From Tanzanian Correspondent Lute Wa Lutengano…

Sometimes in the early 80s I found myself in the city of Berlin, East Berlin, to be more precise. I was there attending a College, training us third world young men and women on how to become professional scribes.

The college famously known as the International Institute of Journalism, Berlin, that time brought youths from Tanzania, Nigeria, Kenya, Zambia, SWAPO (Namibia), ANC (South Africa) and ZANU-PF (Zimbabwe or Rhodesia). We were about 50 or so students in that specialized college.

Before proceeding to Berlin of the then Deutche Democratiche Republic (DDR), my family back in Njombe district had insisted that I use my presence in Europe to look for my cousin brother, a Gynecologist who had studied in Hungary, graduated, got married, begot two beautiful ladies and was now head of Gynecology at one hospital in Debrecen, near Budapest.

On reaching DDR I sent a letter to Debrecen, without proper address but believing that an African, and a very black Gynecologist at that, in any Eastern European town would be well known. After that I forgot about the whole issue.

Six months later, and at 6:30 in the morning one Saturday, I received a call from the College reception desk informing me that I had a visitor who claimed to be my brother. “Wrong number!” I responded. Several calls later, I wobbled my way down the stairs to the reception desk. My heart skipped a beat. There standing in front of me was my very own cousin brother whom I had, by then, not met for more than 15 years. He had received the letter.

He was tagging along two huge briefcases, which I later came to pleasantly learn they were full of vintage wines – gifts from grateful parents of newly born babies at his hospital. Actually I was later to know that my brother was, apart from his medical duties, successfully running a Wine Bar in Debrecen, courtesy of his profession.

Back to my room I introduced him to my roommate, who also happened to be a Tanzanian. To my utter confusion, the two greeted each other in my mother tongue. What the hell is all that? I wondered.

It was only after some lengthy explanation that I and my roommate came to learn that not only were we both Tanzanians but we were actually also from the same tribe – Bena. For six months of our being roommates our tribal origins had never been an issue. It took my brother who had attended the same school with my roommate to bring this fact to light.

This was a shocker to our college-mates. It was as if they had been struck by a bolt from the blue when they learnt of this fact during a cocktail in honor of my brother. “Nyerere would have loved this scenario,” I told my perplexed friends.

Nyerere had put in place deliberate policies to unify Tanzanians of all races, religions and tribes into one nation state. That is why, for example, my father is Bena, my mother is Sangu, and I have children from ladies from other tribes. Can you seriously tell me what my and my children’s tribes are? No! We are all Tanzanians.

And learning from what is taking place in Kenya, we should promote and consolidate this arrangement. To prove to you that I am a true believer of this philosophy I am happy to reveal that I am yet, in my very whole life, to enjoy the privilege of having a girlfriend – in matters of love – from my very own tribe, Bena.