Mpofu

The bajaji driver looked at me with concern when I told him that this is where I wanted to get off. He had just maneuvered his tricycle through the frantic traffic of Dar-es-Salaam and performed an impossible physics-defying turn, wheels flying, narrowly escaping a 20-ton truck that thundered past us. I reassured him that I had agreed to meet here, paid him 100 shillings and joined a group of people waiting at a nearby bus stop. This, I’d been told, was where I would be picked up for the visit to the rental apartment I was interested in.

Minutes later, a silver Toyota sedan pulled up in front of us. The window was lowered, and a man asked me to get in. For a second, I wondered how he had identified me in this crowd of people but then I realized that it wasn’t too hard to spot a European in these parts. I got into the car where the man introduced himself as Mpofu, a towering figure with broad features, impeccably dressed, all business. We quickly left the paved road, slowly moving down a series of dirt roads peppered with potholes. The car jolted while we passed corrugated iron shacks, open sewage, and stray goats.

Mpofu saw my growing concern and calmed me down. “Don’t worry, this is a safe place. When people see a thief, everyone shouts ‘Mwizi!’, and a crowd will gather. They catch the bad guy, put a tire around his body and fill it with petroleum. Now you just need a lighter, and the problem is solved”. I searched Mpofu’s face for any hint of irony, but he met my gaze with a matter-of-fact expression. In fact, he seemed quite pleased to have explained to a foreigner how quickly and effortlessly security issues are being addressed in Tanzania. Being from Zimbabwe, he had his fair share of experiences with violence and had found a safer place for him and his family here.

Soon we entered a concrete driveway and arrived at an imposing five-story building that seemed to have been recently finished. The owner, Mpofu told me, was a director at the Tanzanian Central Bank who had apparently ventured into the real estate sector. I made a mental note to check the salary scale for executive positions there; they seemed to be quite attractive. When we got into the building, I could see that works on the elevator were just being finished, so we took a flight of stairs up to the third floor. The apartment was small and basic, exactly what I was looking for. This would do for a start.

Mpofu confirmed the monthly rent and handed me the contract documentation which I was supposed to review at home. As we made our way back to the car, he slowed his pace and gestured toward the opposite side of the street, where a woman was balancing a basket of mangoes on her head, a small child clinging to her side. “That’s Mama Rehema,” he said. “She lost her husband last year. Now, she’s out here every day, selling fruit to keep her children in school.” Without breaking stride, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a few crumpled shillings, and handed them to a boy who ran over eagerly. “Tell your mother to keep the change,” he said with a nod. Then, turning back to me, he added, almost as an afterthought, “You see, life here is simple. People take care of their own.” His voice carried a warmth that contrasted sharply with the brutal efficiency he had described earlier.

We were on our way back, the streets now quieter, the setting sun casting long shadows across the dirt roads. The car passed a river, wide and slow-moving, its surface reflecting the dimming sky. Mpofu slowed down for a moment, his eyes scanning the water. “You know,” he said suddenly, his voice still casual, “we have beautiful lakes in Zimbabwe. They’re wide and deep. And sometimes, people disappear in places like that. If you want to make someone vanish, you take them out on a boat ride, and they’ll never be found.” He smiled at me knowingly, giving off a little laugh. He didn’t look at me, just kept his eyes on the road ahead, the engine humming along. I didn’t respond. The unease from earlier had crept back, but now it felt more palpable. I could feel the weight of the air in the car—the unspoken things, the stories that weren’t meant for strangers.

We reached my drop-off point. I thanked him for the visit, my voice a little more detached than I had intended. Without another word, I opened the door and stepped out, my feet hitting the dusty ground as the car pulled away, the engine’s sound fading into the distance. For a moment, I stood still, watching the car disappear down the road. The city stretched out before me, unfamiliar and vast. I had just glimpsed a different layer of the world I had stepped into, a world that was more complex, more shadowed, than I had imagined.