Growing up, most neighbourhoods had an empty field or two where children would go out in the afternoon to play outside. Some played football with makeshift balls, others threw around sand-filled sock-balls with the game Rede (“nage”), the rolling of colourfully hued gololi marble balls, or simply ran around chasing one another.

It was safe. It was a community. Children played. Adults had a reprieve, and perhaps that late afternoon nap. Usingizi mtamu wa jioni—you remember, don’t you? How sweet that breeze was as you lulled yourself into slumber, with crows in the background, birds chirping, maybe the sound of a radio, a bicycle crackling.

Fast forward, and those empty fields now have owners building or having built their homes. Every empty place is a new house, an apartment block, a Mangi kiosk, or an office building. Every space has a use, except that of recreation, of fun, of just lounging.

We never thought those spaces would disappear. They weren’t parks like those in Western countries, and the movies we watch. They weren’t playgrounds with swings. It was just an empty field. Nature. It was simply there.

That is, until it wasn’t.

Cities must grow—but for whom?

Cities have to grow. Cities have to be built. But built for what? And perhaps more importantly, with whom in mind? Now I know that things will never be the same. That those golden days are gone for most of us.

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Gone are the days when streets held memories of childhood dreams, friendships, drama, heartbreaks, and the different sounds of families. If our cities are to be built, what memories will they leave behind?

How does this city become distinctly our home?

Every city in the world has a personality. A mood. A rhythm that keeps calling people back, whether it’s their first visit or their tenth. Every city leaves behind a feeling. Paris evokes romance. New York ambition. Tokyo order. Arusha is not Dar es Salaam, and Zanzibar is not Mwanza.

Each place tells a story. A story told in how we move, how we gather, how we spend our weekends, what we notice, and even what we dream about. Cities are more than collections of buildings and roads. They reflect the kind of people we are and the life we make around us.

The Dar we are building

So what story should Dar es Salaam tell? What feeling should it leave behind?

Today, many of us would probably describe Dar es Salaam as the city of hustle, traffic, opportunity. A melting pot where people from every corner of Tanzania come to build a life. A city of cranes, construction sites, and roads stretching further every year.

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We celebrate flyovers, bridges, and the SGR because they are signs of a city investing in its future. But growth is not an identity. It is a stage. A process. It tells us that we are moving, but not where we ultimately want to arrive.

Every morning, thousands of buses, cars, bodabodas, and bajajis crawl across Dar es Salaam. From Morogoro Road to Ali Hassan Mwinyi Road. From Bagamoyo Road to Nyerere Road.

The soundtrack is horns. The scenery is concrete. You’re exhausted by the time you’ve arrived. Already dreading the commute back home.

Welcome to the concrete jungle of Dar es Salaam, where the traffic moves slowly, where everyone’s in a hurry, the privileged inside a tinted car, and the less fortunate under the gruelling sun. Buildings. Frames. Billboards. Construction. Dust. And sweltering heat.

Imagine a different Dar

Imagine leaving work in Dar es Salaam and, for once, not rushing straight back indoors. The air feels cooler beneath a canopy of bright orange flame tree flowers, purple-hued jacarandas, and ancient baobab trees. You slow your pace without even noticing. You breathe in the moment.

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Someone is sitting on a bench reading. Two elderly people are talking beneath the shade whilst children chase a football across a nearby field. A grandmother watches her grandchild wobble down a path on a bicycle for the first time.

Further down the road, the smell of mishkaki drifts through the evening air. Bongo Flava spills from a small café. A wall that once carried another advertisement now tells a Tanzanian story through the work of a local artist. Young people sit together laughing. Others simply walk, with nowhere particular to be.

By the waterfront, families gather as the Indian Ocean catches the last light of the day. Nobody is there because they had to spend money. They’re there because the city gave them somewhere to belong.

That child playing football today will grow up remembering these places the way many of us remember those empty neighbourhood fields. Not because they were extraordinary, but because they quietly became part of everyday life.

Designed for people

Imagine a Swahili urban city that is generous with its public spaces. One that embraces the Indian Ocean rather than turns its back on it. One whose architecture reflects who we are, with shaded walkways, barazas that invite conversation, carved wooden details, open courtyards, and buildings designed for our climate.

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A city where conversation still spills onto the street, where neighbourhoods are walkable, where music, food, and public life remain part of everyday living. Where public spaces are plentiful, free, and belong to everyone. 

Where beauty isn’t an afterthought but part of everyday life—not something that comes after development, but something we choose today and every day. Dar es Salaam, and every other city in Tanzania, is in development and is still writing its story.

It’s not about the tallest skyline or the busiest roads. It’s about the people and the memories our streets and our cities hold.

One day, today’s children will remember the Dar es Salaam we chose to build, in the same way many of us remember those empty fields, the sound of gololi marbles, and the sweetness of usingizi wa jioni.

If Dar es Salaam is still writing its story, then let’s make sure it’s one worth remembering!

Husnah Mad-hy is a lawyer and writer based in Tanzania. She can be reached at husnahmadhy@gmail.com. The opinions expressed here are the writer’s own and do not necessarily reflect those of The Chanzo. If you are interested in publishing in this space, please contact our editors at editor@thechanzo.com.