Warm ugali

Life in Mtwara is changing fast. Three years ago, bread was hard to come by. Now, a soft tasteless bread is available in most small shops, whilst the Sisters have their heavy German style bread on sale in at least two shops. Strange, then, the reaction to the proposal to sell goats milk.

“People in Mtwara won’t buy it, Mr Adrian.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not the tradition.”

Tanzanian’s affection for claiming that things should not change because they are traditional ,defies logic at times. For example, I can point out that it is traditional for men and women to die young, for children to be malnourished and for girls not to go to secondary school, but most would agree that these are traditions Tanzania should lose.

Our plan to try and secure a sustainable source of nutrition in the form of goats’ milk is facing some resistance – mainly because “people won’t buy goat milk”. We’ll see. For an investment of ten goats, each of the fifteen most vulnerable children in Kiangu could be given a large glass of milk each day. Cows are preferred. I asked Mama Koka, who has goats, why she does not sell goat milk.

“Because I have cows.” The logic is insurmountable.

In discussing animals this week, the topic of wazungu and their pets came up. Why would you keep an animal in your home, we asked? My group was trying really hard to be cooperative and enlightened.

“I keep a cat because it catches rats,” said Pendo

“Hens are easy to keep and provide fresh eggs.” said Arnold.

“Dogs are good for security. They deter thieves and chase away witches.”

“Witches?” I checked.

“Yes. Have you never noticed that if your dog barks and you go outside to see what’s there and there’s nothing? That’s because the dog has chased away the witch.” Again, I thought, insurmountable.

And yet, times are changing here. Francis is home from Dar while he waits for his course professor to call him. He has nothing to do each day but wait. But it doesn’t seem to worry him. He has marriage on his mind. He plans to marry next year, once the bride price is agreed and the festivities paid for. As we prepare to sell all our worldly possessions here, before returning to UK, I remember the first days with Francis. I recall explaining to him as he listened in wonder to the concept of an electrically powered implement for heating water. His eyes widened and then smiled as the idea dawned on him. Back then, we went to the great hardware store and queued for half an hour to buy an iron stick with an electric element and a plastic handle, the closest thing Francis could think of as an instrument for boiling water. Today the small shops next to soko kubwa (big market) are full of cheap Chinese kettles, called jagi, or jug, in kiswahili.

Mwakibe, Mr Ali and I went out to Mbae to look at a piece of land. The vendor had told us a good price for good land so I squashed into the bajaj with Mr Abdul Rahman and bounced along a dusty track for about five kilometres until we came to a hillside that defeated our valiant three wheeler. We continued on foot, across two small hills, along a dusty dry valley and finally up a small escarpment to the start of a steep sided hill. This was the ‘good land’ he had brought us to see. I left it with Mwakibe. Even the ever-optimistic Mwakas could see the futility of this journey.  Land that a year ago, perhaps a few months ago, would have been sold for less than £400, Mr Abdul was asking three times that price. As we drove home, hot and bothered, the large and hitherto silent Mr Abdul nevertheless managed to ask me for payment, for ‘disturbance’. I smiled, shook his hand, wished him a pleasant Sunday and left him outside his mosque.

There are thirteen children in the small district near us who are listed by the council as ‘vulnerable.’ These six families are supported by friends and family with a small monthly grant to cover some rice, flour, oil, soap, school fees and whatever other basics can be bought for £40. A health insurance card is paid for too which covers the whole family; but the insurance card does not include transport to Dar, to the only specialist paediatric hospital available to treat young Sharifa. Sharifa is nine and has an abnormally swollen and deformed knee, perhaps a genetic malformation or perhaps TB. She has been referred to Dar for assessment and treatment. She has something wrong with her left eye and the hospital in Dar can also look at that. In the main regional hospital here there is not even an x-ray machine. Philibert and I have drafted the letter to the council to ask for help for the bus fares for Sharifa and her mum but we need to create our own emergency fund for when this sort of thing happens again.

I met Chiwembe the other day. He’s been on leave following his wedding. He told me he was tired and he looked it. Just before the wedding, he’d driven all the way to Arusha to attend the bride’s ‘send-off’ party, then all the way back via Dar to make all the plans for the wedding. Now he has the task of setting up home on the newly bought plot in Magomeni, a significant and valuable wedding gift. Chiwembe is a softly spoken man with a demure smile and natural shyness. I asked how he was enjoying married life. If he could, he would have blushed, but instead, a raw belly laugh rippled round the table as Malibiche explained,

“Mr Adrian. Now, you see, every day, he has warm ugali.” Ugali is the stiff porridge made from maize flour.

This obviously could be a crude euphemism or it could literally be one of the major benefits of married life here. After three years, I’m still not sure.