Mbulu
Anisha Namutowe
Background
On March 18, 2020, Zambia confirmed its first COVID-19 cases after the virus had spread globally, prompting national health measures following the WHO’s pandemic declaration.
Tuesday, 11th February 2020
Mama, are you there?
It’s been five years, but today, I need you more than ever. The world is falling apart at the seams, and I have no one else to turn to. No one listens like you. No one understands. There’s a virus spreading fast. They are calling it COVID-19. It sounds like the flu, but the whole world is panicking. Many people are dying—mostly abroad—but I miss you, Mama.
Sunday, 15th March 2020
Oh, Mama, you won’t believe this. WHO has declared all of this a global pandemic, and the Zambian government is acting quickly. They are suspending public gatherings, closing bars, gyms, schools, and restricting travel. The virus is inching closer to us, but God forbid. My world is within these walls as a stay-at-home mom anyway. Sunlight comes in through the windows, and the scent of fresh bread and flowers in the vases excites me. Mama, this is a home I know you’d be proud of. I’m happy in my little bubble: my kids and my husband, Fumbwe, although he goes out to work. But as long as he wears his mask and sanitises at work, COVID-19 will never be a part of our story.
Wednesday, 1st April 2020
Today, I asked Fumbwe to escort me to the market for fresh vegetables. It’s been weeks since the government announced the first two COVID-19 deaths—a French couple visiting the country. Would I feel differently about the pandemic, Mama, if the deaths were locals? If the victims bore the same skin tone as mine and spoke my language? Does this make me racist, Mama? I feel indifferent.
The air was nice this morning. There was light rain last night. The faint scent of the blooming jacarandas lining the avenue made me feel alive! After weeks indoors, everything outside felt strangely new.
I trailed behind Fumbwe who walked with his hands buried in his pockets, indifferent to my presence. He tugged at his mask absentmindedly, muttering about needing the fancy N75 ones. I didn’t correct him. I never do. Sometimes I wonder if he notices that I’ve stopped trying.
Sunday, 5th April 2020
Hey Mama. How’s heaven today? We’re fine down here—by the grace of God. Eddie, Fumbwe’s older brother, called us the other day with some good news. He’s landed a job at that big supermarket along Kafue Road. Fumbwe joked that maybe now he’ll settle down and get married. I’m just glad to see something positive happening in his life after everything he’s been through.
Inside the house, very little has changed. Fumbwe leaves for work at seven and is back by six.
“How was work?”
“Fine.” He was already halfway up the stairs.
“The baby didn’t cry today.”
“Great.”
Different day, same old story.
But outside is changing. It’s like a different world now, Mama. I went to the market the other day and it was like I teleported to a distant land. Everyone’s face was hidden behind a mask. No greetings. No smiles. No warmth. Just distance.
The tailor down the street has closed her shop. She used to wave at me from her sewing machine whenever I walked to the market. But no one is interested in new clothes anymore. Where would they even wear them? She’s trying to get by selling vegetables now, but there’s only so much she can earn from that. I overheard her telling another vendor that she doesn’t know how long she can keep going.
I was scrolling through my Facebook feed when I learned that the first couple reported to have died from the virus in Zambia weren’t actually French! Turns out, they were Zambians who caught it while vacationing in France. They brought it home with them. I feel bad now for dismissing their deaths before, thinking they wouldn’t mourn me if the roles were reversed. But they were our own, Mama. It got me thinking: what if the situation had been reversed? What would the headlines have been like? African Virus Invades France, or France Tightens Immigration Laws After African Couple Brings Deadly Plague. I can almost see the protests—angry, mostly white French citizens marching through the streets, demanding accountability for “lax immigration policies,” while ignoring the lockdown. But here? Nothing. Not even a whisper about tightening borders or blaming France for harbouring the virus.
Meanwhile, the Western media has pinned the blame on Wuhan, calling it the Chinese Virus just as they did with Ebola and Zika. Notice how when diseases emerge in the West, the names stay clinical—H1N1, swine flu, or simply COVID-19. Somehow, geography always seems to vanish when the outbreak begins in North America or Europe. I’m not even sure who to blame—us for being docile, or them for being hostile. Our governments rarely speak up, too dependent on foreign aid to challenge these narratives. While they argue about whose virus it is abroad, over here we’re arguing whether the virus is even real.
Mama, I find myself praying that if the virus is real indeed, that it spares us because deep down, I know we aren’t ready for it. Our hospitals, our systems—they’re not built for a pandemic like this. Do you think God hears those kinds of prayers, Mama? Or are we just left to hope and wait?
Sunday, 10th May 2020
Fumbwe came home the other day, saddened by the news he bore. His workplace was closing the office indefinitely. Three of his colleagues, who’d recently travelled for work, died—COVID, they said. I tried to reassure him, told him that working from home meant he’ll be safer…we’ll be safer.
“It’s easy for you,” he muttered, pushing his plate aside. “You wouldn’t get it. You’ve got nothing to lose.”
I froze. “Nothing to lose?”
I know exactly what he meant. I’m just a housewife. He’s implied it too many times for me to miss, and each time, it cuts deep, Mama. It’s as if everything I do is insignificant and only his work counts. Would he say that if I charged him for childcare and childbearing fees? If I tallied up all the cooking, cleaning, and laundry? And what about the sacrifices, Mama? The ones I make daily—biting my tongue, shelving my dreams, and remoulding myself.
I don’t know how you managed, Mama. Raising all of us, holding our home together, smiling through everything Papa put you through. Did you ever have these thoughts? These questions? Did you ever wish it could be different, or did that make you feel like a bad wife too?
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m failing at this. At marriage, at motherhood, at the life you said I was made for. Other times, I think I’m just waking up to how much I’ve been expected to give without question. But still, I hold my tongue.
Sunday, June 7th 2020
The COVID-19 death toll continues to climb, Mama. Hospitals are overwhelmed, and every day, somebody dies—friends, relatives, neighbours. Yet, even as grief touches those around me, COVID still feels like a far-distant worry. I’m consumed by my own battles at home, too overwhelmed to worry about the war outside.
I thought a lockdown together would bring us closer. I was wrong. The virus might have missed me, but loneliness hasn’t. Dark corners, cold floors. Silent tears. A house full of unsaid words. I stare at this locked door and ask myself. I ask you: is this all there is to life? I wish you were here to help me make sense of this, Mama. It’s harder than I thought.
Wednesday, 10th June 2020
Someone in the neighbourhood died. COVID, again. It’s getting closer, Mama. It’s coming for us. The man lived just six houses down. We called him Uncle Gerald—he insisted on it. I first met him five years ago, when we had a neighbourhood meeting about fixing the potholes on our street. The government wasn’t going to do anything, and the rich folks are too delicate. Uncle Gerald made the largest donation, and within two months, the road was fixed.
We all want to mourn Uncle Gerald, but we’re told only close relatives can attend the funeral. It feels like they’re killing him twice. Our neighbours cannot bury their dead alone. It’s unheard of! Funerals used to be a gathering of the family, friends, and community of the deceased. What is becoming of the world?
Sunday, 21st June 2020
Something hollow and aching is growing inside me, Mama. It’s spreading like this relentless virus, eating away at me. Is this what marriage is supposed to feel like? Am I wrong to crave more than just Fumbwe’s duty as a provider? Have I watched too much Western TV, or am I asking for too much?
Fumbwe thinks that fondling my breasts twice and jamming his spit-slicked finger inside me is all it takes to send me to the stars. How do I tell him that my tits aren’t magic buttons? That my vagina isn’t made of steel? My body is like a garden of orchids needing warmth, soft whispers, wet kisses, three doses of kindness, and a sprinkle of soft masculine charm.
I remember the days before things changed, Mama. Back when Fumbwe smiled when I knelt to serve him, and without words, there was always gratitude in his eyes. Now he throws demands at me like I’m his servant, always taking and never giving back. He is like a tax collector, self-entitled to my labour, my time, and my sacrifices. Yet I’m expected to keep kneeling when serving him and repeatedly thanking him for putting a roof over our heads lest he leave me for a more appreciative woman.
“I want a traditional wife,” he’d said when we first met.
And like the daughter you raised me to be, I was that for him. Mama, you moulded me for this since I was a child – bending my will, twisting my sense of self, and pulling me away from who I might have been, until I became perfect wife material. But you never taught me to ask—what about me? What about my pleasure, my needs, my dreams?
Tuesday, 23rd June 2020
Eddie is gone. He’s the first in the family to be taken by COVID. Remember when I told you he finally got a job at the supermarket after years of searching? He was thrilled when the government declared workers like him essential. For once in a long while, he felt important, needed.
“You should stay home,” Fumbwe commanded me when I was getting ready for the funeral. It wasn’t up for discussion.
After he left, I locked myself in the bathroom. The cold from the tiles seeped into my skin as I sank to the floor, clutching a towel to muffle my sobs. I let the tears flow, not wanting the kids to hear me break. Losing Eddie makes COVID very real to me…. It has finally come knocking at our door. Watching Fumbwe leave to bury him feels like he’s inviting the virus into our home. What if he brings it back? What if he doesn’t return at all?
Wednesday, 1st July 2020
It’s Papa, Mama. COVID took him. Took him from me. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. No more tears, Mama. None. You’re together now, but what about me? What about us? I see Papa in my mind. Laughing. Lifting my daughter high into the air. That laugh. Gone now. Just silence. The world is falling apart. Death everywhere. Too much. Too fast. When will it end?
For the first time in ages, Fumbwe and I reconnected in our shared loss. He is caring for the kids while I mourn. Maybe I have my husband back, and maybe this loss can make our house a home again.
Wednesday, 22nd July 2020
COVID is wicked, Mama. It’s merciless. Once it forces its way in, it refuses to leave. Just three weeks after we buried Papa, we also buried my beloved sister, Tendai. And just six days later, Ryan, your only son, Mama. He’s gone. Death has become my constant, and COVID my curse.
I live in fear of death, and I see Fumbwe growing numb. Loss doesn’t touch him the way it touches me. Now, I’m mourning a husband still alive, yet so distant that it feels like I’ve lost him too. I need him to hear me, hold me, and help me make sense of it all. But he’s never available—not for me, not for us.
It’s not that he isn’t grieving. He is. But we mourn separately, divided by the walls of the guest bedroom, his mobile phone, and sometimes the rules of isolation. One stays home with the kids while the other attends a funeral (mostly him), then we quarantine for two weeks, as if we weren’t already distant enough.
When Ryan died, I desperately wanted to be there—to say goodbye, to honour him. But Fumbwe wouldn’t hear of it.
“I should be there—he’s my only brother!” I cried, grief overriding my usual restraint.
“And what about the kids? Who will take care of them while you’re isolated? You can’t just leave them for me to handle!”
“You’re their father!”
He went quiet for a moment. I was sure he would hit me, though he has never before, but I’ve also never spoken back before.
Mama, you told me that whenever you were upset with Papa, you filled your mouth with water because it kept the peace. Mama, I have swallowed too much and it is starting to choke me.
My brother was buried without me, Mama, and I haven’t forgiven Fumbwe for keeping me from Ryan’s funeral. I don’t think I ever can.
Monday, December 28 2020
Hello, Mama. I am still alive. Surprised by it even. The kids are fine too. The past months have been brutal. My thoughts have been scattered, trying to make sense of everything that’s going on – what’s happening inside this house, and out there, where death looms.
The government has set up isolation centres and testing, but with limited resources and reliance on foreign aid, efforts to control the pandemic are faltering. I hear they have vaccines now, but they haven’t arrived here yet. I’ve started slipping into paranoia. Germs seem to be everywhere, and I’m constantly washing my hands until they’re raw. Sometimes, I even wear a mask inside when Fumbwe returns from his fresh air trips.
I send our son to the game room to stop him from rushing to his father as soon as he comes home. I won’t let Fumbwe hold the baby or go near her until he’s bathed. He complied at first, but now he uses it as an excuse to stay away from her.
Sunday, 28th February 2021
It’s 2021 now, Mama, and by God’s grace, we’re still here. Fear is still with us, like a shadow that won’t leave. I have been reading a lot of the statistics. Less than 2% of Africa’s population is vaccinated, compared to over 40% in Europe and North America. Is it because wealthy countries hoard them? Why do we always have to wait for the West to save us? Are we not capable of producing our own vaccines? We’re rich in gold, diamonds, and oil, yet we have nothing to show for it.
Mama, our leaders sell tomorrow for today’s comfort. Our hospitals are bleeding, and our schools are starving. We beg instead of building and argue vaccine hoarding, but are we ever prepared?
These thoughts weigh on me, Mama. They fill the seconds where loneliness would otherwise creep in and claim me. I can’t share them with Fumbwe—he’d just roll his eyes, dismiss me with one of his cutting, condescending quips. On days like this, I ache for your voice, or anyone’s voice. Friends are out of the question. Fumbwe won’t allow it. He says I’m too naïve, too poor at reading people and that I’d let the wrong kinds of influences into our lives.
At first, I fought him. I thought, Surely, I should be allowed one friend, maybe two? But each time, he’d find a reason—too loud, too opinionated, not a good influence. Eventually, I stopped asking.
And now, Mama, I’m wondering if he’s right? What if I am truly a bad judge of character? I picked him, didn’t I?
Sunday, 7th March 2021
I watched a debate on TV the other day, Mama. They were arguing about why so few Africans are getting vaccinated. One panellist, a black man, laid the blame squarely on the West. But then another—a white man—countered that vaccines are being sent to Africa, but they sit unused in warehouses because people don’t trust them.
I’d never thought about it that way. Had you, Mama?
Later, I told Fumbwe I was thinking of getting vaccinated.“For the children,” I added.
His face darkened. “Not in my house,” he snapped. “Do you really think those vaccines are safe? This is how they brought AIDS to Africa. They want to wipe us out.”
Mama, I didn’t know he believed in those conspiracies. This virus is unearthing parts of him I have never seen before. He’s adamant: no vaccines for this family.
Tuesday, 20th April, 2021
The vaccines are finally here, Mama! And surprisingly, more people are stepping forward, choosing the jab over leaving their fate to chance.
And guess what, Mama? Fumbwe is back to working from the office, and they made vaccines mandatory at his workplace—either get vaccinated or lose your job. Do you know what he did? He bought a fake certificate on the black market! This man will be the death of me, Mama. I could tolerate his arrogance when it didn’t risk our lives, but now it’s different.
“I’m getting vaccinated. Watch the kids.”
He blocked the door. “No, you’re not.”
“Move,” I said sharply.
He stared, eyebrows furrowed. He must have seen something on my face that made him step aside.
I had won—but why did victory feel so terrifying?
I headed to the nearest hospital to get vaccinated. It seems my will to live is stronger, Mama. My first rebellion. My first taste of freedom. It terrifies me, but I feel set free.
When I returned, he locked himself in the guest room again. I didn’t care.
Sunday, 4th July 2021
Months have passed since the vaccine, and I’ve felt no side effects—but something has shifted. My resentment for Fumbwe keeps growing. It’s like a wild tree with deep, unshakable roots. I’m drowning in his neglect, suffocating from his selfishness, and waking to his disrespect. I can’t excuse any of it anymore. I won’t.
Friday, 16th July 2021
He tested positive. I left his food at the door. Never checked.
“So this is what we are now?” he muttered.
“You left me alone with the kids when I thought I had COVID. Now you want my care?”
He flinched. “I didn’t want to risk exposing them.”
“But you risked bringing it home.”
Yet again, he said nothing. It’s as if our roles have been reversed, Mama. I talk, and he keeps quiet. The only difference is that he has the luxury of disappearing into his room to be alone with his gadgets.
You once told me, Mama, that a woman must be her husband’s refuge, no matter the storm. But how can I be his refuge when he keeps redrawing the battle lines, treating me and the kids like his sworn enemies?
Sometimes, I think the virus took the wrong people, Mama. It should have been him, not Papa, not Ryan, not Tendai. I sound monstrous, but I can’t help it. If he were gone, I’d have his benefits. I’d finally have peace, and my boy wouldn’t have to beg for an ounce of his father’s attention. My daughter wouldn’t have to flinch or cry when she hears his voice.
Does that make me a monster, Mama? Should I count myself lucky just because he doesn’t raise a fist like some husbands do? Is my pain less real because I carry it in silence, without bruises to show for it?
Maybe it’s the vaccine, Mama—maybe it ignites the rebel sleeping inside of people. I’ve had enough. The war I’ve kept at bay is rising, and my voice—oh, my voice—demands to be heard. My body pulses with a scream long denied, my mind burns like wildfire through a dry field. No more swallowing oceans. I’ll swing the hammer, Mama—let the walls fall. I’ll finally breathe.
Monday, 19th July 2021
I’ve fully embraced this rebellious side of mine, Mama. While Fumbwe was at work, I hired someone to unlock the guest bedroom and went through his computer.
Mama, I thought the lockdown was the worst thing that could happen. I was wrong. Four years. A mistress. A child. I survived a pandemic. I won’t die in this marriage.
Sunday, 25th July 2021
Yesterday, I packed my bags. I took the kids. I left him, Mama.
Uncle Gerald’s widow welcomed us. “We women must stick together,” she said.
I have forgotten what it feels like to have a friend.
While I was packing our stuff, I grabbed the white cloth you draped over me during my traditional marriage ceremony, and I burnt it. But I kept the white wedding dress. Who knows? Perhaps my daughter will find use for it one day. She won’t be like you, and she won’t be like me. I’ll raise her to be a woman who defines her own purpose.
Sunday, 5th September 2021
I started tutoring the neighbour’s children in secret, teaching them math and science after their school closed. They call me “Ms. Mbulu.” I like it. No one had called me by my name in a long time. The world has changed, Mama. So have I. The pandemic stole lives, but it also stole the version of me I thought I had to be. I am more than a wife and a mother. I am Mbulu.
The lockdown was a crisis. For me, it was a reckoning.
Anisha Namutowe is a Zambian writer who enjoys crafting fiction and non-fiction. She’s drawn to romance, psychological thrillers, and drama, while her non-fiction spans psychology, law, politics, feminism, culture, religion, mythology, and lifestyle.
Cover credit: Ebumnobichukwu Agu.
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