Kenya: what unites and divides?

Another Saturday has ticked by. On Friday, Saturday had a sense of relaxed ease, heightened by a knowledge that nothing needed to be achieved. Now, it has been enveloped in the prison of Kenya – Time - a constant restriction, which frustrates all foreigners and unites all Kenyans. Here, time doesn’t matter. In Kenya there will be no white rabbit running whispering "I'm late! I'm late! For a very important date". Here, time is a stretchy phenomenon that can change, twist and distort at someone’s wishes. Helpless to this fact, Saturday has seen me waiting for 5 hours for a gentleman to fix my internet. My attitude has been in a constant state of flux. The initial stage was characterised by a resigned acceptance, followed by a growing fury that has now subsided into a simple desire for another cup of tea to quell the anguish. 

Eventually the man arrived, with a wonderfully cheery grin spanning from ear to ear, exclaiming, “pole”. This, translated directly from Kiswahili means sorry however it is a testament to the dreaded ‘T’ word that when repeated twice “pole-pole” means slowly. It is as if the language itself wants to apologise for the snail-paced attitude so integral to existence here. One has to wonder how business, politics and events can succeed when the general assumption is that everything runs behind schedule. The answer is simple: unity. Everyone acts on the proviso of time being elastic and as a consequence life in itself is elastic too. This pole-pole existence is perfect for the relaxed life of a holiday goer but when a job needs doing the joy of ‘Africa Time’ slowly strangles.

"Hakuna matata, what a wonderful phrase!"

“Hakuna matata”, the average Kenyan would reply to such vocal protests, paying tribute to the Lion King with its reference to a problem-free philosophy of no worries. “Sit down and eat a portion of ugali and sukamawiki, then all will be better.” Here we have yet another instance of concord, achieved solely by a love of the national dish. When travelling up-country in Kenya, it is common to hear people, especially men, declare a meal cannot be classified as a ‘meal’ without ugali. Ugali, a strange grey carbohydrate made from maize, has a play-dough texture with little to offer apart from a tendency to fill you up. Yet it seems a significant addition to characterising national identity. In many countries food has the ability to unite: in England family roast dinners bring generations together on a Sunday; in France endless hours drawl by between interludes of wine, cheese and baguette; in Kenya food is sustenance whose prime role is to get you through the day. Food becomes synonymous with money, coining the metaphor it’s our turn to eat.

This brings me to the division that is arguably still rife within Kenyan society. The proverb it’s our turn to eat refers to the insatiable desire of Kenyans (read: politicians) for money, and their wish to only fill the mouths of greedy friends and family sharing their tribal identity. My life in Mombasa seems far removed from this unhappy truth however this week has opened up the harsh realities of tribal conflict – curled up in a hammock on my balcony, overlooking the parched school grass field, I have been slowly devouring the book ‘It’s Our Turn to Eat’ (Michaela Wrong, 2009), a gripping exposé of Kenyan corruption and tribalism.

A map of Kenya's tribes

The diverse land of Kenya, spanning from the arid deserts of the North to the game-ridden national parks of the South, is home to approximately 40 groups. A patchwork cloth of different tribes, Kenya seems to envelope visitors in a shroud of wonder with its various identities. Ask any Kenyan and they would happily recite the stereotypes. Masaai are proud warriors, brave and eager to protect their community. Kikuyu are ruthless, overambitious social climbers, desperate to reach their goals (and money). Kambas are loyal to their friends – the perfect gardener or guard. In fact, you can even listen to jokes whose sole purpose is to ridicule a given tribe and their stereotypical characteristics: Luos drive expensive cars, but live in the backseat; Kikuyus own junk cars, then drive home to posh farms. Maasai sell their cars - for cattle! (The Namibian newspaper, 2007) And within these labels, hidden under anyone’s gags, is the tacit knowledge that all Kenyans will support and advance the opportunities of their own clansman. Wrong (2009) suggests it is an “us against the rest” (pg 55) mentality - a members club where inclusion cannot be bought, earned or won – rather it is defined by tribe.

Yet, let’s turn back the clock to my first experience of Kenya five years ago in the summer of 2007. Corruption seemed a faint shadow hidden under the proud statue of optimism. Driving through Kisii countryside on a matatu as a student volunteer, the rolling hills suggested a freedom within democracy, while the sparkling corrugated iron hut roofs indicated the flashes of hope in the minds of my friends and colleagues. Gusiis, the Kisii-based tribe, are known for their temperamental spirit and outgoing persona – it felt I was welcomed into the fold with open arms. Everyone seemed confident of an Odinga win in the presidential elections, symbolising an ‘out with the old and in with the new’ attitude. The shift from a greedy, inefficient Kikuyu president to a sturdy, dominant Luo was welcomed by all and this enthusiasm was infectious. It was therefore a horrific shock when I switched on the TV in December to find scenes of bloody violence sparked by the rigging (and subsequent re-election of Kibaki) in the 2007 elections. People who were once living next to each other in harmony as neighbours, were shattering each others’ lives at the call of power-hungry politicians belonging to their tribe. The comment made by the previous president, Moi “tribal roots go much deeper than the shallow flower of democracy”, suddenly seemed to ring true.

Since then Kenya has been endeavouring to rebuild its nation. The common sight of burning shacks, bloodied faces and gesticulating MPs in December 2007 has now been replaced by a resigned acceptance. Politicians are attempting to airbrush over the cracks. Raila Odinga told British parliamentarians “We have been to hell and back, [but] Kenyans now finally know and understand one another”. This statement seems optimistically deceptive given the recent riots in Mombasa and the general apathy of the population when discussing the 2013 elections. When speaking to one friend he declared Kenyans have lost hope, with no saviour figure to rally around. Even more frightening is the fact that both Ruto and Kenyatta, politicians who are currently being tried for inciting violence in 2007 under the International Criminal Courts, are both standing for office in the up-and-coming elections. This in itself is indicative of the power held by the elite few in power – they are clearly sticking up two fingers to any feeling of accountability.

Where then, is the hope which will unite Kenyans who are coming out of the atrocities of 2007? The steadfast teacher in me would like to answer “Education”. Since teaching in Mombasa, I have had the privilege to converse with students regarding the challenges of Kenyan life. My students are the lucky few: wealthy parents, regular travelling opportunities and education in an international, diverse setting. This fosters an ability for them to look at their own country with relatively critical eyes. In a lesson of Global Citizenship I asked the simple question “What is your identity?” All students, whether Giriama, Kalenjin, Indian, Kikuyu, or Arab, placed “being a Kenyan” as more important than their tribal alliance. If education can nurture a growing sense of national pride and allow for the integration of people across ethnicity, then potentially Kenya can crawl out of its hole created by endless politicians digging for gold. Those who are educated will begin to vote with their principles rather than the alliances and bribes tying them to local, same-tribe politicians. This will take time and the vision of an honest government putting money in the right places. Cynics argue it will never happen. Idealists see the implementation of the new constitution as the first step on the long road battling against this corruption.

I, on the other hand, have another solution to add to the melting pot. I will host a big, long party inviting all Kenyans to munch on a feast of endless ugali. Their universal love of the staple food would surely override any tribal grievances…  I’m just afraid no one would turn up on time!

Elizabeth Gunstone a.k.a. the mzungu in Mombasa.

"An E.T. figure who has been adopted into the family of Africa"

Africa’s roots have slowly twisted into my existence. The everyday calls of “mzungu” (directly translated from Kiswahili as “white person”, although rumour asserts it originally meant leper) seem like a faint hum that signal both a familiarity as well as my status as an outsider.  Yet, one could argue this is the perfect place to be. I am a guest, looking through a keyhole into an ever-evolving country, with the benefit of having the status of an employee. I like to see the label on my ID - “Kenyan alien” - as a term of endearment. An E.T. figure who has been adopted into the family of Africa, ready to learn about the madness of the continent as someone who was, up to a year ago, totally unfamiliar to the surroundings. At times of frustration the “alien” may morph into a Martian, turning red in anger at the points of corruption or inefficiency, however the opportunity to embrace, and learn from, a foreign culture is a privilege.

A wall on a hotel in the Mozambiquan resort of Bilene

I can already preempt the cynical few of you rolling eyes and suggesting a throw-back to British colonialism: white person enters Kenya with aims to make social commentary. How can this possibly be wise? My thoughts turn to a bright blue painted wall of a South-African resort I visited in Mozambique, which stated “shining a light on a dark continent”. While I’d like to see my writing as an attempt to illuminate a very complex place, I would never use the word “dark” to describe such a vibrant, forgiving and open culture.  I therefore state a very simple proviso to reading this blog. Do it with the knowledge I wish to understand Kenya, and through this process learn about my role within it. As an African proverb states “A guest sees more in an hour than the host does in a year”, and while I am not motivated to criticise the host, I do believe an outside perspective on a situation is often unique.

“What perspective might I tell of the last 12 months?” you may ask. My last year in Kenya seems too enormous to begin to analyse so, contrasting to the stereotype of an English teacher, I have decided to tell that story in numbers.

4 marmite jars consumed

1 police officer bribed

1 Kenyan film starred in

3 marriage proposals received

2 kindles broken

2 kittens adopted

11 beach boys scowled at

1 Kenyan boyfriend found

17kg (approximate) weight of soapstone purchased

1 campsite broken into

5 overnight, 15 hour, buses to Kisii travelled on

96 (approximate) calls of “howareyou?fine” heard

3 headteachers of school employed

5 African countries visited

1 crazy preacher listened to (for a bus journey of 12 hours)

1 surf lesson completed

1 broken shoe lost in a squat toilet

3 African dresses tailored

1353 (approximate) lessons taught

1 wicked witch acted

Now, after returning to my African home of a year, I am reawakening my appreciation of the intricacies of Mombasa life. In the morning the soft ocean waves can be heard outside the school compound as my alarm slowly beeps my day into existence. In the evening the call to prayer often gives a calmness and routine to the quickly-descending sun, beckoning the night’s cloak to envelope the city. Often the days seem to roll by. A flurry of pantomime rehearsals, choir practise and lesson planning speeds forward the weekend, giving endless food for fodder.

This weekend was a weekend of contrast. Saturday marked the life of a settled, British expat. As a mzungu in Mombasa one thing is for certain - we cling together. The invite to a St George’s Society fundraiser popped up on Facebook a few weeks ago, giving me ample opportunity to dismiss the named “paralytic Olympics” as not-my-style. Yet, the spark of food, drink and friends soon lit a fire of interest. Strolling into the luxurious compound of a wealthy acquaintance, I was greeted by an endless array of union jack merchandise and a handful of tipsy mzungu team players. The standard British ploughmans lunch was replaced with Kenyan bitings, consisting of roast beef, tomato salad and eggs. Before long I was hooked! Throughout the last year I have grown to accept the fact I do, at times, crave British company. The knowledge of shared experience, humour and food certainly brings people together. Surrounded by 30 other white people it is obvious I actually fit, for once blending into the scenery, rather than sticking out like a sore thumb. So while I will not be embracing St George’s passion by slaying a dragon or singing “God Save our Queen”, it certainly is a pleasure to reconnect with loose ties from a distant land – afterall I did miss the British Olympics so I might as well relish the opportunity to participate in the Kenyan version!

Solo walk on "school beach"

Sunday was a true day of rest – as it should be. Bright sunshine awoke me, pouring through my windows with an eager persistence, determined to force a start to the morning. The pull of the Mombasa coastline is hard to resist when the sky is a bright, glaring blue and the heat in the apartment is close and oppressive. Strolling along the beach shore I, as always, became the luminous mzungu in the crowd of African faces. The standard greeting of “jambo” rang out occasionally, as a confident beach boy attempted to ensnare another foreign victim.  Nevertheless, there is nothing more magic than being an observer on an African beach, even if you can never hide in anonymity.

My closest beach is an empty, fisherman’s haven, devoid of tourists and peaceful in its silence. A gradual walk along sea-weeded rocks to the tourist hotels uncovers a variety of sights: occasional glimpses of a Kenyan couple hiding from the judging eyes of any passerby; the companionship of a fisherman duo, searching for their next catch; the warm smiles of a family, on an outing to uncover Mombasa’s rockpools. Yet best of all is the excitement which descends as the sun begins to drop. Families, boys, teenagers, lovers and friends spill onto the beach after Sunday worship, taking ownership of the sand with their loud exploits.  Dodging glistening, rippling bodies became my afternoon’s pursuit as endless football games evolved around the ground I walked on - people entrapping the foreigner with shouts of delight.

Home, sweet home

The relief is palpable when returning, knowing I can shut the door on the craziness, shower and unwind in my haven of home. In my small bubble of Mombasa existence I can combine the mzungu luxuries of running water and a cup of builders tea, with the joy of observing the simplicities of true human interaction and energy. I realise that you don’t need a fancy villa and an archaic membership society to enjoy yourself, merely the presence of good company and a beach – I have to admit though, it’s nice to have the best of both worlds!