In the afterlife, l might become a seasoned midwife

DAR ES SALAAM: DEAR nephew Milambo, Receive warm greetings from your uncle in this confused city of Dar es Salaam, where human beings compete with daladalas for road space, dust competes with sunlight for a place in the sky and everybody seems to be in a hurry even when they have nowhere important to go.

I greet you in the mighty names of all our Nyamwezi ancestors, from the youngest souls resting peacefully in the world of the departed to our fearless and legendary Chief Mirambo, the great warrior who made his enemies tremble as though they had accidentally stepped on a sleeping lion’s tail.

May his courage continue to inspire us, his descendants, especially those of us struggling to survive in this modern jungle where a man can wake up a respected citizen and return home looking like a defeated chicken.

I also salute the brave Rugaruga warriors who marched behind our great chief, carrying their weapons, their pride and their determination to defend the honour of the Nyamwezi nation.

If Chief Mirambo were to return to this world today and see the way we struggle with traffic jams, electricity bills, rising food prices and landlords who behave as though they own the moon, I suspect he would ask for his old spear and demand to know who has declared war on his people.

But let us leave the warriors in their peaceful resting places.

Here in Dar es Salaam, we are fighting our battles with different weapons my dear nephew. We carry mobile phones, bus fares, shopping bags and, where necessary, the patience of a saint who has been promised heaven but is still waiting for the transport arrangements. How is the village gossip progressing?

Has Mzee Juma finally repaired his old bicycle, or is he still pushing it from one end of the village to the other while telling people that he is saving fuel?

And what of the gentleman who announced that he would become a wealthy businessman after selling two bags of groundnuts? I hope he has not yet expanded his empire to include the village dispensary, the primary school and the chairman’s office.

You know how these things happen in our beloved Ukumbisiganga. A man can sell a chicken on Monday and by Wednesday the entire village believes he has opened a poultry company with branches in Tabora, Mwanza and Dar es Salaam.

Here in the city, we continue with our ordinary struggles, although I must confess that an extraordinary incident occurred a few days ago, one that has elevated my reputation to heights previously reserved for Chief Mirambo himself.

But before I tell you that story, allow me to pass on the warm greetings from your aunt and your little sister Neema. Your aunt sends you her heartfelt greetings and wishes everyone back home good health, peace and prosperity.

Neema, our little princess, also sends her greetings. The two of them are already counting the weeks before our planned journey to Ukumbisiganga for the Christmas festivities.

Your aunt has started talking about the clothes she will need, the gifts we must carry and the relatives we must visit. Judging by her preparations, one would think we are organising a presidential state visit rather than travelling to our own village.

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We are also waiting for the much-anticipated El Niño rains, which people say might arrive soon. Every time the subject comes up, I find myself looking at the sky with the seriousness of a farmer who has invested his entire future in a bag of maize seeds.

The weather forecasters and other experts have been talking about the possibility of heavy rains, and people are discussing the matter with a mixture of excitement and anxiety.

Some are preparing their farms, others are thinking about their roofs, while those of us living in Dar es Salaam are wondering whether the roads will turn into rivers and whether our already confused drainage systems will decide to take an extended Christmas holiday. I am particularly concerned about the roads around our neighbourhood.

When the rains arrive, some sections become so flooded that one needs to consult a fisherman before deciding which direction to take.

Yet, despite these worries, I pray that the rains will be beneficial, especially to our brothers and sisters in the villages who depend on agriculture.

May the heavens open at the right time and provide enough water for the crops without destroying homes, roads or livelihoods. Now, my dear nephew, let me tell you what happened a few days ago.

On that particular morning, I had an important errand in town. As usual, I decided to use public transport because your aunt had an early meeting so she left home early. I made my way to the bus stop and joined the familiar crowd of commuters.

You know the situation in this city. At certain hours, boarding a daladala requires determination, physical coordination and the ability to negotiate with strangers who believe that personal space is a luxury reserved for people travelling in private cars.

When the bus finally arrived, a crowd surged towards its entrance as though the government had announced that free money was being distributed inside.

Some passengers squeezed through the door, others shouted at the conductor, and a few fortunate individuals secured seats while the rest stood looking at them with envy.

By some miracle of our ancestors, I managed to board and find a seat. Sitting next to me was a very heavy woman who was heavily pregnant.

She appeared to be in the final stages of her pregnancy, and her enormous belly occupied so much space. I greeted her politely and adjusted myself to make her comfortable.

She thanked me and settled into her seat. The bus was crowded, the windows were open and the air was thick with the usual mixture of body heat, cheap perfume, dust and the smell of breakfast carried by passengers who had apparently decided that eating on public transport was a perfectly acceptable way to begin the day.

We moved slowly, stopping every few metres. Sometimes we advanced a little, only to stop again behind a long line of vehicles. Then something happened that changed the course of my morning.

The pregnant woman beside me suddenly shifted in her seat. At first, I thought she was merely uncomfortable.

She pressed one hand against her belly and closed her eyes. A few moments later, she let out a low groan. I turned towards her and asked her if she was okay, and she told me she was experiencing labour pains.

My dear son, at that moment, I felt as though somebody had poured a bucket of cold water over my head. I immediately began looking around for a doctor, a nurse or anybody wearing a white coat.

Unfortunately, the bus was full of ordinary citizens who looked just as frightened as I felt. A man sitting across the aisle suddenly became very interested in the scenery outside.

Another passenger began examining his phone with such concentration that one would have thought he was reading the national budget.

The woman standing near the door started calling upon God, while the conductor looked at the driver as though the driver had personally arranged the pregnancy.

The woman beside me groaned again, this time more loudly and begged me to help her. My dear son, l know how to ask difficult questions, interview government officials and write stories about national development.

I can even explain why a minister’s speech lasted two hours when the original programme allocated him only twenty minutes…. but delivering a baby? I called out to the conductor and driver, asking them to stop and help us get the woman to medical care.

Passengers began shouting for the driver to find a way out of the traffic. Unfortunately, the vehicles ahead were packed tightly together and movement was almost impossible.

I tried to remain calm my dear nephew, although my heart was beating as if I had been ordered to run from Dar es Salaam to Ukumbisiganga without stopping for water. Some passengers came forward to assist.

We sought urgent help and did what we could to give the woman privacy and reassurance. In those frantic moments, the usual barriers between strangers disappeared. People who had been complete strangers only minutes earlier suddenly became members of one emergency team.

My dear nephew, l cannot explain what happened next without admitting that my ancestors must have been watching over me.

Somehow, in the middle of the confusion, the cries and the desperate instructions from different corners of the bus, I found myself helping the woman through the delivery.

My hands were trembling, my shirt was sticking to my body and my mind was racing faster than a bodaboda rider who has just spotted a passenger waving a banknote. Yet, somehow, I managed to help with the birth of a healthy, bouncing baby boy!

The little fellow announced his arrival into the world with a powerful cry, as if he wanted the entire daladala to know that he had arrived and was already unhappy with the state of public transport.

The mother was exhausted, but she was conscious and grateful. We continued seeking assistance, and arrangements were made for her and the newborn to receive appropriate medical attention.

As people congratulated the mother and admired the baby, she turned towards me and said she wanted to name the boy after me. My dear nephew, I nearly forgot how to breathe. I was so overwhelmed that for a moment I could not find the words to respond.

Imagine that, my dear son, a man who had boarded a daladala simply hoping to reach town on time had suddenly become the namesake of a newborn child.

I could already imagine returning to Ukumbisiganga at Christmas and announcing the news to the family. Give my greetings to the elders, the young men, the women, the farmers and all our relatives.

May Chief Mirambo’s courage continue to guide us, and may the coming rains bring blessings to our people without turning our homes and roads into swimming pools.

May the spirit of Chief Mirambo remain with you, and may the Rugaruga warriors watch over our beloved Ukumbisiganga.

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