14th January 2022
Que Sera Sera!
Dear Rafiki,
Months have passed in our new world and this letter to you is long overdue, certainly considering all the time I’ve had at hand. We sincerely hope that you and yours are well, stay well and soon find some sense of normalcy in whatever the modified norm will be. Fortunately! We are all, the crew, their families and us alike, healthy and well.
I have lived in Africa for most of my life. We’ve been faced with and lived through many threatening situations which, during their respective boiling points and threat to our existence seemed as frightening, if not the beginning of the end. I don’t diminish nor dishonor the hardships and loss experienced by many during these times, even though our family somehow always dealt, forged through, had its share of good fortune, fielding each approaching spinning ball one way or another. The first such situation I recall, even though I’d only recently started school in Dar es Salaam, was the January 1964 Mutiny of soldiers of the First Battalion Tanganyika Rifles. Recounted with some lateral liberty given my memory isn’t what it used to be and probably wasn’t very reliable back then anyway, but this was exciting stuff so not easy to forget!
This was a rebellion that blew up in all four East African territories (Kenya, Uganda, Tanganyika and Zanzibar) at about the same time. The Zanzibar revolution of January 11th 1964 got the ball rolling. Subsequent rebellions in Kenya and Uganda were put down quickly. Zanzibar had only been independent for about six weeks and its uprisings involved the brutal and ruthless removal of the newly appointed Arab government, its Sultan and the slaughter of hundreds of civilians by the predominantly Bantu population. This was put down in about five days - then came mainland Tanganyika’s turn.
My school day had begun and what a school day it was!
I’m sure I was a bit down hearted since I’d not managed to weasel my way out of going. I’m sure I was already pretty certain that mother saw me as the next best thing to sunlight and had already devised some cunning plan to win her over- be coddled, given a hot water bottle and fed some more, before I’d work at convincing her that some fishing down at the creek would really help me feel much better. It didn’t work out that way, not at all. I was hauled off to St Joseph’s school, located in the city center.
I hadn’t been in scripture class for long when we started to hear sharp explosions. As the son of parents who owned The Tanganyika Croc Skin Company, I knew what this was and recognized the blasts for what they were. It really didn’t matter because in answer to my prayers that morning (which I’m not proud to say were probably only initiated once I realized my ploy to cut school had failed miserably) chaos ensued. Nuns ran from class room to class room muttering, hailing us out while flicking signs of the crucifix frequently - school was shut and we were to all leave, scatter, run home. We were among the youngest in the school but I don’t recall any special attention given to our class. It didn’t matter though, I was ecstatic. We were grabbing satchels and leaving. Instinctively I made a note to remember this particular prayer used seeing as how effective it had been.
I recall finding myself outside the school gate under massive old purple painted Bougainvillea bushes that grew up against the huge walls. The hard-packed dusty patch underfoot was carpeted with blossoms softening the worn patch of ground below. It was where my mother would drop me off and collect me.
It was as always, a sweltering tropical day. This was a sheltered spot in the midst of scattering students as the nuns lost control totally. I settled down on an exposed root and leant against the wall, taking in the lay of the land as taught to me from an early age by my dad.
This was the most comforting spot, the place we would congregate at break time after buying tart, unripe mango wedges sprinkled with a paprika sugar mix peddled by street hawkers and vendors. On offer too, would be roasted cassava wedges with salt and blackened maize from hot coals while others arrived with wooden wheel barrows full of Dafu. It’s a young coconut, one still filled with juice before its white copra matures. Pay the peddler and he’d toss one into the air testing with hand, ear and eye for its quality and vintage so to speak, and if suitable, whip the Panga (Machete) across its top slicing away husk. A few spins into the air, a few slices and the Dafu would be open, a refreshing quencher just lips away.
Soldiers commandeered the intersection down the road, waving guns around and occasionally firing into the air. At every burst the scattering crowd would suddenly change direction in unison, many hitting the deck in a cloud of dust. I remember the slowed motion of it all, everyone in their grey lowers and white tops moving in unison like a rehearsed dance- one moment the wave going one way then suddenly dropping to the ground in a huge puff of dust with the rat-tat rat-tat of the gunfire, then up again running in another direction. The further into town they scattered the quieter it got and suddenly, relatively speaking, it was quiet. I was alone under the bougainvillea bush by the wall, my school day come to an end. If this was what school was like maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be!
At some point I saw this light blue Mercedes Benz, with its dark top come careening through the intersection, past the soldiers who simply stood back and let it through. My mother pulled up dramatically leaving skid marks, stylish as usual and not going to put up with any nonsense. I’ll always remember- fashion of the day pedal pushers, crisp leopard skin patterned top, bee-hive hairdo, smoke curling off her cigarette perched at the end of a long cigarette holder and a revolver by her seat. I piled in, my two sisters were on the floor behind the driver seat and off we went back through the city to the south where we lived by the beach.
Back at the house there was the immediate rush to repel anticipated trouble, board all windows and prepare for a siege. I recall neighbors being involved and my father returning from someplace all in a storm ready to fight off intruders. If there was anything we did have, it was a lot of guns and bullets. Ours was not a choice place for looters and opportunists to test as some discovered during the following nights.
I loved it, the adventure of it all but could not have had the slightest notion of the anxiety nor stress felt by the adults at this time, all the same this was the life. No doubt such experiences became instrumental in life in terms of what I considered exciting or mundane. After one hectic night of gunshots and shouting we were awakened by the roaring of incredibly loud engines overhead. I went out from the veranda onto the beach to see what the commotion was about. Anchored out in the bay right in front of our house was the biggest ship I’d ever seen. It was in fact a small British aircraft carrier, sent down from Aden, to help at the bequest of the President to “sort the local mutineers who were getting out of hand and causing a spot of bother”.
Choppers carrying British troops, big nets full of gear swinging from their bellies or even short Land Rovers clattered over heading inland to the Colito barracks where most of the fighting was taking place. I recall waving and shouting to the troops and them waving down at us. The cavalry had arrived. One would have thought that we’d return to our respective houses and batten down, maybe even hold hands and pray. Nope! Neighbors and us packed picnic baskets including Gin, Tonic, Port and Cigars and headed off for a family outing to see the fighting.
We were parked in a ditch between the barracks and a nearby hill where most of the gunshots came from. Carpets and baskets were laid out by the cars. Officers and parents were drinking and making jovial and, I suppose us kids were being told to stay low. Captured rebels were being shoved past us at gun point to the nearest cell. It was after all just a spot of bother that would be cleared up in a jiffy. In retrospect, not exactly a normal picnic. The thing about it all though is that life went back to normal after that which, disappointingly, meant going back to school. Probably most disturbing is that although I closed my eyes tight many times in the future, trying the prayer that was so effective on that day, no more school interruptions were bestowed.
Regardless, we still talk of the good old days.
I must admit that I have relished this isolation, particularly its elasticity - to be forced to sit back, be lazy but occupied with things that have been on the back burner for too long, sort thousands of slides, consider priorities, reflect on the pedal to the metal habit for something vaguer and envisaging a trailer of new horizons. Of course, it’s possible I’ve simply not grown up and am still happy to cut school!
While sorting through life’s material baggage during this downtime I’ve come across an old trunk with lots of LPs- vinyl records. Some of them from the sixties, seventies and so on - music my parents played at their socials before my Stones and Bob Dylan sleeves joined the collection. Serendipitously maybe, I pull out a sleeve by Doris Day. On it is a track called “Whatever Will Be, Will Be.”- Que Sera Sera!
Please stay safe and let us know you are well.