‘You didn’t come here to become a slave!’ she said one day, looking up from the floor she was scrubbing. My door was partially open and I could hear my Aunt moving things in the kitchen. Auntie was wearing a skimpy scarlet red silk dress that showed the outlines of her body outlines in an obscene way. My step mother was wearing a chitenge-wrapper matching with her head kerchief. The floor needed no scrubbing since I had just scrubbed it a few days ago.

‘Times have changed my son. Education is now everything. You need to be educated like Tom and marry an educated woman befitting your education,’ step mother continued.
I kept quiet. I knew she was not addressing me but my Aunt. My Aunt seemed to know this because she coughed noisily somehow challengingly. My step mother wanted to continue with her lecture but Auntie called me from the kitchen.
‘Lameck! Lameck! Are you deaf’
‘Coming Auntie,’ I answered, knowing I was being used by the two as a pawn for their differences, which they had been masking when Uncle Tom was around. Aunt could be nasty but she never shouted at me.
‘Go and buy me some beers from the tavern’, she said, raising her voice. She gave me a bag with 8 empty Mosi bottles. I ran to the tavern and came back with the beers which I put in the fridge. I saw more beers in the fridge and wondered why she had asked me to buy more. My step mother continued scrubbing the floor, a murderous expression on her face. I know she wanted to say something to both of us.
My Aunt started drinking. She drank straight from the bottle like some prostitutes I had seen in most pubs. She also increased the volume on the ITT Supersonic radio in the kitchen. There was a repeat music programme by Timmy Mvula. She wriggled her waist to the music. I wanted to go to the bedroom but my Aunt stopped me and poured me a glass of Fanta. I know she wanted to show my step mother who was master over poor me.
I was torn between the two women, though I found myself siding with my step mother more out of respect for her age. I hated myself for not mustering enough courage to silence my rude auntie whom I thought was being disrespectful. At the same time, I felt my step mother lacked tact to talk to her younger in -law and I also had a strange thrill at her predicament considering how she mistreated me back home.
Before long, auntie was drinking her fifth beer and it seems she could not contain her drink because she stammered and staggered slightly. I could tell my step mother was counting the number of beers she was drinking because each time auntie opened a bottle, she raised her head from her scrubbing.
My step mother came into the kitchen still brooding. She pushed me out of the way and got a dust broom from the corner of the room. My Aunt was about to get her sixth beer when my step mother grabbed her hand. My Aunt pushed her hand away and before long the two stood facing each other like two angry tigresses.
‘You can’t keep a home if you keep yourself busy drinking instead of housekeeping.’
‘What is it to you if I drink and how much I drink.’
‘You are not fit to be a mother!
‘You are also not fit to be an in-law if you come here to spy on your daughter-in-law.’
‘Let your stupid husband come. I am sure you have given him love potion to keep a piece of rubbish like you!’
‘Who is a piece of rubbish?’
‘You of course!’ You are untutored!
‘You are also a piece of rubbish?’
‘Me?
‘Who else am I talking to?
‘How dare you insult me? my step mother glaring at my aunt.
I went in-between and broke them apart. My Aunt went to her bedroom shouting obscenities while my step mother sat in the living room crying. She remained there till Uncle came. She insisted on being given transport for her to go back home. After pleading with her to change her mind, my Uncle obliged and my step mother left the following morning without saying goodbye to us.
After her departure I observed that my uncle was unusually quite and retired to bed earlier than usual. I also failed to hide my indignation at what had happened to my poor step mother. Auntie became more attentive to our needs. She kissed Uncle more regularly than before.
My Aunt tried several times to sit for the University of London GCE examinations but failed each time. My Uncle spent a good deal of time trying to help her with her studies but all in vain.
Auntie always announced herself as Doctor Jere’s wife instead of simply Mrs Jere. After Uncle had read the English Dailies, my Aunt would go through them slowly and pick any topical story which she would to discuss with neighbours or visitors.
I remember one time on a Saturday when two of my uncle’s friend came to visit. My Uncle angrily flung the copy of the Times on the table. It had a story about a bombing in Mkushi. He adjusted his spectacles and peered at me to get some bottles of Mosi beer from the fridge for himself and the visitors. I served them in glasses and put some bottles on the tray with an opener. I retired to my room and kept the door ajar in case I was needed.
‘Smith is mad if he thinks the minority whites can continue ruling Rhodesia,’ Uncle said taking a swig from his glass.
‘He once said there will never be a black government in a thousand years Damn racist pig,’ Doctor Moonga cut it chuckling, his bulk frame rocking.
‘I think he made that statement when he saw how other black governments like Zambia are mismanaging their governments,’ said Mr Tembo.
‘No Mike, you don’t understand. It is not about mismanagement, it is about majority rule…..
‘Bullshit! Are you telling me if mishanga sellers are in the majority, then they are entitled to rule.
‘You two will not stop arguing,’ my Uncle cut in feebly.
‘The problem in Africa is not about majority rule. It’s about quality leadership,’said Mr Tembo uncrossing his legs.
‘Ask the former colonial masters to offer that,’ Dr Moonga said.
‘Whatever is the case, we can’t live with these bombings,’ Uncle said opening a second round of beers for his colleagues. Later, the three started talking about their University days laughing at how they used to block roads in protest against the UNIP government. Mr Tembo who was a successful lawyer in Lusaka still retained his university nickname of Mao. He had been a very radical Union president. I had seen his old pictures in Uncle Tom’s photo album. He then wore leather jackets complete with a beret usually raising his arm in a black salute.
Unnoticed by the trio, my Aunt had slipped into the living room with a glass of Coke and brandy that she had been drinking in the kitchen while cooking. From my room, I could see the red pant showing from the mini skirt she was wearing. She had changed when the two had come. She always wanted to be part of the high class and insisted on attending all the parties my Uncle was invited to. She was getting drunk. I could tell by the expression on her face. She seemed eager to join in the discussion. Sensing that his wife was somehow out of place, my uncle switched to ci-Bemba. My aunt’s face brightened and I could tell she was looking for an opportune time to contribute to the discussion.
Dr Moonga was talking of need for other African countries joining hands to chase all whites from Rhodesia. His ci-iBemba was very bad and he put in several English words from time to time.
‘Can someone tell me what these missiles want in our country? My auntie cut in. I know she meant rebels but the two words always appeared together in the newspapers. I could see my Uncle was embarrassed. Dr Moonga pretended not to have heard. Mr Tembo showed a flicker of amusement but he quickly masked it with other emotions. Fortunately my Aunt was drunkenly talking about the skyrocketing prices of essentials.
On paydays, my aunt shopped from duty free shops which dealt in dollars when the majority of Zambians were buying in Kwacha. We enjoyed canned Coca Cola and Fanta instead of cheap drinks like Kwench and TipTop.
My Aunt kept the empty cans for display on the window and reserved a few drinks which she only served when her friends visited. I could tell she enjoyed herself when they showed surprise at seeing such rare commodities.
I knew her major target was Miss Chanda, her cousin who was an air hostess with Zambia Airways. Miss Chanda went abroad frequently. She talked about her outings to the chagrin of my Aunt. Her photo albums which she carried in her handbag were full of pictures of snow, parks and other foreign places. Miss Chanda always proved her point by showing the picture of the place she was talking about. There were rumours that she had boyfriends in higher places and she had got her job using what people called ‘bottom power.’ Miss Chanda and my aunt were rivals and each one tried to outdo the other in dressing or in any other way.
When the exodus of Zambian doctors for greener pastures started steadily leading to what politicians called ‘brain drain’, my aunt pestered my uncle to try his luck in England. They left in 1992, shortly after Kaunda was removed from power. They settled in Manchester.
I joined them after pestering my Uncle to send for me. That was many years after I had worked for different small companies as a clerk.. My uncle still spoke like any down-to-earth Zambian back home while my Aunt now spoke in a high nasal tone she thought was English. I found the accent irritating and jarring.I had given the couple my flight details. I kept saying I beg your pardon because I could not understand my Aunt’s accent.

When I arrived in England I was wearing a heavy coat because my aunt had warned me that it would be very cold. My teeth chattered and I feared I would catch a cold. However, the excitement of going to England was overwhelming.
My Uncle opened the door for me and shook hands with me greeting me in chi-Bemba. Then I heard a female voice in the kitchen reprimanding someone. ‘‘Stop it! I said stop it! Stop being silly Lucy!’’ As we settled down in the lounge, I saw a Pekinese dog trot in the room, its tail erect. My Aunt chased it and lifted it up. ‘I have got you, silly thing.’ I then realised who Lucy was. It was a dog!’
My Aunt who looked slightly rounded in a matronly way nodded a greeting in my direction smiling. Her smile was an implant that did not reach the rest of her face but ended at her lips just showing her pearly white teeth.
To my surprise, my Uncle whom I had known never to object to whatever my Aunt did reprimanded her in chi-Bemba. ‘’Efyo uposha abantu ifyo (Is that the way you greet people)? She then put down the dog and came over to shake my hands.
I came on a visitor’s visa but later changed to indefinite leave to stay after passing the Life In The UK test and using an immigration lawyer to grant me permanent stay.I was waiting for my CRB to come before I could start work as a carer.

The couple lived in a posh place and now had three children. Kelvin, their first born whom I had baby sat in Zambia was doing his first year in Law at the University of Hertfordshire. The other two Misodzi and Mapalo were in their teens and boarding schools.
I cannot forget the time I visited England. It was at the peak of winter and Aunt Agatha was enjoying my discomfort as if she was an English woman herself. On most occasions, she pretended to be warm but I could tell she was also freezing.
‘Open that window, it is warm in here.’she would command.
‘Really?’ I hissed opening the window reluctantly.
A gush of wind rushed in making me feel cold to the bone. I rushed to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. I made one for Aunt and added two sugars though she had feebly argued that she took tea without sugar. I knew better because back home in Zambia she always took her tea with sugar.
We sipped our teas until Uncle came in freezing. He rushed to the window and closed it hastily. ‘It is cold in here. Are you not freezing?’ My Aunt kept quite while I pretended not to hear.
She stood up and kissed Uncle on the mouth. She got his bag and asked me to make a cup of tea for him. I took the chance to turn on the heater and the room slowly started heating up.
Aunt Agatha’s phone which was on a charger rang. It was Miss Chanda. I saw her name on the screen. Miss Chanda had come to England when Zambia Airways closed leaving a good number of staff in the cold. It was the first time I heard that there was a disease called ‘depression.’
‘ Hello Angela.’
‘My hubby has just come. He is cold. How is London?
‘Oh yeah. I understand. That is the problem with Zembians. Ubututu (backwardness) laughter.
‘Ok I have to fix Tom something to eat. She turned to my Uncle ‘ What are you eating dear? My Uncle said he wanted to eat Nshima with chicken. She went back to her conversation with Miss Chanda ‘ Ok dear take care.
She went to the kitchen to prepare the meal. Despite her pretentious accent, her English had improved since she moved to England. She had done some English courses offered at the local library. She flaunted her vocabulary whenever her friends were around. What inwardly annoyed me most was her use of ‘us’ when referring to England. With Aunt is was always ‘We won the match (when England was playing another team) or ‘we don’t do things that way here.’(meaning in England)
One Sunday, when Miss Chanda visited, Auntie busied herself pampering the dog before opening the door for the visitor. The dog tried to shrug itself out of her grip. My Aunt kissed the top of it’s head and whispered endearments ‘Oh poor thing.’
Miss Chanda who was dressed gaudily in an orange blouse and a black skirt looked summery and was wearing heavy makeup. She was aging fast and her trendy dressing did not completely mask her old age. There were ugly blotches around her eyes, a result of many years of using lightening creams like Ambi Special.
The two hugged in a theatrical way kissing each other. My Aunt took off Miss Chanda’s coat and hang it on the rail before ushering her visitor in. She had made me spruce the living room almost to perfection.
Miss Chanda seemed anxious like someone who had something important to announce. As the two sat down, I fixed them some spirits ; Coke and Brandy for my Aunt and Amarula for Miss Chanda. I sat with them in the living room watching Come Strictly Dancing. I lowered the volume of the TV with the remote.
‘Guess what Agatha,’ exclaimed Miss Chanda ‘I have been promoted to supervise other nurses. The job is involving but Iam enjoying it.
‘Ooh great,’ my aunt said, but I could see she was not very happy. Miss Chanda seemed to sense her reaction and adjusted herself in the seat crossing her legs as she sipped her Amarula barely making her lips wet.
‘Are you in touch with home Agatha?’
‘No. Once in a while I talk to some people. Too many beggars asking for money.’
‘Ha.’
‘Yeah. I have cut many out. I only talk to my mother.’
‘Those people don’t know how we sweat for the money us who work.’
‘If I worked, I would retire early. I wouldn’t want to end up demented,’ my Aunt said.
‘The pension is good in old age though.’
My aunt seemed to be tired of holding the dog and let it free patting its side as it trotted away. ‘be good Lucy. Miss Chanda looked on somehow far away in thought.
‘I bought an aquarium. I have six gold fish. Damn expensive to feed.’
Miss Chanda stayed late in the evening and we had supper (aunt called it dinner) together. My aunt prepared the meal complete with dessert.
One morning, I woke up and found my aunt kneeling in the living room. She was vomiting some white substance. Her face looked pale. My Uncle had long gone for work. Noticing my presence, she tried to say something but a gush of vomit prevented her. She convulsed and held to the sofa for support. I helped her get up and positioned her in a chair. I got a bowl of water and helped her wash her face. She slumped in a settee her eyes blank.
I called the ambulance and later phoned my Uncle. His phone was on voice mail. I left the message and knelt beside my Auntie who tried to sit up but couldn’t. I heard a distant siren which grew louder. I went outside to open for two men in green uniforms.
The taller man asked me what had happened and made mental notes, nodding occasionally. They quickly strapped my Auntie to the stretcher and lifted her outside. I wanted to accompany the duo but they motioned me to stay behind.
They told me that my Auntie would be admitted. My Uncle came an hour later. I chose some magazines for her to read. I phoned a number of her friends about her admission.
During visiting hours, we surrounded her bed trying to talk to her but to no avail. She rolled from side to side screaming in chi-Bemba. ‘Nafwa mayo mutuule mwe bantu!’ I am dying mother. Please help.
My Uncle held her hand ‘Agatha calm down. You will soon be OK.’ My Auntie continued rolling and crying.’ Ntwaleni kumwesu eko nkaye fwila. Teti mfwile mwanabene. We chalo uli mukali.’-Take me home to die. I don’t want to die in a foreign land. Oh what a cruel world.
Mrs Chanda looked on sullenly. Miss Gondwe and Miss Daka bowed their heads.
An African nurse with tribal marks came and tried to give her some tablets but my Auntie could not open her mouth.
‘Lets pray,’ Mrs Daka said. We all closed our eyes as Miss Daka prayed for my Auntie’s speedy recovery. She asked God to stop all the principalities of darkness to depart. She continued praying till I was not only conscious of her prayers but of my breathing. Finally she said amen to which we echoed amen.
Outside the hospital Miss Daka consoled my Uncle explaining that my Auntie would be alright because she was only having women problem.
The women problem however turned out to be an attempt to abort. This in itself was nothing when Uncle learnt that my Auntie was pregnant by a whiteman and had been trying to kill the baby.
Though my Uncle did not divorce her, the marriage became rocky with frequent rowing and fighting.