Mama Neema had no friends, not even among her neighbors, who despised her. When she called me late one night to help her get to the hospital, I rushed to the street where she lived. I knew the street, but I didn’t know her house. My heart sank when I saw her tiny, single-bedroom home, packed with all her belongings and just one small mattress. I couldn’t imagine how she and her children survived in such a cramped space, which had only a door and no windows.
Over time, Mama Neema opened up more. She told me that the baby she was expecting would be her fifth. She had lost her husband in a tragic accident just months earlier. I knew she was struggling, like many women in our community.
In our country, family planning is mostly practiced by families who are somewhat financially stable. It’s common for a woman to have seven or more children, even though most families rely on small-scale farming and vending, which can’t meet the basic needs of a large family.
She looked exhausted, and though it was dark—around 8 PM—I could see her dry lips and red eyes. She was dehydrated, but her voice was strong and positive.
She had only two old wraps, damp and smelling of mold. We arrived at the hospital on a motorcycle minutes later, leaving her other children at home with 2,000 Tsh to get something to eat. They hadn’t eaten all day.
Because a white volunteer was with me, I was able to stay in the labor ward and help Mama Neema get the care she deserved. I can’t imagine what would have happened if I’d been alone.
The way people in Africa, especially in my homeland Tanzania, treat those with high profiles or white friends better than their own is shameful.
Thank God! The delivery wasn’t smooth, but we were blessed with a healthy baby boy. I turned to her and asked what she’d name him, and with a soft, joyful voice, she said, “Please name my boy.” The name Stephen came to me, and that’s what I called him.
As the world battles racism, my fight is against the selfishness among Africans toward one another. Tanzania has always been known for its hospitality, but I want to make it clear: that hospitality is often reserved for tourists and foreign investors, not for fellow Tanzanians.
My white volunteer friends helped pick her up from the hospital and take her home. I saw their hearts breaking as they looked around at her situation. One of them disappeared and came back with a new mattress.
Mama Neema and her baby, Stephen, are fine, but I’m not. I keep wondering, what’s next for this child? The few hours I spent with them in the hospital made me feel so close to them. I couldn’t bear to see them suffer anymore.
Neighbors watched from a distance as we figured out how to help this strong, beautiful woman, who still smiled in a moment when many would weep. Mama Neema was overwhelmed with gratitude. The love and attention she received filled her face and her children with smiles.
Maybe all of this tragedy is because we’ve lost trust in each other. But I won’t stop until I see the change I want. I use every day to raise awareness, practicing integrity and hoping for a better tomorrow.
I’m Clara Nuru Ayoub, a 29-year-old single mother of three. I’ve seen firsthand how people in public hospitals and schools treat my fellow Tanzanians like refugees in their own homeland. It was from these painful observations that I decided to advocate for human rights. I do what I do for God and for humanity because I believe that love can change a life.
How Love Changed a Life
These photos were taken on the afternoon of March 6, 2024, in Mwanza, Tanzania. I had come to Tanzania to volunteer for Savvy Brain Academy, an NGO run by William Johnson—now a close friend and like a brother. Along the way, I met incredible people: William’s wife Josephine, Auntie Gloria and Sylvia, Clara and Tabea, Meyasi and Dr. Saipi, and of course, brother Yannick. It was a journey that turned out to be nothing like what I expected.
We arrived at Clara’s bar and restaurant in Buswelu. Clara isn’t just William’s friend; she’s also the founder of Soma Kwa Furaha Initiative, an NGO focused on community empowerment. After a long day of photographing and volunteering, we were hoping to relax with a drink, maybe catch the Yanga or Simba football game. Clara, however, looked exhausted. Tabea, her German volunteer, mentioned they hadn’t slept much—Clara had just helped deliver a baby the day before. I was stunned—what?
As we settled in for a cold drink, Clara told us that her restaurant had also been robbed the same night by one of her own employees, the same man she had bailed out of prison for a minor charge. I couldn’t believe it—but I didn’t ask for more. It was too much already.
After sharing the news of the robbery, Clara didn’t dwell on it. Her focus quickly shifted to something more pressing—she had to pick up the mother who had just given birth the previous day and take her home. We decided to go with her. We learned that this woman, Mama Neema, was a recent widow and the sole provider for four children, selling groundnuts to survive. She had refused Clara’s help in the past, but Clara gave her number anyway, saying, “Call me if you ever need help.” One night, the nut seller’s eldest son called, saying his mother was dying—maybe the baby too. At dawn, hearing the child’s voice, Clara thought it might be a scam or even a kidnapping attempt. The mother had never reached out before. But Clara didn’t hesitate—she ran over, got on the motorcycle (a common Tanzanian mode of transportation), and helped deliver the baby.
None of this seemed normal to me, or to anyone in our group. But for Clara, it was just another Tuesday, unshaken, as if this was part of her usual routine. We ended up helping Mama Neema, and I found myself documenting the entire scene.
She spoke openly about the struggles in her country—racism within the community, crumbling infrastructure, a failing education system, and nonexistent social services. Through Mama Neema’s story, she expressed regret for not being able to do more.
Clara’s words lingered with me long after we returned to Paris. It wasn’t until five months later that I fully understood the magnitude of her actions. She had quietly sold her restaurant to buy land—her dream now was to build homes for ten families. And though she never asked outright, it was clear she needed help—donations, materials, anything to make her vision a reality. And I felt that it was my turn to act, to do what I can.
In a way, this felt selfish. Why try to tell a story about a family in Tanzania and not one in Korea, the U.S., or France? Why this family on Buswelu Road, and not another one in Somalia? I don’t have a clear answer.
I do it because I care. I know Clara. I know this family. They know me. I can help. So I will.
Maybe, what I feel is… love. And I want to show how love can change a life. Maybe even a whole village. Because change begins with a family, spreads to the village, then to the city, the country, and hopefully, one day, to the world.