They lay in a hunger passion bed
Passion cooled with their hearts ajar
Uncertainty creeping in their hearts’ little cracks

Bathed in love yet dried with anxiety
You go questioning their hearts
But they answered with fears
Their insecurities bathed in frostiness

They live among us
Feeding on our kindness
Thirsting on our loveness

They dream in music they slept on thorns
Poisonous arrows passing through their hearts
Weak with the strength of passionate fear’s sting

Like a knife turning, twisting, ripping flesh
They walk a crooked line of broken dreams
Murmuring cold whispers that bring doubts
Their silent symphony so loud

They breathe among us
Feeding on our kindness
Thirsting on our loveness

Tears like a fountain stream down their cheeks
Choked by emotion no words can they speak.

They stand, back to the walls of darkness
Obsessive uncertainty tears through their bodies
The skin tightens around their eyes
Sweat beading hiding the truth from them
Blinded they don’t know right from wrong

They lay among us
Feeding on our kindness
Thirsting on our loveness

Our unconditional love never satisfying them
Our tender embraces never warm enough

Our lonely tears never moving them
The teeth of uncertainty clench and grind around them
Like steel claws on slate they cling on their hearts
Their caged cold hearts refusing to let us in
Shutting us out beyond death in a realm
There is nothing for our hands to brush
Every time we reached out to touch
Realizing the flavor of our life suddenly bland
No longer drawing out our breath
Turmoils strike with sharpened claw
Drowning us in their pool of sorrow
Puncturing into our spine
Grimly drilling holes through

Yes, they are indeed among us
Calling us friends
Calling us lovers
Promising to be there
Only to embrace our sadness

Like raging fire intense emotions well up
Shrinking their souls as they penetrate
The coldness of their souls stinging us

With shuddered grasp we pull back
Only cold air within your clasp
Clutching our hearts they wrench them out;

Stomping on our trust like yesterday’s trash
Angels cry as innocent souls they crush
A child falls clutching her heart
Life of the innocent drain out
Wasted, spent, lost, wrung
Droplets of red staining the soils
Taking us with them into their rollercoaster of pain
Burrowing into our flesh
Tenaciously ripping tunnels through

Yes, they live among us

Terrified and alone
Terrified of their spirits
Terrified of their choices

Hiding behind hardness
Hiding behind scriptures
Hiding from the truth

Not knowing where to turn
Not trusting themselves
Not sure of their future

They feed on crushing our loves
They thirst on killing our laughter
They breathe on perforating our lives
They walk among us

@ 2011 Sandra A. Mushi

Chicken salad
Cellphone bill
Dom Perignon
Eben Sadie
Remtulia’s wardrobe
Tanzanite earrings
Mediterranean mansion
French holiday
Mercedes Benz

Am I seasonable?
Am I reasonable?

My choices?
My voices?
My poises?

The value
The merit
The worth
Of
My treasured soul
My treasured being
My worth

@ 2011 Sandra A. Mushi

I will not stand without fury nor flame.
I will not stand without shouting out my name
I will stand and speak openly of the same

I will not be controlled
I will not be manipulated
I will not be plundered

Free are my thick lips
Free are my heavy hips
Free are my mammary dips

The mindless slave I am no longer
The negative ways have made me stronger
My view will now be sought
And no longer be bought
My arms will move like springs
And no longer with puppet strings

I stand … Free to dance … Free to sing
I believe in my rise
As I function on my own

For I will no longer fall
Because
It is my turn now to stand

@ 2011 Sandra A. Mushi

Blemishes so thick
They have become her skin
Stretching over the reality
Blemishes she is afraid to let go
Piled up, dried up and caked out
With
The taste of the bitterness in the lipstick
The image of the pain in the mascara
The feel of the sting in the blush
Blemishes that have piled, dried up and caked out

She has given in
To the blood-soaked injustice
Where screams and terror taint the air
So faint, so slow
Afraid to let go

She has let go
To the suffering wakes
Where distasteful anguish fills the heavens
So empty, so hallows
Afraid to let go

She has fallen
To the dark shadows
Where silence and darkness reigns
So tired, so weary
Afraid to let go

She has surrendered
To the cold abyss
Where insecurity and coldness rules
So anxious, so fearful
Afraid to let go

Another day of hiding
Another day of braving
Another day of enduring
Another day of pretending
Another day of concealing
Another day of suffocating
Another day of condemnation
Another day of conviction
Another day of quarantine
Another day of being afraid
Afraid to let go

@ 2011 Sandra A. Mushi

By the door
By the window
By the phone
In hotel rooms
Your new life

Waiting
Hoping
Hunger
Lingering
Your new prayers

Lost your identity
Lost your smile
Lost your wondrous
Lost in your blur
Your new you

Darkness lights your mornings
Coldness warms your summers
Grayness brights your days
Blueness cheers your nights
Your new moments

Demons pray with you
Fear drinks with you
Panic lives with you
Suspicion sleeps with you
Anxiety dresses with you
In the mirror they all look at you
Dissatisfaction dances with you
Frustration embraces you
Their cold arms grip you
Like a long lost lover
Who doesn’t want to let you go

@ 2011 Sandra A. Mushi

You take her soul
And stifle at its breaths
Tearing apart her soul
Enslaving her
Confining her
Restraining her

Like
A thief in the night
A cat on hot brick
She comes to you
Her soul stained
Her dreams ruined
Her spirit bruised

You take her heart
And pull at its strings
Tramping on her heart
Staining her
Ruining her
Bruising her

Thrashing about
Confusion inbound
Desperate to cling
To the past
Persuading pleads
To let go
With nowhere to go
With nobody to turn to
Her freedom wretched out
Her innocence taken away
“Come back tomorrow” he says
As he draws the mental barriers
And tomorrow she goes back

Nerves tingling
A façade to her impetuous fear
In quietness she hides
Smiling
Laughing
Joking

Heart pounding
A façade of her profound hollowness
In madness she bids
Flirting
Drinking
Binging

Heart pounding
A façade of her profound hollowness
In madness she bids
Flirting
Drinking
Binging

Trying to disguise her pain
Trying to camouflage her shame
Trying to hold onto the remaining string
Trying to catch the remaining breath
Trying to forget it all

In the cold of the night
Clutching on her shattered soul
She looks up baring her all
Crying for light
Hoping for strength
Asking for release
Reaching for hope
Craving for peace
In the shadows of the night
Lifting her shattered soul
She looks up asking
“Will I go back tomorrow?”

@ 2011 Sandra A. Mushi

I have taken my place
I have stayed
For
I have a choice

@ 2011 Sandra A. Mushi

I can’t breath
I can’t see
I can’t scream
I can’t escape
Stressed
Anxious
Worried
Overwhelmed
Screaming
Emotions pile up
My strength weakens
My stress level mounts
My blood pumps in my ears
My hope takes flight
Into tight places

I try to see the faces
I try to see the forces
I try to see the phases
I try to see the places
I try to see the hazes
Pressing in
Poking me
Choking me
Pushing me down

I can’t breath
I can’t see
I can’t scream
I can’t escape
Flailing
Emotions build up
Wanting to lash out
Wanting to strike out
Wanting to push back
Wanting to scream out
My eyes are blinded
My mouth is gagged
My hands are tied
My soul is tightened
In these tight places

Claustrophobia
Suffocated
Pertubed
Restless
I reach out to You
Unchoke me off these tight places
Invoke me off these tight places

Burdened
Ease me
Relief me
Rescue me
I cry out to You
Make room from these tight place
Show me mercy with these tight place

Trapped
I try
I pry
I pray
I call to You
Free me from these tight places
Let me go from these tight places

In airless clouds
Aimlessly I float
I want to stand firm

In restless waves
Desperately I drown
I want to swim ashore

In shaky grounds
Nervously I trip
I want to walk proud

Feel my feet
My toes in the soil
Move around
Caress the surface
I want to smile
With giggles of a hundred children
With sounds of a thousand drums
With ululations of a million women
My anxious messy insides
To reflect my relaxed outside
I reach out to You
I cry out to You
I call on You
Remove the boundaries
Of these intimately known
Tight places

@ 2011 Sandra A. Mushi

Looking forward to reading your thoughts.

Got you crying day and night,

Made you trust me less

If I made love to you under the bright moon

Held you, licked you and touched you right

Made you feel sexy

If I beat you up with a bat or my fist

Got you bruised and bandaged,

Made you afraid of me

If I run you a hot fragranced bath,

Kissed your black and blue bruises

Made you feel beautiful

If I called you ugly humiliating names

Got your self-worth broken and demeaned

Made you feel unworthy

If I put notes in your lunch box

Loving romantic notes on scented paper

Made you feel appreciated

If I didn’t want you as much and pushed you away

Got you feeling desperate and hopeless

Made you feel unloved

If I bought you red and white roses

Knelt down on my knee and apologized

Made you feel special

If I lied to you about my whereabouts and the calls

Got your self-esteem lowered

Made you feel disrespected

If I took you to exotic Zanzibar

Hand-in-hand on the warm African sand

Made you feel romanced

Would you take me back?

@ 2008 Sandra A. Mushi

From The Rhythm Of My Rhyme

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.

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.

Finally my book is out – THE RHYTHM OF MY RHYME – a collection of poems.  Wuu huu!  With sub-titles such as:

·     A flower is a flower

·     The great orgasm

·     Sun-kissed, bee stung flower

·     It’s just delish

·     I am my dreams

The Rhythm of My Rhyme is just what it say – a collection of poems on the reflections of a contemporary young Tanzanian woman.  It encaptures what the poet sees around her.  She speaks in the voice of whom she writes about – in the form of a journey of self discovery – from women in love; women out of love; abused children; abused women; content women, who have found themselves (emotionally, mentally and sexually) and who at the end just want to be.

‘The Rhythmn of My Rhyme’ is now available at the following book shops in Dar es Salaam:

• SOMA Book Cafe
• Novel Idea
• Scholastic Book Shop, Mlimani City
• Malaika Shop, Junction Bibi Titi and Morogoro

Priced 15,000 TZS

Hurry while stocks last………………………………..

I am as nervous as excited – especially about some of the contents – uwiii!  Look out for MY FIRST TIME, once you have your copy.

Do watch this space forparticulars about the launch venue and date …

Apologies, the stories have been removed.  Watch this space for publication notice.

Foreword

 Like many I suppose, I have always been fascinated by rich cultures that colour our continent.  Many contemporary authors have written about Africa, but instead focus on themselves in Africa. With this anthology I have decided to tread were many have tried.  This collection talks about Tanzania, its cultures and its people.

As anywhere else – there are usually spectrums of cultural groups – in Tanzania we have the typically Swahili culture on one hand, which is so vibrant, alive and colourful – full of drama and music – here  one enjoys the udi perfume, the delicious pilau dishes, listening to taarab, dancing to njenje, and hands and feet peppered with henna design. 

On the other hand, we have the cosmopolitan culture – almost avant-garde – they will go to Western spas, have dinners and drinks at 5-star establishments, go clubbing at up-scale clubs, throw brunch parties, enjoy quiz and karaoke nights, have pastas and salads and go to goat races.

The Swahili culture, which is by far the more vivacious and expressive – as far as I am concerned – is unfortunately not that much practiced among the new generation who have experienced ‘western’ type lifestyles.  As such, many find themselves ‘unconsciously’ losing their roots and sense of belonging. 

This anthology, however, will not address this problem.  My collection of short stories look at both of these worlds – the Tanzanians of today – their traumas and triumphs as they tackle this journey of life as they live and love, and maybe lie too while at it.  Despite the challenges and traumas, there are many good things in this anthology – the lessons learnt being one of them.  The challenge here was to have each story have only a thousand words – no more, no less – hence the title of the collection.

While problematic issues, everyday gossip, familial tensions are all the core of this collection, relationships and locations are just as important.  The common feature in all the short stories is an enveloping atmosphere of the unsurely, betrayal and doubts we see deep into our souls when taking this journey called life.
 

Despite the difference in the cultures – these two so-called worlds are what make Tanzania beautiful and rich and make her go round.  

Sandra A. Mushi

Dar es Salaam

June 2007

From the day their sons are born, they start picturing about that perfect wives for theirs sons. Child rearing hips, naturally number one on the list; she should cook like them, and follow the recipes to the tee – from dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s; she must go to the same church as them; and very important she must be able to clean, attend to the son, give birth, mop, attend to the son, give birth, dust, attend to the son, give birth, mow, attend to the son, give birth, pray, have I mentioned cook … yes, she must be able to perform all that and even more. And she is not supposed to comment or complain. Ole wako, if you do.

She must never outshine her mother in law or sister in laws, yaani that’s the biggest sin ever! Even better go in drabs then they will show and teach you how to dress. Sasa that’s the biggest honour and favour she will be doing herself. Nenda na pua juu unalo! Never outshine female in-laws, I tell you.

 “Her ass is just too unbelievably big! Utafikiri kaweka mito bwana! Baba nanihii atamtamani,” mama would probably confide in her shoga. But to her son and the rest of the world, “this one has been around too much. It’s only last week I saw her at Corner Bar with mzee nanihii. Kichunaji hiki.”

 “She is too educated. Hawa waliosoma sana hawa think they know too much. Atakudharau mwanangu!” To her shoga, “wahii, I’m a standard seven leaver jamani! If they start discussing JK, Richmond and BoT sijui? Mimi najua tabloids tu! Halafu worse still they discuss it in English or French! Uwii!”

 “Her father is a minister? This is the one who can’t even boil an egg! I know her!” To her shoga, “the mother is better than me? Never! She can’t me!”

 “Did you see that make up!? Uwii! Can she even peel a banana let alone boil an egg? I bet she spends the whole day infront of a mirror! My son will starve to death!” But to her shoga, “she will wreck my marriage. Baba nanihii will want her.”

 “I tell you, a sugar daddy bought her that car! Unabisha nini while I know her! We have been praying for her at church madhambi ya zinaa yaishe!” To her shoga, “she is better than me? Never! She can’t me!”

Sasa when it comes to such incidents I can never understand the double standards. While the son is supposed to marry a baby making machine-cum-maid-cum-robot, the daughter of the same woman who expects a robot clone for a daughter in law, wants something totally different for the daughter.

 “Unasema nini? Your mother in law wanted you to mop the whole entire house? Pambafu! Does she think you are the maid?”

While it was just yesterday when she was at her son’s house, busy sweeping her fingers through the furniture and forcing sneezes while at it, while crunching her nose.

 “Hivi when was the last time this house was dusted?” She asks the housegirl loud enough for Maya with the chid rearing hips to hear.

 “Maybe I should stay here longer and help you with the house chores, my son? I feel Maya is too overwhelmed with everything,” she asks her son later when he calls her.

It doesn’t end there. The next days she starts rummaging through the fridge and pantry, changing Maya’s soya beans to kidney beans; Maya’s Kyela’s rice to Morogoro rice; Maya’s olive oil to a huge bucket of Kimbo. That evening she throws out Maya’s carrot soup and made mtori ladden with Kimbo. Only if she knew it was her son who chose to start eating healthy.

“It’s that woman”, she would curse as she moves things around in the kitchen, “she can’t cook and now she blames it on my son wanting to eat what? This is what and how I have always cooked for him, now she brings what?”

 “My son doesn’t eat hayo maharagwe yenu ya kizungu. And what kind of soup was that? If you want to make my son soup, this is how it should be cooked!” She later pushes the pot of hot mtori under Maya’s nose.

Once in a VERY blue moon – tena on that day hell freezes over – one fed-up daughter in law would throw her hands on her waist like an English tea pot, shaking and bouncing her head away like a child high on sugar, she would blow her top.

 “Listen mama, the last time I checked, I am the one who was married to this man! Why don’t you go back to your home and take care of it – and let me take care of MY home,” she would shake her finger as if it was boneless as she stresses the MY.
 “If you felt you were the woman for him, then maybe you should have married her,” she would finish with a msonyo mrefu mpaka Kariakoo.

But like I said, this happens only once in a blue moon. And most of the times, the fed-up in-law finds herself packed in pieces in a body bag even, and gets sent home. Jaribu uone! Shauri yako!

So I have rolled up the top ten worst mother in laws into one – so sue me – but kwa kweli don’t tell me you have never come across this devil that wears Prada, erm, khanga.Sasa, if you get to see your mother in law only on Christmas and Baptisms because she lives in the villages, I tell you you fast, thank your God, sijui Allah, your lucky stars, sijui ancestors, cows, dogs, mbuyu or whatever schitt you believe in. Sasa start praying there is no other ndugu from the husband’s side of the family, lurking in the town your husband and you live in. Especially not a great aunt whom nobody ever defies …

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

          “Kimezidi na kile! Why does she think God gave us to push a head as bid as a water melon through a whole as small as a needle point?” She curses to nobody in particular, “It’s because He knows that all this is chicken feed to us – we are strong enough to overcome all this. Kimayai kikubwa!”

          “He gives her everything! He bought her a car and she only uses it to visit her equally hopeless mashoga!” She curses loudly, “I have been walking on my feet all my life and fighting for madaladala! And I have never complained! Hell, my husband even brought me two other kids, but I still never complained!”

           “I dressed them, fed them, without asking a question – and I still gave him more kids. Infact I farmed a whole acre of land when I was seven months pregnant! So what makes her so special suddenly? Kidomo juu juu tu!”

Her dried up, cracked feet and equally cracked toes are prove of the marathon walks. Her old loose and shapeless dresses also show submission and having given up. I promise you even a scarecrow looks better in its drabs – oops, asinisikie. Lakini seriously, wee acha tu! and you wonder why she liked Lulu. Anyway, tuendelee …

         “If I had known that she was so spoilt and so soft I wouldn’t have let me son marry her! Kivivu!! She is even too lazy to get pregnant and give my son another child. He should have married Lulu. Lulu would have given him ten kids already! Good old Lulu who worked like a mule.” She goes on, “no wonder he is never at home! I would too! Tena she is lucky he goes back to their bed – she should thank her lucky stars, stupid child!”

          “And how can she dress like that? Walking around uchi kabisa! You can practically see her nipples and crotch! As if she is hunting! He gives her too much freedome. He should get her pregnant! At least she will stay at home. I don’t trust her. She is probably using contraceptives. These kids of today,” she spits on the floor in disgust. “Halafu on Sunday she dares goes to church, sing in the choir and take the communion even! Shameless kimchawi! Na atashindwa kwa jina la Yesu!”

          “Mama shikamoo,” a familiar voice greets me. I know the calves.

          Kitoto hakisemwi hiki. You think about her and instantly she appears. I tell you ni kichawi hiki.

          “Mkwe, I was just thinking about you. You must have a very long life! I have missed you jamani! How are my son and grandson?”

          “I made some snacks for Junior and I thought I should bring you some, Mama, besides I haven’t seen you in a while.”

She watches her she sits, she watches her as she eats, she watches her every move. Yes, that’s baba Junior’s great aunt, whom nobody ever defies. She doesn’t touch the basket filled with samoosas and vitumbua.

          “I tell you, kichawi hiki! She is a witch, I tell you! Why would she make me food? Unless she is trying to tell me that I can’t cook. Halafu ati snacks – if she had wanted to bring me food then she would have cooked proper food. Look at her – too lazy to cook even. She has aborted so much that now she can’t give my sister’s son another child! Look at her acting all sweet and angelic.”

          “Mama, won’t you even taste one? They are quite good – of course not as good as yours.”

          “Hapana mkwe, I just had a big lunch,” she forces a smile – something she is so good at.

          “Should I make you some tea then?”

          “Erm, I shouldn’t bother you, mkwe. Don’t worry about me. Let’s just sit here and talk,” she pats her arm, “so when are you going to give my son another child?”

Tell me, you are familiar with baba Junior’s great aunt! You lie if you say you are not familiar with great aunt – we all have her in our family! Okay, it’s not just a conspiracy, but these people use their kids to make their already miserable lives bearable. Their kids are their puppets – go this way, no that way, no left, no right. Yaani!! I tell you misery likes company!

Suddenly her house turns into a church. Every Friday, great aunt would come with her special prayer group to pray for her sister’s son. Yes, you guessed it – now they are friends now that she has learnt that Maya has been playing the dutiful wife. With these people, there is no pleasing.

Her wardrobe has now been changed to suite the new church – from her knee length linen suits and dresses to preferably ankle length vitenge and her once treated hair is now wrapped behind shawls and vitenge headdresses – great aunt’s church. Her saloon trips shortened and made less, instead she spends her days in prayer groups and her nights in a Bible.

Don’t ask about the money that baba James had been saving up for the States trip – ooh, that had long gone to the construction of their new church. Nobody defies great aunt, remember.

          “That stupid boy! That stupid son of mine! He couldn’t even find himself a wife! I had to go out there and find him one!”

          “Tsk, tsk,” a woman dragging her sandals in cracked up feet shakes her head.

          “Look at how pretty she is! She is so hard working maskini! The other day she brought me the most delicious vitumbua and samoosas!”

“Let us pray for him jamani! Na ashindwe!”

“Amen,” a group of women with cracked soles and drab dresses reply in unison. “Kwa jina la Yesu atashindwa!”

Good God, if there is a mission to fill the world out there, while you send the Holy Spirit to our parents with the message please tell them while at it to go easy on us.