Great Britain, to itself. Blighty to the rest of us. A country that probably was once "great", and wanted everyone to know it, see it and feel it. Today, the signs of that greatness are dimming, except perhaps in the big statues that dot the city of London. Big, huge, grandiose statues, celebrating the (imperial) heroes of old.
In this Britain is not alone. All over the world, it seems, our city fathers, (good name that, city fathers, very appropriate for who I think has this mindset), think it is necessary to erect (another good word), these grandiose reminders of their nations' MILITARY greatness. Military/war heroes are immortalized in marble and other indestructible material, so that we remember them, we celebrate them. On a visit to Cambodia in July, I could not complete the obligatory many hours in Angkor Wat. Dozens of wall murals - which must have taken years to etch, reminded us of the many wars fought and presumably won.
In Rome, the military statues are a marvel. One can not help but be taken in by them. You can hear the chariots of the Emperors clop clopping through the cobbled street as you gaze up at the imposing things high above your head.
It is interesting isn't it? We with forked tongue speak about the evilness of wars, we decry the violence perpetrated on women and girls during these wars. Yet, everywhere around us, our countries' history is celebrated through military statues and displays celebrating the greatness of war.
Even more worrying is the fact that, to this day, visiting heads of state or dignitaries are welcomed by "a military guard of honour". I still do not understand what that is about. Well I do. The message to the visitor is; look how what a great nation we are, see our men in uniform, don't mess with us now, we are very capable of blowing you and yours to smitherins, better behave yourself and speak nice to us during this visit, because we are armed...to the teeth.
Is the display of military might the only way to welcome a visitor to your "home"? How about, just stopping at the garlands of flowers? Would that not be nice and civil enough? If we must parade anything for the visitor, how about our smartest and brightest young people, showing what a great new generation we have coming up? No guns, no goose-stepping, just a nice welcome.
And why bury people with a 21 gun salute? A gun salute? That is supposed to....what? Send the deceased in a blaze of military glory to their maker? Get ready you up there here he comes! Ka boom! Ka boom! Better be good to him or else...ka boom!
Security for me means not being reminded that the world is a giant militarized zone. It means not celebrating war and all that goes with it.
And it means not being greeted by reminders of imperialist wars - of any kind.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Security in an insecure world 2
I don't know why it always happens to me. Maybe I smile too much? Maybe I am too nice? Maybe I just don't get the protocol right. But what is the protocol? I thought we were all supposed to treat one another with respect. Be kind. Be courteous. Be friendly. Just be human. Is that not the standard protocol?
It seems there is a different one for taxi drivers. No sooner had I fastened the seat belt than he mistook my thigh for the gear shift. I chose to be charitable. Shifted slightly to the right, out of arm's way. No. There the hand went again. This time it was accompanied by a wink and a smile. There was nowhere else to shift to. I can't sit in the back. I don't like looking like some corrupt government official, being driven to yet another shady meeting. Besides, I suffer from car sickness. Sitting in the helps! But the hand keeps following my thigh.
We chatted about the weather. The busy road. Exchanged notes about where we are from. He from Pakistan. He was just there on holiday. He asked me about the situation in my home country. We chatted about politics. About the world. I don't know how we veeered into sex? Somewhere between Heathrow and Walthamstow, he asked me, "So do you like......(moving his pelvis suggestively)?" I looked out into the London horizon. I kept a straight face. Kept my mouth shut. I jammed my MP3 into my ears, and put the volume as high as it could go.
We got to my destination. I thanked him. I grinned. I paid the full fare.
I am just too happy to see my friend, opening her front door.
It seems there is a different one for taxi drivers. No sooner had I fastened the seat belt than he mistook my thigh for the gear shift. I chose to be charitable. Shifted slightly to the right, out of arm's way. No. There the hand went again. This time it was accompanied by a wink and a smile. There was nowhere else to shift to. I can't sit in the back. I don't like looking like some corrupt government official, being driven to yet another shady meeting. Besides, I suffer from car sickness. Sitting in the helps! But the hand keeps following my thigh.
We chatted about the weather. The busy road. Exchanged notes about where we are from. He from Pakistan. He was just there on holiday. He asked me about the situation in my home country. We chatted about politics. About the world. I don't know how we veeered into sex? Somewhere between Heathrow and Walthamstow, he asked me, "So do you like......(moving his pelvis suggestively)?" I looked out into the London horizon. I kept a straight face. Kept my mouth shut. I jammed my MP3 into my ears, and put the volume as high as it could go.
We got to my destination. I thanked him. I grinned. I paid the full fare.
I am just too happy to see my friend, opening her front door.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Security in an insecure world
Come with me on a journey, as we go through this year's 16 days of Activism against violence against women. Safety. Security. Peace. All very critical for every woman, everywhere in the world. Do I feel secure? Always? Do you feel secure? What does security mean for you? That is the question we have to grapple with in this year's theme.
As I start this journey. I am in Ottawa. Canada. Apparently one of the safest places in the world. I arrived here a week ago. Two little chatty questions and I was let through by immigration. They didn't even stamp my passport. Is that normal? I don't know. But it made feel happy and unhassled. Very much the opposite of what I am made to feel in airports - frisked and undressed, even if I keep my hat on. No marines loitering all over the place. No military dudes with guns watching as I picked my bag.
On departure from London, nobody went through my baggage, asking me dozen questions about why I was going to Ottawa. No zap-zap machines peeking into my brookies.
Except....the flight attendant kept referring to "the commander". Is that what pilots are called nowadays? The only meaning I know of that word is not synonymous with safety, and relaxed flights.
As I start this journey. I am in Ottawa. Canada. Apparently one of the safest places in the world. I arrived here a week ago. Two little chatty questions and I was let through by immigration. They didn't even stamp my passport. Is that normal? I don't know. But it made feel happy and unhassled. Very much the opposite of what I am made to feel in airports - frisked and undressed, even if I keep my hat on. No marines loitering all over the place. No military dudes with guns watching as I picked my bag.
On departure from London, nobody went through my baggage, asking me dozen questions about why I was going to Ottawa. No zap-zap machines peeking into my brookies.
Except....the flight attendant kept referring to "the commander". Is that what pilots are called nowadays? The only meaning I know of that word is not synonymous with safety, and relaxed flights.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Across the bridge 2
What exactly is one supposed to do when you are granted Permanent Residence status by another country? Do you send flowers and a note to the Minister of Home Affairs thanking her for her niceness and kindness? Do you tip the official who hands you the certificate with a lot of pomp and ceremony? How much is a decent “tip” for such a thing? Is it legal to tip or might it be picked up on the cctv cameras and you are accused of paying a bribe? And what are you supposed to do with the very glam looking residence certificate - printed on beautiful paper, complete with the country’s coat of arms? Do you frame it? Silver or gold? Where do you hang it, lounge or bedroom, next to your school certificates, or much closer to your children’s first photos? Or maybe you are supposed to carry it in your handbag? But it is too big, so can you fold it into your purse? Will the police want to see it when they stop you looking for “illegals”. More worryingly do you write to your country of citizenship to notify them? How does the letter read - dear Minister of Home Affairs? Or is that Foreign Affairs? Or is that the Registrar of births and deaths and all things in between? Then what else do you tell them? This is to inform you I now have another home, however please don’t take this the wrong way, I still love you, (I mean our country, not you, yourself), so please don’t revoke my citizenship.
This is my dilemma dear friends. I was finally granted permanent residency by the Government of South Africa. So let me be polite, thank you South Africa. Sadly I don’t know whose totem or clan praise poem I should recite, (on my knees?), since there are some 45 million of you. So a simple thank you will have to suffice. I am not being facetious. I am truly grateful. I have joined the ranks of the truly global citizens of the world, no longer defined, identified, and limited by one geographical boundary, which boundary my ancestors had nothing to do with. The other half of me that which I inherited from my mother’s people who came up North with the great leader Mzilikazi ka Mashobana is firmly formally recognized. I feel that I have finally broken that cage, that box, in which I was solely defined as a Karanga person, belonging only to my father’s side and never to my mother’s. As a feminist who has struggled for my right of CHOICE in many other areas of my life, this is one area that was left, and I celebrate my fulfilment of it. Having two homes means I have the choice to be in one or the other. I pick and choose how much I want to invest in each one - emotionally, financially and socially.
Being a resident of two countries is truly a privilege. It shouldn’t be like that. We talk about freedom of movement, the world being a global village, and our common humanity. Yet, each day, we put up the fences - literally and figuratively to separate us from one another. Hectares of papers, and millions of human hours are spent, tightening these fences, pushing one another out.
The privilege belongs to a select few. As single, black, African woman, I am fully aware of just how much of a mega privilege this is. My class status is what made this possible. Thousands of my fellow Zimbabweans are still stranded, they queue up for weeks on end, at Home Affairs offices looking for the right to stay and work here. Most of them have been here longer than I have. Some even qualify for citizenship given how long they have been here. But no, their papers are not in order. Their “stories” are not enough to qualify them for residence. I didn’t do anything special. I just happen to be in an economic and social bracket that made my application hassle free and more acceptable.
My friends and family are totally ecstatic on my behalf. I got flowers, chocolate, a bottle of wine, beautiful cards, e-cards, e-hugs. Several proposed a celebratory party. But I don’t feel like a party. Congratulations are not what I want to hear. For the last month, I have wept as I looked at this pretty certificate. I don’t feel ecstatic. Deep in my heart is sorrow and pain. I am happy I now have this choice. Believe me I am. I am deeply grateful to have this ability to traverse across two borders, and call both Zimbabwe and South Africa my homes. No two countries could make me happier. These two countries with their glorious histories of my ancestors and foremothers whose heroic struggles I cherish ever so.
Yet I am still deeply sad. I love the country of my birth. I will forever carry the green and gold passport of Zimbabwe to signify my real citizenship. It is the country that raised me and made me who I am today. Growing up, I never ever thought of leaving Zimbabwe, going somewhere else to study, to work or to live! Even as I got to know more and more countries, it always was the place to come back to. In the three years of my working, (not necessarily living) in South Africa, when Zimbabweans asked “how is South Africa?” I would reply, “how else can the land of others be?” It comes out with much deeper meaning in Shona or Ndebele and it’s hard to capture the nuance in English am afraid. As someone said it so beautifully, I worked and stayed in South Africa, but my heart and my head lived in Zimbabwe. I slept in Harare, but woke up in Johannesburg.
Seven years later, I deliberately applied for residence, and got it. I wanted it. In one sentence; the love of my life was no longer enough for me. I needed more. I needed other things, which she could not give me, or let me enjoy.
I feel rotten inside. I feel I have betrayed my country, slapped it in the face, thrown dirty water at it. This beautiful certificate is written proof of my betrayal and rejection of my Zimbabwe.
The residence permit couldn’t have come at a strange time, the very day I put in my resignation in my current job, and signed my new job offer! The new job will take me back to Zimbabwe, as an expatriate! Yes, I will be an expatriate in my own country of birth. What does that mean exactly? If war breaks out and I have to be “evacuated”, do I head to the South African embassy and leave my parents behind? What does that say about me? What kind of person do I become? Or when I am talking to my team mates do I say, “we Zimbabweans”, or I adopt the rather derogatory, “you people”? The books and academics say we all have multiple identities. How does one carry them all equally? How do I find the true me, in these many identities?
When I called my mum to tell her I was coming back home, she kept silent for a few minutes, and I know she was stifling her sobs. Why? She wanted to know. Why come back to Zimbabwe? To do what? Did I not know the elections are coming again soon? What about money? How would I make enough to survive, to look after her and my dad? She told me their medical bills had gone up. Loud hint - will you afford to keep up our insurance if you come back? She continued to scare me about the ever increasing power cuts, the water cuts, the scarcity of firewood.
This is what makes me deeply sad. When a mother would rather their child goes far away, than be close enough to share the love and care, what can one do besides weep for what was, could be, and should be? My parents are both in their late 70s. I want to be near them to fix their broken windows, take them to their doctors’ appointments and see them as often as possible. I am sure they want that too, but they are afraid. So they would rather I am away from the ‘troubles’. When a country begins to “sell” its own children, then we have to mourn. Deeply so.
So back to my earlier questions - how am I supposed to behave differently now that I am a permanent resident? Is there some South African rite of passage that I must go through to show I am HERE? I am too old for the reed dance, (which I would never have done anyway). Am I required to choose between Kaizer chiefs and Orlando pirates football clubs? I still don’t know the difference between them by the way. I already have a favourite radio station, Kaya fm, so I am ahead on that one. Ditto favourite newspapers, the Sunday Times and the Mail and Guardian. Should I do the dailies too? Do I use Zambuk instead of Vaseline on my lips? There are some things I won’t do though- rugby, cricket, and saying, “Jane, he is not here”.
For the next few weeks, I think I will carry around my framed residence certificate and show it to all those who used to treat me badly and tell me to go back home; the taxi drivers, that nasty woman in the snooty shoe shop in Hyde Park, the other one in Pick and Pay who throws my change at me when I don’t speak Sesotho, the bank teller who gets so weary when she has to deal with my special account, and oh yes, the really mean security guard in our building! I will shove my residence permit in their faces and say, see I am one of you now. This is my home too!
This is my dilemma dear friends. I was finally granted permanent residency by the Government of South Africa. So let me be polite, thank you South Africa. Sadly I don’t know whose totem or clan praise poem I should recite, (on my knees?), since there are some 45 million of you. So a simple thank you will have to suffice. I am not being facetious. I am truly grateful. I have joined the ranks of the truly global citizens of the world, no longer defined, identified, and limited by one geographical boundary, which boundary my ancestors had nothing to do with. The other half of me that which I inherited from my mother’s people who came up North with the great leader Mzilikazi ka Mashobana is firmly formally recognized. I feel that I have finally broken that cage, that box, in which I was solely defined as a Karanga person, belonging only to my father’s side and never to my mother’s. As a feminist who has struggled for my right of CHOICE in many other areas of my life, this is one area that was left, and I celebrate my fulfilment of it. Having two homes means I have the choice to be in one or the other. I pick and choose how much I want to invest in each one - emotionally, financially and socially.
Being a resident of two countries is truly a privilege. It shouldn’t be like that. We talk about freedom of movement, the world being a global village, and our common humanity. Yet, each day, we put up the fences - literally and figuratively to separate us from one another. Hectares of papers, and millions of human hours are spent, tightening these fences, pushing one another out.
The privilege belongs to a select few. As single, black, African woman, I am fully aware of just how much of a mega privilege this is. My class status is what made this possible. Thousands of my fellow Zimbabweans are still stranded, they queue up for weeks on end, at Home Affairs offices looking for the right to stay and work here. Most of them have been here longer than I have. Some even qualify for citizenship given how long they have been here. But no, their papers are not in order. Their “stories” are not enough to qualify them for residence. I didn’t do anything special. I just happen to be in an economic and social bracket that made my application hassle free and more acceptable.
My friends and family are totally ecstatic on my behalf. I got flowers, chocolate, a bottle of wine, beautiful cards, e-cards, e-hugs. Several proposed a celebratory party. But I don’t feel like a party. Congratulations are not what I want to hear. For the last month, I have wept as I looked at this pretty certificate. I don’t feel ecstatic. Deep in my heart is sorrow and pain. I am happy I now have this choice. Believe me I am. I am deeply grateful to have this ability to traverse across two borders, and call both Zimbabwe and South Africa my homes. No two countries could make me happier. These two countries with their glorious histories of my ancestors and foremothers whose heroic struggles I cherish ever so.
Yet I am still deeply sad. I love the country of my birth. I will forever carry the green and gold passport of Zimbabwe to signify my real citizenship. It is the country that raised me and made me who I am today. Growing up, I never ever thought of leaving Zimbabwe, going somewhere else to study, to work or to live! Even as I got to know more and more countries, it always was the place to come back to. In the three years of my working, (not necessarily living) in South Africa, when Zimbabweans asked “how is South Africa?” I would reply, “how else can the land of others be?” It comes out with much deeper meaning in Shona or Ndebele and it’s hard to capture the nuance in English am afraid. As someone said it so beautifully, I worked and stayed in South Africa, but my heart and my head lived in Zimbabwe. I slept in Harare, but woke up in Johannesburg.
Seven years later, I deliberately applied for residence, and got it. I wanted it. In one sentence; the love of my life was no longer enough for me. I needed more. I needed other things, which she could not give me, or let me enjoy.
I feel rotten inside. I feel I have betrayed my country, slapped it in the face, thrown dirty water at it. This beautiful certificate is written proof of my betrayal and rejection of my Zimbabwe.
The residence permit couldn’t have come at a strange time, the very day I put in my resignation in my current job, and signed my new job offer! The new job will take me back to Zimbabwe, as an expatriate! Yes, I will be an expatriate in my own country of birth. What does that mean exactly? If war breaks out and I have to be “evacuated”, do I head to the South African embassy and leave my parents behind? What does that say about me? What kind of person do I become? Or when I am talking to my team mates do I say, “we Zimbabweans”, or I adopt the rather derogatory, “you people”? The books and academics say we all have multiple identities. How does one carry them all equally? How do I find the true me, in these many identities?
When I called my mum to tell her I was coming back home, she kept silent for a few minutes, and I know she was stifling her sobs. Why? She wanted to know. Why come back to Zimbabwe? To do what? Did I not know the elections are coming again soon? What about money? How would I make enough to survive, to look after her and my dad? She told me their medical bills had gone up. Loud hint - will you afford to keep up our insurance if you come back? She continued to scare me about the ever increasing power cuts, the water cuts, the scarcity of firewood.
This is what makes me deeply sad. When a mother would rather their child goes far away, than be close enough to share the love and care, what can one do besides weep for what was, could be, and should be? My parents are both in their late 70s. I want to be near them to fix their broken windows, take them to their doctors’ appointments and see them as often as possible. I am sure they want that too, but they are afraid. So they would rather I am away from the ‘troubles’. When a country begins to “sell” its own children, then we have to mourn. Deeply so.
So back to my earlier questions - how am I supposed to behave differently now that I am a permanent resident? Is there some South African rite of passage that I must go through to show I am HERE? I am too old for the reed dance, (which I would never have done anyway). Am I required to choose between Kaizer chiefs and Orlando pirates football clubs? I still don’t know the difference between them by the way. I already have a favourite radio station, Kaya fm, so I am ahead on that one. Ditto favourite newspapers, the Sunday Times and the Mail and Guardian. Should I do the dailies too? Do I use Zambuk instead of Vaseline on my lips? There are some things I won’t do though- rugby, cricket, and saying, “Jane, he is not here”.
For the next few weeks, I think I will carry around my framed residence certificate and show it to all those who used to treat me badly and tell me to go back home; the taxi drivers, that nasty woman in the snooty shoe shop in Hyde Park, the other one in Pick and Pay who throws my change at me when I don’t speak Sesotho, the bank teller who gets so weary when she has to deal with my special account, and oh yes, the really mean security guard in our building! I will shove my residence permit in their faces and say, see I am one of you now. This is my home too!
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
A real War Vet
I only met General Solomon Mujuru, a.k.a Rex Nhongo just once. All I remember was that he looked very...ordinary. Just a normal human being. I remember very clearly that he stammered. Colin Firth in The King's Speech reminded me of him. I also remember that unlike other military and political types whose hands I have shaken, he did not give me the hibby-jibbies. No cold shudder went through my hand, no strangeness in his eyes. Just a very well bathed man in a nice suit.
It is no surprise to hear all the accolades pouring out about this hero of my country's liberation struggle. Growing up, "Mukoma Nhongo" was for many of my generation synonymous with the armed struggle against colonialism. A famous liberation war song went, "hona Mukoma Nhongo, bereka sabhu tiende chauya-chauya", (brother Nhongo take up your sub-machine gun let's go. What will be, will be). This was the only name some of us knew. It was as if he was the whole liberation army, all by himself, carrying that sub-machine gun. In my childish mind of course, a sub-machine gun sounded like a glamorous thing to carry on one's back. I had little idea of the gravity of the struggle and what it was like for the women and men actually fighting this war. My war. Our war.
Fast forward to the present day. Each year, when ZTV plays the footage of the struggle, it is Rex's picture chatting and laughing with his "boys" that keeps playing, over and over again. He keeps laughing. It is always hard to imagine that he went to war in his early 20s.
At University I shared desks with dozens of military people. I was to learn that it was thanks to Comrade Rex that many of them went back to school after independence. I learnt that he pushed them to get educated so that they could run a better army, or even get out of it if they so chose. The mark of a leader, always wanting the best for his/her team. No wonder we have one of the most educated armies this side of the Sahara.
Over the last few years his power and influence has acquired mythical proportions. Yet he held no official position, and neither did he ever speak to the media. He was there. But not there. He was talked about, and he didn't talk about himself. Unlike some of our so called "leaders" in present day Zimbabwe who have the habit of calling themselves "Honorable", or "Ambassador such and so". As one of my mentors, Gemma Mbaya, used to say, if you have to call yourself Honourable, rather than us honouring you, then there is something totally dishonourable about you!
To say my blood went cold, when I got the text message telling me about Comrade Rex's death and how he died, would be the understatement of the year. I froze. From fear. From pain. From sheer disbelief. Here was a man who survived the Smith regime's forces for so long,unable to save himself from a house fire? As my Kenyan friends would say, a whole General, burning to ash in a large house, all by himself. No alarm raised on time? Nothing? I am one of those who just doesn't believe this was a simple fire accident. We have seen too many of these accidents to know better.
I hold no brief for the man. But we all must hold a brief for one another as human beings. Nobody deserves to die in this way. A liberation war hero, a political opponent, the wife you no longer want. Noone. Even if it was an accident, nobody should die in this manner.
I fear for my country. I fear for all of us lesser mortals. If Comrade Rex could die in this manner, what about we of no consequence? As we would say back home, isu hedu vana kapuracha?
Thank you Comrade Rex-Solomon for the good fight you fought for me, for us. Thank you for being an exemplary leader. Above all, thank you for showing us that it is not too hard, to be just a normal human being.
It is no surprise to hear all the accolades pouring out about this hero of my country's liberation struggle. Growing up, "Mukoma Nhongo" was for many of my generation synonymous with the armed struggle against colonialism. A famous liberation war song went, "hona Mukoma Nhongo, bereka sabhu tiende chauya-chauya", (brother Nhongo take up your sub-machine gun let's go. What will be, will be). This was the only name some of us knew. It was as if he was the whole liberation army, all by himself, carrying that sub-machine gun. In my childish mind of course, a sub-machine gun sounded like a glamorous thing to carry on one's back. I had little idea of the gravity of the struggle and what it was like for the women and men actually fighting this war. My war. Our war.
Fast forward to the present day. Each year, when ZTV plays the footage of the struggle, it is Rex's picture chatting and laughing with his "boys" that keeps playing, over and over again. He keeps laughing. It is always hard to imagine that he went to war in his early 20s.
At University I shared desks with dozens of military people. I was to learn that it was thanks to Comrade Rex that many of them went back to school after independence. I learnt that he pushed them to get educated so that they could run a better army, or even get out of it if they so chose. The mark of a leader, always wanting the best for his/her team. No wonder we have one of the most educated armies this side of the Sahara.
Over the last few years his power and influence has acquired mythical proportions. Yet he held no official position, and neither did he ever speak to the media. He was there. But not there. He was talked about, and he didn't talk about himself. Unlike some of our so called "leaders" in present day Zimbabwe who have the habit of calling themselves "Honorable", or "Ambassador such and so". As one of my mentors, Gemma Mbaya, used to say, if you have to call yourself Honourable, rather than us honouring you, then there is something totally dishonourable about you!
To say my blood went cold, when I got the text message telling me about Comrade Rex's death and how he died, would be the understatement of the year. I froze. From fear. From pain. From sheer disbelief. Here was a man who survived the Smith regime's forces for so long,unable to save himself from a house fire? As my Kenyan friends would say, a whole General, burning to ash in a large house, all by himself. No alarm raised on time? Nothing? I am one of those who just doesn't believe this was a simple fire accident. We have seen too many of these accidents to know better.
I hold no brief for the man. But we all must hold a brief for one another as human beings. Nobody deserves to die in this way. A liberation war hero, a political opponent, the wife you no longer want. Noone. Even if it was an accident, nobody should die in this manner.
I fear for my country. I fear for all of us lesser mortals. If Comrade Rex could die in this manner, what about we of no consequence? As we would say back home, isu hedu vana kapuracha?
Thank you Comrade Rex-Solomon for the good fight you fought for me, for us. Thank you for being an exemplary leader. Above all, thank you for showing us that it is not too hard, to be just a normal human being.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Across the bridge 1
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?
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 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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