Victims of Choices 16 06 2026

When I started putting up the material for the production this work, there were many individuals who came forward and gave me some valuable information that made my work more authentic. I am deeply indebted to all these people of goodwill and more so to my late father and grand father whose testimonies imparted on me in my early days that have enabled the production of this book. Many nights of seating in front of the computer never demoralized me neither dampened the spirit in my quest of exposing the injustice meted on innocent citizens through not of their fault.

The arrival of colonial settlers in Africa created a legacy of permanent separation within many nations that were made up of clans and tribes. Without understanding how these nations were connected, settlers drew boundary lines across families, tribes and clans. This was the same method used by the Congo Free State authorities headed by then Belgian king Lepold II and the British South Africa Company formed by Cecil Rhodes. The southern part of Katanga known as the Pedical, the area in a form like a boot and almost dividing Zambia into two portions was defined in the same colonial modi operendi. By 1911, the boundaries were drawn, hence dividing tribes of my paternal family along Luapula river into two and my maternal family on the copperbelt also in two.

For someone who grew up in the interior of the country and had never experienced the life of living along the border area of two countries and having families members on both sides of the boundary, could be excused for the pleasure and pride of having a single citizenship.

How about those of us probably in millions; real victims of colonial boundaries, with divided families and national loyality. People whose ancestors were tricked into signing European treaties that were never explained or partly explained and sometime forced into submission at gunpoint and later led to the demarcation of the boundaries. The Ndebele king Lobengula and Mwata Kazembe of the Luapula valley after discovering that the treaties were never honestly explained to them and refused signing found themselves cornered and paid heavily.

By the time our ancestors realized the implications of the treaties, it became too late for them to do anything as the settlers had already established governing authorities with an army and police at their disposal. The promise they made of ending slave trade, which was so much rampant by then and conducted by Arab traders, was fulfilled partially only to be replaced by another slave bonding of colonialism.

This was also the case of how the pedicle enclave was created and added to the rest of not only Katanga but to what presently is called Democratic Republic of Congo.

The pedicle’s existence has always remained at the mercy of the Kinshasa government situated more than 3000 kilometres away, as such left to fend for its self at the mercy of soldiers and government officers. In the absence of a properly coordinated central authority, neither from Kinshasa on national level or from Lubumbashi on provincial level, the inhabitants of the pedicle have over the years endured the most humiliating, abusive treatments at the hands of the state apparatus. The state of affairs is not sanctioned directly by the government, yet its failure to manage a big country such as Congo is the major cause.

The pedicle rule was very negligible during the colonial rule, because it later transpired that there are no minerals there. Even King Leopold II’s other excuse of having access to the wetland of Luapula for its game animals, was just hollow as history had shown that there were never some serious hunting taking place around the Luapula. Most of the inhabitants in the pedicle were Zambians from the clans of Abalamba, Abaushi and Abalala whose ancestral lands were divided by the boundry as it curved deep south down to Luapula wetland. Because of this reality the colonial government in Congo avoided restrictions that could cause problems.

When independence came, the Katanga state, which included the pedicle, not only followed the colonial system of respecting tribal and family links, but also went further by establishing closer tie with Northern Rhodesia (Zambia) hence of bridging the gap with the pedicle people.

Upon remerging of Katanga back to Congo and the arrival of the Congolese troops and civil servants in Katanga from other parts of Congo changed the life of the people of Pedicle. Pass documents were introduced; it meant whether one was going to the market or church, soldiers were everywhere asking for it. Students had to carry School Identity Card, more so those in secondary and tertiary institutions who had to go to Lubumbashi by train were not spared, on embarking for the journey or disembarking upon arrival at the destination.

By 1963, immigration control were introduced along all the entry points of the Pedicle and the Zambian side followed suit. These controls brought about the most appalling restriction to communities whose life since birth had never been subjected to such harsh harassment. Meanwhile the Congolese soldiers had a free reign of terror. Arresting and torturing young people suspected of being former Katangese soldiers; grabbing goods from peasants on their way to market; detaining border jumpers most of them still ignorant about the existence of the new immigration department.

We should also recognize that after the collapse of Katanga, the judicial system in the province was reduced a to spectator status, as soldiers became the prosecutors, the judges and executors. By 1965 when Mobutu grabbed power, soldiers became even roughless hence resulting in some deaths.

The pedicle inhabitants, from time immemorial interconnected to their relatives in Zambia; had lived a Zambian life within the pedicle and enjoyed free movement, found themselves struggling to survive the new onslaught.

As time went by, the oppression also increased as more soldiers got deployed inside the pedicle hence bringing them closer to the Zambian towns and farms where they used go and stage armed robberies or sponsored their surrogates. Farmers at Murundu suffered the brunt and to this day, the place once very active and productive farming community is but a ghost settlement.

Many people found it hard to carry on living in the pedicle and chose to relocate permanently to Zambia. There were those cut by the boundary but neglected to maintain the link on the other side. Upon death, their offspring did not know where to go and accepted the suffering they were being subjected to. However, the majority had maintained good family ties across the border and my parents belonged to this group, as such, it was easy to relocate.

By 1964 Zambia had gained its independence unfortunately its immigration laws never accommodated people like those living in the Pedicle. The bottom line was that if you are from any part of Congo you are a Congolese and cannot qualify for a Zambian citizenship. Unless one establishes with a strong proof that the parents were Zambians. Again, we should remember that in colonial era that was never an issue.

Therefore, I found myself at a crossroad. How do I convince my father to permanently move back to Zambia when he is in advanced age of sixty plus. Most of my elder brothers had left home, gone back to Rhodesia between 1957 and 1962. I engaged him in a serious discussion and finally he convinced me to go back and follow my brothers as life in the Pedicle had become unbearable and without a future or hope, hence I left home.

I went to join my elder brother in Ndola, Zambia and travelled by train from Mokambo to Sakania and spent the night at my cousin’s place Abner Chola. The following day he escorted me to the railway station where I was to catch another Zambia Railway train to Ndola. The carriers were very old with the word “NATIVES” inscribed on the sides; the benches were made of pieces of hard wood spaced and very uncomfortable for a long ride. Sakania to Ndola was a short trip but these trains used to move very slowly.

By contrast, the Congo trains pulled nice coaches of different classes. The fourth class carriers; these were like being in a bus with open space and one toilet on each end. Followed by third class coaches; separated into compartments with chairs covered in plastic. Each compartment could accommodate six passengers and the seats were convertible to sleepers so that at night they could be turned into beds. Then there were coaches of second class, also made of compartments with collapsible beds. The walls were made of quality woods and it used be a pleasure during my school days of travelling the hundred and eighty kilometer journey; Mokambo to Elizabethville by second class. My father was the one who had to queue up for my ticket, because the ticket sellers did not allow students to board any other class except the fourth class.

Yet the fourth class was too crowded as most of the passengers were “traffiquants”; people who used to go and buy goods in Zambia for reselling in Congo. The Katanga province was just reeling from the civil war and had its basic business foundation destroyed. Foreign and local investors had fled the country in drove, turning Katanga towns into wasteland, with no work for people. The infrastructure was destroyed beyond repair and such was the cruelty of the war. To survive after the war, people started all types of odd jobs and some taking train trips to Zambia to go and buy goods that were not available in Katanga and the fourth class was their mode of travel. These people were rough and used abusive language to any one; pushing anything on their way and a nightmare to students. I had told my father about the fourth class hell ride, that it was no more comfortable as it used to be during the time he was working for the railway.

To save me from the troubles he made sure that I was booked into second class compartment and paid the full adult fee for every trip I made on my way to the boarding school.

The first class coaches were a top class mode of travel. Carpeted in royal mauve color, they were designed for the top echelon in society. I saw them when Moise Tshombe then President of Katanga during the secession period, was visiting the pedicle and during the civil war when Europeans were fleeing the Katanga state.

My elder brother was staying in Chifubu, a township in Ndola town, well known to the first couple and second Republican President Dr. F. Chiluba and his first wife, for the period they lived there and neighbors to us. After disembarking from the train, someone showed me where to catch the bus to the township and once there I went to council offices to seek direction to the house. It was a Saturday afternoon and my brother was not at home. He returned late and found me waiting for him outside. It was an emotional reunion as we last met in 1962 when he came to attend our mother’s funeral and was shocked to see me grown so much in the last five years. “ I don’t want you to be polluted with town life”, he said, “ I will get you a job soon”. Within the first week, I found myself working in a printing company, where he was also employed. This was almost three years after Zambia had attained its independence, and people were still vibrant with the new status brought about by self-rule. Most signs of racial discrimination had disappeared, shoved off into the dustbin of history. In the work place, senior employees had tales to tell new comers like myself about the work discrimination they experienced during the colonial rule.

I joined a team of machine minders (printers); these were people running printing machines and producing some amazing work from line work jobs such as receipts, delivery notes, orders, to more complicated full color brochures and posters. They talked of that dark period of colonial era when they were forced by circumstances of racial discrimination to remain machine assistants despite of many years of working with the white printers.

Day in and day out they prepared machines by oiling, greasing, washing ink rollers, loading printing papers, fitting formes

and plates as well as preparing all the sundries needed during the printing process, yet the management could not trust them to be on their own on the machines. They spoke of young whites, straight from schools and mostly from within the country and some from the other members of the Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland (now Zimbabwe and Malawi respectively), South Africa and Europe who came in numbers to work with them as part of the “on the job training program” designed specifically for whites. These young men without experience relied so much on the local workers in building their expertise, and were paid handsomely as compared to the black workers’ meager wages.

I also found many former students of Ecole Technique de la Kafubu; a catholic tehnical school outside Lubumbashi in Congo, the same school where I also went to do my printing course. The time I started working in 1967, most of the white machine minders were already gone; gone away because they could not work under a black government and only a handful of them remained behind. The majority who took the flight went to settle in Southern Rhodesia and South Africa.

Because of this exodus, the indigenous local people who were in yesteryears machine assistants, and all along considered unskilled and uneducated, were now left alone and allowed to take charge of these printing machines. The unfortunate part was that their wages were only raised by few cents and not up to the good salaries their former counterparts were earning. I for one have remained indebted to those printers who taught me skills and high dedication to the printing profession; values that I have passionately embraced in my all life.

As I started working, the management explained to me that the law required me to be in possession of an ID or NRC ( National Registration Card ). The citizenship law states that when a person has attained the age of sixteen, he/she is required to possess an ID. So I was asked to submit a copy of my (ID), unfortunately I had not yet acquired it by then. Some days later, I took time off from work and went to the government offices to find out how I could obtain the card. “No Mr. Kamenga ”, the officer said, “we can’t give you the card in the absence of your father, you need to come with him for interview and bring your birth certificate to prove that you were born in Zambia. I am somehow pulsed by your surname because it is my first time to come across such a surname. In this country we know the name KAMANGA and I have never heard of the KAMENGA, your name doesn’t sound local”. I asked him if he knew all the surnames of the seventy two tribes existing in Zambia. I left the office disappointed to see a government employee “ a Zambian himself for that matter ”, who did not understand the diversity of our society. Let alone not knowing the truth that many people from the colonial era had no birth certificates, and wondered if he himself had one anyway.

People didn’t bother to acquire one, unless there was a need, as such only people in employment issued with passes who were authorized to stay in urban areas and could easily take their wives to the hospital for delivery, had the means to acquire a birth certificate.

A rural person wishing to visit a relative living in urban area, needed a permit/pass, which was not by itself easy to obtain as some people were arrested on their way to the pass office. Road blocks and patrolling policemen were found in many places. Consequently, the majority of the population living in rural area where avoiding visiting towns and preferred giving birth at home, thus no access to birth certificate. I had my certificate issued by the Catholic Church at Mokambo in Belgian Congo where I was born and baptized ten days later.

The information filled on the card did not include the nationality of my parents as a requirement, maybe it could be assumed that in colonial era nationality was not an issue to indigenous people. Few month later, I went home to brief my father about the need of acquiring my ID. He accepted to accompany me and a day was set for us to go and see the national registration officer. When we arrived there, my father was asked to explain of why he was staying in Congo if really he was a Zambian citizen. He answered that he did not choose to be a Congolese nor a Zambian or both, but colonialists created that environment where people; owners of the land; were not consulted, briefed or involved in the demarcation of the boundaries, as such he didn’t have the answer for the officer.

The officer got infuriated by the kind of response and refused to issue the ID by saying that my certificate didn’t show that I was born from Zambian parents and that we could go and get the ID in Mansa, a district town in Luapula province which is closer to my father original home.

My father was born in the royal house from one of the daughters of Chief Milambo Myelemyele Kapaya wa bantu and grew up at Mibenge village. Unfortunately during this period in time, crossing the Congo strip (the pedical) from copperbelt to Luapula or vis versa was a nightmare due to harassment by the Congolese soldiers.

The early stage of Mobutu Seseko reign of terror had just began two years earlier after he staged a coup d’état in 1965. A culmination of events followed after the 30 th June, 1960 when the Belgian government granted Congo its independence, as eleven days later Moise Tshombe declared the Katanga province an independent state and within few months a civil war erupted which lasted up to 1962. At the end of the Katanga rebellion, troops from the national army were brought in Katanga and stationed in all places including the strip territory bellow Elizabethville (Lubumbashi), the Pedical.

Instead of maintaining peace, the soldiers embarked on intimidation, arbitrary arrests, beatings etc., that they caused so much havoc not just to the Zambians crossing the strip through the Pedical road but also to the inhabitants of the area. When visiting relatives in Zambia, my father like many other people were forced to use undefined crossings. The good and surviving part was that the boundary line passed just a kilometre away from home and it was easy to cross into Zambia from there.

The challenge of proceeding to Mansa became imminent but then the thought of passing through the Pedical with the troubling Congolese soldiers in Chembe on the eastern side of the Pedical road was a major obstacle. Realizing that the trip was going to be a difficult one, I suggested to go to my mother’s cousins ( brothers in our culture) living in Nsakanya village in chief Chiwala just about ten Kilometres from Ndola, in Zambia and my father agreed.

The following week, I woke up that morning very early on my way to Nsakanya village, a place that was never serviced by public transport.

I needed to go and meet the uncles and other members of the family there that I never had time to visit before and also request one of them to accompany me to National registration offices; it was like killing two birds with one stone. On the way I was just thinking of the many relatives living there that I was not going to be able to see; those who lived in distant villages like Kang’umba and Mulabika; time was not on my side. I knew that they were going to complain bitterly once they learnt about my visit, these are relatives I last saw when I visited the place.

In 1962 after the death of my mother, the uncles who came to attend the funeral requested my father after the burial to take me and my young sister with them back to Zambia for a short stay. We needed some recovery period by being away from home and reduce the burden on my father so that he could find strength of coping up with the tragedy that had befallen him. My father could not be persuaded to let us go until the following year when my elder brother took us there. I visited them for the second time in August 1964, just two months before Zambia attained its independence; during my school vacation and stayed there for four weeks.

So here I was approaching the village, and the elder uncle’s house was in front, and upon seeing me coming, he called my name: Kamenga, oh umwipwa wandi aisa! ( Kamenga my nephew has come ). I had a hero welcome! Uncles, aunties, cousins and friends were all there to see me. This is the richness of village life at its best, where you don’t feel abandoned or lonely. Let alone the stories about life in general. People want to know what you have been doing and they also tell you their side of the story. Then comes the food galore; every home prepares something for you, but the goodness is that there are many cousins and friends to share with you even if your stomach could not take it anymore. It is not the kind of reception that you could cover in few hours, but a full day.

In the evening we went and sat in a thatched open hut called insaka; the uncles, the aunties and the cousins, all assembled. The eldest uncle picked up the discussion by thanking me for the effort shown of visiting them. Others also join in and we talked about family problems and events that had happened on both sides of the border. I knew that I couldn’t just rush in my request otherwise my trip was going to be seen in an offensive way; it was like going there just for their assistance contrary to family visit that reconnect me; until we reached the time for me to explain.

They understood my situation and one uncle said offered to take me there. The evening stories and jokes went on until the elder uncle requested us to go to bed and have proper sleep since the trip was long. We were waken up in the middle of the night and started off in the early hours of the morning so that we could reach the offices in time and join the long queue of other applicants.

When we arrived at the offices, there was already a long queue formed. “ People in towns have advantages in everything”, my uncle complained! The process was just too slow, and we only managed to go in immediately after lunch. As we approached the door, my elder brother came to join us, and the uncle told me not to produce the birth certificate, as he was going to rely on his own knowledge.

Once inside, I found myself in front of the same officer again, the person who had refused to give me the ID some time back. He asked my uncle to explain how he know us. “ They are my sister’s sons, my nephews ”.

Where is their father?

I have the right to represent them as well as an uncle when the father could not make it.

Where is the mother of these boys?

The mother died in 1962.

The boys are over 18 years of age, why did you delay with the registration?

I live at Nsakanya village a distance of more than ten kilometers from here and travelling such a journey, one needs to start walking as early as one in the morning in order to be in front of the queue, we tried on three occasions with other children, reaching here only to find long queues. It was then decided that we should allow as many people as possible to go through until such time that they will be a shorter queue, and that is why we are here today ”.

At the end of the interview my brother and I were given the ID. We left the office with smiles written all over our faces, and thanked the uncle for the sacrifice; as it was getting late, he hurriedly left us and went back to his home.

The following month, I went to visit my father, some immigration officers on the Zambian side recognized my face.

“Ah, how did you acquire this ID as I have known you to be a Congolese?

I am also a Zambian I replied.

No, no, you cannot have two citizenship, so I am repossessing this card.

Why do you want to take away my ID yet I went through a normal channel in acquiring it.

Sorry I will not give it back to you until you bring one of your parents to come and prove that you are a Zambian citizen”.

I proceeded to Congo’s side, the officer asked for my pass document ( Laissez Passer ). I did not have one, since I had decided to go and live in Zambia.

“ Oh no, you will not enter Congo and go back.

But I am visiting my father ” I said.

“ If you live in Zambia where is your ID”?

They have detained it until my father goes there to explain how I got my Zambian citizenship.

Is your father a Congolese or a Zambian?

“He is both ”, I replied.

“ Oh no that is illegal, we are going to arrest him” said the officer.

The officer was still new in Mokambo and didn’t know my father. As we were talking, another officer came to join us and asked who my father was and I told him. “ I know the old man, please pass”, said the second officer. I proceeded home and found daddy seated under the mango tree. “There you are Kamenga, at last you have remembered me ”. We exchanged greetings and I went straight to the point. I told him that the immigration officer on the Zambian side had detained my ID. “Let us go there immediately, he said standing up, you know these young boys they are bringing straight from school and who grew up in the interior of the country don’t understand these things ”. We arrived on Congo’s side and he went straight in the senior immigration officer’s office. “I want to know who was refusing my son entry. No sorry sir, the officer is new here and as such he still learning”. Apologies accepted, and they shook hands.

We proceeded to Zambia’s side, the same officer who had grabbed my ID earlier on was still at the counter. My father asked him to see the senior officer on duty and obligingly we were taken to the officer who received and offered us chairs to sit down. My father introduced himself and told the officer that he had come to collect the ID card, which was confiscated. The officer was more interested to know my father’s back ground. The old man felt like a teacher in front of pupils in a classroom and began recounting the historical events of the area; it was like reading a history book. He explained about his life on both sides of the border; his contribution to Zambia’s independence struggle and his birthright. The officer was so moved by the story that he requested to pay him visits so that he could learn more about the issues affecting the place and he politely went to collect my card and handed it over to me.

We went home relieved and praying that it was the last time I had to face such a huddle; what a wishful thinking it was. Thereafter each visit presented its own challenges depending on which officers were on duty on both sides of the border. As time went by and these officers were transferred away; like many other Mokambo residents, the more problems I was encountering and on countless moments my card was taken then returned.

My elder brother who had no patience and trusted the old way of using unprotected crossings found himself in army custody one day. Some patrolling Congolese soldiers spotted him crossing the border and arrested him. For him it was strange to pass through immigration, something that never existed before. Since he was born there were no immigration checks, and people from both sides could go and visit each other without a hassle. We had relatives on both sides of Mokambo, we could buy things or go and sell banana any time.

When my father started his banana plantation, the tree seeds were fetched from the other side where one of his relatives Sosala Kayela was farming. People retiring from the mine or other companies who did not want to go back to Luapula or Northern Province ended up settling in Mokambo. Dr. Kaunda used to come and buy second hand clothes for selling while he was teaching in Mufulira. Some Rhodesia’s african political parties members of the ANC and UNIP used to come and have meetings there and hide when wanted by the authority. This was so evident during the boycott campaign of beer halls and people started selling chibuku beer ( Shake Shake ) in the bush ( kumikotokoto ). Police raids were unpredictable but the Mokambo mikotokoto which was situated less than two hundred metres away to the border, was more convenient to use as patrons were alert to anyone raising of the alarm on the impeding raid. People fled the scene, leaving only containers of the beverage. The police could not chase them into Congo and ended up destroying the beer. The cat and mouse game prompted the federal government to build a police station in Mokambo instead of relying on reinforcement from Mufulira, a distance of eighteen kilometers away.

The pedical road; the road cutting through the strip from Mokambo to Chembe was the only link connecting the copperbelt to Luapula and northern province. The Belgian Congo government used forced labour method by rounding up all able bodied young men staying there - Congolese or Rhodesians - to go and work on the project without pay. They were told it was a community project and for their own benefit and some of my relatives like Steven Muke now living in Chembe on Zambia’s side, and his brothers Lungo, Mathews were among those who participated on the project.

One story from the archive had this to say about the planning and construction of the pedical road:

“Construction of the Congo Pedicle

Negotiations with the Belgian colonial authorities produced an agreement for Northern Rhodesia to build and maintain a 70-km gravel road from Mokambo (18 km from the Copperbelt town of Mufulira ) to Chembe. Although mostly used by Northern Rhodesia and the few Congolese settlements after Mokambo on its route, it had border control posts at both ends and traffic inside the pedicle drove on the right. By the 1950s the Chembe Ferry had two motorised pontoons able to take the largest trucks, the border posts worked smoothly and the 179-km drive from Mufulira to Mansa could be completed in four or five hours. By comparison the same journey using other roads within the country was 1166 km and took at least two days, going via Kapiri Mposhi, Mpika, Kasama and Luwingu.

Since independence, the quality of the Katangan roads had deteriorated, with the Lubumbashi-Kasenga road deteriorating to the extent that it may take several days to reach Kasenga. Congolese travellers and goods frequently cross into the Zambian Copperbelt from Lubumbashi and take the Pedicle or the Samfya-Serenje road to Kasenga.

Problems from “The Congo crisis.”

Apart from the Luapula occasionally bursting its banks at Chembe in the rainy season and halting the Chembe Ferry for a few days, this happy state of affairs continued until the Congo Crisis of 1960 when travel on the pedicle was suspended for security reasons and had to be routed by air or via Kasama. Although the interruption did not last long, it highlighted the vulnerability of the route.

Independence

The Congo became independent in 1960 and later changed its name to Zaire in 1971, and Northern Rhodesia became independent in 1964, as Zambia. Any thought that two African neighbours with shared tribal, cultural and historical origins could cooperate even better than neighbouring colonial powers were dispelled not long after. The colonial experience contributed to the breakdown of those connections which could have smoothed travel by Zambians through Zaire by replacing them with a bureaucracy and leadership whose allegiances had greatly changed and who saw how to exploit regulations and authority for their own gains. The failure of the Congolese government in paying civil servants and soldiers wages worsened the situation.

Harassment of travellers under Mobutu ’s governance deteriorated and corruption flourished in Zaire, and he saw Katanga only as a cash cow and punished it for its separatist tendencies by neglecting its development. Zairean border officials and police went for months without being paid and turned to crime and corruption to survive. At first small bribes were taken from Zambians whose identity cards weren't in order, but this escalated to arbitrary fines, for example, a driver might be fined for wearing a hat while his passenger was fined for not wearing a hat.

The Pedicle became the major gripe for the people of Luapula and Northern Provinces and they assailed their leaders and officials when they toured the province, such as in a meeting of civil servants in Mansa in 1975 with President Kenneth Kaunda, when most of the questions were about harassment at the Pedicle.

The situation became more severe when Mobutu's security forces stationed in the Pedicle, got involved or collaborated in robberies, violence and occasionally the complete disappearance of travellers and their vehicles.”

After its construction, the road became not only a blood artery to the two sides of Rhodesia divided by the strip but also played a very important role in developing Mokambo economically. Small trucks carrying fish from lake Mweru used to stop by the market, or pass thereby the sawmill of Cierie de Mokambo to collect the saw dust. Buses from copperbelt towns ran by Kalyafye, Musango Brothers, Luka Mumba and CARS (Central Africa Road Services) made stops and picked up passengers and bought food. African politicians from Rhodesia fighting for independence passed through Mokambo.

Whites and blacks from copperbelt towns found Mokambo a weekend outing paradise; with two hotels, many bars and women (colonialists legalized prostitution), the place offered a true grey area where skin colour separation was not much enforced. Games of soccer were organized from both sides of the border and crime was easily controlled because there was no hiding place for offenders. The Rhodesia’s Pound and the Congo’s Franc both currencies were accepted and used across the border. Life was so much intertwined between the two countries that people of Mokambo could not feel much of the discrimination. Thus nothing could have been achieved between the two sides of Rhodesia without Mokambo, its inhabitants and the pedical road.

Mokambo presented a best option to its residents and new comers from Luapula and Nothern provinces in Rhodesia alike. It was easy to wake up early in the morning, catch the first bus to Mufulira then go around looking for work. At the end of the day if the hunt was unsuccessful, they just boarded the last bus to Mokambo and cross back into Congo and plan for the next day hence avoiding arrest for staying in town without a pass.

End of chapter one. 27 more chapters in the full book.