26 November - the Big Day

Well, the graduation ceremony was every bit as grand, noisy and thrilling as we had hoped after seven weeks of intense rehearsals. Mums and dads (about ninety per cent were women!) came in their finery to whoop, cheer and ululate as the children shimmied and sashayed their way on and off the performance square. It was hot, at times, uncomfortable, but women and children were all very patient. Mercifully, there were no speeches; just a presentation to each child at the end, of a pencil sharpener and three boiled sweets wrapped up in a piece of paper towel. Then they all tucked into a tray of pilau. Each tray served about six children, each of whom sat chatting comfortably, eating sociably.

The kindergarten clearly serves the slightly better-off district of Mtwara. The fact that parents choose this school for three-year olds, indicates an awareness of the power of education in a country where skills are the primary route to sustainable prosperity and shows that these parents not only have those middle-class aspirations, but have the disposable income to pay the modest fees. There are parents who cannot pay the fees and these parents are invited to work for the school – cooking, cleaning, gardening- whatever jobs need doing – but children are not excluded on financial grounds. These children are getting a head start in life. They would in Europe; so much more so in Africa. Should we resent or celebrate this?

I feel torn, when I think about Philbert’s comments a few weeks ago, about private education. Nyerere saw the need to force an equitable distribution of access to quality education. It certainly seems true that the distinction between faith school and state school is stark. I’m not sure that bringing small gems of excellence like the Montessori school into state ownership is the answer. Broadening access to that excellence is the key.

Cycling home from Msemo last night, the bikes have proved their worth. The journey takes about fifteen minutes across open brush land, along dusty tracks. There are no roads as such, but everyone knows the way and as the only wazungo travelling like this, people always stare. Our favourites are the two small children who wait for us to pass each day. They live in what we would call a concrete garage. Their mum can be seen working, sometimes cooking on her jiko outside, sometimes digging the patch of soil outside their home. The two children aged about three and five, wave and call, “Hi” each time we pass. Caroline always calls ”Mambo”, if not “Hodi”. Today I was a minute or so ahead of Caroline and as I passed, they didn’t call “Hi”. They shouted, “Lady?” I realised that it's Caroline they like to call back to.