When I graduated from the University of Dar es Salaam in the mid-70s, I looked forward to beginning what I assumed would be my “boss duties” in one of the many public or government institutions in Bongoland.
You see, during those years, everyone who graduated with a degree or advanced diploma from the few colleges in the land of Mwalimu Nyerere would automatically secure employment in one of those institutions.
The task was entrusted to a special government department appropriately named the High-Level Manpower Allocation Committee. Well, that is a story for another day.
So, one Monday morning, I sauntered into the offices of the government-owned Daily/Sunday News along Maktaba Street, in the heart of Dar es Salaam, to begin my “boss duties.”
Naturally, I was shocked when my then News Editor, the late Abdallah Ngororo, handed me a pen and notebook and directed me to go to the nearby Kisutu Court and gather news on the cases being heard there.
I was to receive “on-the-spot guidance”, as the North Koreans used to say, from a veteran journalist, the late Subira Kumbuka.
After that day’s Kisutu stint, I returned to the newsroom, sat at my desk and hand-wrote the news items from court.
To my utter shock, the handwritten materials were thrown back at me. I was then ordered to type them using one of the many worn-out Facet typewriters scattered around the newsroom.
At that time, to my ungroomed mind, typing was not for graduates — it was a task undertaken by secretaries. These days, I laugh at that immature notion.
In due course, I learnt to type — and fast, at that — using what we called the “two-finger system.” It remains my preferred method to this day.
You should have seen the newsroom back then. Strange as it might seem today, journalists — most of them profusely smoking cigarettes — pounded away at the worn-out typewriters with tattered ribbons inside the always smoky newsroom, desperately trying to beat the deadline. It was indeed a scene to behold.
On out-of-station assignments, the task became even more complicated. After drafting a story, one would then look for a landline telephone, request a reverse call to the newsroom, and literally dictate the entire story over the phone.
Where there were Telex facilities — and to the new-age scribes, these were machines through which one sent articles via perforated paper back to the Telex room inside the newsroom — the story would then be transcribed into text.
Many years later, after leaving the newspapers, I was introduced to the then-mysterious desktop computer with its humped back. I initially mistook the hump for the computer’s brain.
Again, this was a shocker. But thanks to colleagues from the University of Dar es Salaam Computing Department, who guided me and my team through the system.
And now, we have very flat computer screens, with added Internet and social-media applications. Initially, this too was a confusing development for an ageing relic like me.
Nonetheless, I have, to a large extent, managed to keep abreast of these developments. I dread the idea of being left behind. It is no secret that my best IT tutors and “on-the-spot guides” today are my own children.
But that is not all. We now have smartphones — simu janja. This is yet another cutting-edge development. You have the whole world in your hand. You can communicate, read books and news, enjoy music, watch films, transact business — financial or otherwise — and take photos and videos, to mention but a few.
These truly are magic gadgets. My children tell me that the apps I am using represent only the tip of the iceberg of what my device can do. While I am still trying to wade through the maze of these modern-day mysteries, I am told that the Artificial Intelligence (AI) era is already here — and I must embrace it.
At this pace, I am tempted to throw up my arms and surrender. God help me!
