The spirit of enterprise

Under the shade of the canopied mango tree, on the hard brown dirt, sits the bicycle fundi, Yusuph Lukanga. He repairs bicycles and shoes. He squats on a wooden folded stool called mbuzi or goat, with his withered legs, almost certainly a result of polio earlier in his life, folded beneath him. He moves around town in a huge, iron hand-cranked tricycle, with a small wooden box strapped to the back in which he keeps a tidy array of tools. He is a charismatic man, unshaven with a round head, and deep, black skin that glows. His teeth are all the whiter though he rarely smiles. He views me quizzically, perhaps suspiciously, as I take my place on the wooden bench that serves as a pew on which we wait our turn. His apprentices and acolytes are younger men, chatting too loudly sometimes, ever conscious of his ministrations. Two of the group depart briefly to return with a large aluminium plate of ugali and spinach which they lay by his side, while one brings a jug of water with which to wash the fundi's hands.

In broken English and Kiswahili, he asks if I have bought him the welding machine he wants,

"Bado", I reply. (Not yet). He shrugs as if he had anticipated this and I try to distract him with talk of the wheel which I need him to mend. It is quite badly buckled and as he spins it nonchalantly in his calloused hands, he quotes a figure which is far too high. We barter. He doesn't smile, but we agree on a price about the equivalent of the cold beer I'll sip at the ocean later that day. Before he starts work on my wheel, he lets one of the young men wash his hands and slowly he rolls the ugali into small gobbets and having dipped it in the fiery sauce, pops it in his mouth, watching me all the while, as I exchange greetings with the numerous bystanders who love to be seen with the mzungu.

It would seem that there is a crying need for money and training for many prospective self-employed fundi, shopkeepers, and salespeople. Maibras tells me that the banks are hopeless at meeting this demand. The process is slow, bureaucratic and at times corrupt. Many people have little faith in it and prefer instead to go to family and friends. Someone suggested to me the other day that for many Africans, their ambitions and capacity to plan for the future are blighted by the uncertainty of future government policies and by the demands from family for a share in their fortune. If it is likely that you will lose or at best have to share your wealth, then perhaps, it's less attractive to work so hard to acquire it. I'm not sure though. It seems that there is something in some people which drives them to make money; which drives them to work hard and look for every opening. Some have that drive- some don't.

Maibras and I went to see Mama Zuhura last week. She is a large woman wrapped in a kanga and a colourful scarf round her head. She lives in a collection of small rooms round a dirty yard where children are playing with some plastic lids. The cleanest room, empty of everything save a large fridge, has a small window cut into one wall. The window is framed with a steel grill into which is cut an opening, the size of a large plate. From this room, with the help of this large gleaming fridge, Mama Zuhura serves mutton soup to the workers from the small industrial estate close by.

Last week I visited Emmanuel in his stationery shop. It's half a container with a cable providing power to two old computers. Emmanuel is a slight man with a neatly trimmed moustache. His wife works for the council in the neighbouring town, so they can afford the rent on the container and their house. They have one small child. He shows me the broken copier which he hopes to replace.

“With the new printer-copier I can buy from Dar, I can charge only two hundred shillings per page and compete with the others,” he boasts. Tanzania’s bureaucracy means that everyone needs a copy of every official document and there are dozens of documents covering every aspect of everyday life. In the short-term there will be a heavy demand for copying and office services.

Mwakibe’s mum has made a success of her shop so far. She sells flour, rice, beans, sugar, soap, pens, razors and a selection of sweets, tea and small novelties - an eclectic range of whatever she thinks sells and she can afford. She writes nothing down and when I ask her about margins, she looks puzzled,

"Sir," Mwakibe translates, "She doesn't always write things down," I suspected she didn't write anything down, but, on the other hand, since she'd moved with Tamasha and Mwakibe, from her rented house, she'd made the repayments and fed her family.

And then there's Mwakibe, who has just bought nine small hens.

“Any eggs today, Mwakibe,”

“Bado, sir. They are still learning about their new home.”

The work on his hen coop was completed last week and yesterday he went with his mum, Asha, to their family’s village and returned with a great basket of hens. Mwakibe still wants a driving job in the army or the Port. He thinks that such a job would have status and a steady wage. He's not wrong. A job in the public sector would also be a job for life, assure him of a pension and holidays.

I sat and watched my buckled wheel take shape. This man had never claimed a per diem in his life and no-one was about to offer him a pension. His thick powerful fingers had been working like this for years and if illness doesn’t take him he’ll do it for years to come.

“So you didn’t bring me a welding machine from England,” said Yusuph “If I had one, I could build many more tri-cycles like this one.”

Maibras and I have a scheme that will lend him the money for the welding machine and see him repay the loan within the year.
“Is there a large demand for such machines?” I asked.

“Ndiyo,," he grinned "There’s lots of work for welding machines if you look for it, especially these," handling his great iron beast of a tricycle.”  And with that he span my new wheel with his thumb, cast an expert eye down the rim to check it was true and without a second glance handed it to one of his young assistants.

"It's ready," he said over his shoulder. He didn't look at me, just returned to the small child's shoe and picked up his six inch steel needle.

 "Give the mzungu his bicycle."