The
identity crisis in Lamming’s White Mask
Black Face best illustrates the motif of ‘struggling to belong’ in Sarah’s story.
When she grows up, a Dutch girl wants to be an Afropean—a wish she expresses
as she blows her eighteenth birthday candle—a milestone that ushers her into an
adult world and her journey to find acceptance as an honorary white African. Never
mind the story begins with a heartbreak which is an antithesis to Sarah’s
teenage quest in pursuit of happiness and personal freedom. It’s October 6 1978
at exactly 6.30 pm when we meet the teenage narrator ‘smoking Embassies (as an
envoy’s brand) and inhaling the smell of Africa: earth’, adoring the sunset
Africa as an amazing sight.
Its
setting in history takes place in Kenya, a few weeks after its founding father,
Kenyatta Snr., had passed on and the anxious expats expect the country to fall apart.
The author warns in a disclaimer that the social realities of the senile
decades of the ‘70s have been woven into her autobiographical novel, and the reader
is left to their imagination to unravel how much of the story is
true—historical truth and fictional truth. Its social setting takes us through
a Nairobi of yore without house numbers and with unclear street signs; and
before you watched a show in Odeon Cinema, you had to sing the national anthem,
rising as a flag, ‘and anyone seated while the anthem played would be dragged
off by the police for disrespecting the flag.’ A Nairobi of old wives’ tale,
for no one was ever caught!
Visible in
the narrative is the use of a colonial hangover, ‘memsaab’ (my master/mistress)
fifteen years after independence. This seems to imply that Kenya’s liberation
was still struggling too like the narrator, in its tumultuous teenage years but
had not yet descended into Uganda’s abyss the expats anticipated. It’s
interesting to note that this title is used by their older night guard, a
Kikuyu (a tribe persecuted by the colonialists for being Mau Mau), when greeting
the younger narrator.
Her
parents are predictable as most parents and her father controls her
Shakespearean narratives in his bid to order her little world like the Globe
Theatre director even in rebuking her present—a gold-plated Ronson lighter he
thinks would make her smoke more; although the reader can excuse the birthday
girl for her smoking experiments, eating a chocoladetaart cake but not taking alcohol, now that she’s legally
an adult.
In this
growing up and rebelling story, she’s impatient and ready to rock ‘could dance
wild and loose like a gazelle’—but like the young and reckless gazelle dancing
herself lame before the main dance. This is because her first love crush
Leander, whose charming endearments she had hoped would ride her wild in clubs
with his carefree spirit, is a hard-ball player. This hit-and-run lover breaks
her heart, amid vivid description of crazy dances, as the DJ spins Marley’s ‘Is This Love’ while revelers vibrate
awkwardly to lyrics—‘too slow, or not slow enough’—of the latest album from the
Legend himself, ‘as if anybody cared.’
Apart from
trying to fit (and belong) into the adult world, her other inner desire is to
find acceptance as an honorary African. She expresses this as she blows ‘out
the candles in a single whoosh wishing for only one thing that Kenya would be
the home where she could stay forever; to be done with expat life, hopping from
one country to the next and to finally be free of parents breathing down her
neck.’ Quite a mouthful! It also seem a juvenile resolve; symbolized by her
destructive habits tearing a ‘fine metal mesh’ in her window to let the smoke
out ; to let mosquitoes in. Subtly this could be a rebellious statement. Is she
living in a cage? And is Pa (and Mwaura), the prison wardens in her little
world?
She sets
out to give us an African perspective through her reactions to the relationships
between the local people, foreign friends and her parents. The birthday present
from her father (admission letter to a driving school) is a fuel in her freedom
highway, even though she’s already admonished that Nairobi traffic is a
‘free-for-all’ which was as true then as it is today. Yet she takes into her
stride as a first giant leap onto the road to independence and anxiously says
‘I could hardly wait.’
This is
interesting because we see a brave girl taking the ‘bull by its horn’ when her
father is too wary and restless after an almost ‘carjacking’ incident, which if
it happened in Kenya of 2015, would be bad enough (Category Five Alert) to
issue a travel advisory to safety-fixated expats. This is a recurrent theme the
author tackle through the carefree narrator and her white friends who can’t
relate to the fears of their parents and ‘the expat community who thought
danger lurked around every corner.’ While the narrator (and her expat friends) knew
what Kenya was really like; a place (they) went to school, partied, and made
friends for life.’
In her
street wisdom, she prescribes a ‘standard caution’ especially when dealing with
Nairobi men and their matatus ‘that
swooped through traffic like vultures hunting for prey.’ Which still ring true
today, except they are madly bolder and the narrator feels no sympathy for
these road bullies. It is with a nostalgia that the age reminds us of the much
ordered public buses from a Nyayo era gone with its ‘dirty green city buses
that leaned to one side where passengers hung onto the door’ which I suspect were
the famous KBS, because Nyayo Buses came into the scene much later into Moi’s
regime.
And even
after these ‘extensive’ driving lessons, making a three-point turn poses her
with a challenge which her cynical father sneers at her attempts. Perhaps her
road to independence is wrought with false starts. But by no means would their
journey to Mombasa be a six-hour feat (with a cautious father as driver and
‘resting his heels’ in Mtito Andei)—the Nostalgic East Africans find this
exaggerated. It would take perhaps a whole day back in the day to tackle
‘Mombasa Road which was in a terrible condition’ as her ‘father cursed as he
swerved to avoid potholes deep enough to blow a tire or break an axle.’ What
with ‘jam-packed buses roaring all day and night with drivers high from chewing
twigs of miraa to stay awake! Or very slow buses swerved into oncoming traffic
to overtake even slower buses, and got stuck there when neither would let the
other pass.’
The
harrowing journey pays off (even for the reader) because the colourful descriptions
of the coast ‘fill (her) nose as (she) approaches the breezy sea.’ An art the
author is keen to invest time in its details—the sea; ‘sky breeze as she enters
it,’ and of ‘endless stretches of it, firm underfoot like pavement, reached to
the left and right.’ And its ‘low tide, dry ruffles of seaweed, tall thick
clouds like blobs of whipped cream skimming the horizon.’ No wonder then when faced with prospects of
studying in her native Holland, she dismisses the offer for she’s in love with
#MagicalKenya and can’t ‘imagine leaving Kenya, ever.’
The
narrator’s usage of Kiswahili (now that we are still at the Swahili coast) is grammatically
correct but contextually unsuitable. A multi-linguist transliteration would
have refined phrases like ‘Safiri salama’ in lieu of ‘Safari salama’, which no
one uses except by ‘knowledgeable’ expats in their Kiswahili impediments. But
whether it’s a conscious choice of diction, it doesn’t escape the reader to
find education polarised in expat ‘International’ schools, and here Sarah
attends one in an oddly and ‘uniquely quiet’ symbolic Coldham Tutorial College,
unlike other mainstream IG-Cambridge and Edexcel schools ‘that are filtered by
tuition rates.’
It’s
typical too to be populated by unconventional teachers as our classic Indian
Geography teacher whose ‘Wee shep walley’
means ‘V-shaped valley.’ I’d laugh at
the satire but my own experience teaching using my Kenyan English to European
scholars also brought out some good measure of embarrassment. It’s tricky for
my local tongue to pronounce ‘coke and cock’ and articulate properly the ‘ou’ diphthongs so as to differentiate
the soda, the rooster, the drug and the cock euphemism. Of course, they’ll
laugh at our ‘who-wants-my-coke’ joke.
My own
physics teacher like Mr. Vasudeva would get offended with his Kamba-accented ‘ramba sucker’ (rubber sucker) and
threatened to smite out grinning cheeks with ‘accent mumenichida, rakini end-term physics…’ But to score equal
marks, a European tongue too gets twisted in our Kenian languages—evidenced in the narrator’s own experience with
commonly used words such as misspelled banghi
, though these local expressions add local flavor to the dialogue of belonging,
especially the commendably used duka, hodi, karibu, kweli, etc.
Finally on
the subject of language politics, local Kenyans never use ‘Jambo Bwana’ as a greeting. Not then—not now (except
to answer an irritating expat)! It is this stereotypic perception that
disenchants the desperate tourists when they visit our parks. In an authorial
intrusion, the author satirises these foreigners in their ‘crisply pressed
khaki outfits, spend a few hours in an air-conditioned van, driving safely
along the trails of the National park just outside town. No promise of leopards
and lions, but only herds of fat grazing warthogs—the closest they can get to
Africa is through the views of a rolled up window!’ This was the scenario then;
as it is now, or even worse as our Kenyanised SDP admits the ‘well-known fact
that Kenya in fact has no rhino left and that those glimpsed behind bushes are,
rather, fat wildlife volunteers dressed up in gray potato sacks.’
The book
also offers the reader a brief history of Nairobi; then proudly called a Green
City under the Sun! She highlights the
Thorn Tree Restaurant and its curious legend woven into our capital, so is the
mention of F1 (the original Florida Club and its metamorphosis to Murder House
before bowing to age). The Golf Range (herein Carnivore camouflaged) shows a
party frenzy and club hopping as well (though in lesser shades than Mochama’s Nairobi; A Night Runner’s Guide). When
the sun goes under the city, our underage kids still rave ‘their asses off’ exposing
tales of familiar post-independence clubbing rituals.
Underground
clubs still host young rich kids with a caretaker ‘cousin’ patrolling (and
sometimes pimping them). Is what Rashid does to his ‘smoking hot’ cousins, now
changed from their hijaab for something sexy, as they still do in the Black
Diamonds and Babels of Westlands. And hoping that Dennis reciprocates his
‘beautiful’ gestures, perhaps with Sarah, becomes a letdown to an otherwise
great weekend outing where ‘pimping’ backfires when our naïve Dennis assumes to
babysit Sarah at the club against the Rashid-ic hyenas.
Familiar
pick up lines ‘We move well together’ is still universally applied by lovers
even to ‘too slow, or not slow enough’ lovers rock and dancing without shoes
‘to feel the floor to feel the music.’ Sarah seems at home going native to feel
the heart beats of Africa(ness) itself.
Well, the African earth can also hurt so badly, with its spiky Thorn
Trees that enter and pierce your hasty flesh—in prominent thorn imageries!
To
illustrate this, when there’s an inkling that Sarah and Sam are about to start
dating, hardly is the cautious phrase ‘take it slow’ out of Chloe’s mouth when she
flinches ‘after taking another step for something sharp had pierced (her) foot.’
It’s interesting how they ‘admired the size of the thorn, easily two
centimeters long with a thick point as sharp as a needle.’ This seems to
suggest their relationship is doomed or would be painful if the thorn metaphor
is implied. Besides, their first dramatic meeting at the Thorn Tree was a so-so
anticlimax (no one’s heart was swept, anyway). But I leave the thorny
undertones to the Mwangis of psychoanalysis and Freud theorists well versed in dreamy
matters of the hesitant heart.
Conflicts
with her parents rise with the entry of Sam, her rebound Ugandan lover, but her
mother, simmers down—like most mothers. Properly developed as a character and
role in playing down the conflict, we are told years ago she (her mom) had
attended a class in the art of being a housewife in the tropics and she came
away fixated on water and hygiene. If her father was absorbed with expat
caution; her mother complemented it with a domestic vigilance fighting
‘invisible bugs.’ In welcoming her almost son-in-law, the mother pacified the
home scenery with an antidote of beautiful imagery ‘mood lighting’ which she
loved to call ‘just enough to highlight our best features but not enough to
emphasize our imperfections.’ This is a critical exposé and the lamp, despite
their dark African conflicts, had to be worn in gorgeous embroidery!
But Sarah
is the child that needs PG advisory as she fall head over heels loving Sam—a relationship
that shakes her priorities and resolve. Chloe her BFF is the first casualty.
After their Finals, she abandons her (and their usual chips and coke post-exam
lunch) and chooses to spend her time with Sam. ‘Good luck, rafiki’ is not
enough a justification as she parts with a thin-looking smile! And for what but
to go romping in Nairobi’s underbelly of crime—Eastlands (the reverse
Westlands) to buy ‘banghi’ (bhang) and
make snide samosa remarks to Rashid’s brand of Islam ‘does this too have pork
in it?’ the same Rashid who didn’t have strong ‘qualms about beer.’ If this is
a case of ‘show me your friends, and I’ll tell you your character,’ then this
truth is revealed in Sam and his hooligans.
Even her
caring but indulgent mother is angry after this disappointing post-graduate
guiltless fun and her first day freedom which she was definitely not used
to—now uncertain if at all this is what she was looking forward to. A freedom personified
in their cat who ‘have it easy’ and ‘can run off and behave as badly’ but care
less what anybody thinks. This is the cat’s freedom; and she, a cat minus a
tail!
Lisa,
their maid even disapproves of Sam. ‘African men are no good.’ Poor Lisa, a
teenager too but with a kid back in the village, visibly pregnant and no
husband in sight! Sam is the supposedly the vehicle that would give Sarah a
belonging. But who is Sam? The author acknowledges his height as ‘tall’ and is
irritatingly repeated throughout the book until the reader notices (the
repetition)—a height hard to miss! His background is true to a traditional man.
He’s an ex-jigger victim, a Madi from Northern Uganda, sharing various cultures
with Acoli and Kakwa, the tribe of the former dictator Idi Amin. Sarah is
strong willed to survive this polygamous setting because as Sam assures ‘my
future will be very different.’
His being
not Kenyan illustrates a belonging pattern—he’s African after all. His being
Ugandan ironically confirms his stereotype (and narrow national bigotry) on
Asians who ‘keep to themselves and behave as if they never left their own
countries even after they’ve been here for generations…is why Amin decided it
wasn’t enough to rid Uganda of the colonial dictators, but chase out the Asians
also, once and for all to save Africa for the Africans.’
He also
has ‘twisted’ stereotype and collectivization that all Europeans hate Africans.
Suspecting Sarah’s father doesn’t like him ‘because I’m African.’ It could be
the way he grips his hand as if to prove he’s the stronger man—which made him
only visit the Janssens when he’s at work. It could be for being admonished for
parking his car so carelessly in the driveway. Or the old man’s blunt sarcasm:
‘put it elsewhere so that ‘the people that actually live in this house can
perhaps have some room to park their cars.’ All the same, they must fight for
the ‘ultimate prize’—Sarah—a savage imagery fit for lions and their territorial
turf wars to decide who takes the mating rights!
Sarah is
headstrong in her obedience to the cupid arrows of Sam—some time his strained (stray
and missed) shootings. The fashion of pre-fabulous Nairobi is also enlivened
because trendy style then was hard to come by—beside tourist T-shirts and
safari gear. And so when she dresses herself (to kill) for the wedding at
Rashid’s and Sam doesn’t ‘notice her pomp and colour’ loudly enough to compliment
her; there’s a hint of culture clash from her high expectations and tantrums. It
seems a statement to her that complimentary tickets don’t wash with traditional
Africa(ns), or perhaps shall remain unavailable during their post-courtship
relationship. Yet she says yes to his proposal and a getaway journey into the
northern hinterland by train (with its aphrodisiac gaDUNKkaDUNKaDUNK all the
way!) which the adamant father refuses fearing the dangers of the dilapidated
rail system (because an accident killed some Dutch tourists hundreds of miles
in the south).
Well (sorry
fans of soaps) their romance is not consummated in their joint journey to the
North Rift—another antithesis for the love birds whose first near-experience
was a coitus intruptus—and couldn’t
finish what they had started off at the dark theatre. Always tricky for any
memoir at how much should be revealed; how current relations would read this
fictionalized part or other ‘graphic’ details that could be entertaining, but
in a discomfiting way, in spite of our best intentions!
Instead we
are treated to a dose of humour while onboard this 1895 train with a
description of a ‘gaunt, ancient man sweeping the floor with small swishing
movements, pushing the rubbish,’ perhaps of history! The narrator takes us through
the inside of their cabin; but shutting out the description of the safari in
detail—the Kikuyu farms and White highlands as they undulate through.
Daddy’s
little princess dines in an old car ‘with plates stamped with the golden crest
of the old colonial East African Railway Corporation.’ And conjures up the
ghosts of Karen Blixen; ‘who perhaps had rode this train while she looked out
on the land she loved and prayed she’d live forever. She’s nostalgic at her
glimpse of times gone by. ‘Just a dozen or so years ago, Sam and I would not
have been able to share a meal like this, never mind a first class
compartment—and definitely not a bed.’ She vows ‘Kenya is my home. I don’t ever
want to leave,’ when Sam probes her commitment to share their future together.
Finally inconsistencies
inform the historical setting of the narrative when they reach Eldoret and
Daniel araap Murgor picks them up. Here the North Rift readers will have poetic
faiths about the geographical locations mentioned during their road trip and stay
in Kapenguria. For one, they could have alighted in Kitale Railway Station,
where the railway track ends, instead of Eldoret—some 64 miles away! The
mention of empty milk cans in the truck suggest the Murgors delivered their
milk to the nearest KCC depot—that is Kitale, and would be impractical to go
all the way every morning to Eldoret.
Captured
accurately in their journey, though, is Kenya’s breadbasket, still a familiar
stretch dotted with maize fields and the rough tarmac road especially after Moi
Barracks—even my father swore at its potholes as he drove through it in the
early eighties. Woe when it rained, the ‘black cotton soil like glue’ stalled
cars in its sticky mud.
A
generation of ‘chotaras’ or ‘pointies’ (half-caste) live across the Kalenjin
land, and in fact, the historic Murgors themselves are case in point —a happy
coincidence? Many local women married (or were mistresses) to these farmers
took over the running of these farms on proxy. Our fictional Mrs. Murgor, is
herself white and married to Dr. Murgor. In Kalenjin, Mur is cross and Gor
means land. It’s an interesting choice of name ‘cross-land’, perhaps
cross-bred? Dotted with hills? Rivers? Trans-Nzoia in mind?
The
stables they keep though fictionalized, still mark most white highland ranches
and tracts of large scale farmers who inherited all manner of habits from the
fleeing white settlers. The mishap of riding the horse that ‘might be bouncing
around in the saddle until we carried on clear into Uganda’ points out further
evidence that the geographical area these lovebirds rode into is around
Endebess, just next to Suam River that demarcates Kenya and Uganda. Further,
the black clay soil fits perfectly well with this description.
A critic’s work (and as a reviewer) in
exposing what the author omitted from the narrative is not complete if we don’t
probe the details of where they ‘spent days exploring the area’ yet met ‘no
excitement around Kapenguria’ except ‘adjusting to the rhythm of the quieter
farm.’ Of course, there are Tartar Falls, Saiwa Swamp National Park (the only
of a kind in Africa), historic Mt Elgon Caves, the Kamatira steep slopes
curving from the Cherangani Hills, and if they were adventurous enough, would go
all way to Lake Turkana (the biggest desert lake in the whole world) sitting beside
Koobi Fora where the Leakeys discovered the home of mankind! Spoiled for choice,
but missed opportunities without tour guides!
Poor Mrs.
Murgor! Her husband had another woman in Mombasa, her children away at boarding
school since they were seven years old and who only visited home during long
holidays. It’s terrible even for Sarah, and dares Sam to ‘go gallivanting off
with some hot chick on the beach.’ Unlike Lawino in Song of Lawino, she isn’t ready to share her man in a polygamous
setting.
The story
of Mrs. Murgor is similar to LS Senghor and many other Africans who had gone to
study (medicine) in Europe, and brought back white wives into their traditional
African homestead that already had many stepmothers and half-siblings—a totally
different ballgame for a woman born and raised in England to step into a life
like this. Sam fits here—except his white girl came to look for him—and is ironical
that he wants to go to study in England which is dismissed by the narrator
that, ‘a newly liberated African turns to land of oppressor to get a proper
education.’
To belong
in Africa, Sarah may have to follow in Mrs. Murgor’s footsteps and join the
local Country Club—of course it’s the old colonial Kitale ‘Members Only’ Club—only
a half an hour slow drive away. It might even reconcile her confusion living
its history; an ‘odd structure that appeared to be stuck between two eras; not
fully hanging on to its old colonial past, but not taking on a new African
identity either.’
But how
would she not partake or shed off this colonial mentality still written in
every space? Kenyatta’s post-colonial government renamed and localized most streets,
schools, etc. But still a colonial air stuck—that we even felt growing up in
our Jack and Jill Preparatory School and later Kitale Academy (formerly Kitale
Primary for colonial kids). Araap Moi replaced Hoy’s Bridge, the Nzoia River
Bridge of Mr. Hoy (Bwana Hoi or Memsahib Hoi, if you like) called it Moi’s
Bridge and paved it for the wheels of politically connected to cross over to Kitale
Club.
These
farmers still played tennis and golf in holes also doubling up as watering
holes for hippos ‘and would send (Turkana) guards out at night armed with
pointed sticks to chase the off by poking them in the behind.’ While they drank
deep into the night—the hangover traits—these African farmers inherited and
proudly displayed the same arrogance of Kap Russell, Kab Bill, and even the
original Delamares, played their tourneys here, according to club records.
It is no
wonder then that after the clubbing, Sam reads too much ‘White Mischief’ in the
Rift Valley and suspects Daniel, the half-caste friend, is riding his ‘White’ horse—a
pure green-eyed monster with his childish jealousy. His tantrums are finally quenched
by a ‘delicious’ lovemaking that night and rekindle the belonging motif while ‘contemplating
the world Sam had just held up for (her) to look at.’ A world in black and
white, where Sam’s father is imprisoned because of tribal politics in Uganda,
in a vacuum created by the deposed dictator Idi Amin from a cousin tribe.
Persecuted for being thought he’s a loyal lieutenant to former dictator. ‘Would
they accept (her)?’
Sam displays his traditional worldview by hitting
Scooby Doo, Daniel’s baby sister, and causes utter consternation to both Sarah
and Mrs. Murgor—this rough side of conformist patriarchy, is justified by Sam
and Daniel who think ‘children must have discipline and learn their place,
especially the girls.’ Daniel too is guilty in his keeping with kalenjin culture, a tradition notorious for patronizing and
classifying girls and women as children. And have nothing apologetic about it,
bringing out a clash of cultures—in white and black—‘was this how African
families raised their children? Or had Sam taken things too far, slapping a
child he was not even related to?’
Jo feels through Sarah’s eyes that the African societies
should purge all traces of bigotry in their culture. It pushes women into a
psychological trauma and totally disregards them as members; it promotes the chauvinism
even within educated families. Through Sarah, Jo’s proposes to expose and assess
the grounds used to defend age-old cultural practices.
This
ill-timed incident is significant in the story for it is possible the same fault
that later leads Sam to his death after hitting the child of his jealous
younger step mother. It is a foreshadow, also sadly marking the abrupt end to
their stay in the farm and they hurriedly pack and disappear back into the city
so that Sam could proceed to his ominous journey to Uganda to sort out ‘some
urgent things.’
Significantly,
the stage sets the reversal of events as Chloe and her family leaves Kenya—the
only home she had known—being a fourth generation since her gramps settled in
early 1900s. They ‘got tired of corruption, and of worrying that this stability
won’t last much longer.’ Though an exaggeration, they had to wait until 1982,
four years later for one. Sarah gives Chloe a brand new copy of Blixen’s Out of
Africa, as a gift ‘so she won’t forget.’ Her exit is sudden and sad, for the
author doesn’t develop Chloe fully, except as support cast and we don’t get to
know if her relationships were also localized—now that she had been born and
brought up in Kenya. She exits, a dejected character (cut out from the story) perhaps
analogous to the sacrificial rams from the White Maasai narrative—neither here
nor there—to tell a tale to the West.
It is the
turning point in the story. Exit Sam; enter Dennis his brother. This could have
been the beginning of the second part of the story or a break, for like a Romeo
and Juliet, things got worse after this interval! Sam writes back about the jealousy
and squabbles from the family—the envy of Matilda and her children. Through
this epistemology, we delve into their adoration of love in black and white. It
evokes a confused identity of the ‘Black Skin White Mask’ but to dismiss their
fears ‘the colour of their skin matter nothing to them’ yet Sam’s father had
wished better for his children, (by marrying Sam’s lighter skin mother) knowing
life would be easier for them if they were lighter. By having a white girl, Sam
is repeating history as if to cheer up ‘his spitting image of his
black-as-night father!’
Their imminent
‘mottled’ union is both a bane and hope for her belonging, and it is even in
doubt; ‘Sam and I were going to have a perfect life there, once we disentangled
ourselves from the complications of our families.’ It seems though that man
proposes, woman accepts the proposal; but God disposes. Foolhardy, the narrator
is deaf to her father’s seasoned wisdom ‘words are cheap, and you are a
gullible fool. You have no idea what goes on in the real Africa outside of the
pampered life you lead.’ But she makes a better-or-worse resolve to follow her
heart and dismisses the sentiments of her naysayer father, even ‘shocked that
he turned out to be just as full of prejudice as any other expat.’ This
decisive apogee, though not a cosmic irony that justifies her father’s ‘nothing
good could come out of this relationship,’ is a slap in her face to appreciate
her father who knows his foolish little girl is incapable of deciding her own
future.
A future
uncertain and hanging as ominous clouds; and now followed by sad news of Sam’s
sudden demise in Kampala, that her father forbids her to attend the funeral. But
as fools rush in, she books an overloaded ‘Kampala’ Express, packed with
passengers like sardines (jeered all the way; un-belonging). This is her unseen
Africa in the aftermath of post-Amin’s Uganda which is now overran with several
lunatics in soldier uniform, erecting numerous roadblocks and where one had taken
away her picture from Sam’s wallet and keeps it, perhaps to ‘defile it in his
maggot-infested bed.’
Here, she
doesn’t belong easily and being the only white person, her interactions with
Sam’s extended family, reveals the other side of Africa she’s less familiar.
The likes of McGoye and Kimenye have already gone native and this is visible
through their writings that they are No Longer at Ease living in their African traditional
environment. The nervous illustration is best captured in the cover portrait with
the women group anxiously hushed contrasting the regular lively African rowdy
and noisy ‘market’ crowd.
But unlike
the local women, peeling banana for matoke supper is a hectic task for her
hands; ‘I wondered why it was so difficult to wipe off (the sticky black slime
of the peels).’ Someone should have informed her to rub her hands with cooking
oil before peeling them so that the black streaks didn’t stick in her hands!
She’s also clueless taking part in ‘no washing of body, and cutting hair as
part of funeral ritual to honour the dead. Thinking she must hug these
traditions because she was an almost-wife, or his might-have-been wife. But
later confessing being stupid; thinking she was doing the right thing, too
eager to embrace customs she didn’t understand.
She
becomes an arm-chair envoy from the West that visits the East in Barlow’s
Stanley Meets Mutesa. Adela symbolizes the warmth of African Kabaka-ress in
welcoming her visitors. A VIP visitor who feels like Mireille in Bâ’s
Scarlet Song that is treated as
if she was in a zoo for all eyes to feast on her (while she pretends not to
notice the curious ‘not-one-of-us’ stares). Or worse, the centre of
attention—given preferential treatment as ‘the women slip into languages’ like
low frequency vernacular FM station. She relives again the un-belonging motif
on their rough journey after she’s singled out by ‘a catholic nun with a white
skin, and a teenager like her.’ This time round, and much to their mutual
amusement, they can’t communicate and are as foreign to each other—and
disconnected.
As they
head north to bury Sam—I suspect in the Acoli North, the land the poet Okot
P’Bitek’s rich orature pollinate our mind—the traditional Madi customs are too
much for her comfort, and the author cleverly weaves this discomfort as the
narrator reluctantly washes herself, the disturbing image of ‘a single bare
thorn tree’ is evoked again. She cleanses herself under the thorny allegory,
thinking she’d take a private bath—like in her own lavish bathroom—but no!
‘Jambo,’ I replied. I was thrown for a minute—it hadn’t occurred to me that I
might not be the only one here.’ The two stark-naked women share a ‘bathroom’
smiling knowingly, she glancing, enviously at her perfectly rounded butt and
breasts, fuller, firmer than hers—an African flesh.
This
‘thorn’, a ‘beautiful’ girl they share nudist humanity in a culture clash backdrop,
is also the African woman they shared Sam with; Sam, the ‘traditional African
man.’ It comes as a shock that turns into anger, jealousy and finally hurts
her, despite the fact that belonging is communal in the land of Acoli, where
Lawino is willing to share her Ocol with her rival Clementina. This is a foreign
territory where it is an acceptable form of wife sharing and up to four women
could share peel the African banana if we were to go by the imaginative and
suggestive cover of the book.
Her shock colours
the rest of her stay in Uganda and is uneasy in consoling Sam’s mother, though
her heart ached for her loss but still she couldn’t forgive her—‘the woman who
told everyone she was not good enough for her son, even though she had never
met her.’ She throws silent tirades at the
woman who had gone out of her way to force pretty girls on her Sam! Her rants
are inexcusable for when you choose to be friends with crabs, you shouldn’t
complain of their rough handshakes.
Her insolence
climaxes when she’s supposed to kiss the archbishop’s ring, another
‘unnecessary complication with God so clearly on everybody else’s mind.’ Here,
she’s green: should she kiss it with a smacking sound? ‘Hold his ring finger,
or just plant a kiss on the ring? Touch the ring with her lips or hover in the
air about it? Kneel or bow while kissing it? Close her eyes as she kissed it?’
She seemed confused how the same lips that had kissed Sam’s must now kiss the
Hand of God! A comic effect for she doesn’t kiss the ring after all!
Another
shock the author employs gallows humour to demonstrate is the efforts of the
hired professional mourner to urge their tears in weeping loudly ‘so everybody
else feels free to express their own suffering—a proper atmosphere of grief!’ This
dark humour, the narrator thinks, is improper as the people are sad enough
without needing encouragement. Dennis reveals that they suspect Sam was
poisoned, although there’s no post-mortem to establish this fact, as is
standard procedure, nor forensic evidence used (no signs yet that the fictional
body shall be exhumed to determine the truth; to rule this out).
Phew! She
goes back to civilization, saddened by leaving the village and her
‘almost-relatives’ with ties that bind even if only in their shared loss. The
acquired traditional knowledge seems therapeutic in resting her curiosity. But
still she had to confront her adamant rival to satisfy her soul and rest her
case, or to confirm her fears—perhaps her father was right, nothing good could
come from this African union. The nameless rival assures her in their shared
grief (and subtly echoing Sarah’s fate) that ‘it did not last. It was for the
best. What was I to do with a man who has forgotten our African traditions, and
has chosen to live the life of whites?’ Even as she leaves Uganda, she feels as
an honorary African for ‘she had been taken in when she had dropped uninvited
into their lives in the middle of a tragedy’—though a foreigner and a stranger.
Phew! Finally
back into her comfortable world, smoothly lined with order and civilization, where
she belonged and she realizes that her identity had been flapped and interacted
with very rough and chapped hands of Africa until it ‘looked shabby, it’s cover
had lost its stiffness and edges frayed, and saw many grimy fingerprints
abusing it like the lecherous soldier in his maggot infested bed!’ She seems to
be making an angry commentary on how she was perceived and her person without
civil courtesy!
Their initial romantic
escapades to survive against odds are wretched by a sad realism which when probed
further, distresses and dishearten various relationships. And sooner than
later, it’s apparent that their dreamy Romeo and Juliet allegory is a poor
defense against the pressures of society. Finally, Sam is entangled in his
traditional roots, while Sarah is left high and dry, lonely in her exquisite bathroom
and luxurious bed sheets without the warmth of the man she loved.
Of course,
not all African men are polygamous by default and just like Europeans etc, mankind-is-mankind
and what an African can do; an American can do even better in taking up
mistresses or a concubine. So the text does not have the final say on
relationships, and in this case cross-cultural —though this enriching first
person narrative is a strong testimony to the intricacy of interracial unions.
For Sarah,
Sam’s death transforms her character as seen on her return—the juvenile girl
capably took a good care of herself in Uganda, and drive out her parent’s fears
to the contrary. And with her new role—lead role—she graduates to ‘the one
doing all the talking in the family; and it feels a little odd.’ She can now easily
spin the tricky three-point turn that she eternally had to learn as her father
teased; always a reminiscent of her driving school—now graduated from the
school of hard knocks and can captain her free spirit enough to turn and drive
herself to her destination.
Her last
epistemology entitled ‘Sara, my number
one woman,’ shouldn’t have been used to explain the conclusion of their
love mystery. This, I find is too much of poetic license and liberal authorial
intrusion that consciously spells out how the story ends—a reverse case of ‘show-not-tell!’
It would have been a better conclusion and resolution to leave the reader in
suspense. Or the narrative could have opted for a better way out of the dilemma
of patching up their fateful story—as the Kimenyes and Oludhes do around East
Africa—reconciling their ‘mottled’ nuptials amicably for love is universal!
Perhaps they escape this ‘discrepancy of belonging’ through their writing.
The other
lame resolution is revealing the identity of the poisoning culprit, given as
Matilda, the middle wife. Couldn’t this have been left to the imagination of
the reader to judge her? After all, the author’s insinuation already pointed in
that direction. Does the ‘means’ justify the end? It is unbelievable that Sam
is killed because he hit his kid step-brother/sister! Earlier on, he had hit
Scooby Doo, and if the author is making a statement (a sentence) that
punishment for ‘chauvinism’ and domestic violence is death, then the punishment
is simply colossal (to your loved one). The story should have had a more
dramatic justification—not hitting at a child!
A plot may
have a conclusion and a resolution, or only a conclusion. ‘And they lived
happily ever after’ is a resolution. How they lived ‘happily’ is our
conclusion. The reader is left to their whim (and telling evidence from the
text) to choose what to believe—not compelled, nor arm twisted! Perhaps the
author had a lot of loose ends to tie. Perhaps it is a demonstration of the
beef between Dennis and Rashid. But again, even the poisoning story is hard to
sell to the unbelieving narrator, nor doesn’t seem to justify the ‘adult
discourse’ from Dennis.
It is a
serious dialogue because the previous week, Dennis spoke in a ‘childish’ verbiage.
Could his brother’s death—and his taking the family’s mantle—be responsible for
his ‘rapid’ transformation? Suddenly he is advising her ‘you can’t build a life
on wishful thinking, imagining this world to be some sugary place where
everybody just gets along. As if donkeys would ever be welcomed into a herd of
zebras!’ This is a remarkable outburst resonating in the belonging
theme—fitting a white mask into an African face—dissecting the identity
question: if a leopard can change its spots or an Ethiopian the skin.
All the
same, his reproach has serious implication on his relationship with Sarah and
this vague exposé from a less-serious lad is an antithesis to the narrator and
her grown-up slips that found its way into the story which was supposed to be
written from a young adult point of view and by an adult author.
Denver’s
song ‘I’m Sorry’ and its conclusion
(both in the text and in the song) is the last nail on their romantic coffin,
much as the many ‘I’m Sorries’ didn’t
stop the girl in the song to walk away from her lying cheating lover.’ If not
in its wording, then in its tone, and a good riddance farewell darkened by her friends
visiting to console, her going to college in London, etc so to honour Sam and their
memories.
The nostalgic
memories of almost belonging together; almost achieving this feat in their eye-opening desperate journeys—with Murgors
and Madis, both contrasting, delayed by cultural shocks, and sometimes mirages
of heartbreaking memories, toe-breaking too—if her small toe is bleeding into
the bargain! She portrays herself as supple
and soldiers on despite her ‘wounds’, and through her resilience, the mothers
of Africa are established as crucial to the very society that is actively
alienating them.
The gender battle informing the conflict and coating the storyline
insinuates the misrepresented prototypes that are evidently masquerading as
tradition and culture. The society that has long been lured to consume the perpetuation
of these customs is now persuaded again to the ultimate obligation of
preserving the harmony between man and woman. The author also exposes the two-faced
values of the African society and the flawed conventional wisdom that evidently
leans heavily on patriarchy.
Apart from
the geographical dislocations of our earlier discussed Kapenguria, and Biashara
Street being referred to as ‘downtown’, only three typos escaped the almost
keen-eyed editors. ONLY three! And are on punctuation—worth mentioning because
it’s no mean feat to publish a typo-free MSS. On P27 ’’Listen...’’ begins with
a closing instead of opening quotation marks. OnP29, is a poorly spaced comma ‘Matatus , buses’ (perhaps the buses from
Nyayo ‘error’) and finally the fifth
line of P224, the space between ‘porridge.’ and ‘My teeth.’ Like traditional
gap in teeth, I wonder if this is the narrator’s longing for the traditional
beauty of missing teeth that is glorified in Okot P’Bitek’s White Teeth?
A major strength in Belonging in Africa is in the ruthless disapproval
of the shakeup forced on family units because of interracial relationships,
even if their despair lie on bedrocks of stereotypic race history and
individual intolerances. Our nagging local questions ‘what brought you to Kenya?’ is
no more accommodating for someone bridging the racial gap and feels more
African than her ‘strange’ native ‘nether lands.’
Perhaps
her wishes to belong are (partially) fulfilled in birthing of this (real-life
fiction) publication—an African edition, but then at the end of reading its 256
pages, we are still in a disquieted suspense whether she kept country hopping
or finally settled in Africa. The Africa that has accepted her white mask dance
in the face of Africa, that is, the beauty and the idea of the mask dance—yet were
the strained liaison consummated, it would have been a test of pragmatic
romance, just like any other cross-cultural marriage—but it never happened, or
almost happened! The success (or lack of it) is quite telling in retaining the
Sarah Jennsen maiden name, never adopting Sarah (almost) Dragu. Perhaps the
story she bakes in realism appeases the author to serve it without a Cinderella
ending because her vehicle to belonging broke down. This African ‘Matatu Matata’ van called Sam Dragu whose
death robbed the narrator a ring on her finger even after she fell into his
traditional arms!
Finally,
most Afropean popular works have new
stereotypes. White Woman loves Black Man. White Woman marries and moves to
savage Africa. White Woman writes sensationalist book and exploits the
relationship to make sales. Jo in her realism pursues the general perception of
Africa through a prism of belonging as seen from her eyes—the very iris of her Occidental
West. Intolerance, YA Fantasy, righting a wrong, gender balance, corruption,
etc, whatever her intentions were, she succeeded in holding and sustaining the
nostalgic discourse from a scene in her past—which still resonate with the
present—and repainted an African picture in multiple tapestries to the bemused
West. A portrait devoid of the usual jungle madness!
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