A Casualty of Power

Mukuka Chipanta

Description

�He boarded the inter-city bus and set off on the six-hour journey to Lusaka - Christopher Columbus en route to discover a new world. Hamoonga Moya�s journey would take him a long way from the township of his youth on the Zambian Copperbelt. Life in the capital brought him new friends, and new ideas, and his journalism studies introduced him to ethical dilemmas. Should we take sides when looking at the social impact of the Chinese-owned mines? Who should we blame for the impoverishment of our citizens - the new owners, or the government that made the sale? Is a stadium worth more than a hospital? Outside the classroom, Hamoonga�s life, and his hope for the future, were soon entangled in a web of greed, international crime, and betrayal. Only in the end will he know who his true friends are.

Sujets

• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Weaver Press
• Date de parution: 25 octobre 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 7
• EAN13: 9781779222985
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 4 Mo

Extrait

A Casualty of Power

Published by Weaver Press, Box A1922, Avondale, Harare.
Zimbabwe. 2016
< www.weaverpresszimbabwe.com >
Mukuka Chipanta, 2016
< www.mukukachipanta.com >
Typeset by Weaver Press
Cover Design: Farai Wallace, Harare.
Printed by: Directory Publishers, Bulawayo
Distributed in Zambia by Gadsden Publishers, Lusaka.
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organisations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise – without the express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-77922-297-8 (p/back)
ISBN: 978-1-77922-298-5 (e-pub)
ISBN: 978-998224-103-8 (Gadsden Publishers)
Mukuka Chipanta is an Aerospace Engineer and Program Manager currently residing in the Washington DC metro area with his lovely wife Sandra. Born in Zambia, he spent his formative years in the mineral rich Copperbelt Province near the border with the Democratic Republic of Congo. Mukuka has several degrees in Engineering and Business from the United Kingdom and the USA. One of his proudest professional achievements is having played an integral role in designing the Boeing 787 Dreamliner airplane. He has travelled widely across North America, Europe, Africa and Asia and considers himself a global citizen with a heart firmly rooted in Zambia. His passion for telling stories originates from many nights as a boy spent listening to the colourful tales told by members of his expansive family. He is currently working on a number of new writing projects which he hopes you will be able to read in the not-too-distant future. A Casualty of Power is his first published novel.
‘ Ici kupempula ecikulya. ’
The thing that visits you is the thing that eats you.
A Bemba proverb.

‘Ch ng ji ng y u r s w r , mo ji ng w sh xi ng y u sh .’
When rich, think of poverty, but don’t think of riches when you are poor.
A Chinese proverb.
To my beloved big sister Eunice.
You were a ray of sunshine in our lives, we miss you.
Contents
Chapter 1: A Son of the Earth
Chapter 2: Lusaka
Chapter 3: The Hone
Chapter 4: Meet Lulu
Chapter 5: Your Day
Chapter 6: Sawubona!
Chapter 7: Cha-Cha-Cha
Chapter 8: What a Little Loyalty Will Do
Chapter 9: Don’t Rock the Boat
Chapter 10: Who Says You Can Never Go Back Home?
Chapter 11: A Good Samaritan
Chapter 12: There is Nothing Like Family
Chapter 13: Into the Belly of the Beast
Chapter 14: A Perfect Storm
Chapter 15: Murder at Chishimba Mine
Chapter 16: The Negotiation
Chapter 17: Old Friends
Chapter 18: On the Road to Damascus
Chapter 19: Sic Semper Tyrannis
Chapter 20: All that Matters Now
Glossary
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
A Son of the Earth
Chishimba Mine, Copperbelt Province, Zambia
October 2011
T he crowd of African mine workers advanced in a clamouring wave past the guard post. The three wiry, baton-wielding security guards manning the gate were suddenly engulfed by the angry mob. Swinging their batons in a desperate attempt to defend themselves, the guards were flung forcefully against the wire fence.
Observing the m l e from a distance, Jinan and the four other Chinese supervisors fled back into their tiny office and locked the wooden door behind them. They could hear the shouting of the angry mob outside. Over three hundred African mine workers were yelling and chanting; their voices had reached fever pitch.
Once inside, Jinan and his compatriots moved to shut the glass louvres and draw the thin curtains over the two windows on either side of the door. The asymmetrical criss-crossing of metal bars welded over the windows had always seemed sturdy and impenetrable, but at this moment, they seemed anything but secure.
Jinan reached into the bottom drawer of his desk to remove a grey metallic pistol with an ornate ivory handle. He had kept a weapon for protection ever since the lethal Maamba Colliery incident near the Zambia-Zimbabwe border. During that recent uprising, a band of African coal miners, angry over delayed wages and poor working conditions, had pounced on their supervisors – also Chinese, like Jinan and his crew – killing one and maiming the others. He had thought it unlikely that such an incident would rear its ugly head at Chishimba Mine – but here they were, cooped up in a tiny office with a bloodthirsty mob outside. Jinan had never fired the pistol before; but he knew how to use it from his days in the Chinese military. That now seemed a lifetime ago. The heirloom pistol was a gift from his deceased great-grandfather, who had served in Mao Zedong’s revolutionary Red Army. He hoped it still worked. He was shaking uncontrollably as he emptied the box of bullets and loaded the pistol, pausing for a moment as he listened to the crescendo of footsteps and angry voices.
‘Africa for Africans! Zambia for Zambians!’ the mob shouted in unison. ‘Africa for Africans! Zambia for Zambians!’
‘What are we gonna do? They’re gonna kill us! They’ve gone mad, mad I tell you!’ Ping shouted with teary eyes. He was visibly distraught; his face was bloodless. ‘The Africans have gone mad. They don’t care about anything anymore; they’re gonna kill us for sure!’ He shook his head rapidly from side to side as if to will the situation away. ‘Call the police again, call the police!’ he demanded in desperation.
One of the men pulled out his cell phone, and with shaking fingers he dialed 9-9-9. They waited for a few seconds tense with anticipation. ‘Ugh, no connection again. We’re doomed!’ His voice was heavy with resignation. The cavalry was not coming to save them. If they were to make it out with their lives, the solution lay within the confines of their claustrophobic four walls.
‘What do we do, Jinan?’ Ping’s voice was shrill. His lips were trembling; beads of sweat had formed on his forehead. ‘They’re gonna kill us, they’re gonna kill every one of us!’
Like the others, Jinan’s heart was pounding furiously as if trying to escape from the depths of his chest. He glanced at each one of his compatriots; they all wore the same look of fear and desperation like a set of death row convicts helplessly pleading for a final stay of execution. One of the men crouched down, knees to chin, his eyes tightly shut, chanting inaudibly to some invisible deity. Two of the others lay flat on the floor in fear of projectiles they expected to come hurtling through the windows.
‘Jinan, you must do something, you must!’ Ping shouted hysterically. ‘Please do something, you have to do something – they’ll kill us for sure, they’ll kill us!’
‘Africa for Africans! Zambia for Zambians! Africa for Africans! Zambia for Zambians! Go back to China! Leave our country now!’ the mob chanted. ‘Go back to China! Leave our country now!’
The chorus outside grew louder. The mob moved closer; they were now only about ten yards from the tiny office building. The walls seemed to be caving in on them with every passing second. The chanting had become so loud that it drowned out Ping’s panic-stricken ranting. Jinan’s palms were sweating, the muscles in his back taut. His mouth was dry, as if he’d just completed a day of punishing labour in a Chinese rice field. He tightened his grip on the pistol, feeling the heavy weight in his hand.
Just then, one of the widows shattered into several pieces and the piercing sound of breaking glass broke through their fear. Shards of glass sprayed across the surface of Jinan’s desk and onto the floor. The five men winced, fearing for their lives. The end seemed near.
‘Jinan, you must use the gun,’ Ping pleaded. ‘You have to shoot or else they’ll kill us. It’s either them or us. It’s our only chance! Jinan, you have to use your pistol, shoot now!’
‘Africa for Africans! Zambia for Zambians!’
Two more stones came flying through the windows, flinging more glass across the room. Even the concrete floor was shaking from the thunder of footsteps outside.
Most of the mine workers were dressed in dirty navy blue overalls, boots, and hard hats. Many of them wielded sticks, and they seemed to be feeding off the euphoria of the moment.
‘Go back to China! Leave our country now!’ They continued to yell at the tops of their voices.
There was no way out. It was clear to Jinan that they were trapped, there was no help coming, they were grossly outnumbered, and the mob outside was beyond the point of reason. Their last hope of living another day was in his trembling right hand.
Slowly, like a man being led to the gallows, Jinan used his unsteady legs to push himself up as close as he could to one of the windows. He positioned himself underneath the sill and leaned his back against the wall. He paused for a few seconds to look up at the room. His compatriots were all lying face down on the floor in resignation to the terrible fate that was surely awaiting them. Another object was pelted, this time against the