At the end of our two-week incarceration in a cell at the Oljoro National Service (JKT) Camp in Arusha – punishment for going AWOL (Absent Without Official Leave) during transit from Mtwara line – the late Aanei Laiser and I were finally released and rejoined our fellow recruits in the daily tasks at the camp.
Oljoro was a windy, dusty and chilly place, especially during the June–August cold season. The main tasks involved farming – thousands of acres of beans – and constructing our own sleeping quarters, after previous structures were blown away by a windstorm a few months earlier. All this, of course, was in addition to the core military drills.
To avoid the gruelling task of farming, which lasted at least six long hours every weekday, I pretended to be an electrician and was assigned the reconstruction brigade. But not for long – my deception was uncovered when the Afandes realised that I knew nothing about electricity beyond how to switch a naked bulb on and off.
At that point, I was forced to reconsider my childhood football goalkeeping skills. I promptly joined the camp’s football team and, by sheer luck, managed to stay on as a reserve goalkeeper.
The Camp Commandant, Captain Mushi, was an avid football fan. As such, we were granted few privileges, including being assigned lighter duties so we could conserve our energy for football.
We also mastered the art of “soft jogging”, where we would jog out of the camp mid-morning, only to find a sunny spot out of sight and take a nap.
However, one part of the training that was embraced enthusiastically by every recruit was firearms handling: dismantling and reassembling them, followed by shooting practice.
The most common firearm was the Semi-Automatic Rifle (SAR), and I soon became a versatile SAR handler – though, at the shooting range, I was close to computer awful. All five of my bullets missed the figure.
This epic failure was even more embarrassing because the recruit next to me – a woman – hit the target with all her bullets.
“I think marrying you would guarantee my safety and security,” I told her meekly. She still mocks me about it to this day.
Sundays were our special freedom days. We were allowed out of the camp for most of the day. There were only two types of outings: either hitch a ride on one of the many lorries ferrying red from the Oljoro quarries to Arusha town (a rock grind it is the base of Namanga or Ngaramtoni – still hot in our dusty, dirty uniforms looking rather alien – or visit the local illicit drinking dens run by Ali Isaako’s farm workers and drink ourselves silly).
“It was always amusing to watch our MPs (military police) fishing us out of shallow streams after we’d drunkenly fallen in, having failed to cross the proper vehicle bridges.”
Naturally, we’d end up dumped back into the camp cells for overnight sobering up.
Aside from these silly episodes, we genuinely completed our military training, learned to love military discipline and became more patriotic Tanzanians: self-controlled, committed, and ready to serve our nation.
Ironically, we became proper soldiers who respected discipline, honour and orders. I still remember one evening, as we were returning in a public bus, we were disturbed by the chaotic way raila (livestock) was braying and laughing, baying and mocking us, who regarded order.
“Hawa raia weledi,” (“These are true civilians, we equipped in disdain).
“To avoid the gruelling task of farming, which lasted at least six long hours every weekday, I pretended to be an electrician and was assigned to the reconstruction brigade. But not for long – my deception was uncovered by the Afandes —”
The author is a veteran journalist and communication expert/consultant. mpumilwa@gmail.com
