things back to the villages,” Inambao murmured, guilt shadowing his voice. Nawa snorted. “Is there any other choice?” Akeende said nothing, his own personal problems gnawing at him.

They parted ways under a bruised sky, each carrying a piece of their lost brother. A grim reminder of the fragility of life, the importance of dreams, and the enduring bond of friendship. Would they continue on their current paths, or would life, in its unpredictable way, throw them another curveball? They knew that, despite their best intentions, the road ahead was uncertain, and only time would reveal what lay in store for them. Fortunes and misfortunes are two side of the same coin, conjoined by both fate and design. Man’s entire existence is determined by the side of the coin showing at every flip that is made usually by ourselves or circumstances.

Of Muyambango

Muyambango was known for his relentless spirit and boundless heart. Raised among the green fields and under the vast Zambian sky, he learned the rhythms of the earth from his family's farm. His youth was marked by a fierce determination to transcend the limitations that rural life has determined on those it superintend over. After failing to finish secondary school, he married and started securing a better future for his young family. In 1992, he left behind his wife, Pemba, and their two children to seek employment at the Nakambala Sugar Plantation in Mazabuka, a place renowned for its opportunity but also its harshness. His goal was simple yet ambitious: save enough to start a business back in Senanga, perhaps a small shop or trading post to serve the community and set up his family's future.

Life in Mazabuka was a stark contrast to Senanga. He first shared a modest room at the now married Nawa’s place before moving to his house in Apollo. Their evenings were filled with laughter and dreams, each man sharing his vision of what could be. Muyambango, ever the dreamer, spoke of the day his children would attend school in new cloths, not just the shared ones passed down older family members. He worked from dawn till dusk, saving every kwacha with meticulous care. Whenever the men would gather to discuss strategies for their futures, his plan was the most concrete.

After working and saving for 5 years, the day approached when he was supposed to return home. He was one of high spirits. His savings, kept hidden and safe, were to fund his dream. He had planned a small celebration with his friends before his departure, a toast to new beginnings. But as the night fell, and the sounds of celebration faded into the quiet, Muyambango stepped out to go and rest since he had a long journey in the early hours of the following day.

When the friends came back from the drinking hole, they didn’t find Muyamabgo and concluded that he had decided to spend whatever had remained of the night in the bus as he couldn’t wait to go back home.   

In the morning, there was a great commotion. Like any inquisitive person, the 3 separately decided to rush and check what was causing the dust to rise. Then they reached where a crowd had gathered. There he was. The lifeless body of Muyambango. His ever present waist bag, gone.

The news of Muyambango's death traveled fast, hitting Senanga like a storm. Pemba received the devastating news in the morning light, her world collapsing into grief. The community rallied around her, but the void left was palpable. His friends in Mazabuka were consumed with guilt and anger, wondering if they could have prevented this tragedy had they been more vigilant. As the investigation into the theft and murder began, a tense atmosphere enveloped both communities. Each day brought new rumors, new fears; was it someone from within the plantation? An outsider with knowledge of Muyambango's savings? The suspense built as the community awaited justice, their faith in safety shaken.

Of Akeende

Akeende was a beacon of hope for his family. Alongside his friends, he harbored grand aspirations, dreaming of a life beyond the sandy roads and simple homesteads. Their shared vision was to escape the confines of rural poverty for the promise of the Nakambala Sugar Plantation in Mazabuka, where they could earn enough to transform their lives. With his sharp mind and strong arms, he envisioned building a small trading post, a place where he could be his own master, bringing prosperity to his family. He stepped into Mazabuka with eyes wide with ambition, his savings pouch as empty as his heart was full of big dreams.

The initial years at the plantation were marked by Akeende's discipline; he saved every kwacha, shared stories of his future business with his friends, and worked with relentless energy.

But Mazabuka had its own temptations which led him to adopt a personal motto of ha ufumile hahulu likomu unoca kwateni (When you are rich in cattle, eat some).

He was socially stigmatized and had a damaged reputation due to the fact that he never settled on single woman. The local bars, with their music and laughter, pulled at him like a siren song. He found himself drawn into a world of indulgence, his nights spent in the company of new friends and lovers, his savings trickling away like water through his fingers. His friends noticed the change, their warnings falling on deaf ears as he reveled in his newfound lifestyle.

The turning point came when he missed too many workdays, especially whenever he got paid as he would disappear until the money ends. The plantation manager was unforgiving and fired him. The news hit him like a physical blow, the reality of his situation clear as daylight. His savings were none existent as he spent every Kwacha on fleeting pleasures, and with his job, his last anchor to a stable life was severed. Now jobless and penniless, he moved from one cheap lodging to another, his life a series of temporary shelters. The friends who had once shared dreams now watched in sorrow as his life unraveled, his charm the only thing left from his former self.

As years turned like pages of a book, the suspense built around what would become of him had he been disciplined. Would he find redemption, or would his life end in obscurity? His friends kept in touch, their visits to him becoming less frequent as they built their lives, but each time they left, they left with a piece of their heart, hoping for a change. His life became a cautionary tale whispered in the community and among the workers at the plantation. Every now and then, stories would surface of his charm still winning over new friends in Ghana area, only for them to leave once the novelty wore off.

Of Nawa

Since childhood, Nawa’s heart sought adventure, his mind alive with the vastness of life’s possibilities beyond Senanga. What did it all mean, this restless pull? When the chance came to work at the Nakambala Sugar Plantation in Mazabuka, he embraced it, not just as a job but as a journey into life’s unfolding riddle. Mazabuka thrummed with new voices, languages, and rhythms – a tapestry of human striving. Nawa wove himself in, his laughter ringing out, his eyes tracing patterns in the chaos. Were friendships the soul’s mirror, he wondered, or fleeting echoes of shared time?

He turned to Tonga, learning from coworkers until he sang it like his native Lozi. Language, he mused, was it a bridge to others’ truths or a shadow of one’s own? His ease with it rooted him in Mazabuka more than a sugarcane cutter, he became a seeker among seekers. Then came Mutinta, her spirit a quiet fire like his. Their love bloomed swiftly, tied by tribal threads he saw as both chance and design. She was not only his wife but also his tribal cousin, now a people who are not strictly blood-related but are close family within a broader kinship system. In Njomona area, they built a life which was punctuated by seasonal farming.

When a drought struck in 1991/2 farming season, his farm faded under a merciless sun. Where others cursed fate, Nawa philosophized – did hardship reveal life’s essence or merely its indifference? Mutinta stood firm; he met her resolve with quiet questions, tracing cycles of growth and loss.

When friends drifted after Muyambango’s death 5 years later, and he wondered if bonds were eternal or bound to time’s wheel. He blended Senanga’s wisdom with local ways, guiding the community through dust and doubt. Clouds gathered; he led prayers and dances, seeing in them not just hope but a dance with the unknown. Rain fell, faint but real. His farm held, a fragile harmony, and Nawa stood apart, reflecting: Was this victory a gift of purpose, or a fleeting note in life’s endless song?

Of Inambao

Inambao was a name synonymous with ambition. From a young age, he stood out with his disciplined approach to life, always mapping out his future with the precision of a cartographer. His dream was simple yet profound: to lift his family out of the cycle of subsistence farming by creating a sustainable business. When the opportunity to work at the Nakambala Sugar Plantation in Mazabuka presented itself, Inambao saw it as the first step towards his dream. In Mazabuka, Inambao wasn't just another worker; he was a force, driven by his vision. His days were long, but his spirit was unyielded, earning him respect among peers and superiors alike. Every kwacha saved was another brick in his dream house in Senanga, a plot he had bought with his first significant savings.

Years rolled by, with Inambao's savings growing like the businesses he planned to start back home as he remembered the saying, komu hai imelwi ki manaka ayona (a person cannot fail to take care of his own). His plans were meticulous; every penny was accounted for, each detail of his future farm considered. The day arrived when he had saved enough to return to Senanga. His return was no longer just about starting a business; it was about survival. The suspense was palpable as he made his way back, his mind racing with plans, wondering if his savings would be enough to start anew under these dire circumstances.

The Duplicitous Whispers Of The Patriarchy

I interpret the age old adage that ‘behind every successful man is a woman’ as reinforcing regressive gender stereotypes, positing a woman’s role as ancillary to male achievement rather than the pursuit of autonomous aspirations. Throughout generations, the adage has been systematically eroded by patriarchal subterfuge, surreptitiously appending the corrosive codicil: provided she remains perpetually in his shadow. What originated as a well-intentioned acknowledgement of women’s contributory roles has degenerated into a pernicious social doctrine, conditioning men to equate personal worth with the suppression of female ascendancy. Should a woman surpass male counterparts in fiscal achievement, intellectual rigour, or domains historically monopolised by masculine prerogative, the prevailing response seldom embodies enlightened approbation. Rather, it frequently engenders a visceral insecurity wherein patriarchal conditioning conflates parity with impotence, thereby calcifying regressive dynamics that suffocate mutual progression and erode relational equanimity.

Distressingly, these patriarchal distortions have permeated female psyches with commensurate detriment. Certain women, themselves products of systemic indoctrination, may erroneously construe constructive critique or divergent perspectives as existential challenges to authority or covert assertions of dominance. Such misinterpretations often precipitate disproportionate reactions, inadvertently reinforcing the hierarchical structures they purportedly oppose. Herein lies patriarchy’s Janus-faced deception: it ensnares men in the fallacy that virility is contingent upon unassailable supremacy, whilst inculcating women with the toxic axiom that their luminosity must never eclipse male counterparts. This corrosive ideology, rooted in zero-sum hierarchies rather than collaborative symbiosis, reduces human connections to transactional contests where affection is quantified through crude metrics of income, volume, or physical stature.

Yet we must confront the existential query: what becomes of societies enthralled by this delusion of dominance? The consequences manifest with sobering clarity – atrophied potential, ruptured kinship, and collective existence perpetually half-realised. Authentic fortitude resides not in trepidation of feminine excellence but in its wholehearted embrace – not as adversarial challenge, but as revelatory prism through which our shared humanity gains sharper focus. No woman should endure the existential vandalism of clipped wings, stifled ambitions, or success diminished through reductive gendered lenses. Societal evolution demands we dismantle the pernicious myth of finite triumph – that one individual’s ascension mandates another’s decline. Let achievement be reimagined as communal vista rather than gendered conflict; behind every flourishing soul should resonate a symphony of voices, unshackled by spatial hierarchies, whether standing adjacent, ahead, or wherever illumination beckons.

All has been said and here is the crystallization of my paradigm: whilst enlightened men celebrate feminine potency as complementary rather than competitive, those shackled by fragile self-concept inevitably perceive assured women as existential threats. Crucially, such disquiet seldom reflects upon the woman herself, but rather unveils the tremulous foundations of a masculinity constructed upon archaic delusions of inherent superiority.

 

The Unprosecuted Murder

It was around 19:00hrs on Tuesday, and for some obvious reasons, Zesco had loadshedded the entire part of the country I was in. I sat in my car at Levy Mall for quite a while, thinking through what I was about to do. Was I getting mad?

Maybe. 

I was trying so hard to calm myself down.

"Get hold of yourself, man.” I told myself while punching the steering wheel, which made the horn go off.

I drove from the car park in front of Stay Easy Hotel and parked near the NAPSA offices. Without a second thought, I got out of the car, crossed Church Road, and walked straight into Lusaka Central Police Station. Inside, the rechargeable fluorescent lights hummed like a jury of ghosts. 

The officer at the desk suspiciously looked up with his cigarette-stained lips twitching.

"What do you want?" he asked in a heavily accented Nyanja. Like the one spoken in western province and Livingstone. This is common only among police officers.

"I killed a man," I said. "His name was Oliver Phiri."

He squinted, waiting for the punchline. When none came, he leaned back in his chair, creaking like an old gallows. 

"Go on."

I repeated what I had said.

He screamed for his friend who was in the back office to come and listen to my hallucinations. This other officer looked younger and more like he would have loved to be somewhere else interesting, maybe on the beaches of Samfya sipping a cold Mosi, than on this particular night shift. 

He told me to remove the shoes, belt, got everything I had in my pockets including the car keys and threw me in the police cells. 

"You will spend your night in the cold police cells for wasting government's time," He bellowed. 

The following day was engulfed in a whirlwind of nothing but interrogations by different police officers. Some were in groups, others were alone and still others were just absent when it was their turn to tango with me. They reluctantly charged me with some crime but needed more evidence to build a strong case and avoid a nolle prosequi. 

I was stuck with the same message and I repeated it over and over. I even explained that I'd show them the grave where I buried the remains, but they all didn't believe me. The cops, the forensics team, and the prosecutor all concluded that I was just wasting their time as they couldn't find any leads on a certain Oliver Phiri that I was telling them that I had killed. The recommendation was that I needed a psychiatric evaluation at Chainama Hills Hospital. 

Unbeknownst to me, one police officer decided to video my questioning and plastered it on social media. Must have been one of these phone adictated Gen Zs. Mainstream and social media called it a nonsensical stunt. My coworkers claimed it validated their suspicions of my going through a midlife crisis. My own mother sent a voice note on WhatsApp.

“You need help. My pastor is willing to come and pray for you.”

But the truth was simple: I killed a man. He was an insufferable chain smoker, he screamed at the helpless and slept in the stench of alcohol and self-loathing. Why do we even mourn bad people when they die? I am supposed to be receiving the Grand Commander of the Order of Freedom Award from the president. The dead guy was unempathetic, domineering, selfish, self-absorbed and aggressive. 

The murder happened slowly. I starved him of his vices, cut off his air and smothered his excuses. I buried him piece by piece, and when the last of him withered, I went to his house and scraped every trace of him.

His autopsy would read 'death by reinvention.' No fingerprints, no DNA – just the quiet obliteration of a life that deserved to die. No headstone marks his grave, but I'll never forget the epitaph in case I will ever have a change of heart: "Here lies a wrong that was righted."

"Don't judge me for killing a man," I tell anyone that judgingly stares at me. You wouldn't understand unless you've stood in the ashes of your own funeral, breathing deeper than ever before and desquamation taking place. 

I, Oliver Phiri, put ink to paper for posterity to judge me that I killed a man. And this man was the old me.

Power Doesn’t Corrupt. People Do!

I saw a news item claiming to be from Petauke the other day, where farmers were putting stones and sand in the middle of bags of crop produce to increase their weight as they sold them to authorities. Subtle indicators of selfishness are everywhere, allowing us to extrapolate how and why people behave this way when they get into leadership positions.

How can we expect our leaders not to be corrupt in a society where we, the people, are generally corrupt? This is a question we need to ponder as we grapple with our current societal problems. 

In the words of RJ Rushdoony, there can be no good character in civil government if there is none in the people. You cannot make a good omelet with bad eggs.

Leadership reflects society’s character. You cannot have a morally upright government in a society where the people are not morally upright. Who constitutes a government at the end of the day? Is it not the people of that society?

Zambians ought to reconcile with our true character. Doing so will help us better understand why we have such a leadership crisis in our country. We’ve turned drainage, roads, and any other space into garbage dumps. People want to set up businesses anywhere, but they also don’t want to put up toilets or clean and safe water sources. We have a people that are exceptional in reminding everyone of their rights but are mute on their social responsibility and accountability.

A lot of traffic jams are caused by people who have an inherent belief that they’re superior to others. This is displayed in their refusal to yield or follow traffic flow. During rush hour, we see people driving on pavements and in wrong lanes. Someone will feel that their vehicle is going to a grinding halt, but they wait until the vehicle stops in the middle of the road, thereby causing traffic.

Indeed, the same citizens who criticize government officials for using bribery to purchase votes do not hesitate to offer bribes to guards in shopping malls just to park in disabled spots. The same people who denounce nepotism in government are the first to hire friends, family members, and relatives when they open businesses. Health professionals may lament the embezzlement of state funds in health, but many are comfortable helping themselves to drugs and medical supplies meant for impoverished sick people.

In their defense, critics might argue that "power corrupts people." While their evidence may seem irrefutable, this sentiment is misleading and shifts responsibility from real people onto abstract concepts like power. Power doesn’t corrupt people. Rather people with corrupt tendencies assume positions of power. The actions of corrupt people in power are a continuation and amplification of their normal behavior in society. I call it the law of conservation of corruption.

Now that we have established the root cause of these ills, the questions we must answer are where do we go from here? What factors have contributed to these challenges becoming the country’s original sins? Additionally, what social and cultural obstacles continue to impede the country’s advancement? 

These issues are not fundamentally insurmountable. Therefore, it is essential to consider the necessary elements that could contribute to a viable solution. We need to actively work towards constructing a moral society, where moral standards that uphold ethical conduct are strictly enforced and valued. Put differently, we need to begin building a society where it is deemed wrong to jump queues or throw trash out of the window of your car, and not seen as normal. 

Correcting societal ills begins with each and every one of us. If we can work on shaping our moral character as a people, the quality of leadership in government will improve over time. As postulated by Joseph de Maistre, every country has the government it deserves. 

Nothing happens by happenstance.