Wealthy With Kindness and Asking All The Right Questions

“Are you the First or the Second Wife?” the First Wife of the Datoga tribe asks me.

“I am the ex-wife,” I reply and our interpreter translates it laughing. I get into the explanations of how our society works and how independent women can be. The circle of the Datoga women are listening with interest, asking questions now and then.

We are on day 3 of our Safari in Tanzania, having visited the ancient Hadzabe hunters-gatherers tribe in the morning and now visiting the pastoral Datoga tribe of the blacksmiths.

Even though I consider myself an open-minded person who was educated on three continents, I fall into the insufferable western culture attitude 'Oh, poor women!', when I hear that the Datoga men can have as many wives as they want to, providing they have enough cows to feed the family.

Oh, little do I know that I’m about to receive a precious lesson in humility, not just broadening—but exploding—my horizons.

My daughter and I sing the praise of a self-empowered western woman, who can get divorced and live on her own as a single mother due to her financial independence.

One of the Datoga women asks, “But if a woman doesn’t want to live on her own, what can she do then?” and asks some more questions about how close the communities are in our culture.

My daughter, a young adult, replies honestly mentioning families living apart, challenges of single parenting, and explains the social isolation that so many of us in the West experience.

“Sometimes no one notices when someone had died, till a bill was not paid and the company sends an officer to collect the money,” she adds.

The room falls silent and all women look at the interpreter with disbelief and then turn to us with genuine compassion in their eyes.

“How terrible,” the First Wife voices their concern quietly.

They look at us questioningly, “Don’t you talk to your neighbours? Like, daily?”

Another one tunes in, “I check on a neighbour or two every morning. Or someone comes to me and we have a chat. I can’t imagine starting a day in a different way.”

There is no praise I can sing about stressed and grumpy people seeping their coffee in a rush on their way to work, which most of them don’t even like doing. So, I choose to say nothing.

I change the topic, “How do you solve problems between the wives?”

“We don’t have many,” a woman in her 30’s shakes her head.

“Well, women married to the same man are prone to feel jealousy or maybe fight at times…” I try to clarify my point.

Several pairs of brown eyes look at me pensively, then at each other, and the circle of women bursts out laughing. I look at them questioningly. The First Wife has mercy with me and shares her life experience.

“If girls have grown up here, they know our way of living and there aren’t many conflicts. Girls coming from the town though,” she makes a pause, ”might be difficult.” Some women smirk, giggle lightly, or make a face. “But we have our ways to solve conflicts,” she continues.

I’m curious. “So, what do you do?”

What I hear in return is an ancient way of conflict resolution, mediation, life coaching, and psychotherapy - all in one, successfully practiced by an African tribe for centuries, long before our western culture even came up with these concepts.

“If two wives, or any other tribe members, fight and cannot find an agreement, the Elders of the village will sit with them. They will make each party see their active role in the conflict—for any conflict is always two-sided. Once the individuals have understood the viewpoint of the other party and their own contribution to the conflict, the Elders will guide them towards forgiveness. They will all sit together, as long as the women haven’t cleared their negative emotions, so that both can live and work together in harmony again,” a woman without any school education impresses me, a western woman with a university degree, with her tribe’s social and spiritual intelligences, combining wisdom and compassion.

“That sounds amazing,” is all I can humbly say, thinking about reality of hiding our true self in the urban anonymity.

“We have something similar,” I carry on. I realize instantly though, that even if guided by a psychotherapist, you deal with issues on your own at the sessions, without a neutral space to discuss them directly with the person you have a problem with. You don’t have any older and wiser individuals around, who know you and wish you well, and who would be there to help you understand all sides of the conflict and guide you towards a solution. Being alone, you don’t have a chance for mutual understanding, forgiveness, and co-creating the future for the best of all involved. “But you do it alone,“ I finish.

“So, how should that work?" I can see their bewilderment.

I don’t have an answer. It works. Somehow. Or not...?

Not quite so well probably, if we look at the rates of depression, suicide, and people on medication. So, I don’t have an answer this time either.

When did our culture go so terribly astray? Why did we let go of the value of community? What made us put our individual well-being above others at the cost of . . . our own well-being?

“By the way,“ the First Wife interrupts my thoughts with a big confident smile. “It’s me who chooses the further wives.” I look at her intrigued. “Yes,” she looks at me, an 'empowered western woman' with amusement. “I look at the girls and see who is diligent, kind, clever, and would fit best. And then I suggest her to my husband,” she smiles again. “He doesn’t need to agree.” She smirks and I know that her husband would most likely not decline her choice.

What a wise set-up. The First Wife basically creates a family of female friends who fit together, like each other, and can work well together. Would I want to be a part of such a dynamics? No. Nevertheless, I can clearly see the advantages, without any predjudice.

“We also treat all our children equally.” Would one wife fall sick, have a dramatic post-partum or if something happened to her, she would be taken care of and her child loved by all other wives. None of them can be mean to a child because the others would not allow it. There is no “bad stepmother” scenario in the Datoga culture.

I feel their hearts, I can see their genuine care for each other. They are no saints, by all means they have feelings and shortcomings like any other humans. Yet, they have learnt to deal with them as a community, in a supportive and not in a judgemental way—something we might want to implement.

We talk for at least half an hour, before a bus with a group of tourists arrives. The Datoga women wish to give them the same experience we had: starting with grinding some corn in a traditional way while singing, followed by a conversation.

So, my kids and I leave the First Wife’s house and move to the blacksmith’s workshop to watch the men work, upcycling a huge old nail into an arrow head for the Hadzabe or other hunters.

Even before my kids have chosen their souvenir bracelets, the group swarms the workshop, purchases some pieces of traditional jewellery and leaves. I get curious and try to find out what they managed to discuss with the Datoga women in such a short time. Well, they asked about the techniques of putting beads on their traditional leather aprons. And that was it. Beads? For real?! That’s so 19th century! I can only shake my head in disbelief.

They have not even realised an opportunity of an enriching conversation that they could have had—and missed. One, that humbled me, even though I have never thought of myself as arrogant or superior. It was kindness and wisdom that touched me most.

We sit with the blacksmiths for another two hours. I befriend the First Wife, whom I call the 'Boss Lady' which she seems to like. My kids chat with our interpreter, a Datoga man himself. More and more people, even an Elder, join us at the workshop.

We sit by the fire around the craftsman who is making a special double bracelet for my upper arm. We watch him work, talk, joke a lot, and at times simply enjoy the silence broken only by a steady clatter of a hammer forming my bracelet.

These two hours nourish my soul with a sense of community: nothing superficial, just an authentic human connection on the heart level, beyond languages and cultures.

I feel tears in my eyes whenever I recall the genuine warmth of these people. Don’t ever tell me again that Africa is poor; they might not have as much money as we do, but they are wealthy with genuine kindness and true care for each other—something we in the West are missing painfully.