FIRST Republican president Kenneth Kaunda has gone down in history as the first head of State ever to publicly declare that he had lost one of his sons, Masuzyo, to the dreaded HIV/AIDS.
I was privileged to meet Masuzyo though, for want of a better word, in a rather dramatic way one Saturday morning in Ndola during the mid-1980s.
It was a time of critical shortages of many consumer goods, including mealie-meal, cooking oil, sugar and even alcoholic beverages.
My friend and former Workmen’s Compensation Fund administration manager and principal of the Ndola Rehabilitation Centre Happy Lungu, who had learned from the grapevine, phoned me saying that Jowett Kaluwa, the Ndola City Council engineer at the time, had been appointed chief patron of the Ndola Cricket Club (NCC).
Always a man who looked at the funny side of life that he was, Happy wondered why a city engineer, a man who probably did not even “know how to hold a cricket bat”, should be appointed to such a position at the NCC.
“But I think I know why: Indians are clever; they know it is the only way they can always have their trading licence renewed and get beer supplies flowing from Zambia Breweries,” he said with a smile of someone who seems to have found the answer to the ‘imbroglio’ in the Copperbelt provincial headquarters.
He suggested that a visit to the Asian-dominated club on Nkana Road, which is also within shouting distance from Peter Singogo senior police officers’ mess, would confirm the ‘extraordinary’ appointment.
Sensing trouble at NCC where a visitor were required to be signed in by a paid member, Happy said should they try to throw us as non-members, we would tell them that “‘we have come to give their newly appointed principal patron (Mr Kaluwa) – moral support’.”
Upon finding two familiar police vehicles among cars that were parked outside the clubhouse, Happy jokingly remarked, “No wonder there are no road blocks on the streets.
The two top cops are also here mwana (buddy), probably after finishing all the beers at the senior Police officers’ mess last night?”
He was referring to the presence of then Ndola District police chief, Bradley Muntemba, and a high ranking intelligence officer from the Office of the President, whose name I cannot remember, but who was known in social circles as the ‘Big Lozi’ – a serious-looking guy in the mould of a KGB agent.
When he heard the noise and the laughter as we were allowed in, and after providing a convincing reason for the visit to the sentry, Bradley, who was strategically seated in the far right corner of the bar quickly rose to his feet and smilingly ‘ordered’ us to “keep quiet”.
Happy would not allow such ‘infringement’ to go unchallenged.
“Why are you behaving like a school prefect? In any event this is not your senior police officers’ mess,” he said amid much laughter.
Then as he left to probably check on the parked vehicles outside, someone whispered that Bradley Muntemba and the ‘Big Lozi’ were actually on duty because “the president’s son is here”.
Yes, Masuzyo Kaunda was in the club, playing darts at the far end of the hall, accompanied by two friends one of whom sat comfortably holding his favourite instrument, the guitar.
A case of ‘like- father-like-son’ one would be inclined to say, because KK is a gifted guitarist.
Masuzyo took me by complete surprise because it had never occurred to me that he knew me, as I had never met him before.
Holding his set of darts in the left hand, as one would do at a cocktail party, he thrust his free right hand and greeted me by name, saying, “Mulishani Ba Mulenga (How are you Mr Mulenga?).
When I told him that I did not imagine he knew me, he said: “Who does not know Mr Alfred Mulenga? I enjoy reading what you write in the Times of Zambia.”
What a stamp of recognition, I thought as I surveyed this handsome but humble youngman standing in front of me.
With a slight stammer, hairy hands and dressed in a light green safari suit, popularly known as ‘Kaunda suits’ then, Masuzyo must have been an exact replica of his father when he was a youth.
In fact, this unexpected encounter reminded me of the 1962 black-and-white portrait of Kenneth Kaunda, the nationalist destined to become the first president of Zambia, which I drew and painted, as a budding artist in Mufulira.
I do not know what became of it but it remained on display in the UNIP Kantanshi Constituency office for many years.
Of course, I did not mention this aspect to young Masuzyo, but our friendship grew thereafter.
I remember Masuzyo would, like the biblical Good Samaritan, pop up literally from nowhere on Macha Road in Northrise, offering to give me a lift into town via Chinika Road,
Driving his metallic grey VW Golf car from visiting his friend Esau Kanweka in Dominic Moomba Street, Northrise, he would stop in front of me, saying: “Nganimwe muleya kunchito…(I reckon you are going to work as usual)…. please jump in; I will drop you by your offices.”
It would appear he often saw our family car parked outside Kansenshi Secondary School or Chifubu Secondary School where my wife taught and probably guessed he would find me on Macha Road, walking to Times Newspapers offices on Kabelenga Avenue, for morning editorial conference.
“I know you enjoy your morning walks, but let’s go I will drop you off at your offices,” he would often say as he inquired about what was the ‘big story’ in the paper that particular morning.
He never showed me exactly where he lived in Itawa, but told me that in case “you happen to be in Kitwe, you can find me at Blackhood Hodge’.
He did not tell me the nature of his business there, however.
So on my way to Kalulushi to visit one of our youth club leaders, George Mukuka, who had been posted to Chibuluma Division as ZCCM personnel superintendent, I passed by Blackhood Hodge.
I found an expatriate, a Briton, who shocked me when he said, “I am afraid, your friend is not here; he has been flown to Plymouth; he has not been too well lately…sorry mate.”
I had been to the Daily Mirror Training School, in Plymouth in 1980, so when I said, “You mean Plymouth in the UK?” the Briton sounded startled but I told him I knew exactly what he was talking about.
“Well, as I said, you can’t see him because he is no longer here,” the Blackhood Hodge man said with a sense of resignation.
I must I confess I never had a chance to confirm the veracity of the man’s information, but he sounded genuine.
It was ominous.
Next time, the nation woke up to the shocking news that young Masuzyo had passed on, prompting the grieving father to openly announce that his son had died of AIDS.
On the day of the burial my friend Raphael Kunkwa, the former Bank of Zambia chief security officer in Ndola, and I jumped on a UBZ luxury coach hoping to get to Lusaka in time to attend the funeral.
But unfortunately the bus broke down somewhere between Chibombo and Liteta.
The driver and crew tried but the engine would not start.
Psalm 23
, in part, says, “The Lord is my Shepherd I shall not want… Unknown to most of us was the fact that there were two motor mechanics on the bus.
The two Nortec graduates asked the driver if he could allow them to have a look at the engine.
The driver and his crew obliged and the duo had the bus running before the UBZ maintenance teams from Kabwe could arrive on the scene.
Sadly, we did not arrive in Lusaka until after 4pm.
But determined to pay our last respects to our beloved friend, we booked a taxi to State House.
However, we encountered difficulties. Armed sentries at the main gate would not let us in despite explaining our problems on the way from the Copperbelt.
They advised us to try to use the gate at the back of State House, which visitors normally used after working hours.
‘Bureaucracy, bureaucracy, bureaucracy – even at a time of such a national loss’, was our lament as we left, feeling extremely disappointed.
Looking into the distant past, as I tried to drive up the dilapidated Macha Road, the other day; I remembered the smooth rides I enjoyed whenever the humble and modest Masuzyo stopped to give me a lift.
If it were in countries ruled by a monarch, such as the United Kingdom it would have been like being driven around by a prince from Buckingham Palace.
It was by every account a huge and unforgettable honour.
Indeed, if I had the necessary financial wherewithal, I muttered to myself, I would not only broaden and tar this vital artery, but also install street lights and then approach Ndola City Council authorities to probably rename it, the Msuzyo Kaunda Highway.
