The foot-steps of a stranger

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