Life goes on

It was as though we hadn’t been away. Only the rich verdant spaces round our house that had crept from the red earth and softened the crisp parched stubble, was a clear sign that time had passed. That, and the maize field.  Before we’d left, the maize field had been marked and fenced, a naked brown gash among the stark trees. Today strong young green plants wave gently in the breeze. In this part of the world, the New Year brings new growth; green rich fecundity where last month it seemed barren – a veritable new beginning.

Our friends and neighbours were eager to tell us of recent events – it was unclear which they found more significant – the floods or the protests. The floods had been as severe as they were sudden. New Year saw a downpour that lasted almost twenty-four hours and left low-lying areas in three feet of water, families homeless, family possessions wasted and ruined and the town reeling from the ensuing disruption. A nearby primary school had its roof ripped away by a strong wind, neighbours’ houses were filled with mud, roads closed and traffic diverted. Maebras was in the thick of it from the start – emergency meetings with officials and politicians. Ultimately, little could be done, other than the community supporting those in greatest need.

As the waters receded, news of the government’s announcement, that the gas, currently being recovered from the ocean off the Mtwara coast, would be piped to Dar es Salaam, filtered through to local communities in town. The reaction was violent disbelief. In many people’s views, the government had reneged on a public pronouncement made some years earlier – that the gas would be processed in Mtwara, delivering jobs and investment. A pipeline carrying away the precious resource, seemed to symbolise years of perceived neglect by the government in Dar, leaving Mtwara to many more years of poverty. Further demonstrations are planned for the end of February, although it is unclear who is behind them and how well ‘planned’ they are.

This hiatus was played out while we were away and since our return, a strange calm in both the weather and the political climate have prevailed.  College is beginning to return to normal classes, but this country seems obsessed with examinations – testing and certificating interminably. So, as one set of papers are marked, so another set of tests begins, leaving tutors and teachers with no time to teach. These breaks in the timetable lead to alterations with no notice. This morning, for instance, without warning, it was announced that special classes to teach ‘lesson planning’, ‘classroom management’ and other aspects of pedagogy were to be held. Seventy students brought their wooden stools to sit under the trees and wait for their tutor. They waited quietly for an hour and a half before anyone appeared

This ‘gap’ in the timetable has given me time to distribute the hundred of science and maths books donated by schools across the north of England. The boxes each weigh about 25 kg and having travelled 6000 miles are a bit battered. I urged teachers to take care as they carried the boxes carefully to a waiting motorcycle, where they were perched precariously on the pillion.

“Let me get someone to carry that box, Sister.”

Sister Auxilia, headteacher of the local Catholic girls’ school, was having none of it.

“We were taught to carry these loads as young girls, Adrian.” 

And with that she swung the box up, to rest on her head and with the lightest touch of her hand to guide it, she strolled casually down the path.

On Monday morning, as happens every Monday morning, the college gathers for its assembly at 7.00am. The national anthem is sung, the national flag unfurled and the report of cleanliness, food and sports was read by the student leader. No outstanding events were to be noted, other than a baby was delivered on Saturday night. A baby, whose mother had tried to hide her pregnancy for many months, was taken by a tutor to the nearby hospital. So scared was the mother that she convinced the doctor that the baby was dead. The doctor was convinced and advised the nurses of the imminent miscarriage but the nurses examined the mother and realised the baby was alive. They were housed in a college house overnight and today they are both doing well.

Mwakibe’s small-holding is thriving. He now wears blue polyester overalls, green wellington boots and thick industrial gloves for his work in the garden. He has built a hen coop from broken chairs and desks retrieved from the back of the college, after special permission was granted to me by the scary Mkunga and he plans to be selling eggs and chicken very soon. He has money in his pocket nowadays .

There are the usual comings and goings, the disruption caused by weather and riots, the road-works that are almost finished and then have to start again because the rains come; the babies born, weddings to plan, clothes to wash, tests to mark, seeds to plant, punctures to mend, rice to sell, and sometimes, sodas to sip, under the shade of a great mango tree. Always, the price of everything goes up and life around Mtwara goes on.