14/03/2026
The saddest bus you can get on in lusaka is the one from Kulima Tower to UTH!π₯²
The saddest bus you can ever get on in Lusaka is the one that goes from Kulima Tower to UTH. Every morning, long before the sun has fully stretched over the city, I find myself passing through Kulima Tower at around 05:30. The air is cold, the streets are still dim, and yet life has already begun in that tiny, noisy world. Women are setting up stands with trembling hands, frying fritters in oil thatβs seen better days. Men are stirring big pots of tea, shouting βtea! tea!β with voices cracked from the morning chill. Bus conductors are already yelling destinations, trying to fill up buses before dawn fully breaks. Thereβs chaos, laughter, fatigue, and survival all blended into one sound the sound of a city that refuses to sleep because poverty doesnβt let it. But among all the buses that line up at Kulima Tower, there is one that never waits too long the UTH bus. It doesnβt matter the time, whether itβs still dark or the first light has come, that bus fills up quickly. And you can tell by the faces and the things people carry that itβs not a bus of joy. Most of them clutch small plastic bags food, fruit juice, clothes, sometimes even blankets. You can read their stories on their faces: fear, exhaustion, and quiet prayers. Theyβre not going to work; theyβre going to check on someoneβs pain. You can feel the heaviness even before you sit down. That morning, I joined them. I had to deliver something near Ridgeway, and the UTH bus was the easiest way to get there. I sat quietly, my heart already heavy from watching how life begins for so many in this city before dawn, before hope even wakes up. I put on my pods and whispered a prayer under my breath, βLord, please, one day bless me with my own car.β I prayed not out of pride, but out of the deep desire to escape that struggle, to one day have the means to help others who have no choice but to depend on a bus. I prayed for the women selling fritters, for the men running after buses, for the old women carrying vegetables on their heads. I prayed for them all because I could feel how hard it was to keep going every single day.
As the bus started moving, I sensed something unusual. The atmosphere was heavy, almost too heavy for such an early morning. Three women sitting in the front were crying softly. At first, I thought maybe they were just worried or tired. But then I noticed two more women behind me wiping tears. I took out my ear pods and just sat in silence, trying to understand what was going on. Just before we reached Kamwala Bridge, a phone started ringing. One of the women in the front picked it up, and after a few seconds of silence, she suddenly screamed a cry that silenced everyone. Her wail was sharp, desperate, and filled with pain. βSheβs gone! Sheβs gone!β she cried out. The other women began crying loudly too. The bus conductor froze. Nobody said a word. You could only hear their cries and sniffles echoing through the bus like a slow funeral song. And then the woman with the phone began speaking through her tears. βPoverty is bad, poverty is really bad,β she cried. βWe failed to book a Yango from Matero because all 5 of us couldnβt raise K150. We told ourselves to wait for 05:00 so that the buses could start moving. But because of poverty, we have failed to see our mother for the last time. She was fine at 04:00, she even asked for us, but now sheβs gone. Poverty made us too late. Her voice cracked as she kept talking. βWe had to wait for buses because we couldnβt afford to pay for one Yango. Imagine, just K150. Poverty made us lose our last chance to see our mother alive.β Then she turned to me and another two young man sitting nearby. Tears were running down her face as she said, βYou three young men, please, work hard. Donβt ever be lazy. Moments like this will break you. Imagine your parent getting sick, and you canβt even afford transport to go and see them. Itβs something that stays with you forever. In our family, we have men, but none of them helped us. They all drink. Thatβs why you only see women here on this bus. No man stood for us, not even one.β
Her words hit like thunder in that quiet bus. You could feel the pain she carried, not just from losing her mother, but from the weight of poverty that keeps people trapped in endless cycles of helplessness. She kept crying, βPoverty is bad poverty is bad in Nyanja β and others joined in, repeating the same words as if the bus itself could hear their sorrow. No one dared to speak. Even the conductor didnβt call out for passengers anymore. The bus, which was supposed to be a ride to UTH, felt more like a moving coffin filled with broken hearts, regret, and prayers that came too late. When we reached UTH, the women got off together, still crying, still clinging to one another as if that was the only strength they had left. I stayed seated for a while. I couldnβt move. My heart felt like it had been buried under the same grief. I thought about how many people in this city have gone through something similar losing loved ones not because they didnβt care, but because they didnβt have money to act fast enough. I thought about how cruel poverty can be, how it makes you late for goodbyes, how it robs people of dignity and time. I whispered a quiet prayer again βLord, at least bless one person in every family. Let there be one who can carry the others, one who can afford to show up in times like these.β As I finally got off the bus, I looked back at it and realized that it wasnβt just a bus it was a symbol of what so many Zambians face daily. That bus carries love, pain, prayer, and poverty all in one trip. It carries mothers, sisters, and sons who have no other choice but to keep hoping that tomorrow will be kinder. I walked slowly, and before I left the hospital grounds, I prayed again. I prayed that one day, I would be among those who could help, who could make someone elseβs pain a little lighter. I asked God to give me strength, not just for myself, but so I could stand for my family in times of need. And if youβre reading this, I just want to encourage you life can be hard, and sometimes poverty feels like a curse that never ends. But donβt give up. Work hard. Pray harder. If you ever get blessed, donβt keep it to yourself use it to lift your family and others around you. Because one day, someone will need you to be the blessing they prayed for. May the Lord raise two or three people in every family who can help in times of trouble, who can bring hope where there was only despair. Remember, even from the saddest bus in Lusaka, a prayer can rise high enough for God to hear.
Β©οΈZweβsβs π
