Earlier this year, I was in bed sick for the second time in a month. Another case of tonsilitis. This one was so severe that I had an emergency doctor visit at midnight on a weekend. I didn’t eat for a week. Several times during that week, I found myself longing for home, Dar es Salaam. I have gotten tired of existing in the hamster wheel, an accurate description of my life as of that point in time. In Berlin, I have to worry about getting the same illness multiple times every winter, affording rent, getting a job to sustain an existence, numerous bureaucratic subplots that never seem to go away and much more. I started to romanticise Dar once again.
In Dar, I wouldn’t have to worry about rent even without a job and I could realistically own my own house with sizeable flower and vegetable gardens in a couple of years on a decent-ish income. I would have to learn how to drive and get a car, but that’s fine: I could get a remote job, so I don’t have to deal with traffic regularly. I would have easier access to Swahili literature again and get to see the ocean every day. And if I were to have a kid, I would have enough support without having to send them to a Kita.
“What am I even doing here?” is what I’ve been asking myself for the last two years. I can’t find the jobs I want (or get interviews). I walk into certain cafes in the city and get stared down like I don’t belong there and have people clutch their ugly bags the moment I pass by (these two things happened to me in March at a cafe on Chausseestraße). I hate the months-long winter and negative temperatures.
I came to Germany 9 years ago at twenty years old. I was a skinny girl from Dar with dark pink kids’ glasses because they’re what fit my tiny head. I was on the fence about staying here long, but over the years, I’ve come to identify with certain things, especially the degree of freedom that I have here as opposed to what I had or could have had in Tanzania. That’s one thing that makes all this difficult. Do I really want to lose my independence? Do I want to be questioned about not going to church every Sunday? Do I want to receive messages every few weeks from people I barely know asking for wedding and send-off contributions?
Do I really really want to live in Dar?
I guess I don’t, actually, and right now it feels like no amount of money or job would change that. I like the idea of being there but not actually living there. I like the thought of staying there just long enough to be able to capture the essence of the society that has changed so much since I left and the cultures within it, for my writing, because I long to write more about home. Long enough could mean a lifetime, but when I think of spending that lifetime experiencing the mundane, the physical, mental and political exhaustion, the extremely normalised misogyny, I reconsider.
A confession
To me, Dar was never more than the ocean, critical observations of hustle culture and a constant longing for freedom. I grew up in the suburbs of Dar es Salaam in gated homes, as many others in Tanzania do, but we left the house only for school, family functions, and to play with our cousins or the one or two friends who all lived within walking distance from our home. I wasn’t allowed to go out. I had to teach myself restaurant etiquette when I was 18 while hanging out with friends in places I wasn’t allowed to be. I had to lie to my mom about where I was to calm her down, even when it was bright outside. With the exception of my high school prom night which was at a fancy restaurant in the city centre, I have never experienced night life in Dar. I have never been to brunch in Dar, which I think would be really cool, actually, because Tanzanian food is top-tier. I have been to one wedding in my conscious life when I was 12 years old. I spent most of my free time at home, where there was no shortage of things to get lost in and worlds to imagine.
For someone who barely lived in the city, I romanticise Dar quite a lot: brunch at overpriced cafes, trips to Zanzibar, the occasional soiree. In reality, I would have to rebuild my social life because most of my friends have left the country. How do I explain to people that I’m not religious anymore? One would be surprised how much of an issue this is in a “secular” country. Being the ever-opinionated person that I am, I would surely regularly find myself in arguments with people about everything: politics, gender roles, entertainment, etc. Now, the discussion would be cut short by saying that I’m too Europeanised, which is stupid because I was always like this, and believing in gender equality and other progressive ideas is not European ffs. My extended family would tell you how I used to argue with them in our WhatsApp chat like I was paid to do it.
The thing is, there are many reasonably-priced cafes in Berlin that I can walk into without feeling uncomfortable. And that’s the major difference I’m observing: many of the issues I’ve faced here can just be ignored or worked around, but in Dar, I would be demonised if I ever spoke against religion or if I chose to dress or act a certain way that doesn’t align with so-called “African values”, and the list goes on. Society is more involved in the individual’s life in Tanzania, and that bothers me to my core.
What I, and you who’ve been romanticising home, need is a break from the hamster wheel. Get a one-way ticket during the harsh winter and spend a few months at home in holiday mode: enjoying great food, proper beaches, the warm weather and visiting family just long enough to stay within the guest label. I’m convinced that a 2-month trip back home would heal me. So here’s to me hoping to post an article or several from Dar es Salaam sometime in the coming year. For now, I’ll stay put in the chaos of Berlin.
But nothing is ever certain, is it?
Here’s the view from my room, you know, what I stare at when listening to the Jonas Brothers’ album Happiness Begins and thinking of ways to make friends in the city and not embarrass myself by getting lost every morning.
the writing nib 