|
There was on shop in the town of Mufulira， which wasnotorious for its color bar. It was a drugstore. While Europeanswere served at the counter， a long line of Africans queued atthe window and often not only were kept waiting but， whentheir turn came to be served， were rudely treated by the shopassistants. One day I was determined to make a public protestagainst this kind of thing， and many of the schoolboys in myclass followed me to the store and waited outside to see whatwould happen when I went in. I simply went into the shop and asked the manager politely for some medicine. As soon as hesaw me standing in the place where only European customers were allowed to stand he shouted atme in a bastard language that is only used by an employed when speaking to his servants. I stoodat the counter and politely requested in English that I should be served. The manager becameexasperated and said to me in English， If you stand there till Christmas I will never serve you. I went to the District commissioners office. Fortunately the District Commissioner was out，for he was one of the old school; however， I saw a young District Officer who was a friend ofmine. He was very concerned to hear my story and told me that if ever I wanted anything morefrom the drugstore all I had to do was come to him personally and he would buy my medicine forme. I protested that that was not good enough. I asked him to accompany me back to the storeand to make a protest to the manager. This he did， and I well remember him saying to themanager， Here is Mr. Kaunda who is a responsible member of the Urban Advisory Council， andyou treat him like a common servant. The manager of the drugstore apologized and said， Ifonly he had introduced himself and explained who he was， then， of course I should have givenhim proper service. | 
