ZAMBIA LETTERS, 30

27/07/2025

Went to East park mall, Digiprint. You email them the files and then they print it for you. I made couple of mistakes and had to redo everything note once, but twice. The man behind the counter started to worry. Had I considered the cost?

They could bind it for me in plastic, but I didn’t want that so I told them to make a harder front and a harder back instead. I said I would bind them manually. He looked at me but did as I told him. 2500. 

The binding itself took longer then expected, as I needed to relearn the technique and we couldn’t find the proper needles at first, but when I was done I was really happy with the result. I made two copies and positioned them at two tables in front of two couches at the empty space at the upper floor in the gallery.

Bruno had written the exhibition text. It had an aura of confidence and presented Hannas project with precision. She called the Exhibition Twin Rivers Kopje. 

There were many visitors. Serah came too, even though she had just attended a funeral and was in grief. We spoke for a while after the opening. She is a warm and generous person. She shared a documentation with me and Hanna from a beautiful performance she did together with another artist back in 2014. 

There were also quite a few visitors I hadn’t seen before. Staff from the Swedish, the German and the Finnish embassies showed up. Chowa was there, as always. 

The paintings worked really well in the gallery. Hanna had also made a clay sculpture from a shape she had encountered at the top of the hill. She started the opening with a short talk about her processes and about what motivates her, then she invited me to say a few words as well. 

The lady from the German embassy wanted me to show the venue so I took her for a walk. She was a good conversationalist and seemed to be open minded. She was interested in everything she observed. She told me she had been posted in Sri Lanka. I told her Irpa had gone to school in the area and we discussed differences and similarities between school systems. She said that she wasn’t very religious herself, but she thought that religion probably had a big role in keeping the Zambian nation together. There is not much to do here, she said. In church, people can sing and dance and socialize. 

As we were talking, Irpa came by. She introduced herself and then she began to balance on a concrete wall right next to where we standing. She fell and bruised her knee. It was torn pretty bad. We didn’t see it at first, as she always tries to cover up when she gets hurt, but we saw it later as it started to bleed. Hanna cleaned it up and put on bandages. 

As it became dark Hanna and Bruno lit up a fire in a hole in the ground. They then put the clay masks that Hanna and Irpa had made, casted from their own faces, inside the hole and left them there to burn over night. Everyone was drawn to the fire, as always. Sitting there together with all the people reminded me of other moments in my life with fires, before; at a time when I was younger. 

Jonathan wanted us to tell stories at the fire and I thought it was a beautiful idea, but it never happened. Instead, Uzi brought out a sound system and people started dancing. 

A young man got up from his company and went over to sit with me. He introduced himself as Ernest Nyirenda and asked me how I was doing, what my name was.  During our conversation he found out that I had been a part of the exhibition. And that I was a writer. He told me he was a poet, studying literature and applied writing at the university in Lusaka. We spoke about the differences between the cultures of Norway and Zambia and of his experiences from traveling in Europe. He had recently been to the Czech Republic on a scholarship. The contrast between the collective culture in his home country and the individual culture in Czechia had shocked him. He also said that he had loved the architecture in Vienna and Hungary. I remembered my own time in Vienna, as I listened to him, and the impression it's sceneries and it's architecture had left on me. 

I asked him to tell me more about his own writing. He said he was working with his identity and the question of being caught between a traditional heritage, on the one hand, and a colonial heritage that cannot be erased, on the other. 

When he asked me if I was very acquainted with African literature, I had to confess that I wasn’t. I told him I had visited a book store and picked up a couple of Zambian volumes, but he wasn’t familiar with them. I asked him if he could give me a couple of suggestions on what to read. 

He recommended a book titled ”Things fall apart” by Chinua Achebe. The title refers to a poem by Yeats; ”The second coming.” He quoted it for me. To him, Achebe was interesting because of his relationship to language. The author maintained that Africans need to accept the English language. He was of the opinion that it can be infiltrated, and shaped, by the local languages. He explored this by translating and adapting African sayings, or phrases, into English. This can allow African ontologies to shape English according to their world views. 

As a contrast, other writers has arrived at the conclusion that Africans need to work on transforming their own languages into written languages, used for literature. An example of such an author is Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, who writes in Kikuyu. 

When Ernest started school, he was only allowed to write in English, so he writes mainly in that. He showed me one of his latest poems, saved onto his smart phone and it was very rhythmizised, agitated and explosive. The content was directed against an imagined, or perhaps general, American receiver and also partly towards himself; a subject caught in an African identity. I was a bit reserved at first, as always when I read works that put issues of identity at the forefront, but I found myself drawn into it. It was partly because of how he worked with rhythm and also because of how he insisted on his topic. After a few lines I started to appreciate the poem, and at one point I could really hear the musicality of the text as an inner voice. I made a point of telling him this. 

He commented that it had been written as an assignment in school. He and his classmates had been instructed to react to an American perspective on this issue. I reflected that many times it is good if someone gives you a concept. ”Yes…” he said hesitantly. "Or Is it? I am not so sure…” I insisted. I said it can unleash creativity and sometimes the outcome surprises you. He was still not convinced. He said he wanted to write from a point of creative freedom. He wanted his writing to challenge authority. It must be radical. He told me he was part of a theatre company, made up by other poets, called Theatre tribe. They were, according to him, very radical and they always choose confrontational and uncompromising approaches to their themes. But they also received criticism and opposition because of this. They were being pressured. Sometimes it was hard to turn that into creativity. His words made me think about my own life, and all the experiences I have of working radically and in opposition. I drew a breath and said, ”You know, sometimes… obedience can be a form of resistance”. 

It seemed to be of some value to him, and for that I am very grateful, since he had given me much during our conversation. 

—

28/07/2025

Today, I ruined my left knee. It didn’t happen during training. I wasn’t bitten by a black mamba or slip into a mining pit. It happened when I was writing. I usually do my writing in the library at LuCAC, because it has soft couches and also because there is always connection there. But the coffee table is set low, so it isn’t really comfortable to use with a laptop. But there is a bar, as well, and the proportions between the bar stools and the bar is just right for writing. However, unless you want to leave your legs dangling you have to fold them in and anchor them under a cross bar that is built into the stool. This puts your knee in a bad angle and if you get inspired, as I do from time to time, and sit in the same position for a couple of hours or so, then it can put enough stress onto the knee to really screw it up and that is exactly what happens to me. It is a writers injury. 

As I got of the bar stool, I could feel how the knee ached. I should have listened to it, and laid off in time, but I didn’t. 

Hanna and Irpa went to get more suitcases for our trip home, so that she would be able to bring back all the pigments she had collected, and the paintings. They were really sad to find out, as they got back, that children had played outside the studio and ruined all the clay Hanna had collected from Twin Rivers Kopjpe. She had laid it out to dry in the sun, but they had mixed it with local sand from the gardens at LuCAC. I tried to comfort her but it was no use. She was ever more saddened by this because she felt that they had been very respectful up until now. She had told them how to behave around the studio. The rules were that they must clean everything they have used, that they cannot play there if no one is around and that they cannot mess with anything that lies there because they cannot know for sure if it's art or not. 

She felt that they had respected her rules so she was very sad when this happened. The problem here was that the clay was meant for another work she was preparing. I told her that maybe she can collect more clay if we return to twin Rivers before we leave. 

After lunch we went to the temple again, for our last session. The monk showed us another form, Wu Xing. He also tried to convince Irpa to remain in the temple with the other children when Hanna and I went back to Norway, but she flatly refused. After the session he followed us to the yango . We took a couple of pictures together, before we said our goodbyes. 

Chimbukwa sent Hanna an SMS, letting her know that the Mukunda is in full swing. He wrote we can come and visit, to see a Makishi ritual. This was one of our main ambitions during this trip and  we have been seeing several people, hoping that they can make it happen. We even travelled to Livingstone n this errand. Sadly, this kind offer comes to late for us at this time. We are leaving in three days and there is no way we could go back and forth to Livingstone to see a Mukunda at this point. 

The training at the temple completely thrashed what was left of my knee. I staggered away and could barely get into the taxi. Irpa had also struggled, with her knee, so now we are both stiff legged and in great pains. 

—

29/07/2025

Hanna needed to return the ashes from the mask to the tree at Twin Rivers Kopje so we decided to visit Mr Roberts (Patrick) and Mathilda again. This time it was only me, Hanna, Irpa and Chowa. 

I stayed in the house with Irpa as Hanna went up with Mathias, Chowa and the tribesmen. 

Patrick and Mathilda offered us tea. Patrick asked me about my trip to the Copperbelt. I told him off the suffering in Mufilira. He gave Irpa a set of brushes, a box of acrylics and a couple of canvases. I returned a few personal belongings that accidentally had slipped into the board game he gave to us during our last visit. 

He then surprised me by telling me that his son had read my blogg. He didn’t want to read it himself, because he was afraid of viruses and internet security, but he asked if I could provide him with a paper copy. I promised to make him one and to leave it at LuCAC. 

When Hanna and Chowa returned from the hill Patrick picked up a few plastic lids that were laying around and challenged us for a game of frisbee. I couldn’t join in, my knee being the way it was. 

We drove back to LuCAC. Chowa admitted that he had re-appraised his preconception of Patrick. He then showed me, grinningly, a couple of new erection sticks he had acquired during their hike.

Hanna did all our packing for Wednesday. I was too stiff legged and didn’t want to make it any worse by bending low. Besides, it was mostly her stuff. Lots of art, canvases and brushes. A few books also and, of course, all the clay, the earth pigments and all the dirt that she will bring with her. 

As of late, the security guard has been asking Hanna for food. He works every night, without exceptions, and it seems he cannot afford food. We have given him dinner on a few occasions. This night Hanna boiled him a few eggs and left it at the porch. 

—

30/07/2025

We did the last of our packing. I took care to find a secure way to bring back my masks from Broken Hill. They ended up in my hat box together with my Stetson. 

I also tried to wash some clothes for our trip back but as the washing machine didn’t have enough time to finish it's program before all the electricity went off, I ended up doing it for hand. Again. 

We discovered we still didn’t have enough suitcases for Hannas art, so she and Irpa made another trip to the market. She is very happy to have found that place. 

A copy of Zambian letters 1-28 for Patrick. I left it at the office. He can pick it up when he comes to see the exhibition.

—

31/07/2025

We were sad to leave all the people from LuCAC. Victor wasn’t here, as he has gone to Somaliland, but we took our farewells of everyone else and it was melancholic. We hope to be able to return soon and to see them again. Irpa had wanted to say goodbye to all the friends she has made during her stay, but we haven’t seen them around for a couple of days so it hasn’t been possible. We left them the toys and a letter. Uzi promised to read it to them if they show up. 

The driver was talkative and friendly. There were policemen at the gates to the airport. When we drove through the cordon they waved us in, and left us parked for no reason. Turned out they were angry that Hanna didn’t use her seatbelt. But she did, they just didn’t notice. So we ended up in an argument and the yangodriver and the police officers were shouting very irritably at each other, in Bemba. I thought they were after bribes but they weren’t. They waved us through and allowed us to pass, so the whole thing was probably just a misunderstanding. 

There was plenty of time before our flight departed so we had time to look around in the book shop. I wasn’t looking for anything special, but Hanna was interested in a few books about trees, and snakes. We were also looking for something for Irpa, so that she would have something to do on the airplane, but she wasn’t interested in anything she saw. Then I remembered; Things fall apart. I asked the seller if he had it and he turned around and fished up a copy from a shelf behind the counter. It was a bit torned, clearly used, but it's not uncommon for book shops in Zambia to resell used copies. None of the pages were missing so I took it for 200 K and he packed it, or wrapped it, for me in a brown paper bag. 

That´s it, Hanna exclaimed. "Things fall apart". It´s the book Victor told us to read!

I didn´t want to walk around too much, considering my leg, so we sat down at a restaurant and had lunch. I got a curry, Hanna had pasta arrabiata and Irpa had a wrap. Its wasn’t bad. Afterwards I took a walk to the restrooms to put some Voltaren on my knee, and to take a pill for the inflammation. As I was coming back I heard my name being broadcasted on the loud speaker. ”Will Joachim Uhlbors please contact to the nearest security counter?”

That's me. Hanna and Irpa hadn't heard anything, but there it was, coming back again. They were, indeed, asking for me. What is it? I have no idea. Oh, it's the minerals. Minerals? Yes, the sand and the stones, it must be. Oh, yes… it’s illegal to try to bring minerals out of Zambia, isn’t it? Yes, well, they’re in your suitcase. 

I staggered over to the security desk and they made me wait for a while before a lady came along and fetched me. She brought me down a corridor, into an elevator, through a couple of security doors and then to a place further down in the basement where two security men hung out. One was really fat and he was wearing thick glasses. He only spoke rudimentary, almost unintelligible, English with a thick accent. The other man was slender and had a serious expression. He spoke impeccably. The fat one was seated behind an X ray machine, half buried in various suitcases and packages. The other man was standing slightly behind, to his right. 

1

There seems to be something in your suitcase. I am wondering what it is. It looks like rocks.

2

Yes it is rocks., or sand, clay actually.

1

Can you open and show me?

2

Yes, of course.

1

And where is the sand?

2

It is somewhere in here, I suppose. I am not sure. It was my wife who packed it.

3

What is this for?

2

We use it for painting. We are artists. It becomes paint. You can use it when you mix it.

3

You’re an artist?

2

Yes, a painter. Or a writer. My wife is a painter. 

3

Why do you paint with sand?

2

It's landscape painting, but not as if we were depicting the landscape, we’re painting it.

3

You don’t have this red sand at home?

2

No, no… this is from a place where…  200 000 years ago people were living at this site, where we found it, during the stone age, and they used this dirt to paint on rocks, in caves. We use the same paint, today.

3

Where is this?

2

In Twin Rivers Kojpe, in Lusaka.

1

Oh, Lusaka. 

3

Are there more, is this all?

2

I am not sure, look I can show you, you smolder it and you add (spit) and then I can paint with it, see?

3

So, it´s going to be murals?

2

(PAUSE)

Yes.

3

You know… to take minerals out of Zambia is a serious offense.

2

Is it? Oh no. Is it?

3

Yes, the Chinese. They take everything. They leave nothing.

2

I am not Chinese, I am an artist.

1

Next rocks but not for all when

2

Ok.

3

You understand what he says?

2

No.

3

Next time you need to have clearance or we will confiscate it.

2

Oh, I see, ok, thank you.

1

So… hehehe… you have any euros, hehehe, to give us?