Tribute: The Edwin Semzaba ‘Ngoswe’ I knew

Teuna Shoko, a twenty-something Kiswahili teacher currently pursuing a post-graduate course in Isimu (Linguistics) at the University of Dar es Salaam broke the news on Monday morning, that “Ngoswe” is dead, my reaction was: “What? No way!”

Death is inevitable to all mortal beings, we know, yet our immediate reaction to news of the death of a person—more so a person you know, the way I knew Edwin Semzaba, aka Ngoswe—is denial.

Couple of weeks

In any case, I had met him just a couple of weeks earlier as he left Josam House in Mwenge, where the Media Council of Tanzania (MCT) offices are located. He looked fine to me; now how come he’s dead? That’s what I was telling myself.

Edwin Semzaba, yes; that was his real name, but who knows it? Ngoswe has been his nickname from his teens while doing his O-Levels on the shores of Lake Tanganyika, where he wrote what was to be his most famous work, a play entitled, Ngoswe: Penzi Kitovu cha Uzembe at the age of 16 while in Form Two at Livingstone College, now Kigoma Secondary School.

“Ngoswe” became a household name after it was adopted as a radio play by Radio Tanzania Dar es Salaam (RTD) in the 1980s. There is a scene in the play where Mazoea, a young girl who the main character, Ngoswe, has corrupted, asks him: “Lakini kwa nini unaitwa Ngoswe?” (How come you’re named Ngoswe?). Ngoswe replies: “Mambo ya Ngoswe kuitwa, mwachie Ngoswe mwenyewe” (The issue of Ngoswe being named Ngoswe, leave it to Ngoswe alone!)

Mlimani Park Orchestra was to elevate Ngoswe’s response to Mazoea to become a popular Kiswahili idiom when they used it in their 1987 hit song, ‘Epuka Jambo Lisilo Kuhusu’ in which Cosmas Chidumule sings “Mambo ya Ngoswe, mwachie Ngoswe mwenyewe”. It has since come to mean, “Leave me alone” or “Mind your own business”.

I came to know Edwin in the early 1970s at Mkwawa High School, where he was doing History, Kiswahili and Literature in English (HKL), while I battled with the HGL combination.

There must have been some Livingstone schoolmates of his at Mkwawa, who influenced us to call him Ngoswe, a name we all preferred. In my mother tongue, Chasu, ngoswe means rat, the small, funny animal. I soon learnt it means the same in Edwin’s mother tongue, Kibondei.

At Mkwawa, he was a member of the school band, which, at our time, was led by solo guitarist George Sewando. Edwin, even when off stage, would enthuse us with his rendition of songs by his “home bands” Atomic Jazz and Jamhuri Jazz. In those days, when “Tanga was Tanga”, the land of sisal, the “white gold” and Coastal Union, we from hinterland regions used to look at fellows from Tanga with awe.

Why, they would impress us with their affinity of musicians like John Kijiko, Stephen Hiza (Atomic Jazz); Wilson and George Peter Kinyonga bros (Jamhuri Jazz). Mkwawa Boys Band, in which Edwin was a member, was the talk of Iringa Town then, what with its monthly afternoon gigs (boogies).

We also had a very active drama club at Mkwawa and “naturally”, Edwin was a key figure, staging plays with fellows like Ahmada Ngemera, Alfred Kingwe, aka Umbopa, and Sostenes Magese, Adam Lusekelo.

Richard Ndunguru, a lecturer in Film and Television studies at UDSM says, among other things, he will remember Edwin as a good musician who gave a good account of himself as a vocalist with the Fine and Performing Arts Staff Band. “He was not only a good playwright and actor; he was a good singer too.”

A departmental colleague and friend, Dr Vicencia Shule, says she will remember Edwin, not only as a good teacher, but also as a most likeable person. Indeed, it was hard not to like the guy, for he was so modest, his fame notwithstanding.

You can tell most celebrities a mile away, but not so with Edwin, for he was always a picture of simplicity. He disapproved actors who behave in real life like they are on stage.

“Showmanship should be confined to the stage…an actor should remain himself when he’s not doing a play,” he once said as we chatted at the UDSM Bookshop where be briefly served in the early 1980s as assistant manager.

According to Dr Shule, who saw Edwin at Tumaini Hospital a few hours before he died, the man was true to himself to the last. “Even as he lay in his bed, unable to say anything, it looked like he wanted to say something funny…to crack a joke, make us laugh,” she says.

Cracking jokes

Well, we won’t hear Edwin Semzaba cracking jokes for us anymore; we shall, however, laugh, courtesy of him, laugh as we read or watch his many plays that he wrote in his artistic career spanning close to 50 years.

Edwin, who was laid to rest at the Kionondoni Cemetery yesterday, lost to cancer on Sunday, the battle he courageously fought for some years.

Rest in peace, brother Edwin.

Abdi Sultani is the Revise Editor of The Citizen [email protected]