A Tanzanian Tale

Red embers float high above the fire this evening, there’s not a hint of wind and the air is warm but tracing the glow upward on this seemingly clear night, something is amiss. The sky should be littered with stars, not the darkness above.

A crack of lightening shatters the facade, revealing angry clouds and wild silhouettes in violet hues. Thunder follows, then the sound of rain, infrequent only for a moment, before becoming fierce and another reminder of the wet season in remote Tanzania.

With a kick of soil, the coals dwindle and coat pulled over head, I dash for shelter. Reaching my hut, I waste no time lighting an aged candle atop my bed and content feeling warm and protected, the flicker of the candle’s flame leads my mind adrift, away from the roar outside.

I find myself again looking out of the dusty charter that brought me here, the view surreal. To the east sprawling mountains, to the west Lake Tanganyika bathed in sun and somewhere below, my destination, the isolated village of Ikabulu.

Entering the village, I remember a lone chicken was first to greet me, before a face peered out from one of the thatch huts, then another and another. Before long, I was in a crowd of smiling children, their cheer infectious but a contrast to the cautious frowns of the village elders. I worried looking at their rigid features, perhaps I was out of my depth.

It was needless in hindsight, as the weeks have passed, I’ve found the nature of the families so inclusive I’m completely at ease sharing some Ugaali and a laugh around the fire and indeed, it’s now expected at many homes. The scene has been humbling, far from anything I’ve known but strangely enticing.

Before I reflect too deeply, another crack of lightning breaks my train of thought and again conscious of the storm outside, I notice I’m smiling at recalling my encounter with the people of Ikabulu. I realise, while blowing out the candle on another night in Africa, that leaving here, life will never be the same.