CURIOSITY, we are told, killed the cat. TIMOTHY KAMBILIMA recounts his childhood misadventures born out of curiosity and how one day he unwittingly sampled a lethal drink he mistook for the traditional refreshment Munkoyo. Read on…
AS children grow up, curiosity often gets the better of them and they all tend to experiment with many things at the risk of their lives. I was no exception and, as a young boy, I remember, I always used to wonder how people entered the small black and white television and radio sets.
One day I even went to the extent of trying to dismantle a radio set to see people who speak. Fortunately, my mother was nearby and caught me in the act, and I abruptly stopped my mischief. She then explained how that was possible; that a radio set receives signals by way of voices and that the people behind the voices operated from a studio.
Well, as a boy who enjoyed school holidays, I asked mum to take me to my grandmother Mrs Sakutemba for a holiday after schools closed in August in Ndola’s new Twapia township where she lived and still lives. That was in 1986 when I was in grade six at Kakoso Primary School.
Not unexpectedly, my mother agreed and on Monday after schools closed we set off for Ndola using the famous United Bus Company of Zambia Tata bus whose inspectors were clad  in khaki uniforms. After the long journey from Chililabombwe to Ndola, we arrived and grandmother and my uncles Chinyemba and Kaumba were on hand to welcome us, even though they did not expect us.
We all remember how difficult it was in terms of communication in the UNIP days. You may have had a landline phone, but the person you wanted to communicate with had none. The  alternatives were to send a letter or telegram which we did not. Anyway, it was normal in those days to be visited by friends and relatives even at short notice or no notice at all.
I think those days were exciting. Today, thanks to advances in technology with mobile phones and social media like face book, it is not common to receive unannounced visitors. As per tradition, when visitors arrive, even without notice like in our case, the happy grandmas were quick to instruct uncle Kaumba to slaughter a chicken for us.
After meals we went to play near a place where the late president Fredrick Chiluba’s Movement for Multiparty Democracy government later built  houses near the dual carriage way. The following morning, a Tuesday, mum decided to return to  Chililabombwe but not before she’d advised me to watch my step and be a good boy and try by all means to help grandma with any chores at home.
For my part, I promised not to let her down during my short stay in Ndola. In spite of missing my siblings and friends back home in Chililabombwe, I quickly forgot and settled in well with my new family. My grandmother earned her living by cultivating crops and at the same time brewing the illicit Kachasu, some crude spirit at home.
One day I came across a bucket that contained a liquid resembling the local sweet brew-Munkoyo. I got a cup and tasted the stuff and, my goodness, it was so sweet I couldn’t resist the temptation of second helpings, scooping two more cupfuls of the newly discovered drink.
No sooner had I finished taking the drink than I felt drowsy. My heart was pumping so fast and when I woke up I discovered that I had vomited all over and grandmother was crying “Timo, Timo what have you done?”
I was so powerless that I could only manage to point at the dangerous bucket. That was when she realised what I had done. She quickly took me outside the house and poured cold water all over my body. After sometime, I felt much better. You know what happened next?
Grandmother gave me a good beating which I believed I deserved for being too adventurous and experimental. The drink I had taken, I was later to discover, was used as an ingredient in the brewing process of Kachasu. It was a mixture of sugar and other stuff.
The beating was so thorough that I promised my grandmother not to repeat my mischief and the incident was closed. During the rest of my stay, however, my uncles would tease me over and over again.
After the holiday, my elder sister Janet Kambilima who disappeared mysteriously and has never been seen to date, came to pick me up. My grandmother kept what I did a secret from my sister. It has taken 37 years down the line for me to share what happened to me in Twapia Township of Ndola. This life!
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