In Search Of A Place With Real Winter

I was six and had grown tired of my father working long periods of night shift in the mine – it was time for a change.

- Bev Thompson

AS A a child growing up in a small mining town called Chililabombwe ( formerly known as Bancroft) in north-west Zambia I learnt some of life’s valuable lessons that have stood the test of time.

One of the most impactful lessons learnt was not to test one’s mildtempered father’s leniency beyond a certain limit.

My father worked on the mines and as such often had to work long periods of night shift. This meant that when his two daughters were eating corn flakes and drinking tea at 6.30 am he was eating beef stew with dumplings, sipping on a brandy and Coke and smelling of oil despite having had a hot bath. He went to bed, and we were walked down the road to catch the mine school bus and journey the 16 km to a nearby town that actually had a school.

When we got home from a hard day at school – with my knees usually scuffed and my bobby socks dotted with blood as a result of a run-in with some boy in the playground at breaktime, and my elder sister looking pristine as usual – he’d have just woken.

He’d “have a word” with each of us, which usually meant a stern word with me about not picking fights and a friendly word with my sister about how neat her cursive handwriting was becoming. We’d then be fed a sandwich with a slice of apple by my ever-patient mother and shuttled off for our afternoon rest.

It was hot in Chililabombwe all year round, and winter was a foreign weather phenomenon we only heard about on BBC news on the radio at weekends – which was when we were allowed to listen to it. During this rest time I was allowed to read my Secret Seven books which made lying quietly for an hour bearable. My sister drifted off into deep sleep with some doll in the crook of her arm – insufferable.