Year: 2013

Born lucky: Tales of a high-class hooker

I met Lynn (not her real name) a few months ago at a club in town, and we’ve been friends since then. We see each other around, mostly by chance, and our friendship has strengthened. Born to a rich family at the coast, Lynn was educated at a private, “international” school in Mombasa and counted more white friends among her classmates than black Kenyan ones – you can tell by the absence of a Kenyan accent.

She’s bright, no doubt about it, and beautiful, with wild two-inch tufts of bleached blond hair, huge doe eyes, caramel skin and strong, bright white teeth. She could probably make a good living in front of the cameras in Cape Town but when she arrived in Nairobi she couldn’t find a job, so she became what she describes as a ‘chick hustler’ instead. She is only 20 years old and quite good at her job.

I sent her a SMS last week saying I wanted to write a piece about her.

“Sawa” (Okay), she replied, and we arranged to meet the next day.

“What do you want to write about me?” Lynn asks when we sit down, leaning on the table and squinting at me with mock seriousness.

“A true story,” I reply. She’d heard it before. My SMS had mentioned it.

“Why? There’s nothing exceptional about me.”

“Well, you’re hardly ordinary,” I say.

Lynn shrugs and leans over to rest her arm on my leg, her new white Alcatel smartphone in her hand, batting her eyelids and gazing into my eyes as if she had just found Prince Charming.

“Hold on, I’m going to the bank,” she announces suddenly.

She is slim in a Kate Moss sort of way, skinny legs and all. She’s wearing a tight white sleeveless T-shirt, grey tights, and a pair of flat sandals with beads on the top – the kind you get at the various Maasai markets here. She’s got a small grey sling bag and a long striped scarf wrapped around her neck in five shades of grey. It looks like it’s woven from raw silk.

“The system was down when I got here,” she explains as she gets up. “I just need to draw some cash.”

She leaves me at the table, promising she’ll come back. I know Lynn well enough by now to be sceptical, but I wait anyway. Ten minutes later, she’s back. Heads turn to follow her entrance.

“Escort me downtown,” she immediately commands.

“Okay. Where are we going?” I ask, realising that my story is about to slip away.

“Just downtown! I’ve only got a little money. I can’t afford a taxi so I want to get a matatu (minibus taxi) to The Mayfair. It’ll be good there now.”

We leave immediately and take turns to avoid injury in the 5pm traffic rush. As we find a little solace behind the Jamia mosque, she puts her arm around my shoulder as we walk and takes the hand of my far arm, swinging it in front of us. Childlike. We can’t fail to draw attention; the ever-present parking attendants and the Muslims heading for prayer watch this young Kenyan model walking with this older white guy. But there’s a familiarity between us that prompts smiles, not frowns.

We reach the terminus for matatus going to upmarket Westlands but she doesn’t stop there. We walk past the terminus and on to the real downtown part of Nairobi. We continue up the road and deep into the danger zone that lies beyond River Road. Just at the end, she slips into an alley adjacent to a minuscule shop that stocks groceries and motor vehicle spares. I follow. Through the alley, we enter the courtyard of a typically dilapidated Nairobi tenement block. The two-storey block is a courtyard of chipped blue enamel, grimy wire mesh burglar proofing and fresh washing hanging everywhere on makeshift lines.

Lynn heads straight for the back of the courtyard, to a small window in the far left corner. There’s a woman sitting at the base of the staircase in the opposite corner with a baby on her lap. She calls “Fatma!” and there’s a grunt from the floor above.

While Lynn stands at the window, she is joined by an anxious-looking Sikh youth with a black turban on his head, and a guy wearing uniformly dirt-brown clothes. The three of them wait, mute and agitated.

It takes five minutes before Fatma appears, stumbling down the stairs. She’s a mess, her forehead and hairline wet from sweat and it looks like she just had a shot of heroin. She looks Somali. She unlocks the steel gate next to the window, enters, locks it again, and then appears at the window within seconds. She serves the Sikh youth and then has to count the coins proffered by the dirt-brown-clothed guy before he too is served. Only then does Lynn get the little packet that she came for.

Lynn rushes out across the courtyard, through the alley, out, and down the road. Her stride is hard to keep up with but I manage. As we cross the street to the terminus, Lynn, in her rush, nearly gets hit by a bus and shouts at the driver, “Haraka niaje!?” In Sheng – Nairobi Swahili slang – that’s like, “What’s up with the rush, dude?”

“Fuuuuuck, where’s he gonna go?” Lynn asks in redundant reference to the wedged-in traffic that the bus nearly smashed into.

As we reach the terminus, she quickly finds a matatu and gets in.

“We’ll talk some other time,” she says through the window. I shrug and leave, understanding the occasional urgency of someone with a heroin habit.

Twenty minutes later, I get a text message from Lynn.

“Relief! And it’s looking very promising here. A table of 12 white guys at the pool gawking at me each time I walk past. Lol. But I only want one. Wish me luck.”

I SMS back to wish her luck.

After another ten minutes, she replies: “How can I be here and we not allowed to approach men. Unless he comes for you or you are sitting next to him. That’s when you can talk to him but not by getting up and walking to him. Imagine! If it was allowed I’d be a very rich woman tonight!”

It’s obvious that management at The Mayfair has laid down the rules about the behaviour required of ‘Nairobi girls’ when male guests are at the pool area.

At midnight, while writing this, I send her a text message.

“You were lucky tonight?”

Minutes later:

“I got this shit idiot who just wanted to pay me $20. I directed him to K-street. I literally showed him on Google Maps.”

K-street, or Koinange Street, is notorious for Nairobi street hookers.

“Fucking cheap ass is staying in a 300 fucking dollar room!” the message continues.

At 1am, this story nearly done, I send an SMS back:

“Lynn, you’re simply the best! Get lucky!”

But the message isn’t delivered until this morning, after I wake. At 8.25am I get a simple reply, an appropriate conclusion to the tale:

“I was born lucky. I got a guy for $100! ;-)”.

Brian Rath was born and raised in Cape Town. He now lives and writes in Kenya, and has a novel due to be published shortly.

12 years ago

War Witch

An Oscar nominee for Best Foreign Language Film in 2012, War Witch is the story of 12-year-old Komona who is abducted by African rebels and forced to fight in a civil war against her government. Her ability to see spirits/visions makes her the favourite of the main rebel leader and she decides to escape them. While war rages, love develops between Komona and her 15-year-old friend Magician. They try to flee to his uncle’s home but fate has other plans for her. Set in sub-Saharan Africa and filmed mainly in the Democratic Republic of Congo, director Kim Nguyen poignantly captures the stories of child soldiers and the horror of war.

12 years ago

Returning to my roots in Balcad

Balcad is the hometown of my father, his father, his father’s father (you can see where I am going with this). It’s about an hour’s ride to Mogadishu depending on what kind of bullshit you have to encounter to get there on that particular day. My dad complained how back in the day the trip took only 30 minutes and provided a great source of daily entertainment, gossip and scandal. Balcad is a farming and agricultural town, where goats compete with humans for control of the road. Men and women wake up at the crack of dawn and spend hours sitting by the main road drinking copious amounts of tea and arguing about absolutely nothing. One of most powerful people in the town is the humble bus driver who we rely on for our movement in and out of Balcad.

I had previously only made quick visits to Balcad (the last time was in 2004-2005) but this time I was staying for a few weeks, in the same house my parents married in and my siblings were born in. There is something quite peculiar about sleeping in the room in which your parents promised to spend the rest of their lives with each other over two decades ago.

I arrived in Balcad in the heat, bothered by dust and sand clouds hitting me in the eye. From the moment I stepped out of the car, I could feel people’s eyes on me. Their stares followed me as I surveyed the main road, the shops, the women who all wore full jalabeebs or burkas. It was as if ‘outsider’ was printed in bold font on my forehead. Thankfully my first visit to Somalia in 2004 had already prepared me for this.

The stares were most intense on the bus rides from Balcad to Mogadishu. The bus never left on time. The driver would sit outside, leisurely drinking his tea, waiting for the bus to fill up with passengers. I’d be sitting in my seat, open to the various curious looks and questions by fellow passengers. It didn’t matter how I dressed, they could always identify me as the outsider. Sometimes they didn’t even ask me anything; they were content to sit and discuss me loudly. During my stay I managed to perfect a blank expression mingled with confusion. It usually saved me from further questioning.

I spent my days in Balcad watching Somali music videos and a lot of badly dubbed Bollywood films. One night the entire road seemed to be in my room: their electricity connection had failed them and the thought of missing their Turkish soap opera was unbearable. Friday soccer games would see half of the town trickle into the green grounds to watch various teams compete against each other. The animosity towards the Mogadishu teams was fantastic!

Some days my dad took me on walking tours, pointing out the ruins of his childhood. I could sense his bewilderment and confusion at times when buildings that used to stand large and proud now appeared before him bullet-ridden. Balcad felt more freeing than Mogadishu, with local residents staying outside till late at night. Residents walked around freely and generally the atmosphere was less anxious than it was during my previous visit.

On other days, my grandfather’s housemaid would chaperone me despite my loud and angry outbursts that I was perfectly capable of roaming around by myself. She was a decade younger than me and refused to leave my side while I explored Balcad. Young children would run and scream at the sight of my camera before cheekily returning and asking to have their photo taken. I’d often spend a good 20 minutes taking personal photographs for people.

In Balcad, my grandpa’s town, I was merely my grandpa’s blood. People referred to and introduced me by his name, wherever I went his reputation and presence followed. It was nice. Even though my grandfather is in his eighties, he still treks by foot to his farm each morning to check on his crops, his animals and to basically get away from it all. I did not know grandparents while growing up. My maternal grandfather died shortly before my arrival in Somalia years ago. My paternal grandmother died decades ago. I’m fully realising how limited my opportunities are to understand my grandparents and their stories. Time is definitely never on our side. Hopefully through the stories and photos of my visit, I will have something of them to hold on to.

This post is part of a series by Samira Farah about her recent visit to Somalia. She is a freelance writer and events organiser based in Sydney, Australia. Visit her blog at brazzavillecreative.com and connect with her on Twitter.

12 years ago

Rwandan journalists under attack despite new press laws

Rwandan president Paul Kagame has signed new press laws and a freedom of information Act, intended to liberalise the media. Yet at the same time journalists are in prison for simply doing their jobs – holding the government to account.

Two of these, Agnes Uwimana and Saidati Mukakibibi, were jailed for allegedly defaming Kagame and “endangering national security” after writing articles that criticised the government’s agricultural policy, its handling of corrupt officials, and the justice system for Rwandans involved in the 1994 genocide. The reporters had been warned by the government-appointed Media Council to “tone down” their criticism, and when they failed to comply they were arrested and charged with genocide denial. Their case has been brought to the African Commission on Human and Peoples’ Rights, where they say that their right to freedom of expression and a fair trial have been violated.

Agnes Uwimana Nkusi (R) and Saidati Mukakibibi (L) in Rwandan’s Supreme Court for the first day of their appeal in Kigali on January 30 2012. Nkusi and Mukakibibi were both given in February 2011 prison sentences of 17 and seven years respectively following convictions on charges of genocide denial, inciting civil disobedience and defamation. (AFP)

Under the new laws, which are the result of international pressure and negotiations that lasted many years, the Media Council will stop being a censor and will focus instead on capacity building and promoting professional journalism. The media will be able to introduce a regime of self-regulation, and the freedom of information act will give journalists access to government information ranging from budgets to infrastructure plans.

However, while legislators congratulate themselves on passing these laws, Uwimana and Mukakibibi are not the only Rwandan journalists being persecuted. Radio journalist Habarugira Epaphrodite is being dragged through the criminal courts for mixing up the Kinyarwanda words for “victims” and “survivors” while reading the news about the country’s genocide commemorations. It was a clear slip of the tongue and he was acquitted, but the prosecution has lodged an appeal which will not be heard until mid-2014. Until then, no radio station will hire him and Habarugira cannot work as a journalist.

These are but a few examples of many. Over the past few years, scores of journalists have fled the country, leaving for Uganda, Sweden or the United States, from where they publish their newspapers online. One of them, in exile in Sweden, has tried to get his newspaper back on the streets in Kigali by importing copies by road from Uganda.

But this can be risky. In December 2011, Charles Ingabire, a Rwandan journalist critical of the president, was shot dead in Uganda where he lived as a political refugee. Two months earlier he had been assaulted by unidentified attackers who demanded that he stop publishing his website. A former soldier, Ingabire had written extensively about the Rwandan military and published interviews with other exiled soldiers.

The introduction of a set of new laws, unconnected with the offences for which journalists have been convicted, cannot be called a first step. Journalists have been jailed for criminal libel, alleged national security offences and vague genocide-related laws. If the Rwandan government genuinely wants to liberalise the environment in which the media operates then the real first step is to release the journalists unjustly imprisoned and reform the laws that led to their imprisonment to begin with.

Peter Noorlander for the Guardian Africa Network. He is the head of the Media Legal Defence Initiative which is representing Uwimana and Mukakibibi at the African Commission on Human and Peoples’ Rights and provides legal aid to several other Rwandan journalists. Follow these cases at www.twitter.com/mldi

12 years ago

Jollof rice, egusi soup, suya: How to cook Nigerian-style

Like any other nation, Nigerians differ on politics, sport and taste in music but when it comes to food, there’s a consensus: no one makes a better jollof than we do. I can’t pinpoint the exact age I learned to cook but what really peaked my interest was the amount of time my mother spent in the kitchen. She could go from making breakfast to cooking supper without doing much of anything else. I knew there had to be more efficient ways. My mother’s habit got me interested in prepping, and I later fell in love with agriculture and eventually all things Nigerian food.

Simply put, Nigerian food is flavourful and spicy. The typical Nigerian dish has a flavour profile containing salt, chili pepper, bouillon cubes (Maggi and Knorr stock cubes) and other herbs and spices. Due to international influences on Nigerian food culture, we use both local and foreign spices. Some common herbs and spices include thyme, curry powder, grains of paradise, ginger, allspice, African blue basil, nutmeg and cloves.

Typical Nigerian dishes take a while to cook. The average cooking time ranges from one hour to five, depending on the meal and ingredients. As with all dishes, there are a few tricks to save time – the most beneficial being prepping. Prepping and freezing commonly used items like meat, pureed pepper and beans will cut cooking time in half. Tasks like peeling beans for local favourites like moi-moi (steamed beans pudding) and akara (bean cake) take an average of four hours.

Typical cooking ingredients include Maggi/Knorr stock cubes, chili peppers, crayfish and palm oil. For those who live outside Nigeria, sourcing ingredients can be a challenge when it comes to preparing authentic Nigerian food. Most ingredients can be found in local African grocery stores, and close substitutes are usually available in other ethnic grocery stores.

Jollof rice

According to most Nigerians, jollof originated from Nigeria but this has been a topic of many debates. Different countries in Africa have different versions of jollof rice. The Nigerian jollof is made from a combination of pureed red bell pepper and tomatoes, curry powder, thyme leave, bouillon cubes, oil, salt and bay leaves. Jollof is consumed all over the country and is served at most celebratory occasions. Below is my easy, budget-friendly recipe. Follow these step-by-step instructions to get it right.

Ingredients:

1/3 cup pure groundnut oil (a substitute for vegetable oil)
1/4 of a large onion (sliced)
1 small can tomato paste
2 Maggi stock cubes
1/2 teaspoon each of thyme, curry powder, chili powder
1 teaspoon salt
4 bay leaves
2.5 cups basmati rice
Sheet of foil

Directions:

1) Place a pot with a tight-fitting lead on medium heat and heat up the oil in it. Add the chopped onions and fry until they’ve browned.

2) Then add in the tomato paste; fry the onions and paste for 3 minutes. Then add in the Maggi cubes, thyme, curry, chilli powder and salt, and combine.

3) Add 2.5 cups of water and the bay leaves to the pot. Cover and bring to a boil.

4) Reduce the heat to minimum. Add in the rice. Cover the pot with the foil and then the lid. (It’s extremely important that the pot is well covered as we are trying to infuse each grain of rice.)

5) Leave to cook on minimum heat for 35 minutes.

6) Remove the pot from heat and stir the contents. If the texture of the rice isn’t to your liking at this point, simply cover the pot tightly for another 6 minutes. (There is no need to return the pot back to the heat, the retained heat is enough to continue to cook the rice). Otherwise the rice is ready to serve.

7) Remove the bay leafs and serve the jollof rice with your choice of protein. I recently fell in love with jollof rice and poached eggs, it is the best combination.

Egusi soup

Made from a combination of shelled and blended melon seed, palm oil and vegetable leaves, egusi is easily the most popular soup in Nigeria. It is served as an accompaniment to fufu-like starches and it’s often eaten as lunch. The soup is prepared with a range of meat and fish; the popular belief is that the more variety of meat present in the soup, the better it tastes. Follow this recipe to make your own.

Suya

This is a special spice mix of chili powder and de-oiled peanut blend that originated from northern Nigeria. The spice mix is used as a rub on proteins like beef, lamb, chicken and fish. Suya meat, as the end product is called, is cooked over an open barbeque pit. These barbeques only happen at night and the meat from street vendors is usually better than that from specialised upscale restaurants. To make your own, this is all you need to do.

Ronke S. Adeyemi is the creative administrator of 9jafoodie.com, a popular Nigerian food blog.