By George Kagame.
It’s not the fault of hair that the feet are hidden far away from the pedestal of the anatomy and therefore like a front display rack in a shop; the head is perfectly organized and made beautiful beyond its natural disposition while in all matters feet are literally and figuratively down the pecking order.
The feet and the bum
The feet and their immediate neighbour; the bum are sometimes taken with delicate concern and attention.
The sort that requires concentration skills only acquired by scientists of note, forsome women and lately men, the hair and bum are two issues of paramount importance.
Even the WEIRD, (Western Educated, Industrialized, Rich and Democratic); where they mock Africans for our love of “booty”, they also revere bums as is illustrated by respectable East African Charles OnyangoObbo;
“In many countries, even health-conscious women who exercise to lose weight worry about the bottoms shrinking with the rest of the body. As a result, there are many quack regimes for losing weight in all parts of the body, but the “bumper”.
The business of bums and the hair indeed is a major industry in their own right. Particularly for hair it is not just a couple follicles coming out of the scalp; and for others it is a line between opportunity and catastrophe.
But generally many of us never care about the shape and features of our feet; but ironically it is safe to state that a man without hair and without a pair of shoes is indeed a mark of poverty, one we would rather avoid on the street.
And there’s some truth in the modern proverb that a man without hair spends his money and time on his feet=MOBILITY.
A case for Hair
Some Indians wrap their hair up in a weird robe to resemble a pyramid on top of their anatomies; the Iranians have just decreed a legally accepted haircut while the mullahs in Afghanistan have long imposed a strict beard policy.
In my little island hometown on a lake, I saw village women literally burning their skulls with hot combs to perm their hair into curls. It seemed there was a decree that African men were not allowed to grow long hair such that they would be able to take care of their womens’ hair.
Try not facilitating your woman’s visit to a salon and you’ll know what that means.
Hair control was very liberal toward girls and later in puberty when the girls decided to wear things on their heads that resembled the feathers of the rear side of a chicken, not an eyebrow was raised.
But even historically, women’s hair and what they did with it were never a threat to the periodical rulerman of past and present. Forget what you read about the Islamic Burka.
At boarding school; boys were routinely required to report for a mandatory haircut on weekends. Nobody asked if the nails were cut or teeth brushed, ears cleaned but the hair had to be short at all times.
In the unlikely event that a boy let his hair grow long or took effort in his appearing it was taken as a sign of crafty behaviour. And the widely held opinion was that boys who took too much care in their appearance were gay.
And being gay was so horrible that imagining the thing was in itself an evil.
Psychology books arrived and informed that us that actually men were more scared of being bald than impotent and to eliminate the fear of a bald; modern African man decided that keeping a clean shaven head was an eternal solution.
The colonial had of course the short hair policy baldness withstanding.The colonialist in Africa decreed that the people in his control were prohibited from growing more than an inch of hair.
Heaven forbid if your hair grew longer. As happened, all those that were not direct beneficiaries of the colonialist grew long hair as a protest.
The colonialist not a fool, decided that only devil worshipers and socially inadequate people allowed their hair to grow long.
The marine cut
The army men apparently insist on a hair policy because it exudes hygiene and discipline or so Tony my brother says he was told in training.
“Short hair is a mark of hygiene and discipline as is brushing your teeth in the morning.” Hair, its style or texture is stuff I must not bore you with on a Sunday afternoon but it is something else altogether — singular in its capacity to command interest and carry cultural baggage.
And allowing my hair to grow longer recently has created situations and the catalyst for a conversation that begins with style but quickly transcends outward appearance and ultimately transcends many images and symbols.
According to TIME magazine, nobody has put more significance on hair than US first lady Michelle Obama, the changes in her hairstyle from coiled strands to fully straightened on occassionshas brought to the table the question; “Is it the chemicals of heat?” and what is the normal and accepted symbol for black people’s status in terms of beauty, acceptance and power?
donuwagiwabo@gmail.com
Monday, 13 September 2010
Tuesday, 31 August 2010
Head boy; head girl and the Walkman
GEORGE KAGAME
As students we were meant to discover and learn our individual career paths and launch ourselves to the world.
Some of my classmates decided they wanted be lawyers, some soldiers, others Pan humanists, doctors and policemen.
The school administration prudently divided our class into two parallel segments; each announcing the intentions of the members as “sciences” or ‘ARTS.”
In the event that one changed their minds along the way and wanted to change directions we had a big man eloquently titled as “Career’s Master,” it was always a guy and many usually spotted a weird moustache. That kind you see on streets resembling wings of an eagle above the upper lip.
Among the supposed functions of a careers’ master was to teach us things like writing resumes, cover letters for jobs on top of advising about the link between potential; profession and impact.
But in most cases the careers’ master was also the disciplinary master; the later was eternally hated. He enforced the rules of the school to the letter. The problem was that his rules were more numerous and demanding than those of the school.
The disciplinary master on one occasion addressed me in front of assembled students; “George; I’m going to put you on a kiboko diet,” the next seven days after this statement I reported at his house in the morning to be lashed ten times.
I disrespected this man and his office; I could never bring myself to face him leave alone career advice and in fact I detested his profession.
According to him it was easy to find undisciplined students; they wore caps, never tucked in their shirts, talked to girls, “A lot,” liked music and grew long hair. If at all one of the above features described one; they would be under the watchful and nosy eye of Ngobi.
But the careers’ master was not the only culprit in making teachers look like a page from a dictators book. The entire teaching staff reveled in fear and awe; they made laws, made us kneel for them, fetch their water and for some girls, to make their meals.
They operated like a nobility, identifying students that were good and different from the undisciplined cases.
The good students sang in the church choir, attended all prayers, talked with teachers a lot and always tucked in their shirts; many were appointed into leadership positions. Even the timekeeper possessed considerable authority so as to make a student’s life miserable.
The students’ body was the bridge between the school management team and the students and was on paper meant to be voted and representative of the students’ community. And yes; we participated in the elections but they were a sham as the teachers appointed whomever they felt deserved to be what in the guild.
The entire students guild were teacher favourites; from the awkwardly named “head boy” and “head girl” to the timekeeper. And then there were others chosen in the service of the lord. They were our age mates but we referred to them as; “elders” because of their wisdom and dedication to all matters church.
It seemed the teachers were only interested in grooming students who were keen on becoming teachers, activities like fashion and design were even abandoned and heaven forbid if a student dressed in a manner that suggested popular style.
It happened onetime; a girl wore a short skirt to the dining hall where the disciplinary master was holding fort. Upon seeing the girl approach the serving table Mr. Ngobbi literally detained her and the poor girl was sent home to bring her parents who would have to explain where it is that their girl had learned this style of dressing.
After this incident, Ngobbi decreed that the school uniform was the only accepted clothing for students during the school term. Heaven forbid if at all a student was caught with a shirt or t-shirt that was not part of the school uniform.
The most dramatic decree however was the ban on anything that produced sound; having or listening to a radio was tantamount to calamity.
Consider that in our time music was different from what it is today; a Walkman was an important gadget to have; the mother of all gadgets. The kid with a Walkman was the coolest kid in town. The Walkman had FM radio that played the latest tunes “hit after hit” and the savvy of us connected the thing to small speakers for communal and hence a party. Friday night was particularly popular with “Rasta rob on the master knob.”
But walkmans were banned in the school and if a student was found with one; (a), the Walkman was subjected to many lashes of the cane until it broke up into many un-adjustable particles, (b) the student was subjected to 20 lashes plus the usual mowing the lawn of the compound and “masters quarters.”
Depending on the day, some teachers just confiscated the Walkman instead of smashing it into pieces on the floor.
Beyond sinning however was to the act of escaping from school to go off campus; it was abominable. Jose Chameleon was one of the usual suspects and culprits of the crime of escaping from school to go to Wobulenzi, a nearby city and from this point the mark was laid on Chameleon that he is “a bad boy,” and boys like him were promptly expelled from the school regularly.
To be continued….
As students we were meant to discover and learn our individual career paths and launch ourselves to the world.
Some of my classmates decided they wanted be lawyers, some soldiers, others Pan humanists, doctors and policemen.
The school administration prudently divided our class into two parallel segments; each announcing the intentions of the members as “sciences” or ‘ARTS.”
In the event that one changed their minds along the way and wanted to change directions we had a big man eloquently titled as “Career’s Master,” it was always a guy and many usually spotted a weird moustache. That kind you see on streets resembling wings of an eagle above the upper lip.
Among the supposed functions of a careers’ master was to teach us things like writing resumes, cover letters for jobs on top of advising about the link between potential; profession and impact.
But in most cases the careers’ master was also the disciplinary master; the later was eternally hated. He enforced the rules of the school to the letter. The problem was that his rules were more numerous and demanding than those of the school.
The disciplinary master on one occasion addressed me in front of assembled students; “George; I’m going to put you on a kiboko diet,” the next seven days after this statement I reported at his house in the morning to be lashed ten times.
I disrespected this man and his office; I could never bring myself to face him leave alone career advice and in fact I detested his profession.
According to him it was easy to find undisciplined students; they wore caps, never tucked in their shirts, talked to girls, “A lot,” liked music and grew long hair. If at all one of the above features described one; they would be under the watchful and nosy eye of Ngobi.
But the careers’ master was not the only culprit in making teachers look like a page from a dictators book. The entire teaching staff reveled in fear and awe; they made laws, made us kneel for them, fetch their water and for some girls, to make their meals.
They operated like a nobility, identifying students that were good and different from the undisciplined cases.
The good students sang in the church choir, attended all prayers, talked with teachers a lot and always tucked in their shirts; many were appointed into leadership positions. Even the timekeeper possessed considerable authority so as to make a student’s life miserable.
The students’ body was the bridge between the school management team and the students and was on paper meant to be voted and representative of the students’ community. And yes; we participated in the elections but they were a sham as the teachers appointed whomever they felt deserved to be what in the guild.
The entire students guild were teacher favourites; from the awkwardly named “head boy” and “head girl” to the timekeeper. And then there were others chosen in the service of the lord. They were our age mates but we referred to them as; “elders” because of their wisdom and dedication to all matters church.
It seemed the teachers were only interested in grooming students who were keen on becoming teachers, activities like fashion and design were even abandoned and heaven forbid if a student dressed in a manner that suggested popular style.
It happened onetime; a girl wore a short skirt to the dining hall where the disciplinary master was holding fort. Upon seeing the girl approach the serving table Mr. Ngobbi literally detained her and the poor girl was sent home to bring her parents who would have to explain where it is that their girl had learned this style of dressing.
After this incident, Ngobbi decreed that the school uniform was the only accepted clothing for students during the school term. Heaven forbid if at all a student was caught with a shirt or t-shirt that was not part of the school uniform.
The most dramatic decree however was the ban on anything that produced sound; having or listening to a radio was tantamount to calamity.
Consider that in our time music was different from what it is today; a Walkman was an important gadget to have; the mother of all gadgets. The kid with a Walkman was the coolest kid in town. The Walkman had FM radio that played the latest tunes “hit after hit” and the savvy of us connected the thing to small speakers for communal and hence a party. Friday night was particularly popular with “Rasta rob on the master knob.”
But walkmans were banned in the school and if a student was found with one; (a), the Walkman was subjected to many lashes of the cane until it broke up into many un-adjustable particles, (b) the student was subjected to 20 lashes plus the usual mowing the lawn of the compound and “masters quarters.”
Depending on the day, some teachers just confiscated the Walkman instead of smashing it into pieces on the floor.
Beyond sinning however was to the act of escaping from school to go off campus; it was abominable. Jose Chameleon was one of the usual suspects and culprits of the crime of escaping from school to go to Wobulenzi, a nearby city and from this point the mark was laid on Chameleon that he is “a bad boy,” and boys like him were promptly expelled from the school regularly.
To be continued….
Tuesday, 17 August 2010
A VIP and supermodel’s night at a party and day in court
By George Kagame
A story about Africa involving some important and fine; and even ones that Nigerian legend Fela Kuti called Vagabonds in Power-VIPs is in the offing.
But it is so far away from here that even writing about it is a tough wit game, which is afforded only to a columnist. It is far away in the priorities of relevance, proximity and eminence. But a story is never strange; after all it is just that, a story.
The theatre is at The Hague in Netherlands and Supermodels and cameras grace it with one of those catwalk galleries that are decorated.
And they don’t come bigger or even better than Naomi Campbell; that graceful of women and she is appearing in a de’ja’vu scene where ghosts are playing tricks on her. She even now looks troubled or trodden; I swear, look at her face.
Her cast involves Charles Tayor playing the role of illegitimate African leader and the drama is completed with wigged lawyers; they look like Father Christmas.
I have been in one such court at Arusha where a cousin of The Hague; the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda is trying genocide suspects. It was like a play, life was reduced to eloquent elite debate laced with figures, colours, cars and talk; everyday I walked into that court I was tempted to spit at the fat security guards and even fatter bureaucrats.
But who wants all that narrative really?
A day in court
In other news; Naomi Campbell; she of the long neck, beautiful eyes, even more beautiful legs that stretch up to her shoulders and curves that only God can design. But you can put all that in past tense now.
Charles Taylor drools upon her at one party in Pretoria in 1997, they get cozy and flirt; looking deep in their exotic Africa eyes.
Taylor, in the game of wooing and perhaps even reveling in the benefits of wooing decides to gift Naomi Campbell with a diamond. Read that again; a couple diamond stones.
It is even juicier for us common folk. We talk about cars, houses, envy the fine people and even dream of having custom made women like Naomi. It takes diamonds my friend. Diamond.
I have never seen a real diamond myself and I can’t comprehend why the goddamn stone along with gold is used as a measure of prestige and power the world over. And why they attract women the way pollen grain attracts bees. Hell, I cannot even tell the difference between diamond and silver.
I hear they got the thing aplenty in Congo and it is traded in Goma for just two hundred dollars but true; haki ya mungu, even after visiting Goma many times; I have no idea what is the BIG DEAL. I see hustlers selling fake jewel on the streets in east Africa but I have never bought a stone other than those used in construction.
I have heard that stones have many movies about them, movies about guns, grim looking African chiefs, even grimmer muscled guys with machetes, as well as a couple massacred women and babies’ bodies putting in appearances.
True; in the name of God; diamonds are a HUGE DEAL. I have watched Tears in the Sun and Blood Diamonds both based on true stories.
Forget all that about the oil and its petro dollars ah well, maybe we shall keep the oil secrets for another day; there’s a possibility that Omar El Bashir of Sudan offered supermodel Tyra Banks an oil well; you never know!
I hear The Hague is also keen on getting the Arab man for torturing his black countrymen in the south; never mind that these ones have no stones yet.
Back to our story, think of a climax; no make that a threesome, VIPs and super beauties mingling and flirting a recipe for disaster.
That exactly leads to the scene in the International Criminal Court at The Hague where diamonds, superbeauties, powerful men and parties swing from possible one nightstand and its wits.
Naomi is asked to tell on herself in the court of law, the gift of diamonds from Taylor and their late night party in South Africa; she says: “seriously, I have never heard of Liberia and I don’t even know where it is on the map.”
Never mind the diamonds actually came from Sierra Leone; but that is a story for another day.
Damn it, Naomi must treat diamonds the way you treat your food.
Imagine the difficulty you’d face if you had to explain the details of the food served on your table everyday. Are you expected to know about fries, chicken, vegetables and milk? Who grows it, who is responsible for its constant flow, how is it planted? Are the planters paid anyway? Do they have children?
Hell; even my nosy neighbour would be cautious asking such many questions at every single meal!
Working class people getting along
In fact lets getaway with the questions about fair trade, imaginations and even the self-righteousness. Lets have a good conversation, lets talk about gender relations, a woman, a president=gender and power relations, a presidential backpack that carries dirty diamonds to a late night party and a super model. Working class people getting along
Imagine a black supermodel in England, with all the attention and attraction in the world, then Taylor an African corrupt leader walking about as a pimp.
Ah wait, he is a descendant of freed African slaves in North America who were forcibly returned at the end of slavery and resettled in Liberia and Sierra Leone.
The former slaves in turn became kings and queens in the free countries; they even renamed one city Free Town. Many of the returnees became princes and chiefs in literal and figurative forms. Ever wondered why so many West Africans come with names such as Prince, King, and Chief? Just like you hear those arrogant British go around with Sir, Lord, viscount, Earl and my favourite duke.
The prosecuting team in the case against Charles Taylor is smooth; you have to give it to them for getting their case to the front pages and even hidden ones like the one you are reading right now.
Because would you really not give Naomi Campbell a diamond if you had some?
And; is it not ironical that the blood diamonds were sold and worn in Europe and now it is in Europe that their retribution is taking place?
A story about Africa involving some important and fine; and even ones that Nigerian legend Fela Kuti called Vagabonds in Power-VIPs is in the offing.
But it is so far away from here that even writing about it is a tough wit game, which is afforded only to a columnist. It is far away in the priorities of relevance, proximity and eminence. But a story is never strange; after all it is just that, a story.
The theatre is at The Hague in Netherlands and Supermodels and cameras grace it with one of those catwalk galleries that are decorated.
And they don’t come bigger or even better than Naomi Campbell; that graceful of women and she is appearing in a de’ja’vu scene where ghosts are playing tricks on her. She even now looks troubled or trodden; I swear, look at her face.
Her cast involves Charles Tayor playing the role of illegitimate African leader and the drama is completed with wigged lawyers; they look like Father Christmas.
I have been in one such court at Arusha where a cousin of The Hague; the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda is trying genocide suspects. It was like a play, life was reduced to eloquent elite debate laced with figures, colours, cars and talk; everyday I walked into that court I was tempted to spit at the fat security guards and even fatter bureaucrats.
But who wants all that narrative really?
A day in court
In other news; Naomi Campbell; she of the long neck, beautiful eyes, even more beautiful legs that stretch up to her shoulders and curves that only God can design. But you can put all that in past tense now.
Charles Taylor drools upon her at one party in Pretoria in 1997, they get cozy and flirt; looking deep in their exotic Africa eyes.
Taylor, in the game of wooing and perhaps even reveling in the benefits of wooing decides to gift Naomi Campbell with a diamond. Read that again; a couple diamond stones.
It is even juicier for us common folk. We talk about cars, houses, envy the fine people and even dream of having custom made women like Naomi. It takes diamonds my friend. Diamond.
I have never seen a real diamond myself and I can’t comprehend why the goddamn stone along with gold is used as a measure of prestige and power the world over. And why they attract women the way pollen grain attracts bees. Hell, I cannot even tell the difference between diamond and silver.
I hear they got the thing aplenty in Congo and it is traded in Goma for just two hundred dollars but true; haki ya mungu, even after visiting Goma many times; I have no idea what is the BIG DEAL. I see hustlers selling fake jewel on the streets in east Africa but I have never bought a stone other than those used in construction.
I have heard that stones have many movies about them, movies about guns, grim looking African chiefs, even grimmer muscled guys with machetes, as well as a couple massacred women and babies’ bodies putting in appearances.
True; in the name of God; diamonds are a HUGE DEAL. I have watched Tears in the Sun and Blood Diamonds both based on true stories.
Forget all that about the oil and its petro dollars ah well, maybe we shall keep the oil secrets for another day; there’s a possibility that Omar El Bashir of Sudan offered supermodel Tyra Banks an oil well; you never know!
I hear The Hague is also keen on getting the Arab man for torturing his black countrymen in the south; never mind that these ones have no stones yet.
Back to our story, think of a climax; no make that a threesome, VIPs and super beauties mingling and flirting a recipe for disaster.
That exactly leads to the scene in the International Criminal Court at The Hague where diamonds, superbeauties, powerful men and parties swing from possible one nightstand and its wits.
Naomi is asked to tell on herself in the court of law, the gift of diamonds from Taylor and their late night party in South Africa; she says: “seriously, I have never heard of Liberia and I don’t even know where it is on the map.”
Never mind the diamonds actually came from Sierra Leone; but that is a story for another day.
Damn it, Naomi must treat diamonds the way you treat your food.
Imagine the difficulty you’d face if you had to explain the details of the food served on your table everyday. Are you expected to know about fries, chicken, vegetables and milk? Who grows it, who is responsible for its constant flow, how is it planted? Are the planters paid anyway? Do they have children?
Hell; even my nosy neighbour would be cautious asking such many questions at every single meal!
Working class people getting along
In fact lets getaway with the questions about fair trade, imaginations and even the self-righteousness. Lets have a good conversation, lets talk about gender relations, a woman, a president=gender and power relations, a presidential backpack that carries dirty diamonds to a late night party and a super model. Working class people getting along
Imagine a black supermodel in England, with all the attention and attraction in the world, then Taylor an African corrupt leader walking about as a pimp.
Ah wait, he is a descendant of freed African slaves in North America who were forcibly returned at the end of slavery and resettled in Liberia and Sierra Leone.
The former slaves in turn became kings and queens in the free countries; they even renamed one city Free Town. Many of the returnees became princes and chiefs in literal and figurative forms. Ever wondered why so many West Africans come with names such as Prince, King, and Chief? Just like you hear those arrogant British go around with Sir, Lord, viscount, Earl and my favourite duke.
The prosecuting team in the case against Charles Taylor is smooth; you have to give it to them for getting their case to the front pages and even hidden ones like the one you are reading right now.
Because would you really not give Naomi Campbell a diamond if you had some?
And; is it not ironical that the blood diamonds were sold and worn in Europe and now it is in Europe that their retribution is taking place?
Sunday, 8 August 2010
Of celebrity baby mountain gorillas
Insights :
GEORGE
Zoya is not your regular baby; he is the coolest baby in town. Even I am not familiar with his details but I know of his baptism day. You see his baptism day is so important that soon future babies of his kind will have a national holiday declared on the day they get baptized.
Zoya comes from Citi and in that country matters of religion are very important, make that crucial. So like many of his countrymen, among whose names are such statements of commitment such as sonofGod, slaveofmaria, oneforyezu,godgivesbirth, and onewhotrusts, feature prominently.
As a result, People with such names take matters of God serious and therefore on the occasion that their not so distant cousin Zoya gets christened everyone of note in Citiattends without fail.
Zoya’s baptism party is so important that the first Citiman attends, and no not just him; how about Natalie Portman, Jack Hanna and Don Cheadle, he of Hotel Rwanda?
Damn it, on the day I got baptized I went to the gym right after the ceremony and to cap off the day I went to an evening shift. And these two are so important that a whole managing director of a national daily newspaper has to call me urgently to cover it or else I see the cold of the night of Citi. That is not a predicament you’d want to be in at any moment of your life, or wish even to your enemy to be in. This place can be cold!
As I lazily walk up to these baby gorillas I try to search anything that can get me a story, a story of today. Do they have longer hair, are they smiling these days, do they blink, do they want to ask me; “seriously, what are you doing here?” And maybe even tell me a proverb about my stupidity in their language telling of their opinions about my presence.
But they cannot and if they attempt any games I have my press card ready so I will be explained if Zoya and Wakawaka call for security, wait a minute do they even know about security?
All the posh people, fine people, not fine people, peasants, and the noblemen of Citi show up at the cathedral of the mountain gorilla’s baptism party, each to pay their respects.
The cynic of this most prestigious of ceremonies in Citiwill call it drama; they will dismiss the event and protest by continuing to live their even more boring lives. But people of note know what is important, so on the day that Zoya and friend get baptized, the red carpet is thrown out full circle.
True of God, hakiyamungu I was there. I saw with my own eyes.
I watched Zoya with interest and even tried to catch his/her stare. I could not tell if he was boy or girl. He is a gorilla for Christ’s sake! I cannot ask him, I don’t speak his language neither does he mine. For me he is an assignment I have been sent here all the way from my kingdom in the town and I’m hungry, this place with its forests, mountains and people who are staring at me like I’m a picture.
MAYBE I’m a picture; I can make much more sense without words. They say a picture is a thousand words. People appear smarter before they speak.
So I don’t want to ask the whereabouts of this Zoya kid and friend, and for me he is not just an animal; it his birthday party and that is a story. I have many questions about his coolness. How does he do it, get all these important people to attend his party?
Do you know how hard it is to have a party in your honour? Ask yourself how many parties have been held for you? Who attended, who laughed, who took pictures, were they published in international newspapers and magazines around the world?
Clearly I’m jealous of these two.
I saw earlier in the tent guests were signing autographs, taking pictures, drinks, speeches, laughter and handshakes. I was not interested in all that. I wanted to meet this Zoya. By Zoya’s side was another baby mountain gorilla baptized as Wakawaka on the same day.
Now two mountains gorillas having a baptism party and they are hidden far away from their own fete? Maybe they asked for some privacy and only wanted to come out to wave to the crowd just like Nelson Mandela during the 2010 World Cup in South Africa recently.
And talk of South Africa; that is where the name Wakawaka became memorable with Shakira being its most eloquent acquaintance.
While I was walking towards the ceremony I met a man on the roadside, he is a local and his people have lived in Citi for hundreds of years. He was short, in fact too short that I thought he was a young boy; I wanted to ask him, “Are you married, do you have kids?” Turned out he is a father of three children and the eldest is 21. His second wife is expecting a forth child.
He appeared to be wondering how things in Citi had changed, two baby mountain gorillas were big celebrities, almost signing autographs and he was just watching things unfolding like he was watching a horror movie.
Footnote: mountain gorillas are highly endangered species and need the utmost attention of all mankind, as they are our closest related creatures. So please Giv a little less attention to your cats and dogs and think about mountain gorillas and their birthday parties too.
GEORGE
Zoya is not your regular baby; he is the coolest baby in town. Even I am not familiar with his details but I know of his baptism day. You see his baptism day is so important that soon future babies of his kind will have a national holiday declared on the day they get baptized.
Zoya comes from Citi and in that country matters of religion are very important, make that crucial. So like many of his countrymen, among whose names are such statements of commitment such as sonofGod, slaveofmaria, oneforyezu,godgivesbirth, and onewhotrusts, feature prominently.
As a result, People with such names take matters of God serious and therefore on the occasion that their not so distant cousin Zoya gets christened everyone of note in Citiattends without fail.
Zoya’s baptism party is so important that the first Citiman attends, and no not just him; how about Natalie Portman, Jack Hanna and Don Cheadle, he of Hotel Rwanda?
Damn it, on the day I got baptized I went to the gym right after the ceremony and to cap off the day I went to an evening shift. And these two are so important that a whole managing director of a national daily newspaper has to call me urgently to cover it or else I see the cold of the night of Citi. That is not a predicament you’d want to be in at any moment of your life, or wish even to your enemy to be in. This place can be cold!
As I lazily walk up to these baby gorillas I try to search anything that can get me a story, a story of today. Do they have longer hair, are they smiling these days, do they blink, do they want to ask me; “seriously, what are you doing here?” And maybe even tell me a proverb about my stupidity in their language telling of their opinions about my presence.
But they cannot and if they attempt any games I have my press card ready so I will be explained if Zoya and Wakawaka call for security, wait a minute do they even know about security?
All the posh people, fine people, not fine people, peasants, and the noblemen of Citi show up at the cathedral of the mountain gorilla’s baptism party, each to pay their respects.
The cynic of this most prestigious of ceremonies in Citiwill call it drama; they will dismiss the event and protest by continuing to live their even more boring lives. But people of note know what is important, so on the day that Zoya and friend get baptized, the red carpet is thrown out full circle.
True of God, hakiyamungu I was there. I saw with my own eyes.
I watched Zoya with interest and even tried to catch his/her stare. I could not tell if he was boy or girl. He is a gorilla for Christ’s sake! I cannot ask him, I don’t speak his language neither does he mine. For me he is an assignment I have been sent here all the way from my kingdom in the town and I’m hungry, this place with its forests, mountains and people who are staring at me like I’m a picture.
MAYBE I’m a picture; I can make much more sense without words. They say a picture is a thousand words. People appear smarter before they speak.
So I don’t want to ask the whereabouts of this Zoya kid and friend, and for me he is not just an animal; it his birthday party and that is a story. I have many questions about his coolness. How does he do it, get all these important people to attend his party?
Do you know how hard it is to have a party in your honour? Ask yourself how many parties have been held for you? Who attended, who laughed, who took pictures, were they published in international newspapers and magazines around the world?
Clearly I’m jealous of these two.
I saw earlier in the tent guests were signing autographs, taking pictures, drinks, speeches, laughter and handshakes. I was not interested in all that. I wanted to meet this Zoya. By Zoya’s side was another baby mountain gorilla baptized as Wakawaka on the same day.
Now two mountains gorillas having a baptism party and they are hidden far away from their own fete? Maybe they asked for some privacy and only wanted to come out to wave to the crowd just like Nelson Mandela during the 2010 World Cup in South Africa recently.
And talk of South Africa; that is where the name Wakawaka became memorable with Shakira being its most eloquent acquaintance.
While I was walking towards the ceremony I met a man on the roadside, he is a local and his people have lived in Citi for hundreds of years. He was short, in fact too short that I thought he was a young boy; I wanted to ask him, “Are you married, do you have kids?” Turned out he is a father of three children and the eldest is 21. His second wife is expecting a forth child.
He appeared to be wondering how things in Citi had changed, two baby mountain gorillas were big celebrities, almost signing autographs and he was just watching things unfolding like he was watching a horror movie.
Footnote: mountain gorillas are highly endangered species and need the utmost attention of all mankind, as they are our closest related creatures. So please Giv a little less attention to your cats and dogs and think about mountain gorillas and their birthday parties too.
Tuesday, 3 August 2010
THE EASTER STORY: GOD IS NIGERIAN, VIRGIN MARY IS ZULU, AND JESUS?
he Easter holiday, the time when We mark the betrayal, crucifixion, and resurrection of Jesus Christ is upon us.
It is thus our duty again, to make sense of this story from a Pan-Africa point of view.
Of course we can’t talk about Christ’s death and resurrection, without taking note of how it all started.
So if the Bible and Christianity story all-African, from which country would God come from?
•I THINK GOD WOULD BE NIGERIAN. Only a Nigerian would be cocky enough to be God. One day, good people, Nigeria will rule Africa.
•I THINK MARY THE VIRGIN WOULD BE A SOUTH AFRICAN WOMAN, SPECIFICALLY A ZULU. Zulu women most approximate the quiet dignity of Mary the Virgin.
•JOSEPH WOULD BE CONGOLESE. He had that mix of sweet naivety and Stoicism which is abundant among Congolese men.
•THE MAGI’S: It is very difficult to place the magi. First, I think they were gay. It's mostly gay men who have magi-type sensitivity. They would likely be from the islands, possibly Cape Verde or Principe and Tome.
•PETER: He betrayed Jesus before the cock crowed three times. To figure out from which country Peter would come from, we need to look to the countries which are most uncomfortable in their African or Arab skin: That is Ethiopians, Egyptians, and Moroccans. I THINK PETER WOULD LIKELY BE AN ETHIOPIAN.
•JUDAS Iscariot the Traitor: Africa is not short of traitors, but in recent times the lies and betrayals that have led to the death of over 200,000 people in Darfur, and the displacement of over another one million, are the worst. JUDAS ISCARIOT WOULD BE NORTHERN SUDANESE.
•The Roman Emperor PILATE: PILATE was a complex character. He wanted to let Jesus off the hook, but he succumbed to the pressure of the masses and had him executed. This wavering between principled action, and acting according to the dictates of opinion polls is most evident in Kenya. And I think PILATE COULD EASILY BE Kenya’s PRIME MINISTER RAILA ODINGA. He is equally complex.
•JESUS CHRIST: This is a tough one, for to be Jesus you need to demonstrate an extraordinary ability to take pain over a long period. There have been many wars and heroic struggles in Africa, but perhaps none reached the extremes of the Algerian war of independence against France, although it lasted only from 1954-62. The Algerians showed remarkable grit. JESUS, THEREFORE, WOULD BE ALGERIAN.
•Finally, Mary Magdalene who was “loitering” outside Jesus’ tomb. Magdalene could only have come from Uganda. And Doreen Lwanga will agree that Magdalene would have been a Muganda woman.
HAPPY EASTER
LET’S PRAY.
It is thus our duty again, to make sense of this story from a Pan-Africa point of view.
Of course we can’t talk about Christ’s death and resurrection, without taking note of how it all started.
So if the Bible and Christianity story all-African, from which country would God come from?
•I THINK GOD WOULD BE NIGERIAN. Only a Nigerian would be cocky enough to be God. One day, good people, Nigeria will rule Africa.
•I THINK MARY THE VIRGIN WOULD BE A SOUTH AFRICAN WOMAN, SPECIFICALLY A ZULU. Zulu women most approximate the quiet dignity of Mary the Virgin.
•JOSEPH WOULD BE CONGOLESE. He had that mix of sweet naivety and Stoicism which is abundant among Congolese men.
•THE MAGI’S: It is very difficult to place the magi. First, I think they were gay. It's mostly gay men who have magi-type sensitivity. They would likely be from the islands, possibly Cape Verde or Principe and Tome.
•PETER: He betrayed Jesus before the cock crowed three times. To figure out from which country Peter would come from, we need to look to the countries which are most uncomfortable in their African or Arab skin: That is Ethiopians, Egyptians, and Moroccans. I THINK PETER WOULD LIKELY BE AN ETHIOPIAN.
•JUDAS Iscariot the Traitor: Africa is not short of traitors, but in recent times the lies and betrayals that have led to the death of over 200,000 people in Darfur, and the displacement of over another one million, are the worst. JUDAS ISCARIOT WOULD BE NORTHERN SUDANESE.
•The Roman Emperor PILATE: PILATE was a complex character. He wanted to let Jesus off the hook, but he succumbed to the pressure of the masses and had him executed. This wavering between principled action, and acting according to the dictates of opinion polls is most evident in Kenya. And I think PILATE COULD EASILY BE Kenya’s PRIME MINISTER RAILA ODINGA. He is equally complex.
•JESUS CHRIST: This is a tough one, for to be Jesus you need to demonstrate an extraordinary ability to take pain over a long period. There have been many wars and heroic struggles in Africa, but perhaps none reached the extremes of the Algerian war of independence against France, although it lasted only from 1954-62. The Algerians showed remarkable grit. JESUS, THEREFORE, WOULD BE ALGERIAN.
•Finally, Mary Magdalene who was “loitering” outside Jesus’ tomb. Magdalene could only have come from Uganda. And Doreen Lwanga will agree that Magdalene would have been a Muganda woman.
HAPPY EASTER
LET’S PRAY.
Monday, 2 August 2010
WHY AFRICANS LIKE LOTS OF BOOTY ON THEIR WOMEN
The pan-African reality show Big Brother Africa is a few weeks old now, and this time they dubbed it Big Brother All Stars – because they recycled housemates from previous episodes.
Zambian housemate Paloma, with her large backside, is back.
She makes for an intimidating presence. To the uninitiated eye she was not the most desirable woman in the House, but she has quite some following. Interviews have been shown of people saying "she is a true African woman" or "just my kind of woman". When this Big Brother Africa thing was on last year, I went with a group of friends to Club Afrique in Nairobi’s Museum Hill (it has since closed).
Lo and behold, it turned out they were holding the semi-finals of the chakacha dance. Most of the competitors, all female, were slim or medium size with reasonably rounded rears. Then dancer No. 11 came on.
She was pretty-faced, had wonderful skin tone, but she was big and her tummy wobbled as she did the chakacha. One of the three judges, an unflinching dreadlocked fellow, took her performance apart saying, in the manner of American Idols' Simon Cowell, that it was rubbish.
The club nearly rioted and heckled him down. No. 11 was not just the biggest dancer, but she seemed to have the most friends in the club. Women like Paloma and No. 11 will always flourish in Africa, where the slender variety much favoured in the west tends to be sneered at. A man will be ridiculed if his wife has not filled out in the right places after a year in marriage. It could be construed to suggest he is mean, an unloving husband, or a wife beater.
Likewise, a husband who is still thin after a year or so in marriage reflects badly on his wife. She is a bad wife, the in-laws will conclude. In Cote d'Ivore, women inject all sorts of things in their buttocks so they can grow big.
In many countries, even health-conscious women who exercise to lose weight worry about the bottoms shrinking with the rest of the body. As a result, there are many quack regimes for losing weight in all parts of the body, but the "bumper".
Why this African obsession with large booty? My sense is that in poor societies fat women - and men - are fancied because they represent that which is in short supply; prosperity and well being. The promise of an abundant tomorrow. Thin women, on the other hand, symbolise need and scarcity. This seems to be the case, because in Africa there are many women who struggle to be and to remain slender.
However, they are overwhelmingly middle class, where the desperate search for solace from symbols of prosperity one sees among the working and peasant classes is little or absent. One can expect that as soon as per capita income in most of Africa averages $2,000 and above, the prospects for ample women will nose-drive, and the premium for the slim ones will rise. Otherwise, for a long time to come, most thin women in Africa will mostly be confined to dating expatriates, a life of single motherhood, or marriage to men with well-endowed mistresses.
Zambian housemate Paloma, with her large backside, is back.
She makes for an intimidating presence. To the uninitiated eye she was not the most desirable woman in the House, but she has quite some following. Interviews have been shown of people saying "she is a true African woman" or "just my kind of woman". When this Big Brother Africa thing was on last year, I went with a group of friends to Club Afrique in Nairobi’s Museum Hill (it has since closed).
Lo and behold, it turned out they were holding the semi-finals of the chakacha dance. Most of the competitors, all female, were slim or medium size with reasonably rounded rears. Then dancer No. 11 came on.
She was pretty-faced, had wonderful skin tone, but she was big and her tummy wobbled as she did the chakacha. One of the three judges, an unflinching dreadlocked fellow, took her performance apart saying, in the manner of American Idols' Simon Cowell, that it was rubbish.
The club nearly rioted and heckled him down. No. 11 was not just the biggest dancer, but she seemed to have the most friends in the club. Women like Paloma and No. 11 will always flourish in Africa, where the slender variety much favoured in the west tends to be sneered at. A man will be ridiculed if his wife has not filled out in the right places after a year in marriage. It could be construed to suggest he is mean, an unloving husband, or a wife beater.
Likewise, a husband who is still thin after a year or so in marriage reflects badly on his wife. She is a bad wife, the in-laws will conclude. In Cote d'Ivore, women inject all sorts of things in their buttocks so they can grow big.
In many countries, even health-conscious women who exercise to lose weight worry about the bottoms shrinking with the rest of the body. As a result, there are many quack regimes for losing weight in all parts of the body, but the "bumper".
Why this African obsession with large booty? My sense is that in poor societies fat women - and men - are fancied because they represent that which is in short supply; prosperity and well being. The promise of an abundant tomorrow. Thin women, on the other hand, symbolise need and scarcity. This seems to be the case, because in Africa there are many women who struggle to be and to remain slender.
However, they are overwhelmingly middle class, where the desperate search for solace from symbols of prosperity one sees among the working and peasant classes is little or absent. One can expect that as soon as per capita income in most of Africa averages $2,000 and above, the prospects for ample women will nose-drive, and the premium for the slim ones will rise. Otherwise, for a long time to come, most thin women in Africa will mostly be confined to dating expatriates, a life of single motherhood, or marriage to men with well-endowed mistresses.
Saturday, 31 July 2010
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