The best days of my life....

A weak whistle, soon after the first call to prayer, marks the start of another week. Its 5.30am. A ragged trail of track-suited shapes, runs past our house. Sometimes testosterone-fuelled young men run in time to their war-like chants. More commonly, there’s the slap, slap, slap of flip-flops and sandals, as the reluctant ones jog sullenly in the dark.  Later, at seven, the serried ranks of blue-shirted teacher trainees stand to attention below the Tanzanian flag. A series of military style parade duties are acted out, as women and men, some of whom are too old and too wise to be made to march on the spot, are harangued by their student council or teacher on duty. The student in charge stands on a small concrete dais from where a report of the previous week is read. The report includes whether the meals were served and whether classes were held as planned. Each day’s report is written by hand and signed by the teacher in charge. Students who arrive at roll call late are punished, usually made to clean toilets or sweep the open spaces with a besom.

We discussed our memories of school days this week, students recounting their experiences good and bad, of their time in school. Consistently, amongst those bad memories were tales of punishments and beatings. Consistently amongst the fond memories of those who went away to school was the ‘timetable’.

“The timetable?” I asked. “Why would the timetable be such a good thing?”

“Because we got good food and chance for social interaction,” some said.

“Good food,” I pressed.

“Ugali,” they all shouted with one voice.

Ugali is eaten almost every day in every family across east Africa. It is made with maize flour and water, blended to a thick consistency then heated until it forms a coagulated mass and can be eaten in gob-sized fists, sometimes dipped in a weak vegetable sauce or with beans and local spinach or leaves. In college the kitchens prepare huge vats of ugali using great paddles to stir it, students traipsing each day with plastic plates and boxes for their serving which they eat on benches or sitting in the shade of a great flame tree. As we took the short-cut past the kitchens the other evening at supper time, Caroline and I were greeted with the traditional courtesy of, “Karibu” by small groups of students eating ugali and beans- literally, “Come and join us.”

Philibert entertained us last evening with an account of how he prepared his lunch for school – a serving of ugali and beans wrapped in a banana leaf and tied with twine, the parcel slung over his shoulder. Without food for the day or at least a few shillings to buy chippati, a child might stay at home, carry out chores around the house, but at least be sure of a meal. School attendance is not just about teachers and books.

The other feature of life in school or college referred to in the most glowing terms is the social interaction. In college, given that the day starts at 5.30am and finishes at 8.00pm with an hour of religion, there would seem at first sight little time for socialising. Today the normal timetable of cleaning has been suspended in favour of an inter-form football and volleyball competition. Every goal and every point is greeted with great whoops of joy, the pitches being lined with men and women in impromptu chants and dances. As one young student, David, explained to me,

 “There are few chances to have enjoyment, so today, people will sing and dance.”

Although the guttering is in place and a new water vat has been bought, still there is no rain. Last week-end with an extended power cut, even the tank above the great well was dry, there being no power for the pump. House girls and boys from across campus were sent on excursions to sisters and aunties to find water. Mwakibe’s new wheelbarrow would prove a valuable asset.

The mkokoteni or wheelbarrow is a heavy metal box, iron grills welded together and fixed to a heavy steel frame on iron wheels, the rubber tyres punctured long ago. After a lengthy negotiation with the bicycle fundi, we agreed a price for new inner tubes and wheels. The fundi is severely disabled with twisted withered legs and works on the floor with his legs folded under him. He has a specially crafted three-wheeled cart which he drives with a hand powered crank, his wooden tool box strapped behind the seat. The wheels are bought without spokes and the fundi exacted a high price for the three hours it would take him to fit each wheel. It was good work for the fundi, the huge benefits expected from the gas bonanza having not reached him yet.

Amongst the topical issues we discussed last night were numerous government commentaries and media statements concerning the anticipated benefits from gas and oil finds in the ocean off Tanzania and Mozambique. The District Commissioner and everyone around him talks of how the local economy will be transformed. Philibert and I are less convinced. Certainly, Mwakibe’s family’s move to a traditional house without water or electricity – never mind gas – seemed to fly in the face of such optimism. Instead, we talked rather of the smart cars, the foreign workers and higher prices that have arrived now that gas is here.

“If a gas pipe passes by my house, I will not be any better off. My wife will still cook my ugali with charcoal. ” said Philibert with a resigned sigh.