Memoirs of the first Msope

BY GEORGE KAGAME

The weather is good today, the sun is fully out and the skies are clear and like all mid mornings on such days the good old the First Msope just finished having what he calls a balanced breakfast. It is the second breakfast of the day. Earlier In the morning before he left home the good old Mfasha, his genial wife, had prepared a nice wonderful send off comprised of a warm cup of milk tea, a banana, mandazi and bread. 

the First Msope loves carbohydrates. They make his cheeks chubby but that is a sign that Mfasha is doing her job well. These are good days in Citi for the First Msope, he has  some concerns and issues with fitting in the new Citi but he lets the complaining and bitching about these issues to be done by others on his behalf. 

For now he is enjoying the good days and he knows fully well in his heart that he has never seen better but paradoxically he believes that someone else is enjoying the benefits of the good days more than him. As such he is jealous and when he returns home in the evening after work he will complain about the current system in Citi to Mfasha and his close buddies at the watering hole, the famous Ship&Anchor in Msingi wa Mji the business capital of Citi.

the First Msope is reveling in the new found fortunes of Citi, he never thought that things would be this good for him after Citi had earlier slid into calamity and then recovered to the gem it was now becoming today. So as he licks his lips and pulls up his trousers concealing a fast protruding belly while readying to sign numerous documents about Misio and fishi, as business trips and their expenses receipts are called in Citi he is joyous. 

Today is Friday which means the working day ends at 12pm upon which he will sign out and head straight to the watering hole in the official Suzuki Grande while the afternoon shift, otherwise dedicated to Siporo, will be spent chastising the new trends of Citi in private.The Grande is the new big man signature in terms of automobiles running the streets in Citi they replaced  Rengi Roveri and Renault. The latter wowed the crowds in years yonder. Life in the new Citi is a paradox!

The Suzukis now crowd the road leading to  Marutarama a suburb in Msingi wa Mji that hitherto had been a shrub but now was turned into a Malibu estates look alike.

But it is unfair not introduce the First Msope properly as it would rob you the understanding which is crucial in discerning why he is enjoying today so much. You see the First Msope was born in the Citi country side and never dreamed of big things as were happening in Msingi wa Mj currently. When he was a younger man, the authorities in Citi were uncouth, they mismanaged the country and got the Citimen as confused as an intoxicated homeless man. Citimen as a result hated each other so much that they unsuccessfully tried an apocalypse once. During this time the First Msope was starting out his teenage years. Problem is that some of the people in the authorities at that time were well known to the First Msope and in fact some of them might have been related to him by extension. Even at that time, all evidence pointed to him being a big man in the system one day.

In school the First Msope studied in a foreign language but this was to prove a disadvantage as the teachers were not very generous with their language so he only learnt the language partially. To compound the mess, that language was out of sync today and that is the reason that he was uncomfortable with some of the changes in Citi currently. He detested the new language and what it represented but the new language had also introduced him to the English premiership. 

The First Msope circled on Arsenal for the club managed by a Frenchman gave the First Msope a sense of identity as the lonely Frenchman in the English premiership. But in hindsight, Msope's newly found zealousness for soccer blessed the fortunes of the Citi national team in its hey days. The Citimen had even qualified for the continental bonanza, a fete that was hitherto unknown. The leading club in the land had also dominated regional tournaments and attracted the best players from all counties surrounding Citi though this did not stop the First Msope from going to Ship&Anchor to watch Arisenali instead of Siporo on friday afternoons.

As soon as the previous authorities in Citi were abolished the First Msope found out that the language he studied in school and managed to learn only partially was no-longer trendy. And so in order for him to flourish well today he had to learn another foreign language. This was particularly a difficult task at his age and big man status. 

But this new foreign language was essential in the economical and political dynamics of Citi, many language centres opened up all over Msingi wa Mji and other urban or commercial centres such that many, like the First Msope, would learn the new language and take advantage of newer opportunities in Citi. The language centres opened up in mosques, churches and markets.

He relied on his dexterity in farming on steep hills in the country to hustle in the new Citi. It did not help that all the new development programmes in Citi were compiled in a new vision and everything was written in the new foreign language. In order for the First Msope to climb the new big man ladders he found it necessary to learn this new language.

The language was further necessary because the new authorities had ensured that many new people arrived in Citi and they were not just visiting. They had come to stay and in order for the First Msope to get along with them he had to learn not just a new foreign language but new cultures. He was worried that the road rules were soon to be changed and that even his cherished friday Siporo would soon vanish.

Memoirs of a Musajja

BY GEORGE KAGAME

He was born and bred in Musajjaland but basajja never considered him a bonafide 'son of the soil' and like Wyclef Jean sang in 'peace God' when he died his life was not even worth paperwork. He grew up learning that he was different. He was not bothered in his existence but there was no doubt amongst his hosts that he was also not welcome. He was the Musajja.

As a result of his confusing and often compelling economic history, he was left with no option but to wander the entire expanse of Musajjaland trying to find one place that would make him comfortable, the search for a home. The less neighbours known to him the better for his existance. It was perhaps due to this that he chose to be a nomad. But even that economic activity, like the endless summer nights, has a cycle. And so the cycle stopped. The Musajja was tired of the rat race, he decided to try his luck in Citi.

In fact prior to this event, he was not even aware that he was a Musajja, this identity was tagged to him the moment he crossed the line and entered Citi.

Years yonder after entering Citi he never knew that when the Citimen talked of Musajja they were referring to him. Many lives in exile had successfully robbed him of his identity to a point that even when all those around him reminded him he was different, the musajja never bothered. To start with, he did not have one particular language with which to identify. And he was right. He had acquired this 'deaf' skill from his sojourns in Musajjaland. His hosts had called him many names, that even he, forgot who he really was. Perhaps it was because of a mixture of his vigilance and misery. How can a refugee be so vigilant in fighting for the overall freedom of his hosts? Either the hosts were arrogant, dumb or unreasonably proud or maybe the refugee did not have an option and so was left to be used as a condom to fight other people's wars. After-all he was considered to be so hapless that the only means the refugee had used to get to Musajjaland was hopping on top of fishes and swimming across borders. 

The means he used to cross borders ending in Musajjaland withstanding, the Musajja had acquired the characteristics of a chameleon. He became a successful cattle herder, a community organizer and a freedom fighter that many of the dictators reigning in Musajjaland would not have been disposed of without his compliance, his cattle, his homelessness, his love for action, his despair, his cattle and above all his elegant women.

So it was with a sense of both relief and hurt that he had acquired an identity upon entering Citiland, even if Musajja seemed inappropriate it was all the same welcome. However, in  Citi more than Musajjaland, they had been incarnated with a spirit that told them who was whom. Any slight difference amongst individuals could be detected within a distance of 70 miles away as a result of this training. The Musajja tag was therefore coined according to his accent, his recipe, his talking manners as well as his adaptability. What however remained a dominant feature was that he was also considered a foreignor in Citi.This was hurtful.

What was relieving however was the fact that the musajja was more comfortable with the physical features that defined him as a person and that on occasions he could compete for work on equal terms with everybody else in the job market. But even in this Citi life there was balances of foreignors and locals that had surfaced once the musajja crossed the borders. So as the musajja competed for one particular job for which he qualified the employers were faced with a small problem of balancing the two. The musajja, for his limited French, for his distaste of pause, (that proverbial afternoon siesta prevalent in Citi, was considered a 'bad air' in the working environment.) So he lost out on all the jobs of NGOs and public parastatals. The musajja as a result found willing employers in the private sector and the government of Citi, which itself was almost operated on the principles of a profit motivated private corporation.

The ideas that the musajja was a foreignor was further strengthened and enhanced by the opinions of the visitors of Citi, since the musajja was not very eloquent in Citi he got along very well with many of such visitors to Citi but the visitors had their own agendas and quite often they interpreted the musajja as not being proud of other Citimen and wanting to align himself to foreignors. The visitors therefore suggested that indeed the musajja was not one of the bonafide Citimen and so he belonged to lands ashore.

Faced with this paradox the musajja had to rely on his refugee skills. The skills of believing in good, in the unlimited depth of the human spirit to love, in the drive to forge and develop a community and in the hope that one day Citi will be a home for all. Foreign and locally born.

donuwagiwabo@gmail.com

UN and donor employees: third world misery is their career blessing

BY GEORGE KAGAME

I am seated in the waiting lobby of an NGO office located on the 12th floor of a glass skyscraper in downtown Citi. There are eight individual chairs in the lobby but we are only two people waiting for different officials of the NGO whose main activity is to assist Citi families with counselling and awareness services. The other guy has been in the office longer than I have but he seems patient as if what brought him to the office is an important errand and he has to sit it out till his supposed appointment shows up. Despite the fact that there are only two of us waiting and in the past 15 minutes none has been called, the receptionist who is hidden behind a desk that resembles a church pulpit seems quite occupied. She repeatedly picks up the phone and says the same words to different callers. In the 15 minutes that I have been waiting she has picked up more than 15 phone calls and to each she repeated the same words. “She is out of office/ she is in a meeting/do you have an appointment with her?/is she expecting you?” Most of the people working in this NGO are women. Maybe they are the most compassionate lot in the gender class. But it cannot be true, I have been here for 20 minutes now while the lady I am due to meet is being traced or so I am told. The walls in the waiting lobby are affixed with trendy notice boards on which hang pick up brochures and pamphlets, a large flag of Citi stands in the middle, a family from the country walks into the office. The family comprises an aged couple and their chubby teenage boy. They cannot speak Citi so they need a translator. A man in his 20s accompanies them and helps with translation. He has ear piercings and earrings and it is obvious that aged couple do not approve of his presence in their entourage. He is a necessary evil since his services are needed and so they have no choice but to deal with him. They are particularly afraid that their teenage boy seems to like hanging with the translator. But whatever the country family wanted help for seems not forthcoming in this office. They are advised to go back home and make another appointment with the responsible officer of the NGO; as such they are given a phone number on which to make the said second appointment From the look of the old lady, she knows that when they make the call, there won’t be a person to pick up the phone on the other end. But the wisdom of old age tells her to accept what seems to be sincere apologies from the receptionist. The old lady puts up a brilliant performance of hiding her bitterness and obvious frustration at the receptionist and the NGO. The lobby was a good vantage point from which to observe the goings on in the NGO and the hoo haa of what their brochures advertised as activities and services. There was a fair amount of young beautiful woman in tight pants walking about with a pseudo display of urgency. The receptionist speaking on phone or attending to her colleagues was desperately trying to appear humble, courteous, kind, and at the same-time putting up an impressive performance of appearing to be busy too. After 20 minutes of waiting in the offices, I heard the receptionist say, “I am sorry,” more than 16 times when I stopped counting. The NGO is like an embassy of a bigger NGO whose headquarters are located in a huge city overseas and it is one of the major players of the do-good industry. I was here to do my part in the industry which was simply write another story to appear in their journal, brochure or pamphlet about what they do. As a result, I do not have a place in the hierarchy of the organization. I am a contractor and therefore an outsider. The lobby experience reminded me of a time I worked at the UN base in Citi years  yonder. At the UN I was also an outsider and as such I observed the goings on with a detached interest. The UN base was located in a relatively flat part of Citi but it was ironical that most of the employees in the UN offices exclusively drove sports utility vehicles. They might as well have as the UN subsidized the costs of maintenance and fuel. This area was also particularly stable and peaceful relative to the surroundings but this did not stop UN employees to have panic buttons installed in all the rooms of their exclusively built houses. From a distance, everybody at the base appeared busy but they really did nothing to show for their being busy. The violence the base was meant to stop was instead feeding off the excess of the UN. Violence and crime had/have a symbiotic relationship with the UN and the do-gooders. If/when a location where the donor and UN employees had a report of an incident of crime or violence, the employees gleefully wrote a report to their overseas offices that carried alarm and threat in high dozes. This ensured that the salaries and benefits of the employees would be revised in accordance with the crime and violence of the areas where they were working. This was called the hardship allowance. The hardship allowance ensured that the UN became the most hypocritical organization in the world. Having been started to help reduce violence, war, crime, ensure peace and stability prevailed and those other good things of saving the world, the UN employees thrived in war zones and conflict prone areas. This beats the logic behind the do gooders, one was constantly exposed to the double standards of the UN. It happened in Nairobi recently when UN employees publicly protested The UN’s International Civil Service Commission when they reclassified the  UN office in Nairobi from level C to B in what is known as ‘safe’ places to work and the subsequent allowances that the staffers receive for living in such areas. The Nairobi UN staff protested the reclassifying as it reduced their hardship allowance. Interestingly, Nairobi has been a high risk area to work since January 2001 when Mzee Arap Moi was still in charge. Today I prayed for my people in the DR Congo for MONUC is not likely to leave soon while their hardship allowance keeps rising!!

musajja memoirs

Kafulu, I'm scheming in my head a story, "memoirs of a Musajja," It is basically that, memoirs of a Musajja.
Now really, what is a musajja?
Well, a musajja is the archetypical Rwandan immigrant that was born and bred in Uganda. In Uganda Luganda is the biggest language in a country made up of 52 tribes.


Luganda however is the chemistry that keeps the country intact, students, soldiers, chapati makers and the elite speak the thing. The native speakers of Luganda, the Baganda are among the most humiliatingly humble kind, they kneel, they sir to almost every man, some women are in the privileged position of having the title of sir too, when their kind is passing around, his subject prostrate in the way you can only see in movies. Their beads touching the ground as a symbol that only beads sweep the kings pathways. Just imagine how many beads it can take to sweep a dusty rural road and you have an idea of humble.


When Baganda eat it is a feast. Every meal in Buganda is a ceremony. First is served in a circle format on green banana leaves while the staple food, steamed banana mashed in green leaves and peanut sauce. The middle of a circle elaborately spread in the house forms a pinnacle of the meal. From which everyone in the house stretchers under the watchful eye of the family mother, to pick a serving.
All in the household sit squarely on the floor. Only the father of the house sits on a chair and desk which serves as his perennial solo dining table.


The musajja, in his incarnation in Rwanda was a returnee who had lived his entire life as a immigrant without paperwork. You have to Wyclef Jean in his song "Peace God"
Sweetest Girl??
Anyhow the Rwandan musajja was as intriguing as confusing, but that was the brand of a product manufactured in musajjaland. When musajja arrived din Rwanda it was with shock that he realized that hugging are actually African practices, that women don't kneel or wear skirts forever.
That in Rwanda there are actually no cows.
It was a myth what our forefathers told us.
Where did the cows go?
When were they ever in Rwanda actually?
in which parts of the country?
Unless Masisi was part of Rwanda in years yonder.
That I'd agree because there's no place like Masisi if the topic is cows. Masisi and cows and the few native Rwandans have the perfect threesome made in heaven, under the watchful gaze of God.



No actually I was thinking of something else when I started writing this stuff, I was thinking of della Madonina, that is not something complex, i might as well have made it up. It is actually just a socdr match between AC Milan and Inter Milan,



No words for words for della Madonina. Crap, I don't watch soccer anymore. There's nothing like that in North America.

As it goes in Angola, Egypt are up for seven today.
Woe to Ghana,

And guess what Ahmed Hassan is alleged to have said after they earned the finals berth,
"those black people.....Africans don't know how to play soccer....."
Then a reported asked him,"from which continent are you?"
Kasasiro those Arabs.

Calgary is wonderful, is just minus 12 today, snow falling.
But that is a good day by average.
No pub in North America "yalaga" ACN, can you imagine? All this stuff we watched as kids, even, "this is sportscentre," clips.

And these people don't show anything from our side?
As it were, I am now coming up with seven teams that are likely to feature in the 2010 Nationals College Basketball Championships play offs of you know where. it will be around April.

While on March 7th I think is the HUGE SUPERBOWL, it is a cathedral of American sports.Nothing is bigger,
the tradition is that you have a host among your friends, then each one carries beer, chilli sauce, beer, and even the women carry themselves....
Yeah, it is a long rant,
Not heard from you in days,
just "Telling on myself."

Haiti

Unedited Ramblings 
Last Sunday New York Times columnist David Brooks wrote an opinion article that has caused a quiet outrage. Commenting on the horrific earthquake in Haiti that killed over 50,000 people, Brooks suggested it’s mostly the Haitians, not nature, that should be blamed.

Brooks controversially suggested that Haitian culture (thus black culture, if you wish to stretch it) is given to underachieving. Also that it’s averse to planning, so Haitians build sloppy houses that crumbled like a pack of cards when the quake struck.
Maybe he has a point, because we have to acknowledge that if the earthquake had hit quake-prone cities Tokyo or San Francisco, 50,000 wouldn’t have been killed. Maybe 150. Reason? They build houses to withstand quakes, and are better prepared for emergencies.

Like many Third World cities, Port-au-Prince has the same problem you would find in Nairobi, Kampala, Lagos, or Cairo: Thousands of people living buildings that are unfit for human habitation because a corrupt official took a bribe, closed his eyes, and issued an occupancy certificate.
Brooks is not the first, nor will he be the last, Caucasian commentator to argue that Third World cultures, and black ones in particular, are inefficient.

Controversial (and even detestable) as his point might be, we have got to that point where the Brooks of this world can no longer be countered with argument alone. That is even before one considers what Pat Robertson said in reference to Haiti's misery, saying that the Haitians have a pact with the devil in regard to their fight to end slavery from the French in the 18th C.
We need a shining example of a black country that is a shining example of economic success, efficiency, and innovation, in the world. It stands to reason that is we are as good as everyone else (which we are are), it is time for us to show it - we should do as well as everyone else.




What do white people that have no interest in Africa for example know about Botswana? Mauritius? Gabon? Gambia? And some other 'black' (black even sounds evil to many) countries??


Remember the the comments about black people in the aftermath of the Rwandan Genocide?? How we are so savage as to butcher ourselves on a whim??

Well, today most people of sane minds are marveling at the shining star that is Rwanda. Interesting that natural is not racist, or is it??

I am reminded of Hurricane Katrina, the Tsunami in Asia, the floods in Philippines, the earthquake in Tokyo as you mentioned

fLOODS killed many in China recently, (in that country, they prudently don't allow western media to sway opinion that way the media is doing to Haitians, who in the wake of the earthquake are now portrayed as a violent lot, bent on looting. Now the priority there is SECURITY rather than emergence relief.

And of yes, it is christmas time foe the good old aid workers.

No. It is not the shining example of a black country that we need, (it will never happen if the standards are set elsewhere)
We instead need many black people to bring us on the information highway, we need strONG black media, to tell our own stories. and to resist the idea of understanding ourselves based on other people's conceptions and impressions of us.

AN Important meeting I dream of having one day

Having a meeting with a plate of chicken. “Hello, Chicken. Glad you could make it to this function. Let me introduce everybody. On  your left are chips and next to chips is coke. They are going to be accompanying you on your mission. You will have plenty of time to get to know them better. We have scheduled a mingling session for later. Heh heh. Now that we are all here, let’s get right into it. The venue for this afternoon’s festivities is my mouth. And Speaking of getting right into it…”

Cowism and Umoja: Choosing between two hard ideologies for the EAC

BY GEORGE KAGAME

Forty years ago or some, Tanzania established itself as a country of umoja, meaning unity. Umoja was also a popular brand of rubber slip on sandals, we called them Sapatu and in Rwanda they were known as Kama'mbiri.

Sapatu was a measure of pride in East Africa in the 80s, in some communities the thing was worn strictly indoors, as it was considered distasteful to walk about in "things of the bathroom outside the house."  In this community the wearer afforded normals shoes so as to render the sapatu an exclusively indoor attire, like an under pant. It was considered shameful to wear sapatu in public in some areas.

While in other communities,  the sandals were 'sunday' shoes, the other days of the week were spent thumping the earth bare foot, most times in scorching heat. Thank God it was not winter.  A picture of a kid wearing a pair of Umoja, and a smiling face smeared with vaseline jelly is a monument in my home town of Busunju todate.

Tanzania strictly and officially practiced Umoja both as a popular footwear as well as a political ideology but somewhere in the late 1990s something went wrong, socialism aka Umoja alias Ujaama was abolished.But while Umoja was successful in Tanzania, (they never had tribal wars, spoke a local national language that is soon becoming the official language of Africa and had a stable government on top of a coastal city, those bastards!!), Tanzania really was not much different from other Umoja adherents in its footwear reincarnation.

As a result of the success of Umoja in later years I shared a room at university with a Tanzanian journalist currently reporting for The Daily News. As would happen in our universities, each country had a group that brought together students from one country into a single association, this association participated in drama and theatre performances representing their countries at cultural galas. Rwanda was a leading contender in most of these cultural galas.

After one performance by a Rwandan dance troupe, the UN as the Tanzanian journalist who traced his lineage to Rwanda called himself,  said his country had only learnt about socialism in textbooks while Rwanda had in it their DNA and dances, he found it particularly hilarious that the dances resembled the movement of cows.

Then we would speak of people doing 'good things in the world', when we talked of vegetarians he said Rwandans care for the environment, thats why they dance like cows! "We have also learnt this by textbook," he would say. The cow was important in Rwanda that the business of eating meat was despised by the 'highly cultured' of the day.

A cow would be left to age gracefully and if seen to be incapable of living anymore it would be bartered for beans and sweet potatoes by neighbouring crop farmers. As a monument to the cow, the Kinyarwanda dance was crafted to actually resemble the movement and make up of the cow in the community. The UN said Rwanda practiced Cowism. Before Send A Heifer and Land O' Lakes thought about it, "they also learnt it from the textbooks," he said.

It is ironic that the cow, the way we know it in East Africa, has defined the story of Rwanda. The country is small but perhaps because on large parts of all its comprising hills,  a cattle ranch could coexist amidst crop farming ranches. Crop and animal have been central in the scope of the story. Sometimes and in foresight, the interest of the two could  override each other, but largely the two got along quite well. Someone later broadened the scope of "got along quite well" or simply changed its meaning and then things got of of order.

The business of the cow and its importance was in its recent replenishment officially a program at the current Ministry of Agriculture. It goes under the auspices of Girinka. Among its tenets is that each household with a given income capacity was given a cow as income support  for families, but with immediate and urgent emphasis to those in abject poverty. At the time of the cow story getting to the newspapers, the cow givers had 'dished' the cows to people who were relatively well to do and could afford their own cows after-all.

The recent cow story comes just before the report on the land squabbles in the Eastern Province shows up in your face.

If you are not familiar with the land, note that, in the Eastern province it took President Paul Kagame’s personal intervention in resolving matters connected to unequal distribution of land.

In large parts of the province, senior security officials had acquired large portions of land making many peasants landless and reducing them to squatters. Currently there are, according to the ministry of lands, 7.5 million plots of land in the country serving a population expected to be above 10 million now.

Cowism has its dangers, as seen with Girinka just as are many its benevolence targets; "a chosen group of one.."  And if you think Land and cow was a mess, read about the scholarship loans and how they are managed. One highly placed journalist at the Focus wrote: " Numerous allegations are that whoever gets loans from SFAR do so only a) after lengthy periods of pleading and begging, b) if you are his personal friend and c) if you are one of his girlfriends."