Four years ago, I went fishing on the Zambezi river. I fished off a boat that travelled from an island – from a camp called Sekoma Island Lodge.

When our group arrived, we got the standard talk by the guide. He told us that (apart from fishing, chuckle) we could go on a bird tour or a game drive or a tour of the village. He said this last bit really indifferently, as if he certainly did not expect anybody to go to the village.

For three days, I fished. But, somehow, I could not get the tour of the village out of my head. So, on the fourth day, I said to the head guide: “Take me on a tour.” So he did, with evident quiet pleasure. I had expected the standard African village tour: young children dancing, then waiting to be tipped with coins; crafts of no real curio value on sale.

At Mabova village, there was none of that. Apart from the distillery (don’t ask) and the butchery (quite hygienic but slightly more real than I wanted), the bakery (incredibly nice rolls baked on a sheet of corrugated iron in a fire pit), I was interested to see that the water supply consisted of traditional African woman going down to the river with a 20 ℓ plastic drum.

There was once a diesel pump and pipework. It had fallen into disuse. And, as an electrical engineer, I noticed there was no electricity. No electricity in a African village is hardly a surprise. But I decided to do something about this and, after discussing the whole matter with village representatives and Fanwel Sybunda, I decided to send to the village some solar lights, a submersible water pump and a solar panel for the pump.

A month later, our engineer, Rachel Viljoen, delivered all the items. We had three types of solar light, the pump and the panel. I started a website for an organisation called Awpal (African Water, Power and Light) to raise money. Of the lights, history records that only one type, the Unite to Lite study light, survived more than a year. The pump and solar panel was greeted with happiness but, when we tried to install it, the Zambian water authority phoned me up and said that we were interfering in their business. I said we could hardly be doing so, as they were not supplying any water at all.

So, six months later, they installed their own water system, which is driven by solar panels. The following year, I delivered 24 jar lights (of the type made by Consol) and more Unite to Lite lights.

I decided to try to extend the Awpal programme to South Africa. The success rate was about 50%. Mrs Zikhali of the Nkomo school, near Hluhluwe, distributed 700 lights (paid for by US donors and aided by us). A further 100 (paid for by Awpal) were stolen by a school principal near Umhlanga. Fifty given to Cape Township dwellers vanished.

Back at Mbova village, the Consul jar lights have started to fail (the batteries in the lids wear out and cannot be replaced). The suppliers will not sell us new lids, so we have some imported jar lights now working. And tomorrow . . . I am off to Mabova with another consignment. Fanwel says they really make a difference.

Which of our politicians can stare their electorate in the eye? Corruption, corporate jets, luxury mansions, conferences, seminars and parties. And all the while decent people are grateful for a nightlight slightly brighter than a candle. And business the same. Not one single business solely, and excepting a Stellenbosch professor, has contributed anything to our Awpal project. We (as in I) pay for everything. And then you get a letter:

“Our school is in a deep rural area and most of the homes are without electricity, and we gave these lights to learners during weekends so that they could be able to study at home. This improved grade 12 final results from 44.64% to 76.32%, thanks to your help. May our good God bless you and your donors.
Yours faithfully.
PL Mhlongo (Principal).”
It is worth every single penny we spend.