Deep in the bush was our camp. A makeshift house made out of a military tent, furnished with camp beds with water flowing beneath following a heavy downpour, gave us a shelter that kept our eyes from glancing at the beautiful night stars of a forestry bush. He was an old-almost retiring high ranking Paramilitary. Like wine getting better with age, he had grown some admirable tactics and had a lot of wisdom wrapped in his service stories. His machine gun and knife on the side, his eyes popped up, his feet well stamped to the ground, ready to take defense should the bandits, commonly the Nyamulenge on the loose, attempt to attack. We had just smashed our meal that evening and chipped into a series of conversations. "There was confusion during the construction of the Kariba Dam." He recalled. About 57,000 people were set to be relocated. He went on explaining how dangerous it was for people to settle around that area as any accident that would lead to the breaking o...
My Diary on Africa, Culture, and Communication for Development