Nyanchera - on the path in Rwanda

"I have been accosted by two curious children
- Perpetua Nyariki and Hikdah Nyariki"

December has been a sea of visiting people. The waves envelop, expand and distort your expectations and attitudes. I've been lucky enough to be embraced by a Rwandan, Ugandan and Kenyan family in turn, enjoying their hospitality and warmth. Even at this moment, having returned to Kenya, I have been accosted by two curious children - Perpetua Nyariki and Hildah Nyariki - demanding their name to be written and put into black and white on the computer. Hildah's face lights up with a cheeky smile while her eyes glare at the moving cursor on the screen. Perpetua, on the other hand, is reading out every word in a robotic fashion, desperate to understand the meaning, although unsure of the hidden intricacies. I am left feeling like an exhibit in a museum, a piece of interest, yet something too foreign to completely connect with. The process of writing becomes an active mechanism to engage. They cling onto words that they understand and write:

lizzy nyanchera is  working     in  the  bed 

I am certainly not in the bed; instead I am sat at a wooden table in a living room adorned with maps of the world, calendars and thermos flasks of chai tea. Yet I can't help feeling a pleasure in their determined wish to share the process. Their inclusion of my Kisii name, "Nyanchera", suggests a level of acceptance into a life which, until five years ago, was completely unknown to me. I was given this name by an enthusiastic Physics teacher - I only later realised the implications of its meaning. Apparently I am "a girl who is born on the path", a stranger on the road who is intent on travelling and perhaps someone more comfortable moving on than staying put. So how does this reconcile with my intentions of staying in Kenya?

Inevitably I have to intertwine travel with my aspirations to build a life here. How better to start this than in the month of December when I flew off to share a Rwandan wedding with the Rusagara family and a good friend from the UK, Jodie.

The beginning of our 'Bisoke' trek
in "the land of a thousand hills"

Rwanda is a magical country, laced with fast-running streams meandering along lush green pastures, which peak like bulbous mounds, reaching hopefully to the sky. It is commonly known as "the land of a thousand hills" - a tourist phrase which does not do justice to the endlessly changing views that switch with every step up and down the sloping landscapes. Jodie and I decided to broach the second highest peak, Bisoke, on a day's trek of utter pain. Our bravado at the beginning was soon banished, to be replaced by weary legs, which were desperate for a break from the tedium of walking through slippery mud, damp air and jungly terrain. Soon, having separated from Jodie (with our different paces), my only company was the silent presence of John - a non-English speaking, surly guide. Yet his outstretched hand was a much needed support, offering stability and direction to an otherwise lonely walk. Never before, have I felt so much comfort in the simple, silent touch of a stranger. Looking back now, this quiet reassurance seems to represent the attitude of Rwandans. They certainly do not have the cocky confidence of Kenyans, nor the elegant beauty of Ethiopians, however their unwavering support, seemingly given unconditionally, is a rarity not often found in Africa. One can't help feeling that this warmth is a beautiful by-product exuding from the ashes of their fiery past.

"The genocide appears to be a cloaked figure"
even at a Rwandan wedding!

The genocide appears to be a cloaked figure, often hiding behind the corners in conversation, unwittingly appearing at moments where you least expect it. Watching the stunning figure of a bright yellow clad bridesmaid, gliding down the aisle at the wedding, I was informed she was an orphan whose parents were both slaughtered during the atrocities of the early 1990s. Our host figure, while munching on delicious food, explained how Rwandans feel a privilege in eating as they have lived through times of uncertainty where the next meal on the table is never guaranteed. As a back-story to a nation, the genocide is truly frightening yet I cannot help but feel an admiration for a country which now, less than twenty years later, appears to be knitting together its wounds and channelling the energy of this healing into creating a country of unity.

Not until my visit did I realise how arbitrary the tribal groupings of Hutu vs Tutsi truly were. I.D. cards introduced by the Belgians in 1932 identified people based on their socio-economic status. If you owned ten cows, a sign of wealth, you were the Rwandan elite (often from the north of the country with the characteristic pointed nose and tall figure to match) - the Tutsi. Alternatively, if you owned less than ten cows, you were the Rwandan mass (often seen as Bantu farmers with the characteristic wide nose) - the Hutu. These unnecessary distinctions were avidly studied by the colonial powers, who seemed desperate to underpin the continent with boundaries, definitions and categories. Soon the categories took root and began to stick. Between 1959 and 1973 ethnic cleansing occurred, with over 700,000 Tutsi deaths. This led to an exodus of Tutsis from the country, for example the father and mother of my host family had spent most of their formative life in the confines of Congo as refugees, with no official status or citizenship.

"We are coming to live by force with those whom we have robbed everything". A picture depicting Kagame leading the RPF over the coffins of Hutus.

Despite knowing about these precursors to violence - the "rehearsal" of genocide - it seemed the international community were unprepared (or unwilling) to act until it was too late. The  frightening truth of ingrained prejudice brought about by social groupings was demonstrated by terrifying acts of violence. "We... say to the hyenzi (cockroaches) that if they lift their hands again, it will no longer be necessary to go fight the enemy in the bush. We will start by illuminating the internal enemy. They will disappear". "Disappear" seems tame in comparison to the truth: fathers killed their Tutsi wives, in fear of Hutu reprisal; children were subjected to watching their parents die, with their own torture soon to follow; Tutsi and Hutu neighbours who had lived together as brothers resorted to violence as the only option. This blind carrying out of orders is described in psychological terms by Milgram (1963), who suggests that perpetrators are seen as 'agents' of authority, devoid of responsibility as they act as automatons, simply following instructions. A child survivor of the genocide reflected this when discussing the death of her parents, she stated "Tutsis were no longer human beings then". Victims became faceless and acts of violence consequently seemed meaningless. While Kofi Annan, the (then) Secretary General of the United Nations admits the international community were "guilty of sins of omission", this merely scratches the surface of the level of responsibility that should be placed on the shoulders of Western powers. The Belgians created the distinctions. The French supported the Habyrimana Interahamwe militia. The UN watched a massacre happening, withdrawing all of their forces. 

So travelling through Rwanda became a truly humbling experience. We only received kindness in a country previously torn by hostility. Rwandans seem intent on independently sorting out the mess of the past. The Rwandan Memorial Centre is a beacon perched on top of a hill in Kigali, housing over 500,000 Tutsi remains. While the building itself is a reminder of hideous behaviour which has the ability to ensnare a country, the people themselves also recognise this too. Now, to even use the tribal categories "Hutu" and "Tutsi" in Rwanda is seen as a social misdemeanour. Instead, people classify themselves as "Rwandan", proud to stand under the president Kagame, the past-leader of the Tutsi rebel group RPF, who fought for the acceptance of his people. Hearsay suggests he occasionally wanders the streets of Kigali, in commoner clothes without a presidential entourage, engaging with his people (and, rumour has it, telling off Westerners who are wearing revealing clothing). It is only recently he has been censured by Western powers for his actions in war-ridden Congo. Instead of kow-towing to the sanctions, he has stated strongly that Rwanda will attempt its own economic development, without the purse-strings of the West.

I admire this independence. I admire a country who knows what its policies are. I admire people who are able to stand up for their beliefs.

I am equally apprehensive to be living in a country unable to do these things. With the New Year comes a Kenyan election and a new Kenyan president. I can only hope Kenya aspires to have the steadfast honesty attempted in Rwanda (that will be another entry for another time....)

A story of love...

Balliol College - my University home.

I grew up in middle class, rural England, enjoying a sheltered life in which I was always encouraged to believe in my own abilities. Being accepted into one of Britain’s world-class universities was like a dream come true however the cracks began to appear during my second year. “Healthy” competition gradually became stifling and I had a growing sense of unease. The once-fun social events I loved became distorted in my mind as opportunities for judgement where I was never cool enough, slim enough or clever enough. My teenage self sought an escape from the critical environment I had become accustomed to. I enrolled in a volunteering programme to be placed in a rural Kenyan secondary school for three months over the summer.

Africa does wonders to settle your mind. My hut was overlooking a stunning vista of rolling hills and tea plantations, with corrugated iron roofs sparkling in the sunshine. The constant smiles of passing strangers, in brightly coloured material, seemed to offer a reassurance I had never felt at University. Looking back now, there is a level of irony in the fact a developing country, with basic facilities and few creature comforts could provide such a rest from the rat race of England.

The headteacher of the school, Mwalimu (teacher) Moywaywa, seemed to embody the open-hearted mentality of Kenyans. A liberal, educated man, he chose to disregard the corruption embedded in the Kenyan education system. While other headmasters were wrangling for an influential position with their MP, he was working alongside teachers to utilise the limited funding (which wasn’t siphoned into the pockets of power) for the good of the school.

The Moywaywa family farm, set amongst the Kisii highlands

Meanwhile, he made efforts to support me as a ‘mzungu’ volunteer. Our conversations seemed to bounce back and forth with the liveliness of a Wimbledon finals match. He’d listen with such attentiveness I’d feel caught in his stare, allowing myself to open up in a way I failed to do at University. Little acts of kindness, like washing my lantern or handpicking me a home-grown avocado, soon became meaningful in my mind – before long I was smitten. Regardless of the obvious connection between us, his role as a husband and father always took precedence. I left Kenya with powerful memories but knowing nothing was possible between us.

Over the course of the next three years I drifted in and out of casual relationships but nothing compared to the enigma of ‘The Kenyan Headmaster’. We’d occasionally talk on the phone but these chats would be coupled with tension and a fast-beating heart. Though I felt I had found my purpose training as an English teacher in an inner city school, the tug of Africa still remained.

Feeling trapped (and overworked) in a London school I applied on a whim to seven teaching jobs across Africa. As if fate wanted to speak to me, I only received two interviews and one acceptance; all were in Kenya.

Arriving in Kenya a year ago I found a recently widowed head teacher, desperately seeking companionship.  My expected adventure of seaside sunshine on Kenya’s coastline became overshadowed by intense dialogues with the man I loved. At the first opportunity I chose to visit him, braving the 15-hour bus journey, to offer support and consolation. With a speed so unexpected and tense, our first kiss happened, fraught with nervous energy. Suddenly the magnitude of such a relationship hit me. African traditional values seeped into my head and thoughts spiraled from being a surrogate mother of four kids to fulfilling the ‘African mama’ role of endlessly cooking and wearing bright African fabrics.

African fabrics of Zanzibar - ready for some tailor made dresses!

This year has been a long journey of attempting to figure out how to characterise our relationship. His patience is admirable. He does not expect me to be a typical African lady, and while there is caution voiced by both his family and community, the knowledge of his acceptance quietens my fears.  When we are together it feels like we click on a level beyond race, age and nationality. It reverts back to our original encounter where he nurtured my self-belief and encouraged me to be confident in who I really am.

Spot the mzungu?

The paradox of this statement is that ‘who I really am’ in Kenya is an outsider. Shouts of “mzungu” follow me wherever I step and my skin colour will always set me apart from the rest. While I realise this is immaterial to our relationship, it is a challenge to know a life with him will mean I never truly fit in. Yet, in a strange way this chapter of my life has taught me an important lesson. ‘Fitting in’ is not necessarily something one needs to strive for. Instead, having confidence in yourself should be rooted in your own personal interpretation of a situation rather than other people’s judgements. 

I have therefore allowed Africa’s roots to embed and thrive. After being here for one year I am tied to a meaningful life and a strong relationship. It is him that has given me this self-assurance, and for that I will always be thankful. We are like a yin-yang– as separate parts we do not look like a couple, in fact many people would look at us and disregard the relationship as incompatible; too much of a contrast. Yet together, as a pair, we love and complement each other. At the moment I am willing to invest in the partnership, accept the judgements inevitably made by his community and cherish the role we have in each other’s life.

I am trying to embrace the Kenyan way - as they often say in Kiswahili, ‘Hakuna Matata’ (no worries).

These associations - drifting between the UK and Kenya

As a lone traveller returning to home soil, there is a certain level of unease and tension. Of course, the excitement of seeing friends/family and having a good ‘ole English cuppa cannot be beaten but one cannot help feeling that the cries of “Jambo” followed by an over-bearing grin will be missed. There is a worry that the mould which shaped and developed your personality will no longer match the product – instead the product may have been distorted by time in the African continent.

On returning, the English reserve appears to be a dish you have to gradually heat up after time away. You initially feel put-out by the cold courtesy; its only when you give the interaction time do you realise the politeness hides a warm honesty which exudes. This is a direct contrast to the gregarious spark of Kenyans, who seem to embrace a universal (African) right to enter into communication with anyone. As a consequence, within the space of a 2 hour matatu bus journey you have: held a child for a struggling mother, debated the presidential election race and talked about your life-ambitions with three separate people. You begin to see any outing as an opportunity to share moments with strangers – something not often experienced within life in the UK.

Stepping into my tinpot car, christened Marge the Nissan, becomes an adventure into human interaction. Entering the car, heat envelopes and already the journey seems an effort to resist the elements of Kenya – abnormally large potholes, swerving motorbikes and dusty drives are common occurrences. Yet the challenge always seems bearable because of a small habit which is indicative of my embracing Kenyan charm. My routine runs like clockwork. First, turn right out of the driveway. Next, turn left onto Kenyatta avenue. Third (the most important part), wait at the junction to the main road. Here is where my relationship with David has developed. I am welcomed into my journey by a corner-side fruit seller with a huge smile, spanning ear-to-ear, and a wonderfully joyous call of “Hello Elizabeth!”  This simple action occurs every time I leave, or enter my neighbourhood. It’s a sequence I long for, signaling a belonging, however superficial, to a community and a country. When David is not there, I feel a gap in my journey. It will not be the same.

I can categorically say I never had such a precious routine while entering any of the places I lived within the UK.

But I took the step. I returned back home after a 10 month gap, secretly hoping it would settle my growing inclination to begin to build a life in Africa. What was I expecting to feel? Something similar to being a tourist – feeling like I could embrace life in England as a holiday, before returning to the normality of Mombasa. I relished seeing family, going for long walks in the countryside and being lucky enough to experience a good-friend’s wedding yet the event that made the biggest impact was a visit to the Tate Modern. Completely unexpectedly, I was thrown back to the simple beauty of speaking to strangers.

One of Britain's gems - The Tate Modern

The turbine hall in the Tate is always impressive.  A cavernous space, overwhelming in its ability to dwarf a visitor. When entering, you feel an awe in the industrial piping, concrete floor and its sheer scale of size. It’s not a space which embraces the monotony of usual gallery-behaviour – drones wandering from one picture to the other, craning over someone’s head to glimpse a masterpiece. Instead, any exhibition there has to make a statement: a huge black box, a mammoth crack in the floor or a swollen orange sun are all pieces which have exhibited over the years. This was different.  

The Turbine Hall - "a cavernous space, overwhelming
in its ability to dwarf a visitor"

As we walked down the stairs closer to the hall, a murmur of 30-40 soft voices singing in unison began to drift into our hearing. Already, there was a peace in their calm ability to share a moment. Straining to hear the words, we found fragments which stood out: “technological development”, “humans”,  “environment”. By then, we were in amongst the performers, experiencing the spiritual song as it washed over us. They had begun to rotate around the room, in set patterns, moving from side-to-side in a concerted effort to follow one another – to act as a unit. Suddenly, a change of lighting occurred. Now, they started to follow the observers, zig-zaging around us as we moved up and down the hall as if we were part of their shared experience. This effect was heightened when unexpectedly a lady detached herself from the group, looked us directly in the eye and began to tell her story. In the space of a ten minute conversation we heard about her fractured relationship with her father, her parent’s divorce and the emotional resolution she had recently experienced regarding her past. All this was discussed in a fleeting communication, as surprising in its spontaneity as it was in its speedy end. Once the moment had naturally reached a conclusion, our new-found-friend turned on her heel, with no goodbye pleasantries, and returned to the business of striding across the space with the others.  

The piece, entitled These Associations, by the Anglo-German artist Tino Sehgal, seemed to distort the expected, using the intangible stuff of stories to create art, rather than the obvious mediums of canvas, sculpture or installation. For Chris Dercon, the director of Tate Modern, it is "the most complex, difficult and dangerous project we have ever put into this museum" (The Guardian, 23^rd July 2012). He cites an awkwardness experienced by the viewer, who may find being stopped by a stranger uncomfortable. This was far from my personal experience. Throughout our time at the Tate we returned back to the exhibition space like a magnet, mesmerised by the power evoked through a simple connection with strangers. Within the afternoon we had the opportunity to hear three different people’s thoughts, knowing they were part of an art-piece, but also realising they were giving us a little ditty of their life – a token to be treasured.  It was a moving interaction, powerful in its ability to emphasise the virtue of being open to others.

Largely, the experience made me thankful to be returning to Kenya, knowing that this openness is common amongst all (or most) rather than a set piece exhibited by few in a world famous art gallery.

A Blast from the Past

For the best part of my life in Mombasa I live in the moment. Flitting from one thing to the next, life seems full to the brim with endless activities. Recently, it has been my role within the local theatre society’s pantomime  ‘Humpty Dumpty’ which has ballooned into my evening time. Rehearsals currently occur in a friend’s back garden, with the night slowly drawing in, and her extensive array of animals giving an ear in listening to the evening’s proceedings. I am the Captain. As the male love interest, I attempt to capture the Princess Penelope’s heart, ignoring my lowly status to woo the stunning beauty. While the power of the army has never appealed, I now get to concoct a life of routine, marching and giving orders. I clomp around giving a persona of feigned importance, failing to exude anything but comedy in my attempt to convey the intricacies of army life. It is curious to think that it was less than 60 years ago that British officers were within Kenya doing it for real.

Mau Mau rebels celebrate their victory

Reading the BBC news last week I was reminded of that fact. History forcefully assaulted my ability to live in the moment and I was left feeling rather humbled, thinking about the atrocities of colonial-rule Kenya in the 1950s. Last week, on Friday 5^th October, the British government finally accepted liability for the brutal acts of torture and humiliation enforced against the Mau Mau rebels during the fight for Kenyan independence - a landmark case as it was the first time Britain had been sued by a former colony. The Mau Mau rebel group was formed by disenchanted Kikuyu people whose land had been snatched by white settlers. According to Harvard academic Ervine, the British colonial powers, as retaliation to the rebel’s demands, detained almost the entire Kikuyu population and deprived the detainees of food, almost to the point of famine – arguably as a tactic to maintain control and restore their mission of civilizing the population. By the time the rebels were defeated in 1956 the death toll stood at approximately 13,500 Africans compared to 100 Europeans. It is a pleasant surprise (if not miracle) therefore, that walking down the road in Mombasa, there seems little animosity felt towards the British, or the colonial powers.

Where has the negative energy from such violence been channeled, one may wonder? It seems to have transformed into an overriding wish for justice by the rebels. Mr Wa Nyingi, a Mau Mau veteran who had been imprisoned for 9 years under brutal conditions said "I have brought this case because I want the world to know about the years I have lost and what was taken from a generation of Kenyans.” One can appreciate the pain of such proceedings in having to re-live the memories in pursuit of holding Britain accountable and increasing awareness worldwide.

I am therefore shocked to the point of incredulity by the failure of the Kenyan press to cover such a landmark story. I eagerly bought a copy of the Saturday Nation at the weekend to track the newspaper coverage of the revelation. Flicking through the newspaper, the article was conspicuous in its absence. My surprise bubbled with the knowledge that the aims of the Mau Mau rebels were being flouted by the very country which should support them. Yes, I realise that as a British ‘alien’ in Kenya, I should be wary of any article sparking such anti-British sentiment, yet half of me wanted to publicise the news from the rooftops.

It is with this conviction I decided to write this blog entry. Not as a Brit apologising for the brutality of the 1950s genocide (I realise I am just one small figure in a very big ocean on that account), but merely as a pseudo-journalist trying to cover a news story which the Kenyan press omitted with what appears to be purposeful ignorance.