Hello friends and family,
Yesterday, my host father did something out of character. I was outside my house reading a book when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my host dad walk up to me. That may not seem like much, but after two years of living together, he has approached my house just four times. Each time, he always asks for something.
He sat down on my porch and said, “Ah, ba Colton, I am having some troubles with this man from the army.”
“What kind of troubles?” I asked.
A few days ago, my host father received a text from an army recruiter. The recruiter was sending out an application for young men to join the Zambian national army. My host father called the recruiter and asked if his son could apply. The recruiter told him, “no problem.”
“So what’s the issue?” I asked.
“Well, the man asked me to send him 350 kwacha ($17) for the application fee. I sent him the money, and we filled out the application. Then he asked for a photo ID application. Another 250 kwacha ($12).” He said.
I interrupted him: “Are you sure this man works for the army? This kinda sounds like a scam. I mean, a random message turns into a job offer? I don’t like it.”
“Well, I thought it would be ok. But now, he is saying that there are 145 applicants but just 85 slots. He is saying that we can secure a spot for 1500 kwacha. I am asking, ba Colton, if you can assist me with this money, or if you think this man is a scammer.”
My host father gave me a half smile and wrung his hands, trying hard not to look worried. I sighed. $30 may not sound like a lot, but that’s enough to feed his family of eight for a week. And with the historic drought, they need that money now more than ever.
“Where did you even get that much money?” I asked.
“Well, I asked our neighbor if I could borrow the money. I told him I will pay him back soon, but ah, it’s tricky.” He said, still smiling.
“Jesus,” I said, “do you have enough money to get through?”
He clicked his tongue. “Ah, without the money, we are struggling. We have run out of milimeal (cornmeal) and we have run out of relish. We have no more food for tonight.” He said.
Neither of us spoke for a few seconds. “Ba Colton,” He said, “do you think you can help us with the 1500 kwacha for the application?”
“Sir, I don’t think you can trust this man. He is a scammer. You have bigger problems right now.”
My host dad nodded, disappointed but not surprised. It’s a testament to how dire their situation is that my host father still hoped, prayed, that his son could find a job. He looked up at me then, still smiling but pained. “Ba Colton, what can we do?”
We sat in silence again. I love my host family and wanted to help them, but I’ve had my own financial troubles. That said, I have some left over savings, enough to tide them over. I also spent a lot of money on internet packs so I can watch YouTube. They needed my money more than me.
And yet, in my heart or hearts, I resented my host dad. I’ve supported his family with food and money for two years. Every time he’d asked for more, I’d given it, even when I had to dip into my savings. Now, after he’d pissed away a week’s worth of cash on an obvious scam, he was asking me for even more. The gall.
I wanted to tell him no. I wanted to give into those petty, childish thoughts and say, “you made this mess, you figure it out. I’ve done enough.” I was so tired of being the village piggy bank that I almost did. Then I thought about his youngest daughter, baby Mary, who’d just passed a year and a half. She was scared of me at first—she didn’t know what to make of a big white man—but over time, she’s gotten used to me. She loves when I pick her up and toss her into the air, and she always runs into my arms when she’s crying and needs a little comfort. Was I really going to let her go hungry tonight? For what, my pride and $15? No, it wasn’t worth it.
I pulled out my phone and a few key codes. “I just wired you a little money.” I said, “It should be enough for this week.”
“Good good, thank you ba Colton.” He said. He pulled out his phone, and we waited for him to receive the confirmation text. After a few seconds, nothing happened. “Ah, this phone. It never tells me when I have received.” He said.
I laughed. “Ha, you don’t know when you’ve received?” For some reason, that fit the situation perfectly.
P.S. This is not some (not too) subtle plea for money. I’m fine, I’m just venting. This is also just the most interesting thing that happened to me last week, so don’t read into it too much.
I'm not familiar with Zambia, but in other countries I've seen real officials use their real positions to extort "fees" to "cover the expense" of services they are supposed to provide for free. Meaning this scammer may be a real army recruiter, milking his power for monetary gain.
He may even be required to pay similar bribes all the way up the ladder to maintain his position. Traffic cops, for example, can have a required quota to kick back to their sergeants, and so on and so forth, all the way up to the national chief of police.
Clearly corruption, but at least that's a form of fee-based unofficial direct taxation, as opposed to politicians selling out their electorate for corporate campaign donations like they do in the US...
Colton/ Does the scammer go unpunished?