I return to Dar es Salaam from my semiannual trip to the US on Tanzania’s election day, October 29. I can sense an air of unease the moment I greet the female immigration officer, who appears somewhat surprised that a US national would want to visit during these uncertain times. She is full of warm smiles when I converse with her in Kiswahili.

Ah, Bossi, she says toothily, you are a fellow Tanzanian, kareebu saana, stamps my passport with gusto, and waves me through. But the mood is somber outside. My taxi driver, always talkative, seems subdued.

Bossi, he says, a troubled frown playing on his forehead, the internet is cut, there are reports of some violence, so please be careful.

Indeed, I have data, but I don’t have an internet connection. The ability to contact the outside world, especially CAI operations worldwide, is more important than breathing air. I get home – no internet, no TV, no nothing. It’s me and the walls of my three bedrooms. Text messaging and cellphones are working, however. I receive a call from a colleague informing me that a curfew is in effect from 6:00 PM to 6:00 AM, starting tonight. I feel the first signs of suffocation.

I live in a part of town that is constantly busy with traffic for at least eighteen hours a day. Rapid transit buses run less than 500 yards away, and there are at least 20 restaurants within a five-minute walk, along with grocery stores, other shops, fruit and vegetable vendors, bottled water sellers calling out in various creative ways, and the omnipresent beggars. These areas now stand deserted, and an eerie silence falls over my neighborhood. I want to go for prayers at the Khoja mosque, but I am told it is also closed. Eh? But come maghrib, I hear the azaan from all five mosques nearby and more from a distance.

All my daily routines rely on a working internet, from worship to going to the mosque to staying in 24/7 contact with worldwide CAI projects and the mandatory compliance obligations that all the work entails. Then it’s about keeping up with the happenings in our chaotic world, ending with watching reels, solving the daily crossword puzzle, or a movie before going to bed—my connection to the world is always just a handset or laptop away. That gone, I feel buried. Trying to sleep is a struggle. Is munjaaro setting in? I hear sounds and noises that I didn’t hear before – a crying baby, repeated burps and grunts from someone struggling with possible gastritis, a couple in a heated argument… I occasionally hear gunshots, but that’s probably just my vivid imagination. Fortunately, I am spared the nausea from the smoke of kuku and mishkaki barbecue from the footpath restaurants ten floors below. My mind drifts wantonly to our projects in global trouble spots; able colleagues like Sohail in New York are on standby.

The curfew is dusk to dawn, so there is some foot traffic on the roads during the day, although the police in riot gear stop for ID verification and let go. Not having internet, foreign news, WhatsApp, Facebook, or other sources of amusement has benefits; married couples must surely look at their spouses in a new light. People making eye contact while conversing, rather than talking while texting, I don’t have to wait for oncoming morons to lift their heads while walking straight at me…

There are rumors of violence and mischief, none of which have been confirmed in the areas around where I live. The maids can’t come because the buses are not running; some boda-boda motorbikes are available at four times the regular cost. The Asians pay up; the houses must be cleaned, clothes must be washed and ironed, food must be cooked, and someone must do the babysitting. Food prices double on day two, triple on day three, and remain four times or higher afterwards, provided the store is open and stocks are available.

The maids and askaari’s in my building lament the hard times. Tomatoes have increased by 1,000%, bread by 450%, bottled water has doubled, and eggs by 120%, etc. I do my part to alleviate their pain a bit. Thankfully, places like Saifee and Taj open up briefly and are lifesavers for those who have the money to pay for snacks and cakes. There are no more affordable items, such as mandaazi, vitumbua, or other popular foods, that the local population can afford to consume. K Tea Shop and others open up briefly, only to be besieged by Asians suddenly starved of kababs but shut down when supplies run out. The poor African stands by wanting and watching the tamasha unfold.

I venture out on day four. One restaurant is busy selling sizzling kababs and bajeeya and is crowded. I’m interested in a couple of vitumbuas, so I go inside to see if they have any. Nobody notices me or pays attention. I wait at the counter for a few minutes while the crowd, mainly Asians, yells out their orders to a lonely, overwhelmed waiter. I leave, my clothes smelling of frying oil, stained with spiced mincemeat and bajeeya mixtures.

I head towards the Khoja mosque for zohrain salaat. S. Adeel Raza has found the courage to lead the prayers at the mosque after three days, and so we have the congregational prayers. Apart from the COVID-19 times, this mosque was shuttered for the first time in its history on the day of the curfew, but it has now reopened for foraada prayers.

The internet is restored late today, November 3rd. The gloom lifts, the munjaaro recedes, and Dar es Salaam basks in the aura of immense relief. I only have 603 emails and hundreds of WA messages to go through.

The curfew remains. Whatever prompted these unprecedented and daunting few days, I pray for this blessed nation to maintain its historic peaceful history, insha’Allah.