We were on our way to Lusaka after having a very pleasant holiday in the tourist capital of a neighboring country. It was the Easter weekend. Our party consisted of two families, travelling in two motor cars. The friend and family who were accompanying us were stationed at a rural area in Zambia near the border. Our aim was to reach that place before nightfall so as to have a good night's rest and proceed to Lusaka early next morning.
The tar-macadam road leading from the capital to the border was well-maintained and the traffic was not heavy. We came across an occasional truck or car moving towards or away from the capital. We overtook one or two slow moving vehicles hauling boats on trailers, probably heading to the well-known holiday resort at the lake-side.
By 8.45 AM, we passed through a fairly large town on our way. The town was in the process of waking up and a number of shops still remained un-open. We were feeling quite hungry as our early morning breakfast was very light. We thought we would find a lay-by somewhere in the outskirts of the town where we could stop for a few minutes and fortify ourselves with some coffee and snacks that we were having with us.
I was driving a Datsun 1600, with my wife and the two children along with me. My friend and family travelled in the beige Volkswagen that followed us. Even though there was some distance between the two cars, being the driver of the car in front, I made sure that the Volkswagen was always visible in my rear view mirror.
A few kilometres away from the town, I noticed in my mirror another car far behind. It was a red Volkswagen. It was coming at a steady pace and kept its distance. Sometimes it went out of my field of vision in the mirror.
The road rose into an incline and I thought my engine was dragging a bit. I stepped on the gas pedal and the ninety-seven b.h.p engine responded quickly. The car surged forward. By the time we reached the top of the incline, we lost sight of both the cars behind. There was some level ground to the left, sufficient to park two or three cars, and we decided to pull up and wait for the other car. We moved to the side of the road and I switched off the engine.
We might have waited for five minutes at the most when we heard the familiar sound of the Volkswagen’s air-cooled engine and looked back expectantly. It was the red Volkswagen with its lone European occupant that passed us at a brisk pace. We looked for the other car but there was no sign of it.
All on a sudden I had a strong feeling that something had gone wrong with the other car and its occupants. I started my car and took a U-turn. We had to go back and find out the cause of their delay.
From the top of the incline we had an uninterrupted view of at least a kilometre of the road. Far away, we saw a crowd on the road and no sign of the car. "Oh God, what could have happened?" We rushed to the spot.
I stopped my car just a metre away from the crowd and jumped out. At a glance I saw the disheveled forms of my friend and his wife and children standing on one side of the road, a little distance away from the crowd and their car in a shallow ditch below the road, but on all four wheels. It had a funny, lop-sided appearance. A number of people stood in the middle of the road, forming a circle.
The realization that my friend and family were unhurt, not seriously anyway, sent a wave of relief through my mind, but it lasted only until I pushed through the crowd and had a look inside the circle of people.
A man lay crumpled on the ground littered with broken glass, near the twisted remains of a bicycle. There was blood all over his body. His right eye was popped out and his left eye looked at me in a fixed stare. Even when I asked the onlookers to put the man in my car and at the same time my wife and children got out hurriedly to make room for him, I knew he was either dead or dying. However I had to take him to the nearest hospital.
At first the people around were not too eager to comply with my request but when I implored to them, two or three people obliged. I told someone to get into the front passenger seat and direct me to the hospital. A young man got in reluctantly. We had come a little over seven kilometres from the town. The district hospital was situated near the centre of the town. I drove back along the same way we had come just a while ago until the large sprawling structure of the district hospital was seen. We passed through the gates and travelled a few metres before I could see the red bold sign of the Casualty. I took the vehicle as close to the entrance as possible, jumped out and ran in to some kind of a waiting room where there was no one. I passed through another door and entered a hall where a number of people were seated and a man wearing a doctor's white overcoat was examining someone through a stethoscope.
"Doctor, there is a dying man in my car. Can you please come out and take a look at him?" I almost screamed.
The man in the doctor's coat came out to the car without any hesitation. He briefly examined the injured man and said, "But he is already dead. There is nothing I can do for him."
I was totally disconcerted. "Oh God, what do I do now?"
"You drive along this road and take the first turn to the left. You will see the mortuary at the far end. Leave the body there and report to the Police", he said.
I got back behind the wheel as if in a trance and drove in the direction indicated by the man.
(To be continued)
Friday, February 26, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
DAYS OF ANXIETY
After twenty-seven years of undisputed leadership, President Kenneth David Kaunda was losing his popularity. The economy of Zambia was in shambles and the once prosperous African country was on the brink of bankruptcy. The Zambia Consolidated Copper Mines (ZCCM) which was formed after the nationalization of the mines to prevent the drain of foreign exchange proved to be a mammoth white elephant that contributed to the depletion of the country's economy as never before.
ZCCM along with a number of ‘parastatal’ companies went on such a rampage that they spent much more than what they could earn by digging deeper and deeper into the country's resources and left the nation literally penniless. It was the common man who suffered from the ill-effects of the economic decline. Food, clothing and other essential commodities became so expensive and unaffordable. Working class people found it impossible to make both ends meet. The rich man, to the contrary, became richer while the political leaders and their minions thrived beyond description. The realization by the people of Zambia that they needed something better than Kaunda's principle of Humanism and United National Independent Party's(UNIP) One Party Participatory Democracy led to the formation of the Movement for Multi-party Democracy (MMD) under the leadership of a trade union leader by the name Frederick Chiluba.
In spite of all the fringe benefits given and unfulfilled promises made, the people of Zambia were not willing to be satisfied with nothing less than a general election. Chiluba and his followers held meetings, rallies and demonstrations throughout the country in which thousands of people participated. The momentum increased and the pressure on the government was so great that a general election was declared towards the end of 1991.
Even though the thousands of foreigners working in the country had no voting right and had nothing to do with the election, they had become very apprehensive about the after-effects of the election especially as there was a lot of resentment among the local workers towards the expatriates who were earning more than ten times of what their Zambian counterparts were earning. There was a strong rumour of the possibility of a military take-over either just before the election or immediately after it. In either case it would have meant disaster for the foreigners, especially for members of the Asian community.
And with good reasons too. The Asian businessmen had the monopoly of trading in Zambia. They were exploiters of the worst kind. Even though many of them were citizens of Zambia by birth as their parents or grand parents had migrated from India long time back, they had all the savings stashed away in foreign banks and were in the process of working out the formalities of emigrating to Britain, the United States or Canada. There was no doubt that if there was a military take-over, the Asians would have been the first victims. In such case, there would not have been any differentiation between the expatriate Asian workers and the Asian business community.
Even the Indian High Commission, in their circular to the Indians in Zambia, outlined in no unmistakable terms the procedure they should adopt in order to make a speedy exit from the country in the event of a military coup. The circular contained guidelines on various precautions to be taken, the preparation of survival kits and emergency contact addresses. On the whole, the Asians in Zambia were the most frightened people on earth during the pre-election months.
As a result, many expatriate and resident Asian workers decided to leave the country for a "holiday" during the election month. To be on the safe side, many businessmen made arrangements to send their wives and children to Zimbabwe, East Africa or India just before the election. However, things were not so easy for the expatriate workers employed in the copper mines, parastatal companies and government departments. The authorities being aware of the Asian workers' intention to leave the country "en masse" made it clear that no leave would be granted except in emergencies. Some of the clever fellows managed to obtain telegrams from India saying that one of the parents died suddenly or was in the process of dying and managed to get compassionate leave but when it came to the attention of the Zambian authorities that too many parents in India were dying all on a sudden, they realized that they were being tricked.
Those expatriates who could not get permission to leave the country or those who decided to stay on come whatever may, made some preparations to stay strictly indoors for a couple of weeks or so, in case of a military coup or popular agitation. These included fortifying the doors and windows by means of iron bars, storing all sorts of provision to last at least a month and making alternate arrangements for cooking and lighting in case of massive power failure.
At last the much dreaded election day arrived. As it was a normal working day, we went for work as usual. One of our school buildings was taken over and converted into a polling station. We saw a long line of people waiting patiently for their turn to go in and cast their votes. There were two or three policemen lazing around and the atmosphere was quite peaceful. There were no party militants or "booth snatchers" and no surreptitious canvassing.
With thumping hearts we listened to the radio and television newscast at lunch time and also in the evening, bracing ourselves to hear the worst possible news but came to know to our great relief that polling took place peacefully in all polling stations throughout the country and there was not even a single incident of blood shed or violence in connection with the election anywhere in Zambia.
The days that followed during which the results were announced and a new government was sworn in, were equally peaceful and the transfer of power from UNIP(United National Independence Party) to MMD (Movement for Multi-party Democracy) was the smoothest ever seen. The days of anxiety were over.
The credit goes mainly to that great statesman of Africa, President Kenneth Kaunda, who ensured that the Zambian election would be free and fair and also to the peace-loving people of Zambia who did not interfere in any way with the procedures of the election.
ZCCM along with a number of ‘parastatal’ companies went on such a rampage that they spent much more than what they could earn by digging deeper and deeper into the country's resources and left the nation literally penniless. It was the common man who suffered from the ill-effects of the economic decline. Food, clothing and other essential commodities became so expensive and unaffordable. Working class people found it impossible to make both ends meet. The rich man, to the contrary, became richer while the political leaders and their minions thrived beyond description. The realization by the people of Zambia that they needed something better than Kaunda's principle of Humanism and United National Independent Party's(UNIP) One Party Participatory Democracy led to the formation of the Movement for Multi-party Democracy (MMD) under the leadership of a trade union leader by the name Frederick Chiluba.
In spite of all the fringe benefits given and unfulfilled promises made, the people of Zambia were not willing to be satisfied with nothing less than a general election. Chiluba and his followers held meetings, rallies and demonstrations throughout the country in which thousands of people participated. The momentum increased and the pressure on the government was so great that a general election was declared towards the end of 1991.
Even though the thousands of foreigners working in the country had no voting right and had nothing to do with the election, they had become very apprehensive about the after-effects of the election especially as there was a lot of resentment among the local workers towards the expatriates who were earning more than ten times of what their Zambian counterparts were earning. There was a strong rumour of the possibility of a military take-over either just before the election or immediately after it. In either case it would have meant disaster for the foreigners, especially for members of the Asian community.
And with good reasons too. The Asian businessmen had the monopoly of trading in Zambia. They were exploiters of the worst kind. Even though many of them were citizens of Zambia by birth as their parents or grand parents had migrated from India long time back, they had all the savings stashed away in foreign banks and were in the process of working out the formalities of emigrating to Britain, the United States or Canada. There was no doubt that if there was a military take-over, the Asians would have been the first victims. In such case, there would not have been any differentiation between the expatriate Asian workers and the Asian business community.
Even the Indian High Commission, in their circular to the Indians in Zambia, outlined in no unmistakable terms the procedure they should adopt in order to make a speedy exit from the country in the event of a military coup. The circular contained guidelines on various precautions to be taken, the preparation of survival kits and emergency contact addresses. On the whole, the Asians in Zambia were the most frightened people on earth during the pre-election months.
As a result, many expatriate and resident Asian workers decided to leave the country for a "holiday" during the election month. To be on the safe side, many businessmen made arrangements to send their wives and children to Zimbabwe, East Africa or India just before the election. However, things were not so easy for the expatriate workers employed in the copper mines, parastatal companies and government departments. The authorities being aware of the Asian workers' intention to leave the country "en masse" made it clear that no leave would be granted except in emergencies. Some of the clever fellows managed to obtain telegrams from India saying that one of the parents died suddenly or was in the process of dying and managed to get compassionate leave but when it came to the attention of the Zambian authorities that too many parents in India were dying all on a sudden, they realized that they were being tricked.
Those expatriates who could not get permission to leave the country or those who decided to stay on come whatever may, made some preparations to stay strictly indoors for a couple of weeks or so, in case of a military coup or popular agitation. These included fortifying the doors and windows by means of iron bars, storing all sorts of provision to last at least a month and making alternate arrangements for cooking and lighting in case of massive power failure.
At last the much dreaded election day arrived. As it was a normal working day, we went for work as usual. One of our school buildings was taken over and converted into a polling station. We saw a long line of people waiting patiently for their turn to go in and cast their votes. There were two or three policemen lazing around and the atmosphere was quite peaceful. There were no party militants or "booth snatchers" and no surreptitious canvassing.
With thumping hearts we listened to the radio and television newscast at lunch time and also in the evening, bracing ourselves to hear the worst possible news but came to know to our great relief that polling took place peacefully in all polling stations throughout the country and there was not even a single incident of blood shed or violence in connection with the election anywhere in Zambia.
The days that followed during which the results were announced and a new government was sworn in, were equally peaceful and the transfer of power from UNIP(United National Independence Party) to MMD (Movement for Multi-party Democracy) was the smoothest ever seen. The days of anxiety were over.
The credit goes mainly to that great statesman of Africa, President Kenneth Kaunda, who ensured that the Zambian election would be free and fair and also to the peace-loving people of Zambia who did not interfere in any way with the procedures of the election.
Monday, November 23, 2009
ORDEAL AT THE AIRPORT
Our flight from Ndola reached Lusaka international airport at 10 AM exactly. The Bombay flight was scheduled to depart from there at 5 PM. Check-in was at 2 PM and so my wife and I had about four hours at our disposal. Since our two suit cases were tagged for Bombay at Ndola airport, we had our hand luggage only along with us.
The date was 23rd December 1989. Christmas was just two days ahead. As the Bombay flight was a weekly flight, we knew the plane would be crowded. While we sat in the main lounge idly watching people arriving by flights from Livingstone, Kasama and other places, we could see suit cases labeled for the Bombay flight. The vast parking area in front of the main building which was visible through the glass walls had many empty slots that would soon be filled up.
It was not only the thought of going on vacation leave that excited us but also the fact that our daughter, the eldest of our three children, was getting married within 10 days' time. The arrangements had already been made and the people at home were waiting eagerly for our return. As my wife and I had many things to talk about, we did not notice how quickly the time passed. It was about 12.30 PM when we decided to have a bite of lunch at the restaurant on the second floor. Instead of taking the elevator, we used the stairs and reached the restaurant. We occupied two seats in a corner and ordered our lunch. After lunch, we spent some time in the duty-free shop, looking at the various articles on display. We found the prices were too high and refrained from spending our foreign exchange on such items that could have been bought from the second class trading area in the city at half the price. However, I bought some Duracell batteries for my 8 mm. movie camera that I used to carry with me during my journeys.
We returned to the main lounge and found most of the seats occupied. The clock above the check-in counters showed five minutes past two. A few people had already lined up in front of the economy class check-in counter of flight QZ 951 to Bombay. We waited until the initial rush was over to collect our boarding cards and hand luggage tags. There were a number of empty seats at the far end of the main lounge where we decided to sit and wait until the call for customs, immigration and security check came.
It was nearing 3.30 PM and we knew the call for immigration and customs would come soon. While my wife went to the wash room, I got busy installing my movie camera with the new batteries and pulling the trigger to see if it worked well. As my attention was on the camera, I did not notice the policeman who was approaching me. He came straight to me and asked whether I had taken some pictures of the airport. I told him the camera was not loaded with film and I was just trying if the new batteries worked well. He said I could explain everything to the magistrate on Tuesday (as the next two days, Sunday and Monday were holidays) and the device that I called a "camera" could be examined by experts to find out whether it was some sort of a secret weapon. In the meanwhile he was detaining me.
While we were talking, my wife returned from the wash room and was startled to learn what was happening. The policeman led us to a small office at the far end of the main lounge and asked for our passports and tickets. He placed them in a drawer and locked it. We told him again and again that we did not violate any rule and we should be allowed to proceed as we did not want to miss our flight which was secured by making reservations a month in advance. We told him about our daughter's wedding which was scheduled to take place within ten days' time and how important it was for us to reach home without being held up. He said that my wife was free to go as he had no case against her but I had to remain behind. Any amount of pleading fell into deaf ears. We were quite desperate.
While we were frantic with anxiety, the policeman was behaving as if he had all the time in the world. He decided to make a few lengthy telephone calls, speaking mostly in Cibemba (pronounced "chibemba") with some occasional words in English. It was quite evident that his fake calls were to prevent any further dialogue between us. I checked my watch for the umpteenth time and found it was nearing 4.30 PM. All the passengers would be seated by this time inside the plane. Now anything short of a miracle would not be sufficient to save us from our predicament. We prayed silently.
Then it happened. The policeman apparently concluded his phone calls and talked to me: "you said you are going for your daughter's wedding. There will be a big party and a lot of enjoyment. What will you give me if I allow you to go?" This was the opening I was waiting for. I told him to take everything we had in our possession except the tickets and the passports, but he was not interested. He asked me how much foreign currency I had in my wallet. There wasn't much, less than a hundred dollars or so. He did some mental calculations and said he would accept that money in exchange for our freedom and I gave him the whole lot without any hesitation. As we gathered our hand luggage and departed hurriedly, he called from behind to tell us to bring from India if possible, a pair of size ten shoes on our return and send them to the name and address he mentioned. We did not bother to reply but kept running to the Immigration & Customs.
There was not even a single passenger in sight. The immigration officer stamped our passports without wasting any time and directed us to go straight to the Security check, by-passing the Customs. The security man just waved us through his office to the Departure lounge which was quite empty. We traversed the whole length of it and reached the door opening to the staircase that led down to the tarmac. One of the ground staff stood there chanting the words "hurry up! hurry up!" and pointed to the aircraft.
At a distance, the Bombay flight stood on the tarmac, in readiness for take off. The "Nkwazi", the wide-bodied DC 10, wearing the green and silver colors of Zambia Airways appeared magnificent in the evening sunlight. Some ground staff standing at the bottom of the massive staircase were waving frantically at us to hurry up. We ran like some runners in a race and reached the top of the staircase. Air hostesses relieved us of our cabin baggage and showed us to our seats. The door swung shut behind us.
Soon we realized that the aircraft was moving and we could no longer control our emotions. Tears were streaming down our cheeks and we did not care if the other passengers were watching. The "Nkwazi" was air-borne, reaching to higher and higher altitude while the Lusaka international airport became a dot in the postage stamp scenery far below and soon lost from sight as the huge aircraft settled in its course to its final destination- Bombay.
The date was 23rd December 1989. Christmas was just two days ahead. As the Bombay flight was a weekly flight, we knew the plane would be crowded. While we sat in the main lounge idly watching people arriving by flights from Livingstone, Kasama and other places, we could see suit cases labeled for the Bombay flight. The vast parking area in front of the main building which was visible through the glass walls had many empty slots that would soon be filled up.
It was not only the thought of going on vacation leave that excited us but also the fact that our daughter, the eldest of our three children, was getting married within 10 days' time. The arrangements had already been made and the people at home were waiting eagerly for our return. As my wife and I had many things to talk about, we did not notice how quickly the time passed. It was about 12.30 PM when we decided to have a bite of lunch at the restaurant on the second floor. Instead of taking the elevator, we used the stairs and reached the restaurant. We occupied two seats in a corner and ordered our lunch. After lunch, we spent some time in the duty-free shop, looking at the various articles on display. We found the prices were too high and refrained from spending our foreign exchange on such items that could have been bought from the second class trading area in the city at half the price. However, I bought some Duracell batteries for my 8 mm. movie camera that I used to carry with me during my journeys.
We returned to the main lounge and found most of the seats occupied. The clock above the check-in counters showed five minutes past two. A few people had already lined up in front of the economy class check-in counter of flight QZ 951 to Bombay. We waited until the initial rush was over to collect our boarding cards and hand luggage tags. There were a number of empty seats at the far end of the main lounge where we decided to sit and wait until the call for customs, immigration and security check came.
It was nearing 3.30 PM and we knew the call for immigration and customs would come soon. While my wife went to the wash room, I got busy installing my movie camera with the new batteries and pulling the trigger to see if it worked well. As my attention was on the camera, I did not notice the policeman who was approaching me. He came straight to me and asked whether I had taken some pictures of the airport. I told him the camera was not loaded with film and I was just trying if the new batteries worked well. He said I could explain everything to the magistrate on Tuesday (as the next two days, Sunday and Monday were holidays) and the device that I called a "camera" could be examined by experts to find out whether it was some sort of a secret weapon. In the meanwhile he was detaining me.
While we were talking, my wife returned from the wash room and was startled to learn what was happening. The policeman led us to a small office at the far end of the main lounge and asked for our passports and tickets. He placed them in a drawer and locked it. We told him again and again that we did not violate any rule and we should be allowed to proceed as we did not want to miss our flight which was secured by making reservations a month in advance. We told him about our daughter's wedding which was scheduled to take place within ten days' time and how important it was for us to reach home without being held up. He said that my wife was free to go as he had no case against her but I had to remain behind. Any amount of pleading fell into deaf ears. We were quite desperate.
While we were frantic with anxiety, the policeman was behaving as if he had all the time in the world. He decided to make a few lengthy telephone calls, speaking mostly in Cibemba (pronounced "chibemba") with some occasional words in English. It was quite evident that his fake calls were to prevent any further dialogue between us. I checked my watch for the umpteenth time and found it was nearing 4.30 PM. All the passengers would be seated by this time inside the plane. Now anything short of a miracle would not be sufficient to save us from our predicament. We prayed silently.
Then it happened. The policeman apparently concluded his phone calls and talked to me: "you said you are going for your daughter's wedding. There will be a big party and a lot of enjoyment. What will you give me if I allow you to go?" This was the opening I was waiting for. I told him to take everything we had in our possession except the tickets and the passports, but he was not interested. He asked me how much foreign currency I had in my wallet. There wasn't much, less than a hundred dollars or so. He did some mental calculations and said he would accept that money in exchange for our freedom and I gave him the whole lot without any hesitation. As we gathered our hand luggage and departed hurriedly, he called from behind to tell us to bring from India if possible, a pair of size ten shoes on our return and send them to the name and address he mentioned. We did not bother to reply but kept running to the Immigration & Customs.
There was not even a single passenger in sight. The immigration officer stamped our passports without wasting any time and directed us to go straight to the Security check, by-passing the Customs. The security man just waved us through his office to the Departure lounge which was quite empty. We traversed the whole length of it and reached the door opening to the staircase that led down to the tarmac. One of the ground staff stood there chanting the words "hurry up! hurry up!" and pointed to the aircraft.
At a distance, the Bombay flight stood on the tarmac, in readiness for take off. The "Nkwazi", the wide-bodied DC 10, wearing the green and silver colors of Zambia Airways appeared magnificent in the evening sunlight. Some ground staff standing at the bottom of the massive staircase were waving frantically at us to hurry up. We ran like some runners in a race and reached the top of the staircase. Air hostesses relieved us of our cabin baggage and showed us to our seats. The door swung shut behind us.
Soon we realized that the aircraft was moving and we could no longer control our emotions. Tears were streaming down our cheeks and we did not care if the other passengers were watching. The "Nkwazi" was air-borne, reaching to higher and higher altitude while the Lusaka international airport became a dot in the postage stamp scenery far below and soon lost from sight as the huge aircraft settled in its course to its final destination- Bombay.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
IN THE WRONG PLACE AT THE WRONG TIME
When the Zambian lady teachers of my school heard that the prime minister would be making an official visit in the district and addressing a public rally at the civic centre in the town, they approached the headmaster for permission to attend the meeting. The headmaster gave permission without knowing that the ladies had a secret agenda. They wanted to demonstrate against certain discriminations that existed in the newly-introduced housing allowance rule. The political situation in Zambia was in turmoil and the Special Branch (secret police) was on the look-out for dissidents. Had the headmaster known the intention of the ladies, he would have advised them not to stick their neck out.
As I was pulling out my Nissan station wagon from my slot in the parking lot with the intention of going to the post office in the town, a number of Zambian ladies came running out of the staff room, shouting for a "lift". Four of them squeezed themselves in to the rear seat and one got into the front passenger seat. Only then I noticed the placards in their hands with the words "STOP DISCRIMINATION, GIVE HOUSING ALLOWANCE TO ALL" written in big black bold letters. As soon as they got into the vehicle, they started talking aloud excitedly among themselves in cibemba (pronounced 'chibaemba' which is the local language) and I could not follow what they were talking about.
Soon we came to the main junction where we had to cross the Kitwe-Mokambo main road and go straight to the town centre. There was a police officer on duty. Even though I stopped at the cross roads, he indicated to proceed. The town hall was within sight and the place was overflowing with people. As we came closer, in spite of the chattering in the car, I heard the singing of the Zambian national anthem through the loudspeakers and pulled over to the side of the road. I told the ladies not to get out until the singing was over and they complied with.
I was just about to pull out of the curb after the departure of my passengers when a police man appeared in front of my car apparently from nowhere. He approached me and told he was going to arrest me for not honouring the national anthem. I tried to explain to him that I stopped the car as soon as I heard the national anthem and my passengers did not get out until the singing was over, but he insisted that I should go with him to the police station immediately. I was wondering whether he saw the placards in the hands of the ladies but he did not make any mention of that. However he was quite adamant that I should accompany him.
I was worried a bit. It was true that I had not committed any offence, but the police station was the last place I wanted to go. I have heard of people being treated like dirt once you were in "custody" and harassed unnecessarily by some sadistic elements in the police force. I, who always tried to be on the right side of the law, was now being confronted by this miserable fellow in uniform for no reason at all. But there was no choice and I had to go with him. The police station was not very far, but I did not want to leave my car on the main road. So I asked the police man to accompany me while I drive to the parking lot at the station. As he was getting into the car a senior police officer approached us. He probably was taking a walk from the police station to the prime minister's meeting place. He came to us and asked what the matter was. The police man smartly saluted the officer and told him what my offence was. The officer asked me for an explanation and I told him exactly what happened except the matter of the placards which had no bearing on the story. After listening to me he talked briefly to the police man in cibemba and then turned to me and said “It is alright sir, you may proceed". I thanked the officer, heaved a great sigh of relief and let in the clutch so that I may put as much distance as possible between me and the prime minister's meeting place.
As I was pulling out my Nissan station wagon from my slot in the parking lot with the intention of going to the post office in the town, a number of Zambian ladies came running out of the staff room, shouting for a "lift". Four of them squeezed themselves in to the rear seat and one got into the front passenger seat. Only then I noticed the placards in their hands with the words "STOP DISCRIMINATION, GIVE HOUSING ALLOWANCE TO ALL" written in big black bold letters. As soon as they got into the vehicle, they started talking aloud excitedly among themselves in cibemba (pronounced 'chibaemba' which is the local language) and I could not follow what they were talking about.
Soon we came to the main junction where we had to cross the Kitwe-Mokambo main road and go straight to the town centre. There was a police officer on duty. Even though I stopped at the cross roads, he indicated to proceed. The town hall was within sight and the place was overflowing with people. As we came closer, in spite of the chattering in the car, I heard the singing of the Zambian national anthem through the loudspeakers and pulled over to the side of the road. I told the ladies not to get out until the singing was over and they complied with.
I was just about to pull out of the curb after the departure of my passengers when a police man appeared in front of my car apparently from nowhere. He approached me and told he was going to arrest me for not honouring the national anthem. I tried to explain to him that I stopped the car as soon as I heard the national anthem and my passengers did not get out until the singing was over, but he insisted that I should go with him to the police station immediately. I was wondering whether he saw the placards in the hands of the ladies but he did not make any mention of that. However he was quite adamant that I should accompany him.
I was worried a bit. It was true that I had not committed any offence, but the police station was the last place I wanted to go. I have heard of people being treated like dirt once you were in "custody" and harassed unnecessarily by some sadistic elements in the police force. I, who always tried to be on the right side of the law, was now being confronted by this miserable fellow in uniform for no reason at all. But there was no choice and I had to go with him. The police station was not very far, but I did not want to leave my car on the main road. So I asked the police man to accompany me while I drive to the parking lot at the station. As he was getting into the car a senior police officer approached us. He probably was taking a walk from the police station to the prime minister's meeting place. He came to us and asked what the matter was. The police man smartly saluted the officer and told him what my offence was. The officer asked me for an explanation and I told him exactly what happened except the matter of the placards which had no bearing on the story. After listening to me he talked briefly to the police man in cibemba and then turned to me and said “It is alright sir, you may proceed". I thanked the officer, heaved a great sigh of relief and let in the clutch so that I may put as much distance as possible between me and the prime minister's meeting place.
Monday, September 28, 2009
IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE
It happened during one of my trips from Ndola to my hometown of Mufulira. I had gone there that morning on official business and was returning in the evening after a very tiresome day.
Ndola and Mufulira are two towns on the "Copperbelt" at a distance of sixty-five kilometres. The Ndola-Mufulira road is one of the loneliest roads in Zambia. It stretches through an area of "bush land" very close to the Zairian border. During the early days of our stay in Zambia, we used to travel along this road very frequently without any fear of intimidation. However, in recent years there had been many incidents of robbery with violence in which lone motorists were attacked in broad daylight. Therefore I decided to travel by public transport during my Ndola trips.
I found a Mufulira-bound bus at the bus station and boarded it. It was four o'clock in the evening and the bus was slowly filling up. I managed to secure a comfortable seat in front and decided to wait. The starting time of the bus was mentioned by someone as four-thirty. In that case I should be able to reach home before night-fall.
It was almost five o'clock by the time the bus left the bus station. All the seats were occupied. A number of people came running towards the bus as it finally started off. The bus stopped for them to get in. I was wondering where the new-comers were going to sit. To my surprise, the driver's mate pulled out some "jump seats" in between the main rows of seats and seated them all. By this time there was hardly any space in the bus for anyone to sit without being crushed by his neighbours.
As I was occupying a window-seat, I could look out and watch the trees and shrubs on my side of the road. They looked alike and there was nothing else to break the monotony of the bush land.
After a while I looked at my wrist watch and noticed that it was more than half an hour since we started. Every one in the bus was involved in animated conversation. I was the only exception. In the background, there was the smooth roar of the engine.
Suddenly there was the noise of something tearing apart or breaking, and the bus went lurching for some distance. There was also the noise of some heavy metallic object being dragged underneath. Soon the bus came to a stop and many people got down to investigate. I thought the problem was that of a blown-tyre.
Before long, it was established that the propeller shaft was broken into two and the bus would go no farther. I got down from the bus along with the few remaining people, mostly ladies, and joined the rest of the passengers who were either trying to get their fare back from the conductor or looking out for some on-coming vehicle for a “lift”.
I asked someone how far we might have come and came to know that it was about less than halfway. There were no signs of any human habitation as far as I could see. It was getting late. Some of the passengers were already talking about finding refuge in some
Villages in the neighbourhood. I started wondering what a foreigner like me would do, if I had to spend the night on the road. Apparently I was the only non-African on the bus.
It was twenty minutes past 6 PM. Even though we had been waiting there for three quarters of an hour, no vehicle had passed either way so far. As the day gave way to dusk, the chances of getting a lift became more and more slim. Some of the passengers had drifted away, probably in search of a village. As I stood there with a heavy heart, a cold shiver ran through me. Obviously, the atmosphere was getting cooler.
We heard the sound of a motor. Some vehicle was coming from the direction of Ndola. People rushed expectantly to the middle of the road. However they moved to the sides when the vehicle came into full view. It was a police land cruiser.
The vehicle came nearer and screeched to a stop. About twenty-five people ran to it and tried to board through the wide opening in the rear. The officer in the front passenger seat ordered them to wait. He looked at the crowd and then told that as many ladies as possible who were travelling unescorted, could get in, but they should allow the 'usungu' (foreigner) to get in first.
There was just enough space for five or six of us to squeeze in. There was no other alternative but to leave the rest of the people behind.
While we were travelling towards our destination, I heard one of the ladies asking the officer in a not too subdued voice why he gave such preferential treatment to a foreigner while some respectable Zambians were left behind. His answer was "because he is not a Zambian and I doubt very much whether he would have survived if he were left behind and had to spend the night in the open".
When we reached our destination and as I got down, I had no adequate words to thank the Zambian police officer, but he waved me aside and proceeded on his way.
Ndola and Mufulira are two towns on the "Copperbelt" at a distance of sixty-five kilometres. The Ndola-Mufulira road is one of the loneliest roads in Zambia. It stretches through an area of "bush land" very close to the Zairian border. During the early days of our stay in Zambia, we used to travel along this road very frequently without any fear of intimidation. However, in recent years there had been many incidents of robbery with violence in which lone motorists were attacked in broad daylight. Therefore I decided to travel by public transport during my Ndola trips.
I found a Mufulira-bound bus at the bus station and boarded it. It was four o'clock in the evening and the bus was slowly filling up. I managed to secure a comfortable seat in front and decided to wait. The starting time of the bus was mentioned by someone as four-thirty. In that case I should be able to reach home before night-fall.
It was almost five o'clock by the time the bus left the bus station. All the seats were occupied. A number of people came running towards the bus as it finally started off. The bus stopped for them to get in. I was wondering where the new-comers were going to sit. To my surprise, the driver's mate pulled out some "jump seats" in between the main rows of seats and seated them all. By this time there was hardly any space in the bus for anyone to sit without being crushed by his neighbours.
As I was occupying a window-seat, I could look out and watch the trees and shrubs on my side of the road. They looked alike and there was nothing else to break the monotony of the bush land.
After a while I looked at my wrist watch and noticed that it was more than half an hour since we started. Every one in the bus was involved in animated conversation. I was the only exception. In the background, there was the smooth roar of the engine.
Suddenly there was the noise of something tearing apart or breaking, and the bus went lurching for some distance. There was also the noise of some heavy metallic object being dragged underneath. Soon the bus came to a stop and many people got down to investigate. I thought the problem was that of a blown-tyre.
Before long, it was established that the propeller shaft was broken into two and the bus would go no farther. I got down from the bus along with the few remaining people, mostly ladies, and joined the rest of the passengers who were either trying to get their fare back from the conductor or looking out for some on-coming vehicle for a “lift”.
I asked someone how far we might have come and came to know that it was about less than halfway. There were no signs of any human habitation as far as I could see. It was getting late. Some of the passengers were already talking about finding refuge in some
Villages in the neighbourhood. I started wondering what a foreigner like me would do, if I had to spend the night on the road. Apparently I was the only non-African on the bus.
It was twenty minutes past 6 PM. Even though we had been waiting there for three quarters of an hour, no vehicle had passed either way so far. As the day gave way to dusk, the chances of getting a lift became more and more slim. Some of the passengers had drifted away, probably in search of a village. As I stood there with a heavy heart, a cold shiver ran through me. Obviously, the atmosphere was getting cooler.
We heard the sound of a motor. Some vehicle was coming from the direction of Ndola. People rushed expectantly to the middle of the road. However they moved to the sides when the vehicle came into full view. It was a police land cruiser.
The vehicle came nearer and screeched to a stop. About twenty-five people ran to it and tried to board through the wide opening in the rear. The officer in the front passenger seat ordered them to wait. He looked at the crowd and then told that as many ladies as possible who were travelling unescorted, could get in, but they should allow the 'usungu' (foreigner) to get in first.
There was just enough space for five or six of us to squeeze in. There was no other alternative but to leave the rest of the people behind.
While we were travelling towards our destination, I heard one of the ladies asking the officer in a not too subdued voice why he gave such preferential treatment to a foreigner while some respectable Zambians were left behind. His answer was "because he is not a Zambian and I doubt very much whether he would have survived if he were left behind and had to spend the night in the open".
When we reached our destination and as I got down, I had no adequate words to thank the Zambian police officer, but he waved me aside and proceeded on his way.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
THE DAY AFTER THE ROBBERY
After the gruesome experiences during the night, we might have dozed off for a few minutes before the house servant knocked at the back door. I was startled into wakefulness and realized that it was broad daylight already. I felt as if waking up from a nightmare into reality and the happenings of the night were just a bad dream. However, a shooting pain on my left shoulder where the intruder's iron bar had fallen, reminded me that the robbery was real.
I opened the kitchen door and found Richard, my servant, standing there. A large window-grill was lying not too far. "So, they left it here", was the first thing he said. A thought of doubt flashed through my muddled brain. What was he talking about and who were "they"? Did he already know about the robbery? Then why didn't he come to my assistance when the siren screamed its head off unless.....? My thoughts trailed off.
It was past seven in the morning. I decided to go to the local police station and report the matter. The sleepy policeman at the counter wrote down the F.I.R. When I gave him the list of articles that were taken away, he was asking me whether that was all as if a bit disappointed. However, I could not think of anything else. By the time he finished the F.I.R, a gentleman wearing a sports jacket whom I came to know later as the Officer in charge, breezed in. On seeing a foreigner near the counter, he approached me and asked what the problem was. After hearing my story he told me that it was a matter for the "Anti-robbery squad" and would be passed on to them. He further assured me that the culprits would be apprehended soon.
My next stop was at the office of the Ministry of Works. The windows that were damaged by the thieves had to be repaired. The maintenance officer promised to send his crew by mid-morning so that they could finish the job by late afternoon.
By the time I reached home, I found the police had arrived. There were three of them, including the finger-print man. He was dusting the window sill and frames, door handles etc. for prints and collected some. He would have to compare them with the collection of prints at the bureau. The other two were talking to Richard in a very friendly manner and smoking the cheap cigarettes he offered. As they were talking in bemba, I did not understand what they were saying. Anyway, it sounded like a friendly conversation, let alone any police interrogation.
The maintenance officer kept his word by sending his crew to repair the damaged windows and fix the protective grills. The phone line which was cut off by the thieves was also reconnected. In short things were back to normal once again.
During the lunch hour, the maintenance officer paid a visit to my place to see how the work was progressing. As the official vehicle was not available, he decided to walk, taking a short-cut through the town cemetery. He was walking along a well-defined path when he noticed a number of oblong objects on the ground nearby. He picked up one of them and found it to be a cheque book. He examined the others also and found them all cheque books of certain foreign banks. As my name was stamped on them, he concluded that the thieves might have tarried in the cemetery for a while in order to divide the proceeds of the robbery between them and the cheque books which were found among the spoils were discarded as they were of no use to them. The officer brought them along to me.
After the workers and some friends who had gathered at my place left, we felt very lonely. In fact we did not relish the idea of spending another night at No.34, David Kaunda drive. So we ate an early supper, gathered some clothes and rushed to the Top shop flats where some friends were staying. It was there that we slept for the next seven or eight nights until we left permanently the house that was our residence for the past fifteen years and moved to one of the ZCCM (Zambia Consolidated Copper Mine) flats with " round the clock" security.
Note: Securing a suitable alternate accommodation at such a short notice was not an easy thing. For this, I am indebted to a number of good people who sympathised with me at my predicament, like my colleagues Silumbu and Sakala, who were sharing one of the mine flats allocated to the housing pool and who agreed to swap with me, Mr. Zumani, my boss and Mr. Phiri, the district secretary of Mufulira who was also the chairman of the housing committee who both approved the proposal for the swap and made it possible for me and my family to move to the new premises within the shortest possible time. Undoubtedly this was another occasion of Zambian goodwill experienced by me during my long stay in that country.
I opened the kitchen door and found Richard, my servant, standing there. A large window-grill was lying not too far. "So, they left it here", was the first thing he said. A thought of doubt flashed through my muddled brain. What was he talking about and who were "they"? Did he already know about the robbery? Then why didn't he come to my assistance when the siren screamed its head off unless.....? My thoughts trailed off.
It was past seven in the morning. I decided to go to the local police station and report the matter. The sleepy policeman at the counter wrote down the F.I.R. When I gave him the list of articles that were taken away, he was asking me whether that was all as if a bit disappointed. However, I could not think of anything else. By the time he finished the F.I.R, a gentleman wearing a sports jacket whom I came to know later as the Officer in charge, breezed in. On seeing a foreigner near the counter, he approached me and asked what the problem was. After hearing my story he told me that it was a matter for the "Anti-robbery squad" and would be passed on to them. He further assured me that the culprits would be apprehended soon.
My next stop was at the office of the Ministry of Works. The windows that were damaged by the thieves had to be repaired. The maintenance officer promised to send his crew by mid-morning so that they could finish the job by late afternoon.
By the time I reached home, I found the police had arrived. There were three of them, including the finger-print man. He was dusting the window sill and frames, door handles etc. for prints and collected some. He would have to compare them with the collection of prints at the bureau. The other two were talking to Richard in a very friendly manner and smoking the cheap cigarettes he offered. As they were talking in bemba, I did not understand what they were saying. Anyway, it sounded like a friendly conversation, let alone any police interrogation.
The maintenance officer kept his word by sending his crew to repair the damaged windows and fix the protective grills. The phone line which was cut off by the thieves was also reconnected. In short things were back to normal once again.
During the lunch hour, the maintenance officer paid a visit to my place to see how the work was progressing. As the official vehicle was not available, he decided to walk, taking a short-cut through the town cemetery. He was walking along a well-defined path when he noticed a number of oblong objects on the ground nearby. He picked up one of them and found it to be a cheque book. He examined the others also and found them all cheque books of certain foreign banks. As my name was stamped on them, he concluded that the thieves might have tarried in the cemetery for a while in order to divide the proceeds of the robbery between them and the cheque books which were found among the spoils were discarded as they were of no use to them. The officer brought them along to me.
After the workers and some friends who had gathered at my place left, we felt very lonely. In fact we did not relish the idea of spending another night at No.34, David Kaunda drive. So we ate an early supper, gathered some clothes and rushed to the Top shop flats where some friends were staying. It was there that we slept for the next seven or eight nights until we left permanently the house that was our residence for the past fifteen years and moved to one of the ZCCM (Zambia Consolidated Copper Mine) flats with " round the clock" security.
Note: Securing a suitable alternate accommodation at such a short notice was not an easy thing. For this, I am indebted to a number of good people who sympathised with me at my predicament, like my colleagues Silumbu and Sakala, who were sharing one of the mine flats allocated to the housing pool and who agreed to swap with me, Mr. Zumani, my boss and Mr. Phiri, the district secretary of Mufulira who was also the chairman of the housing committee who both approved the proposal for the swap and made it possible for me and my family to move to the new premises within the shortest possible time. Undoubtedly this was another occasion of Zambian goodwill experienced by me during my long stay in that country.
Monday, August 3, 2009
THE NIGHT THE DOGS FAILED TO BARK
It was the final day of the World Cup Football and the date was June 30th, 1986. I was recouping from a three week-long viral fever and the night was very cold.
Even though I went to bed at about 10.30 PM I did not know how long it took me to fall asleep. I was sleeping soundly when some strange noise woke me up. I was not sure what it was. I lay awake, listening for any further noise.
There it was again. It sounded like the creaking of a bed spring. I slowly got up from my bed and went to my son's bedroom to see if my ten-year old son had been turning in his bed during sleep. I found him sleeping peacefully. I returned to my room and found my wife already awake and looking out through one of the windows. I happened to note the time on the bedside clock as five minutes past two in the morning.
It was very quiet outside. There was sufficient light for us to see the plants in our garden, the wire-fence at the far end of the property known as No.34, David Kaunda drive, part of my drive-way, the double-gates and the trees on the other side of the road, in the compound of Pamodzi primary school. There was hardly any movement. The trees stood mute and motionless, bathed in the dim silvery moonlight and there was not even the distant hum of a motor car on the highway or the barking of stray dogs in the neighbourhood.
Suddenly it struck me very odd that my two guard dogs, Snowy and Sooty were nowhere to be seen. At night, they always used to be somewhere around, but not far from the vicinity of our bedrooms. I looked through one of the windows into the second garage where my Fiat was parked. The car stood bathed in the bright light of the overhead fluorescent lamp but there was no sign of the dogs.
The silence was ominous. I shuffled on bare feet through the narrow corridor in between the bedrooms and the living room to reach the door at the far end that gave access to the kitchen. That door was bolted on the inside with a heavy brass bolt. I did not notice the light that was filtering in through the small glass window at the top.
Without any hesitation, I pulled the bolt and opened the door. What happened during the next few moments took place so fast that I could not comprehend fully what exactly was happening. I had an impression of three or four people rushing in through the door and I felt at the same time as if some heavy object was falling on my left shoulder. However, I did not feel any pain but only heaviness. Then I felt being pushed backwards as if in the midst of a crowd along the corridor until I found myself in my bedroom and my wife standing at the far window, still clutching the pull-switch of the security alarm which I could hear wailing like a banshee from the roof-top. As its shrill cry shattered the silence of the night air, one of the intruders managed to grab the cord of the pull-switch and stop it. The apparent leader of the gang brandished a gleaming knife at us and ordered both of us to lie down on the carpet and we obeyed promptly.
There were four of them. One appeared very huge and wore a face-mask. He gave short, crisp orders and the others complied with. They forced open locked cupboards and ransacked shelves and drawers. They pulled out the contents and scattered them on the floor. The leader kept on asking for American dollars which we did not have any. They gathered electronic equipments, wrist watches, and anything else that attracted their attention, but very little money as we did not keep any large amounts at home. They looked into my son's bedroom briefly but did not take anything from there. Then they left, taking the house-keys and the car keys along with them so that we would not get out of the house immediately and follow them or go to the police. However, we were too scared to even move out of the bedroom.
As soon as I heard the front door bang indicating their departure, I ran to my son's bedroom and carried him to our bedroom. The child was shivering. In fact he was awakened by the wailing of the security alarm and had seen the thieves, but was so scared that he pulled the blanket over his head and remained motionless until I gathered him in my arms. After putting him down on the bed, I lifted the receiver of the telephone and found it dead. It was obvious that the thieves had cut the telephone wires before entering the house. There was nothing else for us to do but to huddle together under the same blanket and sit, waiting for the apparently never-ending night to end and the dawn to come.
There was one question that pestered us while we sat there, awaiting the morning: "Why didn't our guard dogs bark that night?" We got the answer the next morning: The dogs were poisoned by the thieves.
NOTE. We are very grateful to the Zambian officials for the sympathy they had shown to us and for rendering all possible assistance during the period that followed immediately after the above-mentioned incident. It was found out later that the crime was perpetrated by dissidents from a neighboring country who infiltrated into Zambia through a common border.
Even though I went to bed at about 10.30 PM I did not know how long it took me to fall asleep. I was sleeping soundly when some strange noise woke me up. I was not sure what it was. I lay awake, listening for any further noise.
There it was again. It sounded like the creaking of a bed spring. I slowly got up from my bed and went to my son's bedroom to see if my ten-year old son had been turning in his bed during sleep. I found him sleeping peacefully. I returned to my room and found my wife already awake and looking out through one of the windows. I happened to note the time on the bedside clock as five minutes past two in the morning.
It was very quiet outside. There was sufficient light for us to see the plants in our garden, the wire-fence at the far end of the property known as No.34, David Kaunda drive, part of my drive-way, the double-gates and the trees on the other side of the road, in the compound of Pamodzi primary school. There was hardly any movement. The trees stood mute and motionless, bathed in the dim silvery moonlight and there was not even the distant hum of a motor car on the highway or the barking of stray dogs in the neighbourhood.
Suddenly it struck me very odd that my two guard dogs, Snowy and Sooty were nowhere to be seen. At night, they always used to be somewhere around, but not far from the vicinity of our bedrooms. I looked through one of the windows into the second garage where my Fiat was parked. The car stood bathed in the bright light of the overhead fluorescent lamp but there was no sign of the dogs.
The silence was ominous. I shuffled on bare feet through the narrow corridor in between the bedrooms and the living room to reach the door at the far end that gave access to the kitchen. That door was bolted on the inside with a heavy brass bolt. I did not notice the light that was filtering in through the small glass window at the top.
Without any hesitation, I pulled the bolt and opened the door. What happened during the next few moments took place so fast that I could not comprehend fully what exactly was happening. I had an impression of three or four people rushing in through the door and I felt at the same time as if some heavy object was falling on my left shoulder. However, I did not feel any pain but only heaviness. Then I felt being pushed backwards as if in the midst of a crowd along the corridor until I found myself in my bedroom and my wife standing at the far window, still clutching the pull-switch of the security alarm which I could hear wailing like a banshee from the roof-top. As its shrill cry shattered the silence of the night air, one of the intruders managed to grab the cord of the pull-switch and stop it. The apparent leader of the gang brandished a gleaming knife at us and ordered both of us to lie down on the carpet and we obeyed promptly.
There were four of them. One appeared very huge and wore a face-mask. He gave short, crisp orders and the others complied with. They forced open locked cupboards and ransacked shelves and drawers. They pulled out the contents and scattered them on the floor. The leader kept on asking for American dollars which we did not have any. They gathered electronic equipments, wrist watches, and anything else that attracted their attention, but very little money as we did not keep any large amounts at home. They looked into my son's bedroom briefly but did not take anything from there. Then they left, taking the house-keys and the car keys along with them so that we would not get out of the house immediately and follow them or go to the police. However, we were too scared to even move out of the bedroom.
As soon as I heard the front door bang indicating their departure, I ran to my son's bedroom and carried him to our bedroom. The child was shivering. In fact he was awakened by the wailing of the security alarm and had seen the thieves, but was so scared that he pulled the blanket over his head and remained motionless until I gathered him in my arms. After putting him down on the bed, I lifted the receiver of the telephone and found it dead. It was obvious that the thieves had cut the telephone wires before entering the house. There was nothing else for us to do but to huddle together under the same blanket and sit, waiting for the apparently never-ending night to end and the dawn to come.
There was one question that pestered us while we sat there, awaiting the morning: "Why didn't our guard dogs bark that night?" We got the answer the next morning: The dogs were poisoned by the thieves.
NOTE. We are very grateful to the Zambian officials for the sympathy they had shown to us and for rendering all possible assistance during the period that followed immediately after the above-mentioned incident. It was found out later that the crime was perpetrated by dissidents from a neighboring country who infiltrated into Zambia through a common border.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
