You think the only people who are people
Are the people who look and think like you
But if you walk the footsteps of a stranger
You'll learn things you never knew you never knew
POCAHONTAs in Colours of The Wind
My reasons for being in Rwanda have been questioned by many a friend and foe, not least of them, Steve Mwangi, my upside-down friend from Australia.
Brushing aside my ever-changing reasons that vary from mercenary to economic refuge, Steve, who derides me for moving to a country that “dangles precariously at the end of the East African food chain” wishes I could open my eyes to the economics of migration and choose a developed country like, say, Australia, or the US.
“You increase your life expectancy by at least 30 years,” he enthuses.
True as that may be, and despite my constant state of flux when some essential goods turn out to be simply too expensive “because they come from Kenya”, I love my little country of refuge. Here I can lead what I laughingly call a quiet productive life in my mad little rented cave on a hillside.
It’s peaceful and serene here.
The hills whisper to you when you wake up in the morning; birds come to your door and sing a little song as they peck away at any seeds you may have dropped there overnight (I’ve even taken the initiative to fashion a version of a fountain out of the lid of a blue plastic pail, just to show my appreciation of their beautiful early morning wake-up call, but they have actively avoided perching on it!); and the only noisy thing about the mornings is singing and chanting together of groups of young and old people as they go for their regular early Sunday morning jog.
I can not help but marvel at the sheer health consciousness of these brave East Africans who have had to undergo the baptism of fire to emerge as a nation. Top that off with the reasonably priced and heavily patronised massage and sauna places all over the city (no hanky panky) and you’ll begin to realise that, at this rate, they will most likely outlive not just the Kenyans in smoky, dusty, smoggy Nairobi and the water-starved countryside – whose daily exercise routine rarely goes beyond the perpetual up and down movement of the left arm with a huge mug labelled Tusker for a barbell – but also most of the ones in the Diaspora, who, like my friend Steve Add-at-least-thirty-years-to-your-life-expectancy Mwangi, have retained their Kenyan ways..
Truly, to paraphrase the old saying, you can take a Kenyan out of the country, but not the country out of the Kenyan: a fact you will quickly appreciate if you ever sit for a cold pint or a succulent rib of Rwandan goat, while observing the (mainly Kenyan) clientele at Car Wash, the domain of Mr. Wahome, the only restaurant owner I’ve met (since Garvin Bell of the Kengeles fame) who works harder at service than his service crew. He has no choice, you understand: as Rwandan culture goes, the idea of service has never been a strong point, or anything to give a hoot about for that matter.
Try combining the majesty of Kings with the servitude of service provision and see what I mean! Only then will you understand why most waiters and other service people in Rwanda go about their jobs like they were beneath them. And why, every day without fail, the country’s main paper, The New Times, carries a poll asking readers to vote on what they think should be done to improve service standards.
“Go ye to Car Wash, oh sluggard,” I say, “and consider Wahome’s ways”.
Unfortunately, Wahome’s ways have only attracted what I would call the Ugly Face of Kenyan Commercialism. Why, just the other day, after a few days attending to some family matters in Nairobi, I drove past CarWash on my way to RRA to give unto Paul what is Paul’s, and almost didn’t recognise my favourite Kenya-Rwandan joint! Instead of the quaint look of a most unusual makuti place I’m used to, someone has gone and plastered it all yellow and labelled it TUSKER. Now it looks – at least to the casual observer – like yet another “commercial” joint.
On the brighter side, it is still the only place a Kenyan in Rwanda can enjoy the unique taste of barley, malt and permitted additives in the right combination. The alternative being to contend with maize-based alcohol in big, ungainly, brown and green bottles!
Oh well. No one said walking the footsteps of a stranger was going to be easy!
©Lloyd Igane, Kigali 2009
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
For All Wanna-be African Despots, At Last, A Role Model.
“Tomorrow you show me the town,” said Jeff Magut, my new friend from Nairobi. He had been given my name and number to call when he gets to the land of many hills and his head was already swiveling half off his neck as he looked around eagerly. “Do they have a Kagame Street?” he added, turning sharply to look at a particularly well endowed Kigalian lass.
Iddrissa the taxi driver and I burst out laughing.
“Nothing here takes Kagame’s name,” said Idrissa still laughing at the Kenyan’s uninformed assumption, “… except, of course, his family.”
“A public holiday or perhaps a stadium...,” persisted Jeff, the political analyst in him no doubt recalling the many places and things named after many a living “strong man” of Africa.
Conversations like these have become my lot.
“How do you survive there?” asks Mike, a well-respected PR professional in Nairobi. ”I hear Kagame is a dictator,” he adds in a way that suggests he believes what he hears!
“Oh, do you?” is all I can ask him.
After much thought, though, I’ve come up with a theory and a proposal, but first, let’s explore, shall we, the manifestations of alleged dictatorship. And having quietly followed the man’s career for a while now from the safety of my cave on a hillside in his city: having watched him trot the globe picking up Global Award after another for this and that; having gawped with wonder at his three-vehicle, Benz-less motorcade; and sat uncomprehendingly at the national stadium in Nyanza during one or two of the nation’s celebrations; I feel singularly qualified for the job – without any reference to his spokespeople.
To begin, he is the only African president I know of who holds a monthly press conference. In these conferences, he answers uncensored and unscripted questions from all sorts of journalists – including silly ones like “Why are so many high ranking Rwandan officials being arrested on corruption charges?”
He also holds a weekly cabinet meeting (probably to keep the ministers in line?) and, when it comes to corruption, he has a rather limited vocabulary, in which the word “sacred” never comes before “cow".
For those unfamiliar with dictator speak, that means his zero tolerance to corruption means exactly that: going for the big fish and making an example of them, as opposed to, say, where I come from, whereby it has, so far, only applied in the lop-sided way in which certain laws of colonial origin were designed to jail a chicken thief on circumstantial evidence but release a white-collar thief and scoundrel (who siphons off millions) on a technicality.
Another factor of said dictatorship is most definitely His Excellency’s total focus and the way he has no time for sycophancy. Many an official tremble in his presence on account of the way he can put them in their place with a well-timed bon mot or a serious barrage of vernacular invective that leaves them in no doubt whatsoever on what’s expected of them. Only recently, the whole nation watched agape as he gave a wayward civic leader a serious piece of his mind at a televised meeting.
The lady had stood up to address the president during a regular meet-the-president briefing of civic leaders, the purpose of which is to brief the president on the progress or lack thereof of government and civic initiatives. But instead, unable to resist the temptation to score some brownie points with the head of state, she had launched into a long entreaty on how young men have been smoking “urumogi” (a certain psychedelic weed available illegally throughout East Africa) on the streets near her place in Kyovu. And since Kyovu also happens to be the president’s neighbourhood, the lady felt it was her civic duty to register her concern that maybe, just maybe, the fumes also drift to his Excellency’s delicate nostrils while he slept at night.
Visibly annoyed, the head of state had adjusted his spectacles, looked helplessly around him as if to ask “is this one serious?” then looked up, and, using carefully selected vernacular words, reminded the lady what the meeting was about and told her exactly what he thought of her contribution.
With “strong men” like Kagame, who needs the likes of the sniveling, resource-grabbing sell-outs that are the stock of most other African leaders! Now that’s my theory and I am sticking with it – along with the proposal that Paul Kagame be unanimously voted the first President of all East Africa.
Lloyd Igane has been a goatherd, untrained teacher, feature writer, cowshed cleaner, copywriter, rabbit contraceptive peddler, creative director, accountant, and husband. He divides his time between Nairobi, Kenya, and Kigali, Rwanda.
©Lloyd Igane, Kigali 2009 kreative@earthling.net
Iddrissa the taxi driver and I burst out laughing.
“Nothing here takes Kagame’s name,” said Idrissa still laughing at the Kenyan’s uninformed assumption, “… except, of course, his family.”
“A public holiday or perhaps a stadium...,” persisted Jeff, the political analyst in him no doubt recalling the many places and things named after many a living “strong man” of Africa.
Conversations like these have become my lot.
“How do you survive there?” asks Mike, a well-respected PR professional in Nairobi. ”I hear Kagame is a dictator,” he adds in a way that suggests he believes what he hears!
“Oh, do you?” is all I can ask him.
After much thought, though, I’ve come up with a theory and a proposal, but first, let’s explore, shall we, the manifestations of alleged dictatorship. And having quietly followed the man’s career for a while now from the safety of my cave on a hillside in his city: having watched him trot the globe picking up Global Award after another for this and that; having gawped with wonder at his three-vehicle, Benz-less motorcade; and sat uncomprehendingly at the national stadium in Nyanza during one or two of the nation’s celebrations; I feel singularly qualified for the job – without any reference to his spokespeople.
To begin, he is the only African president I know of who holds a monthly press conference. In these conferences, he answers uncensored and unscripted questions from all sorts of journalists – including silly ones like “Why are so many high ranking Rwandan officials being arrested on corruption charges?”
He also holds a weekly cabinet meeting (probably to keep the ministers in line?) and, when it comes to corruption, he has a rather limited vocabulary, in which the word “sacred” never comes before “cow".
For those unfamiliar with dictator speak, that means his zero tolerance to corruption means exactly that: going for the big fish and making an example of them, as opposed to, say, where I come from, whereby it has, so far, only applied in the lop-sided way in which certain laws of colonial origin were designed to jail a chicken thief on circumstantial evidence but release a white-collar thief and scoundrel (who siphons off millions) on a technicality.
Another factor of said dictatorship is most definitely His Excellency’s total focus and the way he has no time for sycophancy. Many an official tremble in his presence on account of the way he can put them in their place with a well-timed bon mot or a serious barrage of vernacular invective that leaves them in no doubt whatsoever on what’s expected of them. Only recently, the whole nation watched agape as he gave a wayward civic leader a serious piece of his mind at a televised meeting.
The lady had stood up to address the president during a regular meet-the-president briefing of civic leaders, the purpose of which is to brief the president on the progress or lack thereof of government and civic initiatives. But instead, unable to resist the temptation to score some brownie points with the head of state, she had launched into a long entreaty on how young men have been smoking “urumogi” (a certain psychedelic weed available illegally throughout East Africa) on the streets near her place in Kyovu. And since Kyovu also happens to be the president’s neighbourhood, the lady felt it was her civic duty to register her concern that maybe, just maybe, the fumes also drift to his Excellency’s delicate nostrils while he slept at night.
Visibly annoyed, the head of state had adjusted his spectacles, looked helplessly around him as if to ask “is this one serious?” then looked up, and, using carefully selected vernacular words, reminded the lady what the meeting was about and told her exactly what he thought of her contribution.
With “strong men” like Kagame, who needs the likes of the sniveling, resource-grabbing sell-outs that are the stock of most other African leaders! Now that’s my theory and I am sticking with it – along with the proposal that Paul Kagame be unanimously voted the first President of all East Africa.
Lloyd Igane has been a goatherd, untrained teacher, feature writer, cowshed cleaner, copywriter, rabbit contraceptive peddler, creative director, accountant, and husband. He divides his time between Nairobi, Kenya, and Kigali, Rwanda.
©Lloyd Igane, Kigali 2009 kreative@earthling.net
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)