The Happiness of Misery

By Boas Fernando

This is the story of Boas Fernando, who was born in the woods without medical assistance or facilities of any kind as his parents were internally displaced by devastating civil war in Angola. At eight, after returning to their home town, he went through a horrible two-week journey, walking barefoot through the thick tropical forest of Angola to seek asylum in Zambia as a refugee.

He spent his adolescence and young adulthood confined in a refugee camp, with limited life opportunities and exposure to modern technology. With the hope of a better life, he dedicated his time to school. Fortunately for him, Ali McKeon, an American woman Boas had never met, sponsored him to go to college, changing his life from a camp refugee to one in a successful corporate career. Today, Boas holds a Master’s degree in international management from Liverpool University, after his successful completion of a first degree in NGO Management from Cavendish University.

As he reflects on his life journey, Boas is passionate about promotion of college and skill-building education for smart young, underprivileged Africans. By buying a copy of this book, you are helping Boas to send young Africans to college – through the Ali McKeon Scholarship, he has created – in order to help them pursue their dreams. Thank you for your contribution to this cause!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boas Fernando
• Release date: Jun 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005688509

Book preview

Hi Joe, badThe Happiness of Misery

A Life Made Out of the Dust of Meheba Refugee Settlement

Boas Fernando

Copyright © 2021 Boas Fernando

Published by Boas Fernando publishing at Smashwords

First edition 2021

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

Published by Boas Fernando using Reach Publishers’ services,

P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

Edited by Francois Rabe for Reach Publishers

Cover designed by Reach Publishers

Website: www.reachpublishers.org

E-mail: [e-mail]

Boas Fernando

[e-mail]

Table of Contents

1. The Dawn

2. The Eight-Year Refugee

3. The Turning Point – High School

4. The City Life and My Return Home

5. Foreigner in My Own Country

6. My Reward for Coming Back Home

7. Reflection on My Life

Chapter One

The Dawn

This is not just a story, but a deep reflection into how an eight-year-old followed a twisting path from refugee to corporate employee and life-changing agent, a child whose hopes were based on nothing but grey, uncertain intuitions of a better tomorrow, a new dawn.

The path begins when my great-grandfather was rescued by a chieftain’s family, members of a tribe called the Luvale of the Moxico province in Angola, as he was being human-trafficked to Zaire, now called the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC). According to my uncles, this happened in the late afternoon, a period during which members of the tribe gather in the zango for the last meal of the day.

The zango – a large hut centred in the midst of the houses belonging to the chief’s workers and family members – is used to settle tribal and social disputes as well as serve as a dining space for all males. Elders also use the zango to pass on cultural traditions and lessons to the young ones and is an ideal place to receive visitors, especially males. Thanks to this setup, my young great-grandfather was rescued.

As everyone sat around the fire in the big hut waiting for food to be served and carry on with their usual storytelling to the young ones, they received a visit from a stranger. He was tall and heavily-muscled, looking and acting like no one from the local tribes. He arrived tired and sweaty, which everyone assumed was from the load he carried. In those days, people carried goods tied with flexible branches that were then wrapped in leaves. You would put the load on one side and use a stick on the other side to help balance the weight. This is how my great-grandfather, Sakahilu, was carried.

The stranger had stopped for a smoke and a cup of water. Nobody really bothered to find out what he was carrying, but to their surprise, they head the faint, hungry voice of a little boy asking for water as well. Everyone was curious to know what was going on, and they all rushed forward to find out what exactly was being carried. In the middle of the rush and confusion, the trafficker unfortunately managed to sneak away. The boy who emerged had very light skin, which made it rather difficult to guess where he might have come from. According to the stories, he was around four to five years old and couldn’t really explain his origin. At that time, there were no televisions available, no media coverage or announcements of any sort that might have identified him. Eventually, the chief and his family members decided to keep and raise him.

In the home of a local chief, however, he had no right to be called a son of the family; instead, he was considered a slave, which would continue until he grew into a man. Oh yes! Slavery happened within African tribes even before the Europeans arrived. If anything, some were already slaves within the African communities before they became slaves in the hands of Europeans. In any case, at the time my great-grandfather grew up at the chief’s home as a slave, marriages were prearranged, so he was given a lady from the fostering family to marry. She gave birth to my grandfather as well as a few great-uncles and great-aunts. My grandfather stayed in the chief’s home until he grew into an adult and was told of his father’s origin as he continued suffering harassment and discrimination because he was the son of a slave.

My grandfather decided to move out of the chief’s home in order to establish his own, marrying my grandmother and establishing life as a young adult. Years later, a few cousins, brothers and sisters joined him. In our tradition, a home is a big establishment with many houses of brothers, sisters, cousins and extended family collectively living together. Usually, there were more than ten houses separated by ten metres (the cluster of houses also was an effective survival strategy to protect against possible attacks). I only recently learned that one’s family may just be those who live in a single household as well as a few blood relations. Previously, family to me was everyone who had even a drop of their great-great-father’s blood. The chief’s home was the one that marked my ancestral origin.

I was born at dawn in 1983 in a house thatched with grass from top to bottom – there was no birth or hospital record. My parents did not even have a bed in good condition. My mother, clearly in labour, woke my father to call the traditional midwife who lived next door. She remembers the experience as if it happened yesterday, and every time she recounts the story, I cannot help but shed some tears while thinking about how this strong and hardworking woman had to endure