The People After The War

by Glendah Yamba (Zambia)

I didn't expect to find Angola

‘Ola! Bom dia!’ That was my first interaction with our neighbors in a new country. As a Zambian in Angola, Portuguese was a fairly new language to me. ‘Ola!’ I managed back and racked my brain for a follow up. In a somewhat comical way and with a lot of gesticulation, we came to an understanding that I was in fact a foreign person. ‘Fala ingles?’ they prodded further with a growing interest. I had heard the same while doing luggage check at the airport and instinct told me to nod yes. That clarified everything and we laughed and shook on it. I couldn’t have asked for a better first impression of the people I was going to share the next five months with. Humans of Luanda were a tourist attraction on their own, their allure was hardly missed. The tropical sun kept their skin deep brown and shiny, they kept their full, dark lips moistened with vaseline. The womenfolk placed a great value on natural African hair and wore it long and thick. Makeup was an adulteration, the body was for the eyes and must always bear shape. Their fleshy curves swayed and vibrated as they walked, something desirable by the men as a sign of youth, health and fruitfulness. Their dress was far from modest but provided comfort and agility in the hot sun. They spent their free days swimming at the beach alongside plastics and waste, they were incredibly happy. They always seemed to have their own interesting ways of doing things. At one time I visited a local salon for some ‘cornrows’ and to my surprise, the hairstylist worked on the lines starting from the nape of my neck to my front hairline. She did them perfectly but in the opposite direction! Exactly a decade post the Angolan civil war, the year being 2012, the country was in birth pains of a civilized economy. It seemed like building and rebuilding was taking place everywhere, some spots were too far gone and abandoned. It was the lack of structure of the capital city that stood out for me, there was no CBD on one side and a hood on the other, everything was thrown into one like a salad. This was quite puzzling to a visitor who would notice how the pavements and elite buildings led into ghettos and streets of rubble. Homes popped up anywhere, men carried their merchandise to the tourists if the tourists didn’t come to them, children played in the market while their mothers waved to customers behind vegetable stalls. There was a distinction between the haves and the have-nots that was thick and tangible. The rich visited the restaurants and shopped at the mall while the poor sold them gold watches, CDs and bandanas at the traffic lights with the utmost trust. I was once told that no one steals from a fellow citizen in Angola. Infact, at that time crime rates had reached an all-time low, even the moguls packed their expensive cars outside without car guards. It’s like their common struggle had actually drawn them closer. Even with their optimism for the future, the years of productivity that had been lost had taken its toll on the families. Over the years the older generations had lost their opportunity for an education, however, they still sent their kids to school. The schools didn’t observe the tradition of uniforms but school children had to be distinguished from everyone else somehow so they opted for a white lab coat worn over regular, casual clothes. It is was in fact the school children who spoke some English, and boy did they love to show it off! In the few travel adventures I’ve ever had, I’ve never met a people as warm and welcoming as the Angolans. The Angolan people displayed a sense of community that I’d never seen before as they sought security in each other . They observed a solemn tradition in remembrance of those they had lost during the war. This was done on All Soul’s Day where all activities of the day were suspended to clean the cemetery, meditate and pray. And I have never seen more beautiful graves in my life.