"MAFRESHAIR"

MA FRESHAIR


One of the saddest manifestations of the North-South divide or Black-White divide in this world is the open misconception of how good life is in the West. I listened in horror to a radio documentary about Africans who die in the thousands crossing the Sahara just to get to Libya and Algeria in the first leg to Europe, if they get across the Sahara then they have to get across the Mediterranean and strict border controls. Thousands are washed up on the beaches of Spain; their sun-burnt bodies hardly seem to bother holidaymakers anymore. Those who do make it are doomed to a life of misery in Europe because they do not have any documents and will be doomed to be exploited. It is sad to see sex-workers, drug-dealers, thieves, pimps, fraudsters, and idlers who all came with dreams of being a rich man. It isn’t just an African problem, millions cross into America from Mexico, or drawn in the Atlantic from Cuba and Haiti. Why is this?


As ever Hollywood and the media in general are the first port of call in assigning blame. But movies and TV aren’t lying; they are just showing the basic life that exists in the West because even a ghetto looks fabulous when compared to an African slum. There is a warm glow of everything that comes from the West; before I even open my mouth to talk people already know I came from Europe, it is called “mafreshair”. This ignorance is at the heart of the myth of modernity; it is seen as heaven, whereas before you had to die to get there now heaven is 4,000 miles north. My best friend came back yesterday after 8 years away; he had delayed his returned because he was unable to match the ridiculous expectations of his relatives. It is like if Bill Gates came round to stay at your house for two weeks; you would expect at least $50,000 from him, after all what is $50,000 of a $50 billion fortune. All they kept saying was “mafreshair” this mystical ambiance of modernity, they all said they would love to go to Europe to attain this Freshair.


I was sat in Café Bourbon in the UTC mall in town; it is a pocket of modernity in a sea of African-ness, Africans who hate their wretched state come here to dip themselves in the “mafreshair”. It is air-conditioned, with modern deco, and all the banality of a coffee shop; it could be Starbucks, Café Republic or any such place. I meet this guy there all the time; albeit by accident and not design. Marcel is a funny, witty but desperate Guy who feels like life has passed him by; I was sitting there sipping my coffee when he nodded at me. I nodded back and he asked “Are you from State?” meaning The States, I said “Oya ndu’ munyarwanda.” No I am Rwandan. “No you don’t look Rwandan; you’ve got “Mafreshair”. That was the first time I heard that word, I went to the bathroom mirror to see what he was talking about but I didn’t see the difference, it was just plain old me.


One evening I was bored and sat in my room when I got a call from a friend inviting me for a drink. I got there to find a motley crew of weirdoes: a failed musician, truck driver, a professional drunkard, a haggard prostitute and a dozing dreamer who never said much. Such a disparate bunch made for a great night; it was one of the best I have had in Kigali. The musician led us in table-tapping operettas, the truck-driver regaled us with stories of adventure and free-love, the drunkard mumbled and stumbled comically while the hooker laughed at everything no matter if it was funny or not, kind of like Bob Marley said in “pimpers paradise” “now she laughing when there ain’t no joke.” We dug deep into the cultural treasure trove to sing songs from my childhood classics like “Nsovu” “Nyundo” and “wiriwe neza” songs that are literally thousands of years old and go back to the dawning of our culture. We dug deeper into ancient pygmy culture; pygmies were the original settlers in Rwanda when it was part of the Congo jungle, eventually climate changed and savannahs took the place of these forests, others came. But that said pygmies are the originators and guardians of Rwandan cultures.


Halfway through this awesome night one of them turned to and said “ufite’ amafreshair”, motioning with his hands like a halo around my face. I felt hurt; having matched them word for word in ancient cultural songs I still didn’t fit in. He taunted me further “Un grand patron!” half-sarcastically and half in reverence. He kept repeating this “Dore amafreshair, Un grand patron de ville!” all his friends laughed in agreement. Another asked me if I knew a man called Patrick, “I thought you lived together in Iburayi (Europe) he lives in a village call Amsterdam.” I tried to explain that I lived in England and Holland was across the sea. This was futile and in the end I just said I knew him and he was well and quite fat now, this made them happy no end. “Un grand patron de la Ville, Amafreshair!” they kept shouting this till I had to go along with it. It was quite funny, very ironic until I was passed the bill for over $50 dollars. I have never been so pissed off, I hardly drank a drop, they had been drinking since late afternoon, they had ordered food and entertained hookers and left me with the bill. That is when I understood the “Un grand patron” tag it was saying “You stupid idiot, you are going to pay for all this!”


I asked for a new bill seeing I hadn’t used the services of the hooker or drank all those beers, after much argument I chose to pay the bill so I could leave. It was sad end to a good night; a night where I was drunk on pure happiness before the ambush, a night where I reaffirmed my culture and in hindsight it was worth it. As I left the bitterness was there for all to see, my “Freshair” was stinking up the place, they almost hated me for ever going to Iburayi and leaving them in this wretched place. Iburayi is heaven in their eyes; after all the missionaries told them heaven was in the sky, our word for heaven is “the Sky” and when people fly to Iburayi they take a plane which disappears into the sky. When Africans go to church to pray and dream of heaven, they dream of modernity, they dream of the West. They don’t know how lucky they are to be in Africa; people look at me like I am insane, I have the right to go to Europe yet I choose to stay here. They don’t know of the disappointment when you get there and the longing for home.


I saw Marcel yesterday; his usual joy and optimism was gone from his face, his eyes were deep-set and morose. He usually makes rounds between Bourbon, Ndaru’s and La sierra trying to meet a European who will help him get a ticket to the West. I said hello but he barely noticed me, “I just trying to get to State.” As he walked off I could have cried for him, I thought of how disgusted he would be if he got there but nothing I said could persuade him. “If you get there you will be so disappointed, you come back. Take those thousands of dollars and start a little business.” But he walked off in disdain. It is like a millionaire telling you money doesn’t make you happy, it is true but it is something you can only learn for yourself. Thousands of men like Marcel die, starve, drown and all for a dream that is impossible but every time a person like me comes back with “Freshair” it gives hope to them to try their own chances.


I wish I could tell Marcel of the cold, the wretched cold, when you can’t sleep because it is -10. When you have to choose between staying warm and eating; I had struck out on my own and was too proud to ask my mother for money when I nearly died of cold. I used to wear trousers, two sweaters, two pairs of socks, a blanket, and duvet but I still froze. Everything is expensive, nobody will help you, and even Africans don’t help because they are in a worse state. If you don’t have documents then you will be exploited and you will work for months without pay and when you get paid then it is a fraction of the minimum wage. I was lucky to have a mother who was a citizen otherwise I would I have really starved.


When I finished university in 2000 I went to Ireland to get some work and experience; I stayed in a hotel that was full of asylum seekers, mostly from Nigeria and West Africa as well as the middle-east. It was an eye-opener; I heard the worst stories you could hear. Emmanuel was crossing the Sahara but when he got halfway the Tuareg guide shot him, robbed him and left him for dead but another caravan of Tuaregs saved him and took him to Morocco. In Morocco he worked menial jobs then crossed to Spain, in Spain he worked his trade on the beaches selling cheap stuff and his body. He somehow ended up in Norway before he was deported and escaped at Heathrow on his way back to Nigeria but he ran over to Ireland to escape the police as those hiding him wanted money. In Ireland he befriended a fat girl with a birthmark across her face; she knew his ulterior motives but was happy to have some affection but when she dumped him he committed suicide.


In life it isn’t good enough to want something; you have to know why you want it. You can want to get to Europe, but why? Do you want to study, if you do want to study then how will you study without documents? Do you want to get rich quick? It won’t happen. This problem is the other side of a wider problem I saw in Europe; the Pop idol syndrome, people with no talent or will to work to work hard but want an instant fix to their problem thinking that if they want it bad enough and really believe then they will get what they want. Getting to Europe is the African equivalent of Pop Idol; you just arrive at the Heathrow or JFK or De Gaulle and the “freshair” descends on you and all your troubles are over. There is poverty in the West, there is misery in the West, there is the worst social decay, the worst depravity and none of this known.


I wish Marcel could speak to the ghost of Emmanuel, he would tell him not to bother and to enjoy his life in Africa. Europe pretends it doesn’t want immigrants but the fact is there are millions waiting to exploit those with unrealistic dreams. “Sweet dreams” Eurythmics classic tune says “Some of them want to use you, some of them want to get used by you, some of them want to abuse you, some of them want to be abused.”
When I remember the humour and pure joy that was Emmanuel; how he was so deeply troubled but never showed it, I blame Hollywood, I blame myself, I blame governments, I blame society. But all he wanted was “Mafreshair”.

PHONIE WARS

PHONIE BALONIE

Rwanda is a curious country; a mix of so many cultures especially since so many people came from the Diaspora since 1994, you have the first dichotomy of Francophone and Anglophone, then other distinctions. Those born and raised in Burundi or Uganda or Tanzania, even the Congo all have cultural quirks they brought from their places of refuge. Add to these people others from further away like Europe, North America, West Africa, the Arab world and you have a heady mix. These barriers are quickly disintegrating as a recent spate of marriages has shown. It is common to see a Kevin wedding a Marie-Christine or a Jean-Claude marrying a Kate. This didn’t used to happen; Franco-phones and Anglo-phone used to view each other with bewilderment and even suspicion, wondering what on earth they were saying.


There has been a concerted drive to unify the nation with a common identity and Rwanda is Rwanda-phone but every so often the language barrier is impassable. I must declare my bias now; I hate French, with a passion. I think it is pompous, long-winded, pointless, philosophical to the point of stupidity and I can’t wait till it dies out, which is inevitable. I have tried so hard to learn French but my total disrespect for the language has impeded my progress. I remember taking French classes in 1994 but when the teacher was explaining that a table is a woman and a chair is a man and I wanted to have her sectioned. Surely a table is a ….. table and a chair is a chair; it doesn’t have the prerequisite genitals to qualify as either gender.


As Rwandans we are all the same but when faced with modernity the Anglo-Franco prisms are evident. Why is that? We aren’t French or English, we are Rwandans but a product of colonialism is that we were used to fight proxy wars that date back to the battle of Hastings in 1066. The French and British are full partners in the EU but we still carry the baggage of Hastings and Agincourt. I get so worked up about it; when I go to the bank I speak fluent Kinya-rwanda and so does the manager but they insist on using French numbers, ‘cinqante’ ‘deux mil’ and by the time I am trying to figure out what they are saying I have been conned. I realised that these language barriers go deep because language is a vessel for knowledge and these languages are how we understand the world. When we are in our own cultural context then we are all the same but put modernity into the mix and how we understand the world is different.


This problem first occurred to me at University; my housemate was a Cameroonian called Eddie, we got on fine but every now and then our differences would pop up. He was telling me about a great French mathematician called “Pythagor” who I noticed was pretty similar to the Greek nerd called Pythagoras. No! said Eddie Pythagor was a Frog, I countered that he was a Greek but we had to agree to disagree. In his school he was told that all great men were French such as “Socrate” and “Aristole” and the like. The burden of colonialism is such that we are still stuck in the old mentality of slavishly believing all that our masters told us. In Rwanda the education system was so bad that it actually made people more ignorant than when they first enrolled. There was no syllabus, no curriculum, and no Exam board so stupidity was the major of most teachers. This has had sinister consequences as the genocide showed; teachers taught genocide theory, separated Tutsi children to be killed and generally played an active role in the whole scheme of things.


Recently this has alarmed Rwanda as a report on the school system showed that genocide theory is still widely taught, children are sometimes made to wear different uniforms and a general bias is sometimes shown. This is because the education system has been left largely unchanged on the lower levels of management; English is supposed to be taught equally to French but it isn’t because most of the teachers pre-date the genocide and are Francophone. I realised my negative view of Franco-phones was down to their isolationism and ignorance displayed by some of them. Rwanda was one of the most isolated countries in the world prior to the genocide; the government kept the people ignorant and told them there was a horrible world out there and they were lucky to be oppressed as they were because others had it worse. Few Rwandans had ventured outside their own borders to see what the world had to offer, there was no outside media of any kind, no TV, no foreign papers, and few tourist mingled with the locals.


Rwanda had the misfortune of being colonised by Belgium; the arse of Europe, an insignificant buffer-state created as an afterthought to keep France and Germany from swinging fists. A Frankenstein state that surgically attached two separate body parts with a Francophone head and a Flemish body. After Leopold saw all the other kids were getting sweets and he wasn’t, he convened the Berlin Conference and got Congo, the biggest sweet, too big to swallow. Rwanda-Urundi went to the Kaiser but his son was naughty and lost the plot as well as Rwanda and we were awarded to the laughing stock of Europe. Now remember I think that all colonialism is bad but some colonisers are worse; if Rwanda was colonised by Britain our present situation would be better.


The bumbling Belgians weren’t able to provide for the emerging Rwanda and like a dashing pimp the French promised to treat their whore better. She would be able to choose her johns and keep a larger share of her ill-gotten earnings. The French were intertwined in the politics of Rwanda, they used it as their backyard; Mitterand’s son grew copious amounts of marijuana that was flown back in military planes. Our economy was pegged to the French economy. The former French colonies were really free in just name; Sekou Toure of Guinea had pushed for his fellow Africans to go for full independence but most chose to be in Francophonie and have the CFA franc as their main currency, the French government provided security and were power-brokers. Jack Dennard is a prime example of this; he managed to overthrow countless government with a handful of soldiers. There is recently antagonism toward to the French in all their major former colonies and decades of interference has led to riots; Chad, Ivory Coast, Senegal and Niger have all had riots.


Back to Rwanda; there needs to be a promotion of English not just for the sake of it but because we are in the East African community and English will coax the Rwandan out of their Francophone shell. When you talk to a Rwandan, especially an illiterate one they always feel the need to impress you be throwing in French word, you should see the grin on their face when they do it yells “Look at me, I am so clever, I know a French word.” Whereas I am trying to speak Kinya-rwanda as best I can minus all the bastardised words. So much of Kinya-rwanda is made of bastardised French words for example in the news you will hear “Ministeri wi leta” meaning minister of state. What was Rwandan about that? Leta is L’Etat, trousers are Ipantaro (pantalon) Ifrigo (Frigo) so much of what we speak is French, which is ironic because the French have an academy to keep their language pure from English infection. Since I have come back my Kinya-Rwanda has improved and I am trying to speak it as best as is possible, I often make mistakes because I have to adjust to the local idiomatic expression and slang.


It is estimated that half of the worlds 6,000 languages are going to disappear in this century and in the long run only 5% of languages are viable, as geographical and cultural barriers are broken down then the need for languages and cultures disappear. The only viable languages are English, Mandarin, Hindi, Arabic and Spanish so bye-bye French, German, Portuguese, Hausa, Wolof, Laotian, Russian, Persian, Pashtoon, Zulu, Afrikaans, Kikuyu, Xhosa, Tamil, Japanese, Mongolian, and sadly Kinya-Rwanda. All these languages make us who we are but keep us apart as well, cause wars, reduce inter-communication. One day we’ll all be like Star-Trek, all colours speaking the same language; even aliens will speak English apart from those stubborn Klingons. So let’s enjoy our cultures while we can because soon we’ll all be a homogeneous blend of neutral everything; neutral language, neutral culture, neutral race, neutral gender.


I can’t wait for Rwanda to be more Anglophone; we have a cricket team, rugby team, we’re in the Commonwealth. English helps us not because of the British but the Americans; the Franco-phone world has little to offer us, we can read Voltaire, Descartes, Satre in English. We can straddle both sides and benefit; even the French are learning English because globalisation dictates. We will try to protect our culture from infiltration but culture never stays still it has to evolve. Bantu evolved into hundreds of languages, Latin spawned into dozens of European languages but now language is shrinking into fewer tongues and dialects. So I won’t have the frustration of asking “Nangahe?” (how much) “Senhendi” (cinqante) “Ngwiki?” (what?)
“Senhenti! Nabwo uvug’ikinyarwanda? (Don’t you speak Kinya-Rwanda?)

A ROSE IS STILL A ROSE

A ROSE IS STILL A ROSE

Shakespeare said in Romeo and Juliet “What is in a name? If a rose were called by any other name it would smell as sweet.” I don’t really believe that, “what is in a name?” Quite a lot actually; semantics is such that a word can change a lot. Recently the world has been obsessed with Bio-fuels and the word “Bio” has had disastrous consequences. I sat last night and wondered the importance of words and how they can change perceptions and even destiny. Noam Chomsky popped up in my mind; I remember studying semiotics 11 years ago, it was tedious but important. Words are transient, opaque, and elusive; they hurt more than sticks and stones, they are sweeter than honey, bitter than acid and stir the soul.


In recent times we have been bombarded with facts about the environment; about global warming, poles melting, and total collapse of eco-systems. The environmentalists have to put it in the starkest terms to get us to respond in time and quite often they are hysterical and even false. So Petrol is bad; diesel is evil, gasoline is mean. We were made to feel guilty for even jumping in a car; the guilt was mounting until we were given a solution. Bio-fuels; funny how just adding three letters to a word makes pollution okay. Bio-fuels are not as eco-friendly (another word) as they say; they don’t have many benefits to society and they actually cause environmental destruction on a massive scale.


It is like have a blanket that is too short; you have to choose between covering your feet or your chest. The Western consumer demanded a panacea for guilt and some marketing geeks thought up Bio-fuels; nations in the third world then proceeded to chop down millions of hectares of rain forest in order to save the environment. The price of food is rising and millions in the poorest countries face starvation because land that could have been used for food is now used for Bio-Ethanol, corn that could be eaten is now driving SUV’s and all staple foods are now in short supply.


There are words that instantly imply a positive connotation such as BIO, ECO, and sustainable. That is the beauty of marketing, playing on words can make you want something. DIET, FAT-FREE, LOW-CHOLESTERAL can make you buy anything and eat them in massive quantities; an ex-girlfriend of mine could eat a whole 14-inch pizza but only wash it down with diet Coke. A play on words is all it takes to sway the idiotic mind of a human, I remember my favourite cereal in the UK was “full of natural goodness” I wondered just what this natural goodness was, and how they could quantify it? Nevertheless cheerios rule the cereal world and should be enjoyed any time of the day.


The word NEW is dangerous; it is the most lethal word in advertising. Daz is one of the most popular washing powder brands in the UK; it was suffering low sales when they came up with a brilliant concept. NEW DAZ! It saved them millions in research and development just by adding the word NEW. Soon they were at it again NEW DAZ BIO, NEW DAZ ECO and so on. A word is all it takes to cause a war, find peace, call a truce. Right now the Israelis and Arabs know they both want peace just that they need to find a set of words that they can both sign up to; a set of words that are acceptable in Arabic, Hebrew and English. I wish them luck in that endeavour.


The word NIGGER is one of my favourites; when I went to live in the UK I was talking to someone when I heard the word. A friend was quoting someone and squirmed as he said it, he apologised profusely and I wondered why. Then I realised I had to learn the reflex of offence and jump up like a jack-in-a box whenever I heard it. It is one of the greatest con-tricks of all time, political correctness sought to eradicate all words of offence from the social sphere, while leaving in place all the social discrimination and setting the boundaries of offence. I have a friend Ronnie who steadfastly refuses to use the N-word even in a hip-hop context, which I found absurd because in hip-hop it is NIGGA; see the trick? Spelling it phonetically gives it a whole new context. It underlines the lower educational standards, ironic self-deprecation and repetition to dull the impact.

A Tribe Called Quest were one of the most politically conscious and righteous groups, they shocked their fans with their song SUCKA NIGGA. It concisely deals with the issues surrounding the word.

Socially I’m not a not a name, Black and White got game
If you came to the jam then I’m glad you came
See, nigga was first used up in the Deep South
Calling out between the dome of the white man’s mouth
It means that you can never grow; you know the word dummy
Other niggas in the community think it’s funny
But I don’t, neither do the youth coz we embrace adversity
It goes right with the race and being as we us it as a term of endearment
Niggas start to bug to the dome as where the fear went
Now the little shorties say it all of the time
And a whole bunch of niggas throw the word in their rhyme
Yo I start to flinch as I try not to say it
But my lips be like a ooh-wop (uzi) as I start to spray it
Sucka Nigga, Nigga, Nigga, I throw the sucka in the front
For the ones that front, sucka nigga, nigga, nigga
It’s the neo-nigga of the nineties

Our fathers scratch their heads because they fought wars of independence in order not to be called that word and then we use it as a term of endearment but this is always an important step in generations getting over the hurdle of discrimination. Re-branding is very important in the victimology that gets people their civil rights. In the 50’s Niggers became “Coloured”; which implied it wasn’t really their fault, just coloured a different shade. Then “Black” as they wanted rights on their own terms, then “Ethnic minorities” to imply they weren’t a threat. Homosexual is a horrible word; if they were still called that they’d still be seen as they were; but the genius who came up with the word: GAY was clever. It implied they were just excessively happy, as if they were just giggling effeminate queens and nothing to fear.


In Rwanda, two words have haunted our history; now it is very hard to say them in any social setting. These words have lead to decades of strife and countless dead. The government in one of its first motions moved to remove it from all public and private spheres. The words Hutu and Tutsi are no longer to be socially acceptable words and while they can’t be erased from current memory, it is hoped that they will cease to exist in future ones. Children are an example to us all; one of my favourite stories was told me by my cousin’s best friend’s mother. “When I first heard of Paul I just thought he was another kid, when I came to see the Christmas play I asked my son to point him out. He said he was the one in red and I said ‘you mean the Black one?’”


That fact that Paul was Black and his best friend White meant that Martin Luther King was smiling approvingly at their union from heaven. On a human level any two types of people can get on but it is when tectonic plates of cultures clash that you have problems. In South Africa, the ANC and the then White government were stuck in negotiations until the two main representatives struck a friendship. Cyril Ramaphosa and Rolf Meyer saved the lives of thousands and averted a war; just by being friends. That is what is needed; for people to be friends; how often do White people say “I have loads of Black friends”. But does that matter? In the UK the government publishes statistics on inter-racial marriages as a measure of social cohesion. Inter-racial marriage is up 9% therefore racial harmony is up 9%. So what happens when these couples split? Is harmony down?


Perhaps what is needed is for people to just respect each other; seeing as we can never look in the hearts of men to see their real motives, we can just go by outward etiquette. In the global economy we cannot have discrimination because skills are all that matters, whether a computer programmer is Tutsi or Hutu is not going to matter, just whether he is a good programmer. I talked to my friend Genza about what makes a tribe a tribe. Was it physical characteristics, Language, socio-economic activity? I said it was a combination of the three. I cannot call myself a true Tutsi because I don’t keep cows; when I travel to Mutara and see my cousins roaming the fields I understand what it meant. It is like when you take an Eskimo out of the polar tundra then he is just another man. Aboriginal communities suffer when taken out of their natural environment; our Grandfathers made the step forward into modernity and we are stuck here trying to make sense of our history. Hoping that it will mean more than just words.

OBAMA-BAMA-BAMA

OBAMA-BAMA I CAN’T WAIT TILL 2008 YOU’RE THE BEST CANDIDATE


A few years back in England I stayed up late to watch one of my favourite sports from America; not the Superbowl, not the playoffs but the Democratic convention. It was dour as these events always are, various speakers from the backwaters of America getting their chance in the limelight. I was on the verge of tears and yawning in the early hours of 3 in the morning; then came a bolt lightning. A young man from Illinois stood up and stunned the exhausted crowd; he introduced himself as a humble son of a Kenyan goatherd and the crowd was in love and in awe. I will never forget that day though I don’t remember the year but I remember thinking that America could have a Black President after all.

Within a couple of years he was a Senator and had a National profile but I never expected him to be a contender for President this soon. The hope and idealism he imbued us with that day was an irresistible elixir, like crack for political fans; he made everything possible. In this cynical world he brings back idealism reminiscent of Kennedy; in 1960 America never thought they could have an Irish Catholic president, maybe this is the time for America to make that massive step forward and elect a Black president or even a woman. But common sense says that they won’t, America is scared at the moment; with terrorism and a potential economic crisis in the offing I seriously doubt that they would risk the unknown. A psychologist would tell you that they will vote for a father-figure who can be tough and reassuring at the same time.

Obama talks with such eloquence and fluency that the detail of what he is saying is lost in the rhythm of his singsong. It could go either way for him; his inexperience could be a good or bad thing. It means he is untainted by the stench of Washington politics but he doesn’t have the know-how to deal with daily politics. It always occurred to me that the Republicans are the only party that can elect a Black President; they would object to it more therefore if they were cool with it then it would be a signal to others that it is okay. The democrats have always taken Blacks for granted as their slavish voters and never bothered to put a Black person in a serious cabinet position such as Defence, State Department or National security. In that respect Bush really embarrassed them by placing Powell and Rice in such positions.

Maybe the profile of Rice and Powell have made it more palatable for White Americans to see Blacks in high profile positions but the recent New Hampshire glitch in polling meant that there might still be the ghost of Racism lurking in the wings. Race is still very important in America; the fact that Obama is referred to as Black is testament to that, it is as if his mother doesn’t matter. Fractions still matter in politics; Groucho Marx was once refused the right to swim in a local pool because he was Jewish but he quipped “My daughter is half-Jewish, can she at least swim halfway?” The one-drop rule still applies and those who are half still are counted as full blacks. His White mother has been absent because it still irks some bigots both Black and White one that she chose to marry a Black man.

Obama has a curious standing among Blacks; he isn’t fully supported and the blacks are torn between Hillary and Him. Why? They Blacks do not really see him as one of them. The one thing that bonds Blacks in America is Slavery; every Black has vicariously been through slavery, the mental whip marks are still hurting. The fact that Obamas father is African and not African-American puts a barrier between; I saw this first hand in Britain, there was a disconnect between Africans and Afro-Caribbeans. Obama grew up in Hawaii and doesn’t really act Black if there is such a thing; he doesn’t have the hang-ups of blacks, doesn’t have the inferiority complex that other Blacks have. He sees himself as equal to Whites in every way; for that I admire his guts and he has to remind himself that he is Black.


Maybe it is a new century and America is ready for change but judging by the candidates on show there is going to be change either way. The Republicans have to choose between an old Vietnam vet, a Mormon, a Baptist Preacher, an Italian former mayor and maybe a movie star. It is guaranteed that we’ll have change because you have either a woman or a black. I remember when I first heard of Obama and Hillary I said that one had the wrong genitalia and the other was too Black. Now it isn’t a shock any more. Obama is going to be destroyed by the dirty politics of smearing; all his minor indiscretions will be hung out to dry, the Clinton juggernaut will crush his sweet and lovely image. Maybe the American public will see through this smear campaign but the Clinton machinery will be vicious and when he is done with that the even more deadly Republican mud-slinger will be loaded and aimed.


I wonder what difference having a Black president will make; will aid to Africa increase? Will there be free visas for African to go to the States? Will everyone in Harlem and Compton get a free cheque? Will reparations be paid with 200 years of interest? The answer is HELL NO! Politics will be business as usual, more government cuts, more war on terror, more taxes, more spin and the lot. Maybe they will serve chitlins at state banquets and Rap music will be bumping in the West Wing, Air-force One might have gold rims and will feature on pimp my ride; who knows? The primaries are designed to produce little surprises; take Iowa where a bunch of hicks albeit educated hicks set off the debate. Imagine if the first caucus was held in South-central LA? How different would American history be? But credit to Iowa they made the right choice.

DISHONOUR AMONG THIEVES

DISHONOUR AMONG THEIVES

OH Kenya; what have you done? It was going so well until last week; you were the envy of Sub-Saharan Africa, a shining example for all other nations in the region to follow. Now look at you? A falling giant; a sad case of greed and power mixing with tribal animosity to stoke the flames of destruction. We all act shocked that these scenes have happened; yet they were predictable; perhaps not on this scale but in everyway you looked at it somebody would have been a sore loser. Comparisons with Rwanda in 94 were drawn; perhaps hysterically but the seeds of genocide are capable of germinating in this fertile ground.


The unrest has exposed underlying tensions that go back centuries and despite having a very educated populous; old tribal rivalries have never been tamed. It has pitted Kikuyu against Luo, Kikuyu against Kalenjin, Muslim against Christian and has often just been mindless untargeted violence. It shows that the pace of African development; though strong has been too slow to help the poorest sections of society. It is a common occurrence in Africa as the ANC election showed; you can have the best economic indicators such as strong growth, low inflation, low debt and higher incomes but if people are left behind then they can pull the rug from under your feet.


The Romans believed in the saying “There are three types of lies; lies, damn lies and statistics”. This applied in Kenya prior to the elections; lies, damn lies and statistics were all in evidence. Lies; such as Kenya was united and strongly bonded, damn lies such as all Kenyans were equal, and statistics saying that Kenya had massive growth. The vast scale of slums such as Kibera and Mathare made all the stats redundant; a statistic is a lie in that respect, just because the nation had 6% growth didn’t mean a slum-dwellers life would be improved by 6%. Where did it all go wrong?


Historically the seeds were sown in the colonial era; the British found a series of Kingdoms and chiefdoms squabbling and fighting for meagre resources. They used the usual tactic of divide and rule to separate and undermine efforts for independence. There never was any time when Africans were united, the colonialists never introduced tribalism, they merely harnessed it to their own needs. Stereotypes were formed as a shorthand way of controlling the masses; Kikuyus are hard-working but greedy, Luos are lazy, Luhyas are gullible. These prejudices still inform people today; there is always a grain of truth in stereotypes but not enough to justify prejudice.


I remember being with a friend recently in Nairobi and we wanted to buy a soda, we walked into a shop and walked out immediately, in the end we walked for a while looking for a shop that was owned by a Kikuyu. The thought of enriching a man from another tribe was so abhorrent to him and he went to great lengths to avoid this. Tribes are an anachronism in modern Africa that cannot go away, partly because they are still the primary source of identity as well as being politically expedient as power blocs. The colonial structure of ruling by numbers and tribal quotas was maintained in every aspect; in Kenya there was an attempt to unify the country but in smaller tribal blocs. Politics is by nature tribal, in the West these tribes have been lost but replaced with fluid tribes that are self-defining; Liberals, Conservatives, Gay and Lesbians, Working Classes, Middle-classes, Youth. All these segments are fought over as blocs while being pandered to and denounced at the same time.


The tribal issue didn’t arise in 2002 because both the candidates were Kikuyu; both Uhuru Kenyatta and Mwai Kibaki were from the same tribe. The great ogre Moi was the main object of hatred and change after 40 years of KANU was the main priority. Within months the unruly alliance of Raila and Kibaki was dead in the water; Kibaki was isolated and began to surround himself with his own kind. Maybe this was because he needed yes-men or maybe to enrich his own kind. The centre of the country has always had the best economic prospects, due to its fertile land and hard-working people but was seen as the product of cronyism and the Mount Kenya mafia was born. A leader is defined by his followers and Kibakis followers were disgraceful. A series of scandals and cover-ups ate away at his popularity and he looked like a one-termer.


Enter the populist; Raila Odinga, a man who can whip up a crowd like a hypnotist and have them eating out of his hand in seconds. He was massively ahead in the polls but managed to squander all the goodwill he had by making secret deals and making promises he couldn’t keep. Because he lost his lead in the polls which went from 20 points to neck and neck; he cannot claim with certainty that it was rigged against him. Besides the rigging was on all sides, Nanyuki reported fraud, Kisumu reported fraud, no side is clean. The fact that Kibaki used state resources to rig was appalling; even more appalling was the dishonour among thieves who are African leaders.


They were all conspicuous by their silence, when they did speak it was to congratulate Kibaki on his rigging skills as Museveni did. The number one rule of African politics is “never speak ill of a fellow leader” hence Mugabe has been allowed to destroy his nation while they applauded. It makes you wonder what an African leader would have to do to be denounced by his fellow leaders. Bokassa practiced cannibalism yet was held in high esteem by fellow leaders, Idi Amin committed mass-rape and torture but Nyerere was viewed with suspicion for removing him. When President Kuffour of Ghana tried to come to negotiate he was treated with disdain and no other leaders backed him. During the Rwandan genocide no African leader openly condemned it; it was seen as an internal matter and even the right of the then Rwandan government to kill innocents. Yet we blame Clinton for not intervening when our own brothers were silent and even complicit. All it takes for evil to prosper is for good people to do nothing.


The real issue is poverty; Kenya is wealthy but most of its people are poor, 50% of Kenyans live on less than $1 a day, 60% of Nairobi residents live in slums, inflation is 12%, food prices are constantly rising, land is scarce and mostly arid. There is a Rwandese saying “abasangira ubusa b’itana ibisambo” when there is not enough food to share, then you fight and call each other greedy. That is the situation in Kenya, the Luo call Kikuyu greedy and vice versa. The creation of a strong middle-class is no substitute for helping the poor. In South Africa, Thabo Mbeki has presided over strong growth and the creation of a Black middle class but the masses were left behind so his presidency will have a legacy of failure.


This is a crucial moment for African democracy, if this rigging is let to stand then it is a rubber-stamp to every leader to rig at will. In Nigeria last year there was massive rigging but the Western observers accepted the results saying thought it was rigged it was generally what the people wanted. Kibaki has calculated that there will be an initial storm to ride out before the world averts its gaze to another pressing matter, then he will be free to rule unmolested. However he faces the problem of trying to rule with some 30 or so MP’s and an opposition that will try to impeach him at the first chance they get. You get the feeling his backers did not think this plot through; if they had the chance again they would have rigged some more parliamentary seats. In “A man for all seasons” by Thomas Moore; Henry VIII says “They follow me because I am their Lion while they are my jackals.” The meaning there is all Kibakis cronies would be hung out to dry and starve if he were removed; they would lose all privileges and face court proceedings if he left. That is the reason why counting was slow, then stopped altogether, then Kibaki suddenly declared the winner.


The cancer of corruption has spread so deep in Kenya that all the institutions that could solve this impasse are tainted. Samuel Kivuitu is either the giddy goat or villain of this story; he allowed the electoral commission to be bullied or doctor the result outright. The Attorney-General Amos Wako is as trustworthy as any biased crony chosen on tribal grounds. The Police and Army have always existed to maintain the status quo. The members of parliament are up for sale at an even higher price now; chances are that they will take the money and run with Kibaki to break the deadlock. Church and community leaders can scream all they want to no avail as they were part of the problem during the campaign. And in the middle of this is the Kenyan people; they aren’t as tribalist as the violence suggests. In urban areas inter-marriage is common; intermarriage is the main reason Kikuyu are as numerous as now, they are exogamic and absorb other tribes. It is in poorer outlying areas where the violence has erupted; where illiterate poor tribesmen have been manipulated into killing their neighbours.


In all it will take a long time to heal these wounds; in the long run Kenya will recover but it will always have the potential of more violence. The next government should concentrate on healing the country and helping the poor; otherwise they will be militias waiting for a chance to commit genocide. Poverty and climate change are pushing demographic issues to the fore in Africa. In Darfur, Ivory Coast, Ogaden, Somalia, Niger, Mali, Northern Uganda, and any place that you see conflict in Africa there is a problem of scarce resources for farming, grazing, minerals or whatever the sort. Now Kenya is the loser whoever the winner is; be it Raila or Mwai, even a score draw that is a unity government is a loss. We need to see what the least worst outcome is and choose that because the rock and the hard place will start to squeeze Kenya. In the long run a compromise will come but time is precious and people are dying.

REFLECTIONS

REFLECTIONS ON 2007

Getting a job in England was getting hard, even the most menial of jobs was impossible to find. It had been 15 years of my life; you can really get accustomed to misery, if you put a man in a pit full of shit he’ll be disgusted for the first hour but soon he’d be used to the smell. After a while he’d enjoy the smell; when I see a pig lying in shit I understand its love of its own shit. Going to England was all I ever wanted as a child; my mother was there, my favourite everything was there. Favourite football team, favourite town, favourite writers, musicians. In many ways it was the culmination of my education, I was taught in the British education system which moulded us into millions of little-Englishmen. We drank tea with our pinky-fingers tilted to the sky, we fought each other because we supported opposing teams, and we knew “God save the Queen” better than our own national anthems.


Neo-colonialism was a thorough process carried out by thousands of well meaning White middle-class expats; I see them now, Mrs. Baird, Mrs. Humphreys, and Mrs. Watson. These ladies spent countless hours drilling into me the importance of loving the mother-country, they drilled into me the importance of etiquette, queuing, never being flustered and off course the stiff upper lip, you can’t forget the stiff upper lip. I am as much a product of Britain, maybe more a product of Britain than Africa. Africa is something I have been trying to get away from most of my life, so 2007 represents a massive step in that I returned to the real mother-country – Rwanda. When I think of the random series of unfortunate events that lead me to come back; I have to acknowledge the hand of God, if not fate in returning me here.


Knowing God is something that has enriched my life no end; I am still wrangling with the details hence I can be found in a nightclub now and then. But I know my redeemer lives. I was for many years a devout atheist but I was miserable; trapped in the existentialist quagmire of “why are we here?” a question I never understood or really wanted answered. I was an angry man; taking whatever short-cuts to avoid my real issues. In many ways my anger is still there and can flare up but I have more control over it than before. I had suffered from depression since I was a child, ups and downs, a chemical feeling of misery that went right down to a cellular level.


Even in happy times I knew that just round the corner was another manic episode. Maybe my depression was genetic, maybe circumstances, maybe just lack of positive thinking but England exacerbated it. The descent into autumn was like impending sorrow; it is the most beautiful time of year. The leaves turn a sacred brown with the dying sun it looks like the deathly hew of rebirth. The leaves crunch underneath your feet as you walk on paths as old as Roman times; my favourite hill has graffiti that is 2,000 years old. You wonder what went through their minds as they wrote “Marcus loves Fidelia” a short crush can last an eternity.


I decided to confront every feeling of inadequacy, self-loathing, self-doubt, and every negative force in my mind. It is the hardest thing I have ever done, three days of pain and I was all alone, just me and a Bible. It was like I held on to that Bible for dear life; I met the devil face to face. He mocked me and insulted me; he stabbed me and injured me. I sweated more than a marathon runner; I had to see everything I had shut out all my life. All the pain I had avoided all my life, all the pain I inflicted on others; because there is a saying misery needs company. I hurt people, people hurt me, it was life.


Moving to Rwanda came next; when I realised that my whole time in England was a waste, it hit me that England was the problem. England had robbed me of my self-esteem, England had rejected me, England was the devil. It is a country where you can be what you want to be; as long as it is a lower class citizen. Most Africans with degrees are stuck in menial jobs; we came up with an expression “Niggering” the act of being a nigger. I was niggering at Royal Mail. I niggered at BMW, I niggered at Carrillion. The Brits are the best at silent loathing; immigrants can only come to do jobs that Brits don’t want.


Settling here was hard; Rwanda is much improved but still lags in mindset. Sights just astound you; the beauty of the hill, the naivety of the people, and the lack of cynicism. It was amazing to see people who look like me on every corner; to hear my language spoken freely. To have a BBQ while looking at lush hills of green; to hear stories of your childhood told from another perspective, to hear family laughter all the time. It also took a lot of patience as I had to lower my expectations, to learn to wait twenty minutes for a drink and say thank you when it arrived either too hot or to cold. Maybe that is where my contentment comes from; lower expectations.


I was lying in bed one evening when the phone rang, it was a cockney accent. “Oy mate, ‘ow ya doing? Right Bruv?” I fell out the bed; it was my friend Evai, we were partners in crime in Oxford. We always hang out together; this summer I watched his face full of joy as his son was born. Now he came to bury his Dad; I never met his Dad, I was always invited over but never found the time to meet him. Anyway his Dad was now dead; his mother had never stressed the severity of his illness and just soldiered on. We buried him with crushing sadness; seeing a great man fade into his grave. Buried with him were centuries of Rwandan history and the hopes of a past generation that was content to die in Rwanda.


Seeing his grieving wife was a mirror to his soul; she was left to carry on half-living but their union was still alive, in the form of their children. I long for a life-partner like they had in each other; 45 years of marriage that took them from Rwanda to Congo and back. Their children scattered to all the corners of the world from Arizona to Coventry to Kigali. I long for a soul-mate, in Kigali the number one sport is weddings and couples pair off without much consideration to compatibility. Within weeks rumours of infidelity abound, estrangement is common place and nobody cares because they are on to the next wedding.


I feel I am bound to be lonely as I expect too much; my grandfather didn’t expect too much from his marriage, mostly sons and a hot dinner in the evening. I on the other hand want the following.

A woman who is Godly; a woman who can be my moral guide, a woman who can never sin against God.

A woman who is modern yet traditional. A woman who know her culture but can fit in the modern world.

A woman who can mother me as well as my kids, I can be immature at times and I need a woman to compliment that with maturity.

A woman with a real stupid sense of humour.

A woman who is educated and can support herself and compliment what I have.

A patient woman

A really hot beautiful woman with brains

A woman sent by God

Also “A lady in the street but a freak in the bed, yeah yeah!”


Not too much to ask eh? What I want is a minor miracle, but for every man God makes a woman, it is finding her that is the problem. When I look at how lucky my parents are although they are married to other people; they were lucky to find the right person in the end. I don’t want to date the wrong people first. When I go to weddings, it is partly sorrow and joy as I wish it was me there, but not just there, but there with the right girl. So my hopes for 2008 are to start my business and meet Ms. Right, that’s all I want.