LESSON ON SAVING AN EMERGENCY FUND

Learn to save up money for Emergencies my mom died too in traffic because I didn’t have transport money, and I used to Work.🥲

This morning started quietly just me scrolling through comments from the story I posted earlier, “The Saddest Bus You Can Get on in Lusaka Is the One from Kulima Tower to UTH.” People were reacting, some sharing their pain, some sending prayers. Then, out of nowhere, my phone rang. Normally, I never answer unknown numbers I hate calls, they drain me. But this one felt different. Something in me whispered, pick it up Zwe. I did. On the other side was a calm, gentle voice. “Zwe,” he said, “your story this morning it broke me. My mother died in traffic too three years ago right on church road.” I didn’t even breathe for a few seconds. He said he just wanted to tell his story, not for sympathy, but so others could learn what he learned too late always save money for emergencies. He started softly, like someone reopening a wound that never healed. “I stay in Matero,” he said. “My mom used to live in SOS. Back in 2023, I worked near Great East Mall. Every month when I got paid, I’d pay my rent, buy food, send a small something for my mother, and spend the rest on alcohol. I thought I was enjoying life drinking every weekend, showing off to my friends. By the fifth of every month, I’d be completely broke. Sometimes I’d even borrow for cigarettes and drinks. I was working, yes, but I was also digging my own grave, I just didn’t know it yet.” His voice broke slightly, the kind of tone that carries both regret and shame. “Zwe, I didn’t know that day was coming the day I’d lose everything I loved because I didn’t have even a single kwacha in my pocket.” It happened one Wednesday morning. He said he still remembers the sky that day cloudy, heavy, like it already knew what was about to happen. His sister called in a panic. Their mother had suddenly fallen very sick. She couldn’t breathe properly, and her body had gone cold. They needed to rush her to the hospital immediately. He said, “I checked my wallet, not even a coin. My mobile money showed K0.98 Zwe ma paragraphs. I panicked.” He started calling people friends, workmates, even neighbors. Most didn’t answer, and those who did said, “Bro, I’m also broke this week.” He said he felt like screaming. His sister’s calls kept coming back to back. “Please, just find anything,” she begged. “We need transport.

Desperate, his sister booked a Yango without money, praying that he would find a way to pay before they reached the hospital. The Yango driver, a kind man, agreed to take them to Matero Level One. His sister kept calling, begging him to send the fare. But he had nothing not a kwacha, not airtime, not even someone to turn to. “So I started walking to Matero Level One,” he said, his voice cracking. “I walked fast, almost running, not because I thought I’d make a difference, but because I couldn’t stand sitting still knowing my mom was fighting for her life.” When he reached the hospital, his sister was outside crying. Their mother was lying in the back seat of the Yango, breathing heavily. Her eyes were half open, her lips dry. “She looked like she was already halfway gone,” he whispered. The queue was too long and the situation was critical she needed to be moved to UTH immediately. His uncle called, confirming the same. The driver changed the destination without hesitation. “I joined them in the Yango,” he said, “and I remember holding her hand. She squeezed it slightly, like she was trying to tell me something.” As they drove through Church Road, the traffic was insane Zwe unmoving, suffocating. The air was thick with smoke, dust, and the smell of burnt clutch from idling cars. His mother’s breathing got louder, then weaker. She leaned on his shoulder, her chest rising slower each time. He kept talking to her. “Mom, hold on, please. We’re almost there.” His sister started praying out loud. Cars honked impatiently, but no one cared that a woman was dying in the middle of that chaos. Then it happened silence. Her chest stopped moving. Her hand went cold. He shook her gently, whispering, “Mommy?” Nothing. “Zwe,” he said, his voice trembling on the phone, “she died right there in my arms. In traffic. Because I didn’t have money for transport.” They finally reached UTH, but the doctors only confirmed what they already knew. “She was gone long before we arrived,” they said. He stood there frozen, holding her cold hand, his sister screaming beside him. The Yango driver didn’t rush them, didn’t demand anything. He just stood silently beside the car, head bowed. When the nurses came to take her body to the mortuary, he said, “Zwe, I followed them like a ghost. My legs were shaking, my mind blank. The sound of those hospital corridors, the smell of disinfectant I still feel them when I close my eyes.”

When everything was done, he realized he still hadn’t paid the Yango driver. The fare was K270. He told him to wait, but he couldn’t find a single person to borrow from. The driver, seeing his condition, said softly, “Sir, don’t worry. When you calm down, send it later. I need to work now.” He left quietly. Two days later, when the funeral arrangements began, the young man managed to find money and sent the driver his payment. But the driver sent it back with a message that read, “Use this for your mother’s funeral. May her soul rest in peace.” He said the driver even showed up at the burial a man who wasn’t related to them, standing silently among the mourners. “That day,” he said, “I realized angels don’t always have wings. Sometimes they drive Yango.” After the burial, his entire life changed. He stopped drinking. He stopped wasting money. He started saving even K10 a week because he knew now that tragedy doesn’t wait for payday. “Zwe,” he said, “I still dream about that day. The traffic. My sister’s screams. The sound of her last breath. I see it all over again in my sleep. Sometimes I wake up sweating, feeling like I’m still in that Yango. I can’t even pass through Church Road without feeling like I’m choking.” His voice broke completely then, and for a moment, I couldn’t say a word. Before hanging up, he told me, “Please tell people to save money for emergencies. Even if it’s just coins. Because sometimes, the difference between life and death is a fare you could have saved.” Then he said, “I love your stories, Zwe. They remind us of real life.” When I cut the call, I sat there staring at my phone for a long time. The noise outside cars, laughter, vendors shouting all faded. I just kept thinking about that Yango stuck in traffic, the stillness, the helplessness, the horror of watching your own mother fade away while the city goes on around you like nothing happened. So I wrote this for all of you reading now. Life is unpredictable. It won’t warn you before it hits you. Save something even K5, even coins, even loose change. Because when emergencies come, they come suddenly. They don’t wait for payday or generosity. They come fast, they come cold, and sometimes, they take the people you love the most in ways you’ll never forget. So save now, not because you’re expecting tragedy, but because life has a cruel way of testing those who think they’ll have time to prepare.Zwe ma paragraphs, Zwe ma save up money for emergencies!

– Zwe’s