At that stage then a man does what a man has to do.

He gives his all, pushes all limits and braces to meet his maker.

Thats what all hero’s are about, they fight to the last breath and that is all what cowards are about, the embrace their death at the same time.

With over 32 newspapers, several weekly, and a couple of monthly and bi-monthly magazines, Tanzania is a haven for freelance writers, especially those that can write both in English and Kiswahili.

There is neither a shortage of topics to tackle; given the diversity of the different tribes, the unifying factors in the country, politics, sports, the existing artistic, music and cultural wealth as well as the wildlife and tourist attraction sites that would make any writer’s pen dribble ink on the paper with pleasure. There is an endless possibility on what to write as well as how to write it.

While all these factors would make any amateur or established writer want to abandon other jobs that would tie them down and take the art of writing a notch further, there is a huge set back. Freelance writing is not a job that is taken seriously by established organizations that end up publishing the written work.  Most do not have policies that can guide a freelancer on how to get their work published with them and those that have, do little to market it to the wider public.

As a result, freelance writing is a field where excellent work might fetch you peanuts if anything or if you are lucky, sub standard work might result in great pay since the industry is under developed and there are no established standard rates for written work.

Media houses, one of the bodies that recognize freelance writers, do not have standard rates set across the media industry resulting in the rates being different in the different media houses and varying from one writer to another.

The same quality of work could draw you tens of thousands in one media house and less than ten thousand in another. And in most cases, it has nothing to do with your level of competence or bargaining power.

One might argue that of course seasoned brilliant writers who have been in the industry for years deserve better pay; a point that I completely agree with, yet the upcoming writers with a small name in the industry do at times find themselves writing for peanuts on topics that take up resources to research and hours of work to put together.

Challenged and frustrated, many often end up sending in half researched stories and give the impression that freelance writers rarely produce work of quality.

While the opportunities are many, so is the competition which at times stretches from existing writers to the internet. Organizations such as advertising and PR agencies as well as translating houses such as BAKITA that take on the very same jobs that freelance writers go for; jobs such as translating, feature writing and the like.

In addition to that, breaking into the market is a hard experience that often discourages would be writers. The network of writers is small; the meeting places few and even fewer are public announcements seeking for new writers. Often writing jobs are handed down to already established writers without advertising them, a process which leaves up coming writers frustrated.

To add salt to the injury, some publications that want local material and do not know how to contact local writers to take on those jobs, surf the web seeking for international stories and copy and paste this, an act that denies freelancers a chance to not only earn a living but also better their trade.

Any upcoming writer that wants to excel in the industry needs to realize that getting into the network is the first step; and it is the most difficult. Most editors would not commission work to an unknown writer. Upcoming writers need to read magazines that are in the market, adapt to their writing styles and send the articles to the editors whose contacts are in most cases on the magazines.

If the article is good, the editor will call you or email you back. If not, write another and another until you get something published. Once you get one or two articles in the press, it gets easier because you start building a portfolio. Don’t try and negotiate a price on the first article. Accept what you get otherwise they will publish someone else’s piece.

Once you have established yourself as a serious writer, editors will start calling and then you can dictate the price for your work.

So I cried and prayed
On my knees I bled
Till the spells were broken, charms unsaid
I was free, my dreams made

The only answer it got was the cat’s mew. On the table, inches away from the squeaky voice’s view, Chale’s elder sister Msipa removed the rat’s intestines. She cut it into five pieces, for each of them, and threw the head and the intestines to the cat. The cat grabbed them and ran outside. On the ground, four year old Chale was still screaming. “I said no more rats!”

His screams got the baby crying. “No more rat!” He did not stop his protest. “Then it’s mlako for you?” Msipa replied with as much authority as a nine year old could muster. “Not mlako, not that bitter herb. It makes my stomach ache,” Chale was wailing now. Msipa put the pieces onto a sufuria with water and put it on the jiko. She then picked up the baby and walked outside, Chale following her. The baby was crying loudly. “Don’t cry little one,” Msipa spoke to it softly. “I will have food for you in a while.”

She started rocking it moving towards the graves where the other two kids were seated. Sudi, the six year old was looking at the graves in thought. He was always quiet, thinking about something. He looked up to Msipa when she arrived. “Why do we only have only one tombstone engraved,” he asked. “Well because mum died first and we had money for tombstones then. When father died and the others, there was no money,” Msipa replied wondering if what she said was true. A shout got them startled.

“What have I said about playing near the graves?” Ben, their elder brother asked. They had not seen him arrive. He stood near the house, a dead rabbit on one hand and a bloodied stick on the other. Msipa could see the blood vein popping out on his forehead. She knew he was angry and didn’t want him angrier. At 11, he was the eldest and she knew he never hesitated to punish them if they made a mistake. She stood up fast, carrying the little baby with her. “Rabbit, rabbit,” Chale sang and danced.

“I am sorry brother,” Msipa said lowering her voice. “You better be. The disease that killed them still lurks there,” he said going into the house. “He is lying,” whispered Sudi to no one in particular. No one paid him any attention as they rushed in to see the rabbit cooked.

He pushes me onto the bed when it opens. He looks at me with a pleased expression. “Sexy,” he says. I stare at him. His teeth are stained, a darkish brown color and he smells like a tobacco factory. He pushes his trousers down his long legs and climbs on to the bed.

I close my eyes, shutting down my emotions. I pretend I am at the beach, watching the sun set. It works for a second before a painful pinch at my nipple brings me back into the world. He grunts and pinches some more.

I try to get his hands off and that excites him even more. I pinch him, scratch his back and struggle to get him off my breast. I curse. He curses back. I scream loudly. He yells an obscene word, and crumbles on the side of the bed and releases the nipple. I look at the nipple, it’s swollen. I rub it softly. He gets off the bed and walks towards the bathroom.

I cover myself with the white bed sheets. “You are a wild one” he says when he gets to the door. I look at him. There is a wide grin on his face. He looks like a child that has just stolen sugar from the kitchen. I hear the water running in the bathroom. He comes back, fully dressed.

I hope he is content but I can’t tell. The silly grin has left his face. “What had we agreed on,” he asks. “Forty,” I reply. “For what,” he sounds angry. He looks at me. “Twenty.” “Forty was what we agreed upon,” I half yell at him. I get off the bed, leaving the bed sheets behind and stand on the way to the door.

He looks at my nakedness. “It’s all right. We are not fighting,” he says and throws the four notes on the table. He takes a step towards me and stretches his hand to touch me.

I move away. “It will cost you more.”

He grins again at the statement and shakes his head. “Later sexy,” he says. I stand and watch as he opens the door and walks away leaving it wide open. I close it and quickly dress up.

I want to hit the showers but know better. The watch on the cheap motel room says twenty past eleven. The night clubs are just getting busy. The thought makes me smile. I look at the watch I had hidden under the bed. Its a Rolex alright. And with the night still young, I might make more tonight. With that thought, I open the door and walk out.

He was shirtless, his small ribs sticking out like the thorns of an Acacia tree on its bark. Several flies hovered over his face but he looked calm, undisturbed.

“The Morans will be dancing during the initiation, their hair flying over their heads as they jump,” he continued. “I will stand straight completely naked, with mud applied on every part of me awaiting the cut. And I will not flinch when the Oloibon pulls the foreskin and cuts it off. I will be still, silent and still. Then as he throws the foreskin away, I will be a man.” He said the last part with authority.

“That’s right, a man.” Her voice was more of a whisper to herself. She stood up, her back bent and walked towards the door. “And then I will hunt and kill a lion. I will become a Moran, strong and feared.” His voice became softer.

“I will then pay the dowry for the beautiful dark girl. You know which one I am talking about Koko, don’t you?” She grunted in agreement, pushed the animal skin that acted as the door aside and stepped out.

The rays of the hot sun illuminated the room but he lay there, without moving, still talking. She returned carrying a basin half filled with water. A woman half her age followed her into the mud and dung plastered room. She carried with her a small gourd and a fly whisker.

His eyes were closed; he had stopped talking and was half asleep. The older woman woke him up, wiped the sweat off his face and then helped him into a sitting position. The younger woman made him drink the contents of the gourd.

He sipped once, twice and then coughed out thick darkish phlegm and blood. They wiped him again and put him down on the mat. He drifted into sleep and started a gentle snore. The younger woman sat next to him swatting off the flies.

“Is he still hallucinating?” she asked. The older woman sat on a three legged wooden stool. “Yes. He still thinks he is a child. What did they do to him in the town?” “I don’t know. Someone said he got the town disease, you know.

When they brought him, Teiko told me he would die within a month. He said it kills that fast.” “Those town people do not know a thing. I have seen people in this state getting well. Your father will get better.” They sat in silence, one swatting flies, the other making a beaded necklace.

He turned to his side, coughed and then went back to sleep. They looked at him with worry. When he started snoring again, they continued with their chores. The only sounds they heard were the occasional chime of cowbells, the gentle snore of Koko’s husband and the flapping of the skin door.

We see one of the characters seated and the other pacing around. They are both young men just above twenty years old.

Andrew:                  I don’t know how you can work under such conditions Edward.

Edward:                   Stop being dramatic Andrew. We have been here one day and you are already complaining. When you wanted posting out of the city, you did not sign on the “no missionary schools on the college postings form. Or did you?

Andrew:                  Of course not, don’t be sarcastic. But I did not sign up to come and live in the middle of nowhere teaching nuns

Edward:                  Look on the bright side, the pay is good and the college has a good reputation

Andrew:                  Reputation and salary is not going to look good when we meet our fellow graduates at the end of the year. They will have worked in cities, Paris, London and the like. They will all be learned in the arts of drinking, will have broken several hearts and will have wild stories about their adventures. What will I have?

Edward:                  Savings, possibly a good wife from a missionary school.

Andrew:                  Good wife indeed. I bet you these girls are more experienced than both of us combined.

Edward:                  Everyone is more experienced than you

Andrew:                  That’s my point exactly. I should have gone somewhere with “getting laid potential”. Somewhere with a couple of brothels

Edward:                  But you just said these girls…

Andrew:                  Yes but how do you know which one has the experience. I need a good brothel …

Edward:                  What you need is some sense. I think you worry too much about nothing. Sit down and prepare your lessons. Tomorrow might turn out

Andrew:                  Tomorrow. Yes maybe tomorrow I will try and act all innocent and someone may send me that note that says I cannot live without you teacher.

Edward:                  What happened to a “good brothel?”

Andrew:                  A nun in a school is better than a brothel at anytime of the year…

Edward:                  My point exactly

His face reminds me of the old babu that used to cut our hair when I was growing up, the creases on the face and the will to use his scissors and blade as a weapon. The thought sends a shiver down my spine. I look at the posters on the wall.

Beyonce and Jay Z stare back at me from one of the walls. They are smiling. A full life size image of 50 Cent looks at me from another poster and he is not smiling. I can understand why, the poster’s title is ‘Die trying’. I look away and my eyes meet with my image on the mirror. It remotely resembles me. The hair on one hand does not merit the snipping of the scissors.

I ask myself why I opted to come here. The numbers of barbershops I passed in Kinondoni area are uncountable; maybe half of them are twice as good as this. After wiping the scissors with cotton wool dabbed in spirit, the barber starts working on my hair. Snip, he cuts. Snap, my hair falls out. It’s already way shorter that I wanted. “You are cutting way too much,” I say.

He responds by pushing my head to the side and looking at the hair there. “The shape of your head and the bald spot in the middle asks for another style.” His tone has an air of authority in it. Sounds like a fact coming from an old over confident professor in a primary school. There is an air of boredom in his tone. My nostrils’ flare, my hands shake. How dare… my thoughts are interrupted by the buzzing of his shaver.

He pushes my head to the other side and before I open my mouth, I feel the machine’s warmth on my head and hear its buzzing noise. He is still reducing it. As if on cue, his fellow barber enters the shop and without bothering to ask us if we want to listen to music, he switches on the huge radio at the corner. It’s full blast Bolingo music. The buzzing shaver continues to assault my head. I close my eyes in defeat. Minutes later, he is done. I open my eyes and watch the reflection on the mirror and sigh. I stand up and pay. He smiles, I frown.

In three weeks time, I will be looking for a new barber.

I seek within, heart beating, to say what is in me

Yet, in the morning light, with the sun not so bright

I can only look and adore

For deep, deeper than the earth is, is that feeling in me

And as I open my mouth to say it, again, the words fail me

I watched the champagne glasses click, the bubbles bobbing

People excited, patting each other, hugging and kissing

I watched, away, as if not part of them

Though still with them

I moved away from the shouts, the cheers, the clicks

And watched the streets filled with people in cheerful moods

As they walked happy, smiling at every stranger

And I smiled at them, tried to shake hands with them

But they passed me as I was not with them

Sadly I moved away, rejected, hurt

And went back to my home, straight to my room

And stood there, confused, hurt

As it dawned on me then, when I saw myself on the bed

That I was not with them.