| Introduction MDLA was a branch of a national land rights organisation run Zambians, which was both an advocacy and practical support vehicle. It set up and trained local groups to advocate and demand their rights to land use and title. It also had a role in mediating disputes between individuals, communities, commercial organisations and government departments. The work took place in a context of two forms of land ownership set up by British Colonial powers. The first was traditional land under the control of tribal chiefs and the second in urban situations involved 99 year leases issued by government authorities that owned all of the land. Thus, work was also done with chiefs and government officials.
The highly educated staff also engaged with situations of increasing acquisition of tribal lands by foreign commercial companies from corrupted chiefs and abuses and environmental damage by mining companies. We also offered paralegal services. As time went on advocacy included more general aspects of democratic rights. The slogan ‘Land Is Life' was accurate for people who depended upon secure access to grow the basic living requirements. My role was more in support of the staff than direct work with communities, although I was engaged with training and support work alongside staff.
Early Challenges - A Letter
Dear all,
Well it's that time again. Time to reach for the delete button or the spam blocker, or take it as a penance to read on, that might, with luck, purify the soul.
May I send you greetings from darkest Africa. I say that on the back of a sixth day without electricity, which tops the previous six hours load shedding every day that means we have to talk to each other, because our computers and phones are flat and work grinds to a halt, whilst Zesco bemoans climate change and lightning strikes. As I write the power has just come back on today, Zesco knows that tolerance is wearing thin.
The good news is that the power cuts did not affect my computer, because it broke two weeks into my stay in Zambia. Now, Mansa is a small town close to the DR Congo border. It is actually quicker to drive across a small sliver of DRC that pokes into Zambia than around it, but VSO will not let us venture into Congo. So, the 10-12 hour journey from Lusaka delivers you to a town with a few markets, a lot of hardware shops that don't sell screws or nuts, or most things in fact, and a plentiful supply of stores that tell you that they sell general supplies. Luckily, in one of them I managed to find the only supply of shampoo in town. It came in a 2.5 litre container and looks as though it is a petroleum bi-product. The great thing is that this seems to be a corner of Africa (the world) which is not swamped by cheap Chinese copies of everything. There was a Safeways supermarket here, but it burnt down a week before my arrival. I have tried to find a hairdresser who can cut un-crinkled hair, but in the last, recommended ladies salon the proprietor looked at me disdainfully and told me to try the barber next door who, in turn, looked at me menacingly with electric clippers at the ready. It looks as though I will be adding self-help hair-stylist to my C.V. The purpose of this travelogue is not to tell you of my zero- hours contract with Zambia tourist board, but to give you some idea of the paucity of skilled services here. Imagine my surprise then, when I was told of a man who can mend computers. Sure enough a well-dressed, urbane man appeared, checked the fault and told me he had a room full of spares. Within a day I had my computer back and working and all for £20. He didn't have any screws or nuts though.
I manage to do runs every weekend. Yes, I know I should act my age, but that seems to have been a problem all through my life. The Bemba people in this part of Zambia are quiet, respectful and polite people on the whole. Just my luck then that I should seek out the only two exceptions on this morning's canter through the back roads. As I came along the road at 5.30 I saw two young drunk men ahead. They stopped to make lewd suggestions to some young women on their way to market, but on seeing me coming towards them saw the opportunity for much greater fun. They stood in the middle of the road instructing me to stop. I decided against it and impressed myself with a silky feint and side step accompanied by a lightning burst of pace that took me past the tall one of the two. Mistake! Like dogs, they reacted to my flight and joined the chase. At that moment I recognised my age and, after several feints and changes of direction had to admit that I could not out run them. It all turned out well, as the smaller one was confused about what to do with me and the tall one, once he had satisfied his need to have me talk to him held his fist out for fist kiss. They went off laughing.
We have also had a water shortage here. People on mains have one hour a day supply and sometimes none at all. At an early meeting I attended, people were comparing the colours of water that had emerged from their taps. Municipal Council representatives again used the old climate change trick only to be roundly abused for having no other plan than taking water from the river. We have a bore hole with a pump to a tank and even that runs out of water. I have been washing in half a litre of water and last Sunday took my washing down to the river, where the local women scolded me for taking so long to wash my few clothes.
“ I would have finished that a long time ago. I suppose you don't have much to do today do you? You have a lot of time.” I nodded meekly, with a sense of shame at my indolence.
I suppose you will be interested in my views on the Presidential election? Well, Mr Lungu's contested narrow victory seemed to have finally been accepted, when the courts ruled that one of the Lusaka seats was corruptly contested. On top of that Mr Lungu has stamped his authority by sacking his information Minister for stealing too much money. He told Ministers that he was monitoring their bank accounts. I hope he hasn't been looking at mine. One of the nice things in Africa is that the bust of the President, in a full colour photograph, stares down at you in every shop and business place. Usually, they show either an avuncular patriarch or a stern imposing figure. Mr Lungu seems a little ill at ease in a shirt one size too big at the collar, with a look of worried reticence on his face. Zambia, however, is rightly proud of its peaceful transitions of power and a culture of tolerance.
Note: Note in 2025 Mr Lungu died abroad, but even in death politics followed him to the grave when his opponents tried to block his burial in his home country. They failed.
I suppose you are also wondering what I am doing here, if you are still awake. Well I am working with a well-developed Zambian NGO, that advocates on land rights for poor and marginalised people. I work in a branch of the national organisation and am looking forward to seeing life at village level, where Chiefs and their Village Headmen have control of land. There is still, over most of Southern Africa, a dual system of State controlled land and customary land, which follows the age old practices of chiefs allocating land according to local need as they see fit. This system was agreed by colonial administrators, in what seemed at the time a recognition that the worlds and cultures of the Africans and Europeans were so different that you might as well have a system that suits both, but suits the whites best. So, Europeans had the best land that individuals owned and could trade, whilst Africans had communal land with no sense of individual rights on the stony left-over land. Kenneth Kaunda, the first President, decided that land should be a non-marketable commodity without value, to keep land available to all. However, the modern world, in the hands of global institutions that want everything to be up for sale to the highest bidder has forced land back into market place. Rising population growth, rapacious mining companies and commercial farmers, many from outside Zambia, are being handed large tracts of land by the State or bribing local chiefs. People are finding themselves displaced and suddenly termed squatters on land they have farmed for generations. Sounds like London or the west-country doesn't it? The rich get richer and the poor…… they vote for Donald Trump.
As I reach the end of my sermon I am surrounded by a climax of thunder and lightning as the rainy season seems to be arriving at last. Hoorah, we are saved. Tomorrow, I will celebrate by luxuriating in a wash with a litre of water. In the next letter I will be complaining of floods, like the people of Somerset, I hear.
As I finish this letter the breaking news is that we had a party for my Sri Lankan house mate, who has left after completing a great savings and loan scheme that helped poor people to save their own money and start businesses etc. As usual, the young men used this rare opportunity to test themselves against the production capacity of the brewery, but the highlight of the evening was the chance to dance with a nun, not withstanding the long rambling speech by an intoxicated priest.
The dancing nun reminded us that even a bride of Christ is also a young woman. Do drop in when you are passing, the kettle is always on,
Love and best wishes from,
Paul
Zambian Tales
Witchcraft In Zambia
Chienge
Chienge is the most northerly district in Zambia bordering on DR Congo and the site of one our projects. It is probably the poorest District and very underdeveloped. The road from Nchelenge is only about 100 km but takes up to 5 hours even in a 4x4 due to its rocky nature and huge rain washed pot holes. I visited several times.
On one occasion we were holding a training session with the local land rights group. At Lunch I sat with a local man. We chatted and during the conversation I asked him what he thought would help the group to work strongly.
He immediately replied
“You must have the wizards in the group. If not it will fail because people are fearful of them.”
In Chienge, the Police run meetings to counter witchcraft, but beliefs run deep.
Mansa
Mwansa A Project Manager went to see the Chief of the District who was key to land rights improvements. He was receptive to improvement in governance but asked for help. It seemed that there were two families who had had tenancy of large areas of land in the District for many years but were not using it fully.
“Is it not possible for you to take the unused land back and reallocate it?”
He gravely replied that the families contained very powerful wizards,
“If I offend them I will be dead within a year. Can you go out to deal with them?”
VSO Zambia
I was attending a retreat with VSO staff as the last volunteer in-country. The staff was all Zambian except for one man from Sierra Leone. During one visit I was talking to a graduate staff member and we discussed the power of witchcraft in Zambia. She was a strong believer in the power of witchcraft even though she identified as a Christian. In reply to her question I said that I did not believe in the power of witchcraft except for its power over what people believe. She was agitated and thought me ill-informed on the subject.
Next day she sought me out and showed me a You Tube video of a man in Uganda which claimed that he had be caught having sex with another man's wife and had been cursed. The video showed huge numbers of maggots falling from his underpants.
“There” she said “Now do you believe in witchcraft?'
I said “but anyone could have put a load of maggots in his underpants for the video” she pulled a disgusted and frustrated face.
When we had a leaving lunch for me at the end of my placement people around the table were asked to say something about me in turn. When it came to her she said something complimentary but could not resist completing the compliment with
“even though he does not believe in witchcraft”.
My Grandfather Was One Of The Founders of Zambia
Mr Stevenson is an unlikely looking Zambian. Sleight, thin-faced, straight slightly crinkly, wavy straight, black hair, dark skin. A perfect mixture of African and European features. We quickly established a rapport when we discovered that we were born in the same year.
I met him in a store that sold only maheu, a maize and milk traditional drink, marketed for the modern market. Almost his first words to me were:
“My grandfather was one of the founders of Zambia.” The words were spoken with pride and a portent of further explanation to come.
When I went back the next time for my fix of maheu, he asked me to sit down and told me the amazing story of his grandfather's travels en route for Zambia.
Sometime in the 1940s he was travelling through Malawi, close to Blantyre in the south of Malawi. I asked why he was there:
“He was Cecil Rhodes' telegrapher, but he wanted a change and the chance came to go with a Doctor Roberts to search for a malaria cure in traditional medicine.”
He had a large canvas tent and a gun for self-protection and for a time he pitched his tent in a village. As he got to know the local people he realised that one of his new friends was very agitated. He asked what his problem was.
He explained that his daughter was to die tomorrow. The girl was thirteen. As the story unfolded, he was told that the local chief had died and it was the custom for four young virgins to stand at the corners of the coffin. They were to be buried along with chief. The grandfather would not have that happen. He agreed with the father of the girl that he would take his daughter to his tent and guard her with his gun. At first light he would strike camp and take her away. The father never saw his daughter again, but had saved her life. I assumed that there was a price to pay next day when his daughter was discovered missing.
When they reached Zambia, they came across quinine plants, which they infused in large barrels. The problem was how to persuade the malaria-ridden Zambian miners to drink the bitter liquid. On the ‘if you can't beat them, join them principle,' they concocted a quasi- tribal ritual with local healers, incantations and calabashes, which worked. The malaria rates dropped and Cecil Rhodes profits soared. The rest, as they say, is exploitation.
The grandfather eventually settled to farming in Copper Belt in Zambia and for the romantic at heart married the girl and had many children with her.
Mr Stevenson's father was one of the children and he also had a heart-warming story. He married a Zambian woman and had ten children. Devoted to each other they ended their days within a day of each other.
Mr Stevenson has become a faithful guide to Zambia and is already planning how we can spend Christmas together in the very north of Zambia by lake Tanganika.
The Law Does Have A Heart
The paralegal system in Zambia seems strong. It consists of people who are not qualified lawyers, but trained to offer community advice and support in legal matters – a bit like CAB, I suppose.
My project employs several paralegals, one of which I share an office with. Gilbert is a man of some charm, but an overwhelming need for status and recognition. He a tall man with physical presence and at 46 years knows that he should have been a lawyer, but probably never will be. He has worked for lawyers, tried to run his own legal advice service and constantly refers to his lawyer colleagues, whom he can phone at any time for advice. Gilbert wears a suit and tie and talks very loudly and forcibly to enforce his opinion. He wears his Christianity on his suit sleeve and expresses it at all possible occasions. Nevertheless, Gilbert cares about the people who come to see him and has a heart for their condition.
Last week, a woman, probably in her 30s, but bearing the wear of the hardness of life came to the office in her best clothes. She came with her brother for support. Her face was impassive but strained. Her story was painful to hear.
She was woman in town, living alone, whose only income was money for the rent of a room in her house. It seemed likely that she had lost a child. The rent she received was 50 kwatcha per month (about £5.50). It was impossible to understand how she managed. She had rented her room to a woman, who failed to pay her rent for several months and she was told to leave. The next day two people came to the house. A young woman said she was the daughter of the evicted woman and had with her the new landlord. She naively gave them the key to room and left them to it. Very soon after she found herself in the magistrates court charged with the theft of two mattresses from the room.
To her distress the case was found against her and this woman with no income was ordered to pay more than 2,000 kwatcha (about £200) to the woman who failed to pay her rent.
Gilbert made an appointment with the Clerk to the Courts, who holds a great deal of sway in the administration of Justice. We all went to see him. We met him outside of the shabby court building, a careworn, tired and distracted man, but with a commanding and charismatic manner. He was keen that I should be part of the proceedings. We sat in his small office on worn sofas and chairs. He looked at a gospel singer on his computer while we waited for him to be ready to start. Eventually, with a sigh he turned to the woman and told her to state her problem.
It didn't seem to be going well, I could make out that he was telling her that she had made a mistake in handing over the key and may well be found guilty again if she went to a higher court. Then he picked up his phone and summoned his court clerk to the office. The man arrived and suffered an uncomfortable thirty minutes justifying why his court had reached such a stupid decision. Sometimes it is a matter of corruption, sometimes incompetence, sometimes fear of doing the wrong thing. He put a stay of execution on the case pending an appeal to a higher court, which is likely to reverse the decision. He explained that in spite of her mistake it was obvious that she had not been responsible for the theft. The woman, for the first time, abandoned her impassivity and effusively praised her helpers.
As we made ready to leave, the Clerk put the gospel singer back onto his computer. He made polite conversation with me and asked whether I knew this singer. I shook my head.
“This man, a few years ago, was struck by lightning. They rushed him to hospital but after a short while pronounced him dead. The family were in tears and the body was covered with a sheet to be taken to morgue. As the nurses wheeled the trolley to the morgue the sheet began to move and the man sat up. He was confused why he was here on this trolley and could not remember anything that had happened. After that he became a gospel singer dedicated to praising the Lord.”
The conversation continued and he suddenly revealed that not long ago he had lost one of his children.
“That is very painful.” I said to him. He nodded and quietly said “yes it is.”
I said before we left
“Thank you for letting me sit in with you on this case. I find it very encouraging to see that the law has a heart.” He smiled appreciatively.
The Case For Development
When the modernists brought in a new Land Act in the mid 1990s, the aim was to liberalise the sale of land, or, put another way, give the rich greater access to a finite resource. It also allowed non-Zambians to get long leases on land. This would create the economic conditions for investors to develop the economy, thus creating wealth and jobs for the locals. It also brings in foreign exchange to pay off debts.
In an early brush with this law my organisation, went to follow up a complaint from some village people about a land deal in their area. Two Indian businessmen had managed to acquire 2,500 hectares of prime agricultural land by the main river to set up a sugar plantation. To give you some sense of scale, a chief is restricted to allocating 250 hectares to local people and more often than not allocates up to ten hectares. When these big land deals are done the buyer must work with chiefs and local people to relocate people settled on the land and pay them compensation. Often there is an agreement for the company to pay for new school buildings or some community facility. Often this is not done. Some local people were complaining that they had not received compensation.
We met with the Indian manager of the vast ploughed area. He was a charming man who listened to our introduction patiently and then went on to explain how everything had been done properly with Government involvement, consultation with communities, committees set up to identify those due compensation and two rounds of payments to capture missed by the first round. He could see no problem. It was very convincing. He assured us that most of those compensated were now working for the company.
Discussion with a local village headman and others revealed a very different point of view, which it is our job to check out with everyone involved, leading to a big meeting to try to mediate in the dispute.
What seems to me to be beyond dispute is the development effect of this type of investment. Local people have been displaced and deprived of prime land, which will be used for single crop production, thus depleting the soil over time and perhaps leaching fertilisers into the main river. The result is a significant number of jobs, but unconfirmed allegations suggest that people are being paid around U$2.00 per day without lunch being provided. If true, that means that people are being exploited for big profits, most of which will probably go abroad. The government would likely argue that they will get taxes, but in our efficient, modern world the poor are unlikely to see much of the benefit. As the ability of global entrepreneurs to colonise all parts of the world increases by the day, the pressure on land for use by local people will increase, especially as the population is rising dramatically from a historically low base. The poor are still dependent on traditional methods of land allocation to produce the food they need just to survive, but it is being eroded. Is anywhere safe?
SHORTS
A Brief Update
Well, I think you would be surprised at how alike out lives are at present, except that I do not have any groups to join. My small town is very peaceful and uneventful and much of my work is in the office with an occasional trip out to the offices in distant districts. The most exciting is the trip to Chienge, which usually takes around seven hours on public transport, half of which is on dirt roads that get bad in the rainy season. However, it is rewarding, being in real Africa with no frills; nothing much to buy in the market and lovely local people. The poverty is very high there though, with children in dirty ragged clothes, thinking nothing of it, because it is normal for everyone. The five km trip between the guest house, Aunty Genevieve's Mini Guest House, and the office, require trust in a young man with a small Honda motor bike, who must negotiate ruts, small children and goats, all of which inhabit the same space as the vehicles. This does not always work and we had a terribly sad time a couple of weeks ago when a driver from the Finnish Embassy on a monitoring trip to our project knocked down and killed a young boy. Death is so ever-present here. There is seldom a week without a funeral close by or a work colleague coming in with a story of a young relative passing away. A house very close to me lost three sisters in the space of one month, all between 20 and 35 years and this week three staff at the office have gone off to attend funerals of young people.
The work is generally interesting enough to keep me engaged, but at present I am having one of those times of doubt about my ability to make much more progress. We will see how it turns out over the next couple of months. The people I work with are likeable and friendly, which keeps me going.
Mansa Hospital
Having had some fevers and shivers I decided that I should get checked out at the hospital. Tests were done and after some time a doctor confidently pronounced Malaria. I was given some standard medication and told to return after a period of time. When I returned I was given more tests which showed that the Malaria had not cleared up.
“We will take some blood but it will take some time to come back. You must take Quinine, which will clear it up. My relationship with Quinine was not a happy one and by the end of 4 days I was phoning VSO medical services in London to ask if it was safe to stop taking it. They told me to stop but get checked again at the hospital.
A nurse told me to sit by her desk while she went to find some equipment. I idly looked at a glass slide on the desk. My name was on it. When I looked closer I saw
‘CLEAR'
No one had seen the need to let me know that I did not have Malaria any more and did not need Quinine. At least the unused tablets could be used by someone who needed them.
The Martyrdom Of Mutinta
Mutinta was a bright young college graduate whose job was to support land rights claims in the rural area of Chienge sharing a border with D.R. Congo. I occasionally visited her to offer support and advice. One one visit I found that she had formed a romantic relationship with the army major in charge of the soldiers in the border region. They had also uncovered some dodgy land practices involving the local M.P and together were collecting evidence. It had already become a mission for them. I warned them to be careful because of the sensitivity of the situation. The major was enthusiastic and stopped a passing bus to make them take me back to Mansa.
I shared my concern with Ba Kaliba, the very able and experienced boss. It was not long before I received a call from Ba Kaliba from Lusaka.
“The Minister is in town and his office has ordered us to meet him in Mansa but I cannot be there. Can you get there?”
There was no transport so it took 30 minutes to walk to his office with a junior colleague. We sat outside his office waiting. An older man appeared in a fury and laid into us for taking so long before storming off to a meeting. I managed to ask him if we should wait? He curtly said that we should.
When he returned he was calmer and having given us a speech about political interference I was able to poor oil on the troubled water and we parted on friendly terms.
It was a conundrum, in U.K. we would be bullish about the situation, but this was Zambia and MDLA had to be scrupulously non-political or partizan in order to be able to work with government and its officers. We came up with a workable solution. Mutinta swopped jobs with another more experienced support worker. We heard that the major had also been disciplined and moved. Life is rarely fair in Africa.
Henry's Unrequited Care
Henry was a very experienced and skilled Paralegal Advisor, a legal support, trained but not legally qualified. He had been working in the Mansa prison when he came across a man who had been held in jail for two years without trial. He took up the case and tracked the paperwork through the legal system. After some diligent detective work he found that the man had been held because his file had been miss-filed and never revisited. He went to court with the man and he was released. Henry waited on the steps of the court. The man emerged, stopped, looked all around him and ran up the road as fast as he could. Henry never saw him again.
Paul Hague explains.
Link back to "Contents"
***************************
|