I took a cold shower (hot water has to be prepared in advance and I didn’t have time), grabbed a few slices of bread, and threw my bag into the back of the Land Cruiser. As I drove out of our gate and down the mountain the sun was rising at my back, a few rays of light beginning to climb over the peak of Mount Babati behind me. I caught a few glimpses of people coming to life inside the small homes that line the road, and the hospital was just beginning to show signs of life. The waiting line that often extended out to the road had already begun, people lined up awaiting treatment for malaria, dysentery, typhoid.
I felt my pocket begin to vibrate and I pulled out my phone to see an incoming call from Herman. “Upo tayari aisee?” (You ready?) I answered. “Hatuwezi kwenda leo bwana, tulikuwa na shida usiku wa leo. Mwalimu Dani alifariki.” (We can’t go today, we had a problem last night. Teacher Dani has passed away) he responded, in a low and quite voice. After we talked for a few more minutes I pulled the car over to the side of the road. When we hung up and after I sat in silence for a few moments, I turned the car around and drove back up the hill.
Daniel Nicodemu, or Dani, was twenty-seven years old when his life abruptly ended. A former graduate of the Children of Promise program, Dani had been given an opportunity to rise out of poverty. He was given healthcare, clothing, nutrition, spiritual nurture, and education. Dani used that chance to not only further his life, but to reinvest in the lives of others. Dani was teaching primary school here in Babati at Aldersgate, the same school Children of Promise allowed him to attend as a child. Dani was also active in the church. He was both the choir leader and the youth leader at the Babati Town Church. He also oversaw youth ministries for a coalition of churches including the Church of God, Lutheran, and Baptist fellowships.
When Dani was on break from school I’d often see him as I drove into work in the mornings. Our office is adjacent the church, and Dani would be there, smiling and waving.
Dani was also a worker. When he wasn’t teaching he sought out odd jobs to make extra money. He would do whatever he could to prepare for his dream: a wife, a house, a family. On the weekends Dani found a job working for the town council. He and his friends would clean the streets of town, hauling away the garbage that most people simply throw along the roadsides and in the culverts that line the road. To do the work Dani needed something to haul the trash with, so he rented a tractor from a local farm. The tractor was reliable and each weekend Dani would pick it up to use for the day. Lately however, the farm needed that tractor, and instead Dani was given an older model, one to weak and out of date to continue plowing in the fields, but solid enough to do the work of hauling trash. Dani would have to go to the neighboring town of Magugu to pick up this tractor and trailer. On Saturday, December 7th, Dani made his last trip.
Having retrieved the tractor and trailer from Magugu in the evening, Dani and three of his friends began the return trip of about 20 kilometers back to Babati. It was late evening, and by this time few vehicles were on the road. In Tanzania, there is only one paved road between the towns, and it isn’t lit by streetlights or reflective bumps, just a lonely dark strip of blacktop marching along in the distance. Dani was riding on the right mudguard, the thick curve of metal over the large rear tire of the tractor, his body lined up with the faded white stripe in the center of the road. His other friends split seats between the driver, the opposite mud guard, and the trailer. The tractor had dim headlights, but the trailer was old and in disrepair and none of the rear taillights were functioning.
As they plodded along at 15-20 miles an hour they neared Babati in almost complete darkness. About 2 kilometers from town, a bus began approaching from the rear, traveling at nearly 75 miles an hour. Passenger buses run between Babati and the large city of Arusha all day long, hurtling along the thin pavement in a rush to reach their destination and begin another run back in the opposite direction. A small bajaji was coming from town, a thin 3 wheeled motorcycle with a cart attached. A single driver and passenger were leaving Babati at the end of a long day, heading for a home in one of the small neighboring villages.
The bus saw the trailer just as it was coming upon it. It tried swerving to the right to go around, but the bajaji was too close and rapidly approaching in the opposite direction. Now in the right lane and quickly approaching the bajaji head on, the driver made one last attempt at reducing his speed and falling back in behind the tractor. He was unable to do so. He swerved back to the left side, in the same moment colliding with the right side of the tractor and trailer and head on with the bajaji. Four people were killed instantly; the driver and the passenger of the bajaji, Dani’s friend riding on the left mudguard, and Dani himself. In a moment, before perhaps they even realized what was happening behind them as the bus approached, they were gone.
It was morning before most people knew about the accident. Even Herman had only found out moments before calling me that Sunday morning. The wedding in Dodoma would continue, but those scheduled to travel from Babati did not attend. The church is very much a family, and Dani’s death sent waves rippling through every extension of that bond. Even some of Dani’s close friends and family who had already traveled to Dodoma would return before the marriage ceremony could even begin.
Because the following Monday was a holiday, the funeral and burial was scheduled to take place on Tuesday. I drove down to the church as the rain was pouring down again. It seemed from the moment of Dani’s death it hadn’t stopped. When I arrived there were hundreds of people lined up outside, some with umbrellas, but most simply standing in the downpour. They huddled around the few spaces of dirt and gravel that still remained free from standing water. For a while I sat under the overhang outside my office with those that had already paid there respects to the family and had viewed the body inside. I watched Tanzanian men, often stoic and unemotional, emerge from the church shaken and physically distraught. I saw women come out clutching each other for stability as they sobbed into the shoulders and arms of their friends and relatives. They were literally wailing, each moan in the rain a stark contrast to the brightly colored fabrics they had draped around themselves for the service. Among the mourners was the young married couple from Dodoma. They had left immediately after their wedding to be here for the funeral.
As the service came to a close and the last few stragglers emerged from the church, a procession was forming. The body was to be transported to Dani’s home village for another brief service and then burial. The rain continued as 300 or so people climbed into the waiting vehicles. Few people own cars here, so most were borrowed for the occasion. Land Cruisers from the school and church along with rented vans and mini-buses all mixed with the little yellow school bus used to transport kids to and from Aldersgate. Normally its tiny seats, decorated with little caricatures of bunnies and turtles, are filled with kids laughing and playing as they head to and from school. Today they were filled with over 30 mourners, crammed into seats and standing in the aisles, the simple wooden coffin containing Dani’s body resting among them. They headed north out of Babati along the same road Dani had traveled that late Saturday evening. The sounds of the women crying could still be heard through the closed windows of the cars as the first few vehicles pulled away.
About 8 kilometers from Dani’s home village of Mnyau, by now well off the main tarmac road, the vehicles could progress no further. The mud had become too much and the road was impassable to only the Land Cruiser, and even it had to be pushed frequently. The coffin was taken out and strapped to the roof rack, the other vehicles abandoned by the side of the road, and the group of 300 began the roughly 5 mile walk to the village. The rain continued off and on as they trudged through the mud and water, the Land Cruiser with its coffin attached serving as an impromptu flag bearer, leading the processional towards Dani’s grave. Mnayu is located at the base of the mountains near Mbulu, at the bottom of an escarpment that cuts its way along Lake Manyara and extends into the Great Rift Valley. Houses there are built from mud plastered on simple frames of stick and branches, topped with roofs of dried grass. A few simple brick shops dot the landscape in between.
When they finally arrived at the family home, the rain had stopped. They removed the coffin and another small service was held. Those that could not make the trip to Babati were given a chance to pay their final respects. When words became few and little was left to say, they carried the box outside. It was slowly lowered into the pre-dug grave. As women stood around watching and sobbing, the men began slowly filling in the dirt, each shovel-full of sandy soil taking the tan box further out of view. When it was finished the family paused to thank those that had come, and slowly, one by one, everyone made the lengthy journey back through the mud, back to the vehicles, and back home.
Life here is frequently rife with paradox. Often beauty mixes with pain, hope with sorrow. In the aftermath of Dani’s death many are left in this land in-between. They’ll forever carry the pain associated with losing this young man’s life. But they’ll also never forget the difference he made in the lives of others, and the choice he made to serve.
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