An unforgettable, steamy night in Mpulungu

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THE PILGRIM, Friday, December 17, 2021

During my last visit to Mpulungu, it didn’t occur to me that nature would be setting me up setting me up for a hair-raising encounter.

My expectation could not be any different because there is nothing pretentious about Mpulungu, unlike my city Lusaka, whose aura conjures up images of a hassle-free existence, which could take up entirely new meaning after one is robbed of their last coin at the infamous Intercity bus terminus.

Mpulungu is more relaxed and quieter, endearingly so during the night of my arrival.

But then—and that’s a big then—there was more to be experienced behind that Iron curtain, not of the Cold War era, of course, but of a deceptive look.

My trip to Mpulungu was part of a major (almost countrywide) journalistic assignment as commissioned by my employer, the Zambia Daily Mail, who had been sending me around the country to document the success stories of state-owned enterprises (SOEs) like ZAFFICO in Ndola, Marcopolo Tiles in Lusaka or Zampalm in Mpika.

It is the sort of enlivening media work that could turn one into some self-styled economic sociologist in that it compelled me to browse through a wide range of literature on pertinent subjects such as capitalism and socialism.

On this visit to the Northern Province, my task was to come up with my own judgement of Mpulungu Harbour Corporation Limited, interview the management team and staff, and go on to write a full-length article about what feats the company is accomplishing.

But there was a dearth of lodging space when I arrived in the area and this situation would evolve dramatically over the ensuing 30 minutes or so.

Weary and footsore from seemingly interminable hours of road travel, I plodded to what looked like a lodging facility, going by its neon lighting and the music wafting out of its walls.

“We seem to have one more room remaining,” said one of the ladies outside the building.

“Can I see it?” I said. She obliged.

But after we walked up to the end of one corridor, my newfound attendant checked on the last room and turned to tell me that the place was fully booked.

As I was about to leave, a lady suddenly came scuttling to where I was, pointing in the direction of her room, offering to accommodate me for that night.

“Don’t worry,” she told the woman who had been attending to me. “I have a room. Nala lala nabena mwisakamana (I’ll sleep with him, don’t worry).” 

Of course, my thoughts had not strayed much beyond the idea that here was a pleasantly thoughtful woman, who was reluctant to see a young brother launch out into the darkness and end up sleeping on the streets, all because he could not find a suitable place to rest his head.

Boy, how mistaken was I!

Though I’ve stayed in Lusaka for four years straight, I am really not conversant with the notorious culture of nightlife. And there isn’t much you would expect from a socially conservative person like me, not to say that I do not know what a one-night stand is or how it happens. So without prior preparation it’s hard to be cynical, even when an offer like this presents itself.

My thinking was that we would probably share the cost of the room, while I probably sat through the early morning to prepare my journalistic paraphernalia for my day’s work.

But this would be a learning curve.

So when I took to the lady’s room, at her request, I got the shock of my life when I turned around only to see her naked like a newly born baby, and amorously advancing towards me.

Light in complexion, she was totally plastered and horny, and, by now, almost throwing her arms over me. I moved away.

When she saw this, she at once receded in embarrassment, like a wave on a beach, and tried to mumble an apology while taking a seat on one edge of the bed and facing downwards.

I relate this as though it happened in dribs and drabs, but the event, if I should call it that way, happened so fast and left me petrified.

Though the realisation came through in a bit of a hazy focus, it is now clear to me that this woman was one of several sex workers who visit this port town to ply their trade for a period of time, apparently targeting workers in the logistics business such as sailors, drivers and businessmen.

This experience is like that of a young Kwame Nkrumah, the father of African nationalism and the founding president of Ghana, after he had set sail on his voyage to the United States of America.

During intermission at Las Palmas, Nkrumah went ashore only to meet what he described as an elegant Spanish girl who, uninvited, erotically sat on his lap and tried to seduce him.

Determined to later liberate Africa, Nkrumah pushed the racy girl away and hurtled back to his ship.

For the woman in my case, I had a question, nursed by my journalistic instincts, after regaining my consciousness.

“How much do you charge for your service?”

“Just K200,” she said, with a suddenly demure disposition.

While editorial space may not allow me to write about the graphic details of the incident, what I saw this night was horrendous—it was a near sex ordeal.

In the final analysis, I never slept with the woman. Like Nkrumah, my first instinct was to say no. Inasmuch as I panicked for a place to sleep, I was too impetuous to think that it would be harmless to spend the night with a lady that I was meeting for the first time in my life.

*This column is published every Friday in Zambia's best-selling newspaper, the Zambia Daily Mail