Category: Lifestyle

Brace your wallet, Burundi’s celebration season is here

The sky is clearing, temperatures are rising, mud is turning into dust, the air is becoming more humid and mosquitoes have multiplied. Burundi’s dry season is here. Students all over the country are preparing for their exams and Burundians all over the world are shopping and getting ready to come home for the holidays. It’s that time of the year: the season of imanza.

Imanza (the plural of urubanza) refers to functions and ceremonies like weddings, memorials, house warmings, birthday parties, barbecues … any kind of celebration really, good or bad.

I already know of at least seven imanza I’m potentially invited to or in which I’m likely to have some kind of responsibility. There are no wedding planners in Burundi or planners of anything really – when a person has an urubanza they call on their relatives and closest friends to help with the planning and organisation, and to contribute in cash or kind or both. Traditionally, when somebody invites you to an urubanza you go to your fields, chop your best bananas or sorghum and make some banana or sorghum wine that you would offer to the host on their big day – kind of like bringing your own drinks. In some circumstances, other goods or services may be offered such as assistance in the fields to a family mourning the death of a loved one. They aren’t allowed to do any work for at least a week after the burial, a period which is concluded with a ceremony known as Guca ku Mazi.

If you don’t happen to grow bananas or sorghum in your backyard, you give money. Then we’ll say that you brought your umubindi (pot of wine) in an envelope. Yes, Burundians are masters of poetry!

Invitations to an urubanza are pretty much seen as ‘requests to contribute’. The size of a contribution usually depends on the contributor’s income and their relationship to the host. An acquaintance wouldn’t be expected to contribute anything less than BIF 10 000 (about 7 USD) per urubanza; but contributions can go up to the hundreds of thousands of francs, especially if you have a close relationship with the host. The money may be paid before the actual event but in certain ceremonies envelopes are passed around for guests to put their contributions in.

Baskets of gifts from the family of the groom-to-be to the family of the bride-to-be at the dowry presentation ceremony. (Pic: Arnaud Gwaga Mugisha)

If you don’t contribute you’re seen as antisocial. In fact, a person will not go to an urubanza but still send their envelope. That’s how much we Burundians value our social status! And that’s why it’s important to clearly write your name on your envelope so that when the host compiles a list of who contributed and how much, they’ll speak well of you to their entourage and eventually reciprocate at one of your functions in the future. When you don’t have money to give (for instance, you’re not employed) you can offer your “hands” – run errands, help with decor and serving etc.

Nobody usually complains about contributing when there are sad reasons for hosting an urubanza. In fact, everybody tries to help in some way or the other. But when it comes to happy events, there are quite a few free-riders who’ll schedule urubanza without any funds of their own, expecting to pay it off with eventual contributions from guests.

There’s this one guy I know who wants kuganduka for his parents killed during the 1993 war! Kuganduka is a ceremony which definitively concludes the one-year mourning period after a person’s death. Usually relatives are not supposed to hold any kind of ceremony if the mourning period for the deceased has not ended. Kuganduka is supposed to be the first happy celebration after this time, and usually involves thanking those who stood by the family during the difficult times.

Between 1993 to now, this guy got married twice and had kids. Is it unfair to assume that he’s probably broke and looking for an “honest” means to make some quick cash? But this won’t stop us from going to his urubanza and contributing – because we have to!

Then there are the school graduations, birthday parties and other social gatherings which often involve reconnecting with friends and family, especially those who are on holiday from abroad.

Traditional dancers entertaining guests at a wedding. (Pic: Arnaud Gwaga Mugisha)

It’s that time of the year when we take our best outfits to the dry cleaners, go out shopping for new ones and start practising how to sign cheques. It’s that time of the year when invitations start flowing in and one has to decide which urubanza they are going to attend, because sometimes it’s just impossible to go to all of them.

I have two of my very good friends who are getting married on the same day. Whose urubanza will I go to? How will I explain my absence to the other? How much will I contribute? What will I wear? These are the questions Burundians start asking themselves around this time of the year until the rains start falling again in September, temperatures drop, students head back to school, the diaspora return to wherever they live, and all our bank accounts are empty thanks to our social generosity.

Karl-Chris Nsabiyumva is a proud Burundian. He blogs at misterburundi.wordpress.com

12 years ago

Celebrity pastor under fire after stampede for ‘holy water’

It’s the middle of a working day, in the middle of the week, but the trickle of worshippers at the Synagogue Church of All Nations is quickly becoming a flood. Around 1 000 people sit silently on plastic chairs cooled by dozens of floor fans at the church – a building reminiscent of an aircraft hangar just off Accra’s industrial Spintex Road – watching its founder delivering a sermon on his own dedicated 24-hour TV channel, Emmanuel TV.

Temitope Balogun Joshua, popularly known as TB Joshua, founder of the Synagogue Church empire, is one of the biggest celebrities in West Africa. His regular Sunday services in Nigeria boasts attendance rates of around 15 000 and the Nigerian government has reported that the number of worshippers travelling to the church in Lagos have significantly boosted tourism to Nigeria.

TB Joshua (Pic: emmanuel.tv)

But he is an increasingly controversial figure in Ghana, after a deadly stampede at the Synagogue Church last Sunday left four people dead and at least 30 injured.

The worshippers were hoping to obtain holy “new anointing water”, which Emmanuel TV had announced would be distributed for free. “The anointing water usually costs 80 cedis, but we learned that on Sunday it would be given out for free,” said Joseph Adanvor (52) who witnessed the fatal stampede. “I have never seen anything like it before. People had come from Togo, Benin, even from Kenya. They tried to close the church but people were climbing over the walls and breaking in. The police and army were there but they couldn’t control the crowds.”

The police, who are investigating the deaths, said that they had not anticipated the number of people who would attend the church, with worshippers arriving from as early as 2am. “All of us were caught by surprise,” police spokesperson Freeman Tetteh told the BBC world service. ” No one knew the crowd will be so huge.”

The church declined to comment to the Guardian but earlier announced that it would pay the medical expenses for those injured in the incident. Reverend Sam Mc-Caanan told journalists that the church was “devastated”. “We have to do a thorough work around this to make sure it doesn’t happen again,” he said.

The stampede came two weeks after Nigeria-based Joshua made a rare personal appearance in Ghana, prompting tens of thousands of people to travel to the 1 500 capacity church to catch a glimpse of the self-styled “prophet”. The event created a crisis for the security services, bringing large parts of the capital Accra to a standstill.

Joshua is one of the most prominent pastors in Africa with a growing number of followers around the world. The church has branches in London and Athens, as well as Accra, and Ghana’s late president John Atta Mills, who died last year, was a prominent follower, whilst a host of other public figures and celebrities claim to have been healed by the pastor. But he has attracted controversy for his significant wealth – with American magazine Forbes estimating that the pastor was worth up to $15-million, and for the sale of products including anointing water and car stickers to people hoping to free themselves from poverty.

“I personally believe there is a level of exploitation going on here, with churches selling things like anointing water and car stickers,” said Apostle Samuel Yaw Antwi, general secretary of the Ghana Charismatic and Pentecostal Council. “Jesus Christ never sold any of these things.”

Belief in the healing powers of pastors and special oils and waters which they claim to have blessed is widespread in Ghana, with products often sold for a profit. “I myself have bought the anointing water, and I have seen the miracles it performs,” said Adanvor. “My father was suffering from pain in his leg. When I sprayed the water, and after praying, the pain went away.”

“It’s like in Jesus’ time,” Adanvor added. “He did a lot of miracles so a lot of people followed him. Now we see that God can manifest again. When people come to the church, if they pray and they believe, they are healed.”

(A screenshot of a broadcast on Emmanuel TV)

In addition to purchasing anointing water and other products, members of the church tithe by contributing 10% of their monthly income, and also give offerings at church services. However, worshippers say that the church is popular because it does not demand payment for healing – a practice common among other churches in the region.

“The problem we have in this country is the type of Christianity people are practising whereby, instead of seeking to know God through his work and a relationship with the holy spirit which is assured to every Christian, are running after signs of miracles,” said Antwi.

“People want instant solutions to their problems, just like they want instant coffee. If anybody comes along offering instant answers to financial or health challenges, people want to go for it. But the Bible warns Christians about that.”

Afua Hirsch for the Guardian Africa Network.

12 years ago

Ethiopia’s love affair with coffee

Addis Ababa may be the heart of Ethiopia, but coffee is its lifeline. The coffee-drinking ceremony is a daily ritual on the streets and in homes, and it trumps instant granules and pods by far.

Elleni Kassaye (26) runs a small coffee shop in the Haya Hulet district, located on the eastern part of the sprawling capital. She wears her Ethiopian heritage with grace, translating it into her establishment and its array of beverages and foods. Elleni’s specialty is jebena buna, a coffee prepared in a clay pot, with a wide round bottom that leads up to a long, narrow spout with a handle. Like the mothers and grandmothers of many generations before her, she is wearing a traditional white dress with a colourful woven border.

I watch Elleni as she slowly stirs a pan of beans over a flame while aromas of frankincense float across the room, which has grass spread on it to add to a relaxed ambience. She waits patiently for the beans to change to a darker colour. The café is packed with people both young and old, chatting, laughing, gossiping, and discussing news. Ellen continues stirring and shaking the pan back and forth so that the beans don’t burn. As they start to pop, she removes them from the heat and passes them around for the customers to inhale the aroma.

Elleni preparing coffee for her customers. (Pic: Arefaynie Fantahun)

While still warm, she grinds the beans into a powder with a mortar and pestle and places them in the jebena (clay pot) that contains boiled water. The pot sits over the fire for a while, before Elleni starts pouring it from high up into small cups. Pouring a thin stream of coffee into each little cup without spilling requires skill and experience, and Elleni does it gracefully. She serves the small cups to us with sugar and popcorn on the side to complement the coffee.

While jebena buna is most often enjoyed black, some have it with sugar to tone down the bitter taste. Though most of Elleni’s customers often drink the first brew and leave, the coffee-drinking ceremony in Ethiopia consists of three rounds. The first cup, called abol, happens to be the strongest one. The second brew, called tona, is slightly less strong, and the third, baraka, which means “blessing”, is mildest in flavour.

Time, patience and skill are required to make the three brews. (Pic: Arefaynie Fantahun)

Ethiopia is often described by historians as the birthplace of coffee. According to legend, inhabitants of the Kaffa province were the first to discover the value of coffee as a stimulating beverage. Coffee shops are booming and have become a major fixture in Addis Ababa’s urban landscape. Sisay Alemayehu, a barista at Mankira Café in Piassa, says that people are increasingly opting for jebena coffee because of their superior flavour and the opportunity to watch the cycle of coffee preparation.

Today, more than 60% of Ethiopia’s foreign exchange income derives from coffee exports and an estimated 15 million Ethiopians depend on the livelihood from the production, processing, trade, and transport of coffee. Ethiopians drink about half of all the coffee they produce, preparing and serving it in elaborate rituals that are as popular as ever.

With the introduction of the espresso machines during the Italian occupation of the late 1930s, new methods were adopted. The macchiato, locally spelled ‘makyato’, a creamy, delicate balance of coffee and milk, and spris, a layered mix of coffee and tea became very popular, if not more popular than jebena coffee. Ethiopians also acquired the habit of drinking coffee with sugar around this time. Before this, coffee was served with salt, cardamom or butter.

Addis’s jebena coffee shops boast old-fashioned goodness, but there are plenty of contemporary cafés around to cater for different tastes. “Let’s go get coffee” is a line that never gets old around here; it’s a routine that we look forward to daily. If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s this: the city is unlikely to end its love affair with coffee anytime soon.

From the countless number of coffee shops around, these are my favourites:

Tomoca, the city’s most famous café, started roasting beans in 1953. It’s located off Churchill Road, Addis’s main shopping district. Some say it is touristy and expensive, but the coffee is as good as you will find anywhere.

Mokarar, located on Semien Hotel Road, is famous for its unique style of coffee and down-to-earth vibe.

Café Choche is in the century-old railway station, La Gare. This coffee shop is making a name for itself with the quality of its beans. Expect to pay10 birr ($0.54) for a cup.

The 20-year-old Robera Coffee Gallery is located in the Gerji area near the Mexican embassy. It’s a cosy place to hang out with friends. The beans are roasted daily in the big roaster out front, filling the air with irresistible aromas. A cup of good, earthy coffee costs $0.42.

Arefaynie Fantahun is a blogger based in Addis Ababa. Follow his posts on fashion, art, travel and photography here.

12 years ago

Kenya’s ambitious urban farmers

“You need to cut your nails if you want to be involved in this kind of work,” Jairus, the experienced farmer and caretaker, said disapprovingly.

This was Rosa’s first attempt at planting a tree on her newly acquired farm, located in Kenya’s Rift Valley. All the farmhands’ eyes were on her as she dug and shovelled. She was sporting a fresh new French manicure that cost her Ksh 450 ($5), but she was reluctant to trim them. What a waste of money that would be!

Later that night, at her home in Nairobi, Rosa prepared for her other job. She had an early meeting the next morning but was up late, struggling to get rid of the grit beneath her nails. She knew what she had to do: reach for a nail clipper.

Farming was going to be her life from now on and she had to start looking the part if she was serious about making a success of it. The farm had come into her possession when her father heard her talking about buying some land to practise farming. He was surprised but pleased, and since he was just about to sell off a large tract of his farm, he decided to give Rosa two acres of it.

One acre of the farm in this remote area is valued at about Ksh 350 000 ($4168). The money Rosa would have invested in buying the land will instead be used in preparing the field, and paying the farm manager and the four people he would hire during the planting season to weed and harvest the crops. For her first planting season Rosa invested in beans. Her farm produce will be sold in Rift Valley and neighbouring areas.

Rosa is part of a new group of young, urban working-class Kenyans who have decided to take up farming to boost their income. This choice of career may be unusual but it’s smart and strategic: they can save the extra income they’re making now for when they retire from their formal jobs, and then take up farming full-time when they’re older.

These urban farmers are in their late twenties to mid-thirties and were born and brought up in Nairobi. They’re professionals – doctors, project managers, NGO workers, journalists and accountants. Their only previous connection to farming is the fresh produce they bought at local markets or consumed from their parents’ or grandparents’ farms (which they hardly visited because city life was much more exciting).

Urban farmers have come to realise what Kenya’s seasoned farmers have always known: farming is a green gold mine. Agriculture or food processing in Kenya accounts for about 80% of the work force and is the backbone of the country’s economy.

Farmers tend newly planted trees in Kimahuri, Kenya. (AFP)

In their quest to rapidly learn about farming while holding down office jobs in the city, urban farmers are forever on their phones, carrying out ‘supervisory farming’.

“Did you manage to weed today?” “Did you buy the fertilizers?” “Is it still raining?” “How are the animals doing?” “I’ll come over this weekend and check on the progress” are conversations you’ll overhear in corridors and offices as they check in with their farm managers and caretakers.

You can easily identify an urban farmer in social circles. They are the ones who will steer the conversation to “farming is the way to go” at dinner tables, lunches and casual encounters, and then pull out their cellphones to proudly show anyone who cares a picture of their first crop.

When urban farmers are not on their phones, they’re on the internet checking out farming websites and forums – how to farm the next crop; which animals to buy next. What they lack in experience, they make up for with technological know-how.

Luckily, their experienced counterparts are usually patient and happy to help them and explain the process of farming. The market for farming products in Kenya and beyond is huge, and farmers are only too aware that they can’t meet this demand on their own. Jealousy and conflicts are rare – instead, experienced farmers encourage the youngsters and show them the ropes with the aim of greater customer satisfaction in mind.

In a country where agriculture accounts for almost 51% of the GDP, urban farmers like Rosa are playing a key role in providing employment and producing a greater variety of food in Kenya. Rosa may be new at it but she’s learning fast. She has already realised the importance of spreading the risks of various forms of farming: once she gets her profit from her next harvest, she will invest it in beekeeping. She’s only 36 years old but she’s already planning her exit from formal employment in 2016.

Mary Itumbi is a journalist based in Nairobi.

12 years ago

Going to great lengths for beautiful hair

Soon after Zimbabwe gained its independence in 1980, my parents bought a house in the suburbs in Bulawayo. This meant that I began my primary education in a school that was formerly reserved for white kids. I was in such close proximity to them that I was able to touch their hair. I marvelled at how soft it was and how different it was from mine. My hair was the same as all the other black children around me: short and ‘natural’, not straightened with the help of chemicals. It was thick, tough and difficult to comb; very different from the hair on white girls’ heads which was soft and often grew down their backs. Advertising didn’t help my perception of my hair either. Even black women on television and in magazines boasted long, straight hair. To me, that was the epitome of beautiful hair and I aspired desperately to have it.

Enter high school. I was sent to a boarding school about 300km from home in a small town called Masvingo. It was a mission school run by Catholics so it was quite conservative. The policy at this school was that our hair had to be kept short and in its natural state. If our hair grew too long, the school teachers would cut it off for us. Us girls would plait it up at night and then undo the plaits in the morning. We would comb our hair and then pat it down so it would pass a cursory length test. We bought all sorts of gels and hair food which we used on our scalps daily. My friends took great care to hide any increased hair length from the school authorities, but my hair never grew past my shoulders.

I moved to a school in Harare for my A levels. One of the perks of studying in the capital was being exposed to the latest and trendiest hairstyles. This particular school allowed us to use relaxers on our hair. At 17, I saved up all term to be able to afford my first ever relaxer which cost $30. I was one of the happiest girls in Africa that day! I felt it was a rite of passage into adulthood. Almost all the girls in my school had relaxed hair too but no one had taught us how to care for it. We styled our hair using hot combs and hot brushes and, as a result, most of us had damaged hair.

I was constantly broke at university because there were just too many hair products vying for the little money I had. I still used a relaxer in my hair but relied on friends for help in applying chemicals and styling it. No matter that we were pursuing ‘higher’ education, we never followed the instructions that came with the relaxer kit and we constantly burnt our scalps. The instructions stipulated that we leave the relaxer chemicals on our hair for no longer than 15 minutes but we would keep them on for much longer, thinking it would make our hair silkier and straighter. Instead we ended up with over-processed and badly damaged hair. We’d sit squirming until we could no longer bear the burn of the relaxer chemicals, then run to the sink and have a friend assist in washing the chemicals off. It was self-inflicted torture. When I think back to those days, it’s a miracle I have any hair today. “Beauty is pain,” the saying goes. I experienced enough of it over three years of trying to grow my hair but I had nothing to show for it: mine stayed stubbornly at my shoulders.

It wasn’t until I was well into my thirties that I began questioning what the hell I was doing to my hair in the name of beauty. Thanks to the internet, I discovered other black women in other countries who were just like me but with hair that reached their waists. I didn’t even know that this length was possible for black women! I discovered hair blogs and hair forums (longhaircareforum.com, hairliciousinc.com, keepitsimplesista.blogspot.com, relaxedhairhealth.blogspot) where thousands of women gathered to discuss all things hair. I was hooked.

I realised that I had been making mistakes with my hair my whole life. From these forums and blogs, I learnt a number of things: hair styling comes secondary to hair care; buy a few key products that work instead of spending a fortune on tons of products; stick to a regular regimen. One thing almost all the bloggers I read had in common was that they took care of their own hair. They hardly visited hairstylists.

I adopted this approach too. It was more time consuming but much kinder on my pocket. I now spend approximately R100 a month on hair products, which is much cheaper than a salon visit. The most dramatic change for me came when I introduced regular deep conditioning and daily moisturising into my hair care regimen. My hair responded and began to grow longer. Blogs and forums taught me about the use of castor oil to encourage hair growth. I began to use it religiously and for the first time in my life, my hair grew past my shoulders and down my back!

I now have a seven-year-old daughter and I make sure to care for her hair properly. She is growing up in a world where there are so many examples of black women with beautiful hair in many forms, whether natural or relaxed. Straight hair is no longer the only standard of beauty when it comes to hair. She comes across black women with bald heads, locks, natural hair and relaxed hair on a daily basis, at school, on television, in the malls. I have envied many a beautiful afro worn by girls at her school. What makes me proud is that my daughter’s hair is already down to her waist. She knows that her hair has to be taken care of properly so that it can grow even longer. Waist-length hair is not something she sees on white girls only; she already has her own.

Tendayi Kunaka writes about her journey towards long, healthy hair at africanhairblog.com. Connect with her on Twitter.