DAR ES SALAAM BLASTS- OPEN LETTER TO PRESIDENT KIKWETE

Dear Your Excellency,
Greetings from London.
I hope you are well and in good health because we need you very much. Never has a leader of our country been under so much pressure and scrutiny. However, since being under the microscope is nothing new to all Presidents let me start by saying we wish you the best. We are on your side. You won a landslide in 2005 then faced a slightly harder election last year. That is to be expected.
Democracy is the name of the game; you and CCM have allowed it to happen; we are not a 40 year old dictatorship like some of our brothers in Middle East countries.
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As long as you allow free and fair elections; you should experience positive pressure (like a parent expected to provide food to his children). But if you are a thief, a political liar it shall be negative pressure. The opposition will not shut their mouths; this means sleepless nights, locking people up, secret killings, political cover ups, a cynical media and so forth.
This democratic freedom should be one of the best things about Tanzania and her interesting history.
While many African countries mourned and buried thousands through civil war we assisted our brothers and sisters to hoist flags in Namibia, Zimbabwe, Mozambique, Angola, Eritrea, Biafra and Uganda. We allowed numerous camps to be built to house fugitives from Burundi, Rwanda, Congo, you name it. In 2002, the UN named Tanzania amongst top refugee hosts on the continent alongside Ghana, another bacon of peace and harmony.
We have come a long way. The last time any major hostility was battled on Tanga Nyika plains was in 1907 when the colonists tried stamping out the Maji Maji resistance. Even the writer Ebrahim Hussein (hope he is well) created a play regarding the Ndengereko-Zaramo hero, Kinjeketile. Yes, your Excellency. You govern a special country.
Our military history is unique; our army used to be respected and feared at the same time. Not only because we blew out butchers like Idi Amin in 1979, but also stood fearlessly, to protect our continental family. Even though the former South African apartheid regime possessed nuclear armoury we stood stoically and supported our bleeding cousins. Poor we were and relied on imported weapons but we had one thing Mr. President. A disciplined army. We had soldiers who were trusted by the people. Soldiers who lived amongst citizens without suspicion or Juju ghosts. Our askaris were considered an army of the people and the phrase Jeshi la Wananchi (TPDF) signifies just that.
You are the chief of this army. An army that has not attempted to disobey nor topple your government, TANU or CCM; since the 1964 failed rebellion. That is a long time. An obedient faithful army.
Now you must finally sense where we are going with this letter. Many have already spoken their minds regarding the Gongo la Mboto and Mbagala accidents. Some have called for the army bosses (chief of staff and Minister) to resign; we have listened to you calling for the modernisation of the army. Oh yes. We are all concerned and worried. Here in the UK we are currently collecting small funds to help the victims; a tiny gesture expressing how we care.
A final question Mr President.
Do serious accidents happen twice? We have heard bus accidents happening over twenty times and the police force doing nothing about it. When the bombs exploded at Mbagala in 2009, killing 24, it was an accident, definitely. Then there were calls for an investigation but a report never materialised. Twenty four civilians dying due to a military accident is a serious matter. But to occur again and causing over twenty deaths (Gongo la Mboto) plus extra civilian fear is not just a grave but also a national security issue.
Potential enemies (I hope we do not have enemies, we have been good guys; always caring for our neighbours) might be wondering how efficient Tanzania’s security is. If we keep stabbing our fingers with our own knives, what will happen if extremists decide to sharpen their swords? In other words if this so called peaceful Tanzania cannot keep her own bombs securely and end up harming civilians, what would happen if malicious elements (inside and outside) decide to do a little mischief. You have, probably, thought about that of course.


- London, Monday, 21st February, 2011.
Published in Citizen Tanzania:
http://www.thecitizen.co.tz/editorial-analysis/-/8556-blasts-an-open-letter-to-president-kikwete

OMBA OMBA NA WALEVI WA KIKE MITAANI LONDON...

Niko dukani nimepanga foleni. Hakuna kitu kinathaminiwa nchi hii ya Waingereza kama foleni. Mara nyingi huwaona wageni waliofika jijini London toka nchi zisizozoea kujipanga. Utamkuta mtu wa aina hiyo akivuka mstari, kabla hata hajaingiza mkono kutoa pesa alipie wenyeji watampigia kelele.
“There is a queue!” (Ipo foleni).
Basi nimo.
Mbele yangu kuna mama mmoja kibonge, tinginya, umbo la gunia. Kibonge nakwambia; mweusi, mchangamfu, sauti kubwa; ana lafidhi ya Kiingereza cha Kijamaika kinachoitwa Patois (tamka Patwaa).
Mwanamke huyu mcheshi ananikumbusha kina mama wanaouza bidhaa sokoni mjini Mbeya. Wakubwa wakubwa, waliojaa bidii, wachapa kazi.
Kabeba vyakula mbalimbali na vinywaji kama wiski na bia ya tangawizi wanayopenda Wakaribian. Wakaribian ni watu weusi toka visiwa kama Jamaika, Trinidad, Grenada, Haiti, Cuba, Montserrat, Barbados, nk. Wamejazana Uingereza. Zamu yake sasa; anapayuka:
“Duu! Nimesahau pesa nyumbani.”
Mwenye duka ni Mhindi toka Sri Lanka.
“ Paundi 25!”
(Kama shilingi elfu sitini).
Mama Gunia, gubeli, bado anafukua pochi.
Anasonya. “ Ah, hizi hapa! “
Anatoa pesa akicheka.
“Nna pesa ! Nna pesa! Unadhani sikuwa na pesa bwa’ mdogo? He! He! he!”
Shere nyingi; analipa, hatimaye. Wapo wanaotabasamu; wapo wanaoudhiwa na vigimbi vyake. Jiji hili huwa na kila aina ya mijeledi. Ni saa tano asubuhi walakin mama keshauchapa. Kinyume na walevi wengine kabeba viazi vikuu, magimbi, ndizi mbivu za manjano kubwa ambazo baadaye atazikaanga (Wakaribian huziita “Plantain”). Sasa n’naongozana naye maana anakaa mtaa mmoja nami. Kachangamka, bado anabonga, utadhani redio.
“Nimeshakaa nchi hii miaka 50! Nilikuja hapa mwaka 1960! Wakati huo weusi tulifananishwa na majibwa. Kuna sehemu ukipita Wazungu wanakupiga kama mwizi. Ilikuwa nisome miaka miwili kisha nirudi kwetu; nikasomea uuguzi, nilipomaliza sikurudi tena.”
Kwanini?
“Ah, nlikutana na brazameni ulimi wa sukari akaniloanisha mapenzi.(Anacheka kwa nguvu) Baadaye wakazaliwa watoto. Sasa wote washakuwa watu wazima, wamezaa, miye nakula maisha tu.”
Tunakumbana na yule dada niliyewaeleza juma lililopita; mnamkumbuka, Vivian? Bado yuko pale pale tulipomwacha; bado anaomba hela, nje ya benki ya Barclays.
Kavalia ile ile suruali yake ya Jeans iliyoshapauka yenye matundu na mabaka mabaka meusi kama masizi. Bado kavalia viatu vyake vile vile vya raba ya Tennis nyekundu vilivyofungwa kwa kamba chafu nyeusi; awali zilikuwa nyeupe sasa hazieleweki. Tena bado anajikuna kuna mapele makubwa mekundu usoni. Ananyoosha mikono yenye kucha ndefu chafu akimpungia Mama Kibonge.
“Queeeen Mary!”
Kibonge anamchekea.
“Yes, Vivian.”
Wanatazamana. Omba omba kakaa pale chini kajikunyata, akipigwa baridi ya Ulaya, Queen Mary (Malkia Maria) anapekua begi lake. Anatoa mkebe mmoja wa bia; anamkabidhi Vivian.
Utadhani Vivian kajengewa nyumba mpya maana tabasamu anayoitoa anapokiona kile kikopo cha bia, maalum! Ajabu pamoja na kuvuta fegi, kulala nje na kuogelea katika ulevi bado meno yake masafi meupe. Ama kweli! Mungu hupambana na shetani; hachafui vyote.
Tunaendelea na safari.
Malkia Maria bado analonga na kutoa mastori, kila baada ya hatua haachi kumsalimia mtu, kumpungia yule kule, akicheka kwa nguvu; juu yake ongezea ile tabia yake ya uchangamfu na nishai ya adhuhuri; basi nadhani wasomaji mnamwona.
“Ungegombea ubunge, Queen Mary,” namkoga.
Anabanja ghafla.
“Bwa’ mdogo. Wakiniona wanadhani mi mlevi; jimama jizee linene, kwisha kazi. Hawan’jui. Siku hizi watu humu mijini hawaangalii watu wakoje; wanaangalia tu walivyovaa wanavyotembea, wakawasema wako hivi na hivi. Ukitaka kujua kitabu kizuri usiridhike na jalada. Kifungue ukisome.”
Anacheka na kubanja tena.
“Nishapitia kila kibaya na kizuri. Nilipohama kwetu nilisemwa, mtoto wa kike nakimbiliaje Ulaya? Nikawaambia wazee msijali, n’najua ninachokifanya. Nilipofika hapa sikuwasahau nyumbani. Baada ya kuhitimu masomo ya unesi nikawa natuma pesa nyumbani. Ilikuwa nirudi lakini bahati mbaya nikakutana na yule mshikaji tuliyependana. Tuliishi pamoja miaka kumi; nikamzalia watoto watatu. Watu wazima sasa hivi. Nina wajukuu saba na kitukuu kimoja.”
Namuuliza kama baba watoto yuko hai.
“Mungu keshamchukua. Alikuwa freshi sana. Ila alifanya kosa moja. Hali kabla ya kunywa; na akinywa hafanyi kazi. Mi bado nachapa kazi za kujitolea hospitali za wazee ingawa nimeshastahafu. Mwezi ujao natimiza miaka 70. “
Anacheka.
Kwanini hakurudi kwao visiwani, Jamaika?
“Mi si Mjamaika. Unaona mlivyo mabwege? Mkimwona mtu mweusi mnasema anatoka Nigeria au Jamaika. Kwetu ni Montserrat. Unapajua?”
Ni kule mlima ulipotoa volcano mwaka 1997?
“Huko huko. Nilitaka nirudi Montserrat lakini kwa kuwa mambo ya volcano yameanza tena; nitafia hapa hapa Uingereza.”
Anacheka.
Tumefika kwake.
Namuuliza vipi akakatiwa jina la Malkia Maria?
“Yule binti ananjua...Namfahamu toka akizaliwa. Wazee wake matajiri lakini babake alikuwa fisi. Alikuwa akiwapiga wote, mama na watoto. Watoto wote wa yule mzee wameharibika. Yeye mwenyewe kahamia Hispania. Aliwaachia nyumba na utajiri lakini kutokana na hali ngumu aliyowafanya wakiwa wadogo akili zao hazikuwa nzuri; wakapoteza hela katika dawa za kulevya.”
Kesho yake ninapompitia Vivian namwangalia kwa macho mengine.
Nchi hii tajiri lakini ina kila aina ya mambo.
Kwetu Afrika umaskini hutokana na wachache kuwa na mali na kutowapa wengi. Hutokana na viongozi wasiojali watu wao na kujilimbikizia mali kama ilivyokuwa Misri. Mbabe yule katawala toka mwaka 1981 bila kukubali uchaguzi; akiwafunga waliodai haki yao, akiwapendelea wenzake na ndugu zake; akijaza mabilioni ya pesa nje ya Misri aliyodai anaipenda. Hicho ndicho kinachotudidimiza Afrika; kujenga umaskini ndani ya bara hili tajiri kushinda yote duniani.
Sasa linganisha na ufukura ulioko nchi zilizoendelea.
Omba omba na maskini wapo.
Mna hohehahe lakini si wote wanatoka familia maskini za matabaka ya chini. Ufukara, huzuni au ukiwa wao husababishwa na mambo ya kila aina.
Vivian alizaliwa mwaka 1986. Babake alikuwa mfanya biashara mkubwa. Kutokana na hali yake ile alipenda sana kazi kuliko watoto. Kwa kuwa akiwa nao watoto anakuwa amechoka huonyesha mapenzi yake kwa kuwapa zawadi na pesa. Na siku moja moja mkewe akimkorofisha anamnyuka. Watoto wakilia anawatandika vile vile. Hatimaye mkewe akatoroka na mwanaume mwingine. Akamwachia watoto wale; wawili wa kike, mmoja mwanaume. Baba mtu alivyokuwa punguani akawa anawaharibu, analala nao. Ndivyo alikoanzia hadi leo binti kageuka omba omba, kaharibikiwa.

-London, Jumatatu, 14 Februari, 2011
-Ilitoka Mwananchi, 20 Feb, 2010

SHORT FUSE LONDON AND MODERN CITY STRESS

I am driving up a small side street towards a major road somewhere in north London. It is Saturday afternoon; a few minutes ago the rain stopped so I can still see tiny pools, puddles and trickles of water on paths, pavements and roof tops of Victorian houses in this ancient, interesting city. Nothing unusual except that a car has suddenly opened doors, two young guys are getting out blocking the road. I have to break quickly.
As any driver in any large town knows it is normal to encounter mindless, reckless, unpredictable motorists, pedestrians crossing without bothering to look, in a hurry to catch a bus that might leave any second, elderly people struggling up busy routes; cyclists battling against vehicles and the constant yelling and finger pointing amongst various road users.
These are the constant, continuous hazards of driving in urban areas. In developing cities like Mexico City, New Delhi, Lagos, Nairobi, Rio de Janeiro, Bangkok or our own Dar es Salaam you could add the loud noises and sounds of animals (pigs, cows and chicken), kids and touts selling goods, bawling their lungs out. Oh yes, city life is hectic and rowdy.
Trinidad born writer, V.S. Naipaul, the 2001 Nobel Prize winner for Literature, describes this feel in his book “India: A million Mutinies Now” (1990).
“The visitor coming to Bombay from the airport, might see only small dark men in an undifferentiated crowd, and dust and fumes; might see, between the concrete blocks, a mess of makeshift huts and the parasitic shelters those huts spawned, one kind of dependence leading down into another; might see what looked like the unending smallness of men.”
So as I halt abruptly, I wish it was for a different circumstance. The usual modus operandi would be a mother trying to bring out a baby from her car; therefore, forgetting her door is blocking the path. That one is understandable since mothers and their babies are like a disaster waiting to happen. You expect them from every corner; out of school yards (dropping other kids) into super markets and shops. You have to be cautious; and as a driver it is second nature; be careless at your own peril.
This, however, is not a mother and baby but two young arrogant fellows charged with machismo and testosterone lunacy. Their age could be early twenties, the mannerisms scream as much as their selfish attitude.
Luckily, I was not speeding so my breaking to avoid their car’s door is effortless. Nonetheless, despite being cautious and dodging knocking them; they both give me bad looks (that say go to hell) waving arms in the air in that wronged image similar to Jesus Christ being crucified.
Aha.
London displaying a good example of short fuse reaction; a reaction you get from the smallest, mundane, trivial situations. People on edge; over reacting.
A friend was telling a story about an angry chap eager to fight at a crowded market the other day.
“I am watching this guy walking then accidentally bumping into two other guys talking to each other. They are deep into their conversation and he is obviously not looking. So who is wrong? Yet, he turns around and starts calling them names. Very short fuse.”
Stress, right?
“Absolutely!” he says, “ money, desperation, tension and selfishness.”
In “Body Language” published in 1970, American psychologist, Julius Fast argues that as children we are free with both our bodies and emotions but learn to hide true feelings as we grow up. Mr. Fast compares this acquired defence mechanism to being crippled. “And so we smile our way through the day, though in fact we may feel angry and annoyed beneath the smile.”
To many across the universe urban life means employment, prosperity, education and opportunities. But it all makes us jumpy and egoistic.
Back in the 1970’s Tanzania writers and musicians assisted the ruling party’s campaign to stop rural citizens running to towns and cities. Even a major Kiswahili movie called “Fimbo Ya Mnyonge” highlighted this policy. The whole campaign was like a crime does not pay philosophy.
Ujamaa policies argued that countryside was paradise.
Whereas rural life in Africa today is akin to poverty, in rich countries only the wealthy can afford the relative comfort of rural paradise. A paradise considered better in terms of fresh air, natural warmth, relaxed atmosphere and less stress; without the uptight short fuse of city dwellers.

-London, Monday, 14th February, 2011.

Published in Citizen Tanzania

http://www.google.co.uk/search?source=ig&hl=en&rlz=&q=mazahn+berlin&btnG=Google+Search&aq=o&oq=

MY DINNER WITH THE EGYPTIAN COUPLE

“Is it halal?”
“The meat or everything else?”
“The meat, my friend, the meat.”
Dr. Mohammed Kharib (not real name) is gingerly holding the delicious fried chicken. After assuring him it is halal and that I actually do not eat pork we continue dining in peace. An hour later we have all retired to the living room, drinking, chatting. We are waiting for Haifa to get ready to sing.
By the way this is not the famous singer, model and provocative Haifa Wehbe from Lebanon. Haifa is just an assumed nickname of Dr. Kharib’s wife, Wahida; an amateur musician.
She and her husband have been my friends for many years since the days I visited Cairo for the first time. I have always been fond of Egyptian people who I find warm hearted and sincere.
Long time ago I use to work in the Egyptian Embassy in Dar es Salaam as a translator and receptionist. I have memories of those wonderful Egyptians helping me stutter through Arabic greetings.

HAJA NDOGO NJE KWA WANAWAKE SI JAMBO RAHISI...

Tupo sebuleni kwa jirani yangu mmoja mwanamke. Katualika majirani kusherehekea siku ya kuzaliwa miaka themanini. Themanini nakwambia! Wanawe wawili wamewasili na wajukuu na vitukuu toka Australia na Afrika Kusini kushangilia siku hii maalum ya ajuza mcheshi, roho safi; kibibi anayependwa na kila mtu hapa mtaani ninapoishi London. Nyumba imetota baraka. Harufu mbalimbali za makulaji zinazitesa pua. Vyakula vimetandazwa mezani. Viazi Ulaya vya kuchemsha na kuoka vinavyotengeneza msosi maarufu uliovum buliwa na hawa hawa Waingereza unaojulikana kama Chips. Mboga mbichi safi za saladi, nyanya, matango, vitunguu, jibini (chizi), mikate ya kila sampuli, samaki na kuku wa kukaanga. Kawaida karamu za Majuu hutenganisha walaji wa nyama na wasiokula nyama (Vegetarians).

RECALLING A BALD HEADED FIGURE FROM THE PAST...

I was at a Malawian party at the Commonwealth club in Pall Mall, South West London last weekend. Malawians are the mellowest people and throughout my life I have been around them. For several decades they have become part of our Tanzanian communities. I even co-founded a band called Sayari with a Dar es Salaam based Malawian musician thirty years ago. Unlike other Africans who tend to have an accent when they speak Swahili, Malawians blended easily.
History has messed us, culturally. Before the division of the continent in 1884 we were close knit tribes. Separation of Maasais in Kenya or Tanganyika; Lwoos in Kenya or Uganda; Makonde in Mozambique or south Tanzania was imposed. What separated people in Mbeya and Nyasaland (which came to be called Malawi) were the lake and a divisionary mandate during the scramble for Africa.
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Mind you these territorial splits are world wide. They have been causing uncomfortable tensions between South and North Koreans or amongst East and West Germans until the Berlin wall was smashed in 1990. I wish more walls would be broken down. The world would be a better place. It is this particular division of communities and nations that has caused so much conflict and estrangement in our lives. At the height of animosity there was even a possibility of war between us and Malawi because of Lake Nyasa.
As I child I would hear the derogatory remark:
“Wee Mnyasa nini?” (Stop behaving like a Mnyasa, meaning a Malawian refugee).
Globally, it is widely spread. Against the Irish, Jews, Pakistanis (Pakis), Arabs in France or Nigerians and Jamaicans in London. Prejudice the word, discrimination the result.
“Mnyasa” was such a distinct form of abuse in Tanzania forty years ago that it would be levelled against opposition leaders of the government like the late Oscar Kambona, the biggest and direct critic to CCM and President Nyerere.
It’s true that Malawians were fleeing the iron rule of the late strongman Dr. Hastings Kamuzu Banda; the man with a bald head.
Young Citizen readers born after 1980 might not know Kamuzu Banda. Like most leaders who led Africa after the surge of independence from 1957 to 1965 having freed themselves from colonial rule, Dr. Banda was well educated. We had Dr. Nyerere, Dr. Kwame Nkrumah, Dr. Jomo Kenyatta, even Sir Seretse Khama; doctors of philosophies, master of their own destinies. But how many of these “doctors” really delivered the fruits of independence?
Dr. Kamuzu Banda managed Malawi from 1964 until 1994. He was hailed as a hero by some of his people and a tyrant by others. In 1971 he declared himself President for Life. Is that unusual in Africa? How many leaders have stepped down willingly through free and fair elections?
Anyway, I am at this Malawian party in London; I see a guy in a suit who reminds me of the late Dr. Kamuzu Banda.
“Mulibwanji?”
“Tulibwinu.”
After stumbling through my scanty Kinyanja vocabulary the bald headed gentleman also shows off his equally limited Kiswahili knowledge.
“Habari bwana!”
Ice broken, laughter bubbling, it is time for me to drop the bomb. I cannot help it and my big mouth let slip the rubbish sentence.
“You remind me of Dr...”
I see the man in a suit recoiling as if I have said I fancy his wife.
“Don’t start!”
What the hell is he thinking?
“I know what you are you going to say,” he whispers.
His face drops, the smile fades away, he turns sombre as if we are in the middle of a serious cabinet conference in Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi.
“You know what? You are the third man to have said that. It is starting to worry me.”
I pretend to be naive.
“Is it a bad thing?”
He shakes his head. “A bad thing? That was not a good man at all.”
I watch the jovial fellow in a suit shrinking like trousers that have just been washed and still soaking wet; he is suddenly looking sad, forlorn and unhappy. I am not sure why he has reminded me of Crazy Baldhead a reggae tune written (ironically at the height of Dr. Kamuzu Banda’s rule in 1974) by Bob Marley, the legendary Jamaican musician.

-London, Tuesday, 1st February, 2011.
Published in Citizen Tanzania:
http://www.thecitizen.co.tz/editorial-analysis/-/7912-recalling-a-bald-headed-figure-from-the-past