Janerose mzalendo
JF-Expert Member
- Oct 4, 2018
- 3,882
- 2,813
“I am going to be rich one day, you’ll see. I will be very rich, like Manji, the rich Indian who is a donor of the Young Africans Soccer team.”
Anything was possible at kijiweni. Dreams were built, un-built and built again. Many plans for success were drawn and detailed out.
There were boys at kijiweni who had lost patience. These agreed to steal for others. They got hired by bigger thieves, people who called themselves ‘business men.’ Those had stayed in the city and had hardened to certain callousness and no longer cared about people. They too came to Dar es Salaam to live, they came with a dream and now all they cared about was money. They maimed and killed for a small sum.
“Do you want some money?” they asked the young boys as they arrived in the city, before they got hold of someone they trusted to guide them. These would be the ones to help them as they forayed into the city and learnt its geography by heart. Otherwise they fell into the hands of these unscrupulous businessmen first. They captured the young boys early and assured them that they would guide them in this concrete jungle.
The businessmen also looked out for newcomers as they loitered aimlessly on shop verandas, peering at the merchandise. Or, they found them sitting at kijiweni, the place where the jobless congregate and exchange ideas and get information. There were many such places in the belly of the city. At kijiweni, young men debated hotly on football in a bid to overcome the nagging fear which stared them in the face, permanently, until they got a job. They were either fans of Simba or Yanga, the two most popular football teams. Their opinions about their teams were unchanging. Each one believed their team was supreme, so the arguments never ended. At kijiweni, they talked about current affairs which they learnt from each other or by scanning newspaper headlines at the news stands. They did not need much information to start a discussion; anything could be interesting. They discussed party politics. They were fans of various parties. Their arguments reflected their desires. They talked about personalities, especially those the media had linked with corruption. At kijiweni, such personalities were praised for being corrupt because they knew that corrupt people had money. Real money. BIG money. They heard and assumed that the rich people were corrupt, most big government people, including the ministers, who got the money as they sat in their big, posh offices.
“I want that chair.”
“If I could just know where this money is kept! Mwanangu, where is it?”
“It is illegal money. You’ll be locked up in jail and die there.”
They laughed and argued about the illegality of money.
“What is legal and what is illegal money?”
“That is the job of lawyers. Your job is to live.”
They did not know which way of doing things was legal or illegal.
They debated hotly among themselves if it was legal for police to grab their merchandise and never return them. If it was illegal, wouldn’t it mean that their operation was also illegal? So who should go to jail?
Kijiweni was a lively place where free opinions reigned. It was a place where anger and frustration were vented. And always, they agreed that it was better to be a fisadi than a pauper, like they were. They used the term to tease each other.
“You fisadi, come here, you need money to spend?”
“I want to be a fisadi, bwana,” they said proudly, beating their chests.
The ‘business men’ had eyes for such life - hungry young boys. “You, do you want to get rich?” One businessman asked the young boys at kijiweni. These business men were known around town. They were ‘infamous’ in their specialties. There were those who were famed for stealing with arms like short guns, those who did it with Fatuma, the big, hard stone, specially designed for breaking down doors. There were those who dealt with drugs. The young boys at kijiweni knew them well because such places were their hunting ground.
When mzee spoke, mzee, the title the boys gave to people with money, the young boys laughed, nervously in utter disbelief.
“Mwanangu, listen to that.” They spoke in undertones, their eyes shining.
“He is asking if you want to breath.”
“Mwanangu, do you want to breath?”
Heads turned to each other. The eyes spoke of their desire, but they did not answer. The businessman remained quiet, waiting. He knew the process of decision would take a bit of time.
“Mzee, tell us the story.”
A young willing job seeker named Ali Shekilango finally asked, tentatively. He wanted to breath, to live, perhaps also to be a businessman.
Do you want to be rich?
What a question! The young men could not get over it. It kept ringing in their heads for quite a while. They had been in the city for more than three weeks, some for a month and more, and were still seeking, walking the streets and seeking. Getting rich was something they always dreamt of. The simple meaning of being rich that they knew was having money enough to eat to one’s fill and impress others.
Anything was possible at kijiweni. Dreams were built, un-built and built again. Many plans for success were drawn and detailed out.
There were boys at kijiweni who had lost patience. These agreed to steal for others. They got hired by bigger thieves, people who called themselves ‘business men.’ Those had stayed in the city and had hardened to certain callousness and no longer cared about people. They too came to Dar es Salaam to live, they came with a dream and now all they cared about was money. They maimed and killed for a small sum.
“Do you want some money?” they asked the young boys as they arrived in the city, before they got hold of someone they trusted to guide them. These would be the ones to help them as they forayed into the city and learnt its geography by heart. Otherwise they fell into the hands of these unscrupulous businessmen first. They captured the young boys early and assured them that they would guide them in this concrete jungle.
The businessmen also looked out for newcomers as they loitered aimlessly on shop verandas, peering at the merchandise. Or, they found them sitting at kijiweni, the place where the jobless congregate and exchange ideas and get information. There were many such places in the belly of the city. At kijiweni, young men debated hotly on football in a bid to overcome the nagging fear which stared them in the face, permanently, until they got a job. They were either fans of Simba or Yanga, the two most popular football teams. Their opinions about their teams were unchanging. Each one believed their team was supreme, so the arguments never ended. At kijiweni, they talked about current affairs which they learnt from each other or by scanning newspaper headlines at the news stands. They did not need much information to start a discussion; anything could be interesting. They discussed party politics. They were fans of various parties. Their arguments reflected their desires. They talked about personalities, especially those the media had linked with corruption. At kijiweni, such personalities were praised for being corrupt because they knew that corrupt people had money. Real money. BIG money. They heard and assumed that the rich people were corrupt, most big government people, including the ministers, who got the money as they sat in their big, posh offices.
“I want that chair.”
“If I could just know where this money is kept! Mwanangu, where is it?”
“It is illegal money. You’ll be locked up in jail and die there.”
They laughed and argued about the illegality of money.
“What is legal and what is illegal money?”
“That is the job of lawyers. Your job is to live.”
They did not know which way of doing things was legal or illegal.
They debated hotly among themselves if it was legal for police to grab their merchandise and never return them. If it was illegal, wouldn’t it mean that their operation was also illegal? So who should go to jail?
Kijiweni was a lively place where free opinions reigned. It was a place where anger and frustration were vented. And always, they agreed that it was better to be a fisadi than a pauper, like they were. They used the term to tease each other.
“You fisadi, come here, you need money to spend?”
“I want to be a fisadi, bwana,” they said proudly, beating their chests.
The ‘business men’ had eyes for such life - hungry young boys. “You, do you want to get rich?” One businessman asked the young boys at kijiweni. These business men were known around town. They were ‘infamous’ in their specialties. There were those who were famed for stealing with arms like short guns, those who did it with Fatuma, the big, hard stone, specially designed for breaking down doors. There were those who dealt with drugs. The young boys at kijiweni knew them well because such places were their hunting ground.
When mzee spoke, mzee, the title the boys gave to people with money, the young boys laughed, nervously in utter disbelief.
“Mwanangu, listen to that.” They spoke in undertones, their eyes shining.
“He is asking if you want to breath.”
“Mwanangu, do you want to breath?”
Heads turned to each other. The eyes spoke of their desire, but they did not answer. The businessman remained quiet, waiting. He knew the process of decision would take a bit of time.
“Mzee, tell us the story.”
A young willing job seeker named Ali Shekilango finally asked, tentatively. He wanted to breath, to live, perhaps also to be a businessman.
Do you want to be rich?
What a question! The young men could not get over it. It kept ringing in their heads for quite a while. They had been in the city for more than three weeks, some for a month and more, and were still seeking, walking the streets and seeking. Getting rich was something they always dreamt of. The simple meaning of being rich that they knew was having money enough to eat to one’s fill and impress others.
