This story is about my experience of working in Zambia during the late 1970’s and early 1980’s. It is a factual account of what happened to the lives of ordinary people, during a crisis when its major export commodity, copper, declined in price. During these years, the country was a so-called ‘front-line state’ in the war against the regime in the neighbouring state of Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe). This compounded Zambia’s difficulties, as what copper could be mined was difficult to ship out. All of Zambia’s economy depended on this one product and the consequences affected everything from the price of bread to car parts. It had similarities to what has happened to local communities in the UK when a coal mine closed, or a steel mill shut – only worse and on a national scale. Sometimes I was not simply an observer, but a participant. This situation could be taking place today, in another developing country, in another city. One thing remains the same. It is the ordinary people who are the major victims, through no fault of their own, trapped in an endless cycle of poverty. It is they who suffer most.
In many African countries, the first to suffer from the onslaught of food shortages is the ordinary villager or poor urban dweller. Whether this is caused by natural causes such as famine, the devastating ravages of war, corruption by their politicians, or the collapse of a major export, they are so often the first casualties. In any African country dependent on the sale of a major commodity, this can set off an escalating chain of consequences. This is what happened in Zambia during the late 1970’s and 1980’s, although the country eventually recovered. But similar events have taken place in other developing countries and even today, global news reports show these tragedies are still occurring.
In Zambia, the decline in revenues from copper, which were exported world-wide, had a gradual but inescapable effect on goods brought in from outside the country. There was an inevitable shortage of foreign exchange and with an infrastructure lacking in the means of manufacturing even the most basic of commodities, shortages became endemic. The once quite splendid and well-stocked supermarkets of its show-piece cities, became eerie wastelands with shelves completely empty, stretching from the front of the store to the very perimeter. Occasionally shelves would appear with a bizarre selection of non-essential items, like jars of nut-meg or low voltage light bulbs. These would be carefully placed in a single-line along the front edge of the shelf with an almost military precision. Nothing was on top or behind the isolated row; it had an almost artistic significance, as though preserved for a post-modern exhibition. Supposedly something to display was better than nothing and demonstrated an irrepressible desire on behalf of the shelf-stackers to make themselves useful. As hopeful shoppers walked the isles, vigilant for a rare item others may have missed, they too eyed the artistic display of things no-one wanted. Maybe the initiative of the shelf-stackers really did have an entertainment quality. Beyond this bizarre encounter with the super-market world, the tragic reality of shortages became a daily event.
Whenever something in demand appeared, it was rare for it to actually get as far as being displayed. A network of informers would have somehow discovered its arrival and the store would be besieged by demanding shoppers removing it as fast as it hit the shelves. It was possible for the goods never to reach the shelves, instantly transferred from loading pallet to shopper’s basket. An informal communications network appeared to become established to communicate with anxious city residents about the location of essential supplies.
In many instances black-market hoarders intercepted even this communications route and stripped goods out only to sell them at inflated prices at their own premises. When news of a long awaited product spread, queues formed at the doors of the store. The penchant for order in queues so thoroughly displayed by their colonial masters in the past century (but did they ever really queue here?) was absent. It more often resembled a mob with the premises under siege.
The carnival atmosphere which is seen so much in African life, whether in bars, or in the bantering of groups waiting for a late train, was absent in this urban struggle. For many it was no longer selecting the best price for a basic necessity, their struggle had descended into a fight where there would be few winners. This was not a natural order. For many living in the surrounding townships, urban living was about day-to-day survival.
When even their meagre income could not wrestle the necessities out of the system, it stripped away their dignity. There was no one on their side. What they scrambled for was achieved by someone else’s loss.
When goods arrived at a local store, organized protection arrived too. Police were often in attendance with long batons brought into effect to keep at least some sense of order. It resembled a life and death struggle with shouting and threats between those latecomers struggling to get in front of the mob and the early arrivals keeping them back. The police inevitably tended to slowly lose ground as the throng grew in size. When the doors finally opened, it was a surge of humanity that clamoured for the goods. Hours of pent-up frustrations were suddenly released, the expectancy of a single loaf of bread, hope that the anxiety of the long wait was worth it all. There was scrambling and pushing as scarce commodities were grabbed before the supply disappeared. On occasions the doors were actually never opened, for fear of the crowd releasing their anger on the shop assistants. Goods were passed through the security bars into a sea of waving hands. There were casualties with people being trampled underfoot and babies were reported to have been crushed to death while strapped to their mother’s backs.
The tragedy in all this was that many of the products under siege were staple foodstuffs capable of being grown commercially. Why bother with growing locally when money was there to fly everything in? Villagers in remote districts hardly new what was happening in the larger cities. They grew staple products for their families, with perhaps enough surpluses to sell at the local market. But even they were not so remote from the international commodity price of copper. A global situation had somehow come home to shrink their cooking oil supplies and paraffin for their lanterns. Medicines at their local hospital started to vanish. How was the local village chief to explain what was happening to communities who barely knew what copper was?
Although initial shortages, which affected most people on a day-to-day basis, were foodstuffs, increasingly the whole fabric of the industrial and service sector began to suffer. Garages ran out of spares for the average car; machinery ceased up for the most basics of running repairs. Even the copper mines, the single most lucrative export earner located in the north of the country was not spared. This was indeed expensive and essential machinery, but still resulted in two hundred ton ore moving trucks incapable of moving due to non-existent spares.
For some there were profits to be made from the misfortunes of the many. An underworld of thieves, hoarders, black marketeers and ‘informers’ grew up with the aim of gaining a percentage by either supplying goods or knowing someone who could deliver. Lusaka was both the administrative and business capital with every foreign embassy and non-governmental organization being represented. The Copperbelt towns of the north although smaller, still maintained a moneyed elite amongst the supervisory ranks of the miners. This resulted in many businesses and individuals with enough money to pay the premium demanded for hard to get goods. The embassies had so-called diplomatic bags to bring products in by. Such methods could by-pass customs and get what would be labelled as ‘luxury goods’ – a tactful description for obtaining anything not available locally. The commodities which came under this heading made up a bizarre category and included vehicle tyres and car parts.
But for the many of the city’s residents, it was the network of informers and tip-offs, which supplied their needs. It seemed that if something was needed there would always be someone, somewhere who could get it – for a price. As usual it was always the average working person who lost out in the scramble for scarcities. They rarely had the money to pay a black market price and their free time would be spent scouring the markets for anything which might have been overlooked, or waiting at a store for hours at a time hoping that a delivery would arrive.
During the trauma of endless shortages, I was never aware of widespread disruption with street protests or even violent displays against political leaders or those accused of hoarding. Perhaps everyone thought they were part of a collective responsibility for the mess the country was in. Or more probably, the old African quality of acceptance in the face of adversity was keeping the rumblings of discontent in check. It was to prove a dangerous balance.
Roger Barton
Pudsey Library Writing Group
