Category: Lifestyle

Art: The ‘Man of a Thousand Faces’ returns to Nigeria

Photographer Samuel Fosso, whose renowned self-portraits have made him one of Africa’s most popular artists, is exhibiting for the first time in Nigeria, where he grew up in the grip of the brutal Biafran war.

Fosso, a Cameroonian national, is known for taking chameleon-like photos of himself dressed as a range of figures from black African and American life – from musicians to pop-culture icons to political leaders.

Nicknamed the “Man of a Thousand Faces”, his pictures have been shown in major museums across Europe, in a career that has taken him far from Nigeria, his mother’s homeland.

“It’s very emotional for me to be here,” the 51-year-old told AFP as he premiered his latest work at the fourth edition of Lagos Photo, an international photography festival.

Fosso’s appearance is a major coup for organisers of the annual festival, which began last week and this year brings together some of the greatest names in contemporary photography, including Britain’s Martin Parr and Spain’s Cristina de Middel.

“When I suggested bringing Samuel Fosso, everyone told me, ‘You’re too late’, or ‘He’s too well-known’,” said the founder of the exhibition, Azu Nwagbogu.

“Then I contacted him via Facebook and he spoke to me in Igbo. I was shocked! I didn’t know about this part of his life with Nigeria.”

Fosso needed nearly a year of preparation to produce “The Emperor of Africa”, his piece for the exhibit – a collection of five self-portraits in which he dresses as former Chinese Communist Party chairman Mao Zedong and through which he explores the relationship between China and Africa.

Samuel Fosso poses next to a series of self-portraits in which he is dressed as the former Communist Party chairman Mao Zedong. (Pic: AFP)
Samuel Fosso poses next to a series of self-portraits in which he is dressed as the former Communist Party chairman Mao Zedong. (Pic: AFP)

He also needed a production director and about 10 other people, including make-up artists, technicians and a costume designer for a day’s shoot in the French capital, Paris.

This is a far cry from Fosso’s first studio, in the Central African Republic, where at the age of just 13 he began photographing himself using the unused ends of the rolls of film brought in by his clients.

“But it was already a major production at the time,” said gallery owner Jean-Marc Patras, who has represented him exclusively since 2001.

“Even in the 1970s, Samuel left nothing to chance, be it make-up, costumes or lighting.”

Uprooted by Biafran war
Fosso has no photos from his own childhood but says he has never forgotten the traumatic images of the Biafran war, which claimed nearly one million lives between 1967 and 1970 after the southeastern region broke away and declared itself a republic.

Aged barely five, Fosso lost his mother and found refuge in the forest with his grandparents, both of them from the Igbo ethnic group at the centre of the conflict.

“Thank God I had a robust constitution,” he said.

Fosso was the only child of his age to survive from his entire family. The images of burnt and disfigured bodies, the bloated stomachs and twisted limbs of malnourished children and hunger have remained with him, he says.

Aged 10, Fosso left his village in Nigeria, Ebunwana Edda, to work in his uncle’s shoe-making shop in Bangui, the capital of the Central African Republic.

Three years later, in 1975, he opened his first photographic studio with the motto: “With Studio National, you will be beautiful, stylish, dainty and hard to forget.”

Once the shop shut in the evening, he made himself up and got in front of the camera.

Inspired by magazine cuttings, Fosso imitated his idols – black African and American musicians.

He bought himself a pair of two-tone platform leather boots to dress up as Cameroonian-Nigerian singer Prince Nico Mbarga, whose Highlife-style song Sweet Mother was then a radio hit.

Fosso took the photos for himself and as a lasting memory for his as-yet unborn children and his maternal grandmother still in Nigeria, who repeatedly told him when he was a child that he was “the best-looking in the village”.

Until 1993, that is, when French photographer Bernard Descamps, on the hunt for talent to show at a new African photography festival, arrived in Fosso’s studio.

Impressed by his self-portraits, Descamps asked Fosso if he could take the negatives with him back to Paris. A year later, Fosso received an Air Afrique ticket for Mali, where he would win his first award at the Bamako Encounters, a photo show that has become a major biennial exhibition.

Six-figure price tags
Today, Fosso’s self-portraits have been included in collections at London’s Tate Modern and the Pompidou Centre and Quai Branly museums in Paris.

Samuel Fosso poses next to a self-portrait, which sees him dressed as former Ghanaian leader Kwame Nkrumah. (Pic: AFP)
Samuel Fosso poses next to a self-portrait, which sees him dressed as former Ghanaian leader Kwame Nkrumah. (Pic: AFP)

The wealthy Congolese entrepreneur Sindika Dokolo, a major collector of contemporary African art, bought three series of self-portraits from Fosso, including “African Spirits”, a homage to major figures of the pan-Africanism movement and the fight for civil rights in the United States, which carry a price tag of at least $135 000.

But Fosso has not altogether left his studio in the Miskine district of Bangui.

Despite his success and daily hardships in the Central African Republic, which is riven by instability after rebels overthrew the previous government in March, he said simply: “I’ve got my own way of doing things there.”

And if he ever leaves, he says, it will not be for Europe but for his village in Nigeria, where his wife Nenna, mother of their four sons, was born.

Cecile De Comarmond for AFP

Alek Wek talks African fashion and self-image

“You can take the girl out of South Sudan but you can’t take South Sudan out of the girl.”

These were the words of international model Alek Wek when Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week chairperson Dr Precious Moloi-Motsepe described her as a “child of the soil” this past weekend.

“Alek’s story is a story that excites all of us. A girl from the continent who was a refugee that went onto conquer the world,” said Moloi-Motsepe.

Wek was in Johannesburg to attend Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week Africa and to also serve as a guest judge at the African Fashion International Africa Fashion Awards.

Alek Wek speaking at a press conference in Johannesburg on November 2. (Pic: Supplied)
Alek Wek speaking at a press conference in Johannesburg on November 2. (Pic: Supplied)

Speaking at a press conference on Saturday afternoon, Wek, who made her modelling debut in 1995, said that African fashion can change the global fashion industry – and the time for this is now.

“Together we can make a profound change. It gives me chills when I think about it.”

“If I can help in terms of wearing these wonderful designs and by connecting designers so that they have the opportunity to be creative and the international market can have the chance to place an order and see how much talent there is on this continent, then I will be happy to,” Wek said. It was no surprise, then, that she was wearing a dress by South African designer Bongiwe Walaza.

Wek is from the Dinka ethnic group in South Sudan but fled the country for Britain along with her family in 1991 to escape the civil war. She later moved to the United States.

Wek admitted that it wasn’t easy breaking into the fashion industry. People constantly referred to her looks as “bizarre, weird and different” while she has never felt anything but normal.

“From a very early age, my mother embedded in us that as a woman it is not the makeup, the dress or the shoes that makes you the woman that you are. It’s truly who you are inside and if I didn’t have that I don’t know if I would have had the capacity to be able to believe in myself and embrace myself.”

Wek said her mother always told her that as women, one has to respect one another because respect is love.

“We all have different qualities and that is what makes us gorgeous as women. In the end, fashion draws so much inspiration from this continent so why not celebrate the women from Africa?”  Wek asked.

“Once I was out there spreading my wings and having to make my own decisions, everything my strict mother had taught me started to come into place and make sense.

“And whoever said I was weird I could say to them, ‘You’re weird! You’re bizzare!’ There is room for every kind of woman within the fashion industry.”

During her brief talk, she also touched on the importance of education, saying that every young person, regardless of the field they go into, should educate themselves.

Rhodé Marshall is the Mail & Guardian Online’s project manager and unofficial entertainment reporter. She started as a radio reporter and producer in Cape Town, before jumping into online news. With one hand glued to her phone and the other to a can of Coca-Cola, she is a pop culture junkie. Connect with her on Twitter

My close encounter with Somalia’s whip-wielding al-Shabab

It started as a request from my close friend, Awil Abukar, to accompany him as he took his frail mother to their ancestral hometown.

Awil, as he always does, assured me the trip would be smooth.

I should point out that in his world smooth means not getting killed – everything else is caadhi (fine).

Just after 1pm on August 22, our vehicle rattled into Goob Weyn, a sleepy town with more palm trees than people. This picturesque place is about a thirty-minute drive from Kismayo, Somalia’s third biggest city.

Unlike many towns in Somalia, locals here aren’t armed to the teeth. The few hundred of them tend to their farms or fish for half the day, then sleep the rest of the time. The town is peaceful, and is neither in the hands of the government nor al-Shabab.

But sleepy Goob Weyn and its residents were to get a rude awakening that evening when members of al-Shabab, the hardline al-Qaeda-linked rebel group fighting the Somali government, paid them a visit.

Al-Shabab enforces a strict version of Sharia law that prohibits things like music, cigarettes and alcohol in the areas it controls.

That evening, the town was lively. Men in sarongs sat in front of their red mud houses chewing khat – the green narcotic leaves commonly consumed by east Africans – to pass the hours. Garami (soft, melodic music) blasted from their small battery-powered radios.

Women wearing baati, the traditional Somali dress, with the odd baby strapped to their backs cooked dinner of rice and beans on open fires.

Awil, his son and I sat in front of his mum’s house drinking tea made with water from the muddy Jubba River. Local youths gathered around my iPhone to watch and listen to the western music loaded on it.

In short, the evening was a picture of tranquility and I was loving it.

Just before 8pm, a lorry with its headlights turned off rolled into town. It was strange – vehicles don’t come to Goob Weyn that often and definitely not at this time of the night. In fact, Awil’s car was the only vehicle in town until now.

The atmosphere quickly changed. The music stopped. People fell silent.

Then the creaky lorry door opened and a masked man jumped out.

Al-Shabab was here and many of us were in the middle of doing things al-Shabab does not approve of.

Fifteen other masked men jumped out of the lorry and started moving from house to house, asking all the men inside to come out.

I quickly dashed into Awil’s mum’s house and threw on a sarong over my knee-high shorts. A tall man in shorts is a sight al-Shabab sheikhs don’t approve of.

Then I wrapped my iPhone in a waterproof plastic bag and dropped it in the cockroach- and faeces-filled hole in the ground that the family used as a toilet. Given the prized photos, videos, music and texts on my phone I had to hide it by all means. Retrieving and cleaning it would be a minor inconvenience compared to getting lashes from an al-Shabab fighter’s whip.

The women who were busy cooking got busy changing into al-Shabab-compliant clothes. Off went the baati and on came the jilbab – a long, loose garment that covers the whole body.

The men who were religiously chewing khat leaves frantically started brushing their teeth and washing their mouths. They threw the remaining leaves into the open cooking fires, resulting in thick smoke that made those standing nearby cough nonstop.

(Graphic: Kenny Leung)
(Graphic: Kenny Leung)

By then the al-Shabab fighters were busy herding the men of Goob Weyn towards a football field in the centre of the town. The women were instructed to remain in their homes.

As we walked to the field a young man made a dash for it, running down the small moonlit alleyways between the mud houses. He didn’t get far as fighters hiding behind houses, not far away, caught him. He was taken to the lorry and we could hear screams in the distance as he was lashed. I later found out the young man is the local khat dealer and was wanted by al-Shabab for bringing the stimulant drug into the town.

We sat in the centre of the football field under the full moon as more and more of the town’s male residents joined us. There were about 150 of us in total.

Then the shortest of the al-Shabab fighters stepped forward. He was slightly taller than his AK-47 rifle, his skin-and-bones frame was covered in an oversized camouflage uniform. He wore oversized sandals that looked too heavy for his tiny feet. With a stainless steel torch in his left hand, he started collecting everyone’s cellphones. Surprisingly he had a deep chesty voice for someone of such a small frame, which made the orders he was barking sound more serious and threatening.

He passed the phones to his colleagues who went through them one by one to check for music and adult content. Those who had music on their phones received stern warnings and their memory cards were destroyed. One young man had adult material on his phone. He was taken aside and lashed in front of everyone. The al-Shabab guys were very unimpressed when they found out he was married with two wives. You could feel the disappointment behind the masks as they shook their heads and talked between them. They didn’t only destroy the young man’s memory card but his phone too.

One of the fighters realised I had not handed hand my phone over. Shining his torch at me he asked Awil who was seated next to me: “Is this one Somali and where is his phone?”

Awil, ever diplomatic, replied: “He’s Somali, speak to him.”

He looked at me without saying a word, unconvinced, turned his masked face back to Awil and again asked: “Where is this one’s phone?”

“He’s not mute. He can speak. He’s fluent in Somali. He’s not an alien. I swear,” said Awil, sounding slightly impatient.

I sensed my chance and joined the conversation. “Sheikh, I’m a British tourist and your seniors know we are here. You can call your emir [leader] to check. There is no need to keep me and Awil here.”

After three years working in Somalia I’ve managed to interview al-Shabab commanders. Before we made the trip they had assured us we were free to pass through or stay in areas they controlled.

Satisfied, the young al-Shabab fighter moved on.

Like a dentist, the short al-Shabab fighter then started closely inspecting everyone’s teeth for telltale signs of khat. Al-Shabab forbids the chewing of the narcotic leaves. The man pulled me aside, then asked me to open my mouth. Realising that my 6-foot-3 frame was much taller than his, he ordered me to bend down so he could take a closer look. I obliged. He placed his torch so close to my mouth that it touched my bottom lip and I could feel the warmth of the light coming from it. He asked me to move my tongue up, down and side to side.

After staring into my mouth for what seemed like an eternity, he said: “You are missing a tooth.”

Feeling annoyed but staying calm, I replied: “Sheikh, that’s not haram [forbidden].”

Ten men were taken aside by the short al-Shabab fighter. They were the unlucky ones who couldn’t conceal the fact they were chewing khat earlier. The green leaf pigment was either found on their tongue or stuck to their teeth. They were given an Islamic lecture before they each received five lashes.

The short al-Shabab guy wasn’t finished. He frog-marched one of the guys to the local kiosk. Before they reached it, he told the guy to order cigarettes from the female shopkeeper. Thinking that the al-Shabab men had left, she produced one from her secret hiding place. A big mistake. Cigarettes worth more than $200 were confiscated and set alight in front of everyone.

To my surprise she wasn’t flogged like the men who were caught with the khat. She was just given a religious lecture and a final warning.

Before they let us all go back to our homes, the al-Shabab fighters gave us a long lecture about jihad and asked us if anyone wanted to join them and defend the country against the “infidels”.

All I wanted to do was run back and save my phone, which wasn’t insured.

Just past midnight, they finally let us go but they took about a dozen of people with them.

Back at Awil’s mum’s house, a few locals blamed our presence in the town and our car for attracting al-Shabab. We told them we would be happy to leave the next morning.

After a short sleep, we were ready to head back to Mogadishu. A couple of locals asked us for a lift but they first searched the car extensively for explosives before jumping in.

Back in Mogadishu and still feeling disrespected by the short al-Shabab soldier with the torch, I called one of the al-Shabab commanders to relay the events of the previous evening.

He laughed throughout the conversation. Then he quipped: “If you had called me right then, I would’ve told them to fire a few shots inches above your head to welcome you to the Muslim land.”

I should’ve listened to Awil and not called to complain to the commander. What happen was caadhi after all!

As for my iPhone, I managed to retrieve it but it has never fully recovered from that trip down the hole-in-the-ground.

Hamza Mohamed is a British-Somali journalist working for Al Jazeera English. Connect with him on Twitter.

Ghana’s poor eke out a living from toxic e-waste

Johnson Amenume (45) and his son Kingsley, (14) busily sort through a scrap heap. With their bare hands and a couple of large stones, they break open a television set.

Next to them smolders a pile of cables they have set on fire in order to burn off the plastic coatings. Thick black smoke billows, but father and son go about their work unperturbed, caked in soot and dust.

They work on one of world’s largest electronic garbage dumps, located in Agbogbloshie, a slum near the central business district in Ghana’s capital Accra.

More than five million pieces of second-hand electronics arrive in the West African nation annually, mainly from Europe, the United States and China, according to a 2012 report by Ghana’s Environmental Protection Agency (EPA).

Those not in working condition – about three-quarters of the shipments docking at Accra’s main port – are dumped at Agbogbloshie, the EPA says.

Over the years, the landfill has morphed into a toxic graveyard containing tens of millions of discarded electronics, or e-waste.

It has also become a source of income for the poorest of the poor who search for recyclable metals, like aluminium, copper and iron, that they sell to scrap dealers for a few cents.

Environmental and health risks
More than a quarter of Ghana’s 25-million people live under the poverty line of 1.25 dollars a day, according to World Bank data.

About 40 000 of them, including young children, live in the slum next to the dump and eke out a living from toxic e-waste.

“I lost my job as a security guard five years ago. The only way I can feed my family is by sorting through scrap. My son stopped going to school to help me,” explains Amenume, who hails from the village of Alakple, in the country’s north-east.

“We know we can get sick from the smoke. But if we stop working here, we won’t have anything to eat,” he adds.

Burning the plastic off wires and cables releases dangerous chemicals that pose serious environmental and health risks. Some of the toxins interfere with sexual reproduction, while others can cause cancer and hamper development of the brain and nervous system.

John Essel, a medical doctor at the Tano clinic just two streets from Agbogbloshie, says he examines at least a handful of people who work on the dump each day.

“They report with skin rashes, abdominal pain, sleeplessness and fatigue. We also see cardiovascular diseases,” he says.

Ghana is a popular high-tech dumping ground because it has no laws that prevent the import of e-waste.

It usually enters Ghana marked as second-hand goods for resale or donations, but “some foreign traders label broken goods as second-hand to avoid high recycling costs in their home markets,” the UN Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights warned in July.

ewaste
A Bill to outlaw the importing of e-waste is being tabled in Parliament. (Pic: Reuters)

Legislation
Ghana’s EPA is now demanding the practice be halted.

“We are lobbying government to pass a law to make the import of e-waste illegal,” says EPA deputy director Lambert Faabeluon.

The Bill has been tabled in Parliament. Deputy Environment Minister Adiku Heloo said it might be passed into law before the end of the year.

“We are hoping to find a lasting solution to the menace,” he says.

The idea is not only to regulate e-waste imports but also set up sustainable e-waste management systems that will create long-term employment.

Until then, Ghana’s poor will continue to hunt for scrap metals that earn them a mere 25 dollars per 100kg.

“On a good day, I make about 30 cedi [10 dollars],” says Kofi Adu, while digging in a heap of broken computers.

The 18-year-old dropped out of school two years ago to support his ailing mother. Even if a law was passed later this year, Abu knows it’s too late for him to realise his dream: “I wanted to become a medical doctor, but now it’s totally impossible. – Sapa-dpa

African designers to descend on Tshwane for fashion week

Fashion week chairperson Dr Precious Moloi-Motsepe on October 10 announced that the Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week Africa (MBFW Africa) will be taking place from October 30 to November 2.

Collections of more than 30 designers from 15 countries across the continent will be showcased in 20 runway shows in the City of Tshwane; the new host of the four-day event.

Featured in the event is Mozambican designer Taibo Bacar – last year’s designer of the year winner – as well as Mille Collines from Rwanda, Mina Evans and Duaba Serwa from Ghana, Sheria Ngowi and Mustafa Hassanali from Tanzania, David Tlale, Marianne Fassler and Thula Sindi from South Africa.

The event is a trans-seasonal showcase, which takes place yearly in October and provides a stage for African and heritage designers to present their work.

Moloi-Motsepe said: “MBFW Africa is the pinnacle of African fashion: the platform is the gateway between African designers and the global fashion community to engage and promote our local industry.

“African designers have shown themselves to be world-class in their creativity and aesthetic, and MBFW Africa strives to heighten accessibility to new markets through regional and international exposure, creating a global desire for African-designed fashion.”

Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week Africa will be held in Tshwane this year. (Pic: Supplied)
Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week Africa will be held in Tshwane this year. (Pic: Supplied)

This year’s fashion week will also feature a retail element: the Africa Fashion Trade Expo. The expo offers designers the opportunity to engage in business-to-business networking with the media and buyers as well as sales directly to the public.

For more information go to www.afi.za.com.

Rhodé Marshall for the Mail & Guardian