It Takes a Child to Raise a Village

Reflecting on my journey in a Zambian family is like flipping through an bale of salaula where you are likely to find some of the best designer clothes and also some of the most useless things ever sent to the Land of Work and Joy.

The most influential forces in my life have undoubtedly been women. If we liken life to a football match (and as an ardent Real Madrid fan, everything is football), women have played the role of midfielders – masterfully controlling the game’s flow with their wisdom and occasionally scoring those banger goals like Federico Valverde that change everything. My mother’s endless sacrifices taught me resilience and from all these remarkable women around me, I learned that soft power often strikes harder than any physical blow. However, when you become stubborn, they will show how their power can be ruthless, raw and adulterated. For example, when Mrs Ahab (aka Jezebel) heard what (The Mighty) Elijah had done, she vowed to kill him within 24 hours. Elijah - the man who was able to rain down fire from heaven - was terrified of a woman and fled into the desert.

Back to football.

It’s strange that I cannot play football that well despite being a fan of it, besides wrestling of course. My passion for Real Madrid has been both exhilarating and exasperating. It has driven my ambitions sky high and sparked an impatient hunger for success while also making me somewhat impatient. After all, how can one not develop an urgent attitude when your favorite club can dismiss coaches faster than the way Zambian politicians turn against their own campaign promises? This impatience has seeped into my daily interactions. Who has time to wait when every moment feels like an intense rivalry against Barcelona? I joke, I joke. I am seriously working on this.

My growing up was truly an experience shaped by community living. The adage “it takes a village to raise a child” isn’t just rhetoric here but a reality. Neighbors acted as surrogate parents who would beat you up for what they perceive as a misbehavior. In those days, even though parents were a child's primary caregivers, a family did not exist in a vacuum. Social connectedness was defined as those subjective psychological bonds that people experienced in relation to others. I grew up in a community where even shopkeepers seemed to know your personal affairs better than you did yourself. This communal upbringing instilled in me an unwavering belief in humanity’s inherent goodness. Time after time, I’ve witnessed acts of kindness that left me humbled and convinced that people are fundamentally good at heart. Circumstances - I believe - turn people into monsters. However, my faith in humanity remains steadfast, much like my belief that Real Madrid will clinch yet another Champions League title.

However, the saying “it takes a village to raise a child” now often carries an ironic tone because. While family and friends might visit new parents with gifts to see the baby, there's less expectation that they will contribute to the child's discipline or upbringing. We've become increasingly individualistic. In response to this growing isolation, we've seen a rise in delinquency among the young and restless, as nature abhors a vacuum. Society stands on the precipice. As Chinua Achebe is quoted, first you must chase away the fox before you warn the hen against wandering into the bush. Before pointing fingers at poor parenting, we must take whatever steps necessary to save a children's life.

In reversing the roles, I would say that "it takes a child to raise a village." Bembas have a specific proverb on this, 'imiti ikula, empanga." Children are not only the catalyst for communal change and unity, but also inspire a village to improve, learn, and adapt. Their presence mobilizes adults to better themselves and the village's environment. This also reflect a commentary on the roles children play by reversing traditional dynamics where they lead adults to grow or where their needs shape community actions. Everyone is so fixated about leaving a better planet for their kids. Very noble. However, we must also have a similar fixation with leaving better kids for our planet. Any society that starts to take the wellbeing of children seriously, it will have to change so much that the wellbeing of everyone will be accommodated. It's a no brainer. 

As I conclude, my journey through life has been shaped by the vibrant tapestry of Zambian community life and the relentless passion for football. Despite the challenges posed by an increasingly individualistic society, the foundation laid by the collective wisdom and village continues to guide me. I pray to the Good Lord to help me contribute to a world where the village still helps raise the child. Ultimately, (and despite these quirks) my life (I think) has been enriched by countless lessons learned from relationships forged along this journey filled with an acquired passion for football and deep-rooted connections within the community fabric. If there’s one thing I've gleaned from all this, it’s that life is unpredictable like a Lusaka bus conductor.

Prey, What Did I Inherit?

Verily, you might surmise that I am much akin to a moose in my capacity to imbibe alcohol on the most frequent occasions. In my past life, I must have been a Drosophila Melanogaster. A common fruit fly. I am unable to remain sober, for I dread what I might encounter. I perceive and hear things in the absence of alcohol flowing through my veins. I feel that when I am drank, I can chat with whatever haunts me without any mask of fear. Maybe it is because in vino veritas. 

Over a decade ago, news arrived that a distant uncle, whom I had met just once in my childhood, had bequeathed his entire estate to me in his testament. I was astounded and bewildered. Why would he leave his property to me, a stranger?

Even the person who delivered the news to me could not conceal their surprise, no matter how hard they tried. The news was accompanied by the keys to the house.

At first, I found it hard to believe.

Upon learning more about my uncle, I discovered that he had a strained relationship with everyone, including his offspring. Perhaps he had elected to bestow his property upon me because he believed that I was the only one who would cherish it.

I set off to visit the house, embarking on a long journey that spanned the majority of the morning. As I crossed the threshold of the aged house, a strange feeling began to nag at me. The cracked floors groaned under my feet, and the scent of mold and mildew filled the air. It was evident that the house had been deserted for quite some time.

However, I had not come to admire the architecture or the dilapidated state of the building. I was there for an entirely different reason. I had no notion as to why my uncle had chosen to leave me this decaying old place, but I knew that it had held great significance for him.

As I traversed the empty rooms, memories of my childhood flooded my mind. I recollected the one time when my mother and I had come to visit my uncle, spending long afternoons in the garden, gathering mangoes, and chatting about everything and nothing. It had been a joyous period, a time before disputes within their family had driven a wedge between them.

But as I continued to explore the house, a strange sensation interrupted my reminiscences. It was as though something – or someone – was watching me, lurking just out of view. I endeavored to brush it off, attributing it to my imagination running wild. Nevertheless, the feeling persisted, growing stronger with each passing moment.

Suddenly, I heard a noise emanating from the room at the far end of the hallway. It sounded like footsteps, slow and measured, as though someone wished to remain unseen and unheard. My heartbeat quickened as I made my way towards the room, attempting to be as noiseless as possible. Upon reaching the far end of the hallway, I noticed that one of the doors was slightly ajar. It was the room that – by my inferences – had once being the bedroom of my uncle.

I nudged the door open and peered inside, half-expecting to see someone standing there. However, the room was vacant, and I breathed a sigh of relief. That was when I discerned something peculiar about the room. It was immaculately clean, as though someone had recently been in there. But that was impossible - the house had been abandoned for years.

I resolved to investigate further and commenced a diligent search through the scattered boxes which filled the room. Alas, most of these were filled with mere trifles - old magazines, broken toys, and other such worthless odds and ends. However, a certain box soon caught my attention. It contained letters, aged photographs, and various personal articles belonging to my uncle.

As I delved into the contents of the box, a certain sentimentality began to stir within me. There were letters from my estranged father, who had left when I was but a child. There were photographs of my uncle and I, taken during the innocent years of my youth. And there was a diary, filled with my uncle's reflections and emotions from the last years of his life.

As I read through the diary with a growing sense of unease, I found myself increasingly disturbed. My uncle's words were fraught with pain and sorrow, and it was evident that he had been contending with some insurmountable difficulty for an extended period. He spoke of feeling as though he was under constant surveillance, of hearing peculiar noises within the confines of the house. And then, as the entries drew towards their conclusion, he made mention of a dark presence which dogged his every step.

My mind reeled in disbelief. My uncle had been assailed by an ominous force within these walls, a force which had driven him to the brink of madness. And now, to my horror, it appeared that this same malevolent presence had shifted its focus onto me.

As I closed the diary and surveyed the room, a shiver passed through me. The sensation of being observed had intensified, and it seemed as though an entity was standing close behind me. Slowly, I turned to face the intruder, dreading what I might behold. A figure materialized in the doorway, murky and elusive, moving with a slow, deliberate gait in my direction. Paralyzed, I could not speak nor move as it drew ever closer, its eyes hollow and black, its flesh ashen and gaunt.

As the skeletal hand reached forth to touch me, I realized with abject terror that this was the same loathsome presence which had tormented my uncle. It had been waiting, biding its time in the shadows, for the moment when it could seize me. And now, I was trapped within its grasp.

I made a valiant effort to flee, but my legs refused to respond. My voice was silenced by a constriction in my throat. The dark figure loomed over me, its foul breath searing my face. And then, in a sudden flurry of motion, it lunged at me, dragging me towards the inky depths of the shadows.

I fought back with every fiber of my being.

The figure began to withdraw, retreating at first with sluggishness, but soon accelerating with an unnatural quickness, as if it were a marionette being manipulated by some unseen puppeteer. I longed to scream, yet my vocal chords remained strained and unyielding.

The creature was nearly upon me when a gust of wind rushed through the room, and the space was shrouded in darkness. I stumbled backwards, tripping over some unseen obstacle and plummeting to the ground. When I regained my bearings, the figure had vanished, leaving the room in the same state of emptiness as before.

With my nerves shattered and my heart pounding, I clambered to my feet and fled the house as quickly as I could. As I reached the safety of my vehicle, I turned back for one final glance at the accursed dwelling.

From that day onwards, I dread a teetotal lifestyle. Whenever, I haven’t taken in alcohol, there is a constant looming over me a malevolent entity which forever haunt my moments.

MY EARLIEST FORMATIVE RECOLLECTIONS

It is normally believed that people suffer from infantile (childhood) amnesia. This is the inability of adults to retrieve memories of situations or events before the age of 2 to 4 years, as well as the period before the age of 10 of which some adults retain fewer memories than might otherwise be expected given the passage of time. The development of a cognitive self is also thought by some to have an effect on encoding and storing early memories.

What is normally believed is not always true, however.

I have a clear recollection of the happenings in and around my life from the moment that ugly lady punched me for no apparent reason. I busted out crying to the amusement of everyone in the room. I kept wondering what type of a gladiatorial show this was which didn’t have the decency to tell me of the rules of combat save to this lady who had already attacked me. I calmed down when she stopped attacking and with the precision of an orchestra artist, mother stuffed my mouth with her breast. Muffling all my screams. Yuck!

From the conversation I would pick after my screams, the baby punching lady was a member of an exclusive group of traditional birth attendants who were preferred not only because they were the only option around, but also because their payment was result based and did not ask for payment before attending to the women. They also respected and enforced the prevailing traditional customs, for example, placental rites.

I was born on 30 June 1990 from a humble (to read as poor) family in Malikila village of Sikongo, a district that sits on the Zambian border with Angola. My father, Imuunga Kufekisa, had a polygamous relationship with both Christianity and traditional beliefs, and mother, Namakau Sitali, was a staunch New Apostolic Church member. Because of the happenings in Zambia’s late 1980s, my name was already decided on immediately elders knew of Namakau’s pregnancy. I will be called Nalishebo, one born during famine.

On the day following my birth, the atmosphere was tense in the hut I had spent my first night on earth. This is because an army officer identifying himself as Lieutenant Mwamba Luchembe intermittently broke into the soft music broadcast of ZNBC radio station for about 3 hours, from 3:30 AM to about 6:30 AM, saying the army had taken over the running of the country due riots of the previous week, in which at least 27 people had been killed and more than 100 wounded.

To the relief of everyone in the room, at about 9:15 AM, Grey Zulu, the then UNIP General Secretary, announced on the same radio that the Government was back in control and the coup attempt by an undisciplined army officer had been squashed.

What a grandiose welcome this world had given me: got punched on day 1 and survive a coup attempt on day 2. I was looking forward to what was in store on day 3. A planet killer asteroid hitting the earth, maybe?

To my disillusionment, the next 12 months of my life lacked any noteworthy action apart from occasional visits from Malikila people coming with presents to worship and bless me, punctuated with likutas as if I was some kind of a pedestal. I loved it.  

When I was 14 months old on 31 August 1991, a new constitution was adopted in Zambia confirming the end of the one-party state. 2 months later in October 1991, a general election would be held which secured a landslide victory for the MMD who won the presidency and got 125 parliamentary seats, against UNIP's 25. I was treated to a front row seat for watching change in the Zambian political space and high drama interactions of the often eccentric family members.

As most people were celebrating this political change, I had suffered from a strange disease; it was believed that if a child suffers from such related diseases, the mother was the causer. This is because such diseases were believed to occur to children who had breastfed from a pregnant mother. Therefore, if death resulted in such cases the mother was definitely the killer of her own child.

My sickness become a talk in Malikila village amongst the women and among men. Hence the old women of the village prepared a concoction and passed it to Imuunga, one would be for Namakau and the other for me. I was forced to drink my portion, but Namakau vehemently refused to drink hers. Imuunga felt the embarrassment more and he called for old women to talk to Namakau. These used all their kitchen tactics to make Namakau confess that she was pregnant.

They encouraged her to use herbs as they believed that these could help to subdue my complications. They had used the same modus operandi when she was pregnant to – as they belief was – precipitate labour and widened her birth canal. In Malikila, complications occurring during labour were attributed to witchcraft or punishment for misdeeds committed by the pregnant woman.

Did you observe the beliefs on diet? Did you eat eggs during pregnancy? Did you avoid salt intake until the cord stump of the baby has healed? Did you eat sugarcane during pregnancy? Did you sleep around or looked at a man lustfully? Did you……..?

It was an endless interrogation.

Namakau could not budge to the schemes of the old women. Imuunga tried to talk to his wife emphasizing their need for traditional medical help, the thing which Namakau refused again citing that God is the greatest healer and that God was going to heal her son, me. What a stubborn woman, like a mule.

Imuunga’s elasticity on matters of religion made things even worse for Namakau as he even reached a point of chasing her from their matrimonial house for insubordinations. But such an action would be a humiliation to only to her, but him and his family as well. He decided otherwise.

Namakau, these things happen. I remember my third pregnancy took time to be noticed. I didn’t know that I’m pregnant until the sixth month, said Monde.

Monde was the youngest in this circle of counsellors and the only reason why she was involved is that she was Namakau’s best friend. The elder women thought her presence and recollections would help Namakau into confessing. They grew up together, went through Sikenge together after attaining Mwalanjo, had the same Chilombola, danced siyomboka together and got married the same day.

When a girl reaches puberty, Sikenge as it commonly called, they take them to a secret house where they were taught how to take care of a house, a husband, and children. The training would go on even for 3 months. And at the end of it, a celebration was held where the girls display some ‘skills’ they had learnt. Towards the end of the ‘display’ a man, who had been pre-organized would come, lift the girl from the podium and run with her to his house. This is marriage. And the celebrations will go on until the next day where the husband will produce evidence to confirm that the girl was a virgin. Evidence admissible hen charging the bride price.

Marriages in these parts were purely arranged. The two individuals concerned had absolutely no part to play besides showing up and doing as they are told.

During all this hullaballoo, my disease disappeared as quickly as it came. My childhood development pathway was seamlessly aligned to suit the expectation. Namakau was left alone, and Imuunga continued being a father, the only way he knew how.

And since children in those parts spent a lot of time with their mothers, I was founded on what Namakau taught me. Mothers considers children up to 10 years the apple of their eyes. That milieu influenced me very much, no wonder by the time I was detaching myself from Namakau, I was a strong Christian. And when I narrated my childhood recollections to my class during elementary schooling, no one believed that anyone can vividly remember their childhood events. In fact, the class teacher punished me for what he called ‘not taking the assignment seriously’. Like Seriously? 

TAKEWAY

Zambia adopted the World Health Organization (WHO) policy on child delivery which insists on professional maternal care, thus arbitrarily excluding traditional birth attendants (TBAs). Though such a policy is built on good intentions, the policy to ban TBAs is out of touch with local reality in Zambia. This is because, despite being outlawed, TBAs are still widely being used which presents a greater risk to both mothers and children since its snow shrouded in secrecy and confidentiality. Secondly, outlawing TBAs should have been done after strengthening the sexual reproductive, maternal, newborn, child, adolescent, and nutrition (SRMNCAH&N) services. Transportation problems, sociocultural reasons and unpreparedness still cause most women to turn to traditional birth attendants. Thirdly, professional maternal and childcare and traditional approaches shouldn’t be mutually exclusive. Traditional birth attendants should not have been excluded from safe motherhood programs but should have had redefine responsibilities and functions.  

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A RURAL WOMAN

She wakes up as early as 4am to light a fire for warming water. She will then warm the leftover food before proceeding to wake up the kids and prepare them for school with the water that she warmed. This is evocative of her plans of making her children get an education. She has made it her objectives that her children should not grow up the same way like her and her husband. Neither of the two parents can read nor write.

By 6am, she’s done with the kids and ensures that they leave for school. Without any pause, she reminds everyone still remaining at the house that it’s time to head for the fields. She understands that this is important for the family sustenance. To have food is to have security. She’s been taught that a food secure home is respectable home. Much as she ascribes great importance to food security, at the back of her mind there’s income security. And as such she also grows cash crops like tobacco and cotton beside food crops. The cash crops will enable her sort out financial challenges like school prerequisites and other household needs.

By 1pm, she - with everyone else - are knocking off from the field. Unlike everyone else, however, she’s carrying a bundle of firewood on the head plus some vegetables in the hands, the inputs for meals to be prepared.

When they reach home, she makes a fire whilst simultaneously cleaning some cooking utensils.

“I will start with nsima since chibwabwa doesn’t take much time to prepare” she thought to herself.

As all this transpires, the husbands has dragged a reed mat under a nearby mango tree and is trying to rest but hunger drags him into a siesta. The children occupy themselves with a sport conveniently called ‘game’. It is some form of dodgeball, only that here one ball is used. They do this with one eye intently watching the happenings in the 'kitchen'.

45 minutes into her chores, food is ready. Without any call but with the meticulousness of a space shuttle, the children swiftly whirl around the two plates, one for nsima and the other for chiwawa ya sholo (pumpkin leaves boiled without cooking oil). Everyone else is eating from this ‘table’ apart from the husband who, in synchronicity with children actions, has already prepared himself for this sacred infill from the very same reed mat he's been on since the return from the field. Though tradition dictates that he eats alone, some days she joins him. But today is not such a day, however.

After seeing to it that everyone has had their share, she instructs her oldest daughter to remove the plates, wash them and do any other chore which is on the lesson timetable on this informal education curriculum. This is how she learnt herself and consequently it’s her duty to pass on that education to her daughters. By this time the husband is already leaving for some social gatherings which mainly involve drinking involo, kachasu, wine, katate and other local brew that is in the community at that particular time.

However, her and her smallest baby on her back heads off to the field again to cover some extra land on what was left in the morning session. She will be knocking off nearly 5pm with a firewood bundle on her head and for a change she may be carrying ndelemwa (wild okra) in her hands for supper. This time around her daughter has fetched water and made a fire already. Her duty now is to cook and ensure that the kids and the husband eat.

The husband will be back past 7pm and he should find food ready, regardless of whether he left resources for that food or not. He should also find his water for bathing warmed. This is done irrespective of whether he will use that water for the intended purpose or not. The absence of such expectations can cause physical or verbal abuse from the husband. Anyway, she was taught to guarantee that her husband will always find that these things are in order.

Cursed be the patriarchy and hierarchy.

She’ll narrate folk tales to kids, some are funny and some are scary but all have a teaching, a moral which the listeners are supposed to explore and discover for themselves. She uses anthropomorphism to give human personalities to her animal characters. A majority of these tales have a hare as protagonist or antagonist. She will be sleeping past 9pm.

The following day is just a repeat of this ritual with just minor changes depending on the season on the calendar. For her, as dictated by society, this is her immutable contribution to this family for the reminder of her lifetime. And thus, this is a day in the life of a rural woman.

Moral

Women - who are the majority who significantly have unpaid work responsibilities - suffer from time poverty that negatively impact their well-being and increase their chances of becoming or staying financially poor. Since unpaid labor outside of the market is often not included in most large-scale survey datasets, time poverty is seldom acknowledged in policy and practice. However, time poverty and income poverty reinforce each other; they can drain energy and hinder effective decision-making, thereby sustaining the cycle of poverty. This is why there are more women who are poor than men, the phenomenon called "feminization of poverty."