I walked into the dealership I’d admired for months, the one with the double cab I’d been dreaming about. The showroom was bright and breezy, thanks to the wide roller shutter doors left open. Rows of cars were being checked in, and after making my enquiry, I was asked to wait at counter 6.

Finally, it was my turn.

“Hello madam,” I began, “I’d like to know if you can adapt the double cab for a person with a disability.”

“Ati whati?” she asked, puzzled.

 “A disabled person,” I clarified.

“Oh… how?”

“Well, that’s what I’d like to know. Could you adapt the Hilux to my disability?”

She frowned. “Mmmmmm… what do you mean?”

“Could you change the position of the accelerator?”

She leaned across to whisper to the lady at counter 5. Counter 5 replied softly, “No, I don’t think we do that.”

“Ok,” I said, “could you direct me to someone who might know?”

More whispering followed, this time to counter 6. “Wait,” she said, “let me ask the workshop manager.”

Thirty minutes later, I followed her outside through the breezy doors. She whispered to a mechanic whose head was buried in the back seat of a car. His response was loud and dismissive: “What do you mean change the steering? Can a steering even be changed?” He laughed and walked off.

Embarrassed, the counter lady turned to me. “He’s just gone to get a spanner. He’s coming.” I thought to myself, A spanner? For me? What does that even mean?

Taking a deep breath, I asked calmly, “Excuse me, could you perhaps just give me the branch manager’s name?”

“Yes, it’s XYZ,” she replied. “And his email address?” “Mmm… maybe you can speak to the operations manager instead.”

The operations manager appeared, polite and attentive. “Sir,” I asked, “do you adapt vehicles for persons with disabilities?”

He smiled apologetically. “Well madam, I’m not too familiar with that.”

I quickly offered, “Let me show you the adaptation on my current car.” We walked together, and he examined the yellow sticker on my gear knob: WARNING: THIS CAR IS FITTED WITH A LEFT ACCELERATOR.

He smiled warmly. “Madam, we don’t do this, but allow me to investigate further. This is technology we should have in today’s world. Please accept our apologies.”

We exchanged pleasantries, and he took my contact details, promising to follow up. As I drove away, I caught one last glimpse of the double cab in the showroom through my rearview mirror—still no sign of the man with the spanner.

 

Later that day, my phone rang. An unfamiliar number. I sighed, expecting a scam, but answered anyway. “Hello, is that Madam Mwangala?”

“Yes, it is.”

“This is Officer www from Central Police, Lusaka Division. Could you come for an interview regarding a permit you applied for?”

An hour later, I arrived at the station, only to realize I couldn’t enter without a ramp. I called back. “Hello officer, this is Madam Mwangala. I’m here for the interview, but I cannot enter the building without a ramp.”

“Oh, my apologies madam. I’ll send someone downstairs.”

Detective Sergeant www arrived. “Let’s walk to the side,” she said, leading me toward what she thought was a ramp. Instead, it was stairs. She turned, saw me waiting below, and paused. “Oh… I’m so sorry,” she said softly.

I explained my situation, and to my surprise, she began apologizing again. Then came her instruction: “Wait there.” Two words that, in Zambia, can send a shiver down your spine. But I stayed.

Minutes felt like hours until she returned with paperwork. “I’m very sorry, madam. We can do it from down here.”

And so, the interview was conducted right there, outside on a lovely picnic bench at the edge of the carpark. When it ended, she wished me a good day and left.

I sat there a little longer, stunned. Did that really just happen? Did I just meet empathetic officers at a Zambian police station?

After my road traffic accident, there were days I resented this country for the constant reminders of my physical disability. But today reminded me that even the smallest acts of kindness can mean the world.

The outcome of the interview no longer mattered. What mattered was that I felt seen—by a detective sergeant whose two simple words carried unexpected compassion.