MUWAHA AUUYA: A DAY IN DODOMA

 

 Adeladius Makwega – Mbagala

 

On July 31, 2026, I found myself once again in Dodoma—the land of my birth, a place that still speaks to me in ways both familiar and unsettling. From the early hours of the morning until just past midday, the city unfolded before me not merely as a location, but as a living narrative—layered with voices, contradictions, and quiet lessons.

 

At exactly 12:56 PM, I stepped off a bus at the Chamwino Ikulu rural stand. The journey had been routine, the kind one hardly remembers. But what awaited me outside was anything but ordinary.

 

Directly ahead stood the Abubakari bin Zuberi Mosque. At the women’s entrance, a group of schoolgirls—some from primary schools, others from secondary—were making their way in for the Friday congregational prayer. From the loudspeakers came a solemn reminder:

 

“…Amma baadi, my fellow Muslims, I advise you and myself…”

 

It was a familiar call, one that echoes across many mosques, carrying both spiritual weight and moral expectation.

 

The younger girls walked ahead, composed and quiet. Behind them, the older ones followed—dressed in green skirts and hijabs. Yet something seemed out of place. Their skirts were noticeably short. A young man, perhaps in his early thirties, stood nearby, watching. Then, unable to remain silent, he spoke:

 

“Hey! Stop what you’re doing. Stop exposing yourselves—dress properly, dress with dignity.”

 

His words, though blunt, carried a tone of concern rather than hostility. And almost instantly, a subtle transformation occurred. Khangas and vitenge—loosely draped moments before—were pulled down, adjusted, and wrapped more securely. The girls, now more covered, quietly entered the mosque.

 

It was a small moment, but one that lingered—a silent negotiation between modern expression and traditional expectation.

 

I crossed the road, still reflecting, when another scene unfolded—one far removed from the order of the mosque.

An elderly woman approached me unsteadily, her steps guided more by instinct than balance. The scent of local brew—chakali—announced her before she spoke. Then came her voice, loud, urgent, almost celebratory:

“Makwega! Makwega! Muwaha auuya! The elder has returned! Muwaha auuya! So—you’ve really come back?”

 

Before I could respond, she was already speaking again, her words tumbling over each other:

 

“Your houses are dying. Your trees are gone. Your banana plants, your sugarcane, your mango trees—all gone. We said… even you must have died.”

 

There was something poetic in her chaos—a strange blend of accusation, memory, and truth. I answered gently:

 

“I am still alive. And not everything has died. Some things remain. If everything had died… then perhaps we too would not be here. Because trees are life.”

 

For a moment, she seemed to listen. Then, as abruptly as the conversation had begun, it shifted. She asked for a thousand shillings for more drink. I gave her what I could, and we parted—two lives briefly intersecting at the edge of understanding.

 

But Dodoma was not done with me yet.

 

Earlier that day, I had set out with a simple goal: to find the Office of the President – Records and Archives. It should have been straightforward. It was not.

 

Maps failed me. The institution’s website, though detailed, offered little clarity on its physical location. Even a Bolt driver—Yusuph, a young man navigating both the roads and his own ambitions—struggled to locate it using Google Maps.

 

“Mzee,” he said, half amused, half serious, “that place holds important things—contracts, sensitive matters. It’s not easy to find. Maybe you should call someone.”

 

Then, with a grin that revealed his youth:

“Or maybe… there’s a beautiful lady working there?”

I laughed. “Those days are behind me,” I told him.

He shook his head. “No, elders like you are dangerous. When you spend, you spend big—land, cars, buildings. We young people can’t compete.”

 

There it was again—that quiet tension between generations, wrapped in humor but rooted in truth.

 

Eventually, with directions from a transport officer, we found the place. It was exactly where it had always been—only hidden behind layers of poor guidance and fragmented information.

Inside, I was received by a woman whose questions were sharp, almost probing. Perhaps she was in charge. Around her, others worked with warmth and ease, their kindness balancing her intensity.

 

When I finally stepped out, task completed, I boarded the same route back—Makole to Chamwino and back again. But this time, I was not just traveling through space. I was traveling through thought.

The girls at the mosque.

The man who spoke up.

The woman who cried, “Muwaha auuya!”

The driver who questioned everything with a smile.

Each encounter, on its own, seemed ordinary. Together, they formed something deeper—a mirror held up to society.

So what do we learn?

We learn that modesty is still contested ground.

We learn that beneath laughter and drunken words lie real social struggles.

We learn that generations do not always see the world the same way.

We learn that systems meant to guide us sometimes leave us lost.

And above all, we learn that human connection—raw, imperfect, and immediate—remains our

most powerful teacher.

Dodoma did not just host me that day. It spoke to me.

And perhaps, through these words, it now speaks to you.

Mwanakwetu, are you there?

“Muwaha Auuya!”

—
Wishing you a thoughtful day.

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