Tribal Dancers at Sukumaland Show, Ngudu 1954
My father had become disillusioned with the Groundnut Scheme by 1951, which had completely failed in all its objectives to deliver bumper crops of peanuts for oil. He had managed, thanks to my mother, to get a position as District Officer with the Provincial Administration – a popular and suitable option for Groundnutters as they could keep the car (the Bedford truck shown below), transfer pensions, and stay in Tanganyika which they loved.
They moved between 1951 and 1953, first to Mikindani, then to Mtwara, and finally Mwanza. Here is a record of these postings, with some excerpts from my mum’s letters home.
First to Mikindani, a seaside Swahili town in the south of Tanganyika, at the end of April 1951. As you will see, life was not easy, despite it being my father’s dream job.
The German-built boma (administrative HQ) at Mikindani
Mum wrote:
…been here a week. The truck with our goods had to be seen to be believed – piled high, and with 2 boys and their beds strapped on to the top of the mound of our luggage…one of the bedrooms has bats which drop things everywhere. Water doesn’t always run into the bathroom or wc but prisoners bring 12 large cans every day just in case…kitchen is in separate building with the boys’ quarters…view from front balcony is superb…We get lots of fish and I do hope we will be able to live reasonably cheaply. Meat they say is scarce…and native vegetables only but good ones. Alas the sea is dirty so no bathing nearby. Tom like his work very much.
Leslie Latham Moore, Sultan of M’Simbati
On the nearby island of M’simbati they came across ‘an English settler, Latham Leslie Moore – ‘an old boy of about 60 who is a retired agricultural officer…a most picturesque character and seems to spend most of his time writing us [the administration] rude letters.. quite charmed us. He is a real old timer.’ In fact he was rumoured to be the illegitimate son of Edward VII and was immortalised in books and films by John Hemingway.
…spent the weekend with the eccentric settler Leslie Moore [complete with local wife, much frowned upon in those days]…although his house is falling down and the ceilings are caving in one by one… He got out new silver and linen he bought in 1938 and not yet used and entertained us royally. He is quite fanatical, runs around in a loin cloth, has a beard as well as a weak heart and is almost Somerset Maugham-ish. His estate has a glorious beach quite deserted and we bathed among porpoises diving in and out.
In 1951 Leslie Moore declared independence from Tanganyika Territories and, according to my mother, ‘had ordered a crown.’ In 1959 he founded his own Sultanate and his self-designed flag flew over his house [see sketch below on the back of a letter he wrote to Mum] until the secession was suppressed in 1962 by Tanzanian government troops. He was denied recognition by the new government, but it agreed to ask permission when stepping on to his land. Perhaps this was Dad’s influence as he would have looked out for the old boy, as they were both very fond of him. He was evicted and deported in 1967 (?) and the Sultanate dissolved He died and was buried in 1980, in Nairobi.
I recently found a whole batch of letters from Leslie Moore to Sheila; he was completely mad. Here are some excerpts from them, including the description of his eventual eviction from his Sultanate.
When she was pregnant he wrote:
Thank you my child for your letter of August 14 and all the news. You seem to be having a fairly hectic time with all the VIPs. It’s a pity you can’t put a notice up saying, ‘up the spout’, go away and live in a tent. I think it’s most inconsiderate of them all impose on you like this.
About the Kilwa ruins,
I’m sorry to hear that those lovely ruins are falling into pieces but what with people like Loveluck as a DC, who pulls old monuments to bits to make a bloody jetty, I’m surprised that anything is left at all in the territory.
In another letter addressed ‘Sheila, my beautiful daughter’, dated 18 June 1960, he describes his crown and his new flag:
Darling I love you very much. You are my eldest and most beautiful daughter but if you spell my name Lesley again I shall come up to Kilwa and put you across my knee and spank that portion of your anatomy that is most fleshy and least sunburnt. It is spelt Leslie With an accent grave on the last E.
I’ve moved out of the dining room and I’ve gone back to my old ways of having something on a tray while sitting in my armchair and reading and when that is over all I have to do is stretch my hand out and turn on the wireless for the radio news reel and the news … I look very venerable with my white beard rather like Sheikh Hussein, but better looking. I’m getting my tummy down as I can’t be bothered to eat anything half the time. At times I feel very ill and vomit a lot of muck from the poisoned lung but when I have got rid of it, I feel better until the next attack then it starts all over again.
Yes I’m having my crown made by Dobbies and it ought to be here soon with my new flag. The flag is Emerald green with the Union Jack in the top left hand corner then a thin band of sea, blue then a green and fertile island M’Simbati divided by the blue waters of Indian Ocean from the bloody shores of Tanganyika.
As soon as Angelini has finished the Dryden job, I want him here to make a rampart over the front door so I can put up the flagstaff and then fly the flag and defy the TT government to come here and haul it down.
They have already committed an act of aggression in March when a flying machine came over here and bombed the faithful at prayer with pig products. The offender has been caught and taken to HE and I have news that he’s coming down to apologise to the islanders in person. I wrote to the UN about it and I’m now waiting for the next act of aggression that will be in the English papers and on the BBC News. I have forbidden the bloody admin Tubbski and the rest of his stooges to come here, if they do, I start shooting.
The Rhodesian and SA papers took up the succession and Jeff Cartwright wrote a hell of an article ‘The Grand Old Man of the Island’ and gave a garbled account of my various exploits, some imaginary, of my life, photo of the old man inserted. The photo is very good, taken here by the doc who came to see the corpse last year. I had some enlargements made for my friends and so would you like a signed one, being an old friend and the mother of my children, etc etc? If so let me know and I will send you one. I’m so glad my youngest unmarried daughter likes her golly now and I hope she does not eat any more of it, not good for the tummy.
The final letter of Dec 18 1967 is rather sad, describing his expulsion from the island:
Why have you neglected me all these years? You deserve to be beaten. Tom is in Turkey? Has he left you or have you left him? Let me know all the sordid details. Has he gone off with a blonde out of some harem?[very prescient!]
Now, my news. As you saw I was attacked kicked and hit by some 20 askaris, handcuffed and taken into Mtwara where I was locked up under guard for three days and nights, but no charge against me, then two bloody police officers came and said I had been removed from M’Simbati FOR MY OWN SAFETY and was not allowed to go back and had to stay in the hotel. I’ve been locked up with no change of clothes, no toothbrush, nothing, my legs were covered in blood from the kicks and I had terrible pain in my side where I was kicked. I was refused medical aid but got a message to the MO and he came to the pub and treated me there. I was allowed out on the Veranda as the police said they had made a mistake and I should not have been locked up at all. I spotted a bloke who’s English and got him over. He is the Gillette razor blade man in Nairobi, a good fellah, I told him what it happened and to see Wendy Griffiths in the Pan Am office. Tell her the story and get her buddy on the East African Standard to write it up, which he did, and then the cat was out of the bag. The Times, The Telegraph, Mail, Mirror took it up; and all the SA and Rhodesian papers had it as well as some Yank ones. Lady D[emetriou] and the Bonns were up in the FO and the Colonial and Commonwealth Offices, raising hell and got government off its arse and doing something. Aide memoires flew about and J N [Julius Nyerere] and some of the others got visits from the High Commissioner. Charles Miller sent out dollars from New York and Hemingway flew out from Rhode Island to take me away. Offers of help and hospitality came in from most of the old M’Simbati lovers and some from people I’ve never met, but knew of me from the ‘Fight for Freedom’ and stories about me all over the place. One couple said I could stay with them as long as I like, another man gave me a farm to live on. I was simply overwhelmed with all the sympathy and kindness. A woman in Canada who read the White Sultan story wrote to say I could come over and stay there on their farm as long as I liked, people I’ve never met in my life.
Maria [his concubine?] put up a damn fine show when they took me away in handcuffs. She went into the house and shut the doors but they got to the last door before she could bar it, knocked her down and threw her out into the garden. She got up and went in again by the door they left open, saw just what they were doing and who took what and slipped away and got to Mtwara on foot, went to the police and told them what she had seen and pointed out the officer who stole things and demanded a receipt and by God she got it, refused to leave the office until she did. I’m not allowed back but they can’t stop her coming and going or my dhow going over so I got a lot of information. I have most of my nice things up here and repacked from here and now they’re on a tramp steamer for Durban, but when I shall get away, quien sabe? Owing to those bloody fools in England with their sanctions against Rhodesia and all this political hoohaa here, the ships are not calling anymore so here I stay on the sisal estate in disused Asian quarters, no loo, no bath, nothing to do or see in the filthy stink from the sisal waste…
So after 43 years here helping the blacks I get kicked out of my beautiful place, wrecked by these illiterate savages. I wonder if you remember a talk we had at Wind‘s Whisper [name of his house] a long time ago about the attitude that Tom took and what his pro-native attitude would take? Well I was right, wasn’t I?
***
In 1952 they moved briefly to Mtwara, before going on home leave. This was another Swahili coastal town, and they enjoyed the beach with their ‘little family of dogs’ – the Dalmatians Dot and Nelson had had puppies – but mum was not enthusiastic about living in Mtwara, ‘though we have very pleasant neighbours and the people are friendly…our little house is thatched and looks out on to a sea of sisal. Far over to the left we can see the blue thread of Mtwara harbour – perhaps one day to be the greatest harbour in east Africa…we have quite a tidy little garden into the front, screened form the road by a torn hedge, scarlet cannas line the garden and there are a few shrubs – frangipanis and passion fruit.’ It was too isolated and she had to commute to work in Mikindani with the local policeman, ‘a crashing bore. I get so fed up with his holding forth and he in turn seems to get fed up with me. Some day soon we shall have a bust up.’
My father’s job mostly involved going round collecting taxes on foot, and dispensing ‘justice’. Here he is on one such mission.
Mum writes of a typical foot safari. ‘I had a note from him [Dad] this morning saying he had walked 17 and 20miles respectively on the first two days and found it very tiring, but he seemed in good spirits. What does worry me is he said owing to some breakdown in his organisation they had run short of water and was drinking pints of unboiled water. Thank goodness we have both just had anti-typhoid injections. There is always a lot of typhoid about, in fact one of our Boma messengers in Mikindani just died of it, poor little fellow.’
They also went camping and on safari by land, but even with a jeep, they often got stuck
In the 1950s, Makonde culture was thriving and they were often guests at ngomas, or dances. I still have some Makonde masks like the ones being worn here (with real hair) and many Makonde carvings.
Mwanza
After a home leave, they moved to Mwanza in early 1953. Mwanza is a large town on the shores of Lake Victoria and at that time had a thriving community of colonials. They joined the Yacht Club and had a very social time.
Of course there was also work to be done – the Queen’s Birthday in 1954 had a full complement of District Officers and gentlemen! Tom is far left.
Meanwhile domestically, there were the house, garden and a new Dalmatian. Ajax had now taken over as top dog after Nelson died from sleeping sickness, as did Dot.
One of the highlights of their time there was the Sukumaland Show, where crowds of people came in tribal dress from miles around to dance and celebrate local culture. It was obviously a huge event judging from the photographs.
And then there was always time out to relax…before the next move!
Travels with my mother 