THERE are many ways of making a living, including naming and shaming wizards. In this narrative NELSON CHANDA shares an experience he and a close friend witnessed when they went to a lake fishing village to barter their wares for fish.

TWO plain -clothed state officers enroute to work in one of the rural towns of northern Zambia near the border with a neighbouring country  spent the night near a lake fishing village after their Land Cruiser pick- up vehicle broke down.
What mesmerised them was the scarcity of ‘Nshima’ maize meal, our staple food, but they fed on the abundant fish to the bone  some of which was smoked and straight from the lake, as well as some junk food they carried on their journey of almost 150 kilometers from the district they were based.
The people of that part of the lake shore hardly practice agriculture and they grew none of the crops such as maize, cassava, sorghum and millet, our regular foods.
The following day, the officers had their vehicle repaired and they had intelligently sent a message through the bus driver to someone who, in turn, passed it on to me, so that I could find a market for my crops. I had already ground four 90 kilogramme bags of maize into mealie meal from a hammer mill to exchange with fish. Also, fishermen longed for beer which was as rare as diamonds and I informed one of my wine brewing neighbours that he could barter his ready product with fish, too.
Presently, at 17:00 hours, we boarded an open lorry whose passengers had plenty of luggage, including my four bags of mealie meal and my friend Daniel’s three 20- litre plastic containers full of wine. We arrived at our destination at dawn around 03:00 hours after cruising on that dusty hilly gravel road.  A woman who opened her door to welcome us showed us another hut to spend the few hours until sunlight descended.
At sunrise, we hired some bicycles to help us deliver our cargo to our camp where we were ushered into a big hut among a sparsely populated stretch of settlement along the shore of the lake which was 50 meters away. Since rumours of our presence had spread like wind, all routes led to our hut.
Most natives of the lake shore were excited to obtain mealie- meal and they enjoyed the wine, although few of them managed to give us fish on the spot and the majority promised to do so the following day.
On our first day at the shore, the headman was instructed by his chief to allow selected youths to announce that no one would be permitted to fish from the lake the following day.  The reason was that ‘Kamuchape’, witch finder, known as ‘Professor’ Dende (not real name) from a neighbouring country had come to name and expose the wizards.
“Anyone who will be seen fishing on the lake tomorrow, will be considered a sorcerer. The ‘Professor’ has come to cleanse the area of witchcraft!” the announcement echoed in the surrounding villages of the lake shore. That was the first time I heard of the word ‘Kamuchape’. Even Dan my companion wondered who the witch finder was.
“Mr. Chewe (pseudonym),” Dan began.
“Yes,” I answered.
“It seems as if we will struggle to recover our dues,” (for the mealie-meal and the wine) Daniel said sadly.
“That’s what I foresee, but as long as they will pay us, the delay doesn’t matter. Patience pays,” I comforted Dan optimistically.
Our first night at the shore was very hectic.  Many residents called on us to buy mealie meal or wine with promises of bartering them with fish in the nearest future. That was on one side of the coin.
On the flip side, the same customers provided entertainment in our big hut as those natives got intoxicated with the wine they consumed. They skillfully danced in the candle light and sang touching traditional songs while they served us ‘moto moya’, roasted breams.
The headman who appeared to encourage us help his people would whisper in my ear that since he became headman after his predecessor was banished for practicing witchcraft, he had never witnessed in 20 years the kind of a witch hunting assembly to be held the following day.  He originally came from a Lozi village.
Very early in the morning, the natives from distant places along the shore of the lake begun trooping in sizeable numbers to the venue of the witch hunt ceremony.
They dressed immaculately as if they were going for Sunday prayers at the church.
They were all going to be scrutinised by the witch finder, the ‘Professor’ if they were wizards or not.  It seemed a gloomy day for some.
“Please, accompany us so that you’ll go and tell the real story,” one gentleman encouraged us.
“Yes, we will,” I responded mildly, but both Daniel and me had no such intentions to watch ‘Kamuchape’ the witch finder at work.
Initially, by midday, we were left alone at our hut in the fishing village. The wind seemed to have stopped motion. Also, the lake had its water totally still except for small waves, the ripples, which exposed signs of tens of crocodiles underneath, eager to devour anyone or any other animal.
Indeed, the place became as silent as a grave side as all the residents of that segment of the fishing settlement waited with bated breath to be scrutinized by ‘Professor’ Dende, the ‘Kamuchape,’ cleaner of sorcery from another country.
What frustrated us was that, we didn’t have enough drinking water, drawn directly from the lake. By 16:00 hours, our tongues were so dry Daniel anxiously suggested we go and draw the water from the lake.
But I was against drawing water from such a fierce water body in a strange land. “Did you observe how women drew water from the lake since we arrived yesterday?
They went in a group at once, beside the lake, to frighten crocodiles,” I cautioned Daniel, urging him to be strong until the people came back, sure they would assist us with water.
Dan, who rarely talked remained baffled, his eyes beaming with fear as if the reptile would walk and knock on our door.
It was not until 19:00 hours that the voices of the residents became audible. They sang songs about people who had been found guilty of having magical crafts which refracted across the bush and beyond the water of the lake.
“Please, may I find out about what occurred at the witch finder?” I inquired from one participant, but he was resentful, saying I must go and see for myself. Besides that, we had observed that the people didn’t work but each family had to contribute a chicken or money to ‘Professor’ Dende to eat with his assistants.  If not, consequences were unknown.
Rumours of some other people disappearing from their homes because they had nothing to offer were common.  Perhaps others absconded for fear of being exposed for practicing witchcraft.
But a thought which struck me was that people were being biased and trodden upon by sacrificing to something which was abstract or vague.
“Instead,” I continued thinking, “the people should have been contributing to erect a school which they do not have.”
I was shocked, but remained pensive. The result of my research in that single day at the fishing village was that, only two small boys who were in grade one and three respectively, walked almost five kilometers every day to school.
The rest of the children in that lake shore were engaged in informal fishing since farming was taboo.
During ‘professor’ Dende’s third consecutive working day, my colleague and I decided to attend the witch-hunting event as proof.
Although we’d dished out mealie meal and wine to the residents the past three days, what we anticipated paid no dividends due to the coincidence with the with craft finder ‘Professor’ Dende’s programme.
Everyone danced to his tune, under the auspices of the traditional rulers in that part of the lake.
By 08:00 hours all the villagers had already assembled to attend ‘Kamuchape’s’ witch-unearthing ritual. It was in August and although the weather was hot, Daniel and I sauntered to the venue to see the ‘professor’ demonstrating his witchcraft prowess.
After a 15-minute walk, we saw clusters of huts before reaching the venue, near the main dusty road where a procession was held and we noticed a huge crowd of people sitting or standing in expectation like at a humanitarian rally or waiting to be honoured with food or money or at a stadium watching a tournament.
Later, we were absorbed in the gathering. “Please, our brothers, take off your shoes,” one familiar resident gave us a piece of advice.
“Agh, taking our shoes off, I can’t!” I said in disappointment. Daniel was equally unamused and showed his annoyance by his countenance on the face.
The well -wishers who were also grieved persuaded us, saying, ‘when you’re in Rome do what the Romans do’ or else we would be fined K200.
For sure, we did just that, but the ground was too hot to stand on.
Instead, both of us strode on the cool grass barefooted as if we were prisoners.
Later we sat in the shade of a mango tree very close to the hut where ‘professor’ Dende had lain a reed mat with unknown crafts on it, where the proceedings were being conducted.
In disbelief, we observed an old couple with the husband aged about 70 and his wife over 60 years old had been found guilty of being wizards.
They were detained and made to race around two big huts for hours, dropping their sweat in litres as if training to scoop billions worth of old peoples world athletics championship.  It was disturbing.
Much worse, the alien ‘professor of sorcery’, pranced about in public with underpants which had a hole at the buttock exposing his flesh like a child to the outcry of the passengers in a private big bus passing-by. I felt as if I was living in medieval era.
Further, the ‘professor’s assistants of about 10 members had a pair, under instructions, digging with picks and hoes in the ground because a dangerous craft was in the ground which had been seen by the witch finder, ‘professor’ Dende as his eyes penetrated through the ground.
The diggers who had painted their faces were sweating profusely too.
Instantly the ‘professor’ who kept on singing had given directives that the craft underground had run away.  The assistants pursued the craft which was unseen to the public, beyond a distance of more than a kilometer and reportedly captured some things which were unclear.
Those were displayed on the reed mat including other artifacts which ‘professor’ Dende had pursued himself to a well where the villagers drew water from. An assistant had to fall into the well to fish out a small wooden sculpture of a woman with a covered bottom but bare chested.
Fearlessly I quickly put on my shoes unlike Daniel, but we ran together to the well to prove.
“Perhaps these people threw the curved wooden female sculpture in the well at night in order to trick us,” I thought, seeking God’s wisdom.
Many people looked at me speechlessly as I strode in my shoes unworriedly and no-one talked to me.
The ‘professor’ kept on sipping some herb -made liquid from a big bottle, perhaps to strengthen himself. He would restore the bottle at the reed mat and occasionally knelt beside it and prayed as if it was a shrine. All crafts captured were spread on the mat which comprised assorted kinds of unknown herbal liquid, sculptures, beads, hair etcetera.
At lunch hour, the huge ‘professor’ Dende, an ‘expert’ in unearthing ‘juju’ was ushered into a dining hut by one of his assistants. When I peeped inside it was full of chickens and dishes not plates.
The rest of the crowd remained stranded.   They had nowhere to go and have lunch. It was forbidden for the natives, the fishermen, to return home, then, they could be accused of possessing magic.   So everyone among them feared to be implicated in such vices.
Immediately, I saw Daniel beginning to put on his pair of shoes.
“Mr. Chewe, please let’s go,” he said forcefully.
We began heading for home to the lake shore village as everyone saw us breaking away from the crowd and disappeared. At dusk the natives of the lake shore appeared at our hut and congratulated us for witnessing how witch finders, ‘Kamuchapes’ behave, usually like cruel Kings or leaders.
They also announced the end of the witch hunting sessions.
On our fifth day we began receiving fish from the lake in abundance early in the morning. We continued piling up our fish until we created huge bundles after a week. What comes up always comes down. At last, we went back home with the haunting memories of a self -proclaimed professor of witch hunting as a way of earning a living.
E-mail:nelsonechanda@gmail.com, 0964894338
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