People of Tanzania—Helen, the Admin Assistant
Helen is an administrative assistant at a realtor’s office
on the Msasani Peninsula. 57, graying hair, plus a pair of half-moon glasses,
Helen looks like a prototypical secretary manning an office desk.
She is very efficient at what she does. E-mail, fax, copier,
even the brand new scanner in the corner can’t throw her off. She is the person
teaching her colleagues about supplies, big and small. All of her letters are
neatly arranged by the date they are due to be sent out. Whenever she talks to
the managers here, it is almost like they are taking orders from her, that’s
how tuned in she is about what’s happening around here. No, the meeting with
Jengis Construction has been pushed back,
she emphasizes. And there’s still a car in the garage awaiting preventive
maintenance. And do you really think that car will fix itself?
But Helen is not all black and white and gray. In fact, she has a wonderfully colored orange dress with a pattern of blue and purple squares tastefully dotting the textile. She walks quickly but deliberately, as if somebody could remind her at any moment that she’s 57 and past her professional shelf life in this country.
Helen herself came from a humble upbringing. The first of seven children growing up in Moshi, she was the person in charge of the house the day their father died following a motorcycle accident. Her father’s death pushed most of the siblings out of school, since the money their father made now had to be earned by the children—among them Helen, who went to work as a filing clerk at an attorney’s office. This was the perfect on the job training, she insists, since people were rarely hired back in those days without experience or at least some influential connection that could vouch for you.
The attorney’s office eventually re-located to Dar, adding a few more partners and their staff to the mix. Helen learned quickly and would spend another eleven years at the attorney’s office before spotting an advert for an opening in a realtor’s office in the Daily News. She was hired, her salary more than doubled, as did her responsibilities, and the attorney who had first hired her watched her leave with a heavy heart much later.
On her desk is a photo featuring her two sons. One is 25 and an engineer, the other one 21 and still at the University of Dar es Salaam studying mathematics. She is proud of them, despite the fact that they never had to toil the way their parents did and were subjected to fewer challenges.
Unlike other, more anxious, Tanzanians, Helen is gushing about the elections. Magufuli, the CCM candidate, is the man. “People in the party are afraid of him,” she laughs. “They are afraid that they will have to do what Magufuli is doing: actually work for a living.” She doesn’t deny that Tanzania needs changes in the worst way, although she is convinced that this must come from two places: CCM, the ruling party. And Tanzanians themselves.
“We need to change, not just the leaders,” she proclaims. “We need to be more transparent. We need to stop taking and stealing and start living like Christians again. It is easy to say that the government must change, the party, or the police. We must look at ourselves.”
Her bosses are easily within hearing distance, but don’t mind Helen’s blunt assessment about today’s Tanzania. In the office she is the elder statesman talking with authority, the glue holding the place together.
Before I leave, she tosses the technician, the fundi who is attempting to fix the copier, out of the office. “Waste,” she says. “We don’t need him. It’s just a paper jam.” The torn paper is revealed for the entire office to see before it lands in the nearest trash bin. The bosses chuckle in the nearby conference room, knowing Helen is at it again.
“Work,” she says as a parting statement, “is not just about doing your job. It’s adding value to it.” Said with a rare smile.
But Helen is not all black and white and gray. In fact, she has a wonderfully colored orange dress with a pattern of blue and purple squares tastefully dotting the textile. She walks quickly but deliberately, as if somebody could remind her at any moment that she’s 57 and past her professional shelf life in this country.
Helen herself came from a humble upbringing. The first of seven children growing up in Moshi, she was the person in charge of the house the day their father died following a motorcycle accident. Her father’s death pushed most of the siblings out of school, since the money their father made now had to be earned by the children—among them Helen, who went to work as a filing clerk at an attorney’s office. This was the perfect on the job training, she insists, since people were rarely hired back in those days without experience or at least some influential connection that could vouch for you.
The attorney’s office eventually re-located to Dar, adding a few more partners and their staff to the mix. Helen learned quickly and would spend another eleven years at the attorney’s office before spotting an advert for an opening in a realtor’s office in the Daily News. She was hired, her salary more than doubled, as did her responsibilities, and the attorney who had first hired her watched her leave with a heavy heart much later.
On her desk is a photo featuring her two sons. One is 25 and an engineer, the other one 21 and still at the University of Dar es Salaam studying mathematics. She is proud of them, despite the fact that they never had to toil the way their parents did and were subjected to fewer challenges.
Unlike other, more anxious, Tanzanians, Helen is gushing about the elections. Magufuli, the CCM candidate, is the man. “People in the party are afraid of him,” she laughs. “They are afraid that they will have to do what Magufuli is doing: actually work for a living.” She doesn’t deny that Tanzania needs changes in the worst way, although she is convinced that this must come from two places: CCM, the ruling party. And Tanzanians themselves.
“We need to change, not just the leaders,” she proclaims. “We need to be more transparent. We need to stop taking and stealing and start living like Christians again. It is easy to say that the government must change, the party, or the police. We must look at ourselves.”
Her bosses are easily within hearing distance, but don’t mind Helen’s blunt assessment about today’s Tanzania. In the office she is the elder statesman talking with authority, the glue holding the place together.
Before I leave, she tosses the technician, the fundi who is attempting to fix the copier, out of the office. “Waste,” she says. “We don’t need him. It’s just a paper jam.” The torn paper is revealed for the entire office to see before it lands in the nearest trash bin. The bosses chuckle in the nearby conference room, knowing Helen is at it again.
“Work,” she says as a parting statement, “is not just about doing your job. It’s adding value to it.” Said with a rare smile.
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