Kuuliza si ujinga

Yesterday morning, I was in my office, listening to Obama’s acceptance speech on the radio. A teacher came by with a common sight: a sheet of paper requesting michango, or contributions. Michango can be for weddings, for graduation ceremonies, for funerals. This one was for a funeral.

To be honest, I didn’t sign the sheet at the time. I told her to come back when the speech was over. And then told a second teacher the same thing. But later that day, I did give my 1000 Tsh (about eighty cents, a common donation sum) in michango. And thought no more of it.

Until about 5:30 that evening, when a teacher came by. “Sorry I’m late. Are you ready to go?”

To go? Where?

“To visit the family of the deceased. We’re leaving now.”

But…I’ve never met the deceased.

“Neither have many of us, but she is mwenzetu, our companion, because she was a teacher like us. So we are visiting the family to give them support.”

But…I’m not dressed nicely enough. I’m not ready to go.

“No problem. We can wait for you.”

This is clearly a community duty. And besides, what reasons do I have not to go? I didn’t have any other plans, other than listening to the radio and writing in my journal.

So I put on a nice set of clothes, and climb into the back of a pick-up truck with a crowd of teachers.

There is much conversation about Obama on the way there. Can it be called the White House, now that a black man is president? Will there start to be prejudice against white people instead of against black people? There seems to be an assumption that whoever’s in power will give advantages to their “tribe”; I try to explain that things don’t quite work that way in America. At least they shouldn’t, if we’re living up to our ideals.

We bump over dirt roads, ducking down so that branches don’t hit our heads. As we travel, I see what most of my region looks like: hills, rolling fields, scattered mud houses with thatched roof. There’s not a high population density here. A family, a few cows, a large field for corn and grazing. Then open space. Then another few houses, another herd of cows, more fields. There are parts of Tanzania where you can’t walk for more than a few minutes without walking into someone’s yard. I’m not living in one of those areas.

We arrive at the house, greet the family, and sit down for tea. As we chat, my headmaster notes the two old men who are sitting with us: one man, already in his late sixties, is the son of the older man. “How old is he?” we ask the son. “One hundred twenty three,” the son says. “How old are you?” we ask. “Sixty eight. But I’m his fourth son.” I don’t quite buy that the older man is a hundred twenty three, but I’ll believe that he’s over a hundred. When he was a child, Tanganyika was a German colony. He tells us of carrying stones for the German colonists, and how each person had to pay a tax of one rupiah (three shillings, less than a cent in current money) per year.

Lots of tea, lots of conversation. At the end we take pictures. Me with the old man, our hands held together and up in the air as if we’re running for office. Some students from my school with the two old men: the new generation that’s only known a free Tanzania, and a generation that saw both German and British colonist. Me with some children of the family. Then we leave the house, climb into the pick-up truck, and crouch down in the bed for a bumpy ride home in the dark.