Scribbling the Cat - Alexandra Fuller [1]
What is important is the story.
Because when we are all dust and teeth and kicked-up bits of skin—when we’re dancing with our own skeletons—our words might be all that’s left of us.
Sole restaurant
PART ONE
Sole Valley, Zambia
So when he finally heard the section commander talking about civilizations that existed in the country before the coming of the white man, he was shocked to discover the history of his people did not start with the coming of the whites. The section commander began with Munhumutapa and the Rozvi empires during the Great Zimbabwe civilization, and continued on to the coming of the white man and the first chimurenga, and on through the various forms of colonial government up to Ian Smith’s UDI, when the last bridge between blacks and whites was burned down and the only way left to communicate was through violence: the war, the second chimurenga.
➛ From Echoing Silences by Alexander Kanengoni
Uncharacteristic Sole Flood
Road sign, Zambia
BECAUSE IT IS THE LAND that grew me, and because they are my people, I sometimes forget to be astonished by Africans.
But I was astonished, almost to death, when I met K.
For a start, K was not what I expected to see here.
Not here, where the elevation rises just a few feet above ennui and where even the Goba people—the people who are indigenous to this area—look displaced by their own homes, like refugees who are trying to flee their place of refuge. And where the Tonga people—the nation that was shifted here in the 1950s, when the colonial government flooded them out of their ancestral valley to create Lake Kariwa—look unrequitedly vengeful and correspondingly despondent. And where everyone else looks like a refugee worker; sweat-drained, drunk, malarial, hungover, tragic, recently assaulted.
Down here, even those who don’t go looking for trouble are scarred from the accidents of Life that stagger the otherwise uninterrupted tedium of heat and low-grade fever: boils, guns, bandit attacks, crocodiles, insect bites. No ripped edge of skin seems to close properly in this climate. Babies die too young and with unseemly haste.
If you count my parents and K, there are maybe two dozen people—out of a total population of about sixty thousand—who have voluntarily moved to the Sole Valley from elsewhere. That’s if you don’t count the occasional, evaporating aid workers who slog out this far from hope and try to prevent the villagers from losing their lives with such apparent carelessness. And if you don’t count the Italian nuns at the mission hospital who are here as the result of a calling from God (more like an urgent shriek, I have no doubt).
Sole Valley is a V-shaped slot of goat-dusted scrub between the Chabija and Pepani Rivers in eastern Zambia. The town of Sole has metastasized off the cluster of buildings that make up the border post between Zambia and Zimbabwe. It consists of customs and immigration buildings, a (new and very smart) police station, an enormous tarmac parking lot for trucks, and a series of shabby tin and reed shacks that billow tarpaulins or plastic sheeting in a feeble protest against rain or dust and that offer for sale black market sugar, cooking oil, salt, mealie meal, and bread.
WELCOME TO SOLE, says the sign. SPEED KILLS, CONDOMS SAVE.
People at the border post climb out of their cars and you see them looking around and you can hear them thinking, Save me from what?
Guinea fowl destined for a torturous journey into someone’s pot clatter from their bush-tambo baskets, “Nkanga, nkanga!” and the Heuglin’s robins call from the dust-coated shrubs, “It’s-up-to-you, it’s-up-to-you, up-to-you, UP-TO-YOU.”
Truck drivers in diesel-stained undershirts slouch in the shade of brothels and taverns, suffocating their boredom with women, beer, and cigarettes. A sign dangling above the shelves of one tavern, whose wares include not only beer and cigarettes but also condoms and headache pills, asks, HAVE YOU COME TO SOLVE MY PROBLEMS OR TO MULTIPLY THEM? Prostitutes