The Streets Of Lusaka

We walk through Kamwala shopping complex. After a month in Zambia the narrow streets with dust and dirt have become second nature to me. The colours that are now familiar are all different from the ones I see back home; everything from the warm orangey brown of the streets to the various pastels of the shops’ front doors. The shops that are small enough to be labelled as shacks. I walk along, say hello, and try to look like I belong. The only thing that gives me away is the colour of my skin.

We reach the end of Kamwala; the roads become bigger and more heavily trafficked. When crossing through a small tunnel under the motorway, my friend says “this is where I used to sit when I was sniffing petrol”. And we all agree that it’s a good place because it keeps you sheltered from the wind. The lady who is crouching at the end of the tunnel when we walk back silently concurs.

The road opens up into a field: an array of mud, dry grass and garbage. We walk up to a group of people who have gathered under a tree. A crippled man and four young boys – all of them living on the streets of Lusaka. The man tells us how he was injured in a car accident, and he pulls up his jeans to reveal a severely deformed limb. He couldn’t afford to go to the hospital, and now his leg is forever fixed in that unnatural angle. We give him some money to buy pain killers. And I think that if he is tricking us to get money for drugs, at least it will have the same effect.



Next to the field is a train station. An old steam engine is parked on the abandoned train tracks, and I think it looks like a museum, or like it is part of an exhibition of some sort. My friend tells me that this is where the street children sleep. He takes me onto the train and shows me the interior of the engine which is wrapped in dirty blankets and old clothing. Someone is sleeping inside. On the other side of the tracks is a sign, bidding me welcome to Lusaka railway station.



We cross the bridge over the train tracks and make our way into town. Every place we pass is another area of the life of the street children. This is where they beg for money. This is where they steal. This is where they play. A worn down wall with fading blue paint bears an inscription that we stop to admire; an inscription that seems like a voice from the streets of Lusaka. “JESUS HELP ME”