Virgil’s Town

(This story was commissioned by the East African (Travel Supplement). The premier regional  paper finally printed  it as .... Through the Eyes of a Community Leader & Bar Owner ... but they were short of space so they cut out all the good bits. This is the raw version.)

Early on a slightly drizzly Friday evening, Virgil Rugema stands near the little bar at the pool table end of club Passadena in the Gikondo suburb of Kigali, drinking Amstel beer from a short glass. So engrossed is he on the action at the pool table he seems totally oblivious of the contortionist movements of the dancers and singers entertaining patrons in the main club area behind him.

Nothing about the beady eyed average sized, casually dressed man in designer jeans and striped shirt tails suggests his prominence in any way; and only the reverence with which the club employees occasionally consult him seems to suggest he may be relevant in some way. Still, to a stranger, nothing distinguishes him as the owner of the club, another establishment out of town, and the adoration of millions of Rwandans (and northern Burundians) who listen to his nationally transmitted radio shows.

“He was the first man to open a club in this town,” Uncle Austin, MC, presenter at Radio 10 – where Virgil also works, says in an awed half whisper. “The club was in the city centre just below the main round about with the fountain and was closed because the authorities said it was attractive to school boys…. Later he opened this club and it became famous as Kwa Virigil, the only club where you can learn and dance salsa. Now there are copy cat Salsa places all over the town… that’s Kigali for you.”

            Virgil does not mention the first club, even a few days later when we pass the main round-about with the fountain on our way to the Ecole Belge (Belgian school) to pick up his lovely pre-teen daughter (his other daughter doesn’t do afternoon school today).

His is the story of a town he has deep roots in and even closer ties to; a town in which he employs over a hundred people, solves “the problems of my people” and entertains with “jokes and music on radio and fun, food and drinks at my clubs.”

He understands the brief; this is not about him. He explains though, that Club Passadena, like many other things in this town, has a personal connection to the genocide.

            “The place in Gikondo,” he says a few days later “used to be my brother’s house. He and his family were killed there and their house destroyed,” he goes on with a brave but sad smile. “Just a month before, he had just come from Pasadena in California, US. I built the club on the ruins of his house, so that people can meet there and have a drink, watch a show or even enjoy a massage or sauna all in the memory of my brother, the person who taught me to appreciate music when I was small; he was the only person in the neighbourhood who had a turntable. I named the club Passadena. The double S being my only addition to the name of the city he had come from.”      

            ******

It is early Saturday morning, the last of the month and Virgil Rugema starts the day by participating in the muganda, the once-a-month communal clean-up-your-neighbourhood exercise that’s one of the reasons Kigali is so clean. We’re in his neighbourhood of Kanombe, a far out of the city suburb near the Kigali International Airport, where he lives with his wife and two daughters. It has been a week of heavy rains and so the work today involves correcting the destruction the rain has left in its wake.

As he shovels sandy soil out of drains, rights leaning plants and spears dead leaves off the lawns, he seems a completely different Virgil from the one of the night before. People still seem to consult him a lot and he tends to lead the discussion at the closing.

“I am the leader of our Mudugudu in Kanombe,” he explains as we drive in his classic Toyota Land Cruiser GX to his next function at Remera Kiporosso, just a few kilometres down the road.  Mudugudu is what replaced Nyumba Kumi in the hierarchy of Rwandan local government. It’s administrative unit consisting of 30 to 50 houses. Several mudugudus make an Umurenge and a few umurenges make a Sector. “Kigali is made up of 3 sectors, namely Nyarugenge, Kicukiro, and Gasabo,” Virgil concludes the civic lesson as we arrive.

            Today, all the sectors are launching the new buildings recently erected to accommodate the nine year basic education system in all Rwanda. The function turns out to be a great gathering of people with all sector officials present. Virgil is the Emcee, a job he performs remarkably well in Kinyarwanda and French.

‘I am an emcee by profession,” explains the former Health Communication Consultant for PSI and UNICEF when I ask him how much he’s getting paid to do the job, “but this is not a job. It is my personal contribution to the community.”

*******

            Monday pm, we are in the Tele Dix (Radio 10) studios on the 4^th floor of the Tele Dix building, about four kilometres down the road from Kiporoso, at the turn off to Nyarutarama, the posh residential area of ambassadors and rich people.

Virgil is the “Lundiose Doctor” – lundiose being some kind of Monday hangover that he cures with a two hours dose of slow French music and chit chat in Kinyarwanda and French. His other shows include déjà vu 80s music programme on Fridays and a Vox Pop programme called Hanzaha (Around Us) on Sundays.

“Once in a while,” he says as he scrolls down his laptop to select the next song, “when people bring a dispute to me as mudugudu leader and fail to agree, I just record them and, with their consent, I air their problem and have listeners call in to suggest solutions. And it works!”

 “I can’t possibly live anywhere else but Kigali even though I hold two passports,” he says earnestly, “I’ll give you an example: If I walk out of my house alone with some money and I want to go out to a pub for a drink, I will always find someone to drink with in Kigali. Not so in other countries I’ve been to. I like the TURI KUMWE attitude of Rwandans. That’s why I run clubs, I could have got into any other business and made more money, but I stick to clubs…”

And does he make a lot of amafaranga as a radio DJ?

“The DJ at Passadena earns more money than me,” he says with a self effacing laugh. 

***

On Wednesdays after his shows, Virgil hops on his bicycle and, using panya routes, rides 20 km out of the city and back. Sometimes he rides 40 km out to Bugesera where he was born 47 years ago. Bugesera is also the unusually flat area beyond Lake Muhanzi and across the Akagera River, where a lot of people were slaughtered during the genocide in 94. There is a genocide memorial there, a small shopping centre, and, right next to the principal road, Virgil’s new club, Le Chantier, which is French for Under Construction.

“So far,” Virgil tells me as we drive out to the club right after the Landiose show, “only the bar, the kitchen and roast places, the children’s swings and the band stand are ready. But every weekend, the place is packed to capacity as people from Kigali flock here with their families. They sit at tables laid out on the grass and enjoy an afternoon away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Yes, they love the live band.”

Will the name change when the construction is finished?

“We’ll see,” he looks doubtful. “Fourteen hectares is a big area to finish construction on. There is still the pool, the sauna and massage places, accommodation and bigger play areas to do…”

As we drive back into Kigali, Virgil’s town, I can’t help seeing a metaphor of it in Virgil’s new club. Like Le Chantier, the city is fully functional and teeming with life; yet it is still massively le chantier.  ENDS.

© Lloyd Igane 2010     kreative@earthling.net

Where to eat a what in Kigali city

(This story was commissioned by the East African (Travel Supplement). The premier regional  paper finally published published it as Eating Out in the Land of a Thousand Brochettes but they were short of space so they cut out all the good bits. This is the raw version.)

Like in any other city the cost a cup of tea or a snack depends entirely on where one takes it.  A cup of tea at Chez John in downtown Kigali wont cost the same as a cup of tea at the Kigali Serena, One of the best ways to judge the cost of food is by following the cost of a traditional Rwandan Buffet and the cost of Rwanda’s favourite delicacy, inherited from the Belgians, no doubt, the brochette.

“Every meal has beans in it” – a new Kenyan in Kigali

Almost every eatery in Kigali offers buffet style dining. The offerings, always in covered, shiny silver warmers, vary with establishments but include white rice, coloured rice, pilau, fried and boiled bananas, peas, beans, boiled cassava, chicken, beef (fried with oil or fried without), ugali, salads, cassava leaves, cassava ugali (aka kaunga), groundnut soup, and fruit – usually a ripe banana or a tree tomato.

The cost of the buffet per person ranges from as little as little as 900 Rwf at the Rwasco Staff canteen, stabilising at 1200 to 1500 in most downtown eateries and the many “restos” of the cities. At classier establishments like the food court outside Nakumatt, the buffet comes at around 2,000 Rwf. Jus a stone’s throw up the hill, it is 2,500 Rwf at the Blues Café (powered by wifi). There are other establishment however where the buffet costs 3000 Rwf (5USD) or even 4000 Rwf (6.8 USD) at the spectacularly appointed City Valley restaurant tacked a little off the baten path, in Nyabugo, not far from the Nyabugogo cross-border bus terminus..

The hotels have their own buffets too and the cost of a plate ranges from 1500 Rwf at the Isimbi Hotel to 4,500 Rwf  (7 USD) at the Impala They also offer the luxury of a la carte, especially for the foreign guests who are not as fond of the buffet as Rwandans are.

A restaurant called Happy Rwanda offers the best Italian buffet in the city centre for as little as 3500 rwf (6 USD), just like the African buffet at most upper class establishments in the suburbs..

“Welcome to Heaven” – An usher at the entrance of Heaven, a posh restaurant in Kyovu

Few places in town offer a la carte menus. Besides serving the best coffee in Kigali (powered by wifi) Bourbon Coffee also serves juicy burgers, and cakes and sandwitches accompanied by chips. They are situated in the same building as Nakumatt (UTC), MTN Centre in Nyarutarama, and the airport. The food court at UTC building also serves chips and chicken, tea, coffee and sodas besides their Rwandan buffet; so does The Blues Café next door and Simba Restaurant just up the hill in the CogeBanque Building.

An excellent a la carte menu is to be had at Heaven Restaurant in Kyovu, just a few hundred yards from the Central Bank buildings. But the business you take there had rather be worth the price of the meal. Heaven is reassuringly expensive. Down the same road is Republika, an enchantingly pan African setting with a Rwandan slant. The food is great, the prices accommodating.

“If I see another brochette am going to commit ritual suicide on a stake,” anonymous tourist

There are no fast food places in Kigali to speak of. It is possible though, after a long walk, to find an obscure all-yellow kiosk-like food place near BCK Supermarket that makes a decent special omelette. Consisting of eggs fried with onions and tomatoes and chips, it comes in 5 minutes flat and costs 700 Rwf (1.2USD). A few bar and restaurant establishments such as Chez Venant in the city centre also serve this (not quite uniquely) Kigalian delicacy – but not in five minutes, and not at that price.

            Kigali’s and Rwanda’s official snack however, is most decidedly the ubiquitous brochette – bits of goat meat, or chicken or liver or fish alternated with fried onion and tomato and roasted on a stick. They can be eaten with roasted potatoes or chips or or baked bananas or just enjoyed on there own, and cost anywhere between 300 Rwf to 200 Rwf per stick, depending on the vendor. Every establishment with a Kitchen or just a charcoal burner will whip up these delicacies in the fastest time any food can be served in a Kigali establishment – except of course the aforementioned special omelette.

“This goat does not taste like ours” – a Kenyan customer at Car Wash

There are goat roasting places in Kigali but most are not near the city centre and certainly not as advanced as Kenya’s Carnivore or, on the other end of the scale, Kwa Njuguna or Kia Michael in Nairobi.

But there are two places that a Kenyan who can’t wait another day for the usual Nyamchom and mukimo or Ugali or even chips. One is the place called Little Kenya or Car Wash, and the other, a relatively new establishment in Kichukiro called La Place Kagarama, Both places serve –beside the regular brochette and Kinyarwanda buffet, a regular helping of goat ribs or leg for anything between 4000 Rwf (almost 7USD) and 10,000 Rwf (17 USD) depending on the size of the helping. Accompaniments cost extra. These Kenyan joints even serve Kenyan beer and occasionally include chapatti and real ugali in their buffet lunches.

Alimentations and supermarkets

Huge shopping malls and supermarkets are just now making their slow and sure  way into the Kigalian’s shopping conscience. Every neighbourhood has a little shop that sells all sorts of household needs and has a few stools that people can sit on and drink Prinus, Miitzig and Amstel beer at recommended retail prices. At the busier shopping centres like Remera, Nyamirambo, Gikondo and Kimironko, one can find mini supermarkets. The big new entrants, the Kenyan Nakumatt and the Rwandan Simba Supermarkets are the main supermarkets in the city centre. They can not be said to be in real competition because whereas Simba is famous for value, Nakumatt is known for variety and convenience – it is still the only 24 hour supermarket, in this aspect, equal only to the alimentations of a 24/7 section of Nyamirambo called Mirongo Ine.

The Chinese Supermarket T De Mille (T 2000) offers both variety and value, but not as high quality as the bigger two.

“That is expensive, it comes from Kenya,” – a Kigali clothes vendor

Most Kenyans in Kigali kick themselves when they want to buy something they forgot to buy in Kenya ornly to be told it costs more in Kigali. These include things like apparel, accessories, shoes, etc.

Generally, life is more expensive in Kigali than in Nairobi. We couldn’t understand what Kenyas were complaining about when the price of unga hit 120 Kenya shillings. Around the same time, the Kenya shilling equivalent of the same packet of Unga at Nakumatt, was about 185/-!

      

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The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to Chinyarwanda

The word for NO in Kinyarwanda can be very frustrating. You will be sitting there thinking the person you were talking with just doubted what you said and requires convincing, only to see him/her do the complete opposite of what you thought he or she just doubted you about. For the word, always pronounced in a rather laid-back and completely un-antagonistic tone to rhyme with “oh yeah?” in spoken English, is Oyaaa.

Oyaa also happens to be the response you get from most Rwandans when you propose an idea they find radically different from what they are used to. Trouble is they never tell it to you in the face. They will repeatedly tell you “Give me a call and we’ll sit down and discuss the matter” then promptly prove to be too busy to find time to “sit down” every time you call. And if you persistently fail to get a clue and doggedly continue calling, they find various reasons not to pick your call.

Not that Rwandans are much different from much of the human race in this aspect; just that they have perfected it into an art form.

In fact linguistically alone, there are many ways in which Rwandans are similar to other Bantus in the region, who will, after a while, discover Kinyaru words/ phrases that are not only phonetically but also syntactically similar to their own.

Never mind that your first encounter with Kinyarwanda will always sound like an interminable series of incomprehensible “ch” sounds followed by a few syllables and further “ch” sounds. After a while, start to recognise certain words/phrases from back home: For me, these included garura, meaning turn around, or change; Turi kumwe, meaning we are together/ we are one/ we understand one another; magana atanu for five hundred; neza for nice/good and mirongo ine, mirongo itanu, for forty and fifty respectively. Kinyarwanda’s meza however does not mean table as it does in Swahili, but is, like neza, a derivative good/nice/ sawa.

Having gone that far, the myamahanga (person from outside) may, or may not realise the significance of the aforementioned CH sounds and how many more words the Kinyarwanda speaker alienates by simply interchanging the CH sound for the K sound. So Kenya becomes Chenya, Kiswahili – Chiswahili, Kigali – Chigali, and Kinyarwanda, well, becomes Chinyarwanda.

In fact one soon realises that most Kinyarwanda words that mean the same as other Bantu words, even when spelt the same, are pronounced differently: igana for a hundred becomes ijana. Murugi, a girl’s name (yes, they have that too) becomes Muruji, and names of places like Gisenyi and Gikondo, are pronounced as Jisenyi and Jikondo respectively. As you scratch your head wondering why Magana does not become majana, a sympathetic Mnyarwanda may cut a long story short by patiently explaining that being Francophone, they have a different set of sounds from other Bantus.

Ahem.

The intrepid mnyamahanga very quickly realises that the only way to really know the language of the hills is to learn every word by ear, which could take for ever and/or total assimilation; and that the safest response to the suggestion “You must know Chinyarwanda by now” is, most advisedly, “Oh yeah?”

531 words

© Lloyd Igane 2010     kreative@earthling.net

Clueless in Kigali

Tom Sitati, my friend from Nairobi, is most apprehensive about driving in Kigali or anywhere in Rwanda for that matter. Not just because almost every car he gets into has a driver on the “wrong” side which is the right, or that all vehicles tend to drive on the “wrong” (that’s right, the right) side.
Despite his brilliance in giving his clients road maps in form of brand strategy, Tom has this yet-unnamed uneasiness about Kigali that keeps him totally rudderless whenever he visits, which is becoming more and more regular as more and more Rwandan companies see a need for his services. Probably because – and in case you haven’t noticed – Rwanda is really committed to the East African dream. Even without seeking official confirmation, one can discern, for instance, the whole country’s committed effort at communicating in English and Kiswahili like the rest of the region. So Tom has no trouble communicating with most people here, but still___.

“I have absolutely no idea,” he says of where his host, a marketing director of a trans-national firm, resides. “If he doesn’t pick me up, the taxi man just talks to him on the phone and a few turns later, we are at his house.”

Totally clueless, he knows where the building with Nakumatt Supermarket is but doesn’t know it’s called UTC. He knows we are at the MTN Centre but doesn’t know that’s in Nyarutarama. He doesn’t know how to get from either of these buildings to the other, but has faith in the transport system, the little he knows of it.

“For one, there are far less and far much shorter traffic jams here,” he reckons. “There is always a taxi whenever you need one and you get to places quickly.” True that - the beauty of a smaller town. Kigali with its approximately one million residents does not have enough cars to cause any traffic jams worth noticing by anyone used to spending hours in the mind-wrenchingly horrendous Nairobi traffic. Here, one encounters only very slight traffic jams in the old commercial side of the city especially near the public transport termini, some equally busy junctions in Nyamirambo and Remera commercial centres, and two of the main highways leading in and out of the city – and even those mainly at peak hours,

Tom says taxi to mean what is commonly referred to in Kigali as taxi voiture – a car taxi. He may not yet know that what he knows as a matatu in Kenya is also called taxi here, and is very well self-regulated even though it doesn’t have illegal gangs to keep it in line; and quite safe, even though, unlike in Kenya, no one ever made a lot of money selling compulsory safety belts to it. Always on his tight schedule and tidy expense account, Tom mostly knows Kigali from the comfort of a friend’s car or the front seat of a branded taxi variant called Kigali Taxis, whose metered fares are considered a tad more expensive but more certain than the arbitrarily negotiated ones of the common unmarked taxi, identifiable only by a small yellow wedge marked “TAXI”. He hasn’t yet enjoyed the unhurried, orderly ride of the Kigali matatu, nay, taxi, which is okay really, because it would drive him up the wall with impatience.

Although some have music systems that blare several high pitched decibels of hip hop or gospel or whatever’s on radio at you, they are not as much fun as Kenyan ones. None of them has the kind of booming high-fidelity bum-rattling, ear-splitting music of the Kenyan matatu; None stops or overtakes dangerously or “overlaps” (a Kenyan traffic police and matatu slang for overtaking a long queue of vehicles either by using the pavement or the wrong side of the road); they only stop at designated stops marked TAXI on the roadside, not wherever they see a passenger; and most of their conductors, even though sometimes a bit talkative, are not loud and unnecessarily aggressive. There are, of course – and increasingly so – a few exceptions to this rule.

They are boring.

And annoyingly slow.

Not just because they have to adhere to the Kigali City maximum speed limit of forty kilometres per hour; not even just because the Kigali public transport driver is too law-abiding to cut corners and the traffic policemen too hawk-eyed to let him. It is because the nice invariably polite conductor is always too busy - calling for customers and acting super courteous usher as he opens and closes doors for them – to get time to collect the fare while they are seated. So every time a passenger disembarks, everyone else has to sit and twiddle their fingers while the conductor looks for change for a 5000 Rwf note or argues over a worn 100 rwf note with a passenger.

And no one complains.

Tom would complain. But that would be only for a while – before he notices, as I once did, that his wallet disappeared as he disembarked at Kwa Rubangura, the usually crowded main terminus, where intrepid gangs of smooth criminals of the pickpocket persuasion relieve unsuspecting souls of their cash, phones and jewellery. These criminal gangs must have learned their trade in the Nairobi, Kampala or even Muqdisho backstreets because they use the same old tricks that never fail: squeezing past you as you board or disembark public transport, or bumping into you in crowded streets; or distracting drivers of cars in slow moving traffic with dubious sales pitches or vague warning signals while their accomplices grab handbags, laptops and smart phones…

Tom wouldn’t opt for the other alternative motorised transport either – the ubiquitous motor bike taxi (a.k.a. moto in Kigalispeak). He would probably find them boring too. Although quite a convenient way to get around cheaply, the moto won’t eagerly weave in and out of several lanes of traffic at crazy angles to jump the traffic queue like it would in Nairobi. The moto is also a bit dangerous in the wrong hands, and not just in the intrepid sense of the word – a fact quite a few people have confirmed only in flashback as they recover in hospital, having arrived in ambulatory states, their nostrils and mouths still full of gritty sand and/or bits of tarmac after sudden moto accidents. “It happened too fast,” is the first thing they say when you ask what happened.

“What impresses me most about them,” says Tom idly, “is how they each carry a spare helmet for the passenger.”

Of course – where he comes from, most motorbike taxis – just like the boda-boda (bicycle) taxis – never have helmets and don’t venture into policed areas as they may be charged or extorted or both.

He would be more impressed if he knew the stencilled number on the helmet and cape of each bike operator is some kind of bar code identifying the operator, his taxi, his base, and what zone he can solicit for business. Tom would also be amazed at the reasonableness of the moto’s seemingly arbitrary charges.

“Maybe it’s this hour one loses on the flight,” Tom opines, suddenly shifting perspective like a Douglas Adams storyline as he frantically fiddles with the controls of his smart little phone. “One leaves Nairobi at 6.15 Kenyan time, flies for an hour, and lands here at 6.15 Rwandan time,” he observes, still fiddling with the little phone.

“It stubbornly refuses to stick to Rwandan time,” he says of the phone clock. “Whenever I set it to GMT +2, it quickly sneaks back to GMT +3!”

The smart little phone probably feels a little rudderless too – not entirely unreasonable for one suddenly flung one hour back in the space-time continuum. 

©Lloyd Igane 2009

A Christmas Carol for PK

“How do you survive there?” asked 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 had asked him then.

But thanks to a freak accident involving a royal mix-up in a client’s production schedules and the application of massively misinterpret-able section of the Kenyan matrimonial law, my daughters and I had an early Christmas in Nairobi (November 25 to December 14th). After lighting our tree on the 9th, we had placed gifts under it and opened them at will – without those restrictions of waiting till the sighting of a moon or a star!.

That’s how I ended up spending Christmas in Kigali, with only a lap top, a mute television set and Jeffrey Archer’s Cat ‘O Nine Tales for company, which turned out to be a good thing, With most Kigalians having gone to church and back to their houses (Christmas is no big deal here; only the hyperactive Kenyans and Ugandans in Kigali take it too seriously by going back home to feast with their relatives) I was king of my hillside and could now turn to matters “political”.

Thus, I came 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 Awards 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 conferences. 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” that does not and has a strict zero tolerance to corruption policy.

For those unfamiliar with dictator speak, that means his zero tolerance to corruption means exactly that: going for the big fish too 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 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 has 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 snivelling, resource grabbing sell-outs that’s the stock of most other African leaders! Now that’s my theory and I am sticking with it. Consequently, I have no choice but to urge all African leaders to imitate him.
©Lloyd Igane, Kigali 2009

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

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