Sparks Chishimba, clad in cheetah-print khakis and sturdy jombos (boots), stepped onto the stage, his grin as bright as the studio lights. The familiar jingle played, and every home across Zambia flickered to life. It was another electrifying night of “Lights Out!”—the game show that teased viewers with just enough power to illuminate their homes, but not quite enough to cook a meal.
“Welcome back, beautiful Zambia!” Sparks boomed, his voice echoing through living rooms and shanties alike. “Tonight, we’re live from the heart of a neighborhood so vibrant, it never sleeps. Guess correctly, and who knows what you’ll win!”
The camera panned over the contestants—a motley crew of hopefuls, their eyes wide with anticipation. Behind them, a distorted video showcased their neighborhood: familiar
houses twisted into unsettling shapes, streets bathed in an otherworldly glow.
Meanwhile, in Chilenje…
The dim light cast an orange glow on Mama Mwanza’s face as she watched Sparks glitter on the screen. Her grandchildren huddled around her, their excitement palpable. But her son, Chanda, scowled. “He calls this a ‘gravel jungle.’ I don’t see any lions or tigers,” he grumbled, slamming his fist on the table. “We’re not zoo animals for his entertainment.”
“Shh,” Mama Mwanza hushed him, her gaze fixed on the blurred house number next to a green gate. “Our chance is here.”
Sparks reappeared, his cheetah-print outfit garish under the studio lights. “Tonight’s mystery location is right here in the heart of… well, I can’t tell you that, can I?” His laughter echoed, teasing the audience.
“The phone lines will open soon,” he continued. “Text your answers—the first 20 correct ones win big prizes!” The cameras cut to commercial, leaving Mama Mwanza’s heart racing. Uninterrupted power wasn’t a luxury; it was survival Mama Mwanza thought to herself as she gripped her phone.
“Everyone come closer!” Sparks commanded the contestants while they were on commercial break. “For every ten new viewers who download the Lights Out! app using your neighborhood code, the grand prize gets sweeter. A whole weekend of uninterrupted power!”
Chanda scoffed at the commercial advertisements. “Evil, what kind of people are these. Making us battle for scraps while that arrogant showman revels in our struggle.” Yet, his eyes remained glued to the screen.
Mama Mwanza’s ignored Chanda focusing her trembling fingers to type: “Njase close.” A silent prayer escaping her lips as she pressed send.
Sparks returned, eyes gleaming. “Time to separate the lightning-sharp minds from the fumbling fools!” he declared. “And the first winner is… Beatrice Mumba from…” He paused dramatically. “Kabwata!”
Chanda’s curiosity flared. Who were these quick-thinking individuals? As the camera zoomed in on Beatrice’s triumphant face, Mama Mwanza clung to hope. Maybe, just maybe, they’d escape the darkness this time
Sparks Chishimba, Zambia’s flamboyant game show host, stood center stage, his manic grin matching the studio lights. The audience held its breath, waiting for the next big idea. Nawa, a no-nonsense woman with eyes like polished steel, stepped forward.
“We have a surplus of… ‘unbusy’ individuals in our prisons,” Nawa declared, her voice searching for precision. “Why not harness their stored energy? Picture this: a human irrigation system, channeling water from every corner of Zambia straight into the Kariba Dam!”
Sparks blinked. “A human irrigation system? Nawa, are you suggesting… a giant, national hamster wheel?” His laughter echoed, but Nawa stood her ground.
Bwalya, the track-suited fitness fanatic, flexed his biceps. “Kinetic energy, baba!” he shouted
“Imagine exercising on a treadmill, but instead of running nowhere, your gains power up the nation! Right?”
Sparks stroked his chin. “So, a fancy gym membership with national benefits? Interesting. But what about those of us who want Netflix without crunches?”
Ba Mwamba, the elderly contestant, grumbled. “Back in my day,” he said, “we didn’t have fancy lights or phone nonsenses. We dealt with darkness!”
Sparks raised an eyebrow. “Ah, the nostalgia of simple living. But wouldn’t a phone call during a power outage be a lifesaver, Ba Mwamba?”
Chewe, a determined young woman, pushed Ba Mwamba aside. “Solar panels for everyone!” she declared. “Each roof becomes a mini power plant. And we’ll cut off electricity for mango thieves!”
“Mango theft?” Sparks chuckled. “Chewe, any confessions? How long can solar last after sunset?”
Elias, the nervous contestant, adjusted his thick glasses. “Radiation… nuclear energy…” he stammered.
Sparks gaped. “Elias, turning Zambia into a glowing beacon? You want us to be Africa’s warning sign? You might be out of your depth.”
The screen faded to black, and Mama Mwanza, clutching her glasses, whispered a prayer. As the names of lucky winners appeared, the dim room erupted in light. Mama Mwanza danced her way to the kitchen, surprising Chanda with her joy.
“Well, folks,” Sparks announced, “even in the dark, there’s always a spark of an idea waiting to be ignited!” His cheetah-print outfit blurred as he grinned. “Stay tuned for more Lights Out, where hope flickers—even when the lights don’t.”
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