SUDDENLY, our big Mercedes Benz truck with a windowless canopy slowed down and then came to a stop. Since we could not see where we were going, our conductor stood up and peeped out through the small opening in the door. He quickly but noiselessly shut the door and asked everybody to keep quiet.
“What’s up?” one of the passengers asked.
“Shhhh!” the conductor whispered. “We are at a police roadblock. Those chaps shouldn’t know you are here.”
It was then pitch dark inside. You couldn’t even see the person seated next to you. I looked at my disco watch. The time was running to 19:00 hours.
Like obedient servants, all of us kept our mouths shut as requested. Meanwhile, I warned my five-year-old daughter, who kept asking me when we would reach home, that the police would “arrest” her if she continued making noise. That did the trick; for there were no further questions from her.
This was in May, 1978. We were travelling from Kabwe to Lusaka when we reached the police roadblock mounted at Kabangwe, commonly referred to by Lusaka residents then as “Pa Six Miles.” This was an area before or after Mpulumutsi Bar along the Lusaka-Kabwe Road (depending on which direction you were coming from).
I had gone to Kabwe to see my mother-in-law who had been admitted to Kabwe General Hospital. I found that she had already been discharged and had returned to Katondo Township where she was staying with one of her sons. I spent a night at Katondo and decided to return to Lusaka the following day.
By 08:00 hours the following day, I was already at the Kabwe UBZ Coach Station hoping to chance any bus coming from the Copperbelt side. I was the first in the queue, and so I was certain of travelling to Lusaka that day.
But then things didn’t work out as planned. A UBZ coach travelling to Lusaka from one of the Copperbelt towns had broken down somewhere between Kafulafuta and Kapiri Mposhi. The stranded passengers were later picked up by the Lusaka-bound coaches coming from other Copperbelt towns.
As a result, all the buses that arrived at Kabwe Coach Station were already too full to pick up extra passengers. And so I was stuck at the station, hoping and praying that a miracle would happen and that I would be able to chance at least one coach to Lusaka.
Such an opportunity was not going to arise. As the time struck 16:00 hours, it became obvious that I was poised to spend another night in Kabwe. I realised this was completely out of the question because I had an urgent business to attend to in Lusaka the next day.
Thus, I left the coach station and went to the other station for ordinary buses. I discovered that the situation there was even worse. The only buses available at the time were those travelling to Serenje and Mukonchi. Passengers travelling to Lusaka had to wait until the following day.
It was then that I decided as a last resort to use any available means of transport to Lusaka even if it meant using a truck. So with my daughter (now a proud mother of three grown up sons!), I walked up to the Lusaka road to wait for private vehicles. I was amazed to discover that there were so many other people intending to go in the same direction.
We tried to flag down a number of vehicles, including saloons, vans and open trucks, but these just zoomed past us. I was slowly losing hope. I then resolved that if I didn’t chance any vehicle by 17:00 hours, I would spend the night with one of my relatives in the town because I did not cherish the idea of arriving in Lusaka after 21:00 hours when transport became quite a problem. But as luck would have it, just when I was considering abandoning the trip, a big Mercedes Benz truck with a windowless canopy arrived and stopped where other passengers and I were standing. A young man who was later to be our conductor came over from the driver’s cab and opened the door for us.
What ensued was a big scramble for space on the truck, which carried a wheelbarrow, several tins of paint, a window frame with broken panes, and other odds and ends. It looked like the truck was coming from a construction site.
There were over 50 of us packed like sardines on the truck. It was so packed it was difficult for one to find space where to step one’s foot. To make matters worse, it was sweltering hot inside. Our conductor left the door ajar to allow in some fresh air, otherwise it would have been a disaster.
I was fortunate that I sat on one of the tins of paint near the door so that my daughter could continue enjoying some cool fresh air.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the conductor announced above the din, “remember that the policy here is to pay first. Those travelling to Lusaka will pay K50 each (equivalent to about K5 now), those going to Chisamba K30 and those dropping at the Landless Corner K40 each. Is that clear?” he asked.
“Eeeh!” the passengers replied in unison.
“Okay, now have your money ready to pay your fares.” The conductor then went round to collect his dues from each one of us. By the time he had completed the exercise, his trouser pockets were bulging with K50, K20 and other banknotes. Thereafter, we started off for Lusaka.
Most of the passengers dropped off on the way, especially at Chisamba, so that by the time we reached the so-called “Pa Six Miles” police roadblock, there were only 12 of us there, including my daughter. This was the first roadblock we had encountered since leaving Kabwe.
Although we had abided by the conductor’s request to keep quiet, it seemed the police were already familiar with the trick; for we could hear one saying, “I am sure there are people in here. Let the driver open the truck.”
At this juncture, the conductor realised that he had no choice but to open the door. He probably feared that should the police officers discover on their own that he was carrying passengers illegally, he and the driver would be in for a rough time with the men of law. So, he opened the door, after warning us that we should inform the police that we were coming from Katuba and not Kabwe and that we had not paid anything for the ride!
After the conductor had opened the door, one police officer asked him how many people were on the truck.
“Four,” came his prompt reply. “We have just picked them up from Katuba.”
“You mean all of them come from Katuba?” the officer asked, obviously not convinced by the conductor’s answer. “We shall see.”
The officer got a torch from one of his colleagues and climbed on the truck. He was surprised that there were ten adults there, although all of us did say that we had been picked from Katuba!
“Is this what you call four people?” the officer demanded angrily.
The conductor apologised for the “mistake” but explained that he had fallen asleep and did not know exactly how many people had jumped on the truck (a lie).
The police booked the driver and allowed him to take us to our destinations…
*The author is a Lusaka-based media consultant and freelance writer. For comments, sms 0977425827, whatsapp 0777259558 or email: pchirwa2022@yahoo.com
