Soon I was quiet, I was neither smiling nor laughing. I kept quiet to think like the statue of the THINKER in my school arts laboratory. The memories of the parting moment overshadowed me.

“Uwe hodari mtoto wangu,” she waved at me: “Be respectful, no bad reports!” she said softly.

“Kwaheri!” I told mama as I carried my tin-box off to the road where I would board a vehicle.

Now after a long journey of slow and steady matatu drive, I was at the great city of Zanzibar. The ancient city shone with magnificent gown of endurance – several years of raid by Britain and other nations. Yet it stood firm on the dark soil without quivering.

Mama said that faith is staying strong in times of troubles and hope is believing that you will survive the troubles, at all cost. Now, here I am to survive the troubles my little village over there in my great country poses.

I tucked my hand in my pocket, brought out a piece of paper. An address was scribbled down on and headed into the streets in search of the flat number that was written on it. I hate asking people for directions, Dada – sister could have come to the bus terminal to get me rather than stressing out her little brother.

I sighed, wiped off the sweat on my face with the back of my hand. She said that she would have loved to get me from the bus terminal but the nature of her work would not permit her.

What type of work? Maybe dada works in a private establishment. Those selfish bosses there suck. I hate them. Could it be that she works for the government? The government do not guarantee their workers freedom even when they inscribe it boldly on every paper or flag: UHURU NA UMOJA.I hate the government the devil in me said and I laughed to myself and continued my search for dada’s flat number.

After a long walk that seemed effortless and fruitless, I got to a doorpost that bore the number and the description dada gave me while in the village. I checked the paper, I had to make sure I was at the right place.

“Hello, anybody here?” I knocked saying the exact words our school teacher taught us to say whenever we visited people’s homes and find out it was locked from within.

I waited for a response and none came and I knocked again. Then I called out for dada in our native language. Just then, then the door clicked. I took a deep breath and waited for the figure behind the door to appear.

Finally she was out, she was wearing brown bum-shorts and a white singlet and there was a glittering smile on her face.

“Dada!” I smiled as she walked up to me.

“Karibu – welcome little one, come inside.” She hugged me tight that I felt like not letting her go like in the old days.

Her flat was beautifully decorated to the taste of every rich working class lady. Rich ladies decorate their houses paradise like the women on the news being interviewed. Her house was the definition of a modern life, gorgeous and fresh-breath taking.

***

Tell us: What kind of work do you think Dada does?