Niceties, names and necessity, the mother of invention.

In a ramshackle building, comprising four tiny offices, each with two desks, ancient computers, a whining ceiling fan and shelves carrying odd piles of dusty papers and flyers, posters for HIV awareness, notices of term dates and a banner behind one desk with the proverb, “Working together is a good start!” are where all state primary and secondary schools in Mtwara District are managed. Our meeting with the Director of Education, a small wiry woman, wearing a richly coloured headscarf, was to agree the start of an English course for teachers. This meeting was the result of the efforts of my friend, Philbert Ngairo. He has worked patiently and quietly. Mama Mohamedi knew the project, understood the need and pressed us to start.

The first weeks in College are proving to be a period of re-adjustment. I’ve had to re-adjust to the weather, to the stares and the shouts as we move around town on our bicycles and to readjust to a different pace of life. When someone responds, “Yes. You are right”, to a complicated question, to which any answer but, “Yes or no”, is preferred, then I have to remind myself to re-adjust. My accent, the speed with which I speak English and the unusual questions I ask, confuse many and, rather than offend me with a shrug, “Yes! or No!” is considered the most courteous option.

Caroline, on the other hand, has adjusted much quicker. She is quite assertive with our youngest neighbours, Salumu, Wangi, Joycie and Winston. They have grown another nine months while we’re been away. They are cheekier, more talkative and beginning to say a few words of English and each afternoon come to our back door with calls of “Adrian” – no “shikamoo” or “habari”, so quite cheeky. She has not been on a bicycle for nine months, but has returned, fearless of the ruts and the puddles. She is also more confident in Kiswahili. No more side-splitting mistakes. More often, her “Habaris” and “Maharabas” are met with an impressed, “Salama”, rather than titters. The small black and red frog came to visit her in the shower the other day, but there were no shrieks, just a firm, “Get back in your hole, Mr Frog”.

Mr Mkonga is a hugely important person in preparing my project. He controls the physical environment of the college. Nothing moves without his authority. No broken chair is removed, no path unblocked, no floor mopped without the chair, the path or the mop having first had Mkonga’s nod of approval. Usually, it’s just a nod. He wastes words rarely.

I am determined to learn as many of my colleagues’ names as possible. I’m finding this quite challenging and the more mistakes I make, the more my colleagues laugh. As well as Mr Mkonga, there is his assistant Mr Mkunga, not to be confused with the fundi, Mr Munga. Then there are two Malubiches – John and Barnabas. Barnabas, is of course not actually Barnabas, but Ernest. The younger ones – Avit, Beatrice, Hassan and Siamine are much easier to remember. Generally, the rule is, if you’re over thirty, you are known by your surname, unless like Mr William, whose first name is Simon and whose surname is Msiko, then William will do. Mr Maskat is really Khatib and his wife, Mama Tatu, is just Mama Tatu. So that’s clear then.

I have begun clearing the Teachers’ Resource Centre, making ready for English classes in the next week or so. A small team of students and I have been working all week in filth and heat, moving papers, books and boxes. We at first were plagued by wasps’ nests with dozens of great wasps, the size of humming birds, with an ominous black trailing under belly. I’ve no idea how bad their sting is, but the students were clearly afraid. Caroline had bought an aptly named poison called ‘Doom’ and I earned instant respect from students when I was the only one to dare to reach up to the light fittings and kill them.

As we delved deeper, I found a carefully rolled rice sack. Inside, stitched on card, in red and yellow thread, was a tapestry showing the points of the compass. We found a great wooden chest of rice sacks covering everything from British rule in East Africa to the workings of the human eye. As we rummaged, we discovered abacuses made from bicycle spokes and bottle tops, maps of the Upper Volta, wooden clocks, blocks and boxes, all made by hand from sacks and sticks and cardboard- teaching aids that took someone weeks to make and now languish on a dirty floor. For every piece of bric-a-brac we found, one of the students would tell me solemnly its purpose and how it was made.

I’ve shown the teaching block to the Principal, the Vice Principal and most importantly Mr Mkonga. I have asked each of them what to do with broken chairs, papers and more significantly old obsolete computers, covered with years of thick red dust. Mr Mkonga at first suggested I ask Mr Maskat. Mr Maskat grimaced his most serious face and said he would ask the Principal. The Principal tried to appear non-chalant and told me to see Mr Mkonga. At one point, Mr Maskat attempted a more philosophical approach

“You know Mr Adrian, Tanzania is only just entering that period when computers can be seen as other than a piece of magic. In the 1990s if you said ‘That computer is broken’, no-one would have believed you.”

So I turned to Mr Mkonga,

“Where is the best place to dispose of all these broken computers?”

He stared, pointed angrily at someone to do move some panga, then returned his gaze to me.

“You mean, where are we to dispose of these computers?”

I nodded,

“Yes. You are right.”