My dear nephew, this city is becoming more dangerous by the day

DEAR nephew Milambo,

DAR ES SALAAM: Receive my warmest greetings in the mighty name of all the Nyamwezi ancestors, from the most ancient ones whose names have been swallowed by the dust of history to our very own fearless Chief Mirambo, the great warrior whose name alone was enough to make seasoned enemies develop sudden stomach problems, lose their appetite, and reconsider whatever foolish plans they had been entertaining against the Nyamwezi people. May the spirits of our ancestors continue to watch over you in our beloved village of Ukumbisiganga.

As for us here in the confused city of Dar es Salaam, we are still alive and kicking, although I must confess that the situation has reached a stage where merely remaining alive requires the determination of a freedom fighter and the patience of a saint.

My dear son, these days the weather in this city is behaving like a stubborn wife who has decided that her husband must suffer for a mistake he made years back. The heat has been merciless.

The sun rises in the morning looking innocent, but by seven o’clock it has transformed itself into something dangerous. You wake up, take a bath, and emerge from the bathroom looking like a man who has just completed a swimming competition.

You put on a clean shirt, only to discover that by the time you reach the gate, your body has already started producing enough sweat to supply a small village with drinking water. And yet, my dear nephew, we were told that the El Niño rains were just around the corner.

I do not know which corner these rains are hiding behind, but I suspect they have received instructions from someone in authority to delay their arrival until further notice.

Whatever the reason, the rains have not arrived in the manner we expected, and the dust has taken advantage of their absence to establish permanent residence in our neighbourhood.

My dear nephew, dust is now our closest companion. It sits on our windows, occupies our chairs, settles on our clothes, and enters our houses without knocking.

If you leave a cup of tea on the table for five minutes, you must inspect it carefully before drinking, because you might accidentally swallow enough soil to qualify as a farmer. Your aunt has become particularly hostile towards the dust.

Every morning she cleans the house with the determination of a woman preparing to receive the President, only for the dust to return shortly afterwards, laughing at her efforts. Last week, I heard her arguing with the dust as she swept the sitting room. I wanted to intervene, but I decided against it.

I know your aunt well enough to understand that when she begins arguing with invisible things, a wise husband should remain silent. However, my dear nephew, the dust is not entirely to blame for our suffering.

The real culprits are the lorries that have invaded our neighbourhood, turning our once reasonably peaceful streets into something resembling a construction site abandoned by people who have lost their minds. These lorries ferry sand from a nearby area, and their numbers increase every day.

At first, there were only a few of them. We tolerated their presence because we understood that people must work, businesses must operate, and houses cannot be constructed using prayers and good intentions alone. But what began as an ordinary transportation business has now developed into a full-scale invasion.

My dear son, every morning, the lorries arrive in numbers that make you wonder whether someone has secretly discovered a new source of wealth and decided that the quickest way to become a millionaire is to turn every available patch of sand into money.

They arrive in the morning, continue throughout the day and late into the night, and sometimes make you wonder whether their owners have established a nightshift operation to ensure that the residents of this area never enjoy a moment of peace.

And the drivers, my dear nephew, are a special breed of human beings. I do not know what they eat for breakfast, but judging by the way they drive, I suspect their diet consists of raw chilli, energy drinks and substances that give ordinary men the strength to lift an elephant and the courage to challenge a moving train.

Some of these young men appear to be permanently engaged in a competition whose rules are known only to themselves.

They drive as if they are being chased by the devil, and the devil himself has threatened to withhold their salaries if they fail to arrive at their destination within the next thirty seconds.

They overtake one another carelessly, ignore the presence of pedestrians and approach junctions with the confidence of men who believe that traffic regulations are merely suggestions invented by people who lack ambition.

My dear nephew, when they approach you from behind, you hear the engine roaring like a wounded buffalo.

Before you can turn your head, the lorry has passed, leaving you surrounded by a cloud of dust so thick that you begin to wonder whether you have accidentally entered a desert in the middle of Dar es Salaam.

Sometimes the dust is so bad that you cannot see the person standing across the road. You may leave your house looking like a respectable citizen, only to return looking like an archaeological discovery from an ancient Nyamwezi settlement. Even the clothes hanging outside to dry have become victims of this madness.

Your aunt once hung a white bedsheet on the washing line, and when she returned to collect it, the sheet had acquired a brown complexion. But let me tell you something that is no longer funny my dear boy.

A few days ago, one of these reckless lorry drivers caused a terrible accident that claimed the lives of two students and a bodaboda rider. According to what we heard in the neighbourhood, the driver was chasing another lorry when the tragedy occurred.

Imagine that, my dear nephew.

A grown man, entrusted with a heavy vehicle capable of crushing almost anything in its path, had apparently decided that the public road was a racing track and that the other lorry was his competitor in a championship whose prize was known only to him.

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In the process of pursuing his fellow driver, he knocked down two students who were on the bodaboda.

Three human beings who had left their homes expecting to go about their ordinary activities, unaware that their journeys would end in such a devastating manner.

My dear Milambo, when I heard about the accident, I sat quietly for a long time. I thought about the parents of those students. I imagined the terrible moment when the news reached their homes.

I imagined the families waiting for their children to return, perhaps preparing supper, perhaps wondering why they were late, only to receive news that no parent should ever have to hear.

I also thought about the family of the bodaboda rider, whose daily survival may have depended on the money he brought home. What do you tell a mother who has lost her child because another person decided that overtaking a fellow lorry was more important than human life?

The accident has left many people in our neighbourhood angry, frightened and deeply saddened. Some residents have been asking whether it will take another tragedy before something is done to control the situation.

Others are wondering whether the roads belong to everyone or whether they have secretly been transferred to the owners of sand-carrying lorries. Personally, I have begun to reconsider my daily movements. Unfortunately, caution alone cannot solve a problem created by reckless driving my dear nephew.

Even Chief Mirambo, whose warriors were known for their courage and determination, would probably have raised an eyebrow at this situation.

Our ancestors fought formidable enemies, but I doubt that they ever imagined a time when people would have to fight for survival against lorries carrying sand through their own neighbourhoods.

If Chief Mirambo were alive today, I suspect he would summon the drivers, ask them why they were behaving as though they had been recruited into an army of reckless warriors, and remind them that true bravery is not measured by how fast a man can drive a lorry.

Unfortunately, my dear Milambo, the chief is no longer with us, and we must rely on the living to exercise common sense. Please continue to greet our relatives in Ukumbisiganga on my behalf.

Tell them that I have not forgotten my roots, and that although life in Dar es Salaam sometimes resembles a wrestling match between human beings and their own environment, I still remember the peace of the village with affection.

Give my greetings to the elders, and remind the young men that the courage of Chief Mirambo was not demonstrated by rushing blindly into danger.

It was demonstrated through discipline, strategy and the ability to recognise which battles were worth fighting. May the spirits of our ancestors continue to protect you, guide your steps and keep you far from the madness that has taken hold of our roads.