The Kenyan Election

Monday 4^th March - All eyes on Kenya. The aftermath of the 2007 vote still hangs above the country like a cloud, ready to pour with rain: ethnic tension, corrupt politicians and chaos. Everyone has long memories and it is hard not to recall the horrific post-election violence that loomed last time when facing the new election head-on. Escaping Mombasa, I decided to head to the peaceful rolling hills of Kisii. Here, I can enjoy my enforced holiday in the comfort of a family home without the fear of living alone in one of the most diverse (and consequently dangerous) cities in Kenya.

The buildup to Election Day in Mombasa verged on the ridiculous. Huge bill boards were strategically placed at busy crossroads showing smug faces, which were looking down with their extreme wealth on ordinary Kenyans. This time was even more elaborate than 2007 – with the new Kenyan constitution (enacted in 2010) everyone is entitled to vote for 6 positions to represent them on both a county and a country level, rather than just the one presidential vote. This gives even more opportunity for politicians to spend their black-money…. It has been predicted that the big names of Kenyan politics spend approximately 1 million dollars per day on their campaign: paid young people with forced cheer pranced around in party trucks; 6 aeroplanes spanned the length and breadth of the country, shuttling endless politicians to their next meeting; anyone willing was given the bright orange or red caps and t-shirts to symbolise the ODM and TNA party respectively. But that is nothing… heaven forbid if you get caught amongst a party parade!

Saturday 23^rd February – Group trip to the South Coast. The dreaded happened. Waiting in line for the ferry across from the island, we stumbled across the ODM party train. The noise smacked our senses first – jubilant voices singing a “go Joho, go Joho” tune accompanied by a cacophony of sounds blaring from several struggling loudspeakers. Next was the visual spectacle – a procession of at least thirty glaring orange cars slowly moved along the road. When one car disappeared, another emerged into view with the persistence of water dripping from a tap. Five minutes later and I was still reeling from the sheer extravagance. Assuming the cars were bought primarily for election purposes, this money could have supported a whole community for months in a country which still registers as 143 in the United Nations Human Development Index, meaning it is "low" in human development. I wonder how this ostentatious display of wealth can generate an affinity towards these politicians in the voters, instead I just felt further estranged.

Monday 25^th February – The Presidential Debate. The estrangement continued with this ceremonial display of rhetoric. Eight presidential aspirants vied for the limelight in a slow-moving battle of cutting jibes and pointed rebuffs. After a long evening of rehearsals for the up-and-coming school production, I escaped the confines of the school compound to watch the debate in a local coffee shop with the Mombasa well-to-do. The word corruption was bandied around amongst the aspirants with a lackadaisical ignorance as if they were as white as snow. This is a sickening realisation given the fact that the front runner (Odinga) has been implicated in rigging the votes in 2007 and his competitor (Kenyatta) is currently indicted by the International Criminal Courts for crimes against humanity during the post-election violence. Their barbed comments were met by a blatant cynicism in the Café Mocha crowd. The middle-class punters reacted with jeers and jokes, unable to believe the bombastic pomp of the politicians. It makes you wonder how people can feel motivated to walk for miles, queue for hours, and face the rigmarole of voting in a country whose politicians mask the hidden truth underneath layers and layers of dishonesty and sleaze.

Monday 4^th March – Return to voting day. People do feel motivated to cast their vote because ultimately Election Day is the time the population can exercise their sovereign right to choose their next president as well as their local and regional leaders. One has to embrace this display of democracy if a country is to progress, even if the potential pool of aspirants is far from ideal.

Yet the hype of intricate party campaigns seemed far removed from the actual mechanics of voting day in the Bobasi constituency in Kisii. Mathews and I wandered through the stunning green tea plantations to the voting station of Nyamagwa Primary School. Surrounded by chattering women in brightly clad outfits, I watched as an outsider looking into the goldfish bowl of rural Kenyan voting. The community hustle appeared too exuberant as the background noise for an event which seals Kenya’s fate for the next five years. Long queues spilled out of the school building, necessitating hours of waiting in searing hot sunshine. Apparently the main burden on the voting process was the presence of illiterate voters – each requiring individual attention by polling personnel to read the name of all candidates for the six positions before they gave their vote and receive the ritualistic ink stain on their little finger to prove it.

The uneducated in Kenya pose further issues due to their engrained tribal biases. A common belief held by Kisii elders is that all Luos (Odinga’s tribe) are ‘children’ as they have not been circumcised - therefore denying ODM the Gusii-vote. Yet even more frightening is the presence of TNA party members who were apparently paying villagers (who are known to be ODM subscribers) 1,000 ksh to hand in their voting card, and as a consequence revoke their right to vote. The natural need for money amongst Kenya’s poor therefore becomes a bargaining tool used to exploit and rig the vote.  This appears to be a throw-back to the malpractice of 2007 and a worrying sign against the legitimacy of the results announced this week.

Friday 9^th March – Results day.  The last four days have been torturous. We have been constantly waiting for the presidential results to be called: checking facebook on the phone at 3 o’clock in the morning, visiting a local restaurant to watch results come in live on television, streaming results through the radio wherever possible. Still, at 2.55pm on Friday 9^th March, no candidate has been confirmed. What is more frustrating is the piecemeal announcement of numbers constituency-by-constituency which gives you little flavour of the wider national picture. There has been debacle after debacle within the Independent Electoral and Boundaries Commission (IEBC). Firstly, people were queuing up until midnight of election day (even once the line is officially closed at 5pm) and some failed to clock their vote before the deadline ended. Secondly, the incredibly expensive biometric data voting tools malfunctioned and were declared useless. Thirdly, the technologically advanced system of vote transmission from rural areas to Nairobi was said to “lack reliability” (rumour has it that TNA hacked in and were electronically rigging the votes) and as a consequence everything is delayed because now results are being announced through manually collated results. Fourthly, there have been a huge number of rejected votes which cannot be counted due to simple errors of placing them in the wrong box or putting a tick in an undesignated place on the ballot.  Sceptics are also querying the huge voter turnout in the Rift Valley and Central Province (Kenyatta strongholds), arguing it is near impossible to get 100% of registered people voting.  However the frustration felt by these challenges has been replaced by despair in the Moywaywa household as Uhuru Kenyatta seems to be lengthening his lead.

It seems likely that this time tomorrow the population of Kenya will be resigning themselves to an Uhuru Kenyatta victory, or in the best case scenario a run-off (second voting session) which will extend into April. The son of Kenya’s first president, Uhuru is part of one of the richest families in East Africa. Rumour states that he owns more land than the whole of Nyanza province put together and as a consequence seems disenfranchised from the average Kenyan. Yet he and his running mate (Ruto) hold the block vote of the Kikuyu and Kalenjin tribes and as a consequence a huge chunk of the electorate. Their up-and-coming ICC trial will see them forced to yo-yo between The Hague and Africa, defending their reputation while “running the country by Skype” (Kenyatta, Presidential Debate 18^th February). Yet even more scary is the likely economic sanctions which will be imposed by the West, an unknown effect of the election which will gradually place its strangling fingers on Kenya’s poor.

Kofi Annan stated that “The elections must be peaceful, free and fair” (Daily Nation, 3^rd March). What’s the verdict? Peaceful – largely, sporadic outbreaks of violence occurred in Mombasa, Garissa and Mandera but not to the extent of the 2007 elections. Free – unlikely, when some people’s votes have been bought, denied or rejected. Fair – who knows? I have no doubt critics will be delving into the IEBC shambles over the following days and I imagine the integrity of the 2013 elections will be debated for many years to come.

    

Words are power

Words are power. Wrapped up in squiggles, incomprehensible to some, words can entrap, empower and enlighten. Often, I do not appreciate the influence of an English teacher; you can open up an infinite world of wonder or close people’s hearts to appreciating the miracle of language.

Today I found myself as the student – surprised - being bowled over by the force of a collection of letters on a page. Lunchtime had hit. My rumbling stomach had been satiated with chicken and fried potatoes (the best day at the school canteen) and I was sat, cocooned in my classroom, desperately attempting to catch the breeze as it drifted from the whirring fan and open windows. Thoughts were already jumping to 80 minutes ahead where I had a diminished Literature class of two students, as the others had escaped my clutches to play hockey in the searing sun.  I flicked through our poetry anthology, hoping to have an epiphany that would translate the two students’ resigned boredom to excitement – how could I get them to embrace a lesson of ‘exploring the beauties of the English word’?

I began to read the following poem:

Once Upon a Time

Once upon a time, son,

they used to laugh with their hearts

and laugh with their eyes;

but now they only laugh with their teeth,

while their ice-block-cold eyes

search behind my shadow.

There was time indeed

they used to shake hands with their hearts

but that’s gone, son.

Now they shake hands without hearts

while their left hands search

my empty pockets.

‘Feel at home’! ‘Come again’;

they say, and when I come

again and feel

at home, once, twice,

there will be no thrice-

for then I find doors shut on me.

So I have learned many things, son.

I have learned to wear many faces

like dresses- homeface,

officeface, streetface, hostface,

"my teeth like a snake's bare fangs"

cocktailface, with all their conforming smiles

like a fixed portrait smile.

And I have learned, too,

to laugh with only my teeth

and shake hands without my heart.

I have also learned to say, ‘Goodbye’,

when I mean ‘Good-riddance’;

to say ‘Glad to meet you’,

without being glad; and to say ‘It’s been

nice talking to you’, after being bored.

But believe me, son.

I want to be what I used to be

when I was like you. I want

to unlearn all these muting things.

Most of all, I want to relearn

how to laugh, for my laugh in the mirror

shows only my teeth like a snake’s bare fangs!

So show me, son,

how to laugh; show me how

I used to laugh and smile

once upon a time when I was like you.

By Gabriel Okara

Suddenly I was transported away from my humble surroundings in the suburbs of Mombasa and enraptured by the sheer emotion of the poem. Empathy bubbled inside. My flashbacks sped to the forefront of my mind with the force of a hammer, to moments of false smiles and insincere greetings. But most of all I felt an extreme sadness – the sense of loss swarmed forwards. His description of a world where people ‘shake hands without their hearts’ is empty, as they have lost their ability to laugh with their heart. To me, it conjured an image of a dystopia; people are intent to conform, expecting to secure happiness in superficial interactions and society’s acceptance. Yet, I was repelled, clutching to my life here where true smiles proliferate and blossom.

It was then I picked up the textbook, ready to learn the context of the poet’s experience. Apparently Gabriel Okara is an African poet who moved to the West and was writing about his disillusion with the new society he found himself in. Having done the reverse move a year and a half ago – the West to Africa -  I feel in a unique position to comment on these perceptions.

Largely, I feel defiant, wishing to defend my dear ‘ole Britain from these observations of fake communication. One could argue the ‘ice-block-cold eyes’ reflect the English reserve, a hard exterior that shuts out strangers with a fierce push. The poem seems to emphasise the fact that not only does this cold behaviour cause hurt but it also drains the warmth of others, compelling them to conform to the disingenuous politeness. Even I can hold my hands up and admit I occasionally say ‘ ‘Glad to meet you’, without being glad; and to say ‘It’s been nice talking to you’, after being bored.’ Consequently, would it not be hypocritical for me to shield my nation from these spears of discontent…? Maybe, but I’m doing it anyway:

Englishness is strange. Intangible: the intent grumble of people about grey weather, the sarcastic jibe that spills surreptitiously into conversation without warning, the slapstick humour of practical jokes and hidden innuendo. Each has their place within the national psyche. All of these, to me, ring of one thing - sincerity. I do not accept the accusation that we don a ‘fixed portrait smile’ on necessary occasions– in fact the Brits will just choose not to smile - anyone who has ever sat on a London tube can be testament to that fact! Yes, I do admit that Africa exudes warmth in its people (not only in the climate) however, this kindheartedness can be matched by the friendship of Brits, once the shell of reserve has been broken.

"Englishness is strange" - showcased on a London tube

So I am only led to conclude one thing. Gabriel Okara did not migrate to the UK, instead he found himself in the amorphous world of America - I will happily join in with his derision then. Half of me wants to check the truth on Wikipedia, but I’m secretly too scared about what the words might say.  So at this point the professed English-teacher-come-student chooses to reject the next step in her learning and not read the words!

Yay or Nay to marriage?

Marriage. An institution cherished as providing stability, support and family. A bond, tying two people together, like glue they will stick together. Forever, some might say.

Yet I don’t - my cynicism about marriage is deeply-set. Some argue it is the by-product of my being a child from a broken family. Unable to see success in mother/father role models, the children of divorced parents struggle to find meaning in the ‘m’ word. My sister is proof against this theory - she is content in marriage and I think she always will be. For me, I attribute my wariness to gender. Feminism kicks in with a firm stamp when I delve into the history of an institution that supports a patriarchal culture, embedding male dominance into a family. ‘Love, honour and obey’ is a vow I do not want to sign up for, subverting the rights of a female, forcing her to do her ‘duty’ by following the man. Yes, I realise in the modern day this may no longer apply – marriage is a symbol of love rather than of power - but you wonder whether these concepts of property and ownership still creep into current society.

"The 'Fifty Shades of Grey' revolution,
which has gripped this world, seems
testament to warped power dynamics"

The ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ revolution, which has gripped this world, seems testament to these warped power dynamics still occurring (and being celebrated), and surprisingly I have been ensnared into the book frenzy. Unfortunately, last term I became trapped into a situation that necessitated me to read the grim story of a “Submissive [who] accepts the Dominant as her master, with the understanding that she is now the property of the Dominant”.

It was on a beautifully sunny Mombasa day last term when I was ambling between classrooms. A young Year 8 student bounded up to me with a grin spanning ear to ear. “Look Miss”, he declared, “My mum wants me to give you this book, she says it’s a page turner!” I’m sure a flicker of shock passed my face before I humbly accepted the gift; desperately hoping my dear student was unaware of its contentious contents.

Repulsed - an accurate word to describe my horror about a book that demeans women so thoroughly, while masking the situation under the cloak of sexual satisfaction. Worryingly, the connection between the two central protagonists is not dissimilar to Hilary Mantel’s exposé of Tudor relationships where “the master and husband protect and provide; the wife and servant obey.” (Wolf Hall) This likeness between slave and master is expected in 16^th Century but in the modern day Western world, where we pride ourselves on nurturing liberated educated women, it is simply unacceptable. However hard I try, it is impossible to distance myself from the sad truth that many women in this world are still subservient to men, by the nature of their marriage.

"colour-clad streets filled with chattering crowds"

Never was this more obvious than in my time in India. A country sparkling with spirit, India passes on vitality in life with an infectious speed. During my time there in 2009, whatever the activity, I would feel embraced into a dreamlike world of intrigue: wandering through colour-clad streets filled with chattering crowds; following rituals in a heavily adorned Hindu temple; navigating the regal forts of Rajasthan. All seemed magical. Yet behind this polished façade there were cracks that ran deep. Caste prejudice was apparent in the majority of situations, with people judging another’s integrity by a simple unshakeable label like “Rajput” or “Dallit”. Social inequality was extreme, with severe poverty juxtaposed with stinking wealth. But the challenge I faced head-on was being a young woman in a conservative society. Since the brutal rape in Dehli during early January, there seems to be an additional meaning to discussions regarding gender in India. Recounting my snippets of male dominance from four years ago feels like another form of small protest, to join the wonderfully empowering movement that is spanning the length and breadth of the country currently. Back then, as soon as the age of twenty struck, marriage became a necessity for a woman. I was a target. My mantra “Mujhe shadi nahi chahiye”, translated directly as “I marriage not needed” became a chant, shouted viciously on a daily basis. I’m sure the blonde hair and white skin added an additional glow to my allure but I felt like an object, sought for by single men, yearning for a ring on their finger. How was I meant to reconcile this with the universal notion that marriage is positive? I didn’t. It just seemed to embed what I already knew.

"the soft swirling waves of the Indian Ocean
tame the incessant demands of men"

It is surprising therefore that when arriving in Mombasa I did not learn the same phrase in Kiswahili (sitaki ndoa, for your information). Maybe the soft swirling waves of the Indian Ocean tame the incessant demands of men because here the enquiries seem rather lackluster. I have begun to sink into a society which, although it displays huge gender inequality, at least provides respect in women when fulfilling their role.  Since being here conversations often turn to the jigsaw of marriage. Each piece displays a different attitude, hard to place in the complete puzzle without delving into the cultural values underpinning them. A well-educated, successful friend of mine is happy to admit “Men are always at the top of the household. Yes, decisions can be made as a unit, but the man has the ultimate power”. Yet others argue the opposite, “Men appear to have the strength, but the home would fall apart without the woman. She holds the strings”.  I’m sure the truth is somewhere in the middle but I struggle to be won over by an institution which masks inequality in the guise of a ‘happy family’.

You will therefore be shocked to hear that, as of January 2^nd 2013, I can claim to be in part of a happily married couple.

A Kericho tea plantation

Mathews and I had decided to take a countryside jaunt to Kericho to celebrate his birthday. We were content wandering through the town renowned for its tea farming, lounging in the colonial hotel overlooking lush-green plantations until dusk fell. I’d already enquired at the ‘top star’ Lonely Planet hotel for a double room and was delighted to hear that there was one available. Yet when we arrived, the story was different. The gentleman serving looked us up and down before proudly displaying the terms and conditions for the room, ‘Unmarried couples are not permitted to share the same room. The double rooms are only permissible for those accompanied by their spouse’.  Shame. Embarrassment. Rage. What was I meant to feel? My hand sidled towards my diamond ring, placing it speedily onto my wedding finger with the stealth of a spy-agent, hoping we could blag entry. Mathews calmly stated, “We are married”. However this did little to appease, as they next demanded our marriage certificate. Here, I am afraid to say, I used the only card left in my hand – race. “You wouldn’t be doing this if I were black or he were white!” By this point, three receptionists had appeared and their sheepish looks seemed to indicate our victory. The key was slid towards us before we hurried upstairs, secretly sharing our success while bubbling with anger.

Mathews’ birthday had become tainted with shame. Two hours later, we had consumed half a (small) bottle of whiskey, devoured a bar of chocolate (comfort eating) and still our discussion returned back to the room incident. In a deeply Christian country with incredibly Conservative values, one has to accept that marriage is the norm - embraced and shared by all. Consequently, it seems that the liberal girl from the depths of Nottinghamshire countryside may have to conform to ‘Kenyan ways’. This realisation is a strange one but I think all it requires is a little faith. Faith in knowing that the person you are marrying will cherish your bolshy feminism and happily accept a household where the washing is not done by the woman and men do not have the power. So…. Mathews (if you are reading this) – there is hope yet!

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).