Zambia World Wide

We went to a Sunday school somewhere close to the back of our house - I remember walking through fields of sweetcorn to reach it. One Sunday morning, I think my father must have had a hangover, and to protect his poor head from the excited early morning chatter or four little girls, he announced to us that it was a special day today, it was "Whispering Sunday". This had the desired effect, we all proceeded to communicate in stage whispers as we finished our preparations to attend the Sunday school. Once we had settled at the school, Auntie Stella, who was the teacher, began her address, and asked us if anyone knew what special day it was today. I was delighted that, for once in my life, I actually knew the answer to a question a teacher had asked, and excitedly I thrust up my hand, demanding to proclaim my knowledge to the world. Auntie Stella must have been as surprised as I was that little Debbie Harris should know the response to this question, and eagerly invited me to tell everyone. With great pride and confidence I loudly announced that it was "Whispering Sunday". There was a momentary stunned silence, followed by a ripple of laughter, and Auntie Stella tutted and told me not to be silly. You can imagine my disappointment - as far as I was concerned, it was Whispering Sunday, and the fact that Auntie Stella and the Sunday School pupils didn't even know was just proof of their ignorance!

I think if I returned to Zambia now, or any African country, I would be very aware of the many dangers that exist there with which one doesn't have to contend in the UK. But during my childhood years I was blissfully unaware. The only enduring danger with which I was preoccupied was a ditch close to the police camp's meeting hall, which some older child had told me was bottomless. I wonder now how I could ever have believed that, especially as I felt I could actually see undergrowth on the bottom. But believe I did, and felt terrified every time I had to cross it using a fairly narrow plank placed there for that purpose, imagining how it might feel to be falling for ever and ever. I was certainly blissfully unaware of the political situation, or how precarious was the position of Europeans like myself in a country about to declare its independence. I was aware that often, at night, there was "trouble in the townships", and that covered wagons full of black men in uniforms referred to, as I heard it, as "UNIP" used to head off out of the police camp (or somewhere near) towards these townships, and they would come home late at night, singing. I would see the headlights flash around my bedroom wall, and listen for that wonderful, harmonised African singing, which was like a beautiful lullaby to me. To this day I love to listen to unaccompanied, traditional African singing.