Babies, books and bad time-keeping.

“Habari za asubuhi, Mr Munga?.”

I started my week with the ritual exchange of pleasantries which involves asking everyone how was their week-end, their house, their work, their wife and often something else, which I ritually fail to understand. Mr Munga was busy in his workshop, a workshop which if it were tidy would grace any school or college but because there is so little space for storage, because the college is forbidden from throwing anything away and because there seems always to be something more pressing, the workshop looks more like an old curiosity shop of wooden oddments, guttering and broken chairs. Munga was speaking in a hushed voice with Edison; Edison was dressed for an interview in beige, sparkly suit and regulation pointy shoes. Munga had made a wooden frame of two pieces of two by three and had screwed them into place sandwiching an A4 notebook into place, rather like a flower press. I looked and pondered; I pondered as I looked and could think of no possible use for such a frame. It had been made with precision. Munga's tape measure is not only the full metre, but he was using a square to check the gap between the two pieces of wood. Eventually, I had to ask and interrupted the two of them. They seemed surprised at my question.

“I need to cut the notebook in half.”
So Munga had used two pieces of hardwood (softwood would bend), four screws, the tools of the trade and an hour of his time, to build a vice for a cardboard backed book for the purposes of sawing it in half without it fraying.

“Why?”As I opened my mouth, I realised the frailty of my question.

“Because we do not need such a large book. We prefer a smaller one.”

This scene was the opening exchange in a week of frustration, African time-keeping and eventually some elation as we both began to feel that we are doing something worthwhile. The English class starts at 3.00pm each day and on each day this week at 3.00pm there has been precisely one person sitting in front of me. By 3.45, most of the class had meandered in. Once underway, their enjoyment was palpable. One teacher, after finishing a particularly exciting round of the word game, “Pass the Bomb”, asked if he could come again tomorrow. The lesson is as instructive for me as it is enjoyable for the teachers. They are unused to playing interactive word games; they start falteringly, showing great reserve and timidity; class discussions drag, no-one prepared to be controversial nor take the stage. The role plays, in contrast, are showcases of people comfortable with performance. Within moments, the story is set, the characters cast and a complex interweaving plot unfolds before us, using nothing other than an exercise book and a few plastic chairs.

Caroline, her friend Sarah, with my colleague Neema, have arranged to meet with one or two other women to discuss nutritional matters for nursing mothers. Doctors and mothers alike have spoken to us about the effect of poor nutrition on the cognitive development of young children. Breastfeeding, which I thought would be something we would be unable to teach African women about, it seems, is under threat - from pressures of women going to work and unable to express and store their own milk; from ignorance of house-girls unable to ensure hygiene in feeds; pressure from malnourished mothers, unable to produce enriched milk of their own, without a good diet. This group of mothers hopes to be able to share their experiences and learn from one another. They have ideas for the future to widen the net and work together to improve infant nutrition. I was just pleased to make the acquaintance of the woman with the coolest name yet,

“Mambo, Mama Kenny Rogers”, I smiled, as they left.

Two young men, Mwakibe and Joseph were waiting for me on my step as I returned one lunch-time. At seventeen, they have recently left school and spotted Caroline, a mzungu, hanging out washing. Following a brief chat, we agreed that they will come twice a week for free tuition, focussed on passing their Form IV exams, with some English conversation thrown in. For my part, I will have an hour from them of Kiswahili conversation. I badly need practice. They have written letters for prospective pen-pals in England. Polite, diligent and so grateful, it’s humbling. One of my neighbours is studying to be a primary school teacher at the technical college, next door. I naively assumed that the technical college would train young men and women in skills and trades.

“You are right,” said Leonard. “They have many, many expensive machines. But, no, that was then. Now, they do not train plumbers or joiners, just teachers.”

“On every street corner, there is a young man struggling to handle a plane or a saw. Surely we need trained craftsmen and women?”

“Again, you are right. But we need politicians and managers who will care about that.”

I let the matter drop, but thought back to the beginning of the week where a trained teacher, now a college lecturer, stood over a joiner as he sawed a book in two.