ABSTRACT
It is 2010. I am here because I want to learn all I can about Zambia’s literature, though I am sometimes beset by doubt: isn’t it common academic knowledge that this nation has no world-class literary tradition to speak of? Harrison and I have met by accident, when he was sitting in his unmarked cab on an unpaved side road and I needed a lift. The fi rst place he takes me is the University of Zambia main library.
