Some Perspective
Sprawled in dust in the red soil of Chalimbana, a kind of township exists. A motley collection of colleges and learning institutions are primarily responsible for the settlements in this area coupled with the Chalimbana river which flows within a kilometre or two of the area and whose dam and the attendant features we used to call "ku pool". The hot season attracts hordes of swimmers to the pool, and it is where one memorable Sunday afternoon I almost drowned and vowed from then on that swimming was not for me.
At the time, my life revolved around Chalimbana Basic School where my mother worked as a secretary and where me and my two sisters went to school. From our servant's quarter dwelling, I could hear the 06:45 bell which would be a signal for me to sprint to school, normally arriving before the now sweaty bell-ringer would be giving the poor bell a final whack. The bell was a piece of rail which had been conveniently hung close to the school gate, whose adjoining slab served as our assembly point.
It is difficult to remember Chalimbana without thinking about the stony arid play-fields, whose grass had long succumbed to our feet as we kicked balls about, with wild abandon, our tightly knit brows glistening with sweat. Or the seven kilometre stretch of gravel winding its way to Chongwe which we mostly covered on foot on our way to getting on a bus going to Lusaka. I walked that road uncountable times, mostly only accompanied by the voices in my head. On rare occasions we would be lucky to be given a lift on the Teacher's college Landrover, emblazoned with the acronym SHAPE (which stood for some self-help programme).
We knew everybody and everybody knew us, even those adults I once met whose questions about me soon developed into some uncomfortable inquiries about my gender with one of them almost venturing to undress me to prove to his mate that I was a girl. Luckily my heals came to my rescue as I bolted home like a greyhound.
Some time in 2013, a movement was started on Facebook to connect all old Chalimbana friends. Their first organised event was a party held sometime in December 2013, which I didn't attend as I was on duty in Zambezi. From all accounts I hear it was a success, depending on what one qualifies as success.
For years, I had been burdened with a desire to return to Chalimbana and probably do something for my former school. A desire that I one day vented on our forum on Facebook which was as expected met with a flurry of likes and a few people volunteering to equally do something about Chalimbana Basic School. As ever, online forums are thick on suggestions but thin on action and that is partly one of the reasons I now avoid them like the plague.
The day I drove to my former school after all those years is now etched in my mind forever. Despite the new tar road from the Chongwe turn-off I still experienced a tingle down my spine as I watched the familiar landscape materialize right in front of my eyes. Before going to meet the headteacher, I went on an aimless walkabout, lost in a reverie about the not too distant past.
New buildings have emerged, but Chalimbana is by and large unchanged.
From the tiny Police post at the back of the classroom block, to the down-winding road to Mukamambo Girls High School, the patchy road past the UCZ chapel, to ''Agriculture'' all the way to NIPA. A semblance of a market still exists just across the college football field, housing some grocery stores and ubiquitous fritter peddlers.
I did not meet anyone I knew as I climbed the slab behind the classes, where I had climbed on countless occasions to be congratulated for being the best in my class.
A ten minute meeting with the headteacher, and I left a very satisfied human being, but not before I went to the servant's quarter that was our home for all those years. It hasn't changed a bit, not that I expected it to change.
Inevitably, I have since grown from that skinny little balloon bellied boy, who seemed to be of indeterminate gender, but my passion for Chalimbana still burns as fervently as ever. And to those of similar inclination, my advice is choose now to do something. If a grand scheme comes your way, that is a bonus. But waiting for an elaborate scheme may be waiting forever. Do your part for your history, do your part for your country.You never know just how much of a difference you will be making.
At the time, my life revolved around Chalimbana Basic School where my mother worked as a secretary and where me and my two sisters went to school. From our servant's quarter dwelling, I could hear the 06:45 bell which would be a signal for me to sprint to school, normally arriving before the now sweaty bell-ringer would be giving the poor bell a final whack. The bell was a piece of rail which had been conveniently hung close to the school gate, whose adjoining slab served as our assembly point.
It is difficult to remember Chalimbana without thinking about the stony arid play-fields, whose grass had long succumbed to our feet as we kicked balls about, with wild abandon, our tightly knit brows glistening with sweat. Or the seven kilometre stretch of gravel winding its way to Chongwe which we mostly covered on foot on our way to getting on a bus going to Lusaka. I walked that road uncountable times, mostly only accompanied by the voices in my head. On rare occasions we would be lucky to be given a lift on the Teacher's college Landrover, emblazoned with the acronym SHAPE (which stood for some self-help programme).
We knew everybody and everybody knew us, even those adults I once met whose questions about me soon developed into some uncomfortable inquiries about my gender with one of them almost venturing to undress me to prove to his mate that I was a girl. Luckily my heals came to my rescue as I bolted home like a greyhound.
Some time in 2013, a movement was started on Facebook to connect all old Chalimbana friends. Their first organised event was a party held sometime in December 2013, which I didn't attend as I was on duty in Zambezi. From all accounts I hear it was a success, depending on what one qualifies as success.
For years, I had been burdened with a desire to return to Chalimbana and probably do something for my former school. A desire that I one day vented on our forum on Facebook which was as expected met with a flurry of likes and a few people volunteering to equally do something about Chalimbana Basic School. As ever, online forums are thick on suggestions but thin on action and that is partly one of the reasons I now avoid them like the plague.
The day I drove to my former school after all those years is now etched in my mind forever. Despite the new tar road from the Chongwe turn-off I still experienced a tingle down my spine as I watched the familiar landscape materialize right in front of my eyes. Before going to meet the headteacher, I went on an aimless walkabout, lost in a reverie about the not too distant past.
New buildings have emerged, but Chalimbana is by and large unchanged.
From the tiny Police post at the back of the classroom block, to the down-winding road to Mukamambo Girls High School, the patchy road past the UCZ chapel, to ''Agriculture'' all the way to NIPA. A semblance of a market still exists just across the college football field, housing some grocery stores and ubiquitous fritter peddlers.
I did not meet anyone I knew as I climbed the slab behind the classes, where I had climbed on countless occasions to be congratulated for being the best in my class.
A ten minute meeting with the headteacher, and I left a very satisfied human being, but not before I went to the servant's quarter that was our home for all those years. It hasn't changed a bit, not that I expected it to change.
Inevitably, I have since grown from that skinny little balloon bellied boy, who seemed to be of indeterminate gender, but my passion for Chalimbana still burns as fervently as ever. And to those of similar inclination, my advice is choose now to do something. If a grand scheme comes your way, that is a bonus. But waiting for an elaborate scheme may be waiting forever. Do your part for your history, do your part for your country.You never know just how much of a difference you will be making.
I intend to take one such 'pilgrimage'. Great read!
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