NELSON CHANDA describes his experiences when he was posted to a rural school deep in the valley of Muchinga Province where despite enjoying the flora and fauna and gaining the acceptance of the local community of the area, he suffered untold delayed salary payments at the hands of a cocky paymaster. Read on…

LIKE a movie, my salaries began to be delayed at my pay point in the third month of the year, a 15 minutes’ walk from my work place.

Asked why the atmosphere was impregnated with such unlawful hatred, Nsokolobe (not real name), the paymaster, replied sarcastically that I was too young a teacher to work in a ‘town centre’ of the rural set up.

“Unless you go away to remote valley antiquities, then I will spare you,” he thundered with contempt.

I assured him that I was eager to serve in any place of his choice, but pleaded with him in the meantime to exercise leniency and let me accomplish my evening extra mural studies at the University of Zambia Centre for Continuing Education before the end of the year.

Selfishly, reluctantly, Nsokolobe paid me, although I sensed venality. Similar confrontations continued for some months with the senior officer whenever my dues were ready, to the disappointment of my immediate supervisors who found potential in, and defended, me on moral grounds.

Zambia was 27 years old after independence when the elderly man Nsokolobe tempered with my personal affairs when he felt as if he was an immortal being by trying to turn down my two days permission to attend the funeral of my blood sister in a remote village.

But I challenged him vehemently.

Later, the pay master chanted when I announced my preparedness to set off from a certain urban town in Muchinga Province to a rural part in the valley of that town.

Some people frightened me, though, saying many who worked there hardly came back. That was because of hunger, disease, ignorance, superstition and impassable roads, especially during the wet seasons.

These pessimists also said people walked hundreds of kilometres in search of basic necessities such bath soap or salt. To me, that was preposterous.

At last, the day of my departure arrived, though it wasn’t easy for my superiors to secure transport. The winding track road through hills and steep slopes which was only used during the dry season was deplorable.

A white man conservationist engaged to lure tourists from overseas to the National Park volunteered to drive me to the valley.

As soon as I perched my paraphernalia, comprising two 50 kilogrammes of mealie-meal and salt pockets up respectively on the carrier of the Land Rover 110, the white man revved off the engine.

We said goodbye to the central district, disappearing into the escarpment’s rocky track road raising dust behind like monkey cartoons. It was a journey of more than 300 kilometres.

I was dropped at my destination and people came in numbers from nowhere, ululating and cheering jubilantly. “My name is Kapoka Ntetema,” (pseudonym) I introduced myself as some men hugged me.

Both the school and dwellings were too substandard to qualify as a learning institution and accommodation quarters for members of staff.

Those unplanned structures of mud walls and grass thatched roofs hovered down like curled hair obscuring the eyes of a lunatic.

The two blocks had classrooms with bent rectangular- shaped chalk boards which lay on rough walls with humps, appeared in faded black charcoal colour and were not proper teaching aids. Worse still, some children had no desks to sit or write on.

“Rumour is a good traveller,” goes the phrase. All class rooms were crammed with pupils, but the number of girls began to dwindle starting from grade three upwards.

Grade six had only a single girl among eight boys.

There was no girl child in grade seven which had 10 boys. I learnt that big boys and men engaged the young girls between nine and 12 years old in early marriages.

My new home in the valley was as hot as a furnace. Blankets and thick clothes served no purpose. The first day I woke up as early as 06.00 hours to feel the morning fresh air.

I caught sight of tens and tens of lions with lionesses lying down fashionably in the school football pitch, facing the eastern direction in anticipation to attack their prey, emerging from tributaries of a river.

In a fractional second I blinked, only to find all had gone.

Effeminately, I retreated into my hut trembling and hair rising. It was a lesson. When I narrated the incident to the locals, they warned me not to come out early in the morning because prides of lions became active hunting. I was filled with zoophobia and made it a point never to be out of my yard after 1700 hours as well.

School children had been progressing well both physically and academically.

In the process, they had already molded a good number of clay blocks to improve the walls of the chalk boards. Desks were also improvised using fresh bamboo sticks. That was the only option to upgrade the standards. With a single ball I provided, playing football and netball became interesting.

“Teacher,” began one tall, lanky 71-year-old life Parent Teachers Association Chairman, Bandason, eyes beaming with glee.

“You are unique in that you teach all the grades alone with each child improving and going home at least with a drop of red ink in his or her books.”

“If this teacher leaves, then we shall also request for some transfers to places where our children would continue learning,” interjected some Zambia Wildlife Authority Officers who stood near-by.

Two months had passed since my arrival at the school, but without my monthly salary. Instead, I received a letter from the pay master delivered by the ZAWA Officers. It said that I was going to use my own initiative to get back home.

I wondered why he had withheld my pay, but I survived, thanks to the mealie meal I’d carried. Also, I bartered salt using ‘amakabu’ (big cup measure)with village chickens and eggs.

The commodity was as scarce as an Orion star. The common locally produced salt was in liquid form.

The teacher’s village was opposite the school. In between lay a tourist busy dusty bush road which separated them. The teachers’ compound had six huts. They stood like clusters of ‘ubowa bwafikolowa, mushrooms beneath huge savanna umbrella type mango trees.

During the day, in such hot weather, I enjoyed my lunch under one tree which at night became a lion’s den. The peculiar footprints of this beast were evidently all over my yard, including those of the hyenas. But bread, butter, milk, sugar and refreshments were absolutely taboo.

In the valley, mango fruit begin to get ripe as early as August. The local people had been sensitised about the importance of eating ripe mangoes.

They no-longer cooked raw green fruit to supplement their daily meals during such periods.

I enjoyed sharing the sweet big mangoes. In those places where there were many animals, seldom did natives take up farming.

The only vegetable I placed on my table was wild okra which was a popular dish in all households. Perhaps that was a ploy to avoid accusations of poaching and not eating game meat openly.

Occasionally, I was charmed by flights of birds which flew systematically at the same place in the sky in a horizontal pattern. They could ascend and descend like rockets. School children told me that they were vultures feeding patiently on dead carcasses of wild animals which had expired because of a lack of drinking water in the historical drought of yester years.

Also, millions of wild doves in transit could emerge from other directions covering the whole blue sky flying to and from the water bodies; it was spectacular.

However, I was deafened by far away strong and violent sounds of roaring lions, which I had become familiar with, and was reminded of my mother’s stories.

The scampering of hundreds of zebras, warthogs, wild beests, large herds of buffaloes and multitudes of chattering troops of monkeys were marvelous. It showed me that the region was one of the richest in fauna but, incredibly, the people who lived there were as poor as a church mouse.

Pawpaw trees which were part of the orchard at the teachers’ cottages attracted elephants, too. For the first time, I noticed an annoyed live wild elephant screaming and running towards my direction in the yard.

“Ntetema, teacher run away!

The wounded elephant is coming to eat your pawpaws! Run!”Some villagers whose huts were close to my hut exclaimed to alert me. –

I ran swiftly like a cheetah to the laughter of on-lookers. Certainly, it was worth watching the largest land creature feeding itself. Flora was interesting too.

The gigantic baobab and sausage trees I noticed in pictures were fascinating as well.

One day a white Zimbabwean tourist and hunter with his wife visited the school. I was advised by the children to ask for assistance from him to supply us with learning materials and sports facilities.

To my pleasant surprise, he consented zealously to my request. He said that he knew the history of the school which had last seen a potential teacher who was an anchor almost 15 years ago.

Yes, the hunter had hit the nail to the head.

According to my research I carried out within the surrounding villages, youths, ranging from 18 to 22 years of age were illiterate.

Besides that, girls either were rarely seen in public or shunned classes because most of them were clad in tatters and were easily enticed into early marriages, perhaps for support.

Asked why some children’s, not elders’ dressing was pathetic 27 years after Independence , elders told me that those were the unfortunate ones whose relatives in urban areas did not send them clothes.

‘Salaula’ (second hand clothes) were not common then in rural Zambia as it they are today in the 50th Jubilee.

My first year working in the valley ended and I had to leave during the school holiday. Although the locals were not happy, I bade them farewell, promising to come back which was rare to many who came before me, according to them.

The journey began on foot.

It was, as usual, a distance of more than 300 hundred kilometers away. I engaged five men to carry cages with 10 chickens each. They balanced them on their heads as I pushed myself across lagoons, rivers and mountainous features carrying a rucksack on my back.

We would rest at a village at nightfall, and start off again in the dark before dawn. At night, on our way, we met lions and leopards whose eyes flashed bright lights at us, regardless of the distance making the bustling of dry grass or leaves fearfully audible.

When we approached the top of the hills, below, we could see hundreds of beasts casting their eyes which appeared like a well lit city. On the fourth day, we arrived at my home in that central district at about 1900 hours. I was exhausted such that I slept like a sloth.

The following morning, despite body pains from the long journey, I met Nsokolobe, the pay master to pay me my three- month salaries, hardship allowances inclusive.

‘Trust but not too much,’ a proverb states. I’d to wait for two weeks to be paid my dues in installments and minus pay slips!

I sensed fraud, but remained silent.

The return journey to the valley again on an expedition in that new year had brought fresh air.

The ‘Third Republic’ had been born. Also, the misappropriation of my funds hardly impeded me from continuing to serve the people of the valley.

Together with my companion Maria, a male whom I requested to guide me during the long ‘trek’ lest I got lost, we arrived safely at our destination on the fourth day. Being a bonafide native of the valley, he told me many stories of his land.

He compared me to the people who still had the heart to improve the standard of life of the people of the valley.

A skinny invincible gentleman who lamented to have never been to school mentioned such popular names like Michael Chilufya Sata (late Republican President) who, by then, had successfully campaigned against the one party state and was then a senior minister in a multiparty government.

“The teacher has come back!” were the welcoming words of the locals.

Luckily enough, after a few days, four teachers joined me. I was filled with happiness, but it was quite short- lived. One teacher, a Mr X, the oldest, disappeared to the central district after two days in unexplained circumstances.

Together with the remaining colleagues, we worked well for the whole term. On closing day, all of us decided to go back on foot because fear engulfed our camp that the disappearance of Mr X could affect our salaries. My work mates were free to go, but the local people wouldn’t let me go and . I complied.

Later, a couple of local women were sent to give me a sizeable basin full of sorghum mealie meal. I was also presented with four birds, ‘inkunda’, domestic doves for rearing.

“Your patience has made us give you these gifts,” they said humbly in unison as they strode away sheepishly. Indeed, I thanked them nobly.

On closing day, the regiment of ZAWA Officers arrived at my home. The warden had brought my bag of mealie meal from the money I‘d left with him earlier.

Unexpectedly, he produced an envelope which contained my two months’ salaries as a motivation, in spite of a deficit of one month.

They said the previous month’s pay was not ready when they left the central district.

In addition, during the course of the school vacation, the white Zimbabwean tourist reappeared at my premises. His Land Cruiser pick up was loaded with cargo, in fulfillment of his pledges. On behalf of the pupils, I received school text books and sports kits in bulk. The beneficiaries of the donations were not only the school children, but the entire community in the sparsely populated region as well whom I trained and thereby improving their social life. .

“When in Rome, do as the Romans, ” says an adage. Although I was keen to get back home and get my four months’ salary arrears , I acted in accordance with the local people’s wishes to stay on until the following year. By so doing, I avoided bad omens.

There were many rivers and streams to cross. Natives said that due to the teeming population of wild life in that valley, it was unheard of for a lion to kill a human being.

Mr Bandason could only recollect one such incident that happened when he was 22 years old in the early 1950s.

But the prevalent deaths I witnessed were caused by crocodiles. Mostly women disappeared when drawing water. Since my presence the government water department repaired one borehole at the teachers’ hamlets. But the community boreholes were unseen.

“Stay with us until the rainy season is over.

Maybe this can convince the critics that a government worker can be at peace living in our land,” passers-by said audibly in ecstasy as if talking among themselves.

Taking advantages of the government’s supply of sorghum and maize drought -resistant seeds, I encouraged the natives to prepare their fields as the soil in the valley needed no artificial fertilisers such as D or X — compound as basal or urea or ammonium nitrate for top dressing.

Also, there was good rainfall.

The farmers erected tall- legged, up-stared mud and grass thatched shelters using hard wood Mopani tree in the middle of their fields.

The structures were used as hide-outs during the day and for spending nights, to the beat of drums and honking metal bells at random to scare away birds as well as animals from destroying crops.

From the time of sowing to harvest time, the noise that filled the atmosphere to frighten pests was akin to that in the mining industry.

There was a bumper harvest. Apart from growing staple food crops, the yield of rice, pumpkins and sweet potatoes were a wakeup call from slumber to reduce hunger.

For that first time since I lived in the valley, I ate pumpkin leaves, ‘Chibwabwa’ as an alternative to wild okra. Unbelievably, as if competing, natives brought sweet pumpkins of various sizes of which I preserved in five litter containers of seeds to go and plant at my farm.

The beginning of the new year, which marked the third year of my stint in the valley, was the most talked about. Also, the arrival of a couple of male teachers who were believed to have been born in the valley but were educated in urban areas, added morale to the community in general.

They were committed to work wholeheartedly for their people, too. Together with my colleagues we accomplished the first term.

Later, I suffered from malaria. A well wisher rode me on his bicycle to the only health centre which was almost 11 kilometers away.

Unfortunately, the clinic had run out of medicine, but the community provided herbs which relieved my headache and coldness. I remember vividly someone telling me that transport to take me to the central rural district had been arranged.

Abruptly, I found myself packing my whole belongings including livestock in a truck and soon I was in the central district.

Nsokolobe, the pay master was caught unawares to discover that I was in his midst requesting for my seven months’ salary arrears.

To my horror, he gave me only two months arrears!. When asked where the rest of the money was, in arrogance, the pay master simply said I must keep on checking.

Further delays followed which prompted me to report the matter to relevant authorities.

But this was a one -man army fight as no one stood up to help me.

It was mentally agonizing. The thought which lingered in my mind was that hard workers are in most instances loathed. I then planned to go to the provincial headquarters.

No sooner had three weeks of delay elapsed than Nsokolobe became coherent. Instead he gave me the house number in those suburbs of the rural district, according to his words, “where someone from the capital, Lusaka”, had brought my money.

Early in the morning the following day, around 0600 hours, I knocked at the door. In amazement, the man who opened the door was Mr X, the teacher who’d absconded work in the valley.

He welcomed me in the house where he instantly produced my five months’arrears.

It felt like magic! It was true, Nsokokobe, the pay master diverted not only my money, but for others who worked in the remotest parts and found transport difficulties to collect their dues in time.

Rumours spread like bush fire that, together with his right hand men, Nsokokobe invested some salaries in personal businesses.

If it were these days, where modern technology has advanced including introduction of bank transfers, these culprits who are still in the system would have been easily flushed out and denied benefitting from stolen government money.

The issue of rural hardship allowance and pay slips became a hot potato due to malpractices by those who handled money issues.

Never will I forget the agony of being a teacher in rural Zambia.

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