Memeoirs of a Msope Part tw0

GEORGE K

The prevailing circumstances in his life had made it necessary that Msope was surrounded and therefore obsessed by 'many' things foreign. So today as he descended upon downtown Citi to watch the EUFA Champions' league semi final between Inter Milan and Barcelona it was an important errand. Way early in the afternoon of a Tuesday.

Surely, if you knew the true picture of Msope you'd be baffled that a soccer match played far away in Europe is of such importance. He does not really care about those two names and the soccer. But somehow a sports event in Europe had taken such prominence Msope, a central African. Msope has never boarded a plane, a boat, a ship and a train. In fact he is so hopeless in overseas' travel that he does not have a passport. Why is he so obsessed with European soccer then? one might ask. The answer is simply as baffling as the question.

So today as the Msope considered attending one of the events to commemorate genocide in his area, a soccer match was crucial in his life to cause a crisis. See? no pub is allowed to open and sherekia in this period lasting through April to July, set aside to mourn fellow Bossman that have been sacrificed for the growth of the republic. But he knew he was not the only one whose fascination with European soccer had taken him from being a fervent love for Rayon Sport in Kigali to ARSENAL in UK. He said in his defense that even fans of music were listening to American Currie Underwood on Contact FM.
Shit, Msope said to himself.

Msope could not tell the point in time when he got hooked to this European lifestyle. A life of internet, connection and televisoin. When did 'things' foreign have such significance to Msope? How come the world is so closer to Msope today? Suddenly Msope was feeling, 'around.'

Yet soccer is not the only foreign obsession that the Msope had been attracted to in recent days. As part of his professional requirements. he also spoke a 'new' foreign language. It was necessary in shops, bars and workplaces. Since Msope started flirting with the new foreign language he also steered a global conversation about himself. At his work place there were people from all corners of the world, places he had never heard about. People who were fun and weird; interesting people.

As Msope heard in the bar later, there were current amusements within the Bossman Security, drama! Bossmen we love our drama. The folks and The SECurity were acting out Snowball and Napoleon. IN his Ipod Msope was listening to "who is fooling who?"

It was good drama season. The year had began with the entry of a Msopekazi. She was the ultimate drama queen Bossman had missed since many many years ago.
The name of the Msopkazi was not so awesome. It was popular way before the Victorian era. No. This is 2010 halfway through the big important number; 2020!

"That woman is as foreign as they come. Only sometimes she sounds more authentic when she says venti venti rather than my twenty twenty,' Msope whispered to himself. But that woman; "ni kama wale watu wingine wagenyi!" he thought aloud.
Breaking his animated conversation with the barman at the counter.

The two were taking bets on the pronunciation of Eyjafjallajökull. Apparently eyya jaa fujja la jo kal, had an impact on the performance of the Spanish team. "Don't you see Barcelone has endured a 16 hour bus drive instead of flying by plane. Eyya jah...... volcano ensured there were no flights in Europe." Msope was now educating himself on global warming, climate change and air travel in one week. You see? Msope had even risen his interest above local issues.

At best the events in his backyard intrigued him. It was like theatre, a George Orwell book. Since when did politics in Bossman get this active? He would ask. He laughed off the piece in the newspaper laid out on the counter which said that Victorian era woman was Now sending her greetings in a post card inscribed with the words; "See you later."

But other than the drama value local events had for him, Msope had nothing at stake really. Politics and patronage were indeed far away from him and his realm. His version of politics was defined and limited to Msope's fights with fellow Sopechas. These Fights were normally about the bill, the deal, the match. And about that son of a bitch Julius Malema?
It was always a difficulty finding middle ground. Sopechas and others did not speak through a unanimous and eloquent figurehead.Even the other sopes spoke different languages. this Did not bother Msope. Many other Sopechas had much more money than him and more education.
These were far more important fights than-who the hell holds some important fancy title and rank-fights. "And now I hear they are incarcerated eh eh." How come I never heard much about them in their good times roll?

The recent plays in Bossman theatre featured cool perspectives about The Security. The Security was a big dude. He was tall, big, muscled and scary. He wore dark glasses and as long as you never bothered him, he was cool to hang out with. But if you as much as raised his disinterest in you.
Eeh true Aki ya Mungu; (true of God).

He took care of business that even Mario Puzo would not figure him out. Recently somebody had annoyed him. The Security or otherwise known as Mutekano in Bossman speak was now kicking ass; you anticipate a meeting with John Rambo at some point. Hell, that kind of action is nolonger cool.

But these were the 'normal' descriptions of Bossman. On other days Citi was popular with the local and international, although Ordinarily there were so many suspicions in Bossman, Msope had learnt to get along with the action. Nowadays however, he had upgraded his concern about these suspicions to panic. Paranoid was just around the corner.

Surviving in Bossman required one to have both grit and sleaze in equal measure. "She must be a collaborator!" another Msope interrupted while the discussion about the Victorian woman got heated. These Sopechas are crazy!

NO, another responded. She is a Dubai and others say he is a Musajja but I think she is as Msope as I am.


donuwagiwabo@gmail.com

Memoirs of a Sungu Sungu victim

BY GEORGE K


EAC Common Market Protocol


Goretti Majjimarefu was bitten by the Sungu Sungu bugs a few years back and she carries a scar to-date on her limbs as testimony of the venom of this rare sting.

The Sungu Sungu is a type of militia that operates along the western frontiers of Tanzania with Burundi and Rwanda.

The Sungu Sungu are savage, they not only loot, they also cause physical and psychological harm. They are the expression of xenophobic feelings that a large Tanzanian populace has towards Rwandans and Burundians who have resided in Tanzania since many years back.

The misery of these settlers was invoked when their status in Tanzania was reviewed in the mid 2000s round, about time when the Sungu Sungu syndrome started.

Rwanda had asked authorities in Tanzania to help repatriate these people to Rwanda with promises of resettlement and reintegration in Rwandan society.

These Rwandans, some of whom never knew of another ‘home’ other than their TZ confines were very reluctant to heed the calls to ‘return’. Tanzania decided to forcefully expel the settlers by use of the Sungu Sungu bugs; a sort of God using the plagues, against the Egyptians in Genesis episode.

This initiative was eagerly implemented by overzealous unemployed youths in many areas where people of Rwandan origin were settled, the uncouth youths were referred to as Sungu Sungu.

The expulsion of the former not only gave the latter a chance of work, it was also an opportunity to loot and even-barring official reports- rape their victims of eviction.

Beauty carries with it her own opportunities and in some regards risks and because many Rwandan women are reputedly hot, they also attract considerable threats of rape whenever conflict rears its head in the East and Central African region-but don’t let facts get in the way of a good conversation. We can get to this argument another day too-

On the fateful day that Majjimarefu was embossed with the scar on her limbs, the Sungu Sungu found her taking care of the calves of the family mid morning when the cows had been taken to the fields by one of her brothers.

She says the Sungu Sungu first ordered her to go home and pack everything that the family owned, and leave the country “to your motherland” as one of the foul mouthed ‘scoundrels,” ordered. But this is my motherland

Majjamarefu stated, “no” retorted one of the Sungu Sungus and the argument was ended at that moment.

The Sungu went about informing everyone in the area with similar profiles as poor Majjimarefu to leave Tanzania. Ironically, this was about the time that the East African Community was undergoing rejuvenation and the hoopla about unity and brotherhood was nearing frenzy.

A few years later, Rwanda was to be welcomed to the EAC high table thereby prompting talk that the expulsion of Rwandans from Tanzania was (a) engineered by Rwanda as one of the conditions of joining the EAC, (b) maybe the ones that were sent back were actually suspected criminals that escaped from Rwanda and Burundi after participating in various episodes of ethnic cleansing in the two countries.

Maybe it was the politics of the CCM and that Jakaya Kikwete who talked so well about unity and integration in meetings but once back in Tanzania dismissed and de-campaigned the whole EAC as some ploy to fleece TZ wealth. Who knows?

But these are not ideas that I was keen on sharing with Majjimarefu as we met in the Kimironko market square, and found ourselves discussing her scar.

But she was in such a jovial mood that even the scar seemed not to bother her. Speaking about the economy and the ever increasing prices of foodstuffs in the grocery shops, Majji said that soon all these prices will come down and that even she will start buying bread and butter.

“You see the EAC Common Market protocol is COMING SOON. This means well for me and my Koperatife salary. For since I was forced to come to this country every product sells at exorbitant prices.

Some grocery shop owners blame the high prices on many and high taxes the government has put in place. Others say transport costs to Rwanda from the manufacturers of products are very high.

So a cup of cooking oil which I used to purchase at the equivalent of only Frw 200 in Kahama I find it costs Frw 1250 here.”

It is a good day indeed. Majji is analyzing economics and regional integration; she even has a coherent point!
For a long while many people in Kigali and Burundi have done their shopping in Kampala.

It is said that ‘things’ are cheaper there and business people there are not arrogant as they are in Kigali. Many Kigali lovers have enjoyed their relationships and lives in our hills but when it comes to shopping for weddings, they head up north and spend our contributions to the wedding meetings ‘fattening’ the Ugandan cow.

Now the EAC Common Protocol that is due to be signed on July 1, will end most of this capital flight to Musajjaland.
The protocol will ensure that in the long run a product in Kigali, Nairobi, Kampala, Dar and Bujumbura will cost a similar price and therefore, enterprises will compete on quality of service and uniqueness of product.

Most importantly Majji’s family will also retain the property that the Sungu Sungu forcefully took away, when the family minus its cattle and other property were chased away from Tanzania.

She will even be able to invest her koperatife salary in their former neighbourhood without restrictions as capital movement like people are freed. Majji can also find work in Kenya, Tanzania and Uganda as her academic qualifications that she acquired in Rwanda, will now be compliant and acceptable to the members off the EAC.

That said, the protocol is yet to answer pertinent questions that one cannot put to the simple mind of Majji and these include; Kenya hustling countries in the hinterland by imposing a limit on the weight the freighters have to carry while transporting goods through the country to Rwanda.

For example, Rwandan business people having to take 6 trips to collect a load that would otherwise be packed on one trailer and transported in one single carriage.
There are currently too many weigh bridges and roadblocks between Mombassa and Kigali.

Hitherto, the trips have ensured Kenya benefits from fees which the freighters have to pay at various stages in the country therefore fattening their cow too!!

And most importantly, Majji says that maybe the Tanzanian will see the wisdom of a strong EAC as isolation during the Ujaama, did not necessarily help them.

To be continued

Memoirs of a UTAKE fan

GEORGE K

My local radio station has a themed program, the presenter is even synonymous with the brand although sometimes, one is led to believe that he has just smoked some dried green leaves, and is therefore imitating Jamaican patios, but he is not. He is just animated by UTAKE.

East Africa is undergoing a reinvention. It started with one person and now the regional music industry is abuzz with it. Even Baganda, are now composing music lyrics in Swahili, a language they have long considered to be a medium for thieves.

UTAKE is the new ‘cool’ of East Africa and for all the right reasons as it enhances regional integration, private sector growth as well as encouraging locally bred role models.

The genre, brings together music compositions from the three older members of the East African Community (Uganda, Kenya and Tanzania-music promoters and stakeholders are yet to take up my suggested acronym of RnB’UTAKE thus incorporating Rwanda and Burundi in the fray seeing that we are now regular features.

But now that Alpha Rwirangira won that Tusker Project Fame thing, music producers will possibly bring us on board officially.)

Before UTAKE, East Africa’s music industry was for long, single genre duplicity of African folklore that musician after musician exploited to stardom.

With a possible exception of DR Congo-and only because a few of us understood Lingala-musical creativity was inspired by men crying foul of our famous gold digger women, and many simple things which defined the African rural scope of life.

The explanation, could be due to the fact that the largest part of the audience for the artistes and their work, was mainly the rural folk, the ones involved in local farming and produce, tea and coffee cooperatives, as well as conservative generations who detested many modern or foreign trends.

This, according to entertainment experts was because only this demographic group could afford radio sets, especially the kind that came in Mekosonik and Soundsoro.

The battery cells these simple radios used and the cassette tapes on which the music was dubbed and sold, were quite expensive for the youth while the fact that FM radio stations were not yet here, ensured there was a limited scope for the youth to be involved in the music and entertainment industry.

In fact it was considered ‘bad behavior’ for younger people to love music, to dance and to be updated with entertainment trends.

For East Africa in particular, the most memorable artistes and bands were mainly Congolese stars like Franco’s TPOK jazz, Sam Mangwana, Arlus Mabele and his Loketo Band as well as the queen of Mtuashi Tshala Muana.

The entry of FM radio stations changed all this, and in the mid 90s the face of East Africa’s music scene changed drastically and dramatically beyond recognition.

East African musicians were faced with a challenge as most of the music that was played on the new 24 hour radio stations, was mostly American.

This music, it is argued helped promote and implant permissiveness in Africa. Many of the youth in the region at the time, relied on American value systems as the musical lyrics promoted them.

It was not helped with the fact that this period, also saw the widespread transmission of HIV/Aids in urban centres, and greatly so among the youthful generation of the time.

To curb this problem there was need to develop authentic African creativity in the entertainment industry, and reduce the airtime that western influences were getting on local airwaves.

Among the first acts that led this creativity was Jose Chameleon, a Ugandan artist who made his career breakthrough after moving to Kenya and recording his timeless mega hit; “Maama Mia” in 1999.

With this move, the spirit and dynamism of UTAKE was formed and in a few years time from then, East African leaders were to meet and recreate the EAC which had been on a death bed since 1967.

Chameleon was himself inspired by Jamaica’s dancehall icon Shabba Ranks as one person that is closely related to him narrates; “.... I remember there was one particular incident in our teenage years, when we had a talent show and one guy was performing a Shabba Ranks song and Jose asked us to let him sing because he said he was better than the other guy.

But the organiser of the show refused, Jose sneaked onto the stage during the interval and gave the audience a freestyle, and with the screams from the crowd he never turned back, this was in the mid 1990s at Mengo Secondary School, that is where Chameleon started his musical journey and he has never turned back.”

Starting out in his teenage years earlier in the smaller pubs of Kampala, Chameleon was faced with the huge challenge of breaking the afore mentioned cultural bind which ensured that it was mostly folklore stars, or bands that succeeded in the industry.

And many of these were far older than he was, yet they were still very popular. He did not have any real contemporaries.

As a result, Chameleon moved to Nairobi to pursue a dream of becoming a top notch African musician.

This move inadvertently started the transformation of East Africa’s music industry with Joseph Mayanja alias Chameleon at its pivot. His eccentricity notwithstanding, he personified the gradual transition of East Africa’s entertainment industry that today; it is not considered exaggerating to mention him in the same breath as Zaire’s great Franco and Sam Mangwana in leading the way for other musicians.

Chameleon not only got the youth interested in local music, he also ensured that this music appealed to the ‘normal’ African folks.

The new and much younger produce sellers in the market, the public taxi drivers and touts, the charcoal traders, receptionists and secretaries, the luggage carriers in commercial streets as well as you reading this article.

While it is open for argument whether he is the greatest artiste East Africa has had, it is highly likely that many East Africans have one of his classics as a favourite tune. One East African music expert calls him the Michael Jackson of the region’s entertainment industry.

So, how did Chameleon manage to change the music scene?

And who can answer this question better than his elder brother Henry Kasozi who to a large extent guided Chameleon through his delicate formative teenage years.

Kasozi says that he did not groom Chameleon in the superstar he is today, but says that he did all the normal things that an elder brother needs to do to help his junior achieve their dreams.

“Before he left for Kenya in search of his dream, I gave him my lovely rucksack (a small and trendy carry on luggage bag) and I always believed in his dream.

The greatest gift I ever gave him though was opening the gates for him every night when he sneaked home from his late night dee jaying. This is because the parents were very strict on staying out late at night and never approved of any excuse.”

As if to pay homage to the Africa’s icons of yester years, Kasozi says; “If I could take you back to the times when we where growing up, we listened to foreign music like Lingala from Zaire and South African music, but Jose came up with his own style that knocked all foreign music out of Uganda leading to the rise of many Ugandan artists.”

Unlike many of his predecessors whose creative web was based on the socio-politico issues of post independent Africa-as is evidenced in most of the songs between the 50s and 80s on the continent-Chameleon, was faced with a new generation that was slowly and easily being soaked by American cultural invasion in the aftermath of the cold war.

He, like so many at the time, started out singing in English, rapping in styles and rhythms that were very much copycats of Jamaican ragga styles.

His audience was the teenagers and urban yuppies- the aficionados of the new American cultural invasion. Chameleon instead began mocking the African chauvinistic customs in songs like Mama Rhoda, Effuga Bbi
Chameleon’s changing musical inspiration is similar to the ability of the animal after which he is named and therefore begs the question as to how he chose that name; Kasozi says; “He did not choose this name but it was coined by our mother who used to be surprised of how Joseph changed moods and that he would fit into different surroundings.”

On his recent reinvention as Dr. Jose Chameleon; Kasozi says; “ His music heals hearts due to the fact that he sings life experiences and people relate to his music in good and bad times, so he treats them with his music, that is why he decided to have the new title of Doctor on his name.”

Memoirs of a Mzungu in Africa 1

BY GEORGE KAGAME


Close your eyes; take a dose of sanity and ask yourself a question; What would we do here in Africa without the good old Mzungu?
Open your eyes and read further.

The Mzungu has been here for as long as our humble communities evolved from small-and sometimes big chiefdoms into the megalomaniac states we have today.

Mzungu, for good and bad has been part of it all. And yet we have never accepted him/her as a normal feature of our African society. Instead whenever a white person walks around in a city suburb, many children will run around following them, for as long as two miles in some cases. They are like a mobile circus. In most cases the children will be begging for sweets, pens, money and many other things.


In one incident I witnessed two kids pinch the skin of an American friend at the Kimuhurura junction just to test and they run away afterwards without saying a word! When children grow up with these experiences, it ensures that racial stereotypes in our society persist and it is not helped by the fact that many opinion leaders always take refugee in inferiority complexes and give in to misconceptions and hatred based on racism, they go ahead to heap blame for all the mess in Africa on Mzungu in lazy intelligentsia debates. Most do this in a whiteman's language!

It is predictable that every time things go wrong in Africa as they are wont, the Mzungu has been the punching bag. If it has been famine he takes the blame, low prices for agricultural produce, tribalism, war, family disintegration and others. Hell the whiteman is responsible for all the mess in Africa, and we black people are the angels, you get the feeling.
We do good things. You see we are a humble kind, prone to being pushed about forcefully to do things that we have no idea about or even don't like.

Today The Hammock offers to start a discussion about the experiences of a white person in Africa and in particular in Rwanda. What is the Kinya-Rwanda noun for a white person?
Mzungu is what quickly and normally comes to mind. Mzungu comes from a Swahili word known as Zunguka which means "moving around in circles with no sense of direction and or or purpose."
By definition our word for a white person is not only offensive, it is also factually wrong.

In fact Swahili is so crude to white people that Ulaya is the noun for the continent where white people are said to come from, Ulaya itself seems to conjure images of Malaya, another Swahili word for prostitute. And it must not be confused with Wilaya, the Swahili word for province or continent.

One could argue that black people who were born and bred in Europe, North America and other parts of the world are also referred to as NIGGER by white people, valid as it may appear, it is not entirely true as there "are other more respectful ways to refer to black people if you need to describe their appearance. So when someone chooses the word "nigger" that's deliberately degrading," says one Mzungu. However, there's no respectable substitute for Mzungu in Swahili and possibly in Kinya-Rwanda too.

In our first attempt to record the memoirs of a Mzungu we will consult with an Integrated Mzungu, (I.W.). This is a white person, again for lack of a better word, who decides to live in a very remote part of an African country where they do not have tarmac roads, sushi and Mexican restaurants.
Their chosen place of residence normally has no street pavements and lights or even theme nights in entertainment districts of our cities which themselves are copycats of the I.W. cradle.

The I.W. in this case is really a youthful and beautiful young woman in her early 20s who, not bothered by all the cliches about Africa; chooses to live in a small cramped abode way out of the glitz that many expatriates in Africa live in. And yet even with this 'normal' lifestyle I.W still feels the generalizations thrown at her because she is a white person.

She says it is frustrating to be classified with such trademarks such as the ones that Africans associate with Mzungu generally, these include; them being rich, ignorant, they do not understand what is happening here and are taking pictures of little children because they are going to sell them or their stories.

I.W. adds that this could be the reason that the first time one is surrounded by people of a different colour, all the cliches apply, they feel everyone is staring at them, talking about them and in Rwanda, sometimes pointing a finger in their direction. You stand out. It could be the reason you rarely see a single white person alone, and if they are alone you will probably see kids running after them, If they happen to be women, even old men often times stalking them.

"Everyone likes to believe they are unique," I.W. says and adds that it is the reason that; "Many bazungu get away with hardly ever being the only one- they live and/or work and/or travel always with others. Anyone who comes to Africa knows that racial stereotypes exist, Bazungu are known to be rich, they have a sort of physical helplessness which means they can't walk for long distances or climb mountains, they are sexually promiscuous, and their lives are generally easy."

I.W. continues that her concerns and subtle discrimination while in Africa cannot be in any way compared with the experiences of black people that live in other parts of the world but "it gives you a tiny, tiny window on what minorities experience in the West."

The first memoir is meant to offer us insights into the issues that do concern and often times disturb the I.W. in Africa. (WE can write about the one in South Africa and Zimbabwe another day.) For the next memoirs we will attempt to get the Mzungu's idea of Rwanda today in terms of our own cloudy identity.

As quite often we have blamed the Mzungu in our history for polarizing the Hutu and Tutsi, we can testify to this as our own identity today has been raped-in large parts because of internal racism. Today we'd rather not mention who is Tutsi or Hutu. Does our visiting Mzungu have capacity to tell the difference between us? Which magic does the Mzungu use to circle out a Hutu or Tutsi?

Till next week.

Kigali mornings; the belle, commercial posters and my machismo

By George KAGAME

The drive to work this morning was as predictable as only Kigali can be. I stood at my bus stand for a couple of minutes and after a while several buses with loud and annoying touts parked almost by the tip of my well polished shoe. When I entered one of the buses, it turned out the inside of the vehicle-with its jabbering radio presenter-was competing with the outside-where the touts held fort-in who can shout the loudest. I cannot remember the channel of the radio station which was tuned on a monstrous volume, the programme, as I learnt later was aptly named ‘Sun Up’. The radio presenter repeatedly played many different versions of his jingles with a frequency that suggested that even he feared the thought that he might forget what he was presenting. It was easy to think that this was because he had few commercials to play as the only advertisements were those of an amorphous telecommunication firm as well as a beverages company. Typically I was left with no option but to go into ‘space.’ Space in this case varying from reading a book, using headphones to block out the sound as I create my counter noise by use of a walkman disc or simply gazing out of the window in the hope that something worth attention takes my eyes and thoughts. Meanwhile, the desire, ambition and incentive to buy my own private vehicle was increased tenfold as is normally the case with Kigali mornings. This morning however my regular ‘space ship’ which doubles as my mobile cellular was low on battery, as yesterday load shedding ensured that I never charged it. So I was left with no option but to endure the punishment of the bus and its early morning irritating noise. Thinking about fellow commuters I imagined the volume was meant to update them on the happenings in the presenter’s life and his mambo jumbo about an event taking place at BB night club today or some other place of Kigali fun nights. Fellow commuters seemed not to be bothered by the noise; probably the normal thinking amongst bus operators is that radios are hardly affordable these days so their vehicles serve a double purpose as a public address system. (And you wonder why then, we have so many radio stations.) Through the windows of the bus I was taken up by one of my favourite pastimes. Looking at roadside commercial billboards and what they were telling me to do or about the events and issues of our society, (the billboards that is.) And true there were several about HIV/Aids, tuberculosis, water purifiers, corruption and investment. One was informing the public about a new service of some development bank, another about a cellular company which suggested that if I bought their airtime frequently, the romantic relationship with my woman will considerably improve. Another promoted some products that I never understood. And just before disembarking from the bus I saw this one poster which hooked me for a while that I reported to work late. It was a television that was hoisted as a poster and played commercials non stop. The adverts were sliding up and downward, sideways on top of disappearing and then reappearing suddenly. Eh, this city of mine, now it is like New York? I stood there in a posture that only a person who has just arrived from deep in the country to the city can understand. The commercials were written and spoken in foreign words with words falling over themselves like rocks falling off a cliff in an earthquake, spoken in tongues that seemed to be flipping in the nose, in accents so strange that North Americans would be jealous. In all the commercials I saw both on the City television, on the roadsides and even heard over the radio, there was one overriding fact. They were all wrapped around a soothing voice of a presumably beautiful belle, (in case of the radio,) and on the body of a visibly attractive one on those in the posters and television. The woman seemed to invite me to leave everything I was going through in my current life to take her and the product she was promoting, if I had a caption for many of these adverts it would go: “Come to me you wondering fellow, you will enjoy your time with me. Leave your life, your wife, your everything, I am the best thing in this world.” Contrary to the poster that stands right outside the entrance to my ‘home’ in the inner city, the roadside adverts on the way to my work station were only appealing to my machismo while the poster in my neighbourhood simply had this caricature of a fish and a presumably cow leg and the words Amafi and or boucherie. With Alimentation at the bottom.

Pub Talk; the cheeky city official and his driving misfortune

http://www.newtimes.co.rw/index.php?issue=14199&article=6446

BY George Kagame

Not much worth your noble attention happened during the course of last week in our here backyard. Therefore if you were looking for sense when you purchased today's copy of this newspaper, please don't read any further From The Hammock. My advise is you turn to the next page.

But if you are still reading then I write for people like you, please continue and since nothing of note happened to motivate me to undertake a VERY SERIOUS analysis of the subject I am left with no option but to invite you to partake in the idle chit chats that I proverbially indulge in at the Pub Talk normally happening in the abode of Ship&Anchor, the most beloved watering hole of yours truly.

Faced with the lack of any event last week sensible enough so as to motivate yours truly to write about, I have the honour and pleasure to call upon the reporter in me. And like all reporters the world over, every night I go to bed I pray to God that some misfortune happens in his world. This prayer can range from massive destruction as a result of earthquakes, and in this regard 2010 has been so wonderful to reporters and newsmen, so thank you God for answering our prayers. 

From earthquakes in Haiti and Chile that caused hitherto unknown misery there to the landslides in Eastern Uganda.  Such things or others of enormous importance need to happen occasionally and preferably on a weekly basis such that you can count on an epic column every sunday as you sip your favourite blend of coffee/tea or while gallop down your favourite alcoholic beverage at your chosen place of fellowship with old chums. 

In fact natural disasters help to keep us in work to a large extent, be they floods, volcanic eruptions and droughts. They are a blessing as long they don't claim our own lives, we like to call ourselves; Cowboy NEVER DIE. Of course as human beings we have empathy but this is immediately overridden by the need to get a story, so it is strictly a short time commodity this empathy thing.

When we are not praying to God to send some mega destruction, we are hoping that fellow man does something so odd so that with our pens, cameras and empty heads we rush to ask such men; "Whats up man?" But this past week none of that happened in our here backyard. Save for a Kigali City official that is accused for driving over a leader of one of the country's political parties and running away, only to return moments later and play innocent bystander.

But this official is so 'small' a  man to get the attention and publicity of The Hammock because, as explained above, he of the swinging bed needs something epic to rant about in the guise of a column and that he is now 'columning' on the misfortune of the Liberal Party founding member who died after being being run over by the said City official, is a sign how news has been so scarce in here our backyard. 

Last week was a blessing for columnists far lazier than The Hammock. It was reported that an army General had allegedly escaped from his troops, and as if in shock, most notable columnists were tipping over themselves in faked shrieks screaming out against the intentions and discipline of alleged traitor. Now really, what do you expect an army general to do after a war? And in this particular case after a series of wars? Become a priest or take my lame job? That of praying that the world faces frequent apocalypses so that I can keep reporting at my station? Oh, there were grenades blowing up here and there. I also prayed for the victims of these dangerous 'stones.'

So in a week that no military General escaped, me and my brotherhood of columnists, to whom we are in complete discretion and anonymity of each other, were left with no option but to wonder at the shenanigans of the City official and his comical misery after killing a citizen of notable repute in our here backyard.  

What attracts our attention however is not the death of the Liberal Party official, (Bless his Soul dear God,) but the single most foolhardy act the City official did in a futile attempt at damage limit control. It was reported that after driving over his unfortunate victim the city official never stopped, instead he zoomed past and packed his Grande Suzuki, (what else?) at a fuel station ahead, only to return moments later and act as one of the witnesses. 

Kigali  being Kigali, in an instant after the official hit the man who had moments earlier left his home that is situated on the eastern throngs of our beloved city people gathered quickly, I don’t know where they normally come from, but there is already a crowd. They crawl from the woodwork. They surrounded this hapless man. The city gives birth to them in throngs. As a senior city official he must have known better, which begs the question, how did he get his senior management post in the first place? 

But anyway he stood among the crowds and was also innocently asking like everybody else; " What happened? Who knocked him? What was the number plate of the vehicle he was driving?"

 Really City official which movies do you watch? You are advised to discard Ki'Nigeria if you survive a very long sentencing in 1930.

The line of actions that this official should have done is left to you the reader,  but since this is Kigali that we are still talking about, conspiracy is already doing the rounds. It is now on record that the dead man testified earlier in a Gacaca court case were the brother of the official was accused and sentenced for his role in the 1994 Genocide.

Intellectual property rights; are we ready for this war in Kigali?

BY GEORGE KAGAME

Before we saw a computer in Africa, (I am very aware that many communities in Africa have not yet seen or known about the magic of computers. And On a personal level, as a graduate of a major African journalism school in the mid 2000s, and working as a business reporter for a first street national daily, the wonder that is google.com was revealed to me by  my good friend Mansur Kakimba a year after my first journalism job. 

I was so excited and delighted about the discovery that I wrote an op-ed and appropriately titled it: "God bless google for our careers." AS usual I was a late comer on the ICT wagon.) 

Back to the hammock. 

The computer heralded in Africa easier access to recreational activities by ordinary folks as was never seen before, even though late in these things as normally is the case with most trends in Africa, the computer was both a blessing and a curse in equal measure. 

For Africans that have never seen and or still don't know how to use a computer, either as a result of high costs, lack of connection to electricity, knowledge, relevance and awareness the thing was received and dismissed as a symbol of the elite and all the trademarks that the elite in Africa carry around. But the emergence of Ki'Nigeria, (I will not explain what this is as I assume that ya'll know what it is, had such a phenomenal appeal that most people sighed pleasantly for the blessing of computers and the entrepreneurship of pirating it brought.)

The computer made it possible for many Africans to become entrepreneurs and aficionados on matters of sport, love, and leisure as it brought movies, music and secretarial services to even the most rural of AFrican communities. I was one of such investors in my hometown of Kansanga a suburb of one East Africa's greatest cities. 

Situated close to Ggabba landing site me and my best friend Fred Mugisha aka Junior decided once after a hard labour working day at HotLoaf bakery to open a music and movie rental business on Ggaba landing site on the shores of Lake Victoria. In 2006 we opened up Low Life Records, the business operated in a roadside single room which also served as a men's hair saloon. WE only needed a computer affixed with a DVD and CD burner, a video cassette player that also served as an amplifier as well as two loud speakers that we placed at the entrance of the saloon.

Having grown up in the neighbourhood, I was in charge of acquiring music files from my friends, purchasing the computer and marketing the business for new clients. This was an easy task as ours was the first CD burning and movie rental store on one of the busiest landing and fishing villages on the mighty Lake Victoria. Junior on the other hand was the know how   of the machines and the technical work involved in our pirating venture. Soon the business was booming. As a testimony to the increasing fortunes we changed the name from Low Life Records to Two Eyes Productions. Among our new services was video coverage for emerging musical talents as well as weddings in the vicinity. 

Our business was one of the signs which signified the end of the deity that the DJ. Most people in the area stopped going to discos, the mantra and pedestal of the DJ was demystified. His trade was made irrelevant by businesses such as ours. People made selections of their favourite songs and brought their playlists to us and we would burn this into a cassette tape recorder or CD and charge a reasonable fee for our music an service. It was good days. The computer was then just beginning to break into the African mindset. What Two Eyes Productions was doing was illegal but since it was bringing food on the table and no one had made any noises we continued our music and movie business. 

To explain to you the enigma of computers I will tell you a story from my good friend Charles Onyango Obbo. Onyango says that in the days when the computer was just starting its voyage in East Africa he was one of a select few that had an email address as well as a computer connected to the internet. Because of such rarities he was a major connection between his various friends and their relatives that were living in Europe and North America. 

He says that in the days before internet cafes became common he practiced a virtual internet dictatorship where his colleagues would use his computer to write their relatives in developed countries. In the process Onyango says he was privy to the most personal and bizarre of secrets and hoo haa of his 'subjects' who (through him and his email address were communicating to their long lost relatives and lovers in the west.)

On the other hand, Two Eyes and many other music dubbing businesses were not the only culprits in breaking intellectual property rights and laws. The musicians whose music we were illegally dubbing were also copying and defrauding other peoples' music and instrumental creations and voicing over their banal lyrics to sell their own brands. It was an industry of unoriginality dubbing, piracy and illegal copying. 

As with most things showbiz, Dar Salaam was the very first, not only did they expand EAC music and dance through this business, (since most musicians sang in Swahili, they would reproduce works of other people and simply change lyrics from other languages into Swahili. The audience would not tell whether what they heard in Swahili was the original or in case later a version of the same thing turned up in a different language was the pirated one. And since since this was the time of Bongo flava, the local was always the authentic.

The Wa'Bongo also led in the CD dubbing business which would be worked out in 'secretarial services' centres , through this, they further led the EAC version of manufactured pop groups and led the move to East Africa's reincarnation of South Africa's Kwaito dance as well as the authentic African style hip hop known as Bongo flava.

The moral of this story is that I was shocked last week when I read that Kigali Police authorities had arrested several young men for pirating music records. I was sympathetic that the poor fellows, upon questioning said they did not hitherto know that they had been breaking the law. 

Their arrest spells good for the fortunes of local musicians and artists but it should also be a moral to the artists that we as the audience will now expect them to produce more authentic work. Because when I listen to KGB's "Arasharamye' I can easily notice that it is a copy of R. Kelly's "Burning Up," and therefore I should not be arrested for pirating such a product. And it is not only KGB, the current international music industry with the exception of Kenya's Mejja is full of banal and crass works.