Martin Luther King, Jr. Day isn’t celebrated or even noted here in Tanzania. The Africans had to struggle against colonialism, not slavery, and today they are divided not by race but rather tribalism and economic status. Ray is very proud that his youngest daughter, Anita, goes to the same school as Mazo’s nephew, Sydney, but Mama Kundayo barely acknowledges that. The Mtuis have been laborers and taxi drivers, while the Kundayos have been landowners and elected politicians and all of the last two generations have been well educated. Anita may be as smart or even smarter than Sydney, but she will likely never have the same social advantages that he will.
We had a quiet Monday except for the intrusion of new tragedy. John had managed to speak with a Western Union helpline and actually traced Fake Ray to a town on the other side of Lake Victoria. He was hoping that Ray would check in as usual, and then the two of them would go to the police with this new information. However, when Ray came, he told us the very sad news that his uncle—his mother’s youngest brother—had been hit and killed by a car Saturday night as he was crossing the big double highway which runs by Kundayo now. There are well-marked crosswalks, but they are placed too far apart. People have always been used to just running back and forth across the road and still tend to do that now even with four lanes of traffic instead of two. Also, Ray’s uncle was out at night and may have been drinking—though we did not ask about that.
Poor Ray. The first week we were here, his 22-year-old nephew who was in medical and was a rising star of hope for the family suddenly died in Dar. The young man had had a severe headache for two days and then died. It’s not known if he had suffered an aneurysm or had cerebral malaria. It was a blow for the family and a time of grieving with a funeral which had to have been a financial burden. Now, the uncle, who was only 54 years old, is dead, and there is more shock, grief, and financial drain. Ray didn’t ask or even hint that we give him any money—he still feels terrible about Fake Ray—but I slipped him a small amount and sent some loose tea and sugar to his mother to help with hospitality for mourners. The funeral is to be Wednesday. We were invited but will not attend, as we met this man only once, and such events can go for hours and hours with mourners coming and going from the home. If there is a service at the church on Thursday, we may attend that.
The next morning, John decided that he needed to get to a bank and take care of some other errands. He suggested that I ride along into town and enjoy myself at Fifi’s, an expat hangout with nice food, gourmet coffee drinks, and ice cream. I always feel ashamed of myself when I go there even though there are always plenty of Tanzanians and other Africans there as well, using the free wifi while they nurse a coca-cola or Stoney. As it turned out, because Ray is not driving taxi this week, we didn’t find another driver and get to the cafe until it was time for lunch. So, we ordered: mishikaki (kebabs) for John and tilapia for me. After that, we had ice cream, which is probably why John chose Fifi’s. Then John trotted off on his errands, and I sat and read until he returned. I love watching the people passing by on the street, which meant I got very little read.
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| Mishikaki, chips, and salad all for under $8. |
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| I made a complete mess eating this fishie. |
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