My Day in Maziba

I have never seen rain like on the morning we planned to go to Maziba, Father Kamanzi’s village.

Yes, there are rains down in Africa.

Yes, I blessed them.

During the rainy season, the dirt roads turn to mud, making the more remote villages almost inaccessible. Luckily, it is still early in the rainy season, and the clay-like-dirt is stubbornly resisting its mud-metamorphosis. Fr. Kamanzi, his brother Honoratus, his nephew Prudence, a young girl named Antia, Fr. John, Wanjara the driver, and I all piled into the Toyota Prado and made our way to the parish out-station for Mass. Wanjara carefully navigated the road, switch-backing down the steep embankment, until we arrived at the church.

The church was almost entirely funded through the generosity of American patrons, friends of Fr. Kamanzi. There is no electricity (though they do have a generator for special holiday Masses), no toilet facilities, but there are walls and a roof and an altar, and it does quite nicely for the local community. The rains continued unabated, but Fr. Kamanzi assured me that it never rains in the afternoon in Bukoba. Sure enough, by the time Mass was over, the rains had ceased and the sun was shining. At the end of the liturgy, I addressed the congregation, expressing my sincere thanks for be able to worship with them, and to the choir for their extraordinary music. I was then presented with gifts from the people in appreciation of my visit: beautiful hand-woven baskets and images painted on rough fabric. When the presentations were over, I expressed my eternal gratitude and the choir sang the closing hymn. Following the liturgy (2 hours- short by East African standards), Fr. Kamanzi introduced me to the leaders of the community and made me pose for pictures with children. Before long, we were on our way again.

We drove just a few kilometers further before we could go no further and parked the car. The last leg we did on foot, scrambling as gracefully as possible up a steep rocky incline. All around us, mud houses and their happy inhabitants, half-hidden among the banana trees, peered out at us. In what seemed like no time at all, Fr. Kamanzi was calling “Karibu, Jo!” We had arrived at the place of his birth and the births of his brothers and sisters, the place where his parents had lived, died, and were buried, the place I had waited for so long to see. And it was wonderful! The little house looked like a modern mansion compared to its neighbors. It’s walls were sturdily built grey cement, not the reddish mud I had begun to expect, with windows, doors, and cement stairs leading up to the entrance. When you consider that all of the building materials had to be carried by hand/ on head up the hill we had just climbed, it's a true testament to the human spirit.

Inside, Fr. Kamanzi invited me to sit, and the small room soon filled with well over a dozen of the Who’s Who of Maziba. I shook many hands, learned and quickly forgot many names, and listened to the men speak alternatively in Kiswahili, Kihaya, and English, switching so effortlessly and rapidly that I could barely keep track. Fr. Kamanzi’s siblings were all there, too. The 5 remaining children of Anatoli and Constantia back in the home of their childhood: Gereon, the eldest, followed by Honoratus, then Fortunata, the eldest girl. Clare, who follows Fortunata, passed away in 2002; Maula follows Clare, who is in turn followed by Clotilda, who passed away in 1996. Speratus Kamanzi is the youngest of the seven children. Fortunata and Maula had been at the house all morning preparing a lunch of rice, machoke (bananas), cabbage, tilapia, carrots, sweet juicy mangos, and countless other dishes I can’t even recall. After the meal, we returned to the living room, where I once again shook a lot of hands and learned/forgot a lot of names.

As the days activities began to wind down, Fortunata and Maula presented me with another gift- a khanga with the image of the late, beloved first President of Tanzania, Nyerere. Together, they wrapped material around my waist and draped it over my shoulder. Attired like one of the women of Maziba, I embraced both of them, wishing to high heaven that I could express how deeply moved I was in their language, but all I could do was clasp their hands and smile my beamiest smile. After a slew of group photos in front of the family home, we paid our respects at the graves of Anatoli, Constantia, and Clotilda, and we departed, carefully picking our way down the rocky path. We piled back into the Prado and made our way back to Bukoba.

Thus ended my marvelous day in Maziba.