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Buzuba Mbwindakaunka Kudolopo
The day I left home for the city
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Citisyini cisyoonto camabbaasi cakazwide zyicitika abantu banji amabbaasi azwide bantu. Kwakali zyintu zyinji zyakeelede kukkwezekwa.Aansi aaalo akacili zyintu zinjaanji zyakeelede kukwezekwa. Bambi bantu bakali kwaamba mazyinaa masena nkwaakali kuunka mabbaasi.
The small bus stop in my village was busy with people and overloaded buses. On the ground were even more things to load. Touts were shouting the names where their buses were going.
“Dolopo, dolopo! Baya kumbo.” Ndakamvwa muntu kaamba cakuyobeka. Njenjiyo bbaasi njindakeelede kutanta.
“City! City! Going west!” I heard a tout shouting. That was the bus I needed to catch.
Bbaasi liya kudolopo lyakali kuyanda kuzula, pesi bantu banji bakacili kuyanda kutanta. Bamwi bakabikka zyintu zyabo mujungusi abbaasi. Bamwi bakatanta anzyizyo mukati.
The city bus was almost full, but more people were still pushing to get on. Some packed their luggage under the bus. Others put theirs on the racks inside.
Bamwi nibakabapa matiketi, bakayandaula akukkala mubbaasi. Bamakaintu bakalaa bana bakabakkazyika kabotu.
New passengers clutched their tickets as they looked for somewhere to sit in the crowded bus. Women with young children made them comfortable for the long journey.
Ndakalisyanikizya akukkala munsi aampulungwido. Muntu wakakkede munsi lyangu wakajisi cipepa canyanzabili. Wakali samide nkwabilo zyakaindi akajansi kajujukide, kaboneka kuyoowa.
I squeezed in next to a window. The person sitting next to me was holding tightly to a green plastic bag. He wore old sandals, a worn out coat, and he looked nervous.
Ndakalanga anze abbaasi, ndamana ndakayeeya kuti ndausiya munzi ookwesu, mwindakakomenena. Nduunka kudolopo lipati.
I looked outside the bus and realised that I was leaving my village, the place where I had grown up. I was going to the big city.
Kubikka zyintu mubbaasi kwakamana alimwi basilweendo boonse bakalikkede muzyuuno. Pesi basambazi bakacili kuyanda kunjila mubbaasi kuti basambale. Aumwi wakali kwaamba nzyasambala. Mabala amwi akali kundisesya.
The loading was completed and all passengers were seated. Hawkers still pushed their way into the bus to sell their goods to the passengers. Everyone was shouting the names of what was available for sale. The words sounded funny to me.
Basilweendo basyoonto bakaula zyakunywa azyakulya. Aabo bakanyina mali mbuli ndime, bakali kwiide kulanga.
A few passengers bought drinks, others bought small snacks and began to chew. Those who did not have any money, like me, just watched.
Eezyi zyakali kucitika zyoonse zyakanyonganinzyigwa akusiba kwabbaasi. Eeci cakali citondezyo cakuti bbaasi lyakali kuyanda kutalika kweenda. Basambala bakaambilwa kuti bazwe anze.
These activities were interrupted by the hooting of the bus, a sign that we were ready to leave. The tout yelled at the hawkers to get out.
Basambazi bakatalika kuzwa kumwi kabalimbana. Bamwi bakacili kupilusya mali aakali kwiindilila, bamwi bakacili kusola kuti basambale kamamanino.
Hawkers pushed each other to make their way out of the bus. Some gave back change to the travellers. Others made last minute attempts to sell more items.
Bbaasi nilyakatalika kweenda, ndakalanga ampulungwido. Ndayeeyela mumoyo kuti ccita naa ndiya kujokela kumunzi alimwi.
As the bus left the bus stop, I stared out of the window. I wondered if I would ever go back to my village again.
Nitwakeenda musinzo mulamfwu, mubbaasi mwakatalika kupya. Ndakasola kujala meso kutegwa ndoone.
As the journey progressed, the inside of the bus got very hot. I closed my eyes hoping to sleep.
Mizeezo yangu yakajoka kumunzi. Sena baama banooli kabotu? Sena basulwe mbeevwubide baya kundijanina mali? Sena mwiiinandumi wangu uni kuyeeya kutilila zyisamu nzyeekasyanga?
But my mind drifted back home. Will my mother be safe? Will my rabbits fetch any money? Will my brother remember to water my tree seedlings?
Munzila, ndakatalika kuliyeezya zyina lyabusena nkobakali kukkala baacisya mudolopo. Ndakacili kulyaambauzya mukaumuumu nohyakandibweza ŋonzi akoona.
On the way, I memorised the name of the place where my uncle lived in the big city. I was still mumbling it when I fell asleep.
Nikwakainda mawoola ali fwuka, ndakabuka akumvwa bantu kabapundilila basilweendo baunka kumunzi kwesu. Ndakabweza kabbeeke akusotoka kuzwa mubbaasi.
Nine hours later, I woke up with loud banging and calling for passengers going back to my village. I grabbed my small bag and jumped out of the bus.
Bbaasi lyakali kuyanda kuzula akutalika kuya kujwe. Pesi cintu cipati cakali kuyandika, nkuyandaula ŋanda yabaacisya.
The return bus was filling up quickly. Soon it would make its way back east. The most important thing for me now, was to start looking for my uncle’s house.
Written by: Lesley Koyi, Ursula NafulaIllustrated by: Brian WambiTranslated by: Chester Mwanza
