Concrete secrets of a valley.

by nalukui lusuko (Zambia)

I didn't expect to find Zambia

My coily natural hair only got frizzier in the hot and humid weather. The walking was not doing me much favors either, I cursed my decision to leave my umbrella in the room. It could only get worse before it got better. ‘’ We are not yet there.’’ The guide shouted from the front. ‘’ How much further!’’ I whined. My own sweat had begun to drench my clothes and the black heap of curls on my head only absorbed the heat that much faster. The very little clothes I had on began to feel like an extra layer of skin I had not asked for. Each breathless step only enlighted everyone else on how out of shape I was. Which warranted some very unsolicited opinions from an older woman in front of me. She wondered how I would have survived her times because according to her she trekked 20 kilometers to and from school every day and even came back and did chores such as fetching of the firewood without breaking a sweat. As we continued our walk I removed my sunglasses from my soaked face revealing a surprising tan for light skinned African girl. The Kariba Dam is said to be one of the largest man made reservoirs in the world about 500 feet tall and close to 2000 feet long and is a concrete arch structure located on the Zambezi river right between Zambia and Zimbabwe providing for a convenient crossing between the two. The road we walked on also separated the lake on one side and the gates on the other. Unfortunately, due to the dry weather the gates could not be opened hindering the usual spectacle. With that, we stopped for pictures and a brief history lesson as I looked to the water body in front of me. Though the lake was an artificial one it gave me the same sensation: stillness and a sense of comfort. From the time I was a child I had been drawn to the water which was ironic for someone who could not swim. Once everyone had taken their respective pictures we headed back. ‘’You are very lazy.’’ The guide spoke to me in such blunt honesty that shocked. Granted I was the not most active bird in the nest but I seldom cared for such words from anyone else not related to me. I quickly defended myself and turned the conversation to him. Chikunda in Siavonga as it turned out. He was the youngest born to a man that belonged to the Gwembe Tonga people of Zambia. These 57,000 people of the Zambezi valley were forced out of their home to pave way for this concrete monstrosity that was to be thought of as a means to ending the short power supply of the country. He stated that the land on which they resettled was insufficient to sustain their livelihoods causing many children to be underweight and die from starvation. He continued to narrate the plight of his people. All efforts and rehabilitation programmers had failed to take into account the ghost of trauma that still haunted these people decades. The thinly vailed cash transfer curtains vanished. The herdsmen once full of life and wealth only living corpses now. As I listened to him I truly looked into his face for the first time. And there I saw sadness and a man who had been robbed. Spite perhaps but there seemed to be no anger or resentment in his voice. A fisherman during the fishing season and tour guide to make ends meet. 270 measly dollars and years later the hardship and strive could not be forgotten. The heartache still as fresh as yesterday, an emotional mark they carried with themselves every day. Afterwards the tour ended, Chikunda and I parted ways. I wondered if he told these stories to other people on the guide for people to never forget what had been built on the lives of these people. Perhaps whenever the moment presented itself. As I sat on the bus and reflected on the day I thought would end up being one empty captioned selfie of a dam on my Instagram all I could feel was unexpected regret.