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).