I had just completed Form VI. The year was 1973 and I was in my late teenage years – 19.
Life in my rural Chalowe village, in the then Njombe District (now Wang’ing’ombe District in Njombe Region), was, to say the least, very chill – except for one thing: The weekly visit by the Italian Roman Catholic Church Father ‘Ponda’ from the nearby Igwachanya Parish.
The visit by ‘Padre Ponda’ – we never knew his real name – was the highlight of the week, because he brought us bundles of free second-hand clothes, mitumba, from Italy.
He would park his weather-beaten Fiat pick-up truck at one corner of the rough road passing through the village and personally distribute clothes to his chosen children. I was among his favourite boys and always received something nice and decent from him.
In due course, he became my friend and even learned that I had completed high school – a rare feat at the time. To cut a long story short, I soon became a part-time teacher at his Catholic Church-run primary school at Igwachanya.
Somehow, I also became a star teacher. How could it have been otherwise, with my youth and broad knowledge? I was teaching English Language, History and Geography – subjects I excelled in – to Class VI and VII pupils, and earning a ten shilling a week – then a satisfactory remuneration.
There soon burst onto this comfortable arrangement, I one morning received a government order ordering me to report, within a week, to the Buhemba National Service Camp (JKT) in Musoma, Mara Region – about 1,500 kilometres away near Kenyan border.
I was first instructed to report to the Njombe District Commissioner (DC)’s office for further directions. From this office, I received my Government Travel Warrant – a paper document that allowed one to travel at the expense of the government – and was directed to take the then-famous East African Railways and Harbours (EAR&H) bus from Njombe to Iringa, the regional headquarters of the bus company.
From Iringa, I was to take another bus to Dodoma, and from there a train – of the same company – to Mwanza. From Mwanza, I was instructed to board a private bus to Musoma, and from there to Buhemba.
Firm instructions were also issued that I must contact the respective DC’s offices in any centre I passed through, in case I encountered any problems along the way.
This came in handy in Dodoma, where I – along with several other boys and girls headed to camps in Tabora, Kigoma and Musoma – got stranded for two days. After our call for help, the Dodoma DC’s office promptly took us to the then Mazengo High School, where we were provided with free food and accommodation before boarding our scheduled train.
In Mwanza, I was lucky. As I stepped out of the train station, I instinctively hopped onto a Musoma-bound bus that happened to be passing by – I had still been trying to find my way to the central bus station. And in Musoma, as we approached the town, I got lucky again. The bus conductor, sharp as he was, forcefully stopped the Buhemba-bound bus and bundled me into it for the final stretch of the long journey.
However, shock awaited my few colleagues and me at the Buhemba Camp Gate. The “welcome ceremony” by the Military Police (MPs) was nothing short of surreal. They literally frogmarched us – with our bags precariously balanced on our heads – to the Quartermaster’s Office for our first strange and unfamiliar camp orders. Presumably, we were half an hour late in reporting to the camp – apparently, a major offence!
This marked my first major experience – and discovery – of our country in light, the world at large. In hindsight, I wonder how I could have survived the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune in this world without that invaluable experience.
The author is a veteran journalist and communication expert/consultant.
📩 mpumilwadan@gmail.com
