W2E011T
Saturday chat
Awkward walking
THIS was supposed to be a secret between me, I and myself. But since I am not a KGB agent but a typical <ea/>Mswahili (such an entity never knows how to preserve what others don't know), let me just spill the beans.
Although this might jolt you silly, if not sound kind of funny, who am I to stop myself from pouring out my home's inner-most secret if not a <ea/>Mswahili snob whom you can take out of the bush but not the bush out of him?
Well, the secret is that I have quarrelled with my 'stove' and therefore, my happiness (the same one I got as from the moment I finished saying: "Yes, yes I do... and yes, yes I will do so and so to her...") is at stake.
No <-_its><+_it's> not that love is lost between us two or that I am thinking of taking back my words and <ea/>pochi, or anything like that. No. <-_Its><+_It's> only that my 'Stove' does not approve of the way I walk, and has already sounded a siren that I had better do something about it (and quick) or else...
Apart from being utterly dismayed by this, I simply can't stop wondering if my supposedly dear friends are really what they pretend to because none of them is blind. And since all of them have got eyes that function perfectly, I suspect that I have no real friends to boast of - otherwise they would have told me long ago that I was not walking properly...
Throwing the blame upon my friends alone, however, is not quite fair because apart from not being creators of walking styles, there also happen to be other parties who have, somehow, contributed substantially to my problem.
These other parties, which also happen to be some of my closest allies, are none other than <-/>than <+_a> piece of artificial goat-skin pouch called a wallet and a hog of a container which stands for my tummy some inches below my chest.
Starting with the wallet, which is so thin and transparent that you can even see through, I am positive that I wouldn't have been treading the earth the way my 'Stove' disapproves of if only it had been hiding bundles of money instead of the useless identity card, bunch of keys and a development levy chit.
In other words I am so hard-up that I can't even afford bus fare and, therefore, have to depend on my natural means of transport which are my two feet. That is, every passing day I `print' all the way from Tandika to town and back.
My legs have now formed their own ways of <-/pivotting> and criss-crossing one another in such a way that even my 'Stove' is justified in demanding some changes down there.
For those have passed through JKT or have undergone <ea/>Mgambo training, it is easy to know what I am talking about when I say that my style of walking is similar to the one reserved for the new recruits a week after entering camp. If you have not been to either camp, you can still get an idea of how I trod the earth because it also is not all that different from the way a person does when he or she is rushing to answer nature's call - The "big call", that is...
And since I have already started to talk about "big calls' let me also cast in the part played by my tummy in making my style become a threat to my happiness.
As <-/afore said> I have a hog of a container that stands for my tummy which, although externally looks very small and innocent, it's a real container inside - especially when it comes to hiding those chunks of <ea/>ugali and <ea/>ubwabwa dishes.
The only problem, repeat problem, is that this container of a tummy does not know when it is full. It only knows when it is empty and reminds me, its owner, that it needs to be filled - by rumbling and trembling like a real and empty container of a moving truck.
But when it is full, another problem crops up. This one, which is bigger than all problems (including that of walking awkwardly), is lack of stamina to keep contents for a long period. And since such loads are turned into a "big-call" minutes after entering the tummy, off-loading them instantly becomes top priority.
Now, when I said that my tummy has contributed substantially in transforming my ways of walking, I was not joking.
Well, while my wallet reduces me to a <-/street-begger> for not having anything inside all the time, the tummy denies me comfort because it fails me whenever the clock chimes mid-afternoon and demands to be off-loaded.
And the charming part of this  is that most of the time such a thing happens I always happen to be somewhere in the centre of the "Haven Peace" where there are no public-toilet facilities I find myself having..... well, .... to hold back the load of the "big-call" until I get back home. Hence the awkward walking.
And this exercise, plus that of walking 24 kilometres a day, has not only created this style of walking, but has also made my "Stove" angry and my future happiness is now hanging in a precarious balance. 
To Moshi town with Safari beer
HELLO!! you boys and girls - or is it ladies and gentlemen? - out there. I am still here in the <ea/>Babaangu and <ea/>Mamaangu land. Doing what? Eating the country, <ea/>(kula<ea/> nchi) of course...
In case you didn't read this <ea/>Mswahili column last week and, therefore missed the opportunity to know where this <ea/>Babaangu and <ea/>Mamaangu land is. Stop worrying, because I will tell you.
I am in a place called `Smoke Town,' the same one you call <ea/>Mji <ea/>wa <ea/>Moshi, and which is world famous for making some stuff out of a cow called <ea/>kisusio, plus the popular finger-millet drink called <ea/>Mbege.
Me, I and myself are still here because I am yet to fulfil the aim of my safari (not beer, silly...), which, according to the mother of all lies I had told my boss the other day, is to attend a special conference on what TZ people should drink.
The <ea/>babaangu and <ea/>mamaangus here were rumoured to have been planning a <french_>coup de' etat<french/> over a certain regime that makes golden-coloured waters near Ilala Mchikichini, because they feel their <ea/>mbege brew has come of age and should be made a national drink.
Of course it had been one of those many rumours that TZ boys and girls love to circulate - for pleasure. At least I managed to conclude thus the moment I hit "Some Town" nine days ago.
That is after being a passenger in one of the Dar-Moshi motor rally cars, and had my <ea/>Mswahili <-/adrenalin> tested during the course of the ten-hour dare-devil race that can make even <-/Collin> Higgins green with envy.
Not only <-/Collin> Higgins, but also Tosky Hans, Murtaza Mollo and others would wish they were driving those Dar-Arusha motor rally cars because drivers who are taking part in that endless competition are really great.
Take this car I had boarded at Kisutu Stand (after getting "hit" with a 3,500/- unofficial fare by a <ea/>Babaangu there) at the start of my nightmare to this place.
My car, a brand new Leyland <slang/>Daf (name withheld), had been flagged off the Kisutu stand ramp at 5.00 p.m. on the dot. It was the fifth one off in front of about 12 others. But when we reached the first check-point (Chalinze) we were first but one.
At the second check-point (Mombo) we were, of course, leading the pack. But our driver, who had parked the '<slang/>daf' at the gates of this bar called Nishai, spoilt the fun. He, got so absorbed in safari (beer) bottles that he forgot he was racing. We got off last.
But we were the first to hit Moshi, I am sure, because I could not see any other car at the Moshi town stand. Neither did I see any bus on the way because my Mswahili guts refused to allow me to keep my eyes open and look straight at hell's mouth...
<-_Lets><+_Let's> get back to my safari. Anyway, as I have said earlier, the <french_>coup de' etat<french/> thing between beer and <ea/>mbege had been mere rumours and no one is planning to overthrow anyone. But there is some kind of argument going on there.
Everybody <O/> <-/stet> beer, especially the made in the "haven of Peace" near Ilala Mchikichini, because you either drink it or run away from it because of <ea/>bei.? And you all know about labels, don't you? Well, the <ea/>babaangus and <ea/>mamaangus there are not happy with safari beer's label.
The label, you know, has a <-/calender> (don't ask me why because I don't know). And a picture carrying a baobab tree, a <ea/>msonge hut and something in the background that looks like a swallow flying over hippo trails, or something. I am not sure.
Since the meeting here has just started and that thing about the safari beer label has just been brought up for discussion, and since the space reserved for this column is so little that I can't even make two "mother of lies" at the same time, let me pen down here.
But when we meet again next week keep in mind this point: The <ea/>babaangus and <ea/>mamaangus say the safari beer label does not augur well with the word "Safari".
A day in a <ea/>mswahili's life 
HAVE you ever imagined how a <ea/>mswahili's day is like? well, just hold on....
For me, the day kicks <-_of><+_off> at 4 am and this is Not because I hate to sleep. It is because of Jongwe - my landlord's cock.
Jongwe, also lives in this three-room hut that the landlord calls a house. It is like a pet rather than a fat cock reserved to be slaughtered and eaten someday.
The bloody cock is, a half-caste (its late "father" was a guinea fowl while its "mum" eaten recently was a local hen), The cock could have broken world records at the Olympics had crowing been one of the disciplines in the games.
Being the first cock in the area to wake up and shout with ear shattering kokoliiiikooos, it causes serious inconvenience. The conceited bird really loves to hear the sound of its early morning calls.
Jongwe's crows can be heard miles away - and they don't cease until the sun is two hours in the sky!
Before I got my "stove", Jongwe and I used to share a room, courtesy of the landlord. But matters didn't improve any, even after the landlord shifted jongwe's sleeping quarters to the children's room.
Our hut of a house has no ceiling board and since Jongwe's sleeping place is on the roof beams that crisscross up there like puzzle lines, do I have to explain further how, when, and why I get up?
Well, that over, what comes next is, what do I do during the remaining hours before rushing to the <ea/>daladala (no UDAs in town nowadays, you know that, don't you?) bus stand for the infamous passenger-crusade.
To tone up my muscles and keep myself in top notch condition is step number two. I regularly do some exercises at the backyard: Five push-ups, five sit-ups and several breath-ins and breath-outs which I learned to do during my abortive attempt to be a <ea/>Kareteka ages ago.
That over, the next step is to take a bath and later breakfast which my "stove" takes care of. But taking a bath is a headache.
Since it is not only me who gets jolted out of bed by Jongwe's ear-shattering and teeth-jarring crows, our bath-room-cum-toilet walled with gunny-bags is like a shop that sells rare-commodities.
Apart from its "first-come-first-served customer service," there are long <-/ques> during those "rushhours". I always find myself the last, behind the landlord's family of seven daughters and three sons.
W2E012T
Saturday chat 
We must stop living in fantasy 
IN AFRICA, people say, there is no observation of time. They claim that there is no hurry in Africa. But with the current wind of change blowing across the continent, I think we must run to catch up with the rest of the world.
There are several factors which might have contributed to the notion: "while in Africa , time is not a priority". One is that people don't care much about keeping time promises, be it with individuals or institutions, are not honoured or kept.
There is so much lying that even a "stupid" person can notice that he is being cheated, especially leaders.
The other day I was in Morogoro. I know all roads and streets of that municipality. They are bad - full of potholes. Only patches have tarmac.
The day I arrived there, I saw heaps of gravel <ea/>vifusi. My first impression <-_is><+_was> that the roads were being repaired. But to my surprise, I later learnt it was a because the Prime Minister and First VicePresident, <ea/>Ndugu John Malecela, would be visiting Morogoro in two days to come.
And just a day before his arrival, a municipal grader was deployed to level the <ea/>vifusi on roads where His Excellency would pass. I hope the PM noticed the freshly levelled roads.
This kind of cheating leaders is common especially when they visit the regions. Things are hastily done to <-/comouflage> problems. Leaders leave the areas with false impression while the people blame them for not telling the truth.
During such regional tours, you would see school children sing in scorching sun in praise of the leaders for hours oblivious of the fact that they are missing their classes.
It is necessary that school children should entertain leaders when they visit the regions? Why don't we let <-_then><+_them> concentrate on their studies. After all other groups from institutions or youth troupes could sing songs and <ea/>ngonjera.
Coming back to keeping promises and time, I will say that we must change our attitudes if we are to keep abreast with the contemporary world. In most occasions, our decision makers do not live up to their promises. A chain of problems occurs if a promise is not honoured. 
Do we have any major problem in being frank so that we resort to making lies the order of the day?
We must be responsible and conscious of valuable time. It will cost us nothing by being frank and meeting our promises.
Today's world requires a <-/highy> level of ingenuity. Living in fantasy will take us <-/no where>. It will keep us dragging behind the rest of the world. 
This parking business!
IF you have dreams of owning a car in Dar es Salaam, you should also, now, start thinking of problems that go with such ownership, such as high fuel price, accidents and lack of parking space.
Have you ever thought of such risks? Or have you only been eyeing those Intercoolers and Nissan Patrol, with your heart skipping a beat and saying to yourself: "One day I will drive one of those... ?"
Yes, driving itself, on a highway is quite interesting. And there are people you see driving while smiling to themselves or whistling without knowing what they are doing.
But, my brother, you should see these people drive in downtown Dar es Salaam, and try to get a space to park their cars. They sweat and curse, but that parking space is difficult to get.
There is this friend of mine, Siraj, who had the previous day driven from Arusha and had forgotten to add more fuel to his <-/guzling> Intercooler Pajero. He left his residence in Masaki and headed for town. That was about 7.15 a.m.
No sooner had he reached St. Peter's Cathedral, than a long queue of traffic heading to town had formed. The queue did not end until he reached the Tanganyika Motors roundabout. Then he looked at his dials on fuel which read 'E' - meaning empty. He panicked.
His office, located in a street between Morogoro Road and Zanaki Street, was congested with traffic. Every parking space was occupied, and his car could not withstand the `thirst'. It knocks to a stop as fuel had dried up.
So that is the plight of car owners and drivers in Dar es Salaam, whose number of cars being registered daily nears 400.
Praise be to designers of Raha Towers near our National Library along UWT street. This guy had a foresight and surely he is going to make business by his parking bay in the first floor. I do not know what the charges will be.
The gentleman who designed the Extelcoms Building in the city centre had also thought of increased traffic and the problem of parking in the "Heaven of Peace."
If I had money - of course not in thousands, but in millions - the first project that came into my head will be erecting a <-/parkcade> four or six storeys high.
My business would have denied the City Council some revenue - but do they really want to make collections? I doubt if they really want the revenue. Maybe they have enough money from the sales of goats rounded up from the streets.
See how poor the collections are done by the council on parkings. They are paid a paltry sum by car owners in the City Council who do not even check whether the parking is from 8.00 a.m. to 5.00 p.m., or for 24 hours.
The parking metres are faulty and no collection is being done as no one bothers to put coins in the metres. But I doubt if the salary list of metre-readers has been left out.
Tell me, do you want to do this parking business with me? 
Whither English?
THIS month, young boys and girls put on their new uniforms to start the long journey in education by joining Standard One.
Their brothers and sisters who had completed Standard Seven last year and had successfully been selected to continue with further education, in Form One, also reported to their respective secondary schools.
While the boys and girls might have been happy to start learning the A,B,C of education, their parents were almost getting high blood pressure for not being sure whether the primary schools they had sent their children to were good enough or not.
The question of whether good education was offered in our secondary schools is also a nagging problem to many parents who have no monetary power to send their children to international schools in the country or abroad.
Just imagine a visitor coming to Tanzania and decides to visit one secondary school in Kinondoni District. The conversation, I can imagine would be like this:
Visitor: "In which form are you?"
Pupil: "< non-st/>Mimi, oh, <non-st/>sole, I am Form Two."
Visitor: "How many hours do you learn English language?"
Pupil: "<non-st/>Inglish. <ea_><ea/>? ala, <non-st/>sole what you say... Inglish?"
The visitor would then apologise for the visit and storm out of the classroom swearing or cursing under his breath, leaving the pupil perplexed and the other pupils laughing.
"<ea_><ea/>" if he had asked me, he would have been shocked), one of the pupils would boast.
Whatever happened to the English programme which started with all pupils from Standard One onwards! Why should English start being taught from Standard Three instead of Standard One?
I stand to be corrected, but I think that when a child starts learning, he learns pretty fast. Why should Kiswahili be one of the subjects in Standard One and not English language which, I think, is an international lingua franca?
Let me tell you. If you cannot speak English, you feel out of place and it is embarrassing not to you alone, but even Italians, Swedes, Germans. Chinese, Bulgarians etc. They, too, feel embarrassed if they cannot speak in English.
A friend of mine who is a tailor and dresses immaculately in those self-made Kaunda suits, had hard time one day when a tourist asked for direction to certain place.
The tourist who thought this smartly dressed man would definitely speak English and show him the way, was shocked as this friend of mine could only say "yes, yes", to every question he was asked.
The tourist left disappointed and my friend realised that he had been betrayed by his good suit and therefore, he had better learn English. I tell you, he now speaks good English.
It is embarrassing to parent who speaks English if his children cannot speak like him.
Why should schools not offer better education now? What has happened to the good education that used to be offered by mission schools? 
Now that there are political changes taking place in our country, let there be changes in the education sector so that the leaders of tomorrow would not insist on using Kiswahili just because they cannot speak English. 
Stop this laziness
TANZANIA is my country, my beloved country. I love Tanzania and her people, but what turns me off is the behaviour of some people who do not perform their duties properly.
These people are in high positions of decision making while others are low-cadre staff, or have middle position in office but love to see others, who need their service, sweat for this service.
If they are in high office, their tables are <-/perpertually> laden with files requiring action or just a five minute writing of a minute to the next officer for action to be made on the file.
Offices of such action-dragging officers, are always full of people chasing their files whose decision had not been acted upon. At times those requiring action on their files break and complain bitterly on the inaction of such officers.
In one office, I noticed, there were marks of hair oil where the waiting people had rested their heads as they wait in turn to see this officer who had not acted on a request of some sort, in file, of course.
Bureaucracy is what is killing my beloved country, Tanzania. Bureaucracy is in most offices and many a time Tanzania has lost millions of shillings because an investor has been fed up and pulled out his investment.
For others who had been affected by such bureaucracy, they had cursed those responsible and the good name of the office had been tarnished. They are many such offices.
Take for example this case, I had applied for installation of a telephone at home since 1986 but <-/todate>, no telephone has been installed for me. I am not the only one who had applied for a phone in the area.
A friend of mine built his house some ten years ago but <-/todate> he has not got a title deed which, if he had, he could mortgage it to get a loan somewhere. He is not the only, there are thousands.
There is this office responsible for paying <-/lumpsum> pension to former workers of the east African Community who had worked under the general fund services. These workers have not been paid and instead they are continuing to receive pay cheques some of which are as low as TShs. 103.55. This bureaucracy!
The list of offices with <-/back log> of files which need action and people are waiting for this action is endless But bureaucracy is made by people who can be removed and replaced by competent workers who can make quick and right decisions.
Way back in early 70s, there were reports that Chinese were to build a stadium at Jangwani area and it was to cost less than 100m/-. Someone who was to make this decision fumbled. <-/Todate> we have no stadium and I do not know if ever we will build one with the excuses we have - no forex !
The roads which are now being repaired in Dar es Salaam could have been repaired with less cost had such a decision had been taken earlier.
W2E013T
Darubini 
'<ea/>Mageuzi' in our homes 
IN the process of pondering the issue which the writer intends to exchange views on with his fans and critics, the title he initially opted for was - 'when wives become family breadwinners'.
Interest in the subject was spurred by reading a document containing research findings on the pattern of income generation in Dabangan urban families, and its attendant social problems.
The smart social worker behind this project also happens to lecture at one of the nation's high institutions of learning and used Dalia city as a case study.
Given that workers in government, parastatal institutions, and private companies constitute a sizeable percentage of Dalia city's population, the researcher had to pay much attention to this social group.
Among families visited during the research exercise was one of Mr Mashaka. He works for the government as an office supervisor and earns about 8,000/- per month, a good salary by Dabangan government remuneration standards.
You may as well note that Mashaka heads a family of eight people who include a wife and six children.
According to findings of this research, Mashaka needs about 800/- a day to provide his family with poor quality food, leaving requirements like clothing, school fees etc, unattended.
The first thing you are likely to think of in this case is that a family whose head earns 8,000/- a month when his minimum food budget during this very span stands at 24,000,- must be starving.
Surely, the family would be starving, had it not been for <ea/>Mama Zawadi's determined plunge into the food industry. By the way, <ea/>Mama Zawadi is Mashaka's legal wife.
<ea/>Mama Zawadi operates a food stall in one of the city's semi-slum areas. She wakes up at 4.00 a.m. and ensures that by the time workers in offices and in the informal sector are leaving for work, several <ea/>sufurias of cooked beans and cassava, <ea/>uji as well as tea, are ready. She provides over 150 workers with breakfast and her calculations are worked out in such a way that the family gets 'free' breakfast which doesn't cause her any financial loss.
This hard working woman provides lunch and supper to her customers by preparing <ea/>ugali, rice, and a variety of stews for them. <ea/>Mama Zawadi does not necessarily make a fortune out of her business, but given that the entire family literally feeds on it, she rarely complains.
It is important to note that as far as this family is concerned, <ea/>Mama Zawadi is a real <-/bread winner> while <ea/>Baba Zawadi retains a nominal <-/bread winner> title. This position is <-_a><+_as> clear as daylight, to the extent that even Mashaka himself cannot come out in the open and argue otherwise.
And you are wrong if you think it is only in families headed by low cadre workers where women are today supporting families. If the social worker's research findings are anything to go by, even families of professionals predominantly depend on wives for survival.
Cited is an example of one Dr. A. Funguo, a specialist in immunology at the country's leading referral hospital, whose family would be in a sorry state if not malnourished, had it not been for the piggery project being efficiently run by Mrs. Funguo. This <-/bread winner> had to leave her nursing profession in order to rescue her family from the economic disaster which started stalking it in the early 1980s.
Our social worker even thought it was fascinating to have a look at how Dabangan senior government officials, like Ministers and permanent secretaries make ends meet. On visiting their homes, the first things which struck him most were cattle kraals and poultry sheds in the backyards of their houses.
A follow-up of all this led him to the discovery that while most of these men are busy attending cabinet meetings, going to conferences and signing documents, it is their fat memberships who take care of the sideline projects. And it is these very <ea/>miradis which make families of big shots tick.
As noted earlier, it is mainly in money generating projects where the role of women has a very big impact, and it is these activities which have transformed urban married women into <-/bread winners>. Besides the aforementioned samples of <ea/>miradis, others include tailoring, running hair salons, charcoal selling, <ea/>mchicha growing etc.
At this juncture you are likely to conclude that a situation like this one, whereby spouses work shoulder-to-shoulder to sustain their families, is a healthy development. You may even be tempted to see this trend as a unique recipe for creating stable families and a happy society, in the otherwise troubled times. But things are not as simple as that.
Our researcher observes that as wives increasingly play the role of <-/bread winners> in urban families, some <ea/>mageuzi of no mean proportions, unenvisaged complications arise which threaten to disrupt these noble institutions.
It is all about husband-wife relationship under these fast changing circumstances .
Some family heads, according to research findings, think they can still behave the way they used to before the quiet social transformation relegated them from being sole <-/bread winners> to being junior contributors to the family's kitty. This is where trouble begins.
Our friend Mashaka, for example, wants to know the balance sheet of <ea/>Mama Zawadi's food stall business on daily basis, to be a custodian of the small profit being made, and to use part of this on boozing!
But <ea/>Mama Zawadi is not ready to the sowing and let her partner control the produce. While her rural grandmother accepted such a raw deal from her grandfather, she is not in position to bend to this as society knocks at the door of the 21st century. Their conflict is real, and does not augur well for the future. 
And you have this highly qualified Doctor who, after getting assurance that his family can be well fed so long as the piggery project is alive, has been tempted to have an extra money consumer in form of a concubine.
Loose-tongued family breakers have already relayed this news and the Doctor's wife is prepared to fight to death rather than allow a rival to reap where she doesn't sow. Fire is raging in this family as well.
Examples of urban families going through problems related to financial tug-of-war and changing income generating roles are plenty. Given that these problems will neither disappear on their own nor be resolved single-handedly by the Republic's super Minister for Domestic affairs then something tactical, if not scientific, ought to be done.
Some Dabangans know that what is required is a change of attitude at family level-or rather some sort of <ea/>mageuzi in our homes. Men, these commentators add, will have to realize that they can't keep on dictating terms in everything at home when they are no longer sole bread winners.
In fact the other day one gentleman revealed to Darubini that he was thinking about establishing a Non-Governmental Organisation (NGO) to handle this issue. If his plans go well, such an NGO will include more men than women, for a simple reason that since men contribute much to this problem, they should be part of the solution - by being sensitized and educated about this social dilemma.
A good idea, it appears. Any opinion? 
Secondary schools days that were
Watching closely what his younger brothers and sisters in secondary schools are doing, Darubini sometimes resorts to a quiet corner and looks back at his secondary school days with nostalgia.
At times he discusses the issue with these young men and women, telling them that what is going on in these learning institutions at present leaves much to be desired.
And how do they react?
Well, some of them accuse him of harbouring the 'old is gold' mentality. Rude ones bluntly label him 'conservative' adding that he looks at things through the 1947-made microscope -<ea_><ea/>.
But the never-say-die Darubini keeps on reminding these unfortunate fellows the importance of looking at the past, in order to understand the present and lay down strategies for the future.
Since comparing what transpired in our secondary schools in the sixties (and seventies) with what is taking place now can be a wide theme, Darubini has been confining himself to specific areas like academic standards, extra-curricular activities, student discipline and image in the eyes of the public.
On occasions when the focus of discussion happen to be academic standards, Darubini tells the young generation how teachers used to drill their students thoroughly and ensure that no form four graduate could fumble when it came to writing an employment application letter in English.
He further tells them that practices like sharing textbooks, science students watching teachers doing laboratory experiments on their (students) behalf, and mercenaries being hired to write exams on behalf of mentally bankrupt but financially <-/well off> students, were unheard of.
Sometimes boys and girls of the present secondary school generation fail to believe their elder brother when he narrates to them how secondary school students preparing for final exams used to study day and night to the extent of drinking concentrated coffee and dipping their feet in cold water, in order to avoid slumbering during unauthorized late night study sessions.
Still, Darubini keeps surprising these lads by telling them that reading widely in order to broaden the mind was much encouraged, to the extent that he personally came across and began to appreciate philosophical expressions like "power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely" even before completing his 'O' level studies at the then famous St. Thomas <-/More> Secondary School.
"And don't think secondary schools were factories for creating <-/book worms> who did nothing but reading books" Darubini quickly cautions these young men and women, on learning that some of them are either genuinely or deliberately misunderstanding him.
He then elaborates by telling his listeners how extra-curricular activities used to flourish in the secondary school environment in form of different types of sports, as well as clubs taking care of activities like debating, painting, stamp collecting, science development, dancing and you name it.
On being told that in those old good days some secondary schools even published newsletters, and that it is this kind of background which partly accounts for Darubini's falling in love with his pen, the youngsters publicly say all this is mere fiction.
Student discipline is another issue which crops up during the constant encounters between your friend and today's secondary school young men and women.
"There are several behavioural aspects among today's secondary school students which <-/could't> be associated with youths of this calibre in those days" Darubini told his youngest brother the other day after a shameful incident involving secondary school students took place in the city.
"What exactly do you mean?" Queried the young man in a challenging manner.
"I mean situations like when students go berserk after losing a soccer match, beating whoever is in sight, killing a commuter bus conductor, getting nabbed and remanded, appearing in court, and later on succeeding to go out on bail in order to sit for exams.
A middle aged neighbour who happened to be around and listening to <-_these><+_this> conversation intervened: "You have a point <ea/>Ndugu Darubini. In fact you may as well add that secondary school students of those days were not as much addicted to drugs like their today's counterparts, whose drug influence is reflected in their appearance, language and deeds".
Thereafter, Darubini and his mature neighbour deliberated on what society ought to do to tame the young generation in a situation whereby even the secondary school education system seems to produce unreliable so-called leaders of tomorrow.
Although many observers think that the Republic already has enough problems to grapple with, <-_but> there is also a feeling that the question of putting our youths back on the right tracks begs for an urgent answer from whoever cares about the future of our beloved Republic of "peace and <-/tranquility>".
Darubini also is of the opinion that the issue ought to be faced squarely, as sweeping much under the carpet rarely pays. 
W2E014T
Yours truly
'<ea/>Pilau' may be sweet but... 
DEAR <ea/>Mpenda Kula,
Until recently I would have told you to watch out against mentioning the word <ea/>pilau carelessly in my presence. If you did, you would be committing an offence half-way as serious as treason. Whenever my ears heard the word <ea/>pilau, they sent the message "to whom it may concern" and the latter acted accordingly. The result was that I became a temporary dog: <-_The><+_My> tongue <-_hanged>>+_hung> out loosely from <-_the><+_my> mouth and I started breathing heavily like someone who had just returned from a long jogging session.
The situation became worse when my nostrils picked signals of <ea/>pilau from the direction of a place where some woman was careless enough to be preparing what I considered to be <ea_><ea/> (the best food on earth). 
The nostrils sent rays of the aromatic scent of <ea/>pilau to forces stronger than those which the ears serve, resulting in my sweating profusely and shivering uncontrollably like a man caught red-handed committing adultery with a policeman's wife. Shortly s afterwards I collapsed and fainted.
Sometimes I felt like wearing a tag round my neck bearing the message "allergic to <ea/>pilau in reverse" so that in the event of fainting, good samaritans would rush me, not to hospital, but to the nearest place where <ea/>pilau was being cooked, and fed on a bit of the dish, even if it may be half-cooked at the time.
The real problem - the equivalent of hell breaking loose - arose when brother mouth picked up where cousin ears and sister nostrils left off: When <ea/>pilau eating took place.
The reaction was promoted to a confused revolution of the sort in which section of the Burundian army engaged the other day. When I was eating (actually munching) <ea/>pilau, my mind shut off all other thoughts, as one hundred per cent concentration was pinned on <ea/>pilau. 
Besides the right hand and the mouth which did most of the work - assisted by the brain which guided it in matters of concentration, the other organs of the body moved excitedly as well.
It should not surprise you to hear, therefore, that there was <ea/>pilau dimension to my failure to do my form four exams 23 years ago. On the eve of exams, the invisible electronic antennae of my well-behaved nostrils picked up signals of <ea/>pilau close to the path I was treading.
Of course <-/commonsense> - of which I have about 47 per cent supply - directed me to the <ea/>pilau source: The venue of a wedding reception.
In the village, there are neither gates to crash nor invitation cards to facilitate participation - you simply walk in, open your mouth and get down to <ea/>pilau munching business.
It came to pass that I pumped more <ea/>pilau into my stomach than it was created to stomach; at the end of which I looked like a corrupted version of the once-famous advertisement for Michelin tyres.
Fun turned into tragedy because I failed to move; I developed breathing problems; lost consciousness and was rushed to hospital. By the time I was discharged a week later, my classmates were through with the exams.
Academically doomed, I turned to music, at which I was modestly talented, and in which I felt a faint hope of a livelihood now lay. I featured in a host of small bands before I secured a loan to start my own band which I called - you've guessed correctly - <ea_>Orchestra Pilau<ea/>, and its dancing style was <ea/>Tafuna-Tafuna. 
I became very famous, in the wake of' which women flocked to me not like nobody's business but like the business of bees following nectar. These included wives of men who viewed me as deadly an enemy as the US once regarded Somalia's General Mohamed Farah Aideed.
One of them, God bless his wicked brain was intelligent enough to dig into my history and discovered my sentimental linkage to <ea/>pilau. He lined up a beautiful young lady who revolutionised my relationship with the dish.
After a music session on a fateful night we went home together She prepared fantastic <ea/>pilau for me, which I was to munch as a prelude to a holier session than music.
I enjoyed the food thoroughly, only that at some stage, I ate foul-smelling stuff not worth mentioning, which she had buried in the middle of the otherwise delicious dish.
Immediately my face turned gloomy and started vomiting the lady sneaked out, having accomplished the evil mission. From then onwards, I ceased eating <ea/>pilau and feel like <-/vomitting> whenever I hear the word. I also changed the name of my band to <ea_>Orchestra Super Fundisho<ea/>. 
Who's guilty of a breach of peace?
Dear <ea/>Mpenda Haki.
IN the same way that Moshood Abiola is believed to have won Nigeria's recently-held but immediately-cancelled elections, I am believed to have caused what lawyers call "a breach of peace" at Tujumuike Bar the other day.
The problem was created by my well-behaved throat. It belongs to a man born and <-_bread><+_bred> in a special country located below the equator and north-east of lake Bangweulu.
A man born in that part of the commonwealth believes in two things: To keep time and to attend urgently to any problem that confronts a section of his body.
When my throat is dry - and makes me feel as though a battalion of troublesome ants is pacing up and down along it - I become an excellent time-keeper who operates with near-computer precision.
This is what I did that day. At six O'clock Ilala District Standard Time, I reported faithfully at the bar, which is operated by a fat jovial woman called Auntie Nipe.
She smiles and cracks jokes as long as her customers behave. When anyone of them tries to play monkey tricks (to engage in <ea_><ea/> as a popular radio Tanzania advertisement muses) a small-scale Liberian situation is introduced into the bargain.
Not so long ago, a stubborn customer who resisted settling the bill got a taste of what it felt like when Auntie Nipe displayed her anti-stupidity colours.
She grabbed his head and hid it inside her skirt. His efforts to wriggle free were akin to this of a goat wrapped up by a python.
He started wailing for help, not just because the pain inflicted by the firm grip of Auntie Nipe's Amazonian hands, but also - more critically - because he faced the prospect of suffocating.
When she released him, he coughed up the money; didn't wait for change; and tearfully went home.
As a man who hates trouble - apparently because I am neither strong enough nor adequately intelligent to overcome it when it brews - I usually settle my bills in <-/edvance>. I don't fancy the prospect of my head being forcibly offered temporary shelter inside some skirt.
So, I bought enough stuff of that colourless liquid that tastes like quinine syrup, and set about irrigating the throat, so as to cure its dryness.
After a few sips, the disease was totally cured. But the syrup offered me extra extra service, beyond what I had paid it to do.
After curing the throat, it fed my brain with historical knowledge and political science which I had not demanded. It transformed me in to an expert on Burundian affairs.
I started giving a free lecture on Burundi, which drew everybody's interest. The problem, though, was that the syrup pumped more information into the brain than was needed; or it pumped in the right amount of the right information but did it wrongly.
Whatever the case, I started confusing my audience by mixing up Burundi and Rwanda; Kigali and Bujumbura; and Tutsis with Hutus.
As the fury of the syrup intensified my brain shifted from Burundian (or, rather, jumbled-up Burundian-Rwandan) affairs and turned to music.
I composed and drunkenly sang a song in praise of Simba's recent victory over an Angolan team called Yanga - instead of Atletico Aviacao.
Unbeknown to me, Auntie Nipe is a Yanga fanatic; but unbeknown to her, I hadn't deliberately set out to mock Yanga fans; the mix-up in the teams' names (like the earlier one in the Burundian case) was caused by drinking an overdose of the syrup.
The auntie didn't see things that way. She grabbed me and hid my head under her skirt. But although I am cowardly man, I can be deadly when I am cornered.
I used the only weapon at my disposal in the circumstances - the teeth, which I used to bite her.
She let me off the hook and I fled. I was subsequently arrested, and charged with causing a breach of peace.
As a layman, I think it is Auntie Nipe who caused a breach of peace - not me. 
Here comes new cabinet outlook
<ea/>KAMARADA Mzalendo,
Patriotism hoyeee! I hope you will respond by echoing the noble greeting, but not in a pitch of near-madness proportions as that produced free of charge by a cadre of city commuter buses who are unfairly called <ea_>wapiga debe<ea/>.
Being justice-minded and highly appreciative of everyone's profession - from garbage-collection to state presidency - I prefer to call them roving <ea/>daladala ambassadors, given their rare skills at wooing passengers by captivating language; banging the side-body of buses without getting injured, and engaging in suicidal acrobatic antics.
I was cautioning you not to react to my greeting noisily, because patriots are gentlemen and <-/gentleladies> who are not supposed to become over-excited, except when the nation wins a war, like we did against the infamous <ea/>Nduli.
As a frank man, I wish to register my protest to you, all the same, for being too patriotic (too much in love with the country) to spare a thought for a friend in desperation.
According to what journalists call "highly reliable sources", I have learnt that you learnt of my dismissal from the Shirika Corporation recently, after clashing with my boss over something which one tends to consider very important initially, but which, on second thoughts - at the <ea_>majuto ni mjukuu<ea/> stage - you realise is extremely petty. 
The boss and I differed in status, but shared similar tastes when it came to certain creatures produced in the southern highlands. One of them is a receptionist at the Shirika Corporation, to whom we both addressed attention and got positive response in return, in turns - he, more because of the Money he dished out and I, solely because of what the late local novelist Prince Kagwema, described as "machine gun efficiency". 
The redundancy exercise provided him with the perfect excuse to chuck me out, and matters were made no better by a remark I made in a bar (which he got wind of via his spying network) that his head and a cabbage differed neither in shape nor content.
So, here I am: A jobless citizen who had hoped that you would have been kind enough to pay me a visit to say <ea/>pole and more crucially to offer me a consolation allowance of, say, 50,000/-, to enable me triumph over the rough "jobless times." 
In the meantime, I have been toying with the idea of becoming a freelance thinker, by offering (at consultancy fees ranging from half a million to five million <-/shilings> ideas to individuals, agencies and even the state, on how best to run their affairs; how to avoid pitfalls; and how to disengage from knotty situations.
Should I succeed - and I sure will, on the strength of the declaration of my ancestral spirits which (or is it whom?) I regularly encounter in dreams - I will become a very rich man who will import containers of goods (and <-/craftly> evade tax); cultivate friendship with personalities in high echelons of society; sponsor soccer teams; feature prominently at charity galas; and (why not) venture into the notso-holy business speciality of the late Colombian drug king, Pablo Escobar.
For a start, I have tuned my thinking to what I perceive could be the best outlook of the government establishment.
W2E015T
Sunday small talk 
Kampweku's generosity
Everybody has his or her strong points and weak points in life.
There are things that some people hate, but others love. "One man's and (woman's, I'm sure) meat, is another's poison, some old wise fellow said long time ago.
Talking about poison, some people, including myself - I think I excel in this - cannot stand the sight of a snake. These poisonous reptiles give me nightmares. They are the ugliest creatures, as far as I'm concerned.
Likewise, some people like smoking. Others, like my friend Kampweku, simply love booze. So much so that had he (Kam) not gone to school, he would have become an excellent brewer of the local <ea/>pombe, not excluding the illicit stuff they call <ea/>Chang'aa in one of our neighbouring countries.
Actually, I once made a joke on him to this effect and he nearly split my head with a bottle. Luckily, there was some beer in the bottle he had grabbed ready to hit me with! He is not a person to waste some precious drops of the golden liquid simply like that. When Kampweku says he has given up on booze, don't believe him because he can't give up booze. On several occasions he has sworn not to touch alcohol only to grab the next bottle. He was once afforded a grand opportunity to quit booze altogether but he didn't.
He definitely saw the opportunity. He half-heartedly stretched his hand and held it loosely until it dropped off. The best he could do was to announce cutting down on the bottle.
Well, he managed to cut down a bit for a while, but to him this was torture of the highest order. No wonder, in no time Kampweku was hitting the bottle again and this time, with gusto abandon. And, <ea/>uongo <ea/>mwiko, the fellow has some stamina. Maybe that is his strong point.
Another strong point in favour of my friend Kam is his open, very open generosity. Meet him when he is "loaded," and you won't want. One good thing is that you won't miss him when he is in this state financially, so long as you know where to get him. Certainly not at home.
You won't find him at home for two main reasons. One: When Kam's pockets are full of the greenish much sought for papers, his whole body itches. True; and this is no exaggeration. He once confided it to me.
So he is always on the move - that is, from one watering hole to another. But it is easy to trace him because he always leaves his forwarding address whenever he decides to try another hole.
The other reason is that Kam's house is empty. I mean devoid of everything that makes a house a home. Not only that he is, as you know, a seasoned bachelor, but also that there is no single chair, let alone a table in his room.
A ramshackle safari canvas is his bed. I know not how he manages to even blink eyes on the canvas when he is sober. Fortunately for him, sober days are a scarce commodity to him.
I'm sorry to divulge this information about my friend Kam because I had promised him that I would not reveal this secret. But some promises are hard to keep.
The only bad part about Kam's generosity is that you may end up financing his generous gestures. And I have often quarrelled with him over this. Kam would invite you 'for a quick one,' as he would put it, and after paying for the first or second round, he would somehow let you take over the paying while he does the ordering.
"Hey"! He would call a waiter. "Give Ngepe and his companions whatever they drink...And then give that man...eeh...Kaluyugu and his friends their drinks...", he would order and when the bill comes he would hand it over to you. "I'm already dry," he would say.
Once I got so fed up that I told him in no uncertain terms that he should shelve his open-handedness until he had something in his pockets; that I was also fast running out of my budget for the day.
"In that case, I'm relieved," he said to my surprise. "I hate ordering drinks and not being able to pay for them or having someone else pay the bill. So let's finish our drinks and go. But first I want you to buy some drinks for my friend there and his friends," he said, pointing to a group of four people. 
"Who are they?" I asked.
"Oh just a friend of mine, the one in Blue. I don't know the others", he said.
"Then how do you know they are his friends?" I asked again.
"Does it matter? If they are together, they must be friends. Just buy them drinks. A friendly gesture even to a stranger may save you in future, you know that, don't you?" he lectured.
Grudgingly, I ordered beers for the strangers. When I ordered my brain to digest what Kam had said it refused to work, signalling back that it could only see fog.
And the fog did not clear until the following evening. We had just taken a table for ourselves (because we had some very serious agenda to discuss) when a waiter placed four beers on our table.
Surprised, we both asked the waiter: "Who has ordered the drinks?" The waiter pointed at a table with four people - Kampweku's friend and his friends whom I had reluctantly bought beers the previous evening.
"And they said I should replenish your stocks always until you say <ea/>Basi (stop). They have also asked me to order chicken or <ea/>Ndafu, whichever you prefer," the waiter said. We agreed on chicken.
When the waiter had gone, Kam looked at me with eyebrows raised in a question. I simply nodded. TIT for TAT. 
Making use of others' miseries 
SINCE the last four weeks or so, I have been trying to think of a way of getting myself enlisted in the team which will be assigned to distribute food aid to either the flood victims in Kipatimu, Kilwa District or drought victims in Monduli District. To be in both teams will be a lot better.
There was this fellow I confided my plans in but ended up getting enlisted himself and left me in the cold. <ea_><ea/>!!! The bastard - sorry for using swear words but he deserves it - had told me he had an influential friend (or relative, I'm not sure) in the Prime Minister's Office who could help me.
I am sure he has such a person, but instead of helping me, he helped himself. Damn him. The only consolation I have is that I'm more than 90 per cent certain that he doesn't know why I wanted to be in the team because I didn't tell him the details. But, damn him again, all the same.
I haven't given up hope, though, that is why I am still trying to figure out another way of getting myself in the team.
In fact I'm half way through but, having been <-/wisened> up by the bastard (I hate him), I am not about to tell anybody how.
Once I get in, my plan must succeed, otherwise I will smash this silly head of mine on the wall. And once in, I would prefer remaining at the headquarters co-ordinating the distribution. That way, I will be able to work for both Kipatimu flood victims and the Monduli drought victims I have already dispatched my old and trusted friend Kampweku to Kilwa for an on-the-spot assessment of the extent of the damage. I told him to look for certain things and ask seemingly innocent questions which will facilitate (without Kam's knowledge) my plan.
I didn't trust Kam with the details of the plan because Kampweku has the loudest mouth in town especially when he has gulped a few mouthfuls of the golden stuff. He will spill the beans.
When he comes back from Kilwa, he will proceed to Monduli and later to other drought-hit areas for similar mission.
But first things first.
And the first task - the most important job - is to get myself in the team The problem is that so many people want to volunteer for the food aid distribution team. I don't know whether this has anything to do with patriotism and the desire to help the afflicted, or whether they also are nursing some hidden programmes like mine. But how could they?
If they do, then my task of getting in the team will be doubly difficult. That means I will have to change my approach (but not withdraw from the race).
Now, how do I get a place in the team? I don't have enough to do the short-cut. Besides, I am told, the gentleman - no, the lady in-charge of the Feed-the-Victims Task Force is a no-nonsense incorrigible woman who takes no <ea/>michuzi from nobody They call her granite. Very hard and mean.
Of course, I have already sent out fillers to spy on her likes and dislikes. One thing is out, though, and that is booze. She doesn't touch it even with a 100-metre pole. So you can see how difficult it is to get near this lady. I wish she were still missing a Mr. But he is there full and firm.
But, well, you never know. There must be something that she is <-/mightly> interested in. All human beings are like that, and she is as human as you and me. But come sun, come stars; come rain, come moon; and come day, come night; I must get a place in the team.
You might want to know why I'm almost obsessed with the desire to be in the Feed-the-Victims Task Force. The reason is simple. Money. Big fat  money. As big, <-/infact>, as two bungalows (not mere houses) and a small fleet of cars and some few lorries and <ea/>daladala. If you don't understand, you must be dumb and Satan help you.
I said earlier that once I'm accepted in the task force, I'll fight to remain at the headquarters doing the co-ordination, but travelling now and again to the disaster areas north and south - and maybe west too, if famine and/or floods strike there also.
I will also fight to bring in trusted friends like Kampweku to make my operations easy. The visits to the affected areas would be useful in many ways, but the two most important are the night allowances which will be quite handsome, and two, the visits will enable me know exactly, or fairly accurately, the aid requirement of a particular area.
This information will be vital to me because I will need it in my calculations for the "profit margin", so to speak, and also that the field officers do not cheat on me much
For example, if village X has 500 starving residents, your list will show 5000 villagers. Your list will not show how many infants and children there are in the village, because revealing this number would mean less share. Surely, you will need a little greasing the local supervisors.
Again, at the headquarters, you say the 5000 people need six bags of beans for two weeks when they may need only two. You can easily explain away the extra (if someone gets wise and asks uncomfortable questions) by saying it was for emergency cases. It is hard to control the movement of people, especially when they are suffering from hunger.
In short, in this way (and in many other ways) you will very soon find out that you need a whole <ea/>godown to store the extra bags. Now, if you also don't know how to turn the bags into bungalows or cars, or hard currency, you better not join the game, and if some of us do please don't make noise. Sew your mouth shut. <ea_><ea/>.
W2E016T
Lend me your ear
The cobra shock
THE big mistake that <ea/>Mzee Daima Mbele made was to die before SCOPO was born.
If the extra-ordinarily wise old man with a nose as nicely shaped as a parrot's had postponed his death, SCOPO would have honoured him accordingly.
It would have slotted him into the "Parastatal Rare Profession Scale" in appreciation of his rare talent of predicting the future of babies.
<ea/>Mzee Daima Mbele was truly a rare professional: A few days after the birth of a baby, he would cast a professional glance at it and pronounce the career that it would pursue as an adult.
Like in other professions though, he sometimes suffered setbacks by making predictions which were off-the-mark.
But if other professionals blundered once in a while and were forgiven, why not him? Examples: A pilot who decides to land a plane into a forest rather than on an airport; a doctor who seduces a beautiful patient rather than treat her; and a full-time housewife who becomes, in addition, part-time wife of some part-time husband.
<ea/>Mzee Daima Mbele predicted, for instance, that a certain chap would be an eminent economist and General Manager (GM) of some firm, but he became, instead, a sort of GM for a group of Scavengers at the Tabata Dump.
Now that the High Court has ordered the City Council to stop dumping waste there, they are in trouble. I'm told by unreliable sources close to the former dump that the "GM" is planning to forward the matter to the international court of Justice; otherwise how else shall they survive?
In my own case, the prediction was 100 per cent correct. One week after my birth, he said I would do very well in matters connected with chicken.
He put it that vaguely because he didn't want to offend my parents by stating precisely that I would be a chicken thief. The <-/vaque> prediction, instead, misled my parents, and others, into believing that I would become a successful poultry trader.
When I was ten years old, the true colours of the prediction started to emerge; <-_peoples><+_people's> <-_chicken><+_chickens> started to disappear. I would corner them, slaughter them and roast them in a rocky retreat where my friends would join me in the illegal chicken-munching fiestas.
The friends did not realise that the <-_chicken><+_chickens> were creatures I had stolen from their parents. Some realised so, but privately thanked me for enabling them to taste delicacies which they wouldn't do regularly under parental sanctions, save for special occasions like Christmas.
As I grew older, I perfected my chicken-stealing skills, and ventured it full-time after failing flat in my Form Four exams.
I sneaked into poultry sheds at night, steal <-_chicken><+_chickens>, load them into a pick-up, and sell them to restaurant proprietors.
Business was good, until recently, when it was rudely interrupted by the cruel scheme of one of the men from whom I used to steal <-_chicken><+_chickens> and whom I supposed would be kind enough to take things easy.
The other day, while I was in the shed grabbing chicken, he did something highly criminal in the Pick-up which I had left open.
After my mission, I entered the Pick-up in order to drive home and await the dawning of a new day so that I sell the birds and earn more money illegally but beneficially.
I was utterly shocked to see a dead cobra coiled round the steering wheel. I shouted for help and then collapsed.
I'm now at Muhimbili recovering from shock, but another shock awaits me: I have to appear in the court to answer a charge of stealing <-_chicken><+_chickens>.
But I will insist that the latest victim of my skills should be charged with attempted murder for having induced the big shock I suffered. I could have died, you know.
Which is Better: For an innocent young man full of life who is pursuing a not-so-noble career to die of shock or for an old, almost dying poultry keeper to lose a few hens? 
Lizards in a handbag
I am one of those few lucky people with an in-born talent to earn a living illegally, and not being caught in the process.
Please do not give this useless piece of information to the man in charge of affairs conducted from a building opposite Posta House in Dar es Salaam.
You see - obviously you do because you would not be reading this if you had been blind - the man is number three in the line-up of men I fear and respect most, after my father and my landlord.
If ever the man got to know how I earn my living, he would give me 168 hours (or seven days) to account for my sins, or else fly to the UK - short for Ukonga - for an unpleasant three-year holiday that involves a lot of <ea/>shamba work (without being paid for it) and eating a few half-cooked beans (without paying for them).
The man is thus someone from whom I would like to keep a safe distance, just like the man who is fourth in the line-up, but one whom I only fear but <-_does><+_do> not respect - the hopeless Mchochezi who insists that I should pay him the 2,000/- 1 owe him, but which I don't have the will-power to repay.
Mchochezi lent me the money which enabled me to pay two months' rent six months ago and thereby stopped my landlord from evicting me from his room.
The landlord is an old man who uses half-Hitler methods to rule his tenants.
Once, in the backyard of the house I shook the hands of his fourth, <-/teenaged> wife and smiled a bit while doing so and the landlord happened to be passing by.
I swore that it was an innocent gesture of good neighbourliness (a big lie of course) but the man wasn't convinced. He imposed upon me, a punishment of filling up his two spare drums of water and banned me from not just touching her hands but looking at her.
If only he knew that out of sympathy for the tough punishment, she secretly let me do to her something better (or is it worse?) than shaking her hands and saying "Hello," he would have not only kicked me out of his room but would have employed his idle extra-sharp <ea/>panga to do justice to my head or neck; or, better still, to chop off the offensive object from <-_by><+_my> body.
Well, I am a thief, but not the harmful type who apply maximum violence and use deadly weapons like guns to rob people of very valuable things like cars. I am a harmless thief who <-_apply><+_applies> minimum violence (a half-starving thief can't be strong, anyway) and uses non-deadly fingers and hands to snatch lowly-valued ladies' handbags.
You've guessed correctly why I target ladies - they are soft and would not fight me. If the worst came to the worst, I would simply throw away a handbag and engage in a bit of <ea_>Juma Ikangaaism<ea/>: Flee from the scene as fast as possible.
Sometimes I snatch handbags from mean women who keep only identity cards, tiny mirrors and combs there, or put in stupid amounts like 100/- or 200/-.
Sometimes, I snatch handbags of intelligent women who put enough money into them, to enable me to live comfortably.
But the other day, I snatched a handbag from a lady who is neither mean nor intelligent but simply criminal.
The lady, upon whom I pounced before she boarded a bus, was heading to a witchdoctor who had instructed her to take along certain objects, to facilitate <-_concontion><+_concoction> of medicine for enabling her to hook a <-/waelthy> businessman.
I was terribly shocked to see a dozen dead lizards when I opened the handbag upon reaching home.
I am thinking of forwarding the matter to the boss in the building opposite Posta House; to order ladies to carry only money - and big money at that - in their handbags and not anything else; so that the likes of me can survive.
It pays to be a bogus diplomat
SOME old village men are dangerous: When you offend them, the punishment they impose upon you is of a permanent nature and not the temporary type favoured by primary school teachers.
When you committed a serious offence, the teacher administered a few canes on your khaki-covered (but underwearless) buttocks. You stood up, said a reluctant but mandatory "thank you" to the teacher, before doing two important things simultaneously: Crying as loudly as an ambulance van siren and scratching your buttocks as diligently as a monkey.
But after a few days, you forgot all about it, pending another round of caning.
It was terrible when you wronged a wrong old man: He cast a spell of doom upon you and this prevails till you "kiss the soil."
This is what I strongly suspect happened to me, in respect of the boyhood terrorist incursions I made into <ea/>Mzee Mavuno's <ea/>shamba to harvest cassava in the spirit of self-reliance, not for myself but for my beloved stomach.
The old man's curse is apparently the source of my misfortunes, reflected in my failure to become a diplomat through either of the two main channels - training or the influence of a godfather.
The chain of "Fs", I scored (scored?) in Form Four exams could not enable me to gain admission into the Kurasini University of Diplomacy.
What's more, I don't have a godfather to forge me into the diplomatic service. But one of these days, I will commission someone to act as my human-father as opposed to godfather. So, don't be surprised to hear that I've been appointed ambassador somewhere, in spite of my talent as a cassava roaster (my cassava-stealing background was not in vain) plus part-time <-/pickpocketting>.
In the meantime, I pick bits and pieces of ideas about diplomatic behaviour and language so that when I cease to be <ea/>Ndugu and become "My Excellency", I won't be <ea/>mbumbumbu (a novice) <-_per><+_par> excellence.
I know, for instance, that in some instances, it is a diplomatic taboo to mention countries or individuals by name ot to describe situations in a direct way.
Which is why you read a statement from the government of country A, protesting against the border-area banditry perpetrated by thugs in "a neighbouring country B." Or, a statement regretting the "unfortunate remarks" made "in certain quarters."
So as a diplomat-wish-to-be, I'm careful about describing the situation in which I found my friend Msimamo at the bar one evening the other day.
He was not crying (that's undiplomatic language) but: Some watery substances were liberally flowing from his eyes. I wondered: What would drive a 40-year-old man to shed waters (not tears); unless he was mourning a departed (not dead) relative? And if so, why, of all places, in a bar?
I joined him on the table and, very diplomatically, I asked him what the matter was (not why he was crying).
After clearing his face (not wiping tears), he told me a sad story about how two chaps who appeared as innocent as Saints had conned him of 100,000,/- earlier in the day; in the name of selling him pieces of diamonds which were in fact plain glass.
He lamented that he was left with only 10,000/-, which he would give to his wife, who was due to travel upcountry the following day.
I sympathised greatly with him and said we should all bank our hopes on Mrema's anti-<ea/>tapeli battle.
Meanwhile, Msimamo, whose coat he had hung behind his chair, left briefly for a short call, giving me a chance to engage in primitive diplomatic service.
I diplomatically shoved my hands into the pockets of the coat and fished out an envelope containing the money.
Then very diplomatically I emptied my glass of beer and sneaked out of the bar.
On reaching home, I counted the money in a diplomatically excited manner, to establish if it was indeed 10,000/- because this is the balance I needed to square off my son's boarding school fees.
W2E017T
Squint eye
Don't sniff at the shouters
LIFE is so exiting these days because everything is a lottery. Even our great postal services. When your letters come in the morning, you never know what you're going to get. Like the other day when I received a letter addressed to Mr. Big Shot. I was so pleased that at last someone had recognised my true worth that I opened the letter without even looking at the address. Of course, I later realised that it wasn't addressed to me but here is the interesting letter I found inside.
Dear Mr/Dr/Ambassador/Ms/any other title you care to name Big Shot/Potato/<-/Cocoyam> (delete whichever you consider to be inapplicable).
I am writing this letter to you to put a few things straight. Tanzanians have always been famous for shooting their mouths off, even if it means they shoot themselves in the foot. Such big shot behaviour might shoot you to the top of the favourites list among the people but we can get shot of you any time - like a shot.
The other day you happened to intercept a few Mandraxes and in your normal verbally incontinent manner you have been shouting all sorts of insults to the world about how this time, unlike last time, and the time before, and uncountable times before that, you are really serious and you are going to nail the big guys to the doors of Ukonga.
Why do you waste your time with such repetitive <-_rantings><+_ranting>, especially when you know you won't do anything? Is it because you like being quoted in the newspapers or on the airwaves of the last bastion of the monopoly system? Personally I consider all such behaviour very childish. The only thing that matters is money and you don't make money by exercising your tongue muscles in public.
You even had the audacity to insult us by talking about people fleeing the country. The word flee has such unpleasant connotations of sweaty little false beards and leaking canoes or rat roads near the border.
When we leave the country, we do not flee. We leave in style through the doors of the VIP lounge before travelling by air to inspect our investments elsewhere in the world until you stop polluting the air by your shouting.
Let me make a few points clear to you. Your country is begging for investment and we have gladly come forward to invest in the drug trade. Our profits from that helps us to buy your puny parastatals and bankrupt businesses and turn them into vessels of enrichment for a few who can join the international elite at whatever fashionable gathering. And drugs are only a part of it.
We also invest in gold and precious stones, and special bank loans for rehabilitating the <-/run down> old parastatal rubbish and big new hotels and casinos where we can play with all the money we have raised.
Then, out of the goodness of our hearts, we also attend charity gatherings and donate money to anything you want, even the rehabilitation of drug addicts.
This is what liberalisation of trade is all about. You cannot liberalise the boring parts and prohibit the rest. You liberalise all and damn the consequences. By the time the people wake up to this, we will be even richer and more untouchable.
You see, you think a few mandraxes is a big haul. There are thousands in our organisation, the CCCs as we call them, the Cocaine Condom Carriers. They are dispensable. So are the storage guys. You can catch some of them, but you will never touch for all your shouting. You wouldn't dare.
It's like those policemen stinking of poverty who sometimes intercept our goods and then refuse the little present we offer them as congratulations. They continue to stink of poverty while our people are set free after a few days. And even if that doesn't work, we can always hire some clever lawyer who needs the money to prove that our imprisonment is a violation of all the human rights under the sun or that our wife, or mother, or girlfriend is in danger of suffering a nervous breakdown because of our absence.
Of <-/cource> you may be one of the clever shouters who are already on our payroll but only shout to hide the fact. In that case, disregard all the above and keep up the good job. But if you are one of those tiresome people who really care about the people, we have ways of dealing with you.
The youth market is the most lucrative part of the new liberalisation. We can make your children become crazy sniffers. You think cocaine is for the <ea/>walalahoi? It's the rich kids' game, though personally I would never tough the snuff. Money is a much more satisfying drug. So just mind your step and stop <-/interferring> in our legitimate business interests. Too much shouting and we can always move our investments elsewhere.
Yours, 
East African Escobar
Of course this letter must be a hoax. We all know that our leaders and our business persons are so clean that they would never dream of associating themselves with such a trade and that when they say they are going to catch the Big Guys they are serious. After all, this time it is their children who are threatened. 
The cross-eyed curse 
THE last time I informed you of my wanderings, I was heading with hope in my heart for the <-_hand><+_land> of our former masters and mistresses. How happy I was! At last I was going to the land where the sun never used to set, the example to the world of democrazy. And they in their infinite goodness were going to cure me of my squint.
Man, I was sure disappointed. As I sat everyday in the operations queue at the local hospital since paying patients always came first, I began to read the newspapers and my eyes swivelled painfully in their sockets. Here were all these things happening which could never happen in our great country.
Ministers involved in scandals but refusing to resign until the weight of the scandal became too heavy even for them to bear; a highly unpopular chief executive who always defended his ministers up to the last moment so that, even when they resigned, the stink of their scandals clung to his suit; a ruling party which lived off secret donations from big business persons whose wealth also had a whiff of rottenness; the destruction of the social services in the name of cost-sharing and privatisation for breakfast, lunch and tea.
In order to try and soothe my eyes, I turned to European news, only to discover more incredible tales which could never happen here, bribes and match fixing in high level football, big business men taking over football teams for their own power and glorification and <-/may be> ruining football in the process; a national government which collapses under the weight of its own corruption.
All this was so shocking to me that I tried to share some of these ideas with my new friends from SQUINTAID, but they just told me not to worry. I would see things in a different light once I had had the operation. Then suddenly, one day, three of them woke up with squints as well and started shouting about unpopular Presidents who bombed Third World countries to win votes and leadership squints which saw it was all right to keep the peace by shooting third worlders but not fellow Europeans.
My friend, it was no joke. I discovered that there were many other squint sufferers already in England. I was just one of the thousands, but not the whole system turned against me. Learned doctors talked of the new Squint virus Sight Quotient <-/ Non Treatable> and debated about what part of Africa it came from.
Their language was relatively mild and couched in scientific jargon but it was enough to ignite the pothole press, the tabloids who are always looking for some stick to beat foreigners with.
They named it the cross-eyed curse, put all the blame on me and demanded that I be deported as a biological terrorist, a threat to the physical, mental and moral health of the great white nation. It was no good that some friends from Squintaid and elsewhere tried to defend me. I was declared a prohibited immigrant.
Well, said I, who wants to stay anyway in such a crazy land which just encourages you to squint even more? Let me return to my beloved Bongo where the leaders are as clean as Kariakoo market and the merest whiff of corruption is nipped in the bud.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I returned to find myself challenged. Firstly there was guy who complained that I only smelt the distant rubbish heaps. What about our local heroes of 
Spend spend spend
As long as we've people to lend.
We may be poor but we are still a force to be reckoned with.
Not even America was able to come up with a rolling national farewell party to say <-/goodby> to the Great Cowboy President. Then I find another letter by a person from the real land of democrazy, and the free market who claims to have been infected by my SQUINT so that she sees only standing waiters and sitting waiters here. Has she never heard of the good imperial saying 'they also serve who only stand and wait'. We have a surplus of servers here.
But this is dangerous. If even the bearer of those little green pieces of paper we are all hunting for are also being infected by SQUINT we might be put in quarantine and tourists, researchers and aid workers any more. In order to arrest this dangerous situation, I would like to make the following suggestions:
1. SQUINT cannot be passed on by shaking hands, dancing <ea/>mndundiko together, sharing toothbrushes, or any other such activities. It can only be passed on through trying to make someone see your point of view, to share eyes so to speak.
In order to prevent the disease reaching epidemic proportions, any column containing SQUINT-like material should be preceded by a notice, as for smokers.
Warning. This column can harm your health.
In addition, in order to protect children who are more susceptible to SQUINT-ification, such columns could be given a 15 or PG rating. However, I would like to warn here that those giving the task of assessing overt and covert SQUINTs should only be those who have extra strong eyes since they might find themselves be affected by the cross-eyed curse.
3. Whatever its disadvantages, SQUINT-ing is a right recognised by the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. It is not the fault of the individual SQUINT-er. Therefore, whatever our learned doctor-journalist-ministers might say, the freedom to SQUINT should be guaranteed by the Constitution, if only for pragmatic reasons. Open SQUINT-ing is much less harmful. If it is pushed underground, the virus can become violent and life-threatening.
In this way we can protect the health of our nation as well as the rights of SQUINT sufferers. 
Still in search of <slang/>freederm' to choose right words 
AFTER getting the macho-man-carrying-a-gun-cowboy-style version of freedom, I next chose a smaller guy to talk to. But I'm telling you the vocabulary in this place is pretty tough to get used to.
If you're, not careful, you'll end up annoying someone without even realising it. For example, you don't go around calling the guy short. It's not quite <ea_><ea/> but it's getting quite close. He is, in fact vertically disadvantaged.
Anyway this guy was pretty vertically disadvantaged so I thought I'd be safe with him
After his first reply, I began to worry whether I had made the right decision. Maybe, like other vertically you knows, he was trying to compensate for his negative height by playing the big macho man. Heaven help us if we were ever to get a President like that.
W2E018T
Darubini
Cutting <ea/>Ikulu guys to size?
The new man at the Ministry which literally controls the nation's land has landed at his office with a big bang.
A product of the latest cabinet reshuffle, the new man is categorised among the young political turks.
But it is the style with which he has embarked on his duties at his new office that has heightening the people's expectations in him.
And they seem determined to make a follow-up of his performance with much zeal.
Priority number one is enforcing discipline at workplace, ensuring that people do the work they are employed to do, and observing land-related professional ethics.
And the first malpractice he has declared war against is one whereby a given plot in the city is allocated to three or four people, all of whom find themselves in possession of unreliable documents called title deeds!
<-_Its><+_It's> a situation of this kind which is outrageous, beats commonsense and exposes corruption gone berserk.
Only a single developer is the owner of the controversial plot - the rest of the offers are bogus, irrespective of whether plot seekers involved are aware of this fact or not.
Declaring that he won't allow corruption in this area (plot allocation) to continue, the minister bluntly said even undue influence from big shots won't be allowed to prevail any longer in matters related to land allocation.
Then a bombshell followed when the young minister categorically stated that even pressure and undue influence from State House officials, normally applied through memos, <ea/>Vibali (permits), instructions by telephone etc. won't be entertained any more.
To put it straight, the minister publicly announced that only instructions bearing the personal signature of the President will be respected.
This stand as well as the revoking of contracts whereby some of the country's offshore islands had been leased (sold?) or were in the process of being leased to foreigners, have attracted the <ea/>wananchi's attention to this personality.
Most of the observers hail the minister for holding some of these small <ea/>Ikulu bulls by their horns, actually de-mystifying them.
'Is it not true that the habit of misusing this noble office to secure plots, jobs for dependants (and girlfriends). house being denationalised etc, has done much image to the nation's most esteemed institution (<ea/>Ikulu), especially at this time when the <ea/>mageuzi press is capable of sniffing anything? 'Ask some commentators.
Darubini joins those who pray that we won't end up witnessing the now praised Minister simply acting like a new broom, which sweeps clean only to perform poorly as time passes. 
Ghost workers power
A local daily recently carried a report that as from 24th February 1994, Civil Servants will be paid their monthly salary through a rather unusual procedure - apparently geared at axing ghost workers who have infiltrated the civil Service once and for all!
According to the newspaper, a circular has been distributed to all ministries, directing whoever is on the payroll to queue at the designated cash office on this important day, and receive his pay in person.
It is reported the exercise is taken so seriously that not only middle and low cadre workers will queue for the nominal pay, but directors, commissioners, principal secretaries and even ministers will have to abide by this procedure.
In short, the coming event is regarded as census day for workers in the Civil Service. and that is why it is said that whoever doesn't turn up to sign for his salary on that specific day, might end up being struck off the workers list, alongside ghost labour sellers. Since no one has come out to deny the story, members of the public have assumed this is not fiction, are awaiting the occasion anxiously, and are discussing it zealously.
"But who is a ghost worker?" a messenger in one office who read the story in the Swahili paper asked a fellow worker during lunch hour, normally used for gossiping as most workers are too cash-starved to go out of work premises for lunch.
Replied the colleague: "These are characters on the payroll, who '<-/reveive>' salaries, although they do no work. In short they are non-existent. Ghost workers are a product of corruption, and the money allocated to them ends up in pockets of corrupt public officials."
This guy went on to explain how ghost workers are sometimes "paid" for overtime work, "get" travel warrants to go home on leave, can be transferred to new working stations (with full transfer benefits) and may even get a golden handshake, during one of the fashionable staff retrenchment exercises.
On hearing the above revelation, the awe-struck messenger didn't hesitate to renounce ghost workers, adding that they are an evil to be got rid of immediately. He further said it was unfortunate that they are too elusive to be caught and punished.
Generally speaking, there is overwhelming support of the idea to fight ghost workers, and if possible, have them <-/burried> in grave once and for all. Yet there is scepticism on the battle tactics, and on whether the war will be won or not.
The first group of sceptics simply say that when the state recently announced the number of workers it employs and how it planned to retrench unwanted labour in batches, everyone was convinced all this was based on proper data. Then they ask:
"How come that a few months later there are clear signs indicating no one is certain about the exact numbers constituting the government workforce?"
This <-/uncertaintly> of government manpower position, tempts the above category of sceptics to further query: "Does it mean that when authentic workers were axed a few months ago, some ghost characters survived the <-/un-opular> exercise, thus prompting a new approach of going about the problem?"
And as hinted earlier, there is this second group of doubting Thomases, consisting of the <ea/>wananchi who have reservations about the efficacy of the <-/lining up> for salary approach, as far as catching ghost workers red-handed is concerned.
To begin with, they find the method outdated, arguing that in this computer age, when society is entering the 21st century there must be more refined ways of detecting and silencing ghost workers.
In fact one of the above doubting Thomases contend that since keeping ghost workers on the payroll is masterminded by the organized Mafia in the Civil service, which is still live and kicking, the coming move is an exercise in futility.
The point being made here is that so long as corruption in society <-_continue><+_continues> to spread like summer bush fire, ghost workers are likely to jump the February hurdle and <-_hung><+_hang> around for sometime, as a power to reckon with.
And commentators with a penchant for making jokes, even out of social tragedies, don't hesitate to say that in the long run, management and control of ghost <-/workes> might require services of expatriates - assuming corrupt guys do not pre-empt the move by hiring ghost expatriates.
Having heard all these ideas, your friend wishes the February 24th understanding the best of luck in its daunting task of facing the <-/feceless> but powerful ghost workers.
Milking a dying cow!
There are tell-tale signs indicating that the legendary patience of this republic's labour sellers is running out, heralding a social crisis in the near future.
Doctors, nurses, air traffic controllers, and teachers are among categories of workers who have, on various occasions, attempted to strike in protest against poor remuneration and working conditions, only to be ruthlessly suppressed by those in power. Of late however, even the National Workers Union, a traditional sympathizer with the major employer (government) seems to have been disillusioned to the point of asking workers to wield a labour weapon of the last resort (a strike).
The development tempts observers to ask one crucial question:
"How come that the Tanzanian worker who has shown unrivalled resilience by continuing to work under very difficult conditions, is now saying enough is enough?"
Those grappling with the above question, are making a number of observations worth digesting.
Some of these society watchers note, for example, that most of the workers who have been involved in all sorts of projects (<ea/>miradi) in order to bridge family budgetary deficits, no longer depend on these activities for survival.
What has happened, we are told, is that nearly every urban family is now engaged in one of the popular petty businesses like tailoring, hair dressing, selling ice creams and buns, running food stalls, selling charcoal etc, the result being that most of the dealers can't earn much profit.
In this kind of situation, it is clear that the advice given to workers, that is resorting to sideline activities to <-/suppliment> their nominal incomes, is no longer a feasible remedy.
Another step workers have been taking to cope with prevailing hard times is that unpopular one, referred to as belt-tightening. Workers have gone into cost-cutting at individual and family levels fully, by avoiding anything classified as luxury. Some have reduced daily meals from two to one, are trekking to work, have resorted to second-hand clothes (<ea/>mitumba) etc. 
While the <-/forementioned> survival strategies can be categorized as positive, yet some workers, who believe in the saying that the end justifies the means, are said to have resorted to negative approaches as well, in order keep afloat.
Negative means are none other than the "eating from one's place of work'' syndromes reflected in stealing government money and property, selling medicines in public hospitals, keeping ghost workers on government payroll, purchasing non-existent office stationery (<ea_><ea/>), putting a price tag on Justice (police and magistrates) and other forms of corruption.
It has been noted however, that both positive and negative survival tactics, which workers have been relying on to cushion their hardships, have now been stretched to the limit - to the extent that they are no longer reliable.
As society watchers take stock of this situation, two basic issues come to the fore, one being the impact of this state of affairs on society, and the second one centring on how the powers that be are handling the volatile labour atmosphere.
Consequences of underpaying workers are said to be immense and of long-term implications. The most outstanding however, is that frustrated workers, with the lowest possible morale, are not famous for efficient production of goods and services - hence the poor performance in public institutions and government departments.
On how authorities have been reacting to the <-_workers><+_workers'> plight, both labour sellers any analysis are not amused by empty promises reflected in worn out phrases like " <-_workers><+_workers'> welfare will be improved as soon as they (workers) increase production through working harder than is the case at the moment!"
Critics and workers don't buy the above idea on grounds that in a society where income distribution is getting more and more perverse, increased production doesn't guarantee the producer's wellbeing. And some guys opposing the earlier proposition simply say that telling this republic's shop floor worker to toil harder is like attempting to milk a dying cow!
But kicks of dying animals can be extremely dangerous, well-meaning <ea/>Wananchi note, adding that it would be the height of <-_a> folly on the side of the authorities (whose tenure is running out), to sit in their chairs and celebrate, simply because the recently poorly organized national workers strike didn't materialize. 
Unemployment time bomb
A few years ago, whoever dared raise the question of unemployment in the Republic would instantly incur the wrath of politicians who would see him as a mere trouble rouser.
In a way politicians were right, for the problem was not all that pronounced. With about 400 overstaffed public companies in place, and the Government (main employer) reputed for its bloated civil service, the situation seemed to be under control.
But now things have changed, and are still changing at a fast pace. The Government is trimming its personnel size by laying off thousands of workers on a definite <-/time table>, engineered and monitored by the International Ministry of Finance.
Parastatals are also restructuring, thus axing thousands of workers in the process. 
W2E019T
Yours truly
My strike hopes were shattered
DEAR <ea/>Msemakweli,
I am extremely angry with you because you are not living up to the philosophy of your name, which literally means that you are "a promoter of the truth." I'm tempted to suggest that you should be renamed "<ea/>Msemauongo" to tally with your actual role as a merchant of lies.
Don't be angry with me, <ea/>Maalim. Being yours truly, I'm simply being frank with you; just like I was being frank with our friend Mbichwa the other day, when I remarked, at our evening "bitter juice" drinking session, that there was an accidental similarity between the shape of his head and a pineapple's.
He was of course outraged by the remark and swore that if I were <-_a> "man enough" to repeat it he would break a full bottle of beer on my head.
Breaking a bottle on someone's head reminded me of the process of a woman breaking a coconut on a hard surface in the kitchen before she prepares <ea/>mboga.
This made me decide that truthfulness or not truthfulness; man enough or less man (or is it man-less?), it would be suicidal to repeat the reference to Mbichwa's head's resemblance to a pineapple.
So, I shut my mouth, and saved my head - and, more importantly, my life. But I did something particularly stupid recently, and this is where the justification for your demotion from "<ea/>msemakweli" to"<ea/>msemauongo" comes in.
You carelessly picked and spread a rumour to the effect that the two plasters criss-crossing my cheek are a product of a sound beating I got from a fan of a prominent soccer club that lost a recent match at the National Stadium.
It is alleged that I angered the fan by referring to the football standard of the defeated team as "secondary schoolish", whereupon he administered a few murderous slaps on my cheek.
Besides that being a lie, I'm also enraged by the nickname of "brown-cross" by which you secretly refer to me, on account of the brown-coloured plasters criss-crossing like a red cross.
The truth - embarrassing though it is - is that the "brown cross" was occasioned by an <-/uholy> adventure involving a married woman, whom I had intended to take advantage of, under cover of the recent strike.
Fortunately for me, I was on leave during the strike period; otherwise, being a coward, I would have been in a dilemma over whether to participate or not; and that state of "<ea/>msimamo-less-ness would have embarrassed me greatly.
I calculated, anyhow, that I would benefit from the strike. I gathered that whereas Mr. Fulani had opted not to co-operate with OTTU by going to work, his wife, Mrs. Fulani, co-operated by boycotting work and staying at home.
This was the golden opportunity I had always longed for. I paid a visit to their house in mid-morning; which surprised Mrs. Fulani, because I had not stepped in there even once over the ten years or so of neighbourliness.
I explained that I had decided, after deep religious reflection, that it was essential for neighbours to visit one another, and mine was the first step in that direction.
Of course I intended, after the <-/warming up> period of casual chit-chat, to introduce a subject which, truly speaking, was not holy.
But then, luck, as usual, has never been my friend and deserts me at critical moments. Shortly before I introduced the juicy subject to reveal my hidden agenda, to be exact - a male voice "boomed" by the door outside; simultaneously with gentle knocks on the door: "<ea/>Mama Fulani; are you there - please open up ..."
I jumped from the couch, and sprinted towards the kitchen, where I had noted the back-door was located - the aim being to flee from the sight of, and punishment from, Mr. Fulani, whom I assumed had changed his mind about the strike and decided to return home.
Mid-way, I hit some louvres of the kitchen window, and the broken glass cut my cheek. It came to pass that the man I feared was Mr. Fulani was a plumber who had come to complete repair work on the kitchen sink.
And in any case, Mrs. Fulani had not participated in the strike, as my poorly conducted investigations had wrongly revealed: that was the day when she had begun her annual leave.
Those, friend, are the circumstances under which I ended up with irreparably damaged integrity; a lost strike-related dream and a brown cross on my cheek. 
He who laughs last truly laughs best 
DEAR BRAZA,
NINETY five per cent of the people who are my co-citizens of the republic of millet growers regarded an old man called Bishuba as a hero of some sort.
I - who also happens to be yours truly by pretension rather than sincerely - commanded 95 per cent of the remaining five per cent of those who had an extremely opposite view of Bishuba.
Bishuba's admirers credit him for being a fantastic sociologist who, after casting a single glance at a baby three minutes after birth, gave a precise outline of what sort of character he or she would become.
He also chipped in advice on the "dos" and "<-_donts><+_don'ts>" if parents wanted to straighten the character of the child (if it were crooked) or to ensure that he or she did not stray from the right path.
And for that near-divine service, he was paid a fee in the form of tins of millet (which he subsequently converted into cash after sale) depending on how excited particular parents felt about his "diagnosis".
Whenever he saw a pregnant woman, Bishuba smiled broadly, because he knew that the pregnancy was virtual cash-in-waiting. And the more pregnant women there were, the happier he became.
It is rumoured that whenever he met male village-mates, he counselled them against being "lazy" and urged them "not to spare women". The message he sought to convey, simply, was: make them pregnant and make me rich as a consequence. 
It is further rumoured that once, when he learnt of the death, during birth, of a set of twins, he wept uncontrollably until he collapsed. He was mourning, not the loss of two precious creatures, but (and this is a tricky mathematical <-/quizz>) the loss of some tins of millet. 
I disliked Bishuba not because I begrudged him the millet (and cash) but because I thought he was <ea/>tapeli par excellence.
While I disliked him on that score, I hated him on a more serious one: that of the nasty prediction he made in respect of me, which I thought was both malicious and grossly inaccurate.
The judgement he pronounced after assessing me (as though a three-minute old baby can justly be accused of any offence) is that upon attaining maturity, I would be madly obsessed with women: that my love for the so-called fair sex would equal that of cattle for grass.
This, he prophesied, could lead to terrible embarrassment in future. He suggested that as a safeguard, I should be encouraged to become a priest.
The Information leaked to me and I was enraged. Priesthood, I reasoned with whoever cared to listen, was a calling: the moment one pursues the vocation as a check against speed in a certain direction, its essence becomes diluted, if not <-/outrightly> undermined.
So, I said "NO". But since actions speak louder than words, I decided to teach Bishuba a small unforgettable practical lesson. One fateful night, while he was returning from a household that had been graced with a baby, he got ensnared in a trap that I had set with the assistance of a group of young village hooligans.
The <-_wailings><+_wailing> the resultant pain produced sounded like a song produced by a group of animals that had decided to set their differences aside and form a short-lived choir: there were <-/squaks> of a mouse, grunts of a pig, squeals of a rabbit and brays of a donkey.
It <-/was't> until one hour or so later than he was rescued by people whose sleep the "choir" had interrupted. I had truly fixed Bishuba; my heart danced with joy and I had what I thought was the last laugh.
But know what? The girl you saw me making merry with at the night club on Easter Day (a secret which you agreed not to leak to my wife at a cost of two bottles of <ea/>konyagi) is actually a Zambian who had come to Tanzania on a special mission.
She had read (the late) Alex Haley's book "Roots" and this gave her ideas of tracing her own roots. And the findings are pretty disturbing. She is the daughter of a woman (then a girl) whose parents were Zambian business persons based in Tunduma. The woman had landed into the wrong hands of a sweet-talking but insincere young man who made her pregnant and then "jumped bail". Shortly thereafter, the parents returned to Zambia, alongside the daughter, plus the pregnancy, of course.
The product of that pregnancy is the "Easter" girl who ventured into Tanzania to trace who her father is. And who does that fellow turn out to be? Well, it is the very satanic fellow who jumped bail on her mother's pregnancy 24 years ago.
That fellow is yours truly - the father of the girl. Now, tell me, how does one get out of that kind of fix?
That is a tricky question. But one thing over which there is no uncertainty is what <ea/>Mzee Bishuba will do when news of the scandal gets to the village.
He will have the best laugh; and I'm told that he who laughs last laughs best! Come to think of it, Braza, I am now wishing I had heeded his advice and <-_became><+_become> a priest! 
Meet your almost toothless brother 
Brother Kibogoyo,
For the first time in the history of Kaigurula-kind (as opposed to mankind) I have felt the urge to envy someone. And that someone happens to be you. Which means, naturally, that I have to temporarily suspend my "yours truly-ship" since I can't, at one time, envy you and be, at the same time, yours truly.
I envy you, brother Kibogoyo, because of your wonderful name. I wish that name were mine, as it would perfectly suit my present dental outlook. How about transferring it to me, since as a man with almost all your teeth intact, you are bearing a wrong name?
Teeth in my mouth have become almost as scarce as money has become in your pocket. The number of teeth that the mouth owns is embarrassingly too low to disclose, considering that I have almost thirty years to go before I attain the age when it becomes mandatory for teeth to loosen and fall out.
I have become an almost toothless man prematurely, thanks to adventures in which I got involved in different phases in my life, but which turned out to be agents of tooth-elimination rather than pleasant occasions. 
Here's where my envy comes in, for your name Kibogoyo, would best summarise my not-so-pleasant outlook: an outlook which, inevitably transformed me from a <-/chatter box> that spoke so much, so often; to a man of few words. For opening my mouth gives people an unwelcome opportunity to see something that resembles the inner part of a helmet. So, I keep that to the minimum.
Here's a chronology of my progressive demotion to near-toothlessness. It started with a faithful belief in the excellent piece of wisdom that encourages the killing of two birds with one stone.
During <-/break time> in primary school once, I spotted two nice birds standing very close together on a rock in the middle of tall grass. They were the sort of creatures which, when fried expertly and smeared with a liberal amount of salt, they tasted almost as sweet as X.
I aimed my catapult at the two-in-one target, and let off the stone missile. Unbeknown to me, Janja, a classmate of mine hiding behind grass a few metres opposite me, had similar two-birds-with-one-stone ideas.
W2E020T
Squint Eye 
How about a Politicians' Council Act?
WHAT a homecoming. I return to find that there is a new Media Council Act which will effectively gouge out my squinting eyes as well as many other people's eyes. Not only that. It will cut off their ears and even their noses if they happen to smell a scandal which was supposed to rot in peace.
Such a step is so profoundly progressive that I would like to suggest that all professions be given the same treatment. There should also be a <-_Politician's><+_Politicians'> Council Act. This could be easily prepared by using the same criteria as those suggested for media people just substituting politicians for journalists. Let me give you a few examples:
The functions of the Politicians Council would be: To register and de-register all Members of Parliament and other so-called politicians. The registration covers Tanzanian as well as foreign politicians who happen to be visiting. Therefore, foreign politicians, before descending from their plane, would have to sign a registration form which would only serve them for a limited duration and for the specific assignment which brought them to Tanzania.
Thus a visiting president on a State Visit would not be allowed to go and talk to the lions of Ngorongoro on the benefits of pluralism and animal rights without registering a second time.
Similarly any ecologically minded politician from another country who wishes to cull the leopards of Loliondo would have to apply for another registration form if he wishes also to inform the local inhabitants how he is doing all this for their benefit and their benefit alone.
Local politicians would have to ensure that they do not say or do anything which will bring them into disrepute with the powers that-be. Otherwise, they may be de-registered and therefore not allowed to continue as practising politicians.
Thus any such nefarious and time wasting activities as withholding a shilling (they only do that to increase their own shillings by adding to the number of sitting days in Parliament) or asking supplementary questions which the Honourable Minister was not equipped to answer or questioning the legitimate activities of the Government in any way are a sure route to deregistration. The Council's decision on this issue will be final.
To regulate the conduct, activities and behaviour of politicians and the practice of politics, I think this is self-explanatory. Once again, the powers-that-be will decide what is the proper conduct in this matter. At least, however, politicians should not unduly criticise or ridicule public officials for faithfully or responsibly enforcing the law. MPs should take note of this.
For example, while NUWA is faithfully and responsibly enforcing the cleanliness of the water, some unscrupulous politicians are even cowardly enough to use the sanctity of parliament to criticise such public officials and question their integrity.
Since most of them never drink the stuff anyway preferring a flavoured version, sold over the counter, I don't see how they know what they are talking about. Of course, the council will also decide at what angle all politicians have to bow when meeting their leaders and whether kissing boots is an essential part of the protocol of professional politicians.
To review cases of assistance received by the politicians. This refers to both politicians and their parties. Any assistance received by the ruling party is legitimate since the ruling party means the government but any assistance received by anyone else is automatically suspect since it can only have as its aim the overthrow of the present government which is practically perfect in every possible way.
In order to be registered one must hold a degree or diploma or certificate in a field which the Council or Minister determines.
This of course should be political science, since without that, how do we know that a certain person is qualified to talk about politics at all. Imagine a doctor of medicine or an engineer going into politics. The introduction of a Politicians' Council will remove all such anomalies so that we can remain with professional politicians who probably started as <ea/>chipukizi and are thoroughly versed in their subject, particularly, that of convincing the people that they are doing all they can in the best of all possible worlds.
In addition, the Politicians' Council may require that the applicant's professional and general conduct render him a fit and proper person to be registered. This is of course a very important provision since if the Council hears even a whiff of sexual harassment of your secretary, or chasing after schoolgirls (or boys as the case may be) or non-retirement of an <-/imprest> or misuse of a public vehicle, or drunken conduct etc. Etc, you may be struck off the register of politicians and good-bye parliament.
Finally, the two councils will obviously work together so that if you are struck off the <-_journalist's><+_journalists'> register, don't expect to become a politician and vice-versa. If you are unsuitable in one field related to communication, you certainly should not join another field.
Of course politicians who are also journalists will be specially scrutinised in this regard.
Since they are doubly qualified in communication skills, they are expected to show the highest standards of respect for democracy and truth and the two-way communication.
I have no doubt that anyone reading these suggestions for politicians will realise the wisdom of the proposed Media Council Act and all MPs will vote for it with an open heart knowing that such beneficial registration will soon be applied to them as well.
Democracy depends on restriction and constriction to prevent destruction. As for frivolous commentators such as myself, we should strike ourselves off the register forthwith. Politics and journalism are such serious professions that any hint of a laugh is actually treasonable. 
Tasty Tests
IF you think our politicians have a tough time of it because they issue orders which no one follows, you should come to the land where Great is still the name! In Tanzania, we have a very quiet, <ea/>staarabu manner of dealing with matters. If we don't want something, we say loudly that we fully support it and then quietly go and do the opposite. In that way we don't embarrass the person who made the foolish proposal in the first place and he or she can go on believing that his or her policy is being followed. But here in England, if they dislike what you are proposing they don't have the good taste to keep quiet. They tell you openly that they don't like it and that they have no intention of following it.
Like the teachers the other day. The Minister of Education had announced with great firmness that there would be a National Test for all 14 year olds. He was <-/admant> that the test was important so that a national league table of <-_schools><+_schools'> performance would be published which would show which schools were Yanga or Simbo and which were Ikwiriri United.
Thus, in a free market system, parents would be able to choose the school they wanted to send their children to. The teachers, however, said no. The test was a waste of time and money, poorly planned and implemented. The Minister <-/insidted>. He shouted to the rooftops that the people supported him against the obstinate teachers. The parents then also voted misbehaved by voting-against the tests.
The Minister, being of course always right in everything since he is a Minister, continued to insist that this particular form of national test was the saviour of British education. And he went to insist on it at a meeting of those pillars of the system, the headteachers. And do you know what ? They refused to listen.
They booed and hissed him! Isn't that worse than 'insults inside the clothes?' They behaved worse than the children they teach. No wonder the children have no discipline these days. and sure enough, a few days later, after 35 million pounds had been spent on the whole exercise, the boxes of tests remained unopened in nearly every school in the country.
What a mess! We are so lucky in Tanzania. Apart from a few minor disturbances such as when unruly teachers complain because they have been deprived of their leave allowance, instead of being prepared to sacrifice their leave for the good of the nation. Our teachers have always been prepared to work under far worse conditions without a word of protest, except perhaps in the form of a question to one of the itinerant big shots who might remember to lecture at them on one of his or her regional visits. 
Here in England, the teachers said that the money used in preparing and administering the test could have been better used in improving the standards of the schools by buying books, equipment etc.
Really, these teachers sometimes are very stupid. They should come over to Tanzania and see how well we spend all our money on administering the Standards Four and Seven examinations even if our schools have no desks, or books or classrooms or have more than 100 pupils in one class. Tests are the most important thing, not books or better training for teachers.
If the school has no books, the test will show that the school is behind so that we know and can plan to buy books when the money is available. Of course if there is no money left after administering the examination, that is bad luck so when they still have no books the following year, the test will again remind us that the school is behind. Tests are best.
In Tanzania we know that all the money that is spent on the printing and distribution of the tests, the supervision, the policing and <ea/>mgamboing, the marking and everything is all used to the best possible advantage so that we have no complaint even if the Ministry then selects a completely different set of pupils to the ones we knew were the best.
Furthermore, the tests will continue to show that those schools with rich parents who can afford to supplement the non-existent education budget are the best schools so that parents in poorer schools will try and find some way of paying the non-fees for their children's education. After all, stealing in order to buy a book for my child is not stealing at all. It is a development project.
This then is where our teachers are so good. They know that the Ministry of Education is the finest collection of brains in the country, therefore anything that they plan must be the best possible for the country.
Another example of how good our teachers are was their stupid complaint about the bureaucracy of the tests. One of the marking schemes was 600 pages!! My God, they should be grateful. They have a marking scheme and they can mark in the comfort of their own homes, with a cup of coffee by their side.
In Tanzania, our teachers are so <-/hard working> and versatile that they often write or rewrite the marking scheme themselves, for which they are not paid. Then they are put in some student dormitory and provided with food on condition that they mark 10-12 hours a day.
This they do without complaining. If they succeed in finishing such a job without having a mental breakdown on the way then they are given an <ea/>Asante for their hard work. Of course, the <ea/>asante is not very big because the Ministry in its wisdom realises that our teachers will never complain and will save the government money by doing the marking for a minimal fee. That way, the government has more money for important educational projects.
Aid versus trade ... or the concubine mentality
IF YOU remember, we have already had a look at some of the Third World revenges. But my alienated friend had not had his fill of the topic. His beard continued to quiver fervently.
"And what about AIDS?"
"You don't want to resurrect that rubbish story about African monkeys, do you?