The Royal Clap
It was one of those rare occasions when you might forgive yourself for peeing your pants just a little. Perched like a parrot on the front rung of a wooden chair, I fixed the drunken man before me with what I hoped was a neutral smile. The pistol dangling conspicuously from his right hip flashed in the sunlight as he stood unsteadily to drive home his point. The toothed dagger slung on his left hip was equally eloquent.
The two weapons began a dialogue in my head: which one would he use first? Was the dagger the back-up for the gun or vice-versa? The pistol belonged in a Western, but he was no John Wayne. It probably hadn’t been fired for a long time. Or had it? And how recently had the jagged teeth of that dagger tasted human flesh?
I returned to his face, which was becoming increasingly animated under the traditional headwear of a Chief. He was enjoying being centre-stage, all-powerful despite his small stature. He waved his skinny arms at me and at my colleagues, glaring at each of us in turn. Even though I couldn’t understand a word he was saying, I understood perfectly his meaning. He was not pleased at all.
A single row of chairs lined the round hut nestled deep in the bush. The circle was broken only for a small stage from which our host addressed his visitors. At its centre, a makeshift throne for His Royal Highness and a table displaying a crate of beer with two empties already stowed. It was 9:00am. Seated to his right, were his muscular ‘Retainers’. To his left, I squirmed between two of my colleagues, with three more colleagues farther around the circle: the complainants that had brought us here.
While half of my brain fixed on the drama unfolding in front of me, I noticed in a semi-detached kind of way, how perfect these traditional round buildings are for such meetings. Sitting under a deep cone-shaped thatch, the ‘chitenge’ was bricked to about waist height, leaving a thin viewing slit between wall and roof covering. Or a shooting slit, depending on your mood. From within, it gave a 360-degree view of the terrain outside. As the Chief leaned further into his rant, I became aware of fear seeping from my pores into my clothes. I contemplated whether this would be the last room I ever saw. I took it all in with silent rising panic, wishing I could click my heels and be somewhere – anywhere – else at this moment.
When you are summoned to see The Chief, or indeed The Senior Chief, you are not given much notice: 24 hours if you are lucky. It’s unwise to be late.
Traditional Leadership is very much alive and kicking here in Zambia, and somehow it rubs alongside or even hand-in-hand with civic authorities. It’s a credit to Zambia that modernisation, slow though it may feel at times, is at least trying to accommodate ancient community practices.
There are layers that I’m just beginning to understand; villages have a Head Man, areas have a Chief, and those areas have a Senior Chief who has his own area too. Chief status is passed on through maternal lineage and it’s a lifetime’s work. When visiting His Royal Highness – at his bequest or yours – you must bring money or gifts. Knowing the particular pleasures of your Chief will help to oil the relationship. Upon arrival, and assuming you are suitably dressed (for women this means covering your legs in a traditional wrap) you are met by a member of his staff and asked to wait a respectful distance from the venue. You can count on a long wait before His Royal Highness will indicate his readiness to his staff.
You will then be led to the hut where your meeting will take place. Upon entering, visitors are directed to kneel before The Chief and must follow the Retainer in a brief clapping ritual. Once this has been satisfactorily completed, one may take a seat and make formal introductions.
In general, Traditional Leadership deals with community matters; the courts and councils deal with civic issues and legal disputes. But the boundaries often get blurred and co-operation between all the parties is the ideal. In reality, without the approval of The Chief it’s very difficult to get anything done. They will have the loyalty of their people and the ability to mobilize communities into action – or inaction - if they so desire.
As His Royal Highness became increasingly lubricated and animated, he asked a question in English to the white colleague on my left. Their answer threw me under the bus and I was now in his spotlight. I croaked the beginnings of a reply and the colleague to my right, a Zambian, intervened in my defense.
And so began the rapid downward spiral in a language I did not understand. Aggression is universally understood and it was directed at my Zambian colleague. The Retainers joined in, and within a few minutes I hear his voice wavering under the barrage of accusations and threats. As soon as there was a moment’s pause, I spoke up, appealing to His Royal Highness to direct his questions and his displeasure to me, but I was ignored.
Eventually we got out of there on the basis I would reconsider the complainant’s case and try to offer a compromise. This was a legal matter and should never have been put to The Chief. But the employees, having found no recourse in their favour under the Law, thought they would get a more favourable hearing with the Chief. And they were right. This Chief could make life extremely difficult, regardless of the legal merits of the case. This particular Chief has a reputation for confiscating vehicles on a whim and I didn’t fancy walking home.
Visibly shaken, my Zambian colleague explained in the car that he would have to make visitations to the Chief on another occasion to try to repair the damage. He had been accused of betraying his people. I felt utterly terrible. Here was someone just doing his job properly and diligently – for me – and he was now facing repercussions that could be very serious. I had followed the law, but I hadn’t understood that Traditional Leadership can truly throw a curve ball.
The issue was eventually settled and to my knowledge my Zambian colleague suffered no adverse consequences, beyond the trauma of that meeting. As for me, I learned a lot that day about how traditional leadership operates in Zambia, for good and for bad. I learned about loyalty and courage. I was reminded of the power of theatre in a meeting (note to self: buy a holster) and I discovered who was ready to defend me and who would leave me to the lions.
I also realised the origin of the name of a local bar that has me sniggering every time I drive past…
The Royal Clap Resort in all its splendour
