Vinjelu's writting- His home community

Vinjelu and I had a assignemtn to write a community profile for a community we will be working with in the furture, from this profile we will be applying each weeks teaching to it. Out school read vinjelus and commented that he thinks vinj will write a book one day, so please enjoy reading this discription of where IVnj grew up and is still where the fam lives.

Dawn breaks over the eastern sky, everything joins the sun to usher in a new day. Well, not quit everything. Before the dawn, before nature can tell that night is broken, men arise.
Lights go on one by one. For those fortunate enough to have paid last year's electric bill, bright lights flood the windows. For some , less fortunate, the windows are light with wavy candle light, ironicly beatiful. 300 households awake in hope that today might just be a little better than yesterday.

People make their morning migration towards a central point just as nature awakens. People from all corners of a community drawn with a sence of urgency guided by what seems like instinct to the bus stop. The migration is anywhere from a 30 minute walk to a minute. Every body rushes, knowing full well only 70% of them will be able to get on a bus. The rest will have to walk another hour before finding more transport. Everyday is a gamble becouse one is never sure if the buses will come. But it is a gamble all will take. Most time they win the bet, but sometimes it is a bad day.

Mothers going to work. Fathers going to work. Single men and women dressed formaly going to work too. At a glance they seem respectable enough, but their destinations tell a different story. One will be going to a typing job. Earns just about enough for the transport to get to work and a littl extra for food. Another is a young man, very well dressed. He will spend his day on the KATONDO street trying to make money out of nothing. Earn it by conning somebody out of their money. He might come home with enough to buy man beers for the weekend, or he might be walking back home today. He does not know. Another is getting on becouse he just sold his late father's T.V but the man he sold it to only paid him half the price. Now he has almost spent most of that money trying to track the buyer down.

20 years ago, a diferent spirit walked the streets of this community. There were more smiles, more hope. Most of these people had their own cars, or their parents had cars. They belonged to the upper/middle class of society. But one by one a whole working calss was wiped out by either H.I.V or loss of jobs due to a colapsed economy. The first Republic (government) was very socialist and so a lot of people depended on the state to provide . But once the country could not afford the social system , it all collapsed in a very short time.

They all have a home, with at least 3-4 bed rooms. They all live on a 5 acre plot of land. Each plot has a well ( though only a some had running water). 30 years ago the houses were brand new. The housholds, like the nation, were new, young and hopefull.

But 30 years later it is a different story. It is now like a man tarpped in a treasure chanber full of gold, but now food. They starve to death in the midst of such wealth. And so is the story of africa. Richest continent in natural resources, and the poorest. And so is this community, rich in land, property but dying.Smiles could hide what was eaten or what wasnt last night, but bellys tell that they are no better than the people in the informal settlements. Just maybe better dressed, a little more educated but no better.
Hope for something better has died a thousand deaths. Most homes are delapidated. Ceiling boards falling apart. Kitchens are filthy and reflect broken spirits.

Most of the young do not have jobs, and find employment in drinking cheap opake beer. Youth is wasted on being drunk and sex. Teen pregnacies are part of every houshold's story. Death is a well known family member.
This is Barlastone Park. On the west of Lusaka. Has a population of close to 2000 people. It is a true reflection of the state of Zambia. The big houses are skeletons that haunt every heart. They are the ruins of a hope born at independence in 1964. A hope of making a better Zambia for all Zambians. But that hope is faded like the paint on the walls of most houses.

The poverty and desperation, and even irony of life has turned well meaning neighbours into far away strangers. The roads have not been maintained. People have tried so many things in so many ways but failed. The will to try is as rare as a helping hand.

And yet people walk on. Lie, cheat, steal or honestly work hard, people walk on.

Stuck. That's the word on many hearts. Trapped. For many young people the glorious promises of the advantages of education have long been proven wrong. The only peole who seem to have some wealth are considered dishonstly wealthy or they are politicians. And so these two avenues seem to have become the only way people can have a hope. There is only one other option more favourable. GET OUT. Leaving the country for greener pastures such as Australia, England or U.S are the ideal. But since it takes a lot of money, only the same chosen few can leave.Stuck

The only real pleasures in life are alchohole and sex . Most young are not prepared for the responsibility that come with sex - babies. And so not only are they unemployed, but they bare children too. Trapped.

With H.I.V plaguing 1 in 5 adults hope is bleek. And yet, the soil is fertile. The rain falls. Grass grows. The sun sets, and life goes on. Some die, and yet others are born.
Few get out, most stay, all in all , life goes on. These are not the worst stories, but stories they are. These are not the poorest people, but poor they are. With all this as a backdrop to each life, one wonders why we wake up at all , especially before the dawn.

Vinjelu Muyaba