All is rarely what it seems.

They stood for two hours in the baking sun, waiting for word from the office as to whether their demands were to be met. It started two weeks ago when a slight young man, Hildabrant, quiet and studious was taken to hospital, complaining of pains in his chest and difficulty breathing. No diagnosis was forthcoming and soon reports came out that his legs were now paralysed and that the pain was even more severe. After two weeks he was transferred in a ten hour journey by car to Dar es Salaam where he died two days later. Students were informed in a solemn announcement on the Sunday afternoon.

On Monday morning, as students should have been preparing for examinations, the campus resonated with haunting harmonies from four or five classrooms – Lutherans, Catholics, all denominations stood and prayed and sang. By Monday evening a small number of students were quietly pressing for the college to relax its decision that no delegation from this college would attend the funeral. By Tuesday mornings, there was a mood of anger around campus. Their fellow had died and they wanted to mourn him properly. The entire student body was taking direct strike action, had refused to eat porridge and was now refusing to enter the classrooms until their demands to see their fellow student mourned appropriately, were met in full. Tutors were adamant that it was unnecessary, that the students could not be trusted to go, that their motive was to take money for the fare.

By mid-morning, some students had spoken to me of the intimidation they faced from fellow students. Clearly there was a small group determined to see their collective action succeed. Some were threatened when they went for their breakfast; one man’sporridge cup was knocked roughly from his hands as he was told,

“No-one is taking porridge this morning. We are together until the administration changes its mind.”

And so they stood, in serried ranks, small groups occasionally attempting a feeble rendition of the college song; others perched on their haunches, an exercise book shielding their heads from the searing heat. Throughout this showdown, the student president, Oscar, only elected some two months earlier, stood impassively, looking on. Oscar is a tall man with a childlike face, a humble smile and an unctuous voice that I now know belies a scheming malevolence. Evidence was emerging that he and a small clique had distorted information regarding the arrangements for the funeral and that the bullying and intimidation was directed by him.

As the principal stood fiercely in the morning heat, resistance withered and students traipsed back to their desks. The crisis was over and now the ringleaders needed to be dealt with. It remained unclear but Maskat had suggested that the whole episode was engineered by the president and one or two others for the sole purpose of levering the cost of bus fares from the college. Oscar still owed me an explanation as to what had happened to the TSH30,000 I gave him to buy seeds and fertiliser, so I was tempted to believe Maskat.

From the morbid to the sublime, there was to be a visit to a remote and beautiful beach. We invited a small group of friends to spend a day at perhaps the most beautiful beach in the world at Msimbati. For most local people, the name Msimbati is associated with gas, as it’s off the coast at Msimbati that BG is extracting liquid natural gas and in the process provoking much local hostility. We were twenty-five sun-seekers, an eclectic group of old, young, African, European and American. Mwakibe had offered to organise a local bus to take us, but something told me to have him double-check that the bus he had ordered for the Saturday morning was in shape and ready. At four o’clock on Friday he phoned. I could see there was a problem as soon as the man spoke. Mwakibe’s face fell as we realised we had only that evening to find another bus or risk disappointing the twenty-five friends booked to come with us on our ‘Big Day Out’. There started a frantic hour of phoning, leaving messages, waiting nervously for calls to be returned Sister Tadea told me she was happy for us to use her big shiny new Montessori bus Mr Liwenga needed to find the driver. Liwenga, the college principal, less than dynamic, suggested I call him back at six-thirty to see if he’d found him. Not for the first time, my European habit of worrying to control rather than relaxing to see events unfurl, proved unhelpful. George called in to see Xavier the driver and confirmed he’d be there in the morning to take us all to Msimbati.

And he was, at seven, on the dot. We set off at eight and after a bumpy ride through dusty villages we arrived at a white beach in pouring rain. The sea looked murky for once, the beach seemed desolate under a grey sky but as we snorkelled, with rain beating down on our backs, we peered into a kaleidoscope of marine life, teeming with fish of every hue, darting in and out of the shimmering coral. After lunch we played cricket and football, lazed on wooden beds and sipped beer until it was time to leave. We’d done nothing, but the change of environment from bustling Mtwara on a Saturday, with its blaring speakers for weddings and football games, was enough to make it the most relaxing day out for a long, long time.

We and Mwakibe have been preparing to part for some time now. Having only the lowest pass mark at Form IV, there are few options open to him in education, but the technical training college is one such open route. He had completed a short course in electrical installation in August as a preparation for the full-time three year course due to start in January. It was expensive, but Mwakibe enjoyed it, particularly as he believed it was the useful step to successful application to the full-time course. However, after several futile cycle trips down to the college to collect his certificate, he was told by SMS that there would be no course in January. The college was not to accept admission in 2014, something they must have known when they accepted payment for the short course, but as tutors earn extra money, this was something they failed to share with the young men and women paying the course fees.

We began to look elsewhere; in particular, Ndanda, the Benedictine mission where, as well as a hospital, a nursing school, a printing press, a water bottling facility and a hydro-electric plant, there is also a vocational training college. It is small and offers high quality training, but there are very few places and competition is stiff. We began to prepare Mwakibe for the entrance examination, a simple test in literacy and numeracy and a short interview, after which we were told we would wait two weeks for the successful twelve candidates from the one hundred and twenty applicants to be informed. Earlier this week he received a phone call from a course tutor at Ndanda, informing him that he had been accepted. Mwakibe is thin and bony and I almost crushed him as we hugged and danced and whooped with excitement. We were leaving, but his future would be secure, at least for now. Five minutes later, he received another call, from another tutor, explaining gruffly that if he wanted his name to remain on the list he would have to pay TSH200,000 – a straight bribe of huge proportions as far as Mwakibe was concerned.

What to do! Mwakibe’s disappointment was palpable. I could see the visions of his happy life in Ndanda disappearing from his fantasy. His face became contorted with stress and bitterness. He began to beat his forehead in anguish. He knows very well that he would never be able to persuade me to pay the bribe and his future was seeming to ebb away as quickly as it had emerged.

I needed to think carefully as to how we should react. If the man was genuine and had access to the list it would scotch Mwakibe’s chances for good. If it was a bluff but he found out that Mwakibe knew it was a bluff, Mwakibe’s days at the college could be miserable, as this tutor might exact some form of petty revenge. I phoned the principal, explained that I would be leaving soon and asked innocently if Mwakibe Kapinga had been admitted. Brother Sixtus confirmed that his name was on the list. With an SMS to confirm this I could relax; I was more confident than ever that the bribe was a simple corrupt opportunistic act from someone who had no control over the list but would use the two days between the list being prepared and the letters being posted out to extort money from the innocent young candidates.

Of course, few other candidates would have sponsors able to phone Brother Sixtus directly. I need a plan as to what to do about any of those potential victims. So, being a dish best served cold, we will wait until Mwakibe is registered, until he has moved to Ndanda, has started the course and established himself at the college. Only then will we see the perpetrator exposed. But we won’t forget.

As we pack to leave, sell whatever useful household items we have acquired and say good-bye to friends and colleagues, it seems that these last few days have been more frenetic and more richly rewarding than usual. Is it that I am seeking some last drops of validity for our time here; or is it that my senses of what we will miss are heightened.  When a woman with two scruffy children appeared on our baraza looking for support, I knew exactly what to do. She was anxious that the older one could not go to school and the little one, at two years of age, had a medical condition for which she would need help. I was able immediately to refer to the principal social worker for school support, as no child of primary school age, can legally be denied a place; and Mwakibe within the hour had nipped round with the camera, photographed the family and had them registered for the community health scheme.

When I remember the youth who approached us two years ago for English lessons and I remember the times I have reprimanded him for laziness, for lateness and sometimes for simply being young, I see now a confident young man, able to use his own initiative and to whom many local people come to for assistance. Mwakibe is our own, some would say only, but nevertheless significant, success story in development.