The electricity went out at 04:59 AM, exactly one minute before my alarm was set to go off.
ZESCO's timing wasn't just efficient; it was spiteful. I lay in the dark, listening to the sudden, heavy silence of the fan as it slowed to a crawl. In a few hours, the Zambian sun would turn this three-bedroom house in Chelstone into an oven, but for now, the air was thick with the scent of charcoal smoke from the neighbors starting their braziers and the faint, lingering smell of yesterday's cabbage.
I reached for my phone. 4% battery.
"Great," I whispered to the ceiling. "Just like my bank account."
I sat up, navigating the obstacle course of my room by memory: the stack of printed CVs (useless), the pile of folded chitenge (essential), and the bucket of water I'd fetched last night because the utility company and the water firm seemed to be in a secret competition to see who could fail me more.
As I poured the freezing water over my head, I performed my daily ritual of **Mental Accounting**.
Balance: K114.50.
* **Needs:** Bus fare to the CBD for the "Economic Outlook Forum" (K40 round trip), a scone (K5), and enough airtime to call my mother back before she reports me missing to the local police and her 14 WhatsApp prayer groups.
* **Leftover:** Just enough for a funeral. Hopefully mine.
By 08:30 AM, I was standing in the back of a packed minibus. My white blouse—ironed yesterday with a charcoal iron that nearly gave me a heart attack—was currently pressed against the sweaty back of a man carrying a live chicken in a perforated box.
"Sister, move inside!" the conductor shouted, hanging off the door like an acrobat.
"Inside where?" I retorted, my sarcasm bubbling up. "Unless you want me to sit on the chicken's lap, there is no space."
The bus erupted in tired chuckles. That was the Zambian way. If you're suffering, you might as well have an audience.
I wasn't going to the Forum to network. I was going because **Mwansa Tembo** was the keynote speaker. To the world, he was the "Copper King," the visionary CEO of Tembo Holdings. To me, he was the man who had signed a "Restructuring Memo" three weeks ago that ended my father's thirty-year career with a digital signature and a "Best Wishes" postscript.
My father hadn't eaten properly since. He just sat on the veranda, staring at the mango tree, holding his service certificate like it was a holy relic.
The Forum was held at a five-star hotel where the air conditioning was so cold it felt like a different continent. I walked past the registration desk with the confidence of a woman who actually belonged there, flashing a fake "Media" pass I'd designed on Canva and printed at an internet cafe.
Inside, the room smelled of expensive cologne and "New Money."
Then, he walked onto the stage.
Mwansa Tembo didn't look like a villain. He didn't wear gold chains or a loud suit. He wore a charcoal-grey slim-fit suit that probably cost more than my father's entire severance package. He was young—too young for that much power—with a face that looked like it had been carved out of teak. Cold, polished, and impenetrable.
"Efficiency," Mwansa said into the microphone, his voice a deep, calm hum that vibrated in the chest. "Is the only currency that matters in a developing economy. To grow, we must prune. To lead, we must be willing to be disliked."
He looked out into the crowd. His eyes were dark and bored. He looked like a man who had forgotten that the "human capital" he pruned actually bled.
I felt the heat rise in my neck. My hand went up before my brain could veto the decision.
The moderator, a woman in a sharp blazer, pointed at me. "Yes, the lady in the back. Please state your name and organization."
I stood up. The silence was heavy. I could feel the eyes of the elite—the board members, the politicians, the influencers—turning toward my K150 "Boutique" (second-hand) heels.
"Chileshe Banda," I said, my voice steady despite the hammer in my chest. "I'm not with an organization. I'm with the 'Human Capital' you mentioned."
Mwansa's eyes shifted. He didn't look away. He leaned slightly forward, his hands folded on the lectern.
"Mr. Tembo," I continued, "your spreadsheets are beautiful. Truly. But I have a question about your math. When you calculated the 15% 'operational bloat' you cut last month, did your formula account for the cost of a fifty-eight-year-old man's dignity? Or does the 'Copper King' only deal in minerals that don't have faces?"
The room went so quiet I could hear the hum of the projector.
The moderator moved to take the mic, but Mwansa raised a hand. He stared at me for five long seconds. I didn't blink. I couldn't afford to blink; I'd paid K40 to be here.
"Dignity," Mwansa said, his voice devoid of emotion, "is not a line item on a balance sheet, Ms. Banda. But poverty is a systemic failure, not a personal one."
"It feels pretty personal when the power is out and the fridge is empty, sir," I snapped back.
He didn't argue. He just watched me. For the first time in his life, someone wasn't asking him for a job or a contract; someone was asking him for an account of his soul.
I walked out before they could kick me out.
I went back to the heat, the dust, and the 4% battery life. I thought that was the end of it. I thought I'd just had my "hero moment" and would now go back to eating dry nshima and hunting for jobs.
I was wrong.
That evening, a black Mercedes-Benz—the kind that looks like it belongs to a Head of State—pulled up outside our gate in Chelstone, sending the neighborhood kids into a frenzy.
A man in a suit got out. He wasn't Mwansa. He was an assistant. He handed me a cream-colored envelope.
"Mr. Tembo would like to discuss a 'restructuring' of a different kind," the man said.
I opened the letter. There was no apology. Just a time, a place, and a sentence that made my breath hitch:
*"You have an eye for the gaps in the system, Ms. Banda. I happen to be looking for a gap-filler. Let's talk about a contract."*
I looked at my father on the veranda. I looked at the dark house.
I realized then that I was about to sell the one thing Mwansa Tembo couldn't find on a spreadsheet: my life.
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