Shangani Secondary school has started examinations for Form II. Form IV has already left, following their examinations (‘O’ levels), leaving just Forms I and III. At least one external invigilator has been brought in and so you would have thought that the remaining lessons would be covered from existing staff. Not so. I’m not sure why, but the staffroom has nearly always got two or three members of staff sitting chatting. There are only ten teachers altogether and two of us are volunteers. What, you might ask, are these teachers doing? And why are classes still without teachers? I’m not sure, but I think Philbert might be able to shed some light on the matter. We’ll see.

And on the subject of righting wrongs, I went back to the bakers today. You might remember how aggrieved I felt at the off-hand way in which she had failed to offer me the correct change. After we bought bread and sausage rolls today, I reminded her that she owed me 200 tsh. She smiled. I paid. I now needed 100 tsh (4p). She asked her friend this time, in a tone which sounded like,

“Give the tight-fisted mzungo his 100 tsh, will you?”

But I could be wrong. Still, we probably both feel better now that the air has been cleared. I certainly do. Not sure about her.

On battles fought and won, it’s early days, but we haven’t seen or heard Ratty for two nights now. It could be Caroline’s cleaning and bleaching regime. It’s certainly not the poison. He doesn’t touch it. It could be simply that he’s given up on us ever having any food in the house. We have a tub of uncooked beans, half a tub of Blue Band and a jar of jam. I reckon even Ratty thinks he could do better elsewhere. Actually, the geckos – Gilbert and his brothers – are starting to get to Caroline. She has polystyrene trays placed strategically around the house ready to collect gecko poo. They always seem to confound her, and tonight she has re-doubled her efforts as she found gecko poo in her hairbrush.

The heat seems to drain away appetite, along with the pints of fluid which seep from every pore of my body. I still wear a vest to try and disguise the moisture, but Lucia takes pity on me, I know; for she smiles as I sit in the staffroom, dripping, after having walked seventy-yards. “Phew. It’s warm,” she says, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t mean it. She just wants to make me feel better. And I do; just not cooler.

If we are to feel truly settled here, we must start to learn more kiswahili. Since leaving Morogorro, we have hardly spoken any in any prolonged way and we are already forgetting the basics. A Form III pupil approached me at break-time this morning. Actually, he walked into the staffroom, approached my desk and said,

“Teacher. Excuse me. I want to learn English.”

I was taken aback, but walked to the shade of a tree with him. We ate a samosa together and I spent twenty minutes in conversation with him. He was appreciative, but, I thought, “What enterprise! That’s what I should do.” Caroline confirmed this. As she came home this lunch-time, a group of three-year olds from the nursery ran up to her and surrounded her with questions. She, like me, has said that we won’t be able to share anything, least of all our skills, if we can’t share some of their language.

Stefan, the boy who cam to ask for English lessons