Category: General

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

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.

12 years ago

For the love of African literature

I don’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t have books around me. My parents and grandparents were all bibliophiles, and it went without saying that I was expected to find similar joy in reading.

As a child I was introduced to the worlds that lay within Mallory Towers, The Famous Five, Secret Seven, Nancy Drew Mysteries and others. When I grew older, I fell in love with Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters.

African literature barely registered on my radar until about three years ago. Prior to this I had only read a handful of requisite titles by African writers. I just did not make the effort to read more, and hid behind the handy excuse of good African literature being hard to find.

My light bulb moment came after reading Twilight in the Morning by Theresa Lungu, a Zambian writer based in the US. It is a simple story: boy meets girl, they fall in love, they’re separated and endure great personal loss before being reunited. However, what made this book thoroughly enjoyable was the writer’s skill to make this more than a cliché about love and loss. Instead she showed the remarkable resilience of the human spirit even after enduring heartache and pain.

After this I resolved to read more books by Zambian writers and others from the continent. I further decided to share my reading experiences through book reviews to perhaps help others make purchasing decisions and to introduce them to new and old writers. It was the least I could do after years of neglect.

In doing so I’ve found a new meaning in what it means to be an African. The African writer explores the depths of the human condition. In these works we are not merely caricatures or objects to be ridiculed and placed on display. We are fully formed human beings with the capacity to love, hate, laugh and cry. Furthermore the African writer has given voice to many stories that once were only shared through our oral traditions, some of which we have lost with the passing of time. This is why I continue to read and share.

Some of my favourite books to date are:

A Cowrie of Hope by Binwell Sinyangwe

Nasula (mother of Sula) is a young widow struggling to make ends meet for herself and her daughter. Her daughter who recently passed her exams has been accepted into an all-girls’ secondary school but she lacks the money required for fees, supplies, and other things required for Sula to continue with her education. Though illiterate herself, Nasula, understands the need for her daughter to be educated and she feels the burden acutely.

Faced with the dilemma of her daughter possibly dropping out of school because of lack of funds, Nasula faces a seemingly hopeless situation until a friend proposes a solution. If she sells her last bag of Mbala beans, which are on high demand in Lusaka, the money will more than adequately fund Sula’s schooling. Re-energised with this new hope, Nasula sets out to earn this money.

Nasula’s naïveté is touching, and her boldness inspiring. What I really love about this book is that despite the desperate situations Nasula finds herself in, she loses neither her dignity nor her sight of goal. Her daughter exemplifies this too, which speaks well for the strength of both mother and child. We often talk about the indignity of poverty, and how it slowly chips away at the soul but Sinyangwe masterfully crafts characters that transcend that predicament.

Everything Good Will Come by Sefi Atta

Sefi Atta’s debut novel is set in Lagos, Nigeria. It is the story of Enitan, born on the eve of her country’s independence. Through her eyes we witness the changes the young republic and her citizens go through – military coups, the rise of an indigenous ruling class, political activism and so forth.

As a child Enitan is sheltered, naïve and spoiled; her parents use her as a proxy in their fights, each vying for her undivided loyalty.

We follow her story from childhood to adulthood, and we see her come into her own through her life experiences. Her friendship with a childhood friend, Sherry, is also quite pivotal and through them Atta raises troubling issues such as the role of women in society and the expression of personal freedoms in an increasingly autocratic nation.

Sefi Atta is truly a gifted writer and this work is well worth reading.

Nervous Conditions by Tsitsi Dangarembga

“I was not sorry when my brother died. Nor am I apologising for my callousness, as you may define it, my lack of feeling.”

Never have I read such a bold opening to a novel. I paused briefly to check what roller coaster ride I had just committed myself to before launching into the book. It turned out to be intense and thought-provoking.

This is a semi-autobiographical coming-of-age story about a young woman in pre-independence Zimbabwe. It’s set in the late 1960s and early 1970s, and centres around two female cousins, Tambudzai (Tambu) and Nyasha. The adult Tambu reflects back on her adolescence and in particular the major events that shaped her life.

This is not simply a story about family drama. It is about girls maturing into teens. Women moving up in the world by virtue of their hard work and/or education and not because of advantageous unions. The struggles of a newly educated class as they straddle the “white man’s world” and that of their forefathers. Familial pressures to help less advantaged (and sometimes lazy) siblings. The gradual emancipation of the black man. Social acceptance of outsiders.

It is not an easy read but the gifted Dangarembga does a remarkable job in making it enjoyable.

The Screaming of the Innocent by Unity Dow

The Screaming of the Innocent is a powerful book. A young girl goes missing in the remote village of Gaphala in Botswana. The police rule out a human connection in her disappearance and make the determination that she has been eaten by wild animals. Her family dispute this but have no means to pursue the case, and it is soon closed.

A few years later a young woman assigned to the local clinic as part of her national service comes across a box that reopens the old case and wounds that have barely healed start to bleed again. This sets in motion a quest for the truth about what happened to the little girl.

What follows is the struggle between a community of people who have traditionally been disenfranchised as they go head to head with those who rule and oppress. Dow weaves together a fascinating tale that’s hard to put down and shows that even in the midst of horrific darkness there is hope, and this hope is carried by ordinary men and women.

It’s a tragic story told by a wonderful writer. I absolutely loved it.

Patchwork by Ellen Banda-Aaku

The central character of the book is Pumpkin. We first meet her as a nine-year-old living in Lusaka, Zambia with her single mother, Totela Ponga. Theirs is a turbulent existence – Totela is a barely functioning drunk who obsesses about her married lover, JS, Pumpkin’s father. Pumpkin slips into the role of caregiver though she understands little of alcoholism and the destructive nature of her parents’ relationship. She also faces the unkind questions from her friends about her absent father which she fights off defiantly.

In the second half of the novel, we encounter an adult Pumpkin. She’s a successful architect and is married with children of her own. She still carries with her the insecurities from her childhood. She’s distrustful and has a knack for telling little lies that slowly chip away at the foundation of her marriage. This culminates in an ugly encounter with a woman she suspects of preying on her husband.

Overall this was an enjoyable book. Having the story told from Pumpkin’s point of view as a child and later as an adult was very well done. Even though she seemingly has it together on the outside, there are many times she wonders “why couldn’t they see the tears I was crying inside?” One can’t help but be thoroughly annoyed at her parents for failing to step back to see what their behaviour had done to their child. They fail to understand the outward expressions of love Pumpkin needs or how she struggles to fit in a world where she constantly feels rejected.

Through Pumpkin’s eyes we are confronted with various themes – polygamy, alcoholism, HIV and Aids, trust and personal insecurities. As the lives of the different characters intersect we see how they respond and evolve. No one comes out of this as he or she went in.

Bwalya Chileya was born in the early 80s and raised in Malawi and Zambia. She holds a masters in business administration and works as a project manager. She still reads and writes stories in her free time. Connect with her on Twitter.

12 years ago

Ethiopia’s Orthodox Church enthrones its new patriarch

Ethiopia’s Orthodox Church last week elected its sixth patriarch, 71-year-old Abune Mathias. Mathias, previously the Ethiopian Orthodox Archbishop of Jerusalem, was enthroned on Sunday, March 3 in Addis Ababa. The Ethiopian Orthodox Church has a membership of 50 million followers.

Click on the first thumbnail below to view a gallery of the inauguration.

[nggallery id=abune-mathias]

Marthe van der Wolf is an Ethiopian/Dutch journalist based in Addis Ababa. She holds an M.Phil in African Studies from the University of Cape Town.

12 years ago

Gossiping with Nkrumah in Accra

Accra, June 2012 – I am walking with my new friend and namesake, Auntie G, down High Street, Accra, towards the arts and crafts market when I hear “Jambo! Hakuna Matata!” interspersed with “Bafana Bafana!”. I immediately know I am the one being addressed, in that instinctive way foreigners in new places know when they are spoken to, even when they can’t see the speaker. Busted! So much for my illusion of blending in. Crafts vendors – the ever observant eyes of every African city – can read me as either Kenyan or South African, even before I betray my foreignness with my heavy accent.

Now, I have nothing against Bafana Bafana. To misquote South African writer Ndumiso Ngcobo, some of my best friends are South African. But even they don’t want to be associated with the perennially losing Bafana. Certainly not on the streets of Accra, when the Black Stars have just massacred the Lesotho Crocodiles 7 – 0 in a World Cup 2014 qualifier. But with the Black Stars’ subsequent lackluster flickering at the 2013 Afcon tournament – only second to the Chipolopolo’s misfiring – I might be persuaded to reconsider my views on Bafana. Okay, truth be told, with Kenya’s consistent record of perpetual insignificance on the African soccerscape, I have little business holding an opinion on Bafana. Like most of my compatriots, I have long reconciled myself to the fact that we are more of an athletic nation, with occasional flashes of brilliance in cricket and rugby, when our ancestors have enjoyed a few good puffs of the fabled Malawi gold.

But today, on the streets of Accra, I could live with being associated with Bafana Bafana. It is the touristic “Hakuna Matata” that gives me malaria, with its evocation of The Lion King and Baroness Karen I-Had-a-Farm-in-Africa-Blixen. I suppose it inadvertently reclaims tourism as still mzungu (white) terrain in Africa. It marks me as a pretender to touristic pleasure; sadly, some ideas are just frozen in place like that. The curio vendors at the crafts market in Kampala, Uganda seem to be dynamic – at least in so far as they responded to wazungu tourists’ protestations against being called mzungu by printing souvenir T-shirts with the legend “I am not Mzungu” (talk about lost in transcription!). Still, it will be a while before we send young Simba and his matata back to Disneyland. Then again, as my friends subsequently pointed out, maybe the ever gracious Ghanaians meant “Hakuna Matata” with Bafana Bafana, and we must all just chillax about the losing spell. I quite liked this reading.

But while we are on this ultra-optimistic mode, can the artists please drag their African men and women out of the frozen fantasy of bare breasts, earthen pots, and skinny necks weighed down by tons of beads, and get them across to this side of the millennium? Dare I hope that they will start painting the actual men and women who walk the streets and footpaths of African cities and villages?

Along with my friend Wambui, who shares my exasperation at the ubiquitous Afri-xotica of huge ceramic pots balanced at impossible angles on chiskop’d heads, I look forward to the day I will walk into a curio market in an African city and find colourful canvas upon colourful canvas of young people in luminous green skinny jeans, stylish tops and trendy handbags, swinging to “I go tell my papa, I go tell am say, you be waka waka baby” with Flavour N’abania; or a book club of fabulous middle-aged women in Kinshasa joining Twitter wars about the next random artist who thinks female genital mutilation is funny enough to parody in a black-face cake installation. While my pedestrian grasp of high art probably renders the subtle insights baked into the grotesque Swedish cake illegible to my artistic palate, I am sure the not-mzungu tourists can be persuaded to let go of their fantasy Afri-xotica, and embrace the reality of Africans’ glocal citizenship in multiple cultural landscapes.

But if everyday reality is too boring for the not-mzungus, then we can let them eat black-face-sponge-cake art. New markets might just keep the crafts-makers in business. I, for one, will be ready to buy that canvas featuring a septuagenarian shaking a leg to Cabo Snoop’s Windeck in downtown Yaounde, while his Salva-Kiir-style black-cowboy felt hat sits on the table next to his bottle of Zambezi Lager and his copy of Ahmadou Kourouma’s Allah n’est pas Oblige (Allah is not Obliged). Yes, Africans are busy pondering the child soldier phenomenon, from Sierra Leone to Uganda, from the DRC to Sudan; and yes, we do have a penchant for beads and trademark printed ‘African’ wax kitenge fabrics (bless the Dutch for this African authenticity). In fact, I am wearing both my multicoloured beaded necklace and my beaded breast cancer awareness month pink ribbon as I write this. But we are larger than our wars and our poverty: we dance, we dream, we read, we think, we sommer enjoy a good cold lager after a long day’s work; and yes, we pay taxes too, incidentally.

Auntie G and I walk to the Kwame Nkrumah Memorial Park a few metres away from the crafts market. Both the park and the monument are simple, elegant, Africanist tributes to the grand-père of Pan-Africanism. He is finally resting in peace, enjoying his third, and hopefully last, rest, as Auntie G quips. His first resting place was in Guinea, where he died in exile, and then he was moved to his home village of Nkroful, before being buried here, under a huge grey-marble Baobab-like tree. The Memorial Park guide, Salim, tells me it is called a Gossip Tree. I suspect he is pulling my leg, but I like the name. The tree’s head is cut off. According to Salim, the Gossip Tree was traditionally a resting spot for men to catch their breath after a long day’s work in the fields before returning to the homestead. The feminist in me chuckles at this rock-solid acknowledgement of men as partners-in-gossip. I briefly visualise Nkrumah gossiping with his wife Fathia Rizk Nkrumah, who lies across from him; occasionally joined by Selassie, Nyerere and W.E.B Du Bois, as they debate the African Union’s decision to move the July 2012 summit to Addis, because Joyce Banda refuses to honour the Old Boys’ solidarity which continues to postpone Sudanese president Omar al-Bashir’s trip to The Hague.

The cut-off head of the tree, Salim tells us, is a metaphor for the untimely death of a great man, whose wisdom could have made many more contributions to society. It is a fitting tribute to Nkrumah’s unfinished Pan-African project of unity, liberation and prosperity. Diagonally across from the tree, Nkrumah stands tall and equally headless, his torso gazing blindly across the manicured gardens to the Supreme Court buildings. Beside his right leg sits his head on a separate, much shorter slab. I can’t help noting how the headless statue mirrors the headless tree; and the unfinished business signalled by the cut tree. I am fascinated by the headless statue and its head. Salim explains that Nkrumah’s statue was beheaded during the 1967 coup – Operation Cold Chop – which ousted Nkrumah while he was out of the country, and for some time afterwards the head could not be traced.

The headless statue of Kwame Nkrumah, with the head mounted next to it. (Flickr/Rowan Collins)

Apparently, an elderly lady eventually brought back the head and handed it over to the ruling party. She insisted on anonymity. I have so many questions about this lady. What impulse drove her to do such a risky thing, like picking up the heavy bronze head of a deposed president, beheaded during the coup, while his real head was safely in Vietnam? What relationship had she had with the head and its owner, as Nkrumah went through the now predictable cycle of resentment and nostalgia that marks Africans’ relationship with their first generation nationalist liberation icons? Why did she choose to return it? Why the anonymity? The ellipsis of the lady’s story mirrors the elliptical treatment of the coup by the Kwame Nkrumah Memorial Park’s museum, with its brief and highly allusive references to the coup. This ellipsis nonetheless looms large in the sparseness of the museum’s collection; predominantly featuring Nkrumah’s items from Lincoln University, where he did his undergraduate studies, and an impressive range of books he authored.

As Salim explains, a lot of Nkrumah’s personal effects were vandalised and destroyed during the coup. The museum’s tentative archive of the coup sits equally awkwardly beside the decision not to re-head Nkrumah’s statue, when his head was returned, but rather mount it beside him, as a historical document. In the space between the headless statue and the head sitting beside a right foot with a huge chunk missing from its thigh, lies a fascinating story of the complexities of the icons of our lifetimes, who simultaneously embrace and undermine our best efforts to sanitise their human blemishes in our perpetual pursuit of one-dimensional god-like icons.

Grace A. Musila is a non-athletic Kenyan. She writes in her personal capacity.