As part of the recent Easter festivities marking the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, whom Christians believe is the Son of God who sacrificed His life to save us — the lost sheep of the family — from Armageddon, I was compelled to go and pay my respects at my father’s grave in Chalowe village, Wanging’ombe District, Njombe Region.
My father, the late William Samwel Mpumilwa, passed away some 36 years ago at the age of 67. He was a great father and a strict disciplinarian who, among other things, ensured that we pursued our educational goals with seriousness. Otherwise, our tiny buttocks were surely bound to suffer from the hippo whip he kept in his bedroom. It is a long story.
You see, my father was among the very few young Bena boys recruited by the early German Evangelical Lutheran Church missionaries who arrived in the Southern Highlands in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.
After his tertiary education, he went on to study at Kinampanda and Marangu Teachers’ Colleges before returning home to work as one of the pioneer teachers in the then newly established church-run primary schools.
It was during this period that he met one of the daughters of the then senior Lutheran Church pastors in the area, the late Lutangilo Merere, of the Sangu Chiefdom lineage and married her.
My mother, Rhoda Semerere, now aged 93, has naturally taken over my father’s role and now dictates matters to me. A few weeks ago, she literally ordered me to organise a special ceremony to honour my father’s life. She also did not fail to remind and warn me about my usual erratic lifestyle. God bless her.
I was therefore compelled to invite all my close and distant relatives, as well as religious leaders, to my ancestral home in Chalowe for the ceremony. The occasion entailed a special religious service at my father’s tomb, followed by church choir performances, food and drinks at my modest village residence.
All went well. But while participating in the cleaning and preparation of flower arrangements at my father’s grave, long-lost memories came back to haunt me.
My father passed away while I was working at the Tanzania Tourist Corporation (TTC), where, among other duties, I founded a magazine called ‘Tantravel’. My consulting editors were two very close friends from my days at the Daily News and Sunday News — Hamidu Bisanga and Tony Barretto. Unfortunately, both have since transitioned from this physical world.
Upon learning that my father had passed away, the two ensured that I boarded the earliest bus to Njombe from the then Kisutu Bus Station in Dar es Salaam. But being ‘comrades’ in our drinking group, they also gave me, apart from some money, a carton of Konyagi bottles to soothe my sorrows during the 12-hour journey.
Indeed, my sorrows were soothed and virtually washed away during the long bus ride. I barely recollect my father’s burial service and the locals simply said, “He was in very deep mourning.”
The following morning, I bid farewell to my mother, relatives and all those who had come to console me. However, upon reaching the local bus stand, I realised I could not find the money I had with me.
In my hungover and inebriated logic, I decided to march through the bush for some 30 kilometres to Makambako, where I hoped to hitchhike back to Dar es Salaam.
Indeed, this march was a “sobering hangover treatment” I would recommend to anyone who, in one way or another, finds himself in my position.
After the harrowing bush walk, I safely reached Makambako. I strategically perched myself at the main junction where vehicles from Njombe, Songea and Mbeya transit.
As I sat on a kerb, shivering in the Southern Highlands’ wintry weather and waiting for God to save me, I suddenly had the urge to urinate. I went behind a bush, but in my inebriated state, some of the urine splashed onto my leg.
I stooped down to clean my leg and — wow! — inside my sock I found the bundle of money I had travelled with from Dar es Salaam.
Overwhelmed by this discovery, I sat down there and then to thank my stars, my late father and Almighty God.
I abandoned my post at the junction and naturally spent two extra days in Makambako mourning and reliving my father’s life.
May his soul rest in peace and may he forgive me for my earthly sins.
Amen.
