Tuesday, March 25, 2014

UNAFRICAN- whatever you mean

Let’s be done with the gays and their supporters and haters for a while. Let’s think Africa. This confusing land, the concept of Africa and see it as many see it. When we say this or that is Un-African do we mean that……..?


Africa is an inviolate space that we ran to, it turns to an abstracted blanket that rivets our sentimental certainty about something trite - in that space of joining hands and condemning differences Africa becomes a seamless canvas that links the continent into one thing- the same thing- same mores, same belief, same attitude almost the same mental frame and approach to everything. Africa becomes the ritualized strokes of a painters brush, uniformly same color. No nuances. No disconnect. Mandela is Mugabe and Mugabe is Mandela. Our bad and our good all work for the better of our land…our mama land.

    2. 
Africa is the end of imagination. What we can’t understand, what we don’t want to understand. Anything that bursts the bubbles of our “African” beliefs and interests (whatever those may be) must be foreign, from out there in the world, the ugly world that is out there in the East, the orient, the West, America, Europe. We pull whole continents into our simple individualistic and differing worlds. We carry the continent with such simple beliefs that if me and my friends, my family and my community don’t practice and believe in this or that other ish then it is out-African. We will coin terms to show how it is from far off. From an alien’s nest-Other places.

   3.

Mother Africa- mother land is not a land anymore, not a geo-region anymore but an idea. An Idea that is too simple and basic in its outset that it lacks originality and the ability to mutate into something complex. Africa becomes the concept of aping others, copying and pasting others…other civilizations. It becomes hard to believe in this deep held idea of Africa that we can have home grown murk, homemade sin, which can make the worst of foreign murk and sin look like child’s play. In that idea-Afrique an African becomes a sinless deaf, blind, dumb holiness and in Culture’s word ‘Humble people who see no evil, hear no evil and do no evil’…I’m an humble African!!

    4.

Africa is a linkage to our past- to our ancestors, it is an identity and when some people embrace anything that is new and modernly “imported” then this becomes a betrayal of its people, the violation of a sentimental purity. Defiling Africa as handed down by our pious, perfect past and ancestors. We benumb ourselves to the new generation Africa holding the cultures in contempt. We fail to acknowledge the digital post modern Cities and problems that African’s are part of. When I hear this is un-African then I hear; - I’m resistant to change, I wear conservatism on me and wish to pass it to my future progeny like an important heirloom.

  5.

Africa becomes hubris, moral superiority, the saint in a morass filled world, a sinful, ungodly, shetani run world. We are holding on to a past fading fast, a fire whose warmth and heat is slowly ebbing out, a past long gone – refusing to believe that the adolescent stroking his penis in front of the mirror with a picture of a beautiful face- African, American or a news paper clipping of a photo shopped face was not made in Africa or that “queer” flamboyance by that saloon working sassy man- or the trans-gender boy-girl calling hotels asking them to accommodate people whose sexuality is not clear cut into male or female but an intersection of both…people like him/her.

I wish I could lift my clenched fist, face the setting sun, set my jaws and cry out to “mama Africa”- fight back the tears and say “they will try violating you, mama- But I am here…I will die first”

The world is what it is. No point detaching oneself and acting morally superior. Dear Young African, next time before lapsing into those un-African litanies kindly consider that Africa is so disconnected. The uniformity that you are looking for is non-existent.

Whatever limits of your imaginative faculties please try removing yourself from the multitudes, instead of drawing them into your own realm of fetishes. Whatever your quirky fanatism or deeply guarded beliefs kindly stop invoking such un-resurrect words as Culture, African purity.

Sunday, March 16, 2014

KISUMU- A Glimpse

The transport system in western Kenya and Nyanza has long ago broken down and is in shambles- both its hustle and bustle – an ancient primordial one and in the new way which all things ineffective and slow i.e. service delivery has come to be regarded in Kenya- Kisumu was more an analogue city than its desired opposite-the Digital post modern hub of the great lakes region!

I was sited cooped on a “sambaza” suffocating from the stifling heat inside a fourteen sitter that now carried at least 20 people; waiting for the tout to conduct his calculations- get his cash from the brokers- wait again as the two carried out other calculations moving from passenger to passenger asking how much each had paid, hurriedly jotting at the back of a receipt book- the whole process taking almost a whole hour from arrival to departure by which time you were already tormented mentally- being packed very close together, with all the sweat, the omena smell from somewhere or a smelly armpit right in your face.

Kisumu city in 2013 is a clumsy boy whose growth and progress has been clipped by an egoistic approach to life- to the simple and finer details, it has succumbed slowly- it clung to its past and made its present in many aspects a murky affair- in business the clumsy boy loomed large- fisher folk do not just abandon their riverbank lifestyles and become instant success in trade- its ego impedes the enterprising nature needed. This is pardonable. Indians, the descendants of coolies, railway laborers are doing wonderful running the supermarkets, hard wares, quick food joints, bookshops and fancy hotels while the Somalis, going by two broad names Moha with a raised inflection on the -Ha and Abdi with an extra i, supply and compete amongst themselves in selling china made electronics while their hooded women, sitting inside big bou bous and Ninja headgear like miniature mobile tents- dash from one joint to another seeking “change” or an item urgently needed by a customer. Watching them run their businesses occasionally shouting an incomprehensible order to the lanky aides hanging around, enticing any potential customer with subtle pleas “aisee jeans…apti….shatti….smart….warriah…bei special” Is a funny performance- these part is a demarcated Somali territory! Garissa lodge it is called!

Kisumu as a city has its elements of backwardness- stark villages loomed and hovered around the excesses of the city- in the exaggerated urbanites. The bravado filled younglings running the streets. The city is in a tight traditional embrace with its village ancestry- the fodder on which it thrived. The matatus are the cord that mark the embrace- the cord that feed the city with the village fodder.

The rural parts has its finer share of these hangovers- remnants of rebel Christians- those early churches set up in the colonial days by native priests are thriving- while life is dreary in the villages on weekdays, it becomes frenzied on Sundays with all the true, Africanized, Christian cultic movements- the uniformed groups of drummers with flagged forerunners their pennants raised high and in diverse colors of red, green and yellow. The congregations with their elaborate church dresses run along- in slight jog timed by the drummers pace. Churches like these mushroomed with astonishing speed giving the region the more number of priests and bishops- aloof men of god, in an even and exaggerated tone of piousness.

I have lived here for four years as a student but never in my four years have I ever resolved the prejudices that slowly crept in and imposed itself on me- there was always a lurking uncertainty even at its most serene- a certain edginess to life; sudden surprises from the old man cursing in perfect English or the young touts modification of verbs and shouting “the car is wenting!!- Comic relief from the grandiose obsession with good grammar and big words that both the traditional Kisumu and its urbane side love to indulge in.
Strangers can spark conversations in seconds, diving into deep exchanges of worries, concerns and love, instantly finding quorum, bringing out the other side of the city- the bravado filled young men listening to the old accomplished “know-it-all” elders who spoke with that aura of yore- big English words!! Adjectives in Kisumu come in twos- each one with its own modifier.  

Damn cold, triple looting, Collective amnesia, Self grandeur, Kisumu Dala, Raila Odinga, usual fundamentals, swaggerific Oliech, magnanimous Mariga, humongous wallet. The stereotype has merged into life; it has morphed into the truth. From the outside this looks like a performance that sustains an ego but looking keen and deep the intersection of this prided lies and grandiose self flattery is the reality.

This is the stuff that made Kisumu a city that stooped to a subtle belief of African inferiority, when people from “outside” pointed it out as the Lingual center of braggarts…the common response is-“but do we say?” Or “it’s our weakness” …soon enough the accused lapses into those facetious verbiage…

“You know we Luopeans, what I mean to say my dear friend, you know being a Luo is actually a lifestyle…” these has been repeated so often such that if any of these statement had long ago been made in jest, it now remained at an intersection of a norm and the hollowness of a shallow truth. You just do not know whether this is a mocking sarcasm or a tightly held belief.

Our Matatu is well on its way now. Passed Bandani, The Driver is busy skirting potholes, chavakali now, shouting a word of greeting, Lela, competing with other drivers for the lone passenger by the roadside, Daraja Mbili and talking, stopping by the traffic police and zooming off. The people inside the matatu are uncomplaining; more passengers board and squeeze us more. You don’t have an option. The matatu operators can do as they please. These problems in the matatu sector, I gathered, had not always been these way, ineffectively run a now, with the 2007 election and the subsequent 2008 violence; the kikuyu had lost a lot of investment and were forced to exit from Kisumu; many now fear a repeat of the loss they incurred. They are shy of returning but slowly a few daring ones have found their way back into the sector and may over the coming years transform the regions transport system once again.

I was almost in Maseno when a curios excitement happens. In her efforts at alighting an elderly woman had without intending or noticing she had knocked down bag and vanished into the dark night. The bag fell on the pavement shattering what seemed like a glass or a flask inside the bag;  that’s when a lanky pastor who had until now been sitting silently spoke up. The pastor from one of those interior village churches – dini joroho or legio maria bishop wore a long turban, flowing robe and a big sword shaped cross; the man of god was numbered ISRAELI O.J right above the forehead on the white turban with red string, the letters sewn into the fabric with a carefulness but still coming out like the hand writing of a child unsure of the letters. Bishop Israeli O.J was now disturbed; he is craning his neck and calling out to the tout…
“Kondakta?” he called out calmly
“kondakta? Naulisa hiyo ni bag ya bisop?
“Conductor? I am asking if that’s the bishop’s bag that has fallen?”
Now the tout said it was and drove the calmness out of Israeli O.J who broke into a litany of accusatory laments
“kama mumevunja kikombe ya sacramenti iko sida”
‘if you have broken the sacrament’s cup, there is trouble”
‘I am saying if you have broken the sacrament’s cup you are in trouble.”
“nasema kama mumefunja kikombe ya sacramenti nyinyi iko kwa sida” he said this over and over until it became clear that the whole matatu was knee deep in some devilish shit… 

These traditionalism and traditional approach to life in our cities and villages will endure.


This Aggression

Its 5pm there is brightness and certain calm in the air-usual normalcy, a few cows by the side of the road graze unattended. I am with two colleagues from the office going home, talking, feeling accomplished for a day’s work done and I, particularly was feeling a little self important- I made a few Gs in a few hours. Ahead of us are these school children playfully going home- in that careless abandon children can take life, freedom. Then one of them bolts and runs towards us, at least it was in our direction, glancing back frequently with the others urging him to ran faster, then a man emerges hot in the boys pursuit, the man, barefoot, with clenched fists and a set jaw is determinedly catching up with the boy and noticing the hopelessness of his escape the boy crouched behind us and says

“Please uncle, stop him”

A scuffle happens and before we could restrain the barefoot man, he had landed two successive punches on the little boy, who was now faking a serious cry. Sniffling and wiping tears from his eyes.
“K&*mako, utajua leo mimi si babako” says the man, still seething from anger.

I am holding him. What is it bro? Is he your younger brother? What has he done? I am trying to administer a quick therapeutic talk-to-me-bro leave the kid alone dose.

‘Can you imagine he was throwing stones at me? From that end of the road to down there…he has been following me…I will kill him’ he says

But he is only a child, you just don’t punch children like that, report him to his parents, or the teachers. Do you know you can go to jail for this? We say, trying to instill some thoughts into this guy’s head.  We lead him away as we go our way and a beautiful girl brings his shoes and takes over from us- his girlfriend.
“you are lucky….I would’ve killed you….I would have buried you’ he kept repeating, even as his girlfriend tried calming him.

The little boy too, now out of any immediate danger ignores the threats and in a bold move or a faked courage before his mates is throwing threats as well.

“You will see me”, he says “don’t you always pass next to our house? I will show you”

…………but beyond the strong language, clenched fist and the seething anger, the bare foot man is just is just one example in a series o increasingly unreasonable responses to incidences in today’s society’s; I bet you have many examples of a man who killed his wife, children and then hung himself or the other one who stubbed his 12 year old over the loss of 20shillings, or how a simple brawl turns into a shocking death. It is unlimited the number of cases these days that makes you ask “why?” why people are becoming increasingly irritable, increasingly complex with their emotional responses? What is it with all these aggressive outburst? A keen look at the trend will bring you into a clear pattern of releasing pent up anger, frustrations, fear, inadequacies which all breed a level of aggression that knows no bound.

Today the socio-economic and political demands on individuals breeds a higher degree of seriousness, hurrying, worrying, wanting, needing, seeking, a heighted level of feisty, touchy need for order, of predictable preciseness for things to work as we want them to be, for people to react as we want them to, for everything to aid us in meeting those demands placed on us by the environment in which we live. This seriousness, this hurrying limits our own interactions; breeds an heightened feeling of our self awareness, our own grandiose importance, the belief that our life’s purpose is of a greater than anyone’s, our ambition is the bigger call than others,  the bubbles of our own beliefs becomes a guarded entity- a private space that needs no invasion, no exposure. This sanctions our, concerns, our actions towards each other- placing a ceiling on how far our intimacies in the society can go- how deep the roots of our love can go.

Everyone is in such a hurry, the hurry of life- hurrying home to catch the evening news, hurrying to meet a lover, hurrying to catch a bus, matatu, hurrying to catch up with a life that is increasingly, ever increasingly becoming elusive. Hurry because our fears do not allow us to look around- to take in our environment- our struggles may make the life of others such an inconsequential and trite affair- in a world growing more individualistic there is a new morass, an increasing need for normalcy, an obsession with predictability,  for things to be in their place. In the hurry, amidst the shuffling feet, the fast moving bodies, thoughts, ideas, and feelings- we become blind to each other, we become numb to each other’s needs, concerns and feelings- we do things because we have to –we do not stop one moment to consider others- to entertain such a now nonsensical thing as the beauty of our environment, of otherness- paying for services, paying our bills, looking at each other but not seeing, the veiling our pain, hurt, hope, love, life, beauty, the murky, because these  will make you vulnerable, weak, before other people. This morass makes your life; your needs and ambition make the life of other not to matter in the quest of our own struggle.


This makes others invisible, needless, objects, tools made for you to achieve your own needs.