On this auspicious day, 70 years ago, my eyes were greeted by the stunning hues of August. In the loving embrace of my mother, the woman who felt my flutters, jabs, and kicks, I lay, my tiny hands and feet swathed in white. Nothing can compare to the feeling I experienced when I first beheld her. At that moment, I understood that my destiny was linked to hers; that I was a testament to her existence. With that realization, the anchor was cast.
The moment my mother handed me to my father my small eyes locked onto his. I sensed his gentle touch and warm embrace; I cooed and gave him a radiant smile, aware that his presence was my wellspring of strength, as he represented humanity’s capacity for divine existence. It was in his footsteps that I was destined.
Monday, August 8, 1955, is the day of genesis etched in time: a celebration of life, and of rapture and joy untold. It is the day my father carried me through the doors of Wusakile Hospital into my new reality. I felt the sun’s rays as they illuminated me, casting the shadow of my future. I watched in wonder as butterflies fluttered gracefully, harmonizing with the sweet melody sung by birds resting on the powerline. At that moment, I realized that the exquisite world, perfectly crafted by Him, was entirely mine to shape or shatter.
At home, my siblings, Isabel, Wyness, George, Florence (Joyce), Christine, and Happy, anxiously waited to cast their eyes on me and bind hearts with glee so love could forever flow. Just by sight, they connected me to their profound bond and committed me to their cherished companionship through both calm and turbulent times. Alongside Agnes, the younger sister I longed for, born three years later, God’s comforting presence solidified our familial bond. Together, we cultivated love as the essence of home. This was indeed a gift from God.
Deep in every child sits a God-chosen destiny, a divine purpose and a predestined path with which to mold his fortunes, mean or great. A year into my metamorphosis my father heard me utter the words “da-da” and his heart melted, stirring at the sweet whisper of the precious word. It was a tender vow to him that someday I would be a conversationalist, raconteur and a spinner of yarn, a broadcaster of seed even. My father said that signs of a potential broadcaster were observed in me as a toddler. My capacity to articulate and understand language at a tender age, showcased an innate proficiency for communication.
Time moves like wind. It conjures images of time’s passage as something both powerful and unstoppable, yet also gentle and subtle, reminiscent of the wind. When I prod the nuances of my childhood, sporadic recollections of the five vowels a,e,i,o,u, emerge. I began to grasp vowel concepts in 1960 when I was five years old, attending kindergarten at Bancroft (Chililabobwe) welfare. I reference the vowels here as they represent the initial steps in developing my communication skills.
In 1962, I started to devote more time away from the comfort of my home, socializing with the new friends I made at Maiteneke Primary School in Chingola. From the moment I was born until I reached the age of seven, we relocated from Wusakile, Kitwe to Bancroft (Chililabombwe) and then to Maiteneke Chingola.
Ooh, the exhilarating journey from Bancroft to Chingola in 1962 aboard an NRG (Northern Rhodesia Government) Bedford lorry. It marked my very first experience in an automobile. As we traveled along the winding road, the engine of the lorry whirred steadily. Clinging tightly to the railing at the back of the lorry’s cargo deck, I observed the savannah’s golden grass, with its dark seed heads, waving farewell. The wind struck my face sharply, but that only added to every joy. Upon arrival at 1587 Maiteneke, I stepped onto my new surroundings, and at that moment, the world changed in a magical instant.
Challenges arose early in my life. My father, a Tumbuka-Nyasalander with pierced ears, served as the charismatic lay preacher at Chiwempala United Church of Zambia in Chingola. He possessed a steadfast heart, a guiding voice, and the strength to uplift. As he connected with his audience, I saw myself through his eyes.
I was oblivious of my father’s impact on me until I found my 12-year self in the temple’s nave, as part of the Chiwempala Church Choir ensemble. I sang passionately about themes of heaven, brimstone, and fire, pouring my heart and soul into each song. The ululations filled me with a sense of redemption.
Then came 1968, the metaphoric year. I awoke with a racing heart, unsteady knees, a parched throat, dressed in new khakis, green stockings, Bata shoes, carrying a leather backpack, wearing a tie, and equipped with new Bic pens. Before I could blink, I found myself at the predominantly white Chingola Primary School, standing alongside white and Asian boys and girls, hymn book in hand, rendering my alto voice to the song “All things bright and beautiful/All creatures great and small.” This melody dispelled the anxiety from my spirit and made my experience at Chingola Primary School unforgettable.
John Ovey, the pianist at St. Marks Church, spotted my talent and invited me to join the church choir, making me the first black member. It was here, at the age of 17, that the stars shone brightly. My destiny was drawn to a microphone positioned on John Ovey’s piano. It fueled my passion and sparked a fire in the dry wood that lay stacked and waiting for flames on the forest floor of my fate and destiny. I had sung into that microphone; I had addressed large audiences through it and was no longer held back by doubts and fears. I was ready to embrace my true calling as a broadcaster, so that I could lead people towards a happier tomorrow.
The pivotal moment arrived in 1976. I was 21 years old and had slightly more than a year of experience in my new job as a technical operator at the national broadcaster, Zambia Broadcasting Services. Monica Spanton, the producer of Sanyo Hit Parade, had requested that I create a demo of the program at DB studio. Upon entering the booth, I was greeted by the sight of a quiet microphone waiting for the voice of the man on trial.
I sat shoulders back, chin up, waited for a cue from recordist Peter Musungilo, then spoke: “This is DJ Cool, captain of the air, Field Ruwe, I am here to put pleasure into your leisure,” the microphone crackled, and a tune punctuated by pops and static echoed through serene terrene and thumped from the studio speakers with ecstasy. Hereon, I was not only an ardent listener, but also a broadcaster.
But fame is the deceptive and capricious carnivorous Venus flytrap in which Zambian broadcasters, most with no tertiary education, have fallen and lost their lives in their days of bloom. I saw it at ZBS and ZNBC, the double-edged sword of fame, providing benefits of being a broadcaster while simultaneously leading talented newscasters, disc jockeys, radio and television program presenters, and producers into the abyss of the Venus flytrap.
I too once stood at precipice feeding my fame with ego while staring into the Venus flytrap too numb of mind. But education came to my rescue. Education is not merely the acquisition of knowledge; it is the powerful catalyst for a deeper understanding of oneself. Education significantly impacts the choices individuals make throughout their lives, influencing everything from career paths and health habits to personal relationships and overall well-being. A strong educational foundation equips individuals with the knowledge, critical thinking skills, and confidence to navigate life’s complexities and make informed decisions.
At the age of 41, I went back to school to earn my Bachelor of Education degree in Mass Communication and Journalism because I knew that education was fundamentally important both for my growth and societal progress. At the age of 55, I earned my master’s degree in history to deepen my expertise, advance my career, and make a greater impact within the education system. At the age of 64, I obtained a Doctor of Education degree and became the scholar I am today. Now I am a 70-year-old outlier. You too can do it.
In closing, I express my gratitude to God for the blessing of life over the past 70 years. My health record from Cambridge Hospital shows NO SERIOUS HEALTH ISSUES. No HIV, TB, Malaria, and no terminal illnesses up to this point. You, my Lord, have sustained my good health for 70 years, and for this, I am profoundly thankful. I appreciate your mercy, your grace, and the hope you offer each day. Guard and guide me into the future. Amen.
