The Village Pouch

Most readers of this third rate column must by now know that I have a second home in Njombe Region. To be more precise, in Chalowe village, in the newly-established district of Wanging’ombe.

It seems, due to historical reasons, I am a man of many homes. I live in Arusha, where I have spent most of my adult life - more than 30 years - as an AX - Arusha Expatriate.

But I also have a home in Ilembula, that Christian mission village estalished by the German colonial masters in the late 1890s. The village is also famed for its mission hospital and nursing school -- in the same new district.

And in heeding my doctor’s good advice, I took some time off my chaotic and urban-busy life in Arusha to venture out on a journey to the rural area as part of stress management in an environmentally-friendly place. I decided to hibernate in Chalowe.

And this is where I came face to face with the typical Bongolander village life. In the cool and serene village where surprisingly every able-bodied person above 18 years is an accoplished farmer, I have come to learn about some very basic community based spirit and solidarity.

Actually everything evolves around the community togetherness. In this same spirit and philosophy they have been able to expand their village health dispensary and now it has a newly built and fully-equiped medical laboratory roofed with what they call ‘msauzi’ corrugated and coloured iron sheets.

They have also built, through the same self help spirit, two new classrooms, for their village primary school.

Also being strong and ardent Christian believers, they have also built a modern new church in the centre of the village, and they are finalising a new house for their village pastor, with the same ‘msauzi’ roofing.

Actually every event here is a community event. Be it an entry into this world of a newly born baby or the death, or rather passing on, of any villager.

No wonder, the other day I was politely woken up from my retirement morning sleep by a group of Chalowe elders, who came to inform me of the death of an 80-year-old lady in the neighbourhood.

In comformity with the community ethos I contributed some token funds towards the funeral costs and naturally, like everybody in the village suspended my normal working schedule for that day. The entire village was in a mourning mode. Even my carpenters and artisans working on my village structure laid down their tools.

Come funeral day. I was directed to the village graveyard, where the burial would take place. I was initially told that it was ‘just around the corner ‘. Pure village-speak. The ‘around the corner’ turned to be more than three kilometers away.

I huffed my way to the funeral. Midway, a kilometer or so from the graveyard, on a path, amidst some verdant dark green maize farms, I came across a black pouch. A woman’s pouch, to be more precise. It was just lying there on the path, with no one around.

I stood there for a minute or so, trying to figure out who the owner was. But there was none.

Puzzled I proceeded to the funeral. and as the eloquent lady preacher extolled on the virtues of living a Christian life, in pursuit of heavenly glory, I again saw that pouch. It was lying on the green grass a few meters from the freshly dug grave. Again it had no owner

Listening to the solemn hyms from a women- only choir at the scene, I could not forget the mystery of that black pouch.I turned around to check on the pouch but was shocked to realise that it was no longer there. It had somehow been collected.

I later came to learn that it was the community pouch, containing all monies collected for the funeral. And nobody, apart from the funeral committee treasurer was allowed to touch it.

And that is what I call the village community spirit at work. I hope it lasts longer notwithstanding my fervent doubts.