Open Writing

Continuing the story of half a century's involvement with books and words, let's switch to Northern Rhodesia, now called Zambia.

In November 1960, I changed countries and moved about 400 miles north from Harare (then called Salisbury) to the Copperbelt city of Kitwe. I was employed as Manager of USCL (United Society for Christian Literature) Kitwe Bookshop. The Rev. Merfyn Temple, well known as a pre-Independence supporter of self-government, recruited me for this post. He was based at Head Office in the capital city, Lusaka.

Things did not get off to a good start. Firstly, furnished accommodation was part of the deal. The only furniture supplied was an old motor-car seat and a bookshelf and I had to find my own accommodation. Secondly, the London office of USCL had also appointed a manager. He was Richard Griffin, an idiosyncratic, book-loving and amiable chap from Ireland. He, too, had to find his own accommodation and furniture.

It was left to us to sort out our respective management areas, which we did in good spirit. He took on the general and religious bookshop in the main shopping centre, though he knew little about religion or the church. The warehouse and school supply business became my responsibility.

Over the next few years, I introduced new systems and travelled round many schools to boost sales. The turnover of the school supply department rose about tenfold. Nevertheless, I received a letter from Head Office in London asking why the overall net profit was so small. In response, I did a detailed financial analysis of the whole business, using what few skills I picked up when I did a correspondence course in Accountancy while at the Methodist Bookroom in Harare.

I reminded London that we funded kiosks in what were then known as African townships. They sold religious and educational books and also cheap stationery. They were part of the reason for USCL being in Zambia in the first place. They did not make a profit and had to be subsidised. The funding for that subsidy came from the largest and most profitable part of the company, the school supply department.

This response quelled the complaint. The London accountant commented that he had underestimated my ability in accounting. I had justified my existence.

Our bulk, and I do mean bulk, supplies of school books came from relatively local suppliers. General books came mainly from Britain. A shipment arrived every Thursday. Richard and I worked back until we had opened, checked, costed and priced every item. That meant some very late Thursday nights.

Our selling price for a book was based on what it cost us. The Zambian Booksellers Association had a complex table to help with this task. It worked from (a) how much discount the publisher gave, and (b) the cost of postage and packing. Most publishers gave one-third discount of the published price. Some gave more; a few gave much less. Indeed, Sir Stanley Unwin, head of Allen and Unwin, went out of his way when in Zambia in order to read the riot act to Richard and me because we had complained about the very poor discount his company gave. Oh, we laughed at the tyrannical little man (after he had departed, of course).

While I was Secretary of the Booksellers Association, I did a great deal of figure-work and compiled a much simpler table for working out selling prices on the basis of average costs. This was checked by all members and adopted. It helped to shorten those Thursday night sessions, too.

Selling books and school supplies in the middle of Africa had its perils. Shipments from overseas came via Southern Rhodesia (not yet independent as Zimbabwe) from Cape Town. When sanctions were in force after UDI, we could not use that route, so had to import via Angola, to the west. The railway line ran through the Congo. It was a slow and unreliable route at the best of times and wasn't helped when one side or other in a war in the Congo bombed a train. If nothing else, that gave us a good excuse for late arrival of books: 'Sorry, the train was bombed'.

Going by road to visit customers in distant regions of Zambia could take days. Fortunately, our Auditor was also the agent for Piper aircraft, and as a pilot wanted to build up his flying hours. For a very modest fee, he would fly me to the Northern Province and the Western Province. He worked on a set of accounts at the Government rest house while I was met by Education Officers and taken round schools.

There was a famous occasion when, flying to a town about 250 miles west of Kitwe, he lost his way on the road map used by pilots. We were fairly close to the Congo border. At that time, the Congolese Army was taking the odd gun-shot at passing aeroplanes. The good auditor turned the plane round, flew low, found the road again, and we continued safely on our merry way.

When I embarked by road to the Northern Province, I wasn't so lucky. The road goes through a narrow strip of land called the Congo Pedicle. Neither Zambia nor the Congo took responsibility for the upkeep of the road. It comprised about 30 miles of loose sand, deep ruts, dreaded corrugations and random pot-holes. I took a teacher with me on this trip, as a passenger.

In brief, let's just say that I lost control of the station-wagon, which did a twisting somersault and landed nose-first in a ditch. We found ourselves hanging upside down in our seat-belts. Seat-belts were not compulsory at that time but we used them and mine certainly saved my life.

I waited to see if was bleeding, or hurt, and then mumbled to my companion, 'I'm sorry'. He replied, with such English understatement, 'That's OK', and helped me out. I was immediately arrested by two Congolese Army officers who had seen all this happen. They took me to their depot, back on the Zambian border, and questioned me in French, which I did not understand. I was by then a quivering wreck. My companion had been able to phone friends to come and take us home when I was released.

A message came a few days later that the Congolese authorities wanted me to go back. My solicitor told me (a) I was legally obliged to return, and (b) under no circumstances should I return because I would finish up in a Congo prison. The Zambian Government offered to provide a police escort. I said thank you nicely and declined. When an insurance assessor went to check the damage, he was shot at and beat a hasty retreat.

So that's the story of my International Border Incident. As I said, bookselling in Zambia had its perils.

© Copyright Brian Barratt 2009