When Ursula asked me to write about my experience in India, I was reluctant because the little that I had experienced was within the four walls of a hospital. Within my four hospital walls, India was a huge success! I truly doubt if there is anything they can not do medically! Their facilities are just out this world and what impressed me the most is the investment they have put in this industry they have mastered. I wish us, Tanzanians, did the same with our tourism – and we have so much, infact just too much to show off for!

Back to medical as I sat in wonderment of the Indian physician, I couldn’t help it but compare with my own back home. To be honest – we have some very talented doctors! What we lack are the facilities! Yes, the equipments are very expensive, but if we can put up a multi million dollar stadium and satellite that we really have no use of, surely we can invest in medical facilities that will save the lives of leader of tomorrow? Yes, Tanzanians are just as good and abled in many sectors as other countries – but we are just not encouraged nor facilitated! Tell me, what is it that Rwanda has that we don’t have?!

Now back to India, the few people in India who were a bit knowledgeable about Africa swore – just like everybody else in the world – that Kilimanjaro is in Kenya and so are the Maasai. What are we doing? Pretty soon the world will say that Zanzibar and Tanzanite are in Kenya! There I was getting pissed when they asked if I was from Nigeria, while we don’t even promote ourselves well. I mean, Tanzania doesn’t even know herself, despite all the resources we have – and we are truly blessed with resources – since as far as they are concerned Africa is a country and Nigeria is the capital city.

So I have just finished reading these two amazing books Born Under A Million Shadows and Rooftops of Tehran – which have really got me thinking – made me think about Ursula’s request, particularly because we are both very passionate about awareness projects.

But before I try to get all serious, I learnt that we, humans from this continent called Earth, whether from India, Tanzania, Australia or Switzerland, all have one thing in common – maybe some worse than others but we all have it – the “I know better” attitude. The doctors and facilities were amazing – but the supporting staff, uwii!! I woke up from the first operation in this agonizing pain, I called the nurse, she came then smiled at me, patted me, shook her head from side to side then left. I was like “okay, was I just speaking Kichagga, because surely she must have understood what I just said?!”

Anyway, this continued for six hours! I mean I was in serious pain! Anyway, it went on until I was returned in my room from the ICU! Later when I realized that if I continued with this patting game I might die from pain I angrily ordered her to call the doctor. Apparently the painkiller drip wasn’t strong enough for me. For a while I thought it was the language barrier, but kumbe it was the “I know better” attitude “I’m the nurse, such shut it!” But she had forgotten something – it’s my body and I know it better than anybody! We have the same attitude problem in Tanzania – I’ve found myself fighting with car mechanics over my car, the car I drive and know quite well; over my computer that I have used and owned for years; again my body that I have had for years and know very well – but hey, I am here, you might be the expert here but I know my things better!

So India made me laugh, surprised me and left me in awe, I was envious, impressed, as well as shocked and on a large scale of my own country. Yes, India did shock me, or rather the part of India I was in – I am stressing on the par oft as many that I asked said whatever I was experiencing had a lot to do with the area.

In the other countries I have been to, the youngsters’ cultures are not that different from us with MTV, the pop and urban culture having played a big role in influencing their lives. But here I was in a country where if you were not a cricket star than you were not known! Mandela, Michael Jackson, Bill Gates were all alien names to them. This is where I was surprised and awed. Bollywood really lives large in India, and Hollywood is hardly known.

Indians have embraced their culture with both arms – and legs even! In everything Indians do whether in the corporate world or in Bollywood, they took some Indian spirit and culture with them and they are so proud of it. I doubt if the saying, “you can take an African, in this case Indian, out of the bush but you can never take the bush out of an African, erm Indian” can ever apply to them as they embrace their “bush”. I really did envy them there.

I was also so impressed with the fact that everything in India is manufactured there! And I mean absolutely everything! Despite the poverty and all, India is doing something for her people. Yes, there is corruption – but when they steal, they steal smartly. They don’t take 90% as some of us do. They take 10% and yet also leave a legacy of what they have achieved. We steal stupidly and we still don’t have anything to show for it! Atleast basi build schools, hospitals with the funds that you have stolen! Don’t go paying for DSTV, sijui saloon tabs; buying the reddest cars and houses for nyumba ndogos!! Jamani!

Such I was in total awe in the contrast in India, as India today is a country of contrasts – a fast modernizing economy in which village production continues to largely dominate, a vibrant democracy with an deep-rooted bureaucracy and at the same time a nuclear power in the place where nonviolent protest was born. I read somewhere that the Indian economy has been described as “schizophrenic”, its modern service sector – largely urban-based – stands in concurrence to rural India, where fields are plowed with bullocks and brick furnaces are specks in the landscape. As for the road traffic, it’s not the Mercedes and Marutis proceeding at zig zagging multiple speeds – incorporating these different sectors – that share the roads with scooters, bicycles, cows and sometimes even camel-drawn carts that are necessarily an awe. You see this schizophrenic economy is everywhere in India – even the entertainment sector exhibits these discrepancies, with older Bollywood productions portraying rather chaste and uncorrupted interactions between the sexes – with teary songs, long flowing saris and fields of flowers – and newer films being more risqué in their portrayal of men and women – with bump and grind songs, tight and short outfits and four poster beds.

Anyway, India did make me laugh – I arrived at the hospital, almost eighteen hours later, tired and hungry. I got there just in time for lunch, very tired and hungry, I see a nicely bound menu. Si you know how us waswahili love our foods! So I made a quick mental note that since I would be bedridden for a while I should be careful of what I eat. In the menu lots of Indian dishes and a few continental dishes. So I asked for cream of chicken soup and toasted wheat bread. A very well mannered waiter dressed in black and white, came into my room with a tray of my goodies, after placing my order.
“Have you had lunch?” he asked as he smiled warmly.
“Um, you’re carrying my lunch!”
He smiled again, shaking his head from side to side and asked again if I have had lunch. Again I repeated my answer. It took me about a week plus to learn that “have you had lunch/breakfast” was a greeting. Duh!

So anyway he placed the tray on the trolley next to me. The toast was wrapped in a foil paper. I opened it, there was white bread. So I told the guy, who was still standing at the foot of my bed, that I had asked for wheat bread.
“Vhite bread,” he said as he pointed at the goodies, smiling.
“No! Not white bread! I had asked for wheat bread.”
“Vhite bread,” he repeated again, shaking his head from side to side.
Uwiiii! I then decided to just let the bread be as dude clearly didn’t understand me. So I reached for my bowl of soup – that was wrapped with a cling film. First thing that that me raise my eyebrow was the thinness of the soup – it was just too thin to be cream soup. Anyway, so I tasted it. It was chicken boiled in milk, then seasoned, then they added a dollop of cream!! Nilichoka kabisa!!!!

Tomato soup was grated tomatoes, boiled in water then seasoned! Pasta salad was boiled pasta and bell pepper, without seasoning or dressing! I think this is why I was forced to lose weight as my tray almost always went back untouched!
After realizing that I’d starve if I keep on returning their trays, I started ordering out. Anyway, since Nigeria was the “only” city in the country of Africa, they figured I was a “big person from Nigeria.” Lol. To them Africa is a country and the capital is Nigeria. After repeating a million times angrily that I was not Nigerian, I decided to answer to their constant question of “are you from Nigeria?” with “no, but are you from Pakistan!” You should have seen their dark faces turning purple! And for a while their heads stopped shaking from side to side. Lol.

The funniest was whenever I spoke proper English, I was told that my “language was different,” that they did not understand my language. I tried to speak broken to get my points across ad funny enough this was understood.

One thing that really struck me while there was for people so talented and intelligent they could also be very uninformed. The two I could never connect then, but I got it – it’s the schizophrenic economy that they have, the rich are extremely rich and exposed, while the poor are really poor and uninformed.

Then I was told o the different syllabuses they have for the different castes – I suppose this is one contributing factor for such a gap. This made me think of just how much potential us Tanzanians have – despite poverty we suffer, the late Mwalimu Nyerere managed to introduce free and universal education, greatly raising the nation’s literacy rate. But with all the opportunity that we have, the poor are continuing to be poorer as his vision was not embraced by many. Such while we have just been sitting on the jackpot all along, letting Kenyans, South Africans and others grab it instead.

So anyway, on my way from the hospital to the airport, along a quite up-market street I saw a very nice looking store, what caught my attention was not the architecture of the building, but rather the blinged up colourful cow that was conveniently parked outside the store. My driver seeing my raised eyebrow explained that it was a god guarding the business.

Yes, so India made me laugh – I once asked the physiotherapist if I can start exercising once I got home. He then took my weight, looked at me then announced that I could, but went on to insist sympathetically even that I should work more on the lower part as the upper part is small and all the weight seems to be going to the lower part. I looked at him and told him, “wewe!! Una kichaa cha kuku?! This figure in Africa ni dili!”

Enough of laughter, lol, now comes the shock part. I suppose this shock was expected after reading so much about what goes down in India and also watched it on telly. But experiencing it was a plus. The various classes and huge gap in classes, the ignorance, the poverty, the segregation I saw in India really struck me. Tanzania is also India in one way or another. But most of us are always so content, comfortable and even blinded by our shortfalls that more often than ever only a visitor can see them and pin point them.

Tanzania is faced by the same problems your typical third world country has – where women, more than men, are disproportionately affected by economic, social and health issues that contribute to the continued slow development of our country.

Such poverty, illiteracy and gender inequality are issues affecting Tanzania – like India. It is sad but women are more affected than men, such women risk complications and deaths related to pregnancy and childbirth, sexually transmitted infections, including HIV and AIDS. Traditional practices, such as domestic violence, early marriages, and Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) also contribute to the slow development.

However it is never too late and a lot is already being done – and much more can still be done. We need to start sending out messages. We need projects which will be sending out relevant messages to the masses on the sensitive issues. Such projects should serve as a platform that will sensitize, educate and give the masses a medium to use that will voice out issues that either affect them on an individual basis or affect them as a society.

There are many out there who are willing to join hands in this possibility but funds are needed. We need companies to sponsor such causes. The harsh reality faced by the victims of the issues on a day to day basis as well as the impact of that issue on the rest of society need to be addressed. And mostly we need to open lines of communication; to show the face and voice of the victim and connect the faceless and voiceless to agents that can bring about change either for them or for the nation.

We need Tanzanians to hear real life stories, which will empower people – particularly women and children to address these issues within their own families and communities. Such this will also provide the women with new opportunities and sensitizes participants on how those practices have a negative impact on their quality of life.

India made me realize that truly corporate capitalists no more encourage prosperity than do they propagate democracy, such a literate populace is a threat to people such as feudal lords, religion dictators, military dictators and so on – where the masses are starving on a full stomach. You see, an affluent literate populace with high expectations about its standard of living and social conditions as well as a keen sense of entitlement, is not the plutocracy’s – a government by the wealth – notion of an ideal workforce and a properly bendable politically organized unit. Capitalist lords prefer poor populations. The poorer you are, the harder you will work and for less and the less equipped you will be to defend yourself against the abuses of wealth.

Moreover, if there are no manners of control within the society, the plutocracy can easily crumple into a kleptocracy – reign of thieves – where the power holders attempt to confiscate as much public funds as possible as their private property. As per Wikipedia – a kleptocratic state is usually thoroughly corrupt, has very little production and its economy is unstable. Many failed states represent kleptocracies. Incidentally Tanzania has been in the list of failed states – ranked warning – for many years running now. Again as per Wikipedia – A failed state has several attributes. Common indicators include a state whose central government is so weak or ineffective that it has little practical control over much of its territory; non-provision of public services; widespread corruption and criminality; refugees and involuntary movement of populations; sharp economic decline.

The status-quo does not change if the social and economic monopoly that is enjoyed by a few doesn’t get threatened by alternatives. With such projects we will be attacking poverty through literacy. I strongly feel that such projects will promote development and bring awareness in health care, education, agriculture, water and sanitation, resource management, infrastructure, and HIV and AIDS – among other avenues.

So as beautiful as Tanzania is and I really hope visitors who come here don’t view us as I had viewed a part of India – as progressing as it is. Such I hope such projects will serve as an awareness vehicle to your typical Tanzanian and such will hopefully get him to make a difference.

By the way I am not a politician, infact I don’t understand politics – infact listening about politics gives me a headache – I am just very passionate …

Sandra A. Mushi is a writer based in Dar es Salaam. She publishes her blog at SaHaRa Soul Food and at Sandra’s Den.

Her first book, a collection of soulful poems, The Rhythm of My Rhyme is available in selected (book) stores including A Novel Idea, Dar es Salaam.

My website is almost done. Almost.  But I’m a very impatient soul, lol.  So while Timo is still dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s we can go in and have a look.

I am particularly looking forward to interacting with everybody at the forum – Sandra’s Den – the forum is truly the heart of the website, where you are welcome to post your thoughts, questions etc. I hope book lovers (clubs) will share with us about what they are reading.

Then there’s Sandra’s Zen – this is food for the heart, mind and soul; quotes, stories and ideas to move and inspire you for change.  Again everybody will be welcome to post and share inspiring pieces with others. A few friends have already posted a few pieces, some being their own work and others are pieces that have been written by others but have inspired them in one way or another.  Thank you so much Reuben, Emelda, Erika, Pamela, Timo and June for rolling the ball.

And if you would like to read some of my work, just click on Sandra’s Ten, where you can read some of my stories and my poems.  I have also given you a glimpse of what I am working on – Marrying a Chagga and Chagga’s First Time are two of the short stories that will be featured in my Chagga Series.

One of my favourite short stories that are featured in Sandra’s Ten is titled The Plate of Ugali.  A good friend, Al Kags read it at Nairobi Sunday Salon about a year ago and he tells me it brought the house down. 

My mama used to say a real African man doesn’t eat chips or pasta.  That’s food for a mzungu man who gets his nails manicured, face scrubbed and lips conditioned with lip balm.  A real African man eats ugali, my mama used to say.  With their calloused fingers with rough nails he would mould the stiff porridge into little balls, dunk each ball into a stew then dunk the stew covered ball into his mouth with chapped lips.

I would sit at the corner of the room watching his Adam’s apple bopping up and down as he swallowed a ball of ugali and meat stew.  His jaw always moving in super-human speed as he chewed, making the veins on his forehead pop out angrily.  … read more here

I wrote Forbidden Pleasure a while back, when I was trying to find my niche in the world of words.  I had realized that I could write and words seemed to follow me whenever I went – they still do – but I didn’t know what genre of writing was me.  To be honest I still don’t, lol.  I wonder if I should blame the little people in my head for this, lol.

The room was hot and noisy.  Smudged kohl rimmed women were leaning against the black walls of the bar waiting to snatch the single men who would walked in, their faces streaked with neon disco lights, the air was so dark that the tattered black leather booths seem to vanish, making the seated regulars seem to be floating in the heavy smell of alcohol, sweat, cheap perfume and cigarettes.

Slowly, it was getting overcrowded.  The bar was old, but somehow managed to pull a mean crowd.  At the far corner, he watched two middle-aged women were fighting over a man.  He laughed feeling sorry for the poor drunk who had made the mistake of trying to pick-up the Terrible Twins, as they were known.  An older woman in a colourful head wrap with a raspy voice sat on the old piano playing a jazz number.  He asked the bartender to re-fill his glass as his concentration shifted to the music, his body swaying to the rhythm of the song. … read more here.

A few years ago I went to Late Mama Makeba’s concert.  I noticed a young lady who just seemed to be lost and out of place.  She was seated alone.  For a while I wondered who she was.  I later got lost in Mama Makeba’s soothing music, flowing drinks and the company of good friends.  From table to table I moved saying hello to friends and mingling.  I went back to my table to get something only to notice that my handbag had grown legs.  It was gone!  I later came to learn that the lonely lady was a hooker.  After getting angry, ranting, screaming, cursing, pulling my hair and cursing Movenpick Hotel for their lousy security I finally calmed down I started wondering – I wondered what made her chose that route.  Lady Of The Night I and Lady Of The Night II were inspired by her.

Having lived in South Africa and loving my Southern Comfort, ‘babalas’ meaning drunken stupor, is one of my favourite Afrikaans words – that I still remember, lol, such I couldn’t help it but write a poem about The Babalas.  The character in the head my have little people in her head too, but I promise you the prose is not about me, lol.

Sandra’s Ten will be updated every so often.  Just register yourself to get e-mail updates and e-letters.  And if you would like to comment or review any of the writes in Sandra’s Ten, you are welcome to do so at the forum - Sandra’s Den.

There will be also updates of up coming events and readings.  As it is the Goethe Institut is organizing “Maneno Mengi – an evening of spoken words” on March 12, 2009.  Do pencil in this date, as you will kick yourself for missing it.

And lastly you can get information as to where you can get my book The Rhythm Of My Rhyme.  I must say, I never expected it would be welcomed this warmly.  To be honest I didn’t even know I was this good, lol.  I suppose, I should thank the seven little people in my head for being such wonderful muses, lol.  Maybe, but a bigger thank you is to all of you for your continuous support.  Aksanteni sana!!

I really look forward to reading from you.  Please do remember that by participating, you’re making this an actual community.

Karibuni sana and happy reading!

Sandie.

This is a call out for entries into the sixth part of The Quarterly Colour Series of Poetry, Indigo Smoothies. The Quarterly Colour Series of poetry are a series of free ebooks, published by Al Kags every three months. The first five ebooks of the series are Gray Spots, Blue Smudges, Red Streaks, Green Piece and Brown Steps that read by over 185,000 people worldwide. The ebooks are spread virally over email as well as posted on different blogs and web sites for Download. Feel free to download them from http://alkags.wordpress.com or http://www.scribd.com among other web sites.

The rules are, that you can download them for free, share them, enjoy them, republish the poetry in there – literally anything you want to do with them: just be sure to acknowledge the author and the ebook.

The theme for Indigo Smoothies is dialogue. In many parts of the world – from Pakistan to South Africa to Kenya to the US, there are important fundamental conversations that needed to have been had. In most cases having these conversations – about discrimination, about class barriers, about racism and tribalism and all these -isms would result in lasting peace and prosperity for the people there. But these conversations must be cordial and positive – they must not be filled with hate and bitterness and they must be sober. We call upon poets from all over the world to submit their poetry of such conversations and engage the world in dialogue – positively.

Please send your poetry in a word document to poetry@alkags.com. Be clear about your name (in the case of Stage Name preference). The selection of the poetry to be published is entirely at the discretion of the Al Kags editorial team

All entries need to be in by March 1 2008. Thanks, all of you that have sent us your poetry, and supported the series by forwarding widely and we are glad that you all have pushed the poetry to such great heights.

Many Thanks

Al Kags
Nairobi, Kenya

My muse has gone leave — again! Tena as usual without giving notice! If you hear of a muse looking for work jamani refer them to me, I’ve just about had it up to here with mine!

Anyway, now you know I try poetry, African fiction, now here is a taste of something a bit different.  I wrote these a while back, you might notice from the writing style.  Anyway PLEASE be warned that they are a bit on the erotica side … …

Computer Love
Birthday Girl
Karma
Forbidden Pleasure

Enjoy!!!

So you get married to a Chagga man. You live through the name-dropping, big houses, big cars and big hair … ofcourse being a Chagga man’s wife you might find yourself getting forced to go big too. Afterall how else will they show that you are well fed and taken care off. If you manage to pull the diet stunt, you just wait until you fall pregnant. Bwana wee, the mtori you’ll get fed will be laden with butter ati in the name of making baby’s food. Sasa your mother in law who is probably Chagga too won’t just put a tablespoon of butter in your bowl of mtori, but the whole tub! Staring at the bowl, you will see all the cellulite that will soon be knocking on your door in slow motion.

Okay, so the big car, big house, big name with big children and a now as big as a house wife, finally — Mungu amrehemu — passes on. The funeral naturally takes place in Moshi! All the Mangis and babu za Mangi are there. The best caterers are there, the best florist and TBL will move there – up front under the lily white marquees sit the big names with their big wives, big children and big girlfriends – yes, Chaggas are quite notorious for that – every now and then big wife will find herself brushing shoulders with big girlfriend as if they live together.

          “Sasa baba yangu, I have given her a mansion, a salon, a boutique, a butcher, a Mercedes, a BMW and a Vogue, four cell phones and she goes overseas twice years on holiday, what else does she want?” Big name explains as he sips on his VSOP, when asked about not being attentive to his wife.

Now, back to TBL being at the funeral – well, a Chagga gathering without booze, uwii, it’s like a West African gathering without kola nuts! With Chaggas booze always get 50% of the festivity budget chunk and meat get 25% of the chunk – I kid you not – the rest will go to the food, decorations, sijui tables and chairs; and if there isn’t any remaining for music, some shangazi will offer to sing the famous ‘ulee ulee!’ Okay, so I’ve exaggerated a tab bit about the songstress shangazi, but I swear I won’t be surprised if such has happened. Lol.

The self-made big names are also seated under the marquee wearing the ugliest but most expensive tweed jackets and spotting Stratton hats, smoking Cuban cigars and pipes. Self-made through car jacking, mining Tanzanite at Mererani, robbing banks and some from honest hard working. We might be the business-oriented and money-mongers ethnic group in Bongo, but we are not all thieves jamani!

Anyway, now in the migomba, the small names are seated, few lucky ones will be seated on chairs. By the way, beers and brandy don’t go under the migomba, these poor small names will be drinking mbege from one calabash which gets shared among ten small names.

So there are the mourning women seated in the lounge, on mats that are scattered randomly on the deceased’s floor – tumekaa matanga. Everybody is sitting there looking gloom and sad – some shaking their heads in sadness; others trying to shake away the headache that was slowly creeping from too much beer. Since it is a Chagga funeral, so naturally there will be enough beer to wipe away the tears.

Anyway, as others are sniffling away and others whispering, a shrilly is suddenly heard at the door. Naturally you all turn in shock. This woman stumbles in, shaking with laughter like a crack-high hyena, clutching on her big tummy – she’s Chagga too – as she chuckles away. Mouths drop – I mean, you are supposed to be mourning, now what is up with this mad woman?

          “Eeh! Now the name is gone, let’s see how your mother is going to survive!” Big crazy woman tells the big red-eyed daughters of the deceased.

The three daughters who have just flown down from the UK, Canada and Switzerland where they go to school look up at the crazed woman wide-eyed.

          “Uwiii! Aunt Rose!” Someone tried to hush her.

          “I know, you all hate me because I always speak the truth!”

          “Aunt Rose,” someone whispers at crazed Aunt Rose. But the hushing and tugging at her khanga doesn’t seem to faze her at all. You see, she has been there.

Aunt Rose was once married to a big name Chagga man. Whenever there was a celebration somewhere, invitation cards were always personally delivered to their place by the groom’s parents. At the parties, Aunt Rose and her late husband always got the royal treatment – ushers would quickly attend to them as the host quickly found them the best seat in the house. During speeches the host would always acknowledge Aunt Rose and late brother, stressing on ‘how they would always be indebted by their kindness and how they would never be able to pay them back.’ The parking bay at Aunt Rose house was always filled with Mercedes, Land Cruisers, Rovers of visiting friends. Aunt rose even started walking with a swagger, snorting at the small names she met, her nose proudly pointing to the heavens.

Now big name passed on. Life took a total different turn after that. Nobody visits her house anymore, it is so bad that the beers that they always stocked up in their fridge are now getting mouldy. The gates have gotten cranky as they are hardly ever opened since no convoy of big cars has driven in ever since his passing on – the only thing that has ever passed through the gates is the bicycle of the Juma who sells her fresh fish. Forget about the fleet of visitors who always visited her house, even her late husband’s family have forgotten her. Invitation cards are now delivered by the invitee’s houseboys – tena on the last day, after somebody had remembered that there is a Rose.

          “Yes, we would like to thank kaka John and his wife Thecla whose Mercedes drove the bridal party, kaka Joseph and his wife Maria whose house we are using now for the reception, kaka Peter and his wife Vivian for the TShs. 10 million contribution, shemeji Thomas and dada Sarah for the thirty bottles of Bollinger vintage Champagne, Grand Annee and …”

As the Master of Ceremony calls out each name, the mentioned couple seated at the high table would stand up and wave their hands to the invitees proudly. Their women wearing so much gold, they could blind you stretch plastic smiles smugly.

          “Rose,” someone whispers to the Master of the Ceremony.

          “Huh?” the Master of Ceremony who is one of the brothers stares at the interrupter angrily and blankly.

          “Wifi Rose,” the wife continues, “you forgot wifi Rose!”

          “Oh yes! Rose,” raising his voice he goes on, “and Rose, she was the wife of our late brother Steve. May the good Lord rest his soul.”

A murmured ‘Amen’ is heard and glasses and clinked – Aunt Rose already forgotten. Nobody bothers to look for Aunt Rose, who is seated near the entrance way of the marquee, as nobody had ushered her in, smiles weakly.

I have always known that getting married to a Chagga woman is a headache, especially if you are a kyasaka – but my girlfriend’s dad took the cake and the cherry on top!  The cream even!  With a mchagga father one never wins! You see, most Chagga parents don’t believe in inter-marriage.  When the topic of marriage comes up they will always insist that home is always best.  Infact some parents are so fast at hooking their children up!

             “When is daughter coming back?  Is she done with her law degree?  My nephew is just about to finish his doctorate.  Maybe we should introduce them when they get back from overseas.” 

Naturally when you hear degrees, overseas and such arrangements it only means prominent families – with names and clout. Anyway, so there they were, the two of them, sharing that father-daughter moment.  They used to have that, those two.  So my girlfriend brings up the topic that makes any possessive Dad freeze.  But since they always had that bond, he was down with whatever.

             “If I ever get married I will get married to a mzungu,” she announces.

             “Where from?”

             “Hmm, say German.”

             “No, his parents will always make you feel like a second class citizen.”

             “England?”

             “They will never see past your race and colour.”

             “Okay, an African then.”

             “Great!  At least we are home.  But where from?”

             “Okay, South Africa?”

              “They will abuse you.”

               “West Africa?”

               “They will probably sell you for your organs.”

                “North Africa?”

                “They will put in a harem.”

                 “East Africa then.”

                 “Great!  At least we are home.”

                  “Hmm, Uganda?”

                  “Uwii!  HIV/AIDS!”

                  “Kenya?”

                  “They will harass you!”

                  “Jamani wapi sasa?”  my girlfriend had started the topic to get at her Dad, but now the tables had turned around.  She was getting highly agitated. 

                  “How about home?”  Her dad offered. 

                  “Okay, how about Wagogo?”  She asks about the tribe from Dodoma. 

                  “Omba omba wale.  You will be as poor as a church mouse!”

                  “Wahaya then?” 

                  “They are too arrogant!” 

                  “Wapare?” 

                  “They like sex too much!” 

My girlfriend giggles at this, thinking – as if there is something wrong with that.  The dad seeing his daughter’s reaction gives another point quickly.

                 “And they are misers!”

                 “Okay, wakurya?”

                 “You’ll be beaten black and blue!”

                 “Wasukuma then?” 

                 “They will fatten you up and force you to bleach your skin.”

                 “Okay, I take it you will be happy if I got married to a mchagga?”

                 “That’s what I have always been telling you!”

                 “Wakibosho?”

                 “They will beat you black and blue!”

                 “Wauru?”

                 “Very smart, educated but no maendeleo.  You husband might end-up being a shoe shiner with a pHd.”

                 “Wamachame?”

                 “Wachawi!  They can even bewitch the dead!”

                 “Wa-old Moshi?”

                 “Washamba!”  He spits on the ground, “they are so ignorant they don’t know the difference between a cell phone and a remote control.”

                 “Wamarangu?” 

                 “They are too arrogant!“

                “Okay, so I guess you will be happy if I married someone from our village.”

                “Absolutely,” he smiles.  “But they are too …” 

                “I hear you, dad,” my girlfriend interrupts, “someone from the same community then?” 

                “Which clan though?”  

                “The Tembas?” 

                “The great grandmother was a witch.” 

                “The Machas?” 

                “I hear the aunt’s cousin’s sister’s son’s father was a mental case.  Your children might inherit it.” 

                “The Mushis?” 

                “They are thieves.  They are so bad that they even steal their very own livestock jamani!” 

                 “The Temus?” 

                 “They haven’t gone to school!” 

                 “The Lyimos?”

                 “They drink too much!  They will forget the baby’s milk but never the beer.”

My girlfriend then coughs, not because there was something irritating her throat, but because she was so tempted to remind her father that his blood pressure and liver problem were – by the way - because of drinking too much – tena hard liquor even. 

                  “The Teshas?”

                  “Their late great grandfather owes your late great grandfather!”

                  To this my girlfriend raises her eyebrows, but since she didn’t want to get into it – clearly – she went on, “Okay, I guess you will be happy if it was from the same street then?” 

                  “Absolutely!”  The dad replies with a grin, “but which family though?”         

I’m back to writing again, after duuh, many a couple of months!  I’m a lunar girl – only get inspired to write in June.  Or I have a very nasty muse!  I mean where did you hear of one getting a six plus months leave jamani?  Lol.

Haya, this is my first jaribio to write a collection of stories about love, life and lying …   Quite excited, I must say, and ideas are flying left right and centre.  I’d better catch them fast before my muse decides to take off.  Lol …

Anyway, since one can easily get carried away when writing about such topics, halafu unajikuta you are writing a novel instead of a short story as initially planned as there is so much to write, erm, vent out – so I gave myself a challenge – all the stories to have exactly a thousand words. I have so far posted five short stories, but there will be more to come …

Hope you enjoy my short stories collecion … … 

LOVING, LIVING AND LYING

A Thousand Words, A Thousand Seconds

Apologies, the stories have been removed.

As promised, more to come… Watch this space … …

Keep well & God bless!! 

Sandie.

I have decided to start another blog … Necessary Noise … where I will be posting all my occasional rantings and ramblings – my necessary noise.  This one - well, I will leave this for the soul talks … lol …

I am therefore going to copy my rants that are here to Necessary Noise – and later on taratibu will delete them from this blog.