Nairobi, Kenya

I've really enjoyed spending the last few weeks in Kenya. I like Nairobi a lot,  and going forward, this is a place I intend to visit as often as I can. My holiday is coming to its end, and in a few hours I should be on an aeroplane ferrying me back to Europe; first to Paris, France and then onward to London; back to the life in England, the stony and expressionless faces you encounter on your daily commute; that cold, dull dreary weather. Whatever one says about Africa, it remains the case that in the overall people in Africa are happy; and certainly happier than people in Europe, in my opinion. I will miss Kenya, and Nairobi in particular.

But of course there are other things that have to be said, issues that I have found particularly unpleasant. Class, is more of an issue in Kenya than it is anywhere else I've been to, except Brazil. With Brazil's history though, the wideness of the gap in the social hierarchy is explainable with a measure of rationality. Much less so with Kenya. There simply is no reason (save for greed and selfishness) why, for example, one kilometre from the splendid, clean and well maintained Central Business District (CBD) of Nairobi, is located Africa's largest slum, Kibera, where more than 2 million of Nairobi's inhabitants live, a significant proportion of the city's population.

Kibera is only one of several slum areas in the city. Indeed much of Nairobi is slummy, even those other areas such as Eastleigh, Juja Road and other such places that are not officially designated as slums. It's particularly bad because these slummy areas are largely neglected, almost as if the inhabitants (usually the poorer lower classes) are insignificant and irrelevant. Street cleaning, for instance, takes place only in the CBD and in those plush highbrow parts of town where well-to-do Nairobians live. Poor people, it seems, are not worthy of having their streets cleaned. 200 metres outside the CBD and every street corner is piled high with rubbish (garbage as my American friends will say), because, of course, there are no upper-class people resident in the vicinity. I have found it deplorable. 

(Following this writing, I learned that municipal workers were on strike, which perhaps explains what I saw and just described). 

The society's sharp class distinction also means that there is much resentment between the classes. Being class-neutral myself, I have found it easy to hold conversations with all kinds of people. Indeed, the most interesting chats I've had since I've been in Kenya have been with two separate individuals; one, Simba, a security guard and the other Moses, a bus conductor. It's interesting to see how truly insightful and philosophical some of these so called "lower-class" people can be. But it's the deep resentment that I observed that has touched me the most. 

In the aftermath of the Westgate Mall tragedy I got the distinct feeling that there were quite a few among the lower classes who were cynical and had little sympathy for the victims of the terrorists. I thought this unfortunate. 

 

Award-winning African author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie tells Jon Snow why her latest book Americanah mirrors some of the central issues of her own life: race, immigration and the power of hair.

Update Number One

It's nice to be awoken in the early morning by the sound of a cock crowing. It's refreshing and remarkably earthy, and reminds of just how close to nature one has been in the last few days. It becomes even nicer when one realises shortly after waking that the cockerel was only performing a brief solo, and that he's in fact the lead singer in an orchestra of birds, with the amazing dawn chorus in full flow that follows.

It's not that pleasant, however, to be brought round prematurely from one's afternoon nap by the loud 'poom, poom' of next door's lady-of-the-house pounding foofoo, with a mortar and pestle, and with gusto, almost as if how delicious the foofoo will turn out depends upon just how vigorously it is pounded in the mortar.

Another thing, I'm pretty glad I gave up smoking, because, had I still been a smoker, I would be tearing out my hair in frustration by now. I have not seen a single person with a cigarette in their hand since I arrived in Ghana last week, neither have I seen a single cigarette sold in any shop or store. I've even gone so far as to search with my eyes for discarded cigarette butts by the roadside, but have not discovered a single butt as yet. Oh, of course I know there must be some people here who do smoke, but they must be very few indeed, next to being almost completely unnoticeable, invisible. What a far cry from Europe, a continent where the smell of tobacco smoke mixed with perfume hangs heavily over entire city districts; where housewives hang out of windows in high rise apartment buildings puffing away at a cigarette held daintily in one hand, mobile phone clutched to ear with the other, (for that gossip must continue, even while making the effort to spare the toddler in the flat from inhaling second-hand smoke); a continent where workers routinely skive off their duty posts when at work, to go for that "crafty fag".

I've been at a place that thinks of itself as a suburb of a regional capital city, but which in fact is little more than a small rural village that just happens to be located geographically a few miles from that regional capital city. The thought that came to my mind immediately upon arrival here was of the similarity of this place to my own ancestral hometown of Twon Brass, in far away Bayelsa State, Nigeria. The pervasive smell in the air in both places is the aroma of woodsmoke, from the open-air wood fires commonly used for cooking, which is how I remember that place when I visited it for the first time in the 1970s. Unlike in Twon Brass though, where the woodsmoke smell is flavoured with the aroma of smoked fish, because the prevalent occupation there is fishing, here in this place in Ghana where farming is the main occupation, the woodsmoke is complimented by the musty aroma of milled maize and cassava. The woodsmoke aside, the aroma of the homemade alcoholic spirit akpeteshie, also known as ogogoro, kaikai, (or atuwoh in Twon Brass) hangs in the air in both places.

Another point of similarity between the peoples of the two places is in their fondness for a big, noisy, raucous funeral, or "finral" as they say in Ghana.

Let me conclude this update by saying that since my arrival here I have been searching, but in vain, for red bell peppers - 'tatashe'. I have been wanting to surprise my host with my culinary skills by preparing a Nigerian red stew. Alarmingly, I was unable even to convince the lady who sold me some fine large green peppers at the market that there are in fact peppers of that size and shape, but which are red in colour. She was incredulous, she said she'd never seen nor even heard of such peppers. So there I was standing in the middle of the market, confused, bewildered, scratching my head. But I'm now determined to get to the bottom of this and find out why in Ghana's Brong Ahafo Region there appears to be no knowledge of the existence of red peppers. 

So later.

In Pictures

 Street and market scenes

                                        The approaching elections                          

 

Funeral alley

All pics taken this afternoon in Sunyani, the capital city of Ghana's Brong Ahafo Region.

Miwako

Hers is in the only name I still remember of all the dozens of nurses who cared for me, looked after me, and nursed me, all those years ago when I was gravely ill and in hospital. And hers is a name that I will not forget, not ever.

For Miwako, I would likely have been just another one of the many patients that she had the job of caring for, but for me, she wasn't just another nurse. She was different, special, unique. She was my Japanese angel, the one who lit up the room each morning when she entered to wake me, clean me up, change the sheets, tidy up, serve my breakfast, and feed me, while soothing and encouraging me at the same time with her soft sweet voice and her calm warm demeanor. 

Then she would prepare me for the day's interminable prodding and probing by the hordes of doctors, consultants, specialists, some of whom would end up sticking one tube or another into what seemed like every available orifice in my by then withered and very ill body. Before the annoying phlebotomists, who would routinely turn up with enormous needles to prick my arms and burrow into my emaciated flesh in their daily quest for blood samples, an act in which they persisted until my veins almost collapsed in protest. The word "miserable" does not sufficiently describe how I felt during this very grim episode in my life, a trying time, an episode that lasted for a considerable period of time. 

But through all of this, there was Miwako. She was by no means the only nurse who worked on this hospital ward, and the nurses worked in shifts too. So there were long periods when she was not there on the ward with me; periods when I longed dearly to see her and have her by my bedside, handling me gently as was her way. On the mornings when she arrived on the ward (she seemed only to work the day shift for I have no recollection of having her around during those long lonely awful nights), she would enter my room in the midst of a group of nurses with whom she was meant to work together as a team. But even when she was with her colleagues, Miwako stood out. She was radiant, and she shone. On seeing her, my hitherto crestfallen spirit would lift in an instant. It would seem to me that it was just Miwako and me in the room, as if none of the other nurses even mattered. 

Then Miwako would smile at me, and in my mind, which obviously was by then quite delirious through illness, I would have extraordinary visions of strolling through the park, hand in hand with a fragrant Miwako, singing sweet songs to her, telling her how good she had been to me. Before I would be rudely brought down to earth and back to the reality on the ward, when I was abruptly shuffled from one end of the bed to the other by the nurses in their bid to change the sheets. But thankfully Miwako would still be there in the room with me, fussing about, tending to my every need. By her just being there, strangely, I felt reassured that I was going to get better, that I would get over this terrible illness, and that everything would be alright in the end. 

Everything did turn out alright in the end, thanks to the expertise of the doctors in whose care I was, and thanks to the excellent nursing care I received. Ten years on, I do not remember the names of any of the doctors, save for the consultant with whom I was required to maintain follow-up sessions after my discharge. I suppose it is a testament to how much of a good nurse Miwako is (or was to me) that I still remember her, and still think of her as often as I do.

I have been back to the ward recently to express my gratitude to the nurses, but the staff were almost all new faces. I would have loved very much for Miwako to know just how much the kindness she showed meant to me, and how it might have contributed to my recovery. I don't know if she will ever get to read this, or even if she will remember me at all, but all the same, to all those Miwakos out there who touch people's lives in a special way, thank you.  

Lonmin-Marikana: The End of South Africa's Post-Apartheid Settlement?

The killing of 34 striking miners by police at the Marikana mine in South Africa last Friday is a tragedy that touches more than just the families and communities of the dead. It also highlights the failure of post-apartheid South Africa to improve the lives of  a majority of its citizens.

The incident has opened up wounds and exposed the bitter ironies and contradictions of the country almost 20 years after the end of apartheid. Graphic TV coverage filmed just behind the police line went round the world and recalled memories of massacres from the Apartheid era – Sharpeville, Shell House, Boipatong and Bisho.

Trouble at the mine had been brewing for some time. A report by the church-backed Bench Marks Foundation last year revealed that local communities at the Marikana Mine were “frustrated and angry with the mining company… levels of fatal incidents were unacceptable… residential conditions under which Lonmin employees live are appalling”. The report said that last year the company sacked 9,000 workers. 

Lonmin, the London based company that owns the mine, is the reconstituted Lonrho which was described in 1973 by the then Conservative Prime Minister, Ted Heath, as “the unacceptable face of capitalism”. Its internal procedures at that time broke company law and Lonrho also ignored sanctions against white-ruled Rhodesia. Its chief executive, Tiny Rowland, spread corruption throughout Africa, and systematically exploited the continent’s workforce. That era has thankfully passed. But ironically, one of its current non-executive directors is Cyril Ramaphosa, the former leader of the National Union of Mineworkers and the key negotiator for the Africa National Congress in the talks that led to the end of apartheid. Evidently, not even his status and skills could create a deal that would have avoided these deaths.

We will have to wait for the government inquiry to report on the causes of the fatal clashes, but I have seen no clear analysis of what led directly to the confrontation. Most agree that the strike was led by a new militant union, the Association of Mineworkers and Construction Union (AMC), which was spreading a militant message and edging out the 30-year-old National Union of Mineworkers (NUM). The NUM is now in an uneasy alliance with the ANC government and subscribes to its broad policies and strategies. It seems that the new AMC Union and some of the miners at Marikana saw an opportunity of getting higher wages by striking and using violence. It is also possible that it was a one-off incident caused by unfortunate misunderstandings.

Somewhat confusing is the fact that although almost a third of the workforce at the mine are ‘sub-contractors’ – casual labour, recruited and paid by gang masters – the strike was led by the rock drill operators: an elite workforce who do tough, dirty, dangerous work but are not badly paid by South African standards. They, like most workers in the formal sector, got above inflation pay-rises last year.

It’s possible that something deeper is happening here. The success of the new South Africa has always depended on the ability of the government to rebalance society after apartheid by creating jobs and providing health, education and other benefits to the mass of people. On the whole, South Africans have been very patient. At first, the poorest were encouraged simply by seeing black ministers and civil servants in government. They would wait their turn.

Like two lines tracking across a graph, the expectations of the people and the delivery of the state narrowed, widened, and narrowed again over the years. But they have still not met. The clock has always been ticking and it is clear after nearly 20 years, the gap has actually widened. And now a new generation is coming through who never experienced explicit apartheid and the struggle against it. They are exposed to all the consumerism and celebrity lifestyles that the rich world produces. They want it and they want it now.

The deal struck in the early 1990s between the last apartheid government, the ANC and the mining houses was that the free market policies be allowed to continue (under apartheid this was, of course, an un-free market) but with three changes. Firstly all negative discrimination had to end. Economic opportunity as well as the franchise would be extended to all South Africans as would services such as health, education and pensions. Secondly, black people should be given an ownership stake in South African business and a greater role in managing it. This positive discrimination became known at Black Economic Empowerment; a huge panoply of rules and regulations, tax break and contracts to incentivise or force companies to give stakes and employment to non white people. Thirdly, the mining houses, which are the major source of South Africa’s wealth, were allowed to de-list in South Africa and ship their capital off to other countries and tax havens.

Has the deal worked? A short book published this week by the veteran South African economist, Professor Sampie Terreblanche, spells out why is hasn’t. He points out that for most of the last century 20 percent of the South African population owned 70 percent of the country’s wealth, while 70 percent of the population owned only 20 percent of the wealth. Put another way: in 1993, the year before Nelson Mandela was elected President, the richest 10 percent of South Africans owned 53.9 percent of the country’s wealth.  In 2008 the richest 10 percent owned 58.1 percent. During the same period, the income of the poorest 50 percent declined from 8.4 to 7.8 percent. This growing imbalance makes South Africa one of the most – if not the most – unequal society in the world, says Terreblanche. “Since the early 1970s the poorest 50 percent of the population has been exposed to a vicious circle – or a downward spiral – of growing poverty, growing unemployment and growing inequality” he says.

Terreblanche blames this growing poverty on the historic political, economic and social compromise agreement between the last apartheid government, the ANC and the South African Communist Party. He writes: “When it was decided that taxation and expenditure would remain a fixed proportion of GDP, it was not possible for the ANC government to implement a comprehensive redistribution policy. The elite compromise created the space for a black elite formation, but not for a policy that would alleviate the poverty of the poorest 50 percent”. In fact, he says, it has made it worse.

Was the explosion at Marikana the first sign that people realise the pact has not worked? 

By Richard Dowden and taken from here