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.