{{ Nothing but darkness. Looking up, all I see is the flicker of distant stars. Squinting through the lids of my eyes, I try to focus on the road ahead of me. My hands are gripped tight around the steering wheel, not quite tight enough though to white my knuckles. I notice a fire burning on the west side of the road. Ominous and threatening. Shadows start dancing in the foreground. In quick flashes, I begin to make out the rows and rows of empty wooden stalls that seem to travel for miles into the distance. During the day, the street markets are flooded with people and food. The chaos of smells and noises are dizzying. Tonight, they are empty. This calmness, though, has me wishing I were spinning. The eeriness I sense shoots a wave of tingle up my arm.
Just a few more meters, the darkness is illuminated by a flood of light that gleams a hazy yellow through the smoke. Music gambols gleefully off the cement walls and sends melodic waves that echo off the car’s frame. People are scattered in large numbers. Peering out windows, dancing and jamming in rhythmic steps, playing pool on the porches of bars that seem to line the entirety of the road. People are stammering through the streets, in a drunken daze. These people won’t sleep and will continue their drink well into the morning. Women sit huddled around candlelight in groups that seem to pattern the darkness in an uneasy mystical ambiance. Faces turn towards the car, staring in angered confusion—A car? Here? It’s a good thing this rocky road has me progressing slowly. Just before I make a left hand turn, a man gets thrown from a crowd and catapults in the direction of the car. He trips over his own feet, stumbling as if he’s lost complete control of his own body and just as he steadies himself, he grabs hold of the hood of the car. His gaze jumps up slowly. His face is aglow from the headlight. Just enough light to see the shock and horror. His face bloodied, swollen. It’s time to leave.}}
Sometimes I forget what the real Lusaka is like. Most of my time is spent traversing the main roads, avoiding the dirt roads that lead to what many would call danger. It’s rare that I travel through a compound, unless I’m administering a survey, checking out an intervention, or attending a GRS graduation event. These glimpses into the real Lusaka though provide me with perspective. I remember why I am here. It’s good to have those reminders. Zambia is poor. Though it’s a peaceful nation, you should never underestimate the instability that accompanies the impoverished. I play soccer for the Mzungu Allstars, an eclectic team of misfit expats that plays bi-weekly against local Zambian teams. We have a group of enthusiastic Zambians that join us for the games. We provide them with transport and in return, they give us able bodies on the field. The scene described above was that of the home of Abel, our local goalkeeper. Abel can’t walk home at night. Even he, a young, strong Zambian man is vulnerable in such a setting. A blow to the face is a common form of attack, for just the shoes off your feet. Though providing transport for our local players adds a good extra 1.5 hours of travel, I don’t mind doing it because I know what the consequences can be if I don’t. Playing with our team is a commitment. Having committed Zambians means something. It’s soccer. It’s healthy. It’s universal. After all, I’m here because of this sport. Mobilizing communities through soccer, to make healthy behavioral changes. To create an AIDS free generation. Keep playing the game. Keeping educating.