When life happens….
April 23, 2010 by bikozulu
The irony of life is in growing up because people grow up then they grow apart. With age comes dissociation. Age lays an unrelenting buffer of solitude. Jobs come in between people. Cities come in between people. Distant come in between people. People come in between people.
In short life happens. And it’s sad.
Revolving door, that’s what life is. People come in your life and they go. Some make an impression others make a ruckus. Some are forgettable while others you struggle to forget. Primary school was great. Friendship was about who was good at football, who had the most change to buy snacks over recess, who was fearless when it came to the girls. You needed to be fearless because girls in primary didn’t wear mascara and cross their legs. They weren’t ladies. You couldn’t drop a gauntlet at their feet because they would call your bluff and kick your ass. And some were big. No, make that fat. Fat girls were not very kind, at least not in my school.
Their uniform didn’t fit and they sweated under their armpits. And they stuck together. My word, did I fear them or what! One time one of them really heavy girls in my class rubbed a buyu seed on the floor, then when it was very hot, she pressed it on my neck. Boy, did that hurt…her thumb that is, damned thing was the size of an orange!
But back then I never thought I would miss them. Now I do. Christie, Faith and Belinda, I remember them and I always wonder what happened to them. Did they get married? Do they beat their husbands? Are they still mad about buyus? Do they remember the fat clumsy boy in class 5 who couldn’t look them in the eye? Do they still sweat under the arm? Christie, Faith and Belinda, if you are out there do something, show me a sign, send me a buyu.
Then there was this nutter called Odipo. Complete looney. Lost his marbles all together. He was perhaps the only person who the Fat Gilmore sisters wouldn’t bully. He was a man before we fully comprehended what that was. He had hair on his hands, do you know how cool that was to be 12yrs old and have hair on ya bloody hands? He also used to gloat that he had pubic hair, of course nobody believed him. And none was brave (or mad) enough to check.
Odipo was a truant, a truant with a swag. He walked around with a toothpick hanging from his lips, like a bleeding mayor or something. He started watching porn before we even knew that female breasts were cool. He would occasionally smoke when going home somehow he always came first in our class – first from the bottom that is. But it never bothered him, because he came from a wealthy family. When you come from a wealthy family that doesn’t care if you smoke or watch porn in primary school, life is a breeze. I think. And here is the thing; being seen with Odipo was like being seen with Tony Soprano. Teachers hated him because they couldn’t dare expel him. He was an outlaw and we worshiped him.
Odipo had a bag. A bagful of dirty tricks. Here is something he loved to do to the girls…except the fat Gilmore girls of course, those ones could sit on your chest and eat crisps. He would swagger up to a girl over break time, his hands in that position that implied that they were too soiled to be dipped in his pocket. “Please, could you get me my hankie from my pocket?” he would ask the girl who would innocently dip her hands in his pockets to fetch the hankie.
The loud horror that would soon be written on her face was only matched by the uproar from the cackling boys who would be watching because what sneaky outlaw Odipo had done is to cut off the lining of his pocket such that when she dipped her hand in his pockets she would touch not a hankie, but nuts. And I don’t mean peanuts. He liked to pick on the new girls in school. Look, it was funny then, and whenever I think of it now, I can’t help but smile. After primary school, Odipo, like everyone else was swallowed by space and distance and cities and people. Odipo was swallowed by the time machine. Wherever he is, I hope he got a better trick.
Then there are the boys in high school. High school was torturous in that it was a trying stage. Boys were turning into men. Voices deepened. Hairs sprout in the dark places and on faces, which was a dark place as well when you think about it because the face of any pubescent is a chest of confusion and angst. In high school boys dropped all that baby fat and grew taller and thinner. Quasimodo made sense. Virginities were taken away from us, mostly by older girls who couldn’t pick on boys their own age. High school is where boys found themselves – and for some- lost themselves.
High school was where boys realized that girls actually were something special – even if they sweated in the armpit. Baby Face and Boyz To men informed our socialization into the vast precarious arena of love and romance. Patra and Diana King offered that beat that we walked to, and we lusted over them as we lusted over Toni Braxton. Hell, we still lust over Toni, that woman is ageless!
And of course there is the soundtrack that all newly found manhood teetered on; Snoop Dog. You had to know all the songs to the album Doggy Style, we knew it by heart and we lived by that code. Snoop was a religion. Friendships were forged. Boys became men, and those who didn’t man up sooner and kissed a girl – at least even one girl – were assimilated. You had to know how kissing a girl felt like otherwise you had no business wearing those colorful checked and oversized Kriss Kross shirts. It was the barcode of manhood. The boys. Roy. Amunga. Tuesday. Gordie. Dave. Pato. They all got swallowed with space, distant, time, cities and people.
Then there was Uni. The best friends you make probably you made in campus. Here men were already men. There were no boys. We knew what we wanted, at least for the most part. You drunk. You read. You hustled. You tried to stay afloat and you never dropped the ball. Edgar. My first roommate. I remember our first meeting at 3am. Yes in the AM. When I checked in, he wasn’t in, but his books were. A boatful of books.
Books about politics. Memoirs of great men. Autobiographies. Literature on Chinua Achebe and on Shakespeare. An impressive smorgasbord of literature. And these books were all over his bed; a sea of books and scribbled notes and pens, and dirty socks and a half eaten bag of peanuts. “My God,” I thought, “I’ll be damned if I’m sharing a room with a law student!”
Anyway I’m beat, 10hrs on the bus. So I black out. At 3am, I feel someone shaking me awake. It’s Mr. Books. He has shaggy uncombed hair, he looks like, I dunno who has shaggy hair, Maxwell? He smiles into my face. He smells like a beer truck. He is saying something, which I hope is English. He introduces himself as Eddie. Nice to meet you Eddy, what time is it Eddy? It’s 3am. No kidding. He sits on the floor, next to a beer bottle which he takes occasional swigs rom. I ask him if he is studying law and he says he is a journalist. Note, he doesn’t say he is studying journalism, he says he IS a journalist. Must have been the beer. Turns out Eddy loves to read (no way) and write. I instantly knew we were going to get along- if he didn’t wake me up at 3am again.
I tell Eddy that I’m beat, and that we would talk in the morning, and he polishes off his beer, climbs up to his bed and promptly starts to snore….with one leg hanging over my face. Here is how special Eddy was. I stayed with him for two semesters, and every weekend and sometimes weekday, he would go drinking and he would come back at 2am or 3am and he would wake me up and he would regal me with some talk about literature and writing and stuff. This habit ticked me off at the beginning, this 3am discourse and I would tell him to not freaking wake me up when he was from his drinking sprees and he would apologize profusely.
Two days later, he would be shaking me awake at 3am to talk about Othello, or why he didn’t like Mutahi Ngunyi latest piece. And he always slept with his clothes and socks when he was from drinking. Soon I stopped getting mad. Soon I learnt to prop myself up and listen to him because he was a true story teller. Sometimes he would tell me tales from the club, how he almost brought a chick back to the crib (thank God that hardly ever happened, his success rate was something like 2.78% …on a good month. “Eddy mate, chicks in the club don’t give a shit about Ngungi Wa Thiongo’s literature, so stop making every conversation about him” I would plead with him)
But he was a sharp fellow, sharp as a whip, he read every African writer you know. His recall for quotes was stupefying. He wrote well, quite often from his bed. He could be up early the morning after a long night on the tiles and he would write the whole morning. His political analysis, although hilarious, often bordered on the anal. The only thing he loved as much as his books was his beer. He was a creative, sloppy, spaced out but with an unfailing sense of humor. He left campus midway went to Europe, came back after a while and found the Lord Jesus Christ. I was shocked, Eddy and Jesus?! What would they be possibly talking about? Now he does community work somewhere in Ukambani, something worthy- I don’t know, maybe he sinks boreholes for widows. And the clincher is that he is a father too, no kidding.
More people come into your life in campus, and most of them very special. Most of them you share a passion with for something. Kagame, a skinny Rwandese with a mouth on him. Roy, contained and sober creative. Maseme, excellent newshound. Together we wrote for a campus publication which was really a rag driven by scandal and gossip… something we enjoyed tremendously. We had a small office with one PC, and we took turns to bang our stories there with one eye on deadlines- which by the way we pushed around on a whim. At midnight on the eve of “going to press” I would often fought bitterly with the strong headed Kagame. He was always trying to pass a strong worded piece on something that had potential to shut us down. He loved to stitch people up, heck we all did, secretly, only he didn’t make bones about it.
And so at midnight we would often be in the office, banging copy, chewing some fat. Anyway, the worst nights were the eve of “going to press” we would work until early morning, and we would fight bitterly with Kagame over content, while our graphics guy, Roy, would sit and watch blood spill. But Kagame, although un-manageable, was a great writer and a sport, er, sometimes. Once in a while he drops in here to make a comment as Making Appearances, and he knocks me about, something that seems to float his boat even though he is many continents away.
Assenga, Mary, Edu, Brian, Kate, Ann, Gasirigwa, Solo, Ochamringa, Kent, Enock, Marion, Wangui…the list could fill this page up. Names. People. They touch your life in a special way, then they leave. You get off your graduation gowns and hug and pick numbers and earnestly tell each other, “Let’s get in touch” and people leave…then life happens. They get on boats and they cross continents and borders and they get swallowed by the rat race. Years pass. Many years pass and your lives become akin to ships passing each other in darkness. You hear someone got married, or got a baby, or found Jesus, or landed a major job or started their own business, or broke up with their fiancé, or lost weight, or added weight… Your relationships start getting conducted through the grapevine. You seem them sometimes on Facebook, but they seem like strangers. Once in a while they will pop on chat and say hi, and you will catch up for a minute, then they will go under again. You both will.
I once logged onto Facebook and this guy I grew up with had just updated his profile, saying he had lost his son. Yes, a short but heart wrenching cry of help on Facebook- because people only write stuff like that when they need help. When they need comfort or words that can tide them over. And a man extending his vulnerability to all and sundry like that is a man in pain. How can that not shake you? How can that not change the formula of your life, even temporarily? I hadn’t talked to him in ages, and I was damned guilty damn it.
You feel unworthy to tell him sorry, because that sounds so manufactured, more like an insult to his pain. But you do, you become a part of the many comments professing their condolence. And you know you are phony and fickle because life took over, because you let your lives get swallowed by reality. But you think of all these people, how can you possibly not? And the worst bit is that you do nothing about those thoughts. Sigh. It’s deeply saddening, when life happens.
Thursday, 6 May 2010
Saturday, 24 April 2010
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
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
Monday, 19 April 2010
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
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
Monday, 12 April 2010
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.”
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.”
Sunday, 28 March 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
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. |
Sunday, 14 March 2010
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)