Tanzania – The End of the Line

“The new colonizers wear suits, not helmets. Laws and contracts are their guns.”

– Ch.12: The New Era

The Indian Ocean surged in, its waves crashing against Africa’s shoreline. Furaha curled her toes deep in the sand, feeling the grit as she looked toward Zanzibar. The hot sun pressing down on her shoulders was offset by a cool offshore breeze.

She clutched her dad's paperback in her lap. The book had been his and now it was hers. She opened to a page in the last chapter:

“Western civilization has a single-minded obsession to “increase the GDP”, which propels them to dig resources out of our continent of Africa at an ever faster and faster pace. To create more products the world doesn’t need, more chemicals to poison its land, more cars and trains to move the people back and forth to places they don’t need to go.”

She snapped the book shut. These words were abstract ideas. Not as real as her father’s funeral last week. He drowned, they said. Ridiculous. Papa had swum since he was a boy, always a strong swimmer, a survivor.

In his youth, he had been a political activist. He had taught Furaha about Nyerere and Tanzania’s path to independence, until middle age and the allure of gambling stole his vitality.

A shadow fell across her. “Hungry?” Zawadi plopped down next to her, his knee bumping into hers. He smelled like coconut oil and the cheap cologne he used.

Furaha sighed,“Let’s stay a bit longer?” She looked out at the infinite expanse of the ocean, searching for life’s meaning. Zawadi followed her gaze, then turned back to the strip of beachfront cafes on the far side of the road that hummed with electric buses.

“To think,” Zawadi muttered, “Talon Rusk owns all of this.”

Furaha smirked. “And he owns the office towers. And the mines. And the politicians. And probably the judges.” She laughed, a deep, knowing laugh that only Africans can make—the kind that says, “We see the joke, and it’s on us.”

“Who would work for that man?” Zawadi watched the Volture electric buses drop off and pickup passenger nearby. “Have you ever actually known a bus driver in Dar es Salaam?”

In America, the buses drive themselves, but in Tanzania they have drivers to ensure everyone pays their fare.

Furaha frowned. “No. Never.”

“Exactly. Maybe they don’t tell anyone?”

“So, our city is full of covert bus drivers?” They both burst into laughter, loud enough that a fisherman down the beach turned to glare.

Zawadi’s phone buzzed. He swiped the screen, eyes lighting up. “RideNow is offering 60% off piri-piri chicken for the next ten minutes. Let’s go.” He grabbed her wrist, tugging her up.

She yanked free, brushing sand from her thighs. “If you’re hungry, you buy. I don’t have any apps.”

“No apps?” His eyebrows shot up. “Are you still living in 2025?”

“I just don’t want to be controlled.”

Zawadi rolled his eyes. “You and your conspiracy theories. Relax!”

Furaha bit her tongue. She hated it when her brother told her to relax—like her worries were some unruly pet that needed leashing. To distract herself, she adjusted her backpack, her fingers touching the soft fur of the purple rabbit keychain dangling from its zipper.

The toy was a gift from Papa on her tenth birthday. A mganga wa pepo had blessed it. Over the years, she’d noticed something strange. When people looked at it, their faces softened. They’d pause, smile, forget what they were doing. Maybe it was just cute, or maybe it was something else.

They waited for the crossing light on Toure Drive. As so many other people in Dar es Salaam these days, Zawadi insisted they wait for the light instead of walking across. Furaha usually walked across when there was a gap in traffic, the way Tanzanians had done for hundreds of years.

“You know,” he said, “when the Germans left in 1918, they blew up their own railways so we couldn’t use them. Now, we have all new buses thanks to America.“

“Thank you America!” Furaha echoed with a mocking tone. It was easier to mock her brother than to argue with him. Africans could make their own buses without Talon Rusk, of that she was sure.

She had noticed it for weeks now. How people would board the buses, and then stare down at their screens. Their eyes would glaze over, as if they’d lost a part of themselves. She remembered just a few years ago, people would talk to each other on the buses.

She remembered the page in her book the mganga in their home village told her to read:

“Every society requires a religion. In the 21st century, the West created the dream of ever greater personal freedom, for people who are living in a prison of endless work and bills.”

- Ch.11: The Religion of Capitalism

They could push buttons on their mobiles, but they couldn't quit their jobs.

***

Her whole life her mother scolded Furaha for being impulsive. Its not proper she said. But when Furaha had an itch to scratch, she couldn't let it go. In school, she always told the class she wanted to be a journalist someday. Track down stories and find answers. Where do the buses drivers come from, and where do they go? She needed to know. Its the questions that no one asks, that are sometimes the important ones.

Late that night, she snuck out of the house and caught a bus bound for far-away Abilla.

She squeezed into a seat near the back, her pulse hammering in her throat. The bus smelled like cleaning chemicals and damp sweat. Around her, passengers hunched over their phones, their faces oblivious to her nervousness. At each stop, a few got up and stepped out of the bus.

At the last stop, instead of talking to the driver as she had planned, on impulse, she ducked under the seat, her backpack pressed to her chest. “Last stop!” the driver called out. The bus lurched to a half, and the driver stood up. He walked the aisle to the back of the bus, his boots thudding against the rubber flooring. When he spotted Furaha, he jolted in surprise. His lips were about to say something, when his gaze shifted onto her purple rabbit and his face softened.

“Beautiful day,” he said, his voice friendly. He turned and walked away.

“We rode the midnight train from Dar to Dodoma with stolen British rifles hidden under baskets of cassava. At sunrise, we didn't raise flags - we burned tax records.”

- Ch.7: How Revolution Travels

The bus rumbled to life again, plunging into darkness. The air grew thick, the scent of diesel and damp concrete filling her nose. And suddenly, artificial light streamed in through the windows.

Peering out, she saw they were inside a sprawling facility, every wall emblazoned with the name Volture. Rows of glass cubicles were against one wall, each holding a person. Their faces flickered with the light of screens they watched. Her stomach twisted, she never realized such a place could exist.

She scanned their faces. And then, Papa.

There he was in one of the pods, his lips moving in sync with a video: “Thank you for choosing Volture.”

Should she call Zawadi? She looked at her phone, surely they would detect her call, they monitor everything. Her breath tightened. She needed to move. She got out of the bus her bunny swinging from her backpack. She straightened up her back, and walked confidently as if she belonged there. Each time a worker looked at her, in her school uniform, they looked shocked, but then noticed her bunny and smiled and wandered off.

She found a control panel, and began smashing buttons. Alarms shrieked and the cubicles began to open.

Papa blinked at her like she was a ghost. “Furaha?”

“We need to get out of here,” she said, extending a hand to pull him out of the cell.

“But, I need to finish the training video,” Papa said.

“You’re a prisoner.”

“I’m not. I'm an employee, on a work contract.” His eyes had a manic look, like when he was obsessed with something. She had to think quickly.

“Your manager told you to follow me.” She pulled him by the hand, reluctantly he followed. Others stumbled behind them, confused, blinking like newborns.

“What about your family?” Furaha hissed as they rushed out of the tunnel the bus had come in through.

“Furaha, I signed an NDA.”

“What about me?”

“I can come home in three years, with a twenty thousand shilling signing bonus. I should go back.”

“Leaving us for only twenty thousand shillings?” Having seen Volture’s prison, she doubted they would ever let anyone free. She decided now wasn’t the time to inform him of his own funeral.

“I should have checked the terms and conditions.” Her dad frowned apologetically. Outside, the night air was sweet and fresh. Papa stared at the stars. “Maybe… it was a mistake.”

Once they were far enough away, she turned her mobile on, and tried to call Zawadi. There was a notification: Server Disconnected.

A boom resounded in the darkness behind them. Glancing back, she saw flames rise from the Volture compound.

Dad watched blankly, before realizing something, an idea surfacing from deep in his memories.

“We don't need them. American's have something they say that is called live off the grid. From now on, let’s let all of Tanzania live off the grid. Let's be circles and not squares.”

She couldn’t have guessed it then, but in time Dad's motto would catch on. It sounded a lot better in Swahili than in English. Ten years later, Dad would become Prime Minister of Tanzania and make his dream a reality.

Furaha would go to America to help spread the message. It wouldn’t be an easy path.