Zambia World Wide

Reflecting back to my early childhood growing up in Kasama in the early fifties, I am still amazed by the fact my parents would often consult and seek my counsel when unexplainable situations arose in the Miller household. What is even more remarkable was that I was around seven years old.

Every evening, Timothy our houseboy would place the tilley lamps on the kitchen table. Carefully he would fill each lamp with paraffin and then pumped feverishly to build up the pressure in the green tank at the base of the lamp containing the paraffin. The paraffin came in square tin containers which held around four gallons and, after siphoning the required amount to fill the lamps into a smaller container with a spout, the lamps were filled.

Next the glass globes were removed and cleaned. The white filigree mantles were inspected, and methylated spirits would be poured into a small reservoir below the mantles and lit. A small valve located on the stem connecting the green tank with the light fixture would be opened and the pressurised paraffin would race hissing up the stem, reach the flame from the methylated spirits and a bright smokeless white light would emanate from the mantle.

The ritual of lamp lighting never varied, that was until the evening that Timothy, after numerous attempts to light the lamps, approached Dad and advised him that the lamps would not light. Dad in his usual take charge manner walked with determined strides into the kitchen to resolve the problem. After a few minutes, Dad's anguished calls for help could be heard throughout the house requesting me to join him in the kitchen.

On entering the kitchen, which now resembled a garage with all the lamps dismantled, globes and green tanks everywhere. The moment called for my expertise. There were questions upon questions as to whether I had tried my mechanical talents to improve the efficiency of the lamps. Even this expert was at a loss as to why the lamps would not work.

The kitchen started to become crowded, as Johnny the cook, Mala my nanny and Mum joined the baffled group and offered their suggestions. Mum in her infinite wisdom, a quality I obviously gained from her, suggested that perhaps the problem was with the paraffin. Dad's male ego would not allow him to accept Mum's theory.

Darkness descended, and the emergency supply of candles were brought out ..... still no solutions. Without actually conceding defeat, Dad finally came up with the brilliant idea, no credit to Mum, that perhaps the problem was the paraffin. At this point of the proceedings the line of questioning aimed at me changed.

The interrogation continued, and then a flash came to my astute inner cranium and I advised the now distraught group that earlier in the day, as a means of conserving on our fuel supply that I had filled one of the square tin containers which had a low level of paraffin with water. Dad's face lit up, turned red then scarlet and he bellowed at me, using language that I knew was not Chibemba, at which point, I saw the light and beat a hasty retreat to the sanctuary of my room.