Patrick M Mulenga

A LOVE LIKE THIS

It was 1965, in the heart of Ndola, when the copperbelt sun seemed to pour honey over the dusty streets. The air smelled of roasted maize and fresh rain, and the sound of Kalindula music played faintly from a nearby tavern.

Tiwonge was only seventeen, barefoot, bright-eyed, and full of impossible dreams. She sold fritters with her mother at the corner of Chifubu market. Every day after school, she tied her hair in a puff, wore her faded blue dress, and smiled her way through the noise of traders and customers.

And that was where she met Patrick. He was nineteen, tall, soft-spoken, with that boyish grin that could melt thunder. He’d come from Kitwe to visit his uncle who owned a small carpentry shop nearby. The first time their eyes met, Tiwonge was counting change for a customer. She looked up and time simply refused to move.

“Boi iwe, that girl has eyes like a story I want to read every day,” Patrick whispered to his cousin Ben.

From that day, he started buying fritters he didn’t even want, just to see her. And slowly, laughter turned into walks by the stream, and conversations turned into shared dreams beneath the moonlight.

No one believed their love would last. “It’s just teenage excitement,” the neighbors said. “Let them play, they’ll get tired.” But love, real love doesn’t play fair. It grips the heart like fire and refuses to let go.

Years passed. Patrick got a job at a milling company in Ndola Industrial. Tiwonge, still helping her mother at the market, spent every kwacha she earned saving for their future.

One afternoon, as the rain danced on the rooftops, they stood under a jacaranda tree. The petals fell like purple gently. Patrick looked at her, his eyes glistening with fear and faith.

“Tiwonge,” he said softly, “if I ever fail in life, it won’t be because I didn’t try. But I can’t imagine any life without you.”

He dropped to one knee, the mud soaking through his trousers, pulled out a tiny silver ring he’d bought from Chifubu market, and said the words that made her heart explode:

“Sweetheart, will you marry me?”

Tiwonge's lips trembled. Her chitenge was wrapped loosely, her hair messy and proud, her eyes heavy with tears. She nodded.

“Yes, my love. A hundred times, yes.”

Families gathered. Ba shibukombe came, alangizi sang their ancient songs, and blessings filled the air. They married in a small church built of red brick and prayer. And when they moved into their little house in Masala compound, they held hands like two souls who had defeated the world.

At 23, they were parents to a baby girl named Akeisha. She became their heartbeat, their laughter, their everything.

The years that followed were filled with hard work and grace. Patrick opened a small carpentry shop, Tiwonge started sewing uniforms for the local school. They built their life one brick, one prayer, and one sacrifice at a time.

Fifty years passed.

The young lovers who once shared roasted maize beneath the stars were now grandparents with wrinkled hands and soft smiles. Their house was always full, children, grandchildren, laughter, and the smell of fried ifishimu.

Every morning, Patrick would wake before sunrise, make tea, and whisper, “My Queen, the sun is jealous again, you’re still the first thing I want to see.”

And Tiwonge, still blushing like that seventeen-year-old girl, would roll her eyes and smile, “Ala Uncle Pare, you and your foolishness.”

They were the kind of love that made young couples believe again. People would say, “If you want to know what true love looks like, go to the Mpubula's in Masala.”

But time, cruel and quiet, began to shift. One afternoon, Patrick came home tired, clutching his hip. “Maybe it’s just old age,” he said. But the pain worsened. Tiwonge insisted they go to Ndola Central Hospital.

The doctor called her aside and said the words that broke her in half “Bone cancer. Stage four.”

The world turned silent. The air grew cold. And suddenly, the man who once lifted her in laughter could barely lift a spoon.

For months, Tiwonge never left his side. She read the Bible to him, sang old Bemba lullabies, and prayed even when her faith trembled.

Their children took turns visiting, but it was always Tiwonge who stayed through the long nights, holding his hand, whispering, “You’re my heartbeat, Patrick. Don’t go yet.”

One morning, as dawn painted gold on the hospital window, Patrick opened his eyes weakly. His voice was soft, breaking between breaths.

“Tiwo…” he whispered. “Do you remember when you asked me what I wanted to do with my life?”

She nodded, her tears falling on his chest.

“You said you dreamt to grow old with me,” she said.

He smiled faintly. “And I did, my love. I did.”

Tiwonge pressed her forehead against his. “Did your dreams come true?” she asked, her voice trembling.

He managed a final breath, eyes glistening. “Of course, my Queen… I grew old with you.”

Then his chest rose once more and fell silent.

The machines beeped, the nurses moved quietly, but all Tiwonge could hear was the echo of fifty years of laughter and promises. She held his hand, kissed his forehead, and whispered,

“Go well, my Patrick. Wait for me by the jacaranda tree.”

She kept that promise. Two years later, at 82, she passed peacefully in her sleep. Her hands folded, her lips curved in a faint smile.

When their grandchildren visited their graves at Kansenshi Cemetery, they found two tombstones side by side.
On his read:

“Patrick M. Mulenga — 1946–2026 — I grew old with you.”

And hers read:
“Tiwonge M. Mulenga — 1948–2028 — I waited by the jacaranda tree.”

NOTE;
Sometimes, love isn’t about how grand it looks. It’s about the quiet promises kept over decades.
So before you judge two young hearts in love, remember Mweemba and Mapalo.

Because once, in a dusty corner of Ndola, a teenage boy and girl proved that love, real love doesn’t check age, status, or timing. It simply arrives, takes root, and stays… until the very end.

💔 A Love Like This.

In the Forest of Chinsali Chapter One
By: Patrick M Mulenga

In the forgotten heartlands of Muchinga Province, surrounded by ancient miombo trees and guarded by myths whispered only at night, stood the mighty village of Chinsali Mukulu a place where men bowed to the throne of Chief Mwinemunshi, whose name stirred both reverence and fear.

It is said the chief had once been a warrior priest, a man who danced with spirits and carried the bones of kings in his charm pouch. But age had slowed his bones, and the fire in his eyes now burned for legacy—he needed a successor. His only son, Mulenga, a quiet and thoughtful man, was not interested in power. He longed for peace, solitude, and stories. So, the chief devised a cruel game… one that would shake the roots of the forest and summon the ancestors to watch in silence.

The Proclamation

One misty morning, as drums echoed over the dew-kissed hills, a proclamation was made. Prince Mulenga was to disappear into the jungle of Kawilile, the same forest where spirits walked and trees whispered names of the dead. No weapons, no food, no guards. Only the wind as his companion.

“Waumfwa? (Do you hear?)” the Chief’s ing’anga (diviner) cried. “He who finds the prince shall rewrite his destiny. But only one must return. Others… shall sleep beneath the earth.”

The crowd stirred. Eyes widened. Whispers turned to gasps.

From the dungeons, four men, beasts of blood and bone were unchained.

1. Chikondi "The Cobra" Mwale, A knife-throwing assassin who once slit a man’s throat for looking at him.

2. Mutale “Mfwiti” A dark-mouthed man said to have eaten human flesh to survive.

3. Ngoma “Silent Death” He never spoke. Never missed.

4. Kapaya “The Jackal” – Known for laughing as he buried men alive.

“If you return without the prince,” Mwanachitundu boomed, “your heads shall be fed to the hyenas.”

Then came the twist, the second horn of the hunt.

From the palace quarters emerged four breathtaking women, draped in red and gold, their eyes as sharp as razors, hips swaying like branches in the wind. Each a spell on two legs:

1. Tionge – The seductress with eyes that read a man’s soul.

2. Mutinta – As cunning as a fox, with a tongue soaked in honey.

3. Chileshe – Gentle in voice, deadly in thought.

4. Luyando – A dark-skinned enchantress known to have turned warriors into weeping boys.

They were tasked to find the prince… not by force, but by seduction, manipulation, and deception. Whoever returned with him would marry the prince and rise to Queen.

But there was one rule:
“Mumvesese bwino (be warned),” the ng’anga warned, “You must not cross paths with the condemned men. For the beasts have no hearts, and they kill without pause.”

Into the Wild

The prince vanished at dawn. Into the belly of Kawilile.

Three days later, the hunters followed.

Chikondi slithered through vines like a serpent.

Kapaya set traps not for animals, but for men.

Ngoma tracked broken twigs and smelled footprints.

Mutale? He walked in circles, muttering to the trees.

But something strange happened by the seventh night.

Kapaya’s trap caught not a man, but Chikondi himself. As the Cobra hung upside down, bleeding from the thigh, Kapaya leaned close and whispered, “Ala, only one can return.” He slit his throat and left his body to rot.

Two remained. But the real hunters had not yet struck.

The Queen’s Gambit

Mutinta found the prince first. Alone, sitting by a waterfall, talking to a bird.

“Mulenga,” she purred, “Your people need you. I need you.”

He looked up. “I know why you’re here.”

She smiled and touched his hand. “Then let me take you back.”

But the prince refused. “Ala, I will not be bait for my father’s game.”

Just as she leaned in to kiss him, a whizzing sound filled the air.

An arrow.

Ngoma. He’d followed her scent.

She screamed, running through the bush, but the silent killer never ran. He walked and still caught her and killed her. He did not speak. He just drove the arrow through her chest.

Mutale, hiding behind the bushes, laughed softly. “Even women are prey.”

Then, suddenly, Ngoma’s throat erupted in blood. A small blade, thrown from the shadows. It was Chileshe. Not Mutale.

She’d taken his name, his scent, his voice. For days, she moved as a ghost.

“I told you,” she whispered to his co**se. “Gentle in voice, deadly in thought.”

Now, only Mutale, Kapaya, Chileshe, Tionge, and Luyando remained.

The Curse of the Jungle

One by one, they began turning on each other.

Kapaya strangled Mutale in his sleep, only to wake up to find Tionge next to him, naked, smiling. He was dead before sunrise. Poisoned from her kiss.

But Tionge didn’t know Chileshe had followed her… and watched everything.

In a shocking twist, Chileshe and Luyando joined forces.

“You and I,” Luyando said, “we can find him. Make him choose both of us. Rewrite the rule.”

But Mulenga had heard it all. He had become one with the forest. Watching. Listening.

The women reached him, finally. Tired, hungry, half mad. They knelt.

“Please… just come back,” Chileshe begged.

Mweemba stood. “My father doesn’t need a prince. He needs a story.”

The Return

Weeks later, the villagers gathered again.

From the trees came a sight that stole their breath.

Mweemba walked alone, clad in bark, barefoot, eyes blazing.

Behind him, two women. Chileshe and Luyando.

The chief stood. “You disobeyed!”

Mulenga raised his hand.

“No, father. I wrote a better ending.”

He pointed to the hills. “Those who kill for a crown do not deserve it. These women saved me, not with seduction, but with sense.”

The chief’s face twisted. “You break tradition?”

“I start a new one,” Mulenga said. “And if you try to stop me… the jungle will finish what you started.”

The ng’anga stepped forward… and knelt down on Mulenga's feet.

One by one, the villagers followed.

The chief, now trembling, turned away. His game had failed.

Mulenga became Chief Mwinemunshi wa Kawilile, crowned not by blood, but by wisdom.

And as for the forest?

It still whispers.

Of killers who died for freedom.

Of women who schemed for love.

And a prince… who became a legend.

---

If you read to the end, tell me: would you survive Kawilile? Or would the forest take your name too?

🔁 Share with someone who loves a good twist.
💬 Comment your favorite character: Team Chileshe, Luyando, or Mulenga?

𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐊𝐔𝐌𝐀 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐘 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐙𝐀𝐊𝐀 𝐁𝐖𝐄𝐙𝐀𝐏𝐎

Nothing will embarrass you like these tuma toilets in fancy places. So guys ine I was invited to this ka fancy place by one rich kid so. Ine muli atire yapa chichetekelo nati yes, napaya. Reaching there I felt like a fuseki, people can bath and dress guys. Time time we were directed to our reserved table, kulibe che kunkala paliponse monga uli ku 260 olo pa A1. We just sat and without ine saying a word tu Black Label came and I was all smiles monga hule pa Mayela. Ala we started talking and talking while sipping, the conversation was really funny guys. But one thing is you dont laugh the way we laugh ku Family Bar yaku Matero no matter how funny the conversation is. You laugh like "Hehe, wow, it's hilarious." And not ati "Kikikikikiki sunvela chakamba iwe ayi." Time time I was pressed and asked njebele ko tundila nikuti bro. Ati go straight, turn left opposite the elevator. Unaonapo Bar nachikwepe iwe chikala. So I got to the gents and mishombo za nsima yaku Garden were like tichose iwe. So I went into one of the rooms and closed the door to release the shombos. Then my village people got to work guys. Eh, these tuma fancy places have toilets that can embarrass you. Nanga kusoba po flushing'ila guys. You never know whether to tap it, talk to it or sing to it. I had even missed ma toilet yapa City Market coz all I have to do is come out and get water muchi drum and send the shomboz to their ancestors. Elo kaya iyo day the shomboz nunkad please. I got out and called these cleaners who open the door for you. I had to swallow my pride and asked njebele Boss, I need help. He followed me inside and I explained. The guy was a cool guy, he said even him had a problem with it pa first. We laughed about it then he showed me how. Embarrassingly one solder kept floating no matter how much I flushed. I walked out and went to our table to layila. And I'll never go there again unless nikavale mask.

Even if I have money apa it's to do fufufufufu and put it back pa braii stand.