“Be always a question mark” – Ben Okri



"Lying in bed overlooking my Rift Valley view"

At times it is easy to sink into routine, to become enveloped in the daily events of marking books, watching the West Wing or lying in bed overlooking my Rift Valley view. Yet occasionally there is a formidable power in stepping back and reflecting, questioning the fundamentals you prioritise and figuring out how to re-address the balance.

Now seems like the perfect opportunity to do that. I have been living, working and dreaming my new school. Any attempt to escape the confines of the compound is flouted by: no travel after dark rules, parent’s visiting days or the clawing (self-inflicted) pressure to be seen as ‘continually sociable’. However, this weekend I have succeeded. Here I am, alone, overlooking a stunning dam in the middle of a Kericho tea plantation with only the sound of birds and insects for company. 

Interestingly, the memory I re-play is one from my return to London over the summer. Curled up on a comfy sofa in the gift shop of The Tate, with an invisible string connecting me back here, to Africa, the words of the writer Ben Okri rang home:

“Africa is a challenge to the humanity and sleeping wisdom of the world. It is an eyeball-challenging enigma. Africa reveals what most hides in people. It reveals their courage or cowardice, their complacency or their conscience, their smallness or their generosity. Faced with Africa, nothing of what you truly are can hide. Africa brings to light the true person beneath their politeness, their diplomacy or their apparent good intention.”

So, my day of questioning begins: What is the enigma? What is being revealed about me? What am I attempting to hide? Unfortunately the answers appear intangible, out of grasp, away from my reaching hand. After a 6 year relationship with this country, have I stopped thinking? Developing? It almost feels like the intricate sketch-lines reflecting my personal relationship with Kenya are being slowly erased, rubbed out to reveal a blank canvas, ready for a different picture to replace them.

Why? Because I live in a bubble, so far removed from the realities of Africa that I feel the connection is eroding. The electric wire fence spanning the perimeter of the 300-acre compound is an explicit barrier against the neighbouring villages – the physical bubble shielding the substance within: the Western teaching methods, culture and community of the school. At least I’m lucky, able to step outside these confines by drawing on previous experiences and connections. But wouldn’t it be better if these two worlds could merge?

Only once over the last month can I say this has happened. A few weeks ago the English Department took eighty Year 10 students to the local marketplace on a creative writing assignment where each student posed as an investigative journalist ready to write about ‘Mitumba’ (second hand) clothes selling. Grinning students trudged through mud and rain, desperate to talk to market-sellers, proudly using their Kiswahili to inquisitively question fellow Africans about a different way of life. The results confirmed my belief that Africa does indeed reveal what hides in people. Advantaged students had the “courage” and the “conscience” to reflect on their own situation and write perceptively about the challenges facing individual people in their continent. Here are one student’s highlights:

 

“Mitumba is essentially a large, open air market hidden away within a Molo suburb; it is the image of backward Africa. The kind of place that the government hopes will never be discovered, but it is a charity’s ‘poster boy’. It is an area that has lived hand-in-hand with poverty for so long that it does not know anything else. It is an area that the more affluent Kenyans look upon with disdain and contempt, yet, if these kinds of markets did not exist, the average Kenyan would be lacking a place where they could buy the basic necessities needed for a decent quality of life and the unemployment rate in Kenya would be a lot greater….

I am Kenyan and I was surrounded by my own people, yet I have never felt more out of a place. I stood out like a sore thumb. I was their skin colour and I understood their language, but I was never ever going to be able to be accepted into the society that they had created. We were universes apart….

It is not enough for us as a nation to simply watch from the wayside and mutter about how the great unwashed are a stain on our nation and are draining away valuable resources.” – Adrian (Year 10)

So where does this leave my day’s experimentation in questioning and reflecting? Can I happily spend the afternoon swimming and reading in my isolated heaven, knowing I will return to the school compound before dark? I hope so. Ultimately, I have to accept these different strands of life, knowing that they will each weave into and out of my daily experiences, shaping my perceptions of this ever-changing kaleidoscope of Africa. Whichever image appears in the kaleidoscope, whether a sheltered international school or a rural family scene, each picture has the potential to be a unique “eye-ball challenging enigma”.

The Hopeless Continent?

Africa was once dubbed the “Hopeless Continent” in a front-page story for the Economist, pessimistically indicating there seems no sound prospect of development. Nevertheless in Kenya it feels like a ray of hope might exist. With its growing population of young working-age people, the increase of a commodities-led economy and the transformation of country-wide finance by mobile-banking, one would like to embrace the possibility of change.

Yet ironically the one factor which seems to stand in the way is money. Not money per se but a greed for the status, the power and the possessions it brings.

‘But people want so much.’

‘They want what they see others enjoying, that is all.’

‘And it doesn’t matter how they get it?’

‘It doesn’t matter. There are ways and ways. You… will have to find these ways. It is very simple, isn’t it?’

‘You know,’ said the man, ‘that in the end there is only one way. Only one way for people like us.’

(The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born, Ayi Kwei Armah)

Greed for the status, the power and the possessions money brings.

And that “one way” alluded to by Armah, in his powerful account of Ghana’s last years under Nkrumah, is through dishonesty. It becomes a vicious cycle whereby corruption shows its ugly face across every strata of society, bringing an acceptance to underhand proceedings. When children are nurtured in an environment where their parents bribe, their peers twist the truth and their politicians extort, then unfortunately corruption becomes normality.  

My first realisation of this sad truth was 6 years ago during my volunteer placement in Western Kenya – challenges of school management were voiced by honest Headteachers who felt their hands were tied by power-hungry stakeholders. While the Headteacher performs the running of the school on a day-to-day basis, the overall ownership is the responsibility of members of the Board of Governors. Unfortunately, these positions are given out as “favours” by local MPs in an attempt to win votes and as a consequence the people on the committee are largely intent on extorting money from the school coffers. Headteachers find themselves being blocked on every decision unless they open up the bank account to the BOG members (and if they’re lucky win a slice of the cake too).  Given the fact no remuneration is either paid to Headteachers or BOG members for their additional responsibility running the school, it is not surprising that often the “one way” is taken.  Ultimately people do simply “want what they see others enjoying, that is all.”

It is not just within the education sector that these experiences are prevalent; often the police force is cited as a main contender for the “most corrupt institution” accolade.  This is where my second exposure to the powers of sleaze became a little more personal…

About a year ago I had attended an audition for a local Kenyan film on Mombasa island. Even at the first meeting fellow actors were voicing their grumbles of discontent over the lack of compensation for their time, food and travel. As the only white face in the room I looked sheepishly to the floor, slightly ashamed of my secure, comfortable living in the wealthy suburb of Nyali. So at the end of the meeting I adopted my loud ‘teacher voice’ voice in an attempt to make an announcement – “If anyone would like a lift across the bridge to the North of Mombasa I have 4 spaces”. Incredulous looks seemed to follow and only one person accepted the offer.

Getting in the car, I should have known something was wrong. A giggly voice bubbled itself across the stifling heat, saying, “OMG, I can’t believe I’m in a car with the mzungu. How exciting! I never thought I would be so lucky.” I then proceeded to be an object necessitating 45 minutes of childish hero-worship – simply for my skin colour.  Desperate to end the torment, I stopped the car just after the bridge so my passenger could vacate and I could regain my composure.

Unfortunately that was not possible. A tap on the window was followed by a steely glare. A policewoman with a face like a hawk stared at my innocent self. Apparently I had committed a crime worthy of a court-notice by stopping near a junction. My heart began to beat. How can I miss school?

"I had committed a crime worthy of a court-notice."

What if rumour gets around that ‘Miss Gunstone was caught by the police’? Am I really going to propagate the corruption I have always admonished? Her aggressive voice then pounded into my befuddled brain, demanding to be let into the car so we could “go somewhere private”.  I switched on the engine, knowing the obvious was going to happen, creeping the car along the road at a slow pace before it edged to a stop. Money (too much of it, I later found out!) was exchanged and I had comfortably gained my freedom – and lost my dignity. I had used the “only one way” necessary to extricate myself from the mess.

In justification for my behaviour I’d like to claim I did not hurt anyone. My dishonesty was not grounded on greed but instead a practical necessity. This seems far removed from the furor that has blasted across the media this week due to the extreme avarice of certain Kenyan politicians.

Kenya’s MPs have recently demanded a salary of $10,000 a month, claiming they deserve it because they work very hard. Not only does this seem absurdly huge but it completely dwarfs the average yearly salary of a working Kenyan which stands at $1,700.  Do these people in the population not work hard, I wonder? Yet, there is a glimmer of hope hidden in this extravagant display of materialism… It has led to mass protest. 

Adopting an unusual display of protest, civil society groups unleashed a collection of pigs outside parliament. The pigs (dubbed ‘mpigs’) were daubed with slogans in blood and made to feast on waste from the local abattoir. In a symbolic gesture, the mpigs are said to represent hungry politicians, feeding on the life of average Kenyans.  Indeed, a Kenyan journalist aptly wrote "if hospitals had good care and were well staffed; if there were no potholes; the the poorest Kenyans received some social security pay, the MPS could pay themselves Sh3 million and there would be no outcry." (Onyango-Obbo, Daily Nation).  The challenge that Kenya has therefore is to prioritise the needy and prevent greed seeping into the seams of society. The politicians seem determined to fatten themselves, damn the cost to the country, but I'm comforted by the public outcry - there is some hope that greed won't prevail.

"The pigs are said to represent hungry politicians, feeding on the life of average Kenyans."

Ultimately this country, or even continent, has to reach the point where the "one way" becomes the "right way".

Medley of Emotions

Calls for the next entry are slowly coming in, largely from family members who are beginning to feel estranged after months and months of no face-to-face contact. Excuses could abound – an attempt to justify the silence of April. Instead I choose to face the truth. During this month there have been three main influences on my life: singing, War and Peace and rain.

The 'Nyali Singers' concert

When I tell people I have joined a choir my mind generally jumps back to my father’s words to a little, eager girl: “you can’t sing to save your life. It’s your mother’s fault. She sang too much when you were a baby!” So I hope that my sterling contribution to the ‘Nyali Singers’ over the last two years is a testament to that fact that you can occasionally prove your parents wrong! Weekly rehearsals have finally culminated in a performance this week and it has been impossible to prevent the catchy tunes repeating through my head. So…. in memory of the concert I challenge my readers to spot the song lyrics on these very pages – interspersed throughout the paragraphs are words from three tunes that we sang in the choir. Can you find them and the guess the songs?

Throughout this month, one thing has been constant - Mombasa is grey. ‘April showers’ does not convey the persistent flood of water descending from the sky. It’s as if the heavens have been storing up a violent, pent-up aggression against the citizens of the coast and now we are sheltering from the tirade. Everything appears to stop. I rejoice in remembering the roast dinners, snuggly duvets and cosy sofas of old. Instead, what I seek for comfort now is Tolstoy.

War and Peace is an undertaking like no other. A tome which weaves you across a Russian world of love, loyalty and loss. You become intertwined in the pages, desperate to shake the characters and tell them to “Wake up and realise who you love” or “Man up and take responsibility”. Their reply is dissatisfying – the kindle informs you that you’re only 43% through and you begin a monotonous mantra to yourself while reading, saying keep going, you can do it.

Leo Tolstoy says within the book’s pages “Each Man lives for himself, using his freedom to attain his personal aims, and feels with his whole being that he can now do or abstain from doing this or that action; but as soon as he has done it, that action performed at a certain moment in time becomes irrevocable and belongs to history”. This truth seems powerful – each of us makes choices which become the narrative to our life. They determine the direction and force of future events. Unlike a book, where we can turn back the pages and relive moments, we are stuck with our decisions, riding the consequences like a tidal wave towards an undetermined land.

So here, as time goes by, I’m beginning to realise the strain of these decisions. Life is no longer easy come, easy go but rather a chain of events so reliant on each other that you’re unable to extricate the causes and effects. Again, quoting the Russian Great “All we can know is that we know nothing. And that’s the height of human wisdom.” I therefore have to embrace the unknown and appreciate the madness of my life that seems to be spiraling in an unforeseen direction.

I appear to be living on the never never – making the choice to stay in Kenya, remaining separated from my friends and family, building a new life in a different part of the country. Yet, the fundamental things still apply to this new future existence. I will be learning. I will be sharing moments. I will be with someone I love. And I know one thing: this is where I belong.

For now then, I have to embrace my remaining two months in Mombasa and enjoy the diverse society and Western-like luxuries that the Coast can offer because by August I will have replaced my cinema and coffee shop with a boarding school projector and canteen in a remote part of the Rift Valley. My “irrevocable” decision to move up-country is consistently quivering in the background, waiting to be released. Yet, any way the wind blows it will certainly be an adventure.

My new Rift Valley home of 2013-2015

Perspectives on Patriotism

It's hard to be patriotic when living in an ex-English colony, feeling distanced from England, knowing the Kenyan population fought brutally hard for independence. I'm not a usurper here but I certainly can't have the same vehemence in sentiment I have overheard in Kenyans - a true pride in their country. You ask me to recount the lyrics of the English national anthem and I will mumble "God save our gracious Queen" before looking sheepishly at the floor, forgetting the next line.

It’s strange, therefore, that every Monday, without fail, I stretch my lungs, belting out the Kenyan national anthem with force. Here, in all public meetings or performances, including school assemblies, it is compulsory for the national anthem to be played. The powerful words become a hymn, bringing individuals together in a prayer to God, asking him to bless the country. The English translation, often interchanged for the Kiswahili version, has distorted the true sentiment of the piece and so for the purpose of the blog I requested a friend to provide a literal translation of the African verse:

God our strength

Give us blessings

Justice be our shield and guard

Let us dwell in brotherhood, unity and freedom

May we also live through development.

Big abstract nouns abound: brotherhood, unity and justice. The anthem itself is a testament to the fight for freedom, placing hope in the new nation to embrace its independence.  Yet I also like the pragmatism in the final line – an honest aspiration to develop and build a successful country. I have to admit it produces a lackluster response when comparing it to the wish in our (unofficial) national anthem to “Send her [the queen] victorious,/ Happy and glorious”. I feel that in England patriotism often sits hand in hand with royalism – giving an unquestionable support for the monarchy of England – something that I personally cannot sign up for.

These thoughts have been bouncing around my befuddled brain recently, triggered by the spontaneous discovery of a tatty notebook with a poem I wrote in Istanbul nearly two years ago:

Think:

4 lines, intersecting in a middle.

The formation of 8 triangles -

means something.

The stark blue, deep and thoughtful.

Bright white of purity

against the pillarbox red,

"Occasional glimpses in a windscreen
but only when the date allows"

symbolises the obvious.

A sign of racism,

screaming passion, screeching for glory.

Occasional glimpses in a windscreen

but only when the date allows.

Or even better…

A wedding. The special kind.

Will. Kate

Got it yet?

Think:

3 lines, showing off England.

Not there’s, our triangles -

means nothing.

Patriotism, pride, people

in a small,

deluded island.

I’m no longer in the ‘deluded island’ and I rarely see the Union Jack but it’s sad that two years ago the British National flag, seemed to trigger such revulsion. The Kenyan national flag however is displayed with a pride on many occasions – even at the cinema! The last few times I’ve gone, clutching at my popcorn and icecream, I have caught the tinny rendition of the national anthem which pounds out of the surround-sound in the abnormally cold air conditioned space. On the screen a fuzzy portrayal of the Kenyan flag waves in the wind and every viewer stands up in a respectful silence.

The symbolism within the Kenyan flag is powerful. A black stripe, representing the African people, followed by a red which symbolises the blood shed during the fight for liberty, on top of the green at the bottom, indicating the natural resources which lie at the heart of the country’s productivity. Each colour is separated by a white band, reflecting the peace and honesty at the foundation of the country’s creation. The Kenyan emblem in the middle depicts a traditional Masai shield and two spears– a constant reflection of Kenya’s struggle for freedom.

It is a concern, therefore that over the past two weeks, since the announcement of the president-elect, I have heard people voice sentiments of shame in being Kenyan. Friends are worried: either the Kenyan public voted a suspected-criminal into office or the elections lack the legitimacy to reflect the true will of the nation. Neither of these situations are ideal! The freedom and justice, so prevalent in both the national anthem and the flag, are being distorted and people can no longer celebrate their patriotism.

To some extent it makes me thankful. Yes, I cannot embrace the flag-waving, royal-wedding-loving, queen-obsessed frenzy that exudes in some parts of Britain but I can believe in the democracy of the country. The knowledge that politicians are elected fairly and they are (largely) representing Britain in parliament for the right reasons. In Kenya I certainly don’t share these convictions.

I wonder…. which situation is preferable?