19/06/2024
Henry: Vipi Issa? Umenikumbuka ghafla?
Issa: Sijakusahau Henry. Kamwe siwezi nikakusahau. Siku hizi nikikutana na makamaradi vijana, inanikumbusha ujana wetu na harakati zetu za kizazi kile, kizazi cha Azimio la Arusha. Sitaki kufananisha. Kila kizazi kina misheni yake na kinatakiwa kulitekeleza ipasvyo, kama alivyosema Frantz Fanon.
Ninakumbuka mengi tuliyofanya pamoja. Mengi ya itikadi, machache ya kimaisha, maisha ya ujanani.
Kamaradi: sitaki kuwa nawe mazungumzo ya kufikirika au ya kusadikika. Tuliishi pamoja. Tulipambana pamoja. Ni vema kukumbushana yale kuliko kubuni mambo.
Unakumbuka tulivyokutana na Katibu Mkuu wa PRP (People’s Revolutionary Party ya Congo iliyoanzishwa na Laurent Kabila). Alituimpress sana. Ufasaha wake wa lugha ya Kiswahili. Uelewa wake wa kina wa itikadi. Alituambia jina lake. Silikumbuki. Lakini nina uhakika halikuwa jina lake halisi. Lilikuwa nom de guerre.
Baada ya mkutano ule alitoweka kabisa. Tulisikia tu ufununu aliuuawa akiwa safarini kurudi Congo ya mashariki. Hatutajua kilichotokea.
Pia ile safari yetu ya Somalia maara baada ya mwanajeshi Siada Barre kuipindua serikali. Kulikuwa na vuguvugu la kimapinduzi nchini Somalia. Kamaradi wetu wa karibu Walter Rodney alikuwa very impressed. Baadhi yetu tulikuwa sceptical – mwisho wa siku mwanajeshi ni mwanajeshi, tulisema. Sitaki niendelee. Kumbukumbu zangu sio nzuri sana. Nisije nikawapotosha wasomaji. Na bahati mbaya wengi tuliyoenda Somalia wametangulia mbele ya haki. Mmoja ambaye ningeweza kukaa naye na kukumbushana amehama mrengo wetu.
Nachotaka kufanya leo ni kukujuza kwamba nilisoma Utenzi tulipokuwa tunakuaga pale makaburini, Kinondoni. Nishare na vijana wa kizazi hiki. Pia nikujuze kwamba ile hadithi fupi ya ‘Mwanasalfa Kijana wa Amina’ ilitungwa nikikuwazia wewe. Pia ninashare na vijana.
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Sitaomboleza
Rafiki yangu, kamaradi Henry Mapolu
Sijaja kukuaga
Sijaja kukuzika
Sitaomboleza
Sitabubujika
Nimekuja na marafiki zetu
Na makamaradi wetu
Kupokea mchango wako
Kujikumbusha mfano wako
Ewe kamaradi!
Unatukumbusha mengi ya usafi, sio ya ufisadi
Uhongo wa kisiasa uliukataa,
Kwenda wilayani
Uteuzi wa Mzee Ruksa haukufarijisha,
Ukauficha ukayani
Aha! hili halikuwa geni kwako
Kwani ulijiuzulu Uzuoni,
Ukaenda Urafikini
Mwito wako kuinua uelewa wa proletari
Hukujali kutunikiwa uzamili wa profesari
Ulituachia mabepari-chipukizi
Wakicheza ngoma ya ulimbikizi
Tumefika kukuenzi
Kwa fikra na mawazo yako
Kwa mtazamo na msimamo wako
Na waledi usiotetereka
Uaminifu usiopingika
Wapo kina Adamu na Zakia
‘Bakileki na Bgoya
Karimu na ukarimu wake
Na Kashiwaki namuona pake
Wapo pia Joe na Jenerali
Sio wa wanajeshi
Wa waandishi-wacheshi
Sitaki niwasahau Mwami na mwenzie Masanja
Eti wakijidai wanasosolojia viranja
Qorro wa Karatu
Amefuatana na Msoma Salumu
Aliyekuwa anatusalimu
‘Venceramos! A luta continua’
Ndio kamaradi: A luta continua.
Amekuja pia Rameshi
Vijana wakimtania ‘wa Bangladeshi’
Na mwandishi mwenzio Nizari
Aishio nchi-kavu Kariakoni
Akijitambulisha orijino wa nchi-Visiwani
Namuona mheshimiwa Liundi, balozi
Akipambana na mawimbi ya machozi
Na Mzee Butiku amekaa majanini
Unakumbuka tulivyomsumbua ujanani?
Nimemuona rafiki yako wa siku zile za Kivukoni
Mzee wetu, mzee Ngombale wa Kiliwani
Alikuwa anakuulizia juzijuzi
Nipashe za Kamaradi Henry asiye na upuuzi
Sikuwa na ujasiri wa kumkumbushia
Barua yako ya wazi ulomrushia
Uonjo mkali wa kalamu yako katili
‘Ewe kamaradi wangu wa prolitari
Usikubali kupigwa teke na siasa za jemadari ‘
Kamwe sitosahau unyekekevu na utulivu wako
Kiburi uliepuka kama tauni, jazba zilikuwa geni kwako
Nilipotunga hadithi ya Amina na kijana mwanafalsafa++
Nilikuwa nakuwazia wewe na usawa wa yako falsafa
Shati nje ya suruali, na ndara za kanda mbili
Ukiishi katika risachi fleti namba mbili
Yenye kuta pasi picha wala pambo
Isipokuwa Mzee Maksi na madevu yake ya majigambo
Ndugu yangu, rafiki yangu, Kamaradi Henry – mbele sitaenda
Nakuachia salamu za kamaradi chipukizi Sabatho Nyamsenda:
‘Afrika imepoteza mmoja wa makamando muhimu
katika vita dhidi ya mfumo huu dhalimu …’.
Issa bin Mariam
02/02/2011
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++AMINA’S
YOUNG PHILOSOPHER
A Short Story
(This appeared as a short story
In the Progress Magazine, February, 1981 under a penname Pili.)
I was tipsy and nervous. Nervous because time was running out. In fifteen minutes the Highways Bar & Restaurant would close. And so far I had failed to net anyone.
The few sailors who were around were all young boys. They naturally made their pick from among the younger and good-looking lasses. I had been completely ignored. That also explained why by this time I wasn’t drunk. I had to buy drinks from my own pocket which meant I had no option but to concentrate on beer. One doesn’t get drunk on beer!
The weary waiters were putting final touches to their mopping up operation. Glasses and bottles had been collected, tables were wiped off and the cashier was preparing to take accounts. Gradually, couples began to stroll out. Some white sailors so drunk that they had to lean on their girls’ shoulders for support. Others conscious enough to put their arms stylistically around their girls’ waists while a few lusty ones crudely holding their women’s buttocks.
I hopelessly dismounted from my high stool near the counter. The bar-tender bade me good-night adding a sympathetic “pole”. I was in no mood to respond. The thought of having to wait another hour or so at the corner and being picked up by some old, fat inconsiderate daddy oppressed me and exasperated my physical exhaustion.
I had hardly walked a few yards when I saw Bob staggering towards me – from total darkness.
“You old bitch, you’re good for nothing”, and a heavy blow landed on my left cheek. Before I regained my senses, a young man had appeared on the scene as from nowhere. With the agility of a boxer he pushed Bob aside and
pulled me towards a car parked nearby.
As the car drove off, I saw Bob lying flat on his back. Handing me a white handkerchief, the young man said, “Pole… there’s blood on your chin.” I took the handkerchief and wiped off.
The next question was unexpected and came
as a surprise. “Where shall I drop you off?”, he asked.
For a moment I was simply flabbergasted. I didn’t know what to say. But I was determined not to let him slip through my fingers and go home penniless. There was no time to play delaying tactics. I might lose him altogether, I thought. So I decided to be open and blunt.
“I’ll drop off where you do”. Before he could respond, I delivered another fast one. “You wouldn’t mind giving me a bed for the night. Bob would tear me to pieces if I went home”•
In case his lust failed, I figured, at least his sympathy would rescue me.
He didn’t say anything. He swiftly turned the steering wheel, made a U-turn and sped off along the Bagamoyo road towards the University.
My young man was quiet and looked thoughtful. I didn’t dare disturb him although I felt like making a conversation several times.
The car screeched to a halt near some flats which I had never seen before.
I was fairly familiar with the campus, though. I had been to the University several times, always at night, of course. However, these flats were definitely new and strange.
My host opened the door for me and saying “Karibu” led me into a small flat.
The place was completely unorganised. Books were lying all over the place. Crumbs
of bread and rice lay on the dining table while mango and onion peels uneasily rubbed shoulders on the dirty cooker. Unwashed dishes were heaped together in the sink.
The walls of the room were bare and
naked. The only decoration on the wall was
a big portrait of some white, fierce-looking, thickly bearded man whom I didn’t know nor cared to know.
The single room was no doubt multi-purpose: dining, living, sleeping and kitchen, all in one.
“Would you care for some coffee?”, the young man, whom I could now see properly for the first time, asked.
“No thank you”, I said as I surveyed him from top to bottom. The man was slim and handsome rather shabbilly dressed. His shirt
was hanging out of his trousers and his feet were only half-shod with his open, unpolished sandals. My young man looked as unorganised and uncouth as his room.
“May I use your toilet?’ I asked.
“It’s just round the corner”, he replied and threw himself onto a long couch near the big bookshelf.
Picking up my sling bag I disappeared into the washing room.
Without wasting time I undressed, took a quick shower and massaged my teeth with colgate to get rid of the odour of beer. I carefully hung my underclothes behind the door and wrapped myself in my host’s towel whose edges I neatly tied in a loose knot just above my breasts.
Forcing a broad smile on my face, I stepped out of the washing room. To my utter surprise and disgust, the man was still lying on the couch and reading a book. I wondered if he realised at all that I was ready.
But the possibility of losing him and going home penniless forced me to drop all formalities. I walked straight towards him, sat on his laps and started caressing his cheeks with my lips. To my surprise and shock, the man gently pushed me aside and stood up. He was now standing near the window looking
out into nothingness for it was pitch dark.
“You see …. er …. what’s your name?”.
“Amina”, I said. That was one of my many pseudonyms. It was popularly believed among our clientele that coastal women were sexier than others and therefore we often adopted Muslim pseudonyms.
“Yes Amina, you see our society is terrible. Some of our sisters have even to sell their bodies …”.
I felt like abusing and insulting him. Why was he talking to me like this? It was none of his business. But the man was so nice and talked with such seriousness that he completely disarmed me of all my courage to answer him back. Moreover, the fact that I was being talked to seriously and as an equal flattered my ego and I wanted to hear more.
“Sister, it is not your fault. It is the fault of our society. It is only because our society is full of inequalities and injustices. It is because some have a lot and others have nothing that even sisters are reduced to earn a living by converting their bodies into commodities”.
I was now hardly following what my young man was saying. I liked his sweet voice. I liked the way he talked, as if talking to a student or his younger sister. But I did not understand a single word of his, yet, I felt, he was telling the truth.
“Do you teach philosophy?”, I couldn’t resist asking him.
He turned around, smiled and continued.
“Love and sex should be mutual; should give pleasure and satisfaction to both partners – not a commodity on the market to be sold to the highest bidder ….”.
His voice tapered of and appeared to be coming from far away as sleep overpowered me and I dozed off.
Next when I opened my eyes it was already day-light. I was lying in my host’s only bed covered by a bedsheet. My host was lying on the couch. He had not cared even to undress himself. An open book was resting across his face gently pressing against his childish nose.
‘He must have put me to bed’, I reckoned feeling partly embarassed and partly pleased.
My host prepared some tea and we had
breakfast together.
“I’m sorry I bothered you with my lectures last
night”, he said.
“Oh! forget it. You are such a good
teacher”, I said with utmost politeness.
“Could you please drive me to Magomeni?”, I asked.
My young philosopher was quiet and thoughtful throughout the drive. I wanted to make conversation but didn’t dare disturb him.
As I began getting off the car, something kept telling me that I shouldn’t lose him even if it meant I wouldn’t earn a penny from him. He had flattered my ego by talking to me seriously and my ego wouldn’t let me lose him.
I liked the way he talked. Although I did not underdtand him I wanted to hear what he said again and again.
“When shall I see you again?”, I asked him softly.
“I’ll be at the Highways this evening …”, he replied as a matter of course.
“Good-day and take care…”, I said and walked off to my single room apartment in the building across the road.
Bob was sitting in my room. He had been let in by Elsie, my room-mate.
“I am sorry for what happened yesterday. Now there’s a sailor I have already arranged with. Shall I bring him around this evening or would you prefer to see him at the Highways?”.
“I am dame tired. I want to snatch a few hours of sleep. Bring him here after mid-night. This room will be free. Elsie is sleeping out to-night. And please do not disturb me until then”.
The truth was that I wanted to spend the early hours of the evening with my philosopher friend and hear his sweet voice.
3rd January, 1981
IssaShivji 
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