Whenever I drive past the imposing Catholic Cathedral in Njombe, an iconic landmark in this regional town, my eyes fill with tears as I remember the hospitality the church extended to me and several other young boys and girls 61 years ago, in 1965.
I was 11 years old and had completed Standard IV a year earlier at what was then Madilu Primary School, now Wangama Primary School, in what is today Wanging’ombe District. Of the 45 pupils who sat the 1964 national primary school leaving examinations at the school, only three of us were selected to continue to what was then known as upper primary education.
Looking back, the main reason the majority did not continue was the limited number of schools available to accommodate them. Many more must have passed the primary-level examinations.
My late father, Mzee William, made preparations for my new educational journey, which would take me to Tandala Upper Boys Middle School, about 85 kilometres from Njombe town, in what is now Makete District. The preparations included the purchase of a red wooden box, which served as my suitcase; a pair of black Bata Scout shoes, my first ever; two pairs of khaki shorts and shirts and two pairs of khaki socks, among other items.
On the day of my departure from my village, Chalowe, some 45 kilometres west of Njombe, I had to board the once-daily East African Railways bus. It travelled along the muddy route from Mbeya to Njombe, where I hoped to find some form of transport to Tandala.
On the first day, the bus simply sped past. At the time, it was a serious offence to carry standing passengers. The following day, an ingenious Chalowe elder, the late Mzee Mathias, urged me and the other Njombe-bound passengers to hide our luggage in the roadside drains.
As the bus approached, he stood in the middle of the road waving a tray of chicken eggs. Although the bus was full, the driver stopped and was handed the tray, while the conductor was given a gallon container filled with the popular sweet bamboo wine known as “ulanzi”.
We were then ushered aboard as standing passengers. Tragically, that also marked my first encounter with corruption.
About an hour later, we arrived at the bus station in Njombe. I did not know where to go until another young boy, who was apparently heading to a different upper primary school, suggested that we seek help at the Catholic cathedral.
There, we were directed behind the church to the student hostels. We were surprised to find about 20 other pupils staying there while waiting for transport connections to their respective schools.
The church was providing free meals and accommodation to all stranded pupils, whether Christian or not, while its staff helped us secure transport to our schools. I stayed there for three days.
On the fourth day, two of my colleagues and I managed to secure a lift in a fully enclosed goods lorry. It had only a small opening at the top front of the cargo compartment and was transporting bags of sugar, salt, maize flour and rice to Makete.
The journey was a harrowing experience. There were now six of us, all struggling to breathe through the tiny opening. We also vomited profusely over the bags as the lorry lurched from one side of the muddy, potholed road to the other.
On several occasions, we were forced to climb out and push the lorry whenever it got stuck, as mud splattered across our small bodies.
It took us three days to reach Tandala, a mere 85 kilometres away. On our arrival, our fellow pupils stood stunned, wondering where these famished, rain-soaked, mud-covered and tattered young boys had come from. They might easily have concluded that we were from outer space.
This remains one of my most enduring experiences: My journey to Standard V. In due course, I became a regular traveller along the route. It is therefore no wonder that I can never forget the church’s support and warm hospitality, especially the hot tea and freshly baked wheat bread. God bless them.
I look forward to revisiting the hostel premises in the near future. I hope they are still there.
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