But Who Was Godden – The Perils of English As a Second Language

This is the question that vexed my mind when I was a little boy growing up in an African country where English was the official language by virtual of having been previously colonised by the British. I was an inquisitive child who sought to learn everything, but this one proved to be one mystery I couldn’t crack, until it receded to the archived section of my memory bank. From time to time this question popped up in the random access memory of my brain but as quickly as it did, it was re-consigned back to where it belonged. I simply didn’t have an answer.

It was not until I was an adult that the great mystery was solved and I can report that I laughed at myself when, one day, the answer came straight to me like some almighty revelation! The whole time the answer was right there staring at me and I just never saw it! My brain was at that stage not flexible enough in the queen’s language to accommodate variations and accents from wherever.

I was reminded of this once-upon-a-time vexing mystery the other day while walking to our local shopping village just up the road from where I live. I noticed a group of boys no more than 10 years old walking in formation, neatly dressed in their khaki shirts and shorts and the distinctive scouts scarf with the scout master ahead of the group. Then on my way back I saw the same group sitting around a camp fire in a little forest strip between our suburb and the nearby main road. This took me to a time and place many years ago when I was around the age of these little scouts. Except that I was never a scout in the sense of being in an organised scout camp. You see that privilege passed me over to my elder brother. By virtue of my brother being older, it meant that, for some things, he had the first go. And sometimes this meant that at that time that door was shut for me. Part of it had to do with bigger brothers not wanting to mingle with their pesky little siblings.  Sometimes it just meant that at that point in time the little sibling was excluded because of age or some other qualifications to participate. It was the same even in the most beloved game of football when I could never be on the same team with my big brother. It is not that older siblings are necessarily selfish but rather when you are young, your level of maturity physically and mentally is more stark over a small age gap. Of course, as you grow older that gap reduces and effectively disappears. But at age 7 to say 10, that difference is very real. And so it was that my brother became a scout at Woodlands camp, Lusaka and I couldn’t be one at the time.

But me being inquisitive and determined, I did not let this little accident of birth stop me from achieving the dream of becoming a scout. And if I couldn’t be a scout in a scout camp  and wear those fancy scarfs and khaki clothes, I was going to be a scout in any other way. Who cared about the khaki uniform and the scarf, who cared about going to jamborees, I still was going to be a scout any way! And so, I embarked on learning everything there was to learn about boy scouts. I learnt most of the things mimicking my brother and reading the scouts little handbook. I learnt things like how to tie different rope knots like the reef knot. I learnt and practiced with my mates how to walk through the bush and not get lost by leaving clues to help us trace back to our camp.

I learnt the Scouts’ motto which we used to sing:

“Boys scouts, BE PREPARED is our motto.”

All things considered I learnt as much as I could about being a scout without being a scout.

You might still be wondering what all this has to do with the title of the story - “Who was Godden?” Well you see I also learnt and memorised the Scouts oath:

“On my honour, I will do my best

To do my duty

To God and my country and to obey the Scout Law…”

In the case of scouts in my homeland the ‘my country’ bit was replaced with “Zambia.”

And so the oath was “…to God and to Zambia…”

And that is where the confusion in my mind set in. You see in those days we spoke our mother tongues in normal conversations and only started learning English in Grade 1 of formal school. The learning process itself was very elaborate where we were schooled in what passed as the “Queen’s language” speak with proper pronunciations with the syllables and intonations being as exact as it was for formal English learning. We learnt the “a, e, i, o, u” vowels and there was a clear distinction between ‘a’ and ‘e’. As part of the learning process we were compelled to speak English in class, and speaking what was called vernacular (local language) was punishable. It was not uncommon to get a smack from the teacher for speaking vernacular in class. And so, we embarked on the life quest of reading, speaking, singing and writing English in the proper “English” way. Needless to say, we learnt to sing English songs even if we didn’t understand half of what we were singing. For example, we sung the national anthem at every school assembly with much enthusiasm although we hardly understood the meaning of much of what the words said.

“…Zambia praise to thee

All one strong and free…”

And so, it was with the scout oath, though not quite in the same way as I understood the meaning of every word in the scout oath – so I thought. The only problem was that I kept wondering why the promise was to “Godden to Zambia.”

“Zambia”, I understood – that was my beloved motherland. But who was Godden?

The revelation came to me, many years later. Suddenly it was as clear as daylight on the African savannah - there was no such entity or person known as ‘Godden’ to whom the scouts made their oath. What I understood to be “to Godden to Zambia” was actually to “God-and-to Zambia.” Saying this in one breath and throwing in what I suspect was an infiltration of the South African accent just threw me off tangent. For those who have travelled to South Africa, one thing you pick up is the distinctive way black South Africans speak English. You notice things like how ‘a’ is pronounced as ‘e’ - for example bag is pronounced as beg, happy is pronounced as heppy – a distinct departure from what we were taught where ‘a’ was the apple sound, while ‘e’ was the hen sound.

And so for years my little mind was vexed with this eternal question “who is Godden”

Oh How the Years Go By!!

Its been a long time since my last posting - cant believe it was that far back. How time flies! So much water has gone under the bridge since then, so to speak. my daughter, Taonga, gave up on Biotechnology just after one semester and decided to emulate her Dad and switched into the Bachelor of Science in Earth Sciences - trouble is, I recall during the bad old days of ZCCM when we used to joke that "if my child decides to do any of these mining/engineering courses, i will disown them." And so after much agonising I came to the conclusion that I couldn't disown her without disowning my self. Then I arranged for her to spend sometime of her end of year vacation at my work place - we call them Christmas Beatles as they only appear during the December holiday. She loved being in the work zone so much that I am now resigned to the fact that she will go on to become a geologist. She is now in her second year and loving it. The Lord has been gracious in all this and I am forever grateful.

Another milestone in our life has been the graduating of our youngest daughter, Elizabeth from Primary School and transitioning into High School. Not only going into High school but also securing a place in a prestigious selective high school for academically gifted children, joining her big sister Lusungu who is now in year 10. Elizabeth is loving High School and obviously is working very hard - every time she comes home from school , she dumps her bag just inside the house and slumps in the lounge where she falls asleep almost immediately.

As for my second daughter Lusungu, she is now in year 10, a senior at her school - a "white shirt" as they are called. She is taking her responsibilities of being a senior seriously involving herself in all sorts of leadership activities such as being a peer leader. Lusungu is also working hard and doing well academically - we are proud of her.

A few days ago we celebrated Taonga's 20th birthday. While it was a joy to celebrate yet again another year, Taonga felt a sense of loss because she is no longer a teenager. For me the big thing was that for the first time since she was born, she was not home on her birthday, but rather was out with her friends. It has always been a tradition of ours to spend time as a family and recount the events of our children's births. this keeps the memories fresh and the children have never tired hearing about all these accounts of how their first day was, how we felt the first time we saw them etc. but for the first time, my baby was not home preferring to be with her friends. And that cut way too deep. Then came the realisation that my baby had grown and in so doing was spreading her wings learning to fly...she was no longer bound to the nest, as much as she valued the comfort and security the nest (home) gave her. The sooner we accept that the better for all of us. Then the question comes - have we imparted enough values for her to go out in the world and make it? Is she going to look after herself or get caught up in the peer pressure that comes with growing up? Then the song we sang when taking her from Nkana Mine Hospital for the first time 20 years ago comes back to my mind..."how sweet to hold a new born baby and feel the pride and joy she brings, but better still still the calm assurance this child can face uncertain days because He lives..." I guess I have to leave this issue at that. Christ Lives and therefore I can entrust my family into his hands.

How One Little Boy Caused Grandma to Stop Snuffing Tobacco (True Story)

This is a true story. It actually happened in my family and I was there to witness it. While the identity of some of the living person has been suppressed, there is no prize in guessing who we are talking about here.

It happened somewhere  in the early 80s. One thing for sure is that the then little person in question was at an age where they had a degree of self-awareness and curiosity to do what they did.

You see, my parents had moved from Lusaka to Chama in 1979. It must have been mid 1979 because I do recall going for my school holidays to Chama for the first time in August of that year.

Recent Satellite Image of part of Chama town  – like frozen in time. No apparent change  from some that long time ago when I was last there

And so on this particular occasion I was on university break (from UNZA) in Chama and at that time my grandmother ambuya Amaliya was visiting from the village, which was fantastic because it meant I was going to be pampered as I was the special one to my grandmother. Having the name of my Father’s father and also, I am told, having been inseparable with my grandma when I was small meant that ambuya a Maliya pampered me so much to the point of wanting to put me on her back even when I was obviously a ‘big boy.’ Now, I am digressing from the main course of the story.

The story is at that time my grandma ambuya a Maliya used to sniff ground tobacco. This was common among her generation, something which was a legacy from the colonial history. The tobacco was ground into a dry powder and stored in these little tin containers they carried around. Once in a while the container would appear, and a bit of the dry tobacco placed on the palm of the hand just above the thumb or on the back the hand. Then the hand would be raised to the nose and in one fell swoop the tobacco would be sniffed by the nose and just like that it would be gone delivering a dose of nicotine straight to the brain. I observed this ritual many times having been a bit curious about what the fuss was all about with the snuffing. Needless to say I did try to sniff a bit and it was most unpleasant and irritating to the nose resulting in so much sneezing and discharging brownish goo of mucus mixed with the tobacco. But somehow most of the oldies seemed to take this sniffing in their stride and not being hit by a bout of sneezing. If my memory serves me right Grandfather A Best Mukonshya used to snuff too, so it was not just women. More recently in 2004, I was underground in a mine in Queensland, Australia, with this consultant with a strong Yorkshire accent (English) discussing all things mining when to my amazement, without butting an eyelid, produced a little tin from his pocket and proceeded to take a pinch of ground tobacco and effortlessly snuffed it up his nose and continued talking like nothing had happened

Picture of Powdered tobacco in a tin

And so it was that grandmother was there at home and of course mucking around especially with the youngest of her grandchildren. Since curiosity runs in the family, what grandma didn’t realise was that this little boy had picked up on this ritual and even at that age was curiously trying to discover what this was all about. To be fair to grandma she was very meticulous on how she kept her little tin of magic. But it just happened once on a particular evening that grandma had not secured the merchandise properly or had looked away long enough - long enough for this little naughty boy to pounce, open the tin and take a massive sniff from grandma’s tin of magic. The next moment the little guy was sneezing all over the place and becoming delirious. Grandma realising what had happened picked up the little man, came running and being all hysterical about what she had done. At that point the little one was in quite a state, mucus freely running down the nose, sneezing like there was no tomorrow, eyes running, hiccups, breathing in a funny way etc. The panic button was hit and before long we were all on our way to the clinic, on foot with grandma shuffling in tow, hands behind her back. I remember very clearly my grandmother lamenting all the way to the clinic and praying for the Lord to spare the life of that little boy, confessing her sin of sniffing the stuff and having brought the tragedy upon the family, and making a declaration that she would never ever sniff the stuff again. No amount of reassuring that the little fella was made of sterner stuff and would be ok, comforted my poor old grandmother.

Now the distance from our house to the clinic was maybe 2km - definitely more than a kilometre and life being what it was then, we walked pretty much everywhere in that little town. It was evening and there was a nice cool breeze from the stream on the edge of town. And so as we walked with grandma continuing her lamentations and prayers and confessions the good Lord in his kindness was blowing a cool breeze on the little guys face and his delirium began to wane, his breathing began to improve and progressively the sneezing began to reduce. I don’t recall what actually transpired at the clinic – I think mum went in with the little boy while we remained outside. One thing I do remember though is that we didn’t stay too long at the clinic, shortly after we were on our way back home with the little fellow happily enjoying all the attention from all especially from his grandmother who was most over joyed. For a long time we joked about this and gave grandma so much ‘grief’ about the incident as we teased her – I miss my grandma.

The conclusion of the matter was that as far as I recall that is how grandma ambuya amaliya stopped snuffing ground tobacco, and no harm was done to the little guy who is now a big man and a father.