Being Kenyan and Indian

(Pic: Flickr / teachandlearn)

In January, a group of Langata Primary schoolchildren protesting that their playground had been illegally grabbed, were tear-gassed by police. Nothing like this had happened in our recent memory as Kenyans, and the manner in which it was broadcast to the world helped amplify our outrage. There were loud demands for these land grabbers to be publicly named. I was in the car, sitting in the infamous Nairobi traffic when I heard Charity Ngilu, the cabinet secretary for the Ministry of Land, announce the identity of the alleged land grabbers. They included four brothers named Singh, a name of Southeast Asian/Indian origin. And like thousands of other brown people in the country, I shook my head.

What is the sound of thousands of Indians rolling their eyes?

I remember thinking to myself, did they really have to be Indian? As if suffering through Kamlesh Pattni (the Kenyan Indian tied to the Goldenberg scandal of the 90s, estimated to have cost Kenya the equivalent of 10% of its annual GDP) wasn’t enough. This was just another nail in the coffin that is the familiar narrative, ‘Indians are thieves and stealing this country’.

Yet for every Pattni there are thousands of Kenyan Indians who work hard to elevate Kenya every day. The Sunny Bindras, Zarina Patels, Farrah Nuranis, Shamit Patels, Nivedita Mukherjees, Shailja Patels, Rasna Warahs, Zahid Rajans.

Predictably, the witty Kenyan Twitter community reacted with breakneck speed, delighting in their discovery of the versatility of the name Singh. A new hashtag was born, which was trending within an hour: #NgiluSinghJokes.

A lot of people raised eyebrows at the identity of the land grabbers, claiming that Ngilu’s naming of the private developers was unconvinSINGH. That the real culprits were being protected.

Others murmured apprehension that this hashtag would go too far and end up ostracising an entire community for the actions of four individuals. Another hashtag from last year was revived – #KenyanNotIndian – where Kenyans of Indian origin asserted their nationalism. It says something about us as a society when your gut reaction is to distance yourself as far away as possible from a part of your identity for fear that it will be used against you in some way. I suspect this has some visceral effect on an individual, deep inside where memories nestle. I hear the exhaustion of feeling the need to apologise on behalf of an entire skin colour for the actions of a few individuals.

But we don’t see other Kenyan communities apologising for their rogue individuals who have pillaged, eaten and vomited all over the shoes of Kenyans. And yet. The Somali community in Kenya are individually and personally being made to pay a traumatic price for our hypocrisy when it comes to this. Divide and rule. We learned from the Masters.

Like many Somali Kenyans, there is a feeling among the Indian Kenyan community of always having to assert our legitimacy as citizens of this country. But we belong. Yet, if you look at the history books of Kenya, you won’t hear our stories from our mouths. There is so very little that has been written and is being written about the community, by the community. We have largely put our heads down and worked away industriously, but where are our voices when it comes to the narrative of this country? So I am claiming this space. I want my story, my existence to be in the cataloguing of Kenyan history. Because it’s not just mine, it belongs to thousands.

Back to #KenyanNotIndian. Here is the thing. It unsettles me. Doesn’t fit snugly on my skin. If anything it feels like uncomfortable Spanx underwear that you squeeze into to hide the parts of yourself you don’t want to subject to the World’s gaze. Never mind that you can’t breathe and your stomach is spooning your oesophagus, at least your lumps aren’t showing.

I am Kenyan AND Indian. It is quite simple really. I don’t believe the two are mutually exclusive. They sit very comfortably together in me. There is no contradiction and one doesn’t take away from the other. My nationality is Kenyan and my ethnicity is Indian.

What does that mean?

My loyalty, allegiance, heart, patriotism and soul belong to Kenya the country. But I embrace and am proud of my Indian heritage.

What does it actually mean?

I would go to war for Kenya (if I believed in that sort of thing), but if I was hit, my last words would come out in Gujurati.

My blood, sweat and tears belong to Kenya. But the sweat probably smells a little like curry.

What makes me Indian ? I don’t really know the answer to this. I can’t trace my ancestry very far and I don’t have a shags (ancestral home). It makes me feel deeply unsettled. Not knowing my roots. I envy you who have your forefathers buried on soil that has tasted your blood. What’s my lineage? Who were my people? What did they stand for? What was their legacy? What were they known for? When they talked of the Kassams, did they extol us for our virtuous nature or mutter under their breath in disgust?

A few years ago, I went to India for the first time. It was like going back to the Motherland. Aside from the bizarre sensation of being surrounded by brown people, and for the first time not being the minority, it felt rather comforting. I was curious to see if I would feel a tugging. A belonging. And I did a little. It was in the Indian sensibility. An intangible something I couldn’t put my finger on. Yet, it was clear we didn’t belong. Everywhere we went, Indians asked us where we came from, which was entirely discombobulating.

But I speak Gujurati (very badly). I cook chicken curry (not very well). I dance to Indian music (terribly). I wear punjabi suits (as often as I can) and the ultimate test; I live in a mad huge household spilling at the seams with family who are always in each other’s armpits.

I mellow out my father’s fiery chicken curry with mounds of Ugali. When I want music that will squeeze my insides I listen to Nyadundo and Nusrat. My favourite sari is made from an emerald green kikoy. My family enthusiastically infuse Sauti Sol’s Lipala dance with Bhangra moves.

What makes me Kenyan? I don’t really know the answer to this either. I was born here. Surely that in itself is enough. I have been known to use my mouth to point out directions. My language is peppered with Kenyanisms. Wololololo. Ngai. Ati. Kumbe. Kwani. In fact, half the time, I am not sure whether the word I am saying is Kiswahili or Gujurati, they feel so interwoven. Which is only fair, considering Kenya stole chapatis. Ultimately, I am only as peculiar as the next Kenyan.

And the question in itself is a loaded one. I am no less Kenyan than the Bukusu who would have been Ugandan had the Queen sneezed when she was tracing the borders of East Africa.

I love being Kenyan. The camaraderie, our ridiculous sense of humour…and personal space. The sense that we are in this together. And what an enormous privilege it is to be afforded the opportunity to participate in the shaping of your country. Don’t take this lightly. To be able to make a meaningful impact on the country you will pass down to your children is not something every citizen of the world has.

So here is my challenge to anyone who feels the understandable visceral need to assert your Kenyan-ness. Let it not be a reaction to a perceived threat. If you give a shit, and frankly none of us has the luxury not to anymore, then make your voice heard and your actions felt. Participate in the shaping of society. Actively. Jostle for space. Don’t hold yourself at a distance. Get involved. Participate. Building yourself is not enough. It is time to build the Kenya you want your children to inherit.

Irungu Hougton recently declared that there are legacies to be grabbed. Don’t be left behind. As he said, “If you can’t do something great, do something small in a great way.”

Let us reshape the narrative of what being #KenyanAndIndian means.

Aleya Kassam is a Kenyan writer and performer. She blogs at www.chanyado.wordpress.com. Connect with her on Twitter: @aleyakassam

9 years ago

The African identity crisis

(Pic: Reuters)

I have recently been pondering the legitimacy of what we consider to be African. As the colonisers stripped off our identity and gave us new ones, much was lost and intertwined and influenced by their philosophies. I chuckle to think that the African diaspora sometimes thinks that Africans in Africa don’t have identity issues. Hah!

Our brothers and sisters of the diaspora are sometimes utterly oblivious to the struggles of the Africans who stayed behind. Indubitably, a lot was lost in slave ships, and staying granted us the privilege of immortalising many cultural aspects and traditions that they lost in the seas and upon arrival to new shores. Knowing which tribe I belong to and being able to emulate certain practices is one of such privileges. But although we were not stolen (or sold) from Africa, Africa was stolen from us…right here in Africa.

Our languages were stolen. How many African countries have indigenous languages as official languages, next to the language of their colonisers? Amongst our youth (the future), how many of us can speak the languages of our forefathers? I know quite a number of us can, and therefore this reality is not true for all of us especially in countries like South Africa and Zimbabwe, where there are multiple languages stipulated in the Constitution and where people commonly speak indigenous languages besides English. But, how many of us can boast of such (especially the so-called educated populace, the driving force of society)? And how much is being done to push this cultural agenda in countries/societies?

Our minds were stolen. How much do we learn about pre-colonial Africa? Our former civilisations have gone into obscurity.

How much Black literature do we teach in our schools? Who is sponsoring our best-selling authors and where are they being educated? The scientists, archeologists and anthropologists that explore Africa, where are they from?

Many are the books we read about us that were not written by us. “The most powerful weapon in the hands of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed,” Steve Biko reminds us.

Our pride was stolen. The images the rest of the world sees of Africa are the same images Africa sees of Africa. W.E.B Dubois was beautifully articulate when he spoke of double consciousness, this “…peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others…“. In our own minds, Africa is associated with distress and anything we deem to be “too African” is considered backwards, ugly.

Our resources were stolen. We paid a high price for freedom, and we all see the flag of independence that went up but never saw the negotiations that went down in exchange for liberty. The colonial powers did not just leave without making us sign lethal contracts and treaties that continue to harm us today, giving them 10% of this and 30% of that. French presence in francophone Africa is, for instance, well documented through Franceafrique, and there is clear economic, political and military control. In the words of François Mitterrand: “Without Africa, France will have no history in the 21st century“.

Looking at a continent that was and still is highly controlled and influenced by foreigners, I think it is time we challenge the authenticity of the African identity. Our view of Africa and the politics of our existence are not dictated by us. Upon independence, political leaders launched “Africanisation” initiatives to bring us back to our roots, renaming places amongst other things. The Republic of Upper Volta became Burkina Faso (“the land of upright men”), Northern Rhodesia became Zambia – and if there were initiatives to “Africanise” Africa then I think we have to consider how we became “un-African”. Aren’t we African bodies with European minds? So, when you say you are African, what do you mean?

We are often told about the privilege of having been born in the motherland. But I see no benefit in knowledge one is not aware of.

Harriet Tubman did say she freed so many slaves but could have freed a thousand more if only they knew they were slaves. In essence you are still in slavery if you don’t know you are free. Africa is perpetuating the legacy of its captors and in various aspects we have become mere relics of colonialism, unaware of our identity. What good is being African if you don’t know you are African?

Not only do we have to seek but we have to understand our roots, because what good is perpetuating traditions without understanding origins? There is no value.

We cannot change history but we can study it, learn from it and appreciate it.

And nothing will make you appreciate your African identity more than having it being stolen, feeling lost and finding it again. These minute findings are gigantic steps towards dealing with our crisis.

Clenia Gigi is a a student, avid reader, poet, spoken-word artist, Pan-Africanist and feminist.

9 years ago

South African doctors perform world’s first penis transplant

(Pic: Flickr / James Mutter)

South African doctors have successfully performed the world’s first penis transplant on a young man who had his organ amputated after a botched circumcision ritual, a hospital said on Friday.

The nine-hour transplant, which occurred in December last year, was part of a pilot study by Tygerberg Hospital in Cape Town and the University of Stellenbosch to help scores of initiates who either die or lose their penises in botched circumcisions each year.

“This is a very serious situation. For a young man of 18 or 19 years the loss of his penis can be deeply traumatic,” said Andre van der Merwe, head of the university’s urology unit and who led the operation said in a statement.

The young patient had recovered full use of his manhood, doctors said, adding that the procedure could eventually be extended to men who have lost their penises to cancer or as a last resort for severe erectile dysfunction.

“There is a greater need in South Africa for this type of procedure than elsewhere in the world, as many young men lose their penises every year due to complications from traditional circumcision,” Van der Merwe said.

The patient, who is not being named for ethical reasons, was 18 years old when his penis was amputated three years ago after he developed severe complications due to a traditional circumcision as a rite of passage into manhood.

Finding a donor organ was one of the major challenges of the study, a statement by the university said.

The donor was a deceased person who donated his organs for transplant, doctors said without elaborating.

Each year thousands of young men, mainly from the Xhosa tribe in South Africa, have their foreskins removed in traditional rituals, with experts estimating around 250 losing their penises each year to medical complications.

Initiates are required to live in special huts away from the community for several weeks, have their heads shaved and smear white clay from head to toe and they move into adulthood.

Another nine patients will receive penile transplants as part of the study, doctors said, but it was not clear when the operations could be carried out.

9 years ago

The tragedy of Nigeria’s child brides

Maimuna Abdulmunini was just 13 when she was arrested for burning her 35-year-old husband to death.

The legal process dragged out over five years. Finally in 2012, when she turned 18, Abdulmunini was convicted of murder and sentenced to death. Today, despite a court ruling six months ago that the sentence is a violation of her rights, she is still on death row, waiting.

Wasila Tasi’u is 14 but has been in a prison in Gezawa, outside the city of Kano, for the last five months. She too faces the death penalty for allegedly murdering her 35-year-old husband, Umar Sani, and three others at her own wedding party.

Wasila Tasi’u speaks with her defence counsel outside the courtroom during her first day of trial in October 2014. (Pic: AFP)

Soon after she was arrested, Tasi’u told her lawyer Hussaina Ibrahim that she had been tied to the bed and raped by Sani on their wedding night. When she appeared in Gezawa high court for the first time back in the autumn, she could barely say her own name, turning her back to the court when the charges were read, breaking down in tears.

Her trial resumes on Wednesday, March 11. A strike by judicial staff, coupled with the customary delays in the Nigerian legal system, has meant that she has been incarcerated since October, with limited access to her mother and father. Tasi’u is struggling to cope with her current situation, according to Ibrahim. Once described as a “jovial” and “intelligent” teenager, Tasi’u is now withdrawn and scared.

Nigeria’s legislation
The Nigerian government made child marriage illegal in 2003, but according to campaigners from Girls Not Brides, 39% of girls in the country are still married before the age of 15. In the Muslim-dominated northwest, 48% of girls are married by the age of 15 and 78% are married by the time they hit 18. In Kibbe state, the average age of marriage for girls is just 11 .

The Child Rights Act, which raises the minimum age of marriage for girls to 18, was introduced in 2003. But the legislation, which was created at a federal level, is only effective if it is passed by state governments. To date, only 24 of Nigeria’s 36 states have passed the act . The legislation is yet to be passed in either Abdulmunini or Tasiu’s home states.

Within Nigerian politics the issue has proved controversial, not least because politicians have a habit of marrying teenagers. Senator Ahmed Sani Yerima, representative for Zamfara West in northern Nigeria, made headlines back in 2010 when he married a 13-year-old Egyptian girl. Three years later he persuaded his fellow Senators to defeat a motion that would have removed a constitutional loophole that means girls under the age of 18 are considered adults as soon as they get married.

Now, with less than three weeks to go before the country goes to polls in the presidential election, the issue has taken on a political edge. Ibrahim says the government doesn’t care about the girls forced into marriage, claiming that politicians could have Tasi’u released if they really wanted to.

A senior lawyer at the International Federation of Women Lawyers in Kano, Ibrahim is currently dealing with 54 cases related to child marriage, including a 12-year-old charged with attempted murder and an 11-year-old who attempted suicide and ran away from home a week before she was due to marry a 45-year-old.

Ibrahim starts her working day at three in the morning, before prayers and taking her children to school. As a woman in a high-powered job, she faces regular harassment from opponents, as well as the general sexism that punctuates her dealings with state officials and members of the police force.

“I am frustrated. There is a real problem with access to education in this region. The government could take steps to address this, but it is yet to do so. Better access to education could have a real impact on child marriage. It’s easy to get the sense that those in charge in the south don’t care about the people of the north. The election has been so focused on terrorism and Boko Haram that other issues are being lost,” she says.

Reluctant politicians
Maryam Uwais, a lawyer based in northern Nigeria, who “grew up watching girls being married off all around” her, suggests that politicians in the north of the country are reluctant to come out against child marriage for fear of losing popular support. “Many of our northern politicians seem to think that taking a stand against pegging the minimum age for marriage would be synonymous with taking a stand against the Muslim faith. The religion has been misinterpreted to convey that child marriage is encouraged in Islam, whereas contextual interpretations would suggest the opposite,” she says.

“Child marriage is prevalent in many of the communities where poverty is endemic. Parents (and fathers especially) actually benefit from the dowry and extras that their daughter’s suitor contributes to the family of the girl child.”

The lawyers representing Maimuna Abdulmunini are equally frustrated with the Nigerian political system. Angela Uwandu works with Avocats Sans Frontières in Abuja. Together with Jean-Sebastian Mariez, who works for the organisation from Paris, she took Abdulmunini’s case to the Economic Community of West African States (Ecowas) Court of Justice.

Attempts to have Abdulmunini released
In June 2014, after granting her an injunction to prevent her being executed four months earlier, the court said the decision to sentence Abdulmunini to death for a crime committed when she was a minor was a violation of her rights. In its judgement, the court also noted a number of flaws in the original trial. The issue of her age had been ignored by both sides, while lawyers for the prosecution argued that Abdulmunini’s desire to keep her newborn baby with her while she was incarcerated was just a cynical attempt to gain sympathy.

Lacking the authority to order her release, the Ecowas court can only urge the Nigerian government to follow its judgment. ASF’s lawyers have been lobbying to ensure this happens but so far their pleas have fallen on deaf ears.

A separate criminal appeal has been filed by Abdulmunini’s lawyer at the national level challenging the death sentence conviction by the High Court.

Abdulmunini, who Uwandu described as being “overjoyed” when she heard the regional court had decided to strike down her sentence back in June, is now dejected.

She is currently separated from her three-year-old daughter – the result of a relationship she had while out on bail – and is living in an overcrowded cell with six other inmates.

Françoise Kpeglo Moudouthe, head of Africa engagement at Girls Not Bride, is calling on the Nigerian government to do more to tackle child marriage.“If nothing is done, it’s clear that Nigeria – and other countries where child marriage is prevalent – will continue to fall short in its efforts to improve the education, health and wellbeing of millions of its citizens.“It’s important to remember that many parents marry off their daughter as a child because they believe it is the best and safest option for her future. The government of Nigeria must do more to empower girls and ensure their access to safe secondary schools, and other services, if parents are to see that they and their daughters have other options to child marriage.”

9 years ago

Film adaptation of ‘Beasts of No Nation’ set for 2015 release

Yet another African novel makes a bold entrance into Hollywood.

Way back in 2013, Deadline announced that Cary Fukunaga, the director of the critically acclaimed HBO show, True Detective, was teaming up with Idris Elba to film Uzodinma Iweala’s war drama titled Beasts of No Nation.

Word has just come through that the project is done and that Netflix, the US media-buying giant, has purchased the worldwide rights for 12 million dollars. The rights covers online streaming and theatrical release.

Those of you who know your Fela would recognise the phrase, “beast of no nation.” It’s the title of Fela’s 1989 album. Iweala, a Harvard-trained Nigerian novelist, clipped the title for his 2005 novel about a child soldier, named Agu, in an unnamed war torn West African country. Beast of No Nation, alongside Adichie’s Purple Hibiscus, Chris Abani’s Graceland, and Habila’s Waiting for An Angel, spearheaded the big comeback of Nigerian fiction on the global literary scene.

This is such exciting news.

Apparently, Netflix is really hoping that the movie catches the attention of the Oscar committee, so they’re putting all their weight behind the it.

“According to insiders, the media distributor is planning a strong Oscar push for the feature,” reports Variety.

Netflix is yet to announce a release date. But since they’re hoping to get it out in time for the Oscar season, later this year is a good enough guess.

Fingers crossed. There are African literary critics who don’t care for Iweala’s novel, citing it as a classic example of the “poverty porn” genre. Add to this the fact that Hollywood doesn’t exactly have a good track record when it comes to representing the continent.

Either way, it’s one more African novel making its way to the big screen. Definitely worth celebrating.

Of course, we’re also looking forward to Adichie’s Americanah starring Lupita Nyongo and David Oyelowo and Lauren Beukes’ The Shining Girls optioned for TV by Leonardo Di Caprio’s media company.

Brittle Paper is an African literary blog featuring book reviews, news, interviews, original work and in-depth coverage of the African literary scene. It is curated by Ainehi Edoro and was recently named a ‘go-to book blog’ by Publisher’s Weekly.