#kitwe

in 1900, the copperbelt was lambaland. small villages in miombo woodland. no urban centres of any significance.

by 1940, the copperbelt was one of the most rapidly growing urban regions in africa. kitwe, ndola, mufulira, chingola, luanshya, chililabombwe — each a mine town that had grown from nothing to a functioning city in fewer than twenty years, driven by the copper boom of the 1920s and 1930s and the labour recruitment that brought workers from every province of northern rhodesia and from neighbouring territories.

the mine townships: each of the major copperbelt mines built its own township — the residential, commercial, and social infrastructure that housed the workforce the mine required. houses for workers and their families, schools, hospitals, sports grounds, social clubs, swimming pools, cinemas. the mining companies — rhokana, nchanga consolidated copper mines, mufulira copper mines, roan antelope copper mines — built entire communities from scratch.

under colonial rule, the mine townships were racially segregated. european managers in high-quality housing with gardens. african workers in mine compounds with more basic accommodation. this segregation was not merely a social injustice — it was a deliberate economic strategy, suppressing african wages and career advancement to maintain the cost structure that made the mines profitable for shareholders in london.

independence in 1964 and the nationalisation of the mines under ZCCM changed the formal racial structure without immediately changing the underlying economic structure. the copper continued to flow.

the copper price collapse of 1975 began the long decline of the copperbelt's economic dominance. the cities that had grown on copper revenue found themselves unable to maintain the infrastructure, the social services, and the employment that the copper boom had built. the closed factories and plants lying unoccupied across ndola are the physical evidence of that decline.

what copper built in forty years. what the copper price collapse began to dismantle in fifty. and what the new copper demand cycle — driven by the battery revolution and the energy transition — might yet rebuild.

the zambian copper series continues. 🟤

Kalulushi,Chililabombwe,kitwe. ndola. chingola. luanshya. mufulira.

the copperbelt towns were not built by accident. they were built deliberately, systematically, and at remarkable speed by the copper industry — first by the colonial mining companies, then by ZCCM — as purpose-built industrial settlements designed to house the workforce the mines required. company houses. company hospitals. company schools. company football clubs — nkana FC, power dynamos, mufulira wanderers — funded as part of the social infrastructure that kept a workforce productive and rooted in place.

what copper built on the copperbelt is visible in every direction.

the road network — among the best in zambia, a direct legacy of the mining sector's need to move equipment and materials. the copperbelt university and the university of zambia's engineering faculty — institutions that exist because the copper industry created both the need for technical education and, through ZCCM revenues, much of the funding to provide it. the hospitals. the sports facilities. the civic infrastructure of cities that grew from mining camps to urban centres of hundreds of thousands of people in two or three generations.

copper also left things unfinished.

the ZCCM era built an expectation — in communities, in the zambian state, in the minds of copperbelt residents — that the mine was the provider. that the company would build the houses and staff the hospitals and employ the sons and daughters indefinitely.

the privatisation of the late 1990s broke that expectation. when the mines were sold, social infrastructure maintained by ZCCM was in many cases transferred to local authorities or communities without the financial capacity to maintain it. the company town model ended. the communities were left to find what came next.

the copperbelt towns in 2026 are not broken cities. they are alive, growing, home to some of the most skilled and educated urban populations in sub-saharan africa. kitwe is a city of entrepreneurs and engineers and teachers and traders. so is ndola. so is chingola.

but they are cities navigating a transition — from the company town model that copper built to something more self-determining and more resilient. that transition is not yet complete.

the question of what the copperbelt towns become in the next twenty years — as copper production expands under EV demand, as new investment arrives, as the downstream processing aspiration moves from conversation to construction — is the most important urban development question in zambia.

these towns built this country's economy.

There are things you know by experience that no amount of description fully prepares you for.

nakodoli tomatoes are one of them.

the size. the freshness. the specific firmness that tells you this was harvested recently from soil that knows what it is doing. you can taste the difference and once you have tasted it you cannot pretend it is not there. i have shopped elsewhere. i always come back.

nakodoli market on government road in chimwemwe is kitwe's distribution centre. before the city is fully awake, trucks arrive carrying cassava from luapula, sweet potatoes from the northern province, pumpkins and chibwabwa and onions and everything else that will feed this region today. it is not one market. it is the place the copperbelt's food passes through on its way to every kitchen, every restaurant, every smaller stall in every neighbourhood that depends on what nakodoli receives and sorts and sells.

the vendors who do this work have been doing it for years. some for decades. they know things about freshness and quality and seasonal availability that no supply chain software has ever fully managed to encode. the vendor who can tell you, by touch and by smell and by the specific colour of the stem, whether a tomato was picked yesterday or three days ago.

i think about the distance between the kind of knowledge that gets recognised — the degrees, the certifications, the titles — and the kind that does not.

that knowledge built this city as much as anything else did.

nakodoli does not have a sign that tourists photograph.

it just feeds kitwe.

every day.

without fail. 🇿🇲

i have been to shopping centers in several countries.

i have pushed trolleys under fluorescent lights past products in identical packaging and scanned items at self-checkout machines and left with a bag of things and the specific feeling of having completed a transaction.

it is efficient. it is fine. it is nothing like chisokone.

chisokone market in kitwe is a place that is fully, loudly, completely alive in a way that most built environments are not. it has its own sound — a frequency of commerce and conversation that you feel before you hear it, that tells you before you arrive that something is happening here, something with pace and purpose and people at the centre of it.

the women who run it have been running it for years. some for decades. they know the price of everything not as a fixed number but as a living negotiation between what things cost and what people can pay on a given wednesday morning in april. they extend credit to customers they trust. they remember who paid back last time and who didn't. they know the difference between someone who is bargaining because they enjoy it and someone who is bargaining because they genuinely cannot afford the first price.

this knowledge — specific, relational, accumulated over years of daily practice — is not recorded anywhere. it lives in the people.

i think about this when people talk about african economies as though they are simply formal economies with the paperwork missing. as though the market auntie at her tomato stall at 6am is doing something less sophisticated than the person in the office building down the road.

she is not doing something less sophisticated.

she is doing something more human.

the zambian market is not a gap in the modern economy.

it is a reminder of what the economy is supposed to be for.

happy wednesday. go to a market today if you can. buy something. talk to someone. pay attention to what is actually happening there. 🇿🇲

There is a smell i have been trying to describe accurately for most of my adult life and have never quite managed.

it is the smell of the first rain of the season hitting hot zambian tarmac after months of dry season heat.

it arrives before the rain does. a change in the air. something electric and green and ancient. and then the first drops — large, warm, unhurried — and the smell rises from the ground like something that was always there, waiting under the dust, for exactly this moment to announce itself.

i have smelled rain in other places. it is not the same thing.

the zambian first rain is not just weather. it is an event. it is the entire country exhaling after holding its breath through october — suicide month, we call it, the month when the heat becomes genuinely personal, when the sky is white and the tarmac is soft and everyone is slightly shorter-tempered than usual because the air itself seems to be pressing down.

and then the rain comes.

and children run outside without being asked. and adults follow, pretending to have a reason to be outside, and stand in it for a moment longer than necessary. and something resets. something that had been wound very tight for a very long time.

i live on the copperbelt. i have watched this happen every year of my life and it has never once felt ordinary.

the cold season brings its own magic — mornings where you can see your breath in kitwe, blankets that appear from nowhere, a different and quieter kind of beauty. but the first rain is the one i remember.

the smell of a country remembering how to breathe.

Happy monday. whatever the weather brings today — it belongs to this place and it is worth paying attention to. 🇿🇲

It is Friday evening and i want to give you something that nobody is very good at giving and most of us are even worse at accepting.

permission to stop.

not forever. not from the things that matter. just for tonight. just from the velocity of it.

because we move very fast. the week is a thing that happens to you as much as a thing you navigate, and by friday evening most of us are carrying more than we started with on monday morning — more decisions, more half-finished thoughts, more things that need doing that we are choosing, just for now, not to do.

i grew up in a place where friday evening had a specific quality of light.

kitwe in the late afternoon, when the sun was going down behind the houses and the neighbourhood was shifting from the sounds of the working day to something slower and more human. somebody's radio. a gate opening. the smell of cooking beginning in a kitchen somewhere nearby.

nothing remarkable. nothing that would make a list of zambia's greatest attractions.

and yet.

there is a particular kind of peace that belongs to ordinary friday evenings in zambian towns. the kind that doesn't announce itself. that just arrives, quietly, when the week has finally finished with you.

i hope you find a version of that tonight.

wherever you are. whatever the week brought.

it is enough that you are here at the end of it.