If the Sakavungos don’t cut down on their annual photograph-taking they’ll soon have portraits hanging on the outside of the house as well. It’s two months to Christmas and Mr Prakash, a short Asian man with a stomach the size of a football, has come to take yet another photograph of the family. Perched on a chair in the living room, a camera hanging around his neck, he greets Amos, Job and me as we troop in: ‘Muli, bwanji. Muli, bwanji.’
From his smile he’s obviously pleased with himself for having mastered a few Nyanja words.
‘An Indian speaking Nyanja.’ Amos elbows me and jerks his head at Mr Prakash as we settle on the sofa.
‘He’s Zambian,’ Job, who’s sitting on my other side, hisses. ‘And don’t talk so loud, he can hear you.’
‘Zambian?’ Amos opens his eyes wide, disbelieving.
‘Not all Zambians are black, idiot,’ Job says. He leans forward to say something else, but stops because his brothers walk in.
Tata has arranged for Lazarus and Kapaji to come home from boarding school for the photo session, and Junior is also home from university for the weekend. The boys shake Mr Prakash’s hand and sit on the sofa across from us. As soon as they sit down Job and Amos jump up and join them. Left alone I feel myself shrink, but I smile and wriggle back so my shoulders rest against the sofa, as though I appreciate the space they’ve left me. I sit up and stare straight at them.
Today the Sakavungo boys look even more alike than usual. They’re all dressed in black trousers and white shirts – except for Junior, who has a red waistcoat on. Sitting side by side they look like a family singing group: The Sakavungo Five.
Mr Prakash’s face is set in a smile; he moves his head from sofa to sofa, from the boys to me. ‘Okay? You okay?’ he asks repeatedly.
We all keep nodding in response and my jaw hurts because I’m faking a smile.
Tata breezes in, humming. ‘Prakash, you look well, eh? You’ve gained weight.’ He shakes Mr Prakash’s hand and slaps him on the shoulder.
Mr Prakash nods.
Tata joins me on the sofa, and immediately Amos and Job scramble back across the room to sit on either side of Tata and me.
‘This is Pezo Sakavungo, my daughter,’ Tata says to Mr Prakash.
Mr Prakash’s eyes fly open and he hops to his feet, knocking over a side table in his haste to reach out and shake my hand again. ‘Your daughter?’
‘Yes.’ To my relief Tata doesn’t elaborate. ‘She’s also my mother,’ he says, bending over and pulling up my socks. ‘Pezo was my mother’s name. She was a very strong woman. Just like this one. She’s just like my mother.’
‘I would love to meet your mother,’ Amos says
‘She’s dead, silly.’ Job rolls his eyes.
‘On a photograph!’
‘Amos, I have no pictures of my mother,’ Tata says.
‘Were there no pictures in those days?’
‘There were, but my mother was too poor to worry about pictures. In the few years she lived, her life was spent trying to find food to feed her two sons.’
‘Tata was very poor,’ Amos, the dumbest of Tata’s sons, explains to Mr Prakash. ‘Sometimes he drank his tea without tea leaves, milk or sugar!’
‘Yes, we were very poor, very poor. You’re lucky you have food. We had to eat our neighbours’ leftovers.’ Tata rests his elbows on his knees and rubs his hands together. ‘Prakash, you see, they see me today and no matter how many times I tell them I once had nothing they can’t comprehend. They think Tata arrived in this world with cars and designer suits, three farms and two factories.’ Tata chuckles and shakes his head. ‘These kids have no idea.’
‘I was also very poor growing up,’ Mr Prakash says. ‘My sister and I shared a pair of brown leather sandals.’
‘Is that so?’ Tata sits up. ‘Then you know what I mean. Tell them.’ He waves his hand at the sofa where the boys are sitting. ‘Hunger pangs? I wouldn’t wish hunger pangs on my worst enemy.’
‘Hunger can be very painful,’ says Mr Prakash, patting his stomach.
‘Imagine,’ Tata says, ‘a fire burning in your stomach. The bittersweet taste of bile stinging the back of your tongue. A pain so sharp that your head throbs and your vision blurs.’ He speaks slowly, looking around at us. We stare back at him, helpless, unable to feel what he wills us to.
‘Think of a time you’ve been hungry,’ Tata says. ‘Imagine living with that feeling, day after day after day. That’s what it was like for me.’
Mr Prakash nods and we all follow suit to convey our sympathy.
‘Never in my life will I turn a hungry man away from my door,’ Tata says.
‘You’re a good man, Mr Sakavungo.’ Mr Prakash nods, fidgets with his camera and glances at his wristwatch.
The hint is lost on Tata. ‘And now look at me – Joseph Sakavungo,’ he continues, startling us with a burst of laughter. ‘Look at what I have done for myself. I have so much I could live to one hundred and still have a full plate. I have worked for all this alone.’
The boys bow their heads as if they’re praying. Junior and Lazarus stare at the Archie comic on Kapaji’s lap. I stare down at Tata’s black, cream-tipped shoes. I long for Mama T’s entrance, so we can get on with taking the photograph.
‘Do you know that I walked barefoot to school everyday for three years until a school priest, Father Ward, gave me his old pair of shoes?’ Tata chuckles again. ‘I was ten years old.’ He points at me. ‘Not much older than Pezo. I used to stuff newspapers into the front of the shoes to make them fit. Prakash, I wore those shoes for three years, until the soles wore right through.’
Tata gets up and walks over to one of the big, gold-framed wall mirrors. He flattens the lapel of his cream jacket and straightens his tie. ‘You know,’ he says, ‘what made it worse for me is that I’m Luvale. Do you know what that meant in those days?’
We nod because we know – he’s told us numerous times – but he tells us again anyway. ‘It meant learning the language and customs of another tribe, so you could pass yourself off as someone else.’
Mr Prakash looks surprised.
‘True!’ Tata says, turning back to us. ‘I’ll tell you a story. I first came to Lusaka from Chavuma in fifty-four … No, I tell a lie, it was fifty-two. I came to start my secondary school education at Munali. For the first two nights I slept alone in a dorm meant for six. You know why? No one wanted to share a room with a Luvale. No one wanted to share a room with someone from a tribe that was only fit to empty buckets from pit latrines. I was a shit-carrier. That’s what they called us.’ Tata sighs. ‘And you know what the irony is? As a tribe we have a strong cultural heritage, so when the white man came and tried to impose his culture on us we resisted him. In retaliation he labelled us stupid. Said we are too stupid to learn or understand his culture, his religion, his education. His tactic was to demonise in order to alienate. He made us outcasts to stop us influencing other tribes against him.’
‘That’s absurd!’ Kapaji says in a tone that makes him sound like he is head of his school debate team. ‘If the Luvales were so sharp, how could they end up as outcasts?’
Now, what I think is absurd is that Kapaji doesn’t know when to keep his big mouth shut.
Tata ignores him. ‘That was the way of the coloniser. I can’t blame him for using whatever tactics he could against the black man. What I find amazing is that we,’ Tata thumps his chest, ‘we blacks turned on one another. The white man came and told us which tribe was the best and we listened to him. No questions asked.’ He shrugs. ‘Many Luvales pretended to be from a different tribe. I didn’t. And because I didn’t I was taunted and bullied every day. Eventually it got to a stage where I couldn’t take the prejudice any more. I got up one morning and walked out of school with a plastic bag containing two shirts and two books. I never went back.’
‘But the Luvales weren’t entirely blameless, Tata,’ Kapaji says. ‘How can you allow someone to oppress you to the extent that you have to choose between denying your own heritage or denying yourself an education? I’m half Luvale and I’m proud of it. I wouldn’t hide the fact from anyone. And I wouldn’t let them chase me away, either.’
‘In my time things were different.’ Tata’s face falls and I see that he’s travelled back to the days when he was a young student at boarding school.
‘I would have stood up to them. I would never allow anyone to make me feel inferior.’
‘You are in a different time and place.’ Tata narrows his eyes and claps his palm on his chest. ‘I have made it possible for you to be able to stand up for yourself.’
‘All I’m saying is that one should be proud of who you are.’
‘Ha ha.’ Tata laughs but his face is serious. ‘Prakash, these children of nowadays, they tell their father that he has no pride. They say their Tata is a coward.’
Tata’s smile gets ugly. We all notice except Kapaji, who, instead of shutting up, shakes his head and says, ‘Ah, but, Tata, if you allow someone else to make you feel inferior then –’
‘Shut up, boy!’ Tata shouts.
Kapaji winces, surprise on his face.
‘Okay.’ Tata jumps to his feet. ‘Okay. You think I was weak? I’ll put you all to the test.’ He starts to count on his fingers, starting with the little one. ‘One: from now on Driver won’t drive you to school. Two: I’ll stop paying your school fees. Three: when you come home on holiday I’ll stop filling the pantry with food. Instead, Sissy will cook one meal a day, at about two pm. Okay?’ Tata claps. ‘Let’s see if you stand up for what you believe in without my support. Let’s see how principled you’ll be on an empty stomach.’
‘Tata, I’m trying to understand.’
‘Boy, you will never understand. Unless you were Luvale in the 1950s in Northern Rhodesia, you’ll never understand. You stand up proud to be Luvale today, because of my suffering and the suffering of generations of your tribesmen.’
‘Sorry, Dad.’ Kapaji lifts up his hands in surrender. ‘I was just trying to –’
‘Understand? You have no idea! I didn’t have a father to provide for me.’ Tata grabs a fistful of air. ‘I built all I have from air. And don’t assume what I have is yours; it’s mine.’ Tata stands up. ‘I’ll leave it all to my daughter. Once you boys get your degrees you can fend for yourselves!’
An eerie silence descends on the room. I pray Mama T isn’t listening.
Tata breathes as if he’s been running; his huffing fills the room. ‘Anyway,’ he sighs heavily, ‘life has a way of coming full circle. The same people that refused to share a room with me come to me today, asking for loans. And you know what? I give them.’ Tata counts out imaginary notes, rubbing his right thumb against the palm of his left hand. ‘I give them the money and look them straight in the face.’
Tata sits down and there is another quiet moment, then, suddenly, he claps and says, ‘Okay, time to take the photograph. Where is your mother?’
The moment has passed. We exhale.
The three elder Sakavungos jump up at once, but Kapaji is quickest and he scurries out to find Mama T.
Mr Prakash stands up and moves the central coffee table out of the way, then he asks us to all sit on one sofa.
‘Where is your mother?’ Tata asks again and looks at his watch. ‘Is she still at church?’
‘She’s back.’ Kapaji re-enters the living room.
Tata throws his hands in the air. ‘Church! Church! What does she pray for Monday to Sunday? Don’t I give her everything? Isn’t it selfish to keep asking for more?’
‘Prayer is not just about asking, it’s also about saying thank you and asking for guidance,’ Lazarus says.
‘What guidance?’ Tata asks, speaking as if Mama T is standing before him. ‘And there’s nothing wrong with saying thank you, but do you need to do so three hundred and sixty-five days a year?’
Just then Mama T hurries in, wearing a white hat with a purple bow.
‘Teresa, you knew Mr Prakash was coming. Why –’ Tata says, but Mama T cuts him short.
‘I’m so sorry, Tata, Mr Prakash,’ she says. ‘We were delayed at church. I had to stay behind to prepare for the church fête.’
Mr Prakash accepts Mama T’s apology with a dip of his head, but Tata doesn’t return her smile.
Five minutes later we are ready for the photograph. In her tight purple skirt suit, Mama T sits beside Tata. Junior and Kapaji sit on either side of them, and Amos and Job perch on either arm of the sofa. Lazarus bends over from behind, his folded arms on the headrest.
Finally, Mr Prakash seats me between Mama T and Tata. My hair is split down the middle, with a plait on either side of my head. I’m wearing my orange halter-neck dress and a pretty smile. With the silkiness of Mama T’s stockings brushing against my left leg and the ridges of Tata’s black corduroys against my right, I join in the chorus: ‘Cheese!’
We all smile – the Sakavungo family plus one bad seed right in the centre of the photograph. Me. The new feature on the landscape of the Sakavungo family in October 1978.