Conversations in Africa: Lusaka Post Office ladies living by the grace of God
I was in Lusaka early February, just finishing my westward land journey that began from Mozambique. After the brief stay in the Zambian capital, I would venture northbound to Rwanda on a flight.
I had spent the morning in Kabata Cultural Village, 40 minutes by foot south of downtown (story for another time). At quarter past noon I boarded a northbound minibus to Independence Avenue, where I hopped off and speed walked the remaining 3km of distance through Cairo Road.
Cairo Road is the bustling downtown of Lusaka, its center of trade. Vendors of all sorts lay out their goods on the street side for passersby, mostly business people or fonctionnaires from nearby office buildings. The road was lined with skyscrapers of 30-40 stories with a yellowish tone (somewhat resembling its namesake Cairo), each were owned by large state or private enterprises offering professional services, or hotels that looked like they were built from decades ago. On the other side of these buildings were the rails of the Zambian Railways. On Google Images of overall cityscape, Lusaka appeared to be a relatively modern metropolis. But closeup, Cairo Road resembles a road from a bygone era, buildings brushing out a feeling of recent nostalgia, as if the city had not evolved since the 80s.
My destination was the Lusaka Main Post Office, a white government building located on the northern stretch of Cairo Road, at the intersection with Church Road. I was here to send some postcards out. It was always intriguing to think about the different journey the piece of paper would take before it reached my hands, and it offered a nice way to collect chopped stamps.
I arrived at 1:30pm, and was disappointed to discover that the post office shutters were down. The access door to the main entrance was still open, but the reception hall, which had a high ceiling with open counters on the side, was void of people. During a weekday one could imagine a sizable crowd going about their business.
I checked the official opening hours imprinted on the door - “Saturday: 9am-2pm.” Flustered, I went back on the sidewalks and contemplated in front of the entrance for a moment.
Several ladies were standing next to the stairs near the entrance. One of them saw me and said, “it’s closed.”
“But the opening hours should be until 2pm!”
“Ah they forgot to change the opening hours - it’s been 1pm for a while. But even if it were closed at 2pm, by 1 usually it'd be closing. Come Monday and you can send this."
No surprises there, I thought, given the oft-referenced ways of African bureaucracy. Though given the nature of government services, it would not be surprising either to hear similar comments in certain European countries.
“Monday I won’t be here, I’ll be flying out tonight.” We chit chatted a bit more, already preparing to leave with a slightly bitter smile.
Suddenly they decided to open the office for me. “Come with us,” they said.
Two ladies in the group were the most active leading the conversation. One was dressed in a full blue office attire, and had long hair but it was neatly tied up. She seemed to be working in one of the postal service functions, holding probably an administrative job. The other lady had short hair, wore a t-shirt and a modest skirt. She was the key master and master of errands and all services. No wonder she was the last to leave the building and was lingering around at this hour.
We went up 3 stories in the building. On the way one man came down the stairs with his children, and the group of ladies greeted them.
The key master opened the gates. The office lady asked me where I was sending the postcards to. She consulted a colleague over the phone on the usual price. If my memory does not fail me, 50 Zambian Kwacha (around 3USD) was the answer.
“Single price for all destinations.”
Into the offices she went to search for stamps, leaving me, the key master, and another lady in the stairs.
“You’re lucky.”
“Thank you a million.” I could not be more grateful, and delighted at the moment itself. It was yet another one of those moments, with a bit of effort and perseverance, I was benefited by the hearts of kindness of people. These have blessed my journey from time to time.
They weren’t big talkers, just gradually exchanged a few words among them in Chewa. I chipped in a few words, and at one point I inquired how life was for them.
"Life is hard. I have house work at home, and I have a full time job here. I go home and I continue to do all the chores. Life is hard. And you know my salary hasn't been paid since June. Government says they have no money. Businesses say they have no money.” The key master said in a half matter of fact tone.
Half a year of no government salary.
“Mm, then how do you guys live?”
“How do we live? I don’t know how we live. By the grace of God! By the grace of God only!" She looked upward as she spoke those words, eyes glowing with faith.
Empathy and curiosity were fueled by this brief exchange.
It confirmed, first and foremost, a Christian faith very visibly professed in every part of the country. It was formed part from the colonial legacy, part from the belief in powers of the supernatural that form many narratives that originated on this land. Faith empowers people during times of hardship, provide them with a reason to march on during adversity, and gives them a sense of purpose.
Form a more realistic point of view, and why did she still come to work? In other countries there would probably have already been strikes demanding for pay. But getting a government job in Zambia and in the region probably had a different meaning. For a start one often could only get a job through connections - a relative who was working in some department in the government who put in a good word.
Along this line of thinking, it is not difficult to imagine her keeping a government job without pay. Having a government job has more tangible benefits than just purely monetary returns. Pension or health coverage may be one of them, and better even special channels in government services. And occupying a post means you have access to certain officials, and therefore could charge other job seekers finding a way into the civil service.
As I contemplated, the office lady came out and gave me the stamps. We subsequently walked down the stairs. I thanked them a million and they parted ways. I stayed behind for a while, sat at a corner of the back door stairs to finish writing the postcards, and sent them off in the postbox.
The post cards sent from Zambia never arrived.
I had spent the morning in Kabata Cultural Village, 40 minutes by foot south of downtown (story for another time). At quarter past noon I boarded a northbound minibus to Independence Avenue, where I hopped off and speed walked the remaining 3km of distance through Cairo Road.
Cairo Road is the bustling downtown of Lusaka, its center of trade. Vendors of all sorts lay out their goods on the street side for passersby, mostly business people or fonctionnaires from nearby office buildings. The road was lined with skyscrapers of 30-40 stories with a yellowish tone (somewhat resembling its namesake Cairo), each were owned by large state or private enterprises offering professional services, or hotels that looked like they were built from decades ago. On the other side of these buildings were the rails of the Zambian Railways. On Google Images of overall cityscape, Lusaka appeared to be a relatively modern metropolis. But closeup, Cairo Road resembles a road from a bygone era, buildings brushing out a feeling of recent nostalgia, as if the city had not evolved since the 80s.
 |
| The other side of the buildings are Cairo Road |
 |
| A mall not far from the post office on Cairo Road, |
My destination was the Lusaka Main Post Office, a white government building located on the northern stretch of Cairo Road, at the intersection with Church Road. I was here to send some postcards out. It was always intriguing to think about the different journey the piece of paper would take before it reached my hands, and it offered a nice way to collect chopped stamps.
 |
| Post Office on the left |
I checked the official opening hours imprinted on the door - “Saturday: 9am-2pm.” Flustered, I went back on the sidewalks and contemplated in front of the entrance for a moment.
 |
| Main entrance advertised Zampost microfinance. |
Several ladies were standing next to the stairs near the entrance. One of them saw me and said, “it’s closed.”
“But the opening hours should be until 2pm!”
“Ah they forgot to change the opening hours - it’s been 1pm for a while. But even if it were closed at 2pm, by 1 usually it'd be closing. Come Monday and you can send this."
No surprises there, I thought, given the oft-referenced ways of African bureaucracy. Though given the nature of government services, it would not be surprising either to hear similar comments in certain European countries.
“Monday I won’t be here, I’ll be flying out tonight.” We chit chatted a bit more, already preparing to leave with a slightly bitter smile.
Suddenly they decided to open the office for me. “Come with us,” they said.
Two ladies in the group were the most active leading the conversation. One was dressed in a full blue office attire, and had long hair but it was neatly tied up. She seemed to be working in one of the postal service functions, holding probably an administrative job. The other lady had short hair, wore a t-shirt and a modest skirt. She was the key master and master of errands and all services. No wonder she was the last to leave the building and was lingering around at this hour.
We went up 3 stories in the building. On the way one man came down the stairs with his children, and the group of ladies greeted them.
The key master opened the gates. The office lady asked me where I was sending the postcards to. She consulted a colleague over the phone on the usual price. If my memory does not fail me, 50 Zambian Kwacha (around 3USD) was the answer.
“Single price for all destinations.”
Into the offices she went to search for stamps, leaving me, the key master, and another lady in the stairs.
“You’re lucky.”
“Thank you a million.” I could not be more grateful, and delighted at the moment itself. It was yet another one of those moments, with a bit of effort and perseverance, I was benefited by the hearts of kindness of people. These have blessed my journey from time to time.
They weren’t big talkers, just gradually exchanged a few words among them in Chewa. I chipped in a few words, and at one point I inquired how life was for them.
"Life is hard. I have house work at home, and I have a full time job here. I go home and I continue to do all the chores. Life is hard. And you know my salary hasn't been paid since June. Government says they have no money. Businesses say they have no money.” The key master said in a half matter of fact tone.
Half a year of no government salary.
“Mm, then how do you guys live?”
“How do we live? I don’t know how we live. By the grace of God! By the grace of God only!" She looked upward as she spoke those words, eyes glowing with faith.
 |
| Spotted on Independence Avenue - signs with God's blessings is relatively common in a faithful country. |
Empathy and curiosity were fueled by this brief exchange.
It confirmed, first and foremost, a Christian faith very visibly professed in every part of the country. It was formed part from the colonial legacy, part from the belief in powers of the supernatural that form many narratives that originated on this land. Faith empowers people during times of hardship, provide them with a reason to march on during adversity, and gives them a sense of purpose.
Form a more realistic point of view, and why did she still come to work? In other countries there would probably have already been strikes demanding for pay. But getting a government job in Zambia and in the region probably had a different meaning. For a start one often could only get a job through connections - a relative who was working in some department in the government who put in a good word.
Along this line of thinking, it is not difficult to imagine her keeping a government job without pay. Having a government job has more tangible benefits than just purely monetary returns. Pension or health coverage may be one of them, and better even special channels in government services. And occupying a post means you have access to certain officials, and therefore could charge other job seekers finding a way into the civil service.
As I contemplated, the office lady came out and gave me the stamps. We subsequently walked down the stairs. I thanked them a million and they parted ways. I stayed behind for a while, sat at a corner of the back door stairs to finish writing the postcards, and sent them off in the postbox.
The post cards sent from Zambia never arrived.
Comments
Post a Comment