I have filled seven sheets of paper. The other six are already too long. I have to trim this list down. Using what formula though? Everything looks very important. The purse will ultimately determine if any of this ever gets bought. I worry about how I am going to carry all this stuff across the bridge.
And so it came to pass. I got a new job back home in Zimbabwe. I leave my present one and my little nest in the Johannesburg sky, in three months’ time. I should be doing cartwheels. I should be planning farewell cocktails. Instead, I am stressing myself out with putting together what I now call the “Zimbabwe survival kit”. It is not supposed to be this hard. I do have a home in Harare to go back to. It was my city of choice when I first looked for a job, after University. My best friends are there. My family is in Zimbabwe - STILL, to use that strange word I always find weird when people ask, “Is your family STILL in Zim?” As if, what? They were supposed to have all upped and left, all 102 of us, moving to Johannesburg? Leaving their homes, lives, and other pursuits to go where? On whose wages? Let me not start on that one.....
I don’t really know my real “home” anymore. A lot has changed since 1999. I was not there when all the big political and economic upheavals happened. Each time I went back, and I did so religiously each Christmas, August school holiday and Independence days, I couldn’t relate to this new country. I also went back for all the family funerals. And there were so many I lost count. I became a visitor in my own country. I no longer belonged. When I finally put lodgers into my house, it was a sign that I could no longer keep up this illusion of “two homes”. I threw my hands in the air when I could not figure out who to call to fix a leaking pipe, and where to buy something as simple as bread. Over the last five years, when I went back, I stayed with my friend Nozipho. She became my mother, and I her little child. When I needed airtime, she would simply whip it out of her bag. I would express an interest in sweet potatoes and magically they would appear in front of me. When the power went off, I would sigh and lie back in her nice bed, knowing that soon, very soon, someone in her house would figure out how to cook the next meal, boil me some bath water, and even provide cold water to cool it down! I don’t think she will be driving from the Eastern end of the city across to my Western part, just to bring me bath water!
My friend Bella became my transport manager. Needed to get home-home to see my parents? Bells provided the car, the driver and the fuel. Need a one night hotel booking? Bells knew every bed and breakfast in town and I would zip in and zip out like a business executive. Our wonderful driver-tour-guide-handy man-reliable third hand Andrew knows where to find everything from tyres, to cheaper beef to hair salons that open on Sundays. Geri the doctor had to make house calls when I got the odd flu or needed some hard to get drugs.
When I visited any of my family, I was feted and spoilt. Nobody expressed any impatience with my stupid or strange questions; how much is bread? When will the electricity be back on? How do you get money these days? How much do we put in the Sunday collection plate? I was a visitor you see. I was sister/aunty/the child from Joburg, a whole planet away. I was smiled at and tolerated for my not being in the know. “Sister, this is how it is done in Zimbabwe now”, one of my brothers always chided me. That kept me mum for the rest of the fortnight. When I finished reading the books I had brought on holiday, and I got tired of bathing from a bucket, or the lack of internet access got to me, I simply changed my ticket and ran away.
I will no longer have this luxury. This is why I am putting together my ‘survival kit’. The big essentials I will need to cope in my now dysfunctional “home”. I have listed plastic buckets for storing water, a gas stove, long lasting lamps, matches, candles lots of candles. Someone says I need a bread maker - but who will be making the bread? Moir? This is stuff I never had, let alone knew where to buy. I have also been advised to buy a power generator, an invertor, a water tank. Eish! What size do I get? Where? I haven’t listed the groceries yet.
The political conversations, if one can call them that - are what I am particularly dreading. Over the years I had learnt to just listen, smile, and shake my head in a non-committal manner. Depending on where I found myself, it was along these lines; Tell us what Mbeki/Zuma are saying? What are they saying in South Africa? What will they do? The high expectations of what South African mediation was (and is still), supposed to deliver still baffles me. This very South African government which from where I have been sitting, lurches from one crisis to another of its own? When people asked me “what the South Africans are saying”, I wondered which ones they were expecting to hear from? The media here which if it devotes an inch to issues beyond national borders it is about an American celebrity or the Greek debt crisis? Or did they want to know what black South Africans in the townships think of Zimbabweans? Was May 2009 instructive enough?
In civil society, what I consider my real political turf, the conversations were along the lines of: Haa, Chipo? Don’t talk to her she is Central Intelligence that one! We don’t work with James anymore, he is very MDC-T. Ugh, what can you tell us about Stella? That stupid woman who is sleeping with all the men in MDC-M, and you know she is also sleeping with that guy in ZANUPF. So really she is ZANU PF”. All this would be said with such hyper-ventilation. So much venom. You had to jump backwards to avoid the inevitable spit that would follow. You had to take sides in these “conversations”. You had to declare your interest. I was scared into silence.
On more than one occasion, when the ‘conversations’ got so hard, I switched off, packed my little bags and feigned some important meeting I had to get back to Joburg’ for. I have avoided political debates in the Zimbabwean diaspora spaces because the debates were no longer debates. I refused to speak to the media because I did not want to be pigeon-holed. I chose instead to write. That way I could be in control of what I wanted to say, when to say it and to whom. I will need more than survival strategies for my return. I need re-engagement strategies. Who to engage with? How? I will need to think long and hard about that. For now, I will continue to write.
So since you asked. Am I excited about going back home? Umm, erm, ahhh, well, yes. Sort of. I am ecstatic in the morning and by nightfall I am in a complete state of panic. I do not know how to survive in the new look Zimbabwe. I have become used to an easy, on the tap lifestyle. For the last 12 years, I have slowly become removed from my rural credentials that I like parading around. At least in the rural village I knew where to find firewood, or clean water. It was a given that we went to bed at 7pm, because that was the life. I read books by candlelight because that is what we did. I do not know how to speak the political languages anymore. The shark infested political pool and discourse looks too murky to wade into. The social languages of getting by how you can and screw the next person, is one that will take me years to get used to.
Now where do I buy that good Indonesian coffee in bulk?
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Liberia - Living on Hope
I have an abiding fear of men in uniform. Unlike most women who (allegedly), swoon over them, I was raised to fear them and hate them. Confession – I did swoon over Colonel Qaddafi before he had the botox that went awry! So it didn’t matter how brightly or widely the tall and supposedly dashing military officer smiled at me as I arrived in Monrovia – I was ready to run back onto the ghastly Air Nigeria plane that had brought me from Accra. I quickly got used to soldiers all over the place. Driving up Tubman or down UN boulevard, across the city, and into the UNMIL HQ which we had to pass on our way to......anywhere it seemed.
The last time I had seen such a heavy military presence was in Goma, Eastern DRC. Just like in DRC the military seem to run the place. In Liberia UNMIL even has a radio station. If that is not running a country what is? In modern day speak we say these are peace-keeping forces, meant to instil a sense of security in the citizens, recovering from many years of conflict. But has anyone ever asked the said citizens whether in fact this is true? I grew up during Zimbabwe’s war of independence. The army and police were synonymous with violence, arbitrary arrests and rape of women. As we transitioned into independence, none of that changed much. I am from the Midlands province where mass atrocities were committed by armed forces straight after 1980. Fast forward to the 1990s and once again the army and police reverted to type. I don’t go anywhere near police stations unless it’s a matter of life and death. I stay away from soldiers. I sadly have a son in the military, and he knows to remove his uniform as soon as he enters my space.
I did not ask any of the Liberian women I met what they thought of their militarized country. My friend K, had already summarized it on the first day of my seven day visit; “Each day we ask ourselves am I dead or am I alive”. War is bad. It is terrible. I tweeted when my phone finally caught a wave. How profound EJ. As if anyone needed to be told. That is all I could say after driving down Monrovia’s city centre. War wounded buildings, all in various states of decay or reconstruction make what is supposed to be the capital city. K kept speaking in the past tense; this used to be the main pavilion where we used to have national events, this used to be a party headquarters, that used to be one of the best schools in Liberia, Ellen (H.E. the President of Liberia to us mere mortals), attended that school. That used to be Samuel Doe’s palace. I tried to imagine how beautiful it must all have been. The Doe palace is a sight to behold. It is quite ugly by any architectural standards. At least there is one monstrosity I don’t think anyone should try to revamp.
But where does one begin to make this right? A coat of paint, and a broom won’t fix the mess of war. Neither can it fix people’s bodies and souls. But Liberia is definitely getting “fixed”, in the nice sense of that word, in many respects. There is the church and religion trying to fix souls. There are more churches per square-mile than there are schools in Monrovia alone. I gave up counting on day two. The place is swarming with development and donor types of various shades. Together with UNMIL they run the place. The (extremely beautiful), sea side hotel we stayed in was full; The World Bank, US government, this Aid, more Aid, Save the world, International Rescue the suffering inc. We were all there. By day we were saving Liberia from...itself, poverty, whatever. At night we drove back to our air conditioned rooms, into safety of our Egyptian cotton sheets, shaking our heads. It depended of course on where you spent the day.
The city of Monrovia itself is like a metaphor for how Liberians are divided into “Congo” and “country”. The former are descendants of the ex-slaves who came on the ships from America. They see themselves and are still seen as the upper crust of society. The latter, are the indigenous peoples, seen as less refined, with ‘bush’ behaviour. I was told that although this was no longer as visible as it used to be, it still underlies a lot of the country’s politics and ever simmering conflicts. The organization I work for deals more with the “country” people, and that is where we went; poor urban slums, a very poor rural county just 45 minutes outside Monrovia. Here women queue at the few water points. It suddenly struck me one evening that there were no street lights in these parts. Dozens of women were flagging lifts in the dark. I worried for their safety. I also noticed there were no landline phone lines criss-crossing above our heads. Everyone relies on mobile phones. Coca-cola billboards have been edged out by those of mobile service providers.
I visited the part I mentally called the “Congo” on day 6. It is a different world that. Driving down UN Boulevard, you suddenly realize the air is getting fresher, you can hear the ocean, there are less people walking and more cars driving around. Then you enter this sweet smelling world of tall, well built, nicely painted buildings. The lights shine brightly from within. Even the people darting in and out of there are dressed well, women in make- up and high heels. The men are in dark Saville-Row suits. Everyone carries a cattle bell round their neck – an ID tag, the kind favoured by embassies and UN offices. We decided to lunch at a perch on Mamba point. The air kept getting fresher as we went up the stairs. From the bad service we got, it was clear that we were seen as too “country” for this fragrant hood. T-shirts with campaign slogans and having no cattle bell screamed “here comes the bush!”
I hadn’t quite internalized the phrase Americo-Liberian and what it signifies. The American influence is all over Monrovia and even the rural county we visited, (the word ‘county’ itself kept fascinating me). The first is in the Liberian-English accent. It is a cross between rural Georgia, urban Kentucky and a dash of Harlem. “Yuh weh hii?” the tailor asked me during a dress measuring session. For the life of me I had no idea what he was asking! He repeated, “yuh weh hii?” I shook my head in that enigmatic Indian shake, which can mean yes or no. K came to the rescue. I leave that to you translate!
It took me until the last day to finally understand why the “American flag” was fluttering in the wind all over the place. Driving past what used to be Samuel Doe’s palace there are big concrete road-blockers painted in red, blue and white. I kept wondering. I looked up at the flag, then across the street was a mobile phone shop – Lone Star. I looked up at another flag. And stupid me finally got it, this IS the Liberian flag! It is the American flag, with one exception – the number of stars. I am still in shock. Actually I am more in pain than shock. Why, to this day, has this been allowed to continue? What does this flag symbolize to the majority of the peoples of Liberia? There is no colour BLACK in that flag. Not even a small dot. Does this not bother the leaders and people of that nation? I can hear some of you grumbling in the background, fighting poverty and dealing with the post conflict situation is more important blah blah. Sorry folks, it does matter. If the flag of the USA was half black there would have been a huge outcry. If the Congolese flag was completely white it would have been discarded long ago.
Maybe it is the spirit of tolerance and what Rastafarians call ‘niceness’ that pervades Liberian society which explains all this. Another indicator of this niceness is the fact that all of Liberia’s dead and former heads of state have been accommodated on the national currency. All the way back to the ‘colonizers’ who came by ship, those deposed in coups, the coup leaders, everyone is on the dollar notes. At least if they couldn’t stay in State House they can stay on the money. In the rural county we visited, one of the oldest latifundistas is accommodated in an agricultural development project, together with all the landless peasants. Miss Molly as I secretly renamed her, is the epitome of Congoness, to coin a term. Her family and a few others own most of the land in the county. Everything about Miss Molly says; we are it. We are the upper crust. We are entitled to things. Everyone seemed to defer to her, wittingly or unwittingly. Maybe accommodating each other is what a country wracked by conflict needs. Long may that help fix the country.
For all its troubled history, its fractured communities, and the heavy burdens of reconstruction, (or mere construction – since there was never any in some places), I enjoyed being in Liberia. The food is a fabulously nice and hot! Even though my tummy fought vigorously against the spices, I just couldn’t stop chucking them in. The chicken, the fish, all came drenched in lots of spices- just the way I like them. If you are straight out of Gweru or Lusaka you are advised not to try the Liberian ‘fiery’ everything. My favourite, fried plantain was in abundance, so I gorged.
I drank proper Liberian coffee, something I had missed in both Nairobi and Accra – where you would think they serve their own coffee which they grow? No, they give you the cheap, by the packet, awfully dreadful instant Nescafe! I am yet to understand what that is about. The big downer though, was that the coffee nearly always came cold, (another American habit? Ugh!). And horror of horrors it came with sweetened condensed milk! Yikes. There is something I haven’t eaten since my grand pappy used to give it to us a bribe.
The highlight for me – Zimbabwe please take note – Monrovia alone has at least five FM radio stations. To top it off, there are some five independent newspapers. In the deep of the night, I channel hopped among the stations, playing fabulous music. The news coverage is extensive, Pan-African and global, South Africa please take note. To quote our driver cum tour guide, Moses; My sister, we may not have a lot in Liberia, and we might be suffering, but at least we are free to say what we want, to who we want, on anything we want! That is freedom. That is democracy. We might be scared that the war might come again, or that the elections might be violent. But we live on hope my sister. We have a lot of hope. Listen to what these young people are saying. We live on a lot of hope!
Indeed I shall “weh my hii” and go back to see more of Liberia. One day.
The last time I had seen such a heavy military presence was in Goma, Eastern DRC. Just like in DRC the military seem to run the place. In Liberia UNMIL even has a radio station. If that is not running a country what is? In modern day speak we say these are peace-keeping forces, meant to instil a sense of security in the citizens, recovering from many years of conflict. But has anyone ever asked the said citizens whether in fact this is true? I grew up during Zimbabwe’s war of independence. The army and police were synonymous with violence, arbitrary arrests and rape of women. As we transitioned into independence, none of that changed much. I am from the Midlands province where mass atrocities were committed by armed forces straight after 1980. Fast forward to the 1990s and once again the army and police reverted to type. I don’t go anywhere near police stations unless it’s a matter of life and death. I stay away from soldiers. I sadly have a son in the military, and he knows to remove his uniform as soon as he enters my space.
I did not ask any of the Liberian women I met what they thought of their militarized country. My friend K, had already summarized it on the first day of my seven day visit; “Each day we ask ourselves am I dead or am I alive”. War is bad. It is terrible. I tweeted when my phone finally caught a wave. How profound EJ. As if anyone needed to be told. That is all I could say after driving down Monrovia’s city centre. War wounded buildings, all in various states of decay or reconstruction make what is supposed to be the capital city. K kept speaking in the past tense; this used to be the main pavilion where we used to have national events, this used to be a party headquarters, that used to be one of the best schools in Liberia, Ellen (H.E. the President of Liberia to us mere mortals), attended that school. That used to be Samuel Doe’s palace. I tried to imagine how beautiful it must all have been. The Doe palace is a sight to behold. It is quite ugly by any architectural standards. At least there is one monstrosity I don’t think anyone should try to revamp.
But where does one begin to make this right? A coat of paint, and a broom won’t fix the mess of war. Neither can it fix people’s bodies and souls. But Liberia is definitely getting “fixed”, in the nice sense of that word, in many respects. There is the church and religion trying to fix souls. There are more churches per square-mile than there are schools in Monrovia alone. I gave up counting on day two. The place is swarming with development and donor types of various shades. Together with UNMIL they run the place. The (extremely beautiful), sea side hotel we stayed in was full; The World Bank, US government, this Aid, more Aid, Save the world, International Rescue the suffering inc. We were all there. By day we were saving Liberia from...itself, poverty, whatever. At night we drove back to our air conditioned rooms, into safety of our Egyptian cotton sheets, shaking our heads. It depended of course on where you spent the day.
The city of Monrovia itself is like a metaphor for how Liberians are divided into “Congo” and “country”. The former are descendants of the ex-slaves who came on the ships from America. They see themselves and are still seen as the upper crust of society. The latter, are the indigenous peoples, seen as less refined, with ‘bush’ behaviour. I was told that although this was no longer as visible as it used to be, it still underlies a lot of the country’s politics and ever simmering conflicts. The organization I work for deals more with the “country” people, and that is where we went; poor urban slums, a very poor rural county just 45 minutes outside Monrovia. Here women queue at the few water points. It suddenly struck me one evening that there were no street lights in these parts. Dozens of women were flagging lifts in the dark. I worried for their safety. I also noticed there were no landline phone lines criss-crossing above our heads. Everyone relies on mobile phones. Coca-cola billboards have been edged out by those of mobile service providers.
I visited the part I mentally called the “Congo” on day 6. It is a different world that. Driving down UN Boulevard, you suddenly realize the air is getting fresher, you can hear the ocean, there are less people walking and more cars driving around. Then you enter this sweet smelling world of tall, well built, nicely painted buildings. The lights shine brightly from within. Even the people darting in and out of there are dressed well, women in make- up and high heels. The men are in dark Saville-Row suits. Everyone carries a cattle bell round their neck – an ID tag, the kind favoured by embassies and UN offices. We decided to lunch at a perch on Mamba point. The air kept getting fresher as we went up the stairs. From the bad service we got, it was clear that we were seen as too “country” for this fragrant hood. T-shirts with campaign slogans and having no cattle bell screamed “here comes the bush!”
I hadn’t quite internalized the phrase Americo-Liberian and what it signifies. The American influence is all over Monrovia and even the rural county we visited, (the word ‘county’ itself kept fascinating me). The first is in the Liberian-English accent. It is a cross between rural Georgia, urban Kentucky and a dash of Harlem. “Yuh weh hii?” the tailor asked me during a dress measuring session. For the life of me I had no idea what he was asking! He repeated, “yuh weh hii?” I shook my head in that enigmatic Indian shake, which can mean yes or no. K came to the rescue. I leave that to you translate!
It took me until the last day to finally understand why the “American flag” was fluttering in the wind all over the place. Driving past what used to be Samuel Doe’s palace there are big concrete road-blockers painted in red, blue and white. I kept wondering. I looked up at the flag, then across the street was a mobile phone shop – Lone Star. I looked up at another flag. And stupid me finally got it, this IS the Liberian flag! It is the American flag, with one exception – the number of stars. I am still in shock. Actually I am more in pain than shock. Why, to this day, has this been allowed to continue? What does this flag symbolize to the majority of the peoples of Liberia? There is no colour BLACK in that flag. Not even a small dot. Does this not bother the leaders and people of that nation? I can hear some of you grumbling in the background, fighting poverty and dealing with the post conflict situation is more important blah blah. Sorry folks, it does matter. If the flag of the USA was half black there would have been a huge outcry. If the Congolese flag was completely white it would have been discarded long ago.
Maybe it is the spirit of tolerance and what Rastafarians call ‘niceness’ that pervades Liberian society which explains all this. Another indicator of this niceness is the fact that all of Liberia’s dead and former heads of state have been accommodated on the national currency. All the way back to the ‘colonizers’ who came by ship, those deposed in coups, the coup leaders, everyone is on the dollar notes. At least if they couldn’t stay in State House they can stay on the money. In the rural county we visited, one of the oldest latifundistas is accommodated in an agricultural development project, together with all the landless peasants. Miss Molly as I secretly renamed her, is the epitome of Congoness, to coin a term. Her family and a few others own most of the land in the county. Everything about Miss Molly says; we are it. We are the upper crust. We are entitled to things. Everyone seemed to defer to her, wittingly or unwittingly. Maybe accommodating each other is what a country wracked by conflict needs. Long may that help fix the country.
For all its troubled history, its fractured communities, and the heavy burdens of reconstruction, (or mere construction – since there was never any in some places), I enjoyed being in Liberia. The food is a fabulously nice and hot! Even though my tummy fought vigorously against the spices, I just couldn’t stop chucking them in. The chicken, the fish, all came drenched in lots of spices- just the way I like them. If you are straight out of Gweru or Lusaka you are advised not to try the Liberian ‘fiery’ everything. My favourite, fried plantain was in abundance, so I gorged.
I drank proper Liberian coffee, something I had missed in both Nairobi and Accra – where you would think they serve their own coffee which they grow? No, they give you the cheap, by the packet, awfully dreadful instant Nescafe! I am yet to understand what that is about. The big downer though, was that the coffee nearly always came cold, (another American habit? Ugh!). And horror of horrors it came with sweetened condensed milk! Yikes. There is something I haven’t eaten since my grand pappy used to give it to us a bribe.
The highlight for me – Zimbabwe please take note – Monrovia alone has at least five FM radio stations. To top it off, there are some five independent newspapers. In the deep of the night, I channel hopped among the stations, playing fabulous music. The news coverage is extensive, Pan-African and global, South Africa please take note. To quote our driver cum tour guide, Moses; My sister, we may not have a lot in Liberia, and we might be suffering, but at least we are free to say what we want, to who we want, on anything we want! That is freedom. That is democracy. We might be scared that the war might come again, or that the elections might be violent. But we live on hope my sister. We have a lot of hope. Listen to what these young people are saying. We live on a lot of hope!
Indeed I shall “weh my hii” and go back to see more of Liberia. One day.
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