06/11/2025
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.
