From the Hills to the Coast: Tanzanian Tales

                       Jonace Manyasa

                      © 2025 Jonace Manyasa

                       All rights reserved.

Stories

Story 1: Neema and the Mango Thief

Story 2: The Talking Drum of Bagamoyo

Story 3: Amina and the Singing Shell

Story 4: Kito the Goat Who Wouldn’t Speak

Story 5: The Baobab That Remembered

Story 6: Safari the Storytelling Starling

Story 7: The Day the Market Vanished

Story 8: Tunu and the Shadow Leopard

Story 9: Why the Clouds Cry Over Kilimanjaro

Story 10: Zawadi and the Bicycle That Flew

Neema and the Mango Thief

Neema adored the mango tree outside her grandmother’s house. Its boughs were wide and provided shade in the heat and fruit in the season. Every morning before school, Neema would sweep under it and gather the ripest mangoes in a woven basket.

But one morning, the mangoes were not there.

“Grandma, they are being stolen!” she said, frowning.

Her grandmother simply laughed that off. “Perhaps the tree is sharing with someone else.”

Neema did not like that answer. She snuck out before daybreak the next morning and lurked behind the sacks of maize.

Rustle… rustle…

A monkey sprang into the tree and seized two large mangoes in its emaciated arms.

“Hey! Thief!” Neema called to it, running after it, but the monkey ran away, as fast as lightning.

The following day Neema carried an old fishing net. She waited, and when the monkey sprang once more — whoosh! — she swept it gently, net and all.

But something in the monkey’s eyes gave her pause. It wasn’t scared — it looked … sad.

Then Neema saw it: a tiny baby monkey curled up under a bush, so weak it was shaking.

The larger monkey squeaked and deposited a mango next to the baby.

Neema’s heart melted. “Oh no. You were already feeding your baby.”

She let the monkey go. It dashed to its baby and fed it morsel by morsel.

In the eve, Neema sat next to her grandmother.

“I grabbed the thief,” she said quietly. “But it wasn’t stealing. It was only a mother … trying to save her baby.”

Her grandmother smiled. “Sometimes we see thieves. But the tree sees need.”

From that day forth, Neema gathered extra mangos and placed them at the base of the tree before dawn broke. And each morning the mangoes were gone. But Neema didn’t mind at all.

Moral of the Story:

What seems like theft may indicate poverty. The chain of kindness often begins when we zoom in.

The Talking Drum of Bagamoyo

A little fisher boy Juma lived in a fishing village in Bagamoyo and he loved the sound of drums. When drummers lined the beach to play during festivals, Juma danced on the sand, laughing in delight, his feet in the sand.

One day, when Juma was walking through the mangroves looking for shells, he saw something sticking out from the mud and sand — something stranger and rounder, a drum with wave, fish and star carvings. He scrubs off the dirt and taps it.

BOOM.

The roar resounded broad and deep. Then something odd occurred.

A voice came from the drum:

"Here none may speak but truth. Lies will rattle the sky."

Juma’s eyes widened. “Did… did you just talk?”

“Yes,” the drum replied, “and I only sound for truth.”

Juma raced to his house, his treasure safely in his arms. He reported it to his mother, who laughed it away. “Drums don’t talk, Juma. Maybe it’s the heat making you think crazy.”

The following day at the village square, the chief’s basket of coins was missing. Every one debated on who had taken them.

“It was the merchant!” cried one man.

“No! The fisherman took them!” said another.

Juma stepped forward. “Let the drum decide!”

And he put the drum on the ground.

“Merchant,” he asked, “did you take the coins of the chief?”

“I would never!” the merchant scoffed.

BOOOOM!

The drum shook. Clouds started to loom in the sky.

Everyone gasped.

“Fisherman?” Juma asked. “Did you take them?”

The fisherman shook his head. “No, boy. I saw who did.”

He stabbed a finger at the chief’s assistant, who’d been squirming in silence. The man stammered, but the drum was silent.

The villagers glanced at one another. Justice was done.

News of Juma’s magic drum spread fast. People all over towns far and wide came seeking the truth.

But the drum was not universally loved.

Three men wearing cloaks arrived at Juma’s house one night. “That drum is evil,” one whispered. “It makes people afraid.”

Another said, “Sell it to us. We’re going to take it far away where it won’t be able to do any harm.”

Juma clutched the drum. “Nay... let it never be!”

That night he carried the drum to the beach, whispered a thank you and buried it again.

“Someday,” he said, “when the world needs truth again, somebody else is going to find you.”

And he walked away, and there was a tiny boom, like the sound of a figurative bomb, echoing softly over the sea — not loud, but strong, and true.

Moral of the Story:

Truth may rattle the sky, but it makes the way clear for justice.

Amina and the Singing Shell

Amina’s greatest love in life was the sea. She resided with her aunt in a tiny coral house by the beach in Zanzibar. She daily swept the sandy path to their home and aided her aunt in preparing baskets of fish for the market.

But when she had finished her chores, Amina would run to the water’s edge and gather seashells — her most prized treasures.

After a strong tide brought unusual things to shore one day, Amina found a shell that was unlike any she had seen before. It glistened like pearl, but when she put it to her ear she didn’t hear the normal sounds of the sea.

She heard singing.

From within the shell came a low, humbling voice:

“The reef is weeping. Can you hear its song?”

Amina jumped back, startled. “Who said that?”

The voice returned, soft and mournful:

“The coral is dying. The fish are leaving. The reef needs a friend.”

Amina gazed out at the aqua waves. She dreamt that night of fluorescent fish and withering coral. That morning, she put the shell in her pocket and ran to the village elders.

“The ocean beckons us,” she said. “It needs help.”

The elders chuckled kindly. “The sea is big, child. What can one girl do?”

But Amina didn’t give up.

She started picking up trash on the beach. Do not throw damaged nets into the sea, she urged the fishermen. She showed the other children how to guard the reef. She even planted small pieces of coral in the shallow water, the way the old diver had taught her.

And each night, she would whisper in shell, “I’m trying.”

Weeks passed. One morning, while she was wading into the sea with her basket, something touched her leg. There was a school of fish — bright and reflective — circling her ankles and darting back toward the reef.

And that night the shell sang once more:

“Thank you little reef-keeper. You heard when other people didn’t.”

Decades later, visitors travelled great distances to see Zanzibar’s beautiful coral gardens. And in the centre of the reef, by the sunken mangroves, there lay a small stone — and on top of that stone there rested a single white shell.

Moral of the Story:

You can be a little thing and still cause a big ripple in the universe. Even tiny hands can heal the whole world.

Kito the Goat Who Wouldn’t Speak

Upendo's village was high among the lush green hills of Iringa. Her grandfather, Babu Tuma, was a silent man who clung to ancient customs and only ever spoke stories when the moon was full.

“This one is a special one,” he said as he gently bound her hand with the rope. “Her name is Kito. Take care of her.”

Kito was not a typical goat. She didn’t bleat. Not even once. As other goats in the field kicked, jumped and made noise, Kito was calm, her eyes taking it all in.

The other children laughed. “Your goat is broken!” they teased.

But Upendo ignored them. Every day, Kito was fed, her soft fur brushed, and she was spoken to as if she were a friend.

“You don’t need to talk,” Upendo whispered. “I know you hear me.”

And one evening, clouds began to roll in heavily above the hills. Thunder cracked. It rained in angry slabs. The river broke its banks, and villagers fled to high ground.

Upendo sprinted out to look for Kito, who was browsing on the edge of the forest. But she couldn’t see her.

“Kito! Kito!” she shouted into the wind, heart stuttering in her chest.

Out of the rain came a sudden clear voice:

“Here!”

Upendo turned. There was Kito — not one bit wet, under a giant fig tree. When their eyes met, the goat spoke once more.

“The tree. It’s safe here.”

Upendo blinked. “You… talked.”

Then she crouched down and followed Kito under the tree. Moments later, part of the hill crumbled behind them — soil and rocks raining down where she had just been standing.

The following morning, the word went around: the fig tree had sheltered them both. But when Upendo said everyone that Kito talked, no one believed her.

Even Babu grinned, and replied, “Sometimes, spirits choose to be silent… so they can offer you something when the right moment arrives.”

From then on, Upendo and Kito were inseparable. And though the goat never spoke another word, Upendo never forgot the evening her gentle friend saved her life.

Moral of the Story:

Real friends don’t always talk — but they defend.

The Baobab That Remembered

In the dust red heart of Tanzania, where gusts of wind picked up clouds of red dust and the sun baked the earth golden, there was an old baobab tree at the edge of a village. It was giant — wide enough that ten children connected by hand couldn’t make it around.

Everyone knew it by Mzee Mti — the Old Tree.

Eleven-year-old Musa loved to sit in the shade of the tree to think. He carried his mat, some roasted groundnuts, and a slingshot he hardly ever used. For the most part, he spent his time listening to the wind rustle the giant leaves.

“Trees don’t talk,” the other boys mocked. “Come play football!”

But Musa noticed something odd near Mzee Mti. The tree felt... alive.

One day, after his grandfather died, Musa sat by himself under the tree and whispered, “Babu, I miss you.”

To his surprise, the bark sparkled softly and a deep, warm voice replied,

“I remember him. He used to dance here with a carved walking stick and sing “Nakumbuka nyumbani.” ”

Musa’s heart skipped. “Who said that?”

“I did,” the tree answered. “I know everything that this village forgets.”

From that time, Musa came back every night. The baobab whispered him stories — of weddings and warriors, droughts and dances, births under the stars, songs sung in the light of the moon.

One night the village chief arrived with surveyors. “This land is precious,” they said. “We will remove the old trees and make a road right here.”

Musa ran to Mzee Mti shaking in fear. “They want to cut you down.”

The tree answered quietly, “Then you must remind them.”

That evening, Musa called the elders of the village and told them to catch him under the baobab.

He said, his voice as steady as the tree’s roots. “This tree holds our stories — mine, my grandfather’s, yours. If we lose that, we lose our memory.’

The elders glanced about, eyes tearing. One ran a finger across the bark and murmured, “I proposed to my wife here.”

Another one added, “I put my name here when I was little.”

They stood in silence.

The morning after, the chief said the road would be taken around the tree.

And since then, every first day of the dry season the villagers gather beneath Mzee Mti — to sing, to drum and to remember.

Moral of the Story:

We need to protect our past to protect our roots.

Safari the Storytelling Starling

In a jacaranda tree near a school in Arusha, lived a bird more extraordinary than anyone else — a sparkly blue starling called Safari. His feathers shone like the sun and his eyes twinkled with guile.

But Safari’s real distinction was this: he loved to tell stories.

Every morning he would fly up onto the school roof and yell,

“Gather round! I’ve got a story that will ruffle your feathers!”

The children laughed and dubbed him “Mjinga wa hadithi” — the silly storyteller.

One morning, Safari awoke believing he was destined for something more.

“I’ll be flying over Tanzania,” he chirped. “And whatever shore I come to, I’ll take my stories with me!”

So he flew over the plains, through the clouds, over banana fields and rivers.

In Dodoma, he touched down on a market roof. “Listen up!” he cried. “I knew a turtle, he could talk and spin water into gold!”

There was a chuckle in the crowd, a shaking of the heads.

In Morogoro, he sat on the handle of a farmer’s hoe. “I’ve met a chicken that writes poetry in the sand!” he claimed.

“No way!” the children giggled.

In Dar es Salaam she leaped to the top of a dala dala, and yelled, “I danced with a lion in my time!

“Lie! Lie!” cried the passengers, laughing.

Safari’s feathers drooped. “Why does nobody believe me?”

Then, as he sat quietly at the top of a palm tree at the beach, a little girl came by. Her name was Zawadi and she was holding a notebook.

“I’ve been watching you,” she said. “Your stories are the best I ever heard.

“Even if they’re not true?” Safari asked.

Zawadi smiled. “Some stories are not supposed to be real stories to still be stories that matter.”

She opened her notebook. It was packed with drawings — a turtle and golden waters, a poetry-writing chicken, a lion in dancing shoes.

Safari blinked. “You… listened?”

Zawadi nodded. “And tomorrow, I want to hear the story about the time you tricked a greedy crocodile.

Safari ruffled his feathers, pride and ego returning. “Well then — sit down! “Because that’s a story with teeth!”

And from that day on, wherever Safari flew, children and dreamers flew after him — for stories, real or not, have wings of their own.

Moral of the Story:

The most accurate of stories sometimes are the ones that make us wonder.

The Day the Market Vanished

Zuhura shared a home with her mother in a rowdy, happy town situated next to the Uluguru Mountains. Every day, it hummed with life — tomatoes piled high like red pyramids, spices hanging in the air, and vendors calling out, “Karibu! Karibu!”

Zuhura’s favourite place was the market. She assisted her mother in selling sweet bananas, and would find her way through every stall blindfolded.

But one morning with the rising of the sun and crowing of the cocks, the market was … gone.

Not just quiet.

Gone.

No stalls. No vegetables. No baskets. Only the ashes of colour and noise where once they had blossomed.

The scene was chaos, people were running in circles.

“Where are my onions?” cried Mama Shida.

“I can’t find my scales!” wailed Mzee Tiba.

“Who steals a whole market?” said the mayor, removing his hat in frustration.

In the centre, Zuhura stood, gazing downward. One green chili pepper was lying on the ground — in the shape of a question mark.

She knelt down and saw something odd: a line of colourful pepper seeds stretching away from the empty patch, curling around a large tamarind tree and downhill into the forest.

She followed.

Courtesy Vivek Tiwary “The trail continued to snake and coil until she stumbled upon a wide clearing — and gasped.

The entire market was there. But silent.

Each was in its proper place, undisturbed. A still mist lingered in the air.

Then she saw her: an old woman with a long white scarf, sitting cross-legged beneath a marula tree.

“Did… the market get transported here?” Zuhura asked.

The woman didn’t look up. “Too much noise. Too much greed. No sharing. The market needed a nap.”

Zuhura blinked. “But people need it to eat.”

The old woman lifted her head, her wise, kind eyes. “And the market needs respect. It is alive, you know. It’s the last line seeping in like music: “It resounds, like a drum. How you treat it.”

Zuhura sat beside her. “What can we do?”

“Bring the people. Let them listen. Let them thank the market, not just take from it.”

And that night the entire village, well instructed by Zuhura, came out with the baskets and lanterns. They didn’t scream or haggle over price. They sang songs. They shared food. They thanked the land, the rain and even the banana peels.

The fog lifted.

The following morning, the market was back where it belonged — only with more shine than ever.

After that day, every month, the villagers had a Market Festival of Gratitude and  the leader, was Zuhura, who never forgot to place a green chili at the tamarind tree.

Moral of the Story:

We have to keep that which we rely on sacred, not just utilitarian.

Tunu and the Shadow Leopard

In the fog-covered forests of the Usambara Mountains, a girl named Tunu lived with her uncle, a forest ranger. She loved the scent of the moss, the sound of the tree frogs, how the hills seemed to whisper secrets at night.

But one story, the villagers were always careful to caution, was:

“Beware the Shadow Leopard,” they warned. “It steps without sound and protects the heart of the forest.”

Most children were afraid. But Tunu was curious.

One morning, her uncle came back from patrol, pale and silent. “Poachers are here,” he said. “They have put down traps at the sacred grove. That night, as rain pattered on the roof, and owls hooted in the dark, Tunu made a decision. She pulled on her gumboots, slipped some bananas into a pouch and turned on her torch. Into the forest she went. She went deeper than she’d ever gone before, beyond the wild ginger and the giant ferns, to places where not even a bird dared to breathe. Suddenly — a rustle. Tunu froze.

Out from the shadows emerged a leopard — and not any old leopard. It had fur that sparkled like smoke, eyes that shone green like the moss on the mountains, and the pads of its feet made no sound.

It was the Shadow Leopard.

Tunu didn’t scream.

“I’m not here to break the forest,” she whispered. “I want to protect it.”

The leopard tilted its head.

Then — quietly — it spun and left.

Tunu followed. Down tunnels of vine and gnarl, they reached a clearing, and there lay a metal trap. The leopard stood beside it. Tunu disarmed the trap with trembling hands. Then another. And another. Overnight the traps had been removed. The poachers had vanished. And the forest breathed easy, once more.

As she was going, Tunu addressed the leopard. “Thank you.”

It blinked once, slowly, and then faded into the mist.

No one in the village would believe her. “A girl and a leopard? Nonsense!”

But after that, whenever she roamed in the forest she was not pricked by the thorns, nor did the snakes hiss at her, nor the monkeys pelt her with fruit.

And every now and then, when the fog was heavy and the leaves were still, there were glowing green eyes — watching her — silent, never too far away, proud.

Moral of the Story:

You protect nature, nature protects you.

Why the Clouds Cry Over Kilimanjaro

When the earth was still very young, Mount Kilimanjaro was head and shoulders above what is now Africa, its head lofty with its snow-crowned helmet, it stood alone in solemn silence. The sky above was vast, empty — until the day the Clouds were born.

They arrived in lazy, wafting flocks — gentle, inquiring and curious.

Now there was one small cloud, and his name was Mbingu, which is Swahili and means Heaven, who loved Kilimanjaro more than anything else.

“You are too tall,” Mbingu whispered. “You must have seen all kinds!”

But the mountain never replied. So Mbingu stayed. She hovered over its boughs and watched the elephants down below. She tickled the upturned fingers of banana trees in Moshi, cooled the faces of climbers. She painted shadows on the rocks and she told birds stories. But the mountain didn’t respond. Years passed.

Other clouds hemmed and hawed, bored or blown. But Mbingu stayed put — even while her buddies giggled. The mountain does not speak, Little Cloud! Find a breeze and move on.”

But Mbingu had given herself a vow:

“I am staying until he talks to me.

One day, the wind grew wild. Mbingu swirled and scattered. A storm of great might has come through, that stripped foliage, and flung down roofs. People cried for help.

Mbingu saw it all.

“I must help them,” she said.

So she dragged herself into the darkest sky she could be. She swelled and rumbled, and then exploded — all rain over the land. She swelled rivers, quenched fields and cooled the heated air.

The storm calmed. The land sighed in relief.

Mbingu, tired, floated back to Kilimanjaro, this time nothing more than a wisp of herself.

She gazed at the mountain and murmured, “I just wanted to be your friend.”

And then — finally — the mountain began to rumble softly. Not loudly. Just enough for her to hear:

“You’re the most loyal cloud I’ve ever had.”

Mbingu cried. Not out of sadness — but joy.

And from that day on, whenever it rains on Kilimanjaro all the people smile and say:

“Mbingu is paying a second visit to her old friend.”

Moral of the Story:

Patience and gentleness are remembered when words are forgotten.

Zawadi and the Bicycle That Flew

Zawadi lived on the outskirts of Mbeya town, where the hills turned in their sleep like elephants and children played in the dust until after sunset. She held one dream — not for a doctor or a teacher, like her friends.

Zawadi wanted to fly.

She told her mother. “You can’t fly,” Mama reminded her softly, “unless you’re a bird or a mosquito.”

Her teacher told her. “Only dreams can fly, Zawadi. Stay grounded.”

But Zawadi could not entirely give up on the dream.

One day, she was strolling through an old junkyard when she noticed something strange -- a rusty bicycle resting against a fence and its metal frame bent and chipped. In characters of by-gone date, in chipped, worn paint on the side, were the following words:

“MOTO WA ANGA” — Fire of the Sky.

She traced a finger on the handle. Buzzing beneath her skin, there came a feeling.

She dragged it home. Her friends laughed. “That won’t even roll, never mind fly!”

Yet Zawadi cleaned the bike, oiled the chain, patched the tires and painted stars on the frame. Every night, she whispered to it:

“I believe in you. Do you believe in me?”

Finally, one windy afternoon, she got in the swing of it, pedalled hard, and headed for the steepest hill around.

The wind roared as she reached the top.

“Here we go,” she whispered.

She pushed off. The wheels were spinning, going faster and faster — and then... The ground vanished.

The bicycle soared up in the air like a kite in a high wind.

Zawadi rose over banana fields, greeting cows and gobsmacked farmers. She soared over the schoolyard, where children pointed and called her name. She bobbled up and down through the clouds, laughing and whooping with joy.

She came back that night — coming down softly next to the mango tree where it all began.

No one believed her at first. But the next day her classmates discovered tracks on the rooftops. There was a photograph in the village paper, fuzzy but plain enough: girl in mid-air, stars against her frame.

They named her “Msichana wa Anga” — the Girl of the Sky.

And each night, Zawadi rode out silently toward the hills.

Because some dreams do not require permission — just belief.

Moral of the Story:

If you believe in dreams, in time, even dust can become air and elevate you.