Remembering My Childhood On The Continent Of Africa

There’s a particular scent that yanks me back forty years in a single breath: the smell of red dust after the first rain. It was the perfume of my childhood, a wild, earthy perfume you cannot buy in any store. I grew up not in a city, but on the continent of Africa itself—in Lusaka, Zambia, where the bush was never more than a bicycle ride away.

Scrambling for Treasure in the Laterite

Our playgrounds were not made of rubber mulch or recycled tires. They were hard-packed laterite, studded with thorns and the occasional broken bottle, which we treated as a minor inconvenience. I remember the fierce competition to find the best kunkwa—those smooth, marble-sized stones perfect for a game of jacks. A good kunkwa was a status symbol, and you guarded it with your life.

We didn’t have screen time; we had sun time. My best friend, Mwila, taught me how to trap the sun’s rays with a magnifying glass to burn an image onto a dry leaf—a practice that horrifies my modern, fire-conscious self. But in that moment, it was the purest science: a tiny, controlled apocalypse in the dirt.

Fun Fact: Laterite soil is famously rich in iron. If you dragged a magnet through our playground dirt, it would come back looking like a fuzzy, rust-colored hedgehog. We thought that was the pinnacle of magic.

The Market: A Crash Course in Commerce and Chaos

Saturdays meant a trip to Kamwala Market, a sensory assault that still recalibrates my idea of "normal." You didn't just buy a tomato; you argued for it, laughing with the vendor while a chicken squawked in a cage next to you. The air was a cocktail of dried kapenta fish, frying oil, and the sweet, cloying scent of chipapas (cassava) boiling in oil.

My mother taught me the secret to bargaining: “Show interest, but never hunger.” You look at the mango, you nod, you walk away. The vendor always called you back with a price cut and a grin that said, “I saw through your game, little boy.” It was a theatre of connection, not just transaction.

I learned math on the fly—adding up ngwees (the local coins) for a Fanta Green in a glass bottle. The bottles were returned for a deposit, creating a closed-loop economy that felt like a small, satisfying ritual. A practical tip for any traveler: never refuse a glass bottle of soda; it hits different, like the liquid gold of childhood.

The Great Mopane Worm Standoff

Now, let’s talk about the elephant in the room—or rather, the caterpillar in the tree. Eating mopane worms (dry, fried caterpillars) was a rite of passage. I was nine, pressured by Mwila. “They are just crunchy,” he said, holding a handful that looked like desiccated red fingers.

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I ate one. It tasted like salty, smoky popcorn with a faint aftertaste of the mopane leaf. I did not throw up. I felt immensely proud, and then immediately greedy, asking for more. It is a culinary badge I still wear, though I rarely find the opportunity to show it off in a Brooklyn brunch spot.

Cultural tip: Mopane worms are sustainably harvested and packed with protein. They are Africa’s original superfood—long before the term was invented.

The Soundtrack of a Hot, Still Afternoon

The afternoons were ruled by a specific quiet. The only sounds were the drone of cicadas, the clink of a goat’s bell, and the distant thump-thump of someone pounding maize in a mortar. That rhythm—thud… pause… thud—was the heartbeat of the neighborhood.

We made our own toys. A wire car from a coat hanger and a tin can was a Formula One racer on the red dirt tracks. A bicycle inner tube became a slingshot. We didn’t see it as resourcefulness; we saw it as the only way. Looking back, that scarcity was a secret luxury—it forced us to build, to invent, to negotiate for a turn.

I once spent an entire afternoon watching a tribe of weaver birds build a nest, strand by strand. The males dangled upside down, flapping furiously. My father said, “That bird works harder than most men.” He was right. That afternoon taught me more about patience and persistence than any school lesson.

mothers2mothers - Day of the African Child: Setting Up for Success

Lessons Hidden in the Dust

Africa taught me that discomfort is just a state, not a catastrophe. When the power went out (which was often), we didn’t panic. We lit a paraffin lamp, and the shadows on the wall became dragons and heroes. Darkness was not an enemy; it was a canvas.

It taught me that time is not a straight line. A visit to a friend’s house could last three hours or three days. There was no such thing as a “playdate”—we just “went out” and came back when we were hungry. This fluidity is something I crave in my rigid, scheduled adult life.

Practical takeaway for modern life: When you feel overwhelmed by your daily to-do list, try the "African hour." Just let the next thing happen, even if it’s not on the schedule. Nature does not wear a watch.

The Reflection: A Grain of Red Dust in My Pocket

I now live in a city of concrete and glass, where the smell of rain hides behind exhaust fumes. But I keep a small jar of Zambian soil on my desk. It is a physical anchor, a totem of memory. When I look at it, I am not sad; I am grounded.

That childhood taught me that wealth is not what you own, but what you notice. The way a termite mound catches the sunset. The taste of water from a clay pot. The laughter that echoes across a dusty soccer pitch. I carry that continent inside me—not as a geographical place, but as a state of being.

So, the next time you feel rushed, find a piece of red dirt. Or just close your eyes and remember the sound of a weaver bird. That is where the true continent lives. And it is always, always waiting for you to come home.