Homes for heroes

Still no rain, but Mwakibe’s garden – for it is his now – is a lushious green oasis in a brittle brown desert. Lettuce, spinach, tomatoes, passion fruit, chillies and some herbs are spreading vivid green leaves and, watered twice a day by Mwakibe, are the only sign of vegetation around here.

“Are you sure it would not be cheaper to buy your spinach at the market, Mr Adrian?”, Samwelli enquired.

“Quite certain. I’m sure it would be a lot cheaper,” I replied.

After buying fishing net to keep out hens, imported seeds, twine, tools, not to mention Mwakibe’s wage, this is entirely a labour of love. The investment is already paying a dividend, as Mwakibe now tends it tirelessly. Whereas formerly he had complained about the heat, had to reminded to get on with his jobs, or turned up late on some pretext or other; now, he is at our door before we are dressed, fetching water from the well and cycling home in the dark after using his new watering can, his transformation into dedicated gardener is almost complete.

We have no rats or frogs, but no more welcome is the thick dark sash rippling on our bedroom wall. A shimmer of shook foil, glistening black like a horse’s neck, what at first sight is one organ, on close inspection is a million, perhaps a million millions, eager ants marching in strict formation from the crack above the door jamb to the rear of our wardrobe. Perfumed sprays have little effect; the troops just fan out and against the garish yellow of the wall, take on a polka dot formation. Time for the wasp spray, a pungent sickly toxin that permeates all. Best cover your nose and your eyes. “HIT” is an understatement; it under-sells itself; for it is the final solution for the insect world. Nothing lives in our wardrobe this morning, but the floor of the bedroom and the hallway are littered, covered, with small black casings, the collateral damage from last night’s carnage.

When we first moved into Staff House No 1, I remember the sinking feeling we both had as we closed the door and looked around at bare floors, bare walls, a concrete stall for a shower and a kitchen with one narrow shelf for a work-top. We had not prepared ourselves mentally for the shock of this hardship – the absence of windows, doors that close, cupboards or drawers, taps, water, flushing toilet. All seemed basic and harsh. Today, we have a ceiling fan, a patio and a tiled wall in the shower. We have a book case which wobbles and whose shelves are too narrow to hold many books, but it is furniture nonetheless . So we feel quite smug; particularly as I visited Mwakibe’s new house last week-end as we begin to help his family move from their rented house near town to another property, slightly further afield.

Asha is perhaps forty, a small woman with bright eyes and an olive skin. She is mother to Mwakibe, his older brother Jaribuni and his younger sister Tabasha. Her husband developed a problem with his eyes, which kept him off work, so he went to Dar-es-Salaam some years ago to stay with his children by an earlier marriage and hasn’t been seen since. Asha had been selling bananas on the road side; currently she works as a cleaner, part-time, and doesn’t make enough to feed the family and pay the rent. On the land she bought some years ago, she has built a simple traditional house, with sticks and thick mud – wattle and daub – and a corrugated tin roof. The house has three rooms, three metres square and, at present, only the earth for a floor. The toilet outside is a deep pit. No water, no electricity, no drains. It will have a cement floor, a wire mesh window in each room and a door which locks. It has no ceiling. As I entered the house, I realised for the first time just how cramped, dark and dank are these houses. The floors are red mud and the walls are perhaps eight feet high, with a gaping space below the tin roof. The family moves there in less than a month. Asha and Tabasha in one bed; Mwakibe and Jaribuni in the other room. Mwakibe sleeps on the floor at present, so he needs a bed.

“You know this house is too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter,” says the fundi, who will make the floor. “A tin roof lasts a long time, but they are not good in this climate. The straw roof is best, but it needs replacing every two years.”

I couldn’t think about the roof. All I could see was the damp, clay floor, the dark caves for windowless rooms and the great pit of a toilet.

It will be fine. All around the house are Asha’s neighbours. She is greeted by all with a friendly “Karibu” as children are fed, clothes are washed, hair is braided and all the household chores of everyday life are carried out. The small patio under the tin canopy is the focal point for so much of Tanzanian life.

In contrast to Mwakibe’s  place, we have had fitted the last piece of plastic guttering to the front of our house.  I was left wondering why the fundi had measured the house leaving the gutter eighteen inches short, then why the fundi had fitted the final piece with a ten inch length protruding at each end, and why we had used nails instead of screws. No matter. Mwakibe sighed in wonder,

“Ah. This is a fine house, sir.”

And of course, with a toilet linked to a sewer, a shower with a drain, a kitchen sink with a tap, and four walls that won’t wash away in the next heavy rain, it most certainly is.