Zambia’s Copperbelt Province isn’t just a geographic region—it’s a living archive of globalization, colonialism, and the paradoxes of resource wealth. Stretching across the northern part of the country, this area has fueled empires, shaped nations, and now faces the existential challenges of climate change, economic inequality, and the green energy transition.
Long before Cecil Rhodes’ British South Africa Company laid claim to the land, the Copperbelt was part of a sophisticated trade network. The Luba-Lunda kingdoms, with their intricate metalworking traditions, traded copper ingots as far as the Swahili Coast. Archaeological finds near Kansanshi Mine suggest smelting operations dating back to the 4th century AD—proof that this wasn’t just "empty land" awaiting colonial extraction.
The 1920s changed everything. Geological surveys confirmed massive deposits, and by 1931, Roan Antelope Mine (now Luanshya) became the first large-scale operation. Colonial architects designed towns like Kitwe and Ndola as segregated enclaves:
The British Empire’s hunger for copper during WWII turned the region into an industrial juggernaut. By 1960, the Copperbelt produced 13% of the world’s supply—enough to build millions of bullets, radios, and the postwar consumer boom.
At independence in 1964, Zambia’s first president Kenneth Kaunda faced a dilemma: how to decolonize an economy built for extraction. His 1969 Mulungushi Reforms nationalized the mines, creating Zambia Consolidated Copper Mines (ZCCM). For a brief moment, it worked:
But by the 1980s, the trap snapped shut. Falling copper prices, IMF structural adjustments, and mismanagement left infrastructure crumbling. The infamous "Zambia Airways flight to nowhere" in 1994—where a plane circled Lusaka for hours lacking fuel money—became a metaphor for the crisis.
Today, the Copperbelt speaks Mandarin as fluently as Bemba. Since the mid-2000s, companies like CNMC and NFC Africa have poured over $3 billion into mines like Chambishi and Chibuluma. The effects are contradictory:
A new generation of Zambian activists, inspired by Latin America’s "pink tide," demands renegotiation. The 2021 election of Hakainde Hichilema—a former privatization advocate now pushing for higher royalties—shows the pendulum swinging back.
The global shift to EVs has made Zambian copper more valuable than ever. A single Tesla Model S contains 85kg of copper—but mining it exacts a brutal toll:
While the world fixates on Congolese cobalt, Zambia’s own deposits near the DRC border attract artisanal miners. Satellite images show over 15,000 hand-dug pits in the Copperbelt’s "informal sector," where children as young as 12 sift through ore for $2 per sack.
The rise of automation spells trouble for traditional mining jobs. At Konkola Deep, AI-powered drills now do the work of 200 men. Former miners like 54-year-old Jacob Mwewa have pivoted to unlikely trades:
"After 20 years underground, I drive Uber in Kitwe. The algorithm knows the potholes better than I do."
Meanwhile, tech hubs like BongoHive in Lusaka train youth in blockchain—hoping to leapfrog the extractive model entirely. The Copperbelt’s next chapter may be written in code rather than ore.
Walk through Chingola’s Soweto Market today, and you’ll hear:
The Copperbelt’s story is unfinished. Its copper built radios for WWII, wiring for Silicon Valley, and now batteries for Teslas. But the real treasure isn’t underground—it’s the resilience of the people who’ve turned this scarred earth into a home.