Asante, Nairobi: Part V

 4 + 1/2 min. read

Nairobi (c) Wambui

The following day, I’m feeling especially emotional and it’s not just the fatigue. Despite ACLALS’ hectic schedule, it’s been a singular positive experience. At the same time, if anyone asks me what I thought of Nairobi, I wouldn’t have seen enough to comment much.

My flight back to Brussels leaves Jomo Kenyatta airport close to midnight. In theory, I have a whole day to sightsee. 

In the meantime, I’ve organised a meet-up with an old colleague/friend, Priya, who grew up in Kenya. We haven’t seen each other in the flesh for well over 15 years.

We meet at the plush Sarit Centre, coincidentally close to the hotel. We only have a couple of hours together, as Priya has to attend a memorial for an infant family member. It’s somewhat indicative of the rollercoaster her life has been in the intervening time. When we met, we were trainee lawyers at the same organisation. We’ve since both switched professions. Priya tired of UK life and relocated back to her native Kenya, only to be now ambivalent about her decision. She claims that South Asian Kenyans are still treated as foreigners and easy targets for bribe requests, no matter how many generations their families have lived in the country or how well they speak Kiswahili. (Aware of the privileged position South Asians have enjoyed in East Africa in the past - not to mention incidents of anti-Black sentiment - I'm  chary of such observations but keep my peace. I don't want to sound dismissive). Disillusioned with the levels of corruption in the legal sector, Priya decided to qualify as a counsellor. Over time she has built up an international NGO-based clientele. It has nonetheless taken a serious dent since Trump and other Western states’ decision to cut back on overseas aid.

Priya laments the ever-deteriorating political situation in Kenya, dismayed with what she considers president William Ruto’s descent into autocracy. We reference the police murder of Albert Ojwang – allegedly over a tweet – how this contributed to recent Gen-Zed protest (which we both support) and the government’s deliberate disinformation over the death toll – something to which ACLALS conference keynote speaker, Mukoma wa Ngũgĩ also referred. More unrest is expected the day after I fly out and the city is preparing for it. That could be why I suddenly start seeing more men in army fatigues carrying rifles. The advice is to remain indoors.

After a brief window trying to condense nearly 20 years of life’s valleys, peaks and in-betweens, Priya and I part ways. I hope to have a good reason to come back to Kenya within a reasonable timeframe, so things are less rushed.

Nairobi (c) Joseph Ndungu

Meanwhile, my plans to meet up with Geraldine at the Sarit Centre's large bookshop are thrown off when she’s delayed sorting out her new lodgings. I’d also hoped to attend a free walking tour by a Kenyan local, recommended by one of the conference participants. It would be an ideal way to make up for lost time. Moreover, the weather has turned out much dryer and sunnier than forecast. 

I’m used to signing-up for these kinds of tours in Europe but assumed the pay-what-you-feel arrangement would be too informal for Kenyan tourism.  Au contraire. The problem is that, with little hard cash left and no-one to help me order a reasonably-priced cab to the tour’s meeting spot, I am stranded.  With my virtually non-existent knowledge of the city’s layout, public transport isn’t an option. 

It’s therefore with much regret that I concede to giving the tour a miss, not knowing when I’ll next be in Kenya. I fear Nairobi will soon become a distant memory with a hole in it where the city’s personality should be.

I seek fleeting comfort in some cookies and a blueberry milkshake from the Sarit food court, working on my blog whilst observing the many cute tots in the vicinity - of which there’s no shortage in Nairobi - as well as the wonderful aesthetic diversity of Kenyans.

Following Anwar’s helpful instructions, I manage to make it to and from the Sarit Centre without getting too lost. On one unplanned detour, I’m assisted by a boutique owner selling African prints that are so pretty, I can’t walk past without dropping in. I have a brief but unexpectedly affirming conversation with her. We exchange details.

I reconnect with Geraldine back at the hotel, after what has been for her a frustrating day.  She does finally sort out some accommodation for a steal at a high rise in an animated neighbourhood, close to the airport.  The downside is there's only one lift, supposed to service several hundred people and stopping practically on every floor. The alternative is a vertigo-inducing stairwell with a great view but low walls and no guardrails. 

G and I brave it anyway for the panoramic vista on the top floor. If the café/bar on the rooftop is a bit dinghy, the view of the city is worth the climb.

Sarit Centre (image courtesy of Up Kenya)

I can’t hang around too long, what with my experience of Kenya’s lengthy airport security process. It’s easily one of the most fastidious of any country I’ve visited. I am told that the same rigour is applied to domestic rail travel, owing to Somalian terrorist group Al-Shabaab and their affiliates causing murderous trouble in the region.

Whilst Geraldine orders me a cab, I take in the lively surroundings. There’s a variety of busy pop-up like shops lining the streets, noisy traffic, loud music and other reassuring signs of life. Out of nowhere, an owner-less ox ambles down the road, as if it’s the most natural sight in this highly urbanised context. Apart from me nobody seems to bat an eyelid, including G. (She'll later explain that these bizarre bovine solo rambles are a regular occurrence in the vicinity.) I’m glad I accompanied G to her new digs.  It’s a local side of Nairobi I wouldn’t have otherwise had the chance to see. 

My taxi arrives and Geraldine and I bid each other a fond farewell. The cab driver, as usual, is polite. However, the ride to the airport is a little hair-raising – even by the standards to which I’ve become accustomed. Nairobians drive like stunt(wo)men. A number of times my heart has leapt to my mouth after a near miss. Pedestrians seem almost as audacious.

At the airport, lining up for the first of a number of security checks, I converse with a US-based Kenyan taking the same flight. She happens to be a nurse. Kenya’s loss is North America’s gain. I think of the brain drain and share a little about my research and why I have been in Kenya this past week. 

With this conversation, it feels like the trip has somehow come full circle.  

Part I, Part II, Part III & Part IV

Asante, Nairobi: Part IV

 5 min. read

Grace Musila's keynote speech at the ACLALS conference 2025
(c) E.U. Pirker

Although it’s been hectic, it’s obvious that most conference participants have had a blast. It’s thus with an air of heaviness that things wind to a close that Saturday morning.

Fortunately, the bubbly and tireless organiser, Sylvia and the team choose to end on a high. Sylvia opens rather audaciously with a Christian prayer. There’s more fun and frolics before and after the keynote by Mukoma wa Ngũgĩ. During his session, the enchanting a cappella harmonies of the student choir, rehearsing for their imminent performance, drift siren-like into the main auditorium.

Given that he’s based in the US and his politics, not to mention being recently bereaved, I’m surprised Mukoma makes it at all. I find out later from Brigitta (not a fan) that he is considered a controversial choice, for reasons I was unaware and into which I am not wholly inclined to delve.

Rather than a straight speech, Mukoma opts for a Q&A format, to be interviewed by Prof. Frank Schultz-Engler. I have come to know the latter in recent months on the conference circuit, something of an academic provocateur. Referencing the Kenyan authorities recent deadly violence against young protestors, the post-2001 ‘War on Terror’ and his own academic activism for Palestine, Mukoma insists in his gentle way that academic theory that does not have a positive bread-and-butter impact is ‘useless’.

 Much to the disagreement of Prof. Schulz-Engler, Mukoma problematises formerly colonised people ‘owning’ English as evidence that the imperial project is complete. Pressed for time, Mukoma is soon spirited away by his minders but not before I applaud him for using his platform to speak up about Palestine. Alongside Yvonne Owuor, his is the second keynote to directly address the issue.

In addition to the dance and song, to most of the room’s surprise Xiao takes to the stage to read some of his skilled poetry, having been sufficiently inspired by what has gone before.

Students perform at ACLALS 2025, University of Nairobi
(c) C. Termurok

Before wrapping up, one of the moderators shares that part of the mission of the Kenyan edition of ACLALS was to dispel some of the racist stereotypes about the African continent; something to which I’ve heard a couple of participants confess, including Xiao. One of the executive committee takes to the stage to give a vote of thanks with a lump in her throat. Her sentiments resonate and I know I’m not the only one. Even when the conference is officially closed, several remain behind for parting conversations, farewells or to get down on stage as the student performers and some gamely older academics keep the party going.

When we can finally tear ourselves away, our research group divides up for the afternoon, to reconvene in the evening. G and I have plans with Elaine to do some bargain hunting at the Masai market.

Towards the end of the week, the weather becomes even patchier, with bursts of heavy rainfall. Today is no exception. If it weren’t for the fact I fly out the next day, I’d immediately take shelter at the hotel.

It takes a while for us to leave the campus, since Elaine tends to have lengthy conversations with anyone she meets. Fortunately, the rain stops by the time we head to Masai market although I’m constantly dodging muddy puddles. I give my feet and sandals a good rinse once I’m back at the hotel.

The sun eventually makes an appearance whilst at Masai. I am very appreciative of Elaine’s insider knowledge and haggling skills and extremely satisfied with my souvenir purchases.  I'll feel even more smug when I later see the exorbitant prices charged at the airport for the same items; up to four or five times more expensive.

On a more negative note, the market has a disturbing number of women in deprivation, carrying infants whilst they beg. I notice this elsewhere. I don’t know whether or not my brief observation is representative of the overall situation but there seem to be a lot more homeless women in Nairobi than men.

Elaine asks one youngster begging how old she is in Kiswahili.

Thirteen, she says.

We feel a mix of anger and distress. I hear rumours that Kenyan president William Ruto sports a watch worth millions of shillings. 

There is so much need and not enough change. Make of that sentence what you will.

When Elaine, Geraldine and I finally part company, I get back in time to the hotel for an appointment for a much needed Swedish massage.

That evening, we’ve agreed to all dine out as a team, joined by Elif’s boyfriend, Anwar and Brigitta’s daughter, Annette. Once again I make the most of the taxi ride to glimpse Nairobi at night. At some juncture I note a series of churches with names like Tent of Testimony or Triumph House in close proximity to each other. From the names and the density, I’m assuming these are Pentecostal churches.  I know from experience that these tend to focus more on miracles than a well-rounded spirituality that looks beyond individual progress. At the same time, I also understand that when people live in desperate circumstances, with macro-level socio-economic impediments beyond their control, this kind of streamlined gospel holds an appeal and affords a sense of agency. Still, it’s a relief to learn that there’s more to charismatic Christian movements in Kenya than only pursuing personal breakthrough.

Nairobi at night (c) Yonko Kilasi

The eatery is another sprawling establishment in the middle of nowhere, this time an All-You-Can-Eat restaurant, Carnivore. Elif has celebrated her birthday there a few weeks earlier. The restaurant also comes highly recommended by Elaine.

Only Anwar has the stomach for the buffet.  The rest of us opt for à la carte, to the apparent consternation of our waiter. The food is good. On the downside, there are too many stray cats roaming around and an overtly colonial aesthetic that I believe pushes the limits of irony. 

Carnivore is a popular birthday destination.  Every few minutes, the staff down tools to perform an elaborate serenade to one celebrant or the other. I feel sorry for them. I find it cringeworthy only after a couple of hours. The group tease me that, since my birthday is not too far away, they’ll set the personnel on me.

Brigitta sneaks away at some point, kindly taking care of the table’s bill. We soon say our farewells since both Maddox and the couple, Elif and Anwar, are checking out early to explore (separately) various parts of the country.

That night, I pass out, waking up long after midnight with my head on the room’s bureau.  The few opportunities for rest I’ve tried to factor in don’t pan out. There’s been too little room between conference activities.

I’m physically and spiritually exhausted. With all the events and late nights, try as I might, my prayer routine has been disrupted and I feel it. I miss the intimate conversations with my Creator.

Part I, Part II, Part III & Part V 

Asante, Nairobi: Part III

 4 min. read

(c) E.U. Pirker

Whilst half my research team and most conference participants head out for a wildlife excursion, Geraldine, Elif and I return to the hotel. My two colleagues plan to work on their presentations and I hope to get some rest.  Unfortunately, by the time we arrive, there’s too little time to relax before the hair appointment that I’ve scheduled with a stylist friend of a friend. Since I’ll be moderating the session the following morning, I want to look sharp.

Moreover, I feel it’s a cultural imperative to get my hair done when back on Black African soil. It would be a waste otherwise, with all that Motherland skill at very modest prices. The hairdresser, Betsy is an hour late. Fortunately, the results are worth the wait. My canerows turn out as good as I’d hoped, if not better. Betsy has a good and gentle hand. The plaits are neat but not uncomfortably tight. I’m so delighted, I give Betsy a bear hug and a healthy tip - and even then, it’s still a heck of a bargain.  At some point, Geraldine comes to keep us company in my room as Betsy works away. My braids will attract compliments from conference staff, attendees and most colleagues (Maddox either doesn’t notice or chooses not to comment). Geraldine, Elaine and Annette, Brigitta’s daughter, all ask for Betsy’s details.

It’s Elif and G’s turn the following morning to present, whilst I moderate this final part of our panel. Both of them do an exemplary job, giving well-rounded interventions that remain within the allotted timeframe (unlike yours truly). It’s a much more attractive time slot; late morning, after the keynote speech. The audience numbers are similar to the day before nevertheless, albeit with mostly new faces. After G and Elif’s presentations, the whole team join them at the front of the small lecture hall for a de facto roundtable that is positively received. At the end of the session, I take Elif aside, knowing how insecure she has been ahead of her paper.

That was an excellent presentation, lady. I say, with mock-tough love, You just need to start believing in how talented you are.

During the afternoon, most of the team attends a session on creoles, moderated by Elaine. The first speaker, whose paper to which Elaine has pegged some of her intervention, is a no-show. The third member of the panel - an Igbo academic and the sole Nigerian present not from the Diaspora - does an entertaining presentation on the socio-political significance of Pidgin in contemporary Nigeria, as expressed through the poetry of Akachi Adimora-Ezeigbo. During the Q&A, I challenge an Hispanophone Esperanto-specialist with some very suspect and colonial-sounding views on the ‘usefulness’ of creoles.

By the closing session, a roundtable featuring a number of authors who publish in Kiswahili, I’m knackered. I plan to return to the hotel, grab a quick nap if I can, eat dinner at the in-house restaurant and catch the second night of the DJ's weekly residency. As we’re about to set off, Brigitta asks if we’d be interested in joining her and some other academic colleagues at the Geco Tribe bar. According to the website, the menu is versatile and reasonably priced. More importantly, there’s a Friday night Jazz house band. That sells it for me. When I mention our plans to author and keynote speaker, Yvonne Owuor before she signs my copy of Dust, she’s effusive about the bar.

Friday nights in Nairobi are a thing, she beams.

Despite my fatigue, it feels too good to miss. I like to catch live music wherever possible when I visit a new city. I couldn’t have predicted I’d have the time or opportunity for such a cultural outing during the short period I’m in Nairobi.

We catch a cab as a group across town to the gated area where Geco is situated. The ride is a chance to see the bustle of Nairobi at night and much more of the city than before.

Rather than the average-sized bar/restaurant I presume, Geco is a sprawling establishment half of which is outdoors. Thankfully, the weather is being kind that evening.  The bar's clientele is cosmopolitan. We spot some familiar faces from the conference at a table and squeeze in a few more chairs. The food is great value for money, with portions so generous that takeaway boxes are requested.

I make brand new acquaintances and catch up with some conference participants with whom I’ve only had fleeting interaction. Amongst these is Xiao, a Malaysian-Chinese MA student with whom I have some theory as well as allyship with the Palestinian cause in common. We spend the night speaking about Xiao’s time studying in the UK, Malaysia’s long-standing solidarity with Palestine, having his preconceptions about the African continent challenged and cultural differences between mainland China and its South-East Asian diaspora, amongst other topics. Much of the discussion is educational for me.

Meanwhile, the consensus is that the house band is fantastic. Joined by musicians from Lusophone Africa and the US, their fusion sound encompasses covers of popular Jazz tunes, Soul and R&B medleys, some Hi-Life and more besides. This suits my taste better than the Malian concert a few nights earlier.

As we settle the bill and prepare to leave, Maddox asks how I’ve found it. 

Great music, good company and good conversation? Bliss.

The evening is all the more enjoyable for being rather spontaneous. There wasn’t enough time for me to build expectations.

There’s more convivial conversation on the cab ride home. This kind of relaxed setting, away from the Brussels’ routine, creates room for a certain openness. I feel I’ve learned a good deal more about my colleagues during the week.

Part I, Part II, Part IV & Part V 

Asante, Nairobi: Part II

 4 + 1/2 min. read

The grounds of the University of Nairobi
(c) Visha

On conference Day 1, I befriend a France-based Kenyan academic, Elaine after her presentation.  She simply doesn’t have enough time to do justice to her fascinating paper on the women of the Mau Mau uprising, as represented in Yvonne Owuor’s Dust, and the intersections of race and gender discrimination.  We become inseparable when I find out she’s been based in Strasbourg for many years. Our dates would have overlapped and yet it took us both attending a conference in her native land for us to connect.

After a book launch with (a Kenyan-twist on) high tea, it’s back to the hotel to top up what turns out to be a lighter than expected early evening meal. Brigitta, Annette and I end up dining together. Brigitta and I talk shop and I worry it’s all a bit too tedious for her daughter.

After just the first day, ACLALS has already set a high enough standard for most other conferences to be underwhelming in comparison.

ACLALS is also my first experience in a black majority academic space. The reassurance this engenders extends to my general feeling about being back in the Motherland. I strive to avoid flattened, paternalistic representations of Africa that obscure vast cultural nuances. An English friend asks me by text message if I find Kenya very different from my other - admittedly very limited - experiences of the Continent. In my endeavour to not generalise, I’ve almost forgotten that there will be some (superficial) overlaps. A woman sweeping her front-yard with a handheld broom, for example, reminds me of Nigeria.  Certain gestures; the way my name is pronounced how it should be…Yet, beyond the similarities there’s so much around that cheers my soul. The Black Joy overflowing from Afrobeats and meringue dance breaks during conference proceedings; dapper looking men in dark suits and brightly coloured bow-ties; impromptu Kiswahili lessons or commentary on Bob Marley lyrics from charismatic moderators; the same masters of ceremony swaying their hips to Rumba music…

…I follow G’s positive example by trying to acquire some basic phrases in Swahili: Jambo (a greeting), Asante (thank you) or Karibuni (my pleasure/you’re welcome).

I’m also more aware of my own internalised colonialism and perceptions of non-Westernised Africans. I’m ashamed of my preciousness about the dust and rubbish lining the streets around our hotel (in my defence, those things bother me anywhere). I feel uneasy as a Western-raised and Western-accented Afrodescendant interacting with local African service staff. (I wonder if my mannerisms could be responsible for the very sullen customer service I receive at the hotel from a certain receptionist, for instance). I am extra-conscious of being polite, acknowledging staff even if they are not directly attending to me, asking their names and introducing myself.  This is how my mother raised us, having worked in cleaning and HORECA herself for many years. Sis and I were taught to go out of our way to show respect to those who do indispensable work that tends to be under-appreciated, or worse still, demeaned. If anything, I sense these lessons are more important in this context.  Yet just writing these words, I worry that it sounds condescending.

(c) Joshua Hoehne

After another packed and invigorating second conference day, a free live show by Malian musicians is scheduled that same evening. It’s an immediate ‘yes’ for me when I see it on the conference programme. I recently attended a Fusion set by a Burkinabé band as part of Belgium's Fête de la Musique, where I danced with some abandon. I expect more of the same from their Sahel brothers. En route to the venue, I snub Elif’s boyfriend, Anwar when he tries to shake my hand. Assuming he’s a chancer, I wave him off, asking ‘who are you?’ and not with some small indignation. That’s the problem. When I have my guard down, I’m waylaid by unwanted attention.  When I have my guard up, it’s merely a friendly greeting.

The Malian entertainment isn’t quite what I anticipated after my recent Burkinabé exposure. The band initially sound as if they’re not used to playing together, although they grow more assured as the show progresses. I groove a little but with reserve, not quite connecting with their sound as much as some of the crowd, including my colleagues.

I’m also keen to return to the hotel for some food and a taste of the in-house DJ set. Fortunately, the team aren’t fussed about leaving before the Malian concert ends.

I’m reliant on my colleagues for transport. I don’t have a smartphone and even if I did, I don’t want to patronise exploitative Uber. Alas, my principles have to be set aside somewhat, since that’s my team’s carpool app of choice. Either way, I don’t feel confident – neither do I have the time – to explore the city on foot for most of the conference week. By the time we finish most days, it’s too dark to wander alone safely in the immediate environs of the hotel (being an equatorial country, nightfall is relatively early in Kenya). This chafes against my independent spirit. It’s also impractical, with no time for basic grocery shopping or to look for restaurants. Being chaperoned everywhere by car isn’t the best way to discover the city.

Back at the DJ set on the hotel terrace, I coax Elif into dancing to Chaka Demus & Pliers' Murder She Wrote. I think the track was before her time. She requests Monalisa by Lojay & Sarz instead, knowing it’s an Afrobeats favourite of mine and one of the few tunes I can name. Monalisa becomes something of a signature song of my Kenya trip, playing at random moments. After a filling dinner, it’s back to my room to rehearse my paper for the next day.

After several programme iterations, our team’s panel presentations are spread over two days. Maddox, Brigitta and I are presenting first, with Geraldine moderating. We’re scheduled to speak during what I call the graveyard shift. The ACLALS’ timetable starts early. From experience, I know that after the first day, participants are less conscientious about arriving at the start. A number of fellow scholars who promised to attend our first panel either mix up the hour or simply don’t show up. It’s a predictably sparse turnout. Brigitta, Maddox and I do our professional best, despite technical hold-ups and commotions outside owing to room scheduling clashes. Fortunately, Heinrich, a colleague from The University and Olga, another academic from Austria, keep the Q&A flowing with engaged questions. Olga’s quiet enthusiasm for my research does much for my confidence. Initially unsure how to categorise it, Olga commends the interdisciplinary nature of my project. I joke that I play the academic field.

I bump into Elaine on the way out for the tea break. Only having just arrived, she rues missing my paper. She assumed it was the following day. 

Part I, Part III, Part IV and Part V

Asante, Nairobi: Part I

7 + 1/2 min. read

(c) Daniel Eliashevskyi

My current academic journey is affording me travelling opportunities that I wouldn't have immediately hoped. I find it ironic that jobs I had in the past with more obvious travel prospects didn’t fulfil their promise. I wouldn’t have assumed, for example, that my next opportunity to visit Africa beyond the Sahara would come through studying. It's a privilege, not a given and one that I grasp with both hands.

At some point in our first year, my research group and our supervisor, Brigitta decide to submit abstracts to present as a panel at the 20^th edition of the triennial ACLALS (Association for Commonwealth Literature and Language Studies) conference in Kenya’s capital, summer 2025.  It will be only the third to be held in Africa in the conference’s 60+ year history.

There are many academic and personal reasons motivating the decision. 2025’s theme, Transcultural Multipolarities: World Literatures, Global South, and the Future of the Humanities has some salience to most of the team’s projects. By coincidence, one of the keynote speakers, Simon Gikandi has made a significant contribution to my theoretical framing, as well as that of my colleague, Maddox.

The conference is only every three years. And did I mention it's in Kenya? I recall my former manager, Ama —from The Trade Union Organisation  — describing Nairobi as one of her favourite cities.  I haven’t been South of the Sahara since my last (embarrassingly long ago) trip to Nigeria in the late 2000s.

To the team’s delight, our collective abstracts are accepted back in winter.  It’s really happening. In the meantime, there are updated research proposals to submit and/or articles to write and/or other conferences for which to prepare.

I remain relatively discreet about the trip; neither secretive nor as vocal about my excitement as I could be. I want to place my feet first on Kenyan soil before I start going on about it.

That doesn’t prevent me being practical. I speak to some of the many Kenyans at my Belgian church, Fresh Wine Ministries, to get some insider info; places to stay, for example or where to do my hair.

As the date nears, with visas acquired and vaccination concerns allayed, I realise out loud to Maddox, that ACLALS will be the first time I’ve left the European continent since before COVID-19.

Most of my colleagues, including our supervisor, will be extending their stay in Kenya for holidays. I, on the other hand, will only be remaining for the duration of the conference. I choose instead to ration my annual leave and funds for other trips.

Our teammates, Geraldine – or G – and Elif have gone ahead to Nairobi to participate in another conference. It happens to coincide with Kenya’s Gen-Z anniversary protests (below, left), which turn fatal – again – on the instigation of the authorities.  My colleagues are therefore holed up for the first few days of their trip.

Gen-Zed protests, Kenya June 2025
Courtesy of Getty images

Maddox, Brigitta and I are all booked on the same flight, due to arrive the evening before the conference. Even if all were to go to plan, by the time we made it to the hotel, the evening would be far spent. In the end, our flight is delayed by over an hour and the queues at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport are so long and sluggish, I get flashbacks to the days of COVID certificates and whimsical travel regulations. 

The city is shrouded in darkness by the time we make it out to the streets. We start to relax into the fact we’re in Nairobi. We’re accosted countless times by drivers offering taxi services. Brigitta already has a chauffeur, recommended by an acquaintance. Except he’s AWOL for a while, having arrived too early for our late-landing flight.

We leave behind ironically tropical climes in Belgium for the more modest temperatures and overcast skies of Nairobi. I’m later told that this time of year is not the best the region has to offer weather-wise. Whilst it’s mild – early 20s - locals consider it cold and dress accordingly. The temperature notably drops at night.

Our other colleagues have already checked into the hotel. Having lost an additional hour to the time difference, Brigitta, Maddox and I make do with little sleep. I try to stretch plane food already in my system stretch, as my colleagues opt for room service.

The accommodation is fair. Whilst the room is spacious, the shower is initially lukewarm and I’m not overjoyed to see some kind of cockroach or centipede scurrying across the bureau that first night. On the positive side, the double bed has a firm mattress, I have a decent view and there is a flatscreen TV. I alternate between the Afrobeats channel and a national news station critically dissecting the recent uprisings.

The next morning brings a welcome cornucopian continental breakfast with strong Kenyan inflections. The catering staff are formally dressed à la silver service. The appealing music policy alternates between Smooth Jazz renditions of Afrobeats or 90s R&B and classic West Coast Jazz.

After breakfast, most of the team – minus Brigitta – make our way to the University of Nairobi for the ACLALS opening ceremony. Brigitta is sleeping in after waiting up for her daughter, Annette’s delayed early morning flight. They will join us later.

The bar is already set high by the incredibly good swag we receive on registration; gorgeous, locally-produced artisanal tote bags in an array of colours, emblazoned with images of women in headscarves, maps of Kenya or the African continent. If that weren’t enough, inside are customised flasks and quality stationery. On entering the main lecture theatre, my colleagues and I are greeted with the jubilant, a cappella strains of a student-based choir, singing in Kiswahili about their beloved land (later translated for those of us non-speakers), with nifty footwork to boot.  As part of the opening proceedings, we acknowledge the recent loss of Kenyan literary titan and (post)colonial scholar, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, with a minute’s silence. His departure naturally looms large over the conference. Later that afternoon, the versatile group of students return to perform a tantalising excerpt from Thiong’o’s play I’ll Marry When I Want.

Led by undergrads, the entertainment throughout the conference is amazing. The students bring us performance poetry infused with song, dance interludes, theatrical teasers…On the penultimate day, before Ugandan author Goretti Kyomuhendo’s keynote, the students even lead us in the exhilarating dance craze that has taken on political significance: Anguka Nayo by Wadagliz Ke. Two of the male dancers stand out in particular; for their talent, as well as the infectious conviction with which they throw themselves into each performance. More generally, the student volunteers are full of warmth and a boundless energy that elevates the conference experience.

 In between sessions, the auditorium speakers blast Smooth Jazz versions of Afrobeats hits (again). I see a different side to Elif and Geraldine especially, as they sing along and bust a move. In the lobby, pop-up bookshops sell the latest titles by contemporary African writers such as Chimamanda Adichie, Lemn Sessay and NoViolet Bulawayo as well as classics by the likes of Thiong'o and Achebe, at reasonable prices. I invest in Walter Rodney's How Europe Underdeveloped Africa - long on my reading wishlist.  The artisan tradeswoman responsible for our gorgeous tote-bags, spreads out her equally attractive and diverse wares. It gives me gift ideas. The expectation is for us foreigners to haggle.

G suggests we ask a daughter or son of the soil to act as intermediary to ensure we’re not taken for a ride. Fortunately, promising connections have already been made during and after panel discussions, as well as at lunch.

ACLALS is awash with likeminded scholars I’ve met at previous conferences or whose texts are part of my ever-growing bibliography. It’s practically a who’s who of Anglophone and/or postcolonial studies.  Intriguing parallel panels are scheduled annoyingly at the same time, forcing us to make frustrating choices. First World problems, I suppose.

I attend sessions about the role of women in Kenya's identity-building through storytelling or as agents in resistance struggles; another about Stuart Hall’s complex relationship with subjectivity; another by an Irish academic whose talk on Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh, serves as a deft and suitably interdisciplinary synthesis of the conference’s main themes. On another day, I attend a paper on (Re)claiming Black Identity, Resilience and Race… based on the travelogue by my Afropean.com confrere, Johny Pitts, no less.

Yvonne Owuor's keynote
(c) E.U.Pirker

If there’s a thread that runs throughout the conference, it is the ever-evolving relationship former British colonies in the Global South have with English – or rather, Englishes  –  questions of ‘ownership’ and reappropriation; how interactions with English map on to linguistic, cultural and ethnic identity; negotiating contradictions that are at once discomfiting and potentially empowering. English, as described by one keynote speaker, is ‘porous, promiscuous, persistent…’. The concept of Commonwealth is also indicative of this contestation; stinking of imperial culpability, as observes Brigitta, yet begrudgingly useful for reassembling those who bring a multiplicity of experience in, with and around English.

The geopolitical realities outside these air conditioned rooms inevitably encroach on this space, where one could feel like anything is possible merely through the exchange of ideas. Yet the urgency of worldmaking in this time of ever-more painful transition anchors our conversations.

Apart from the brilliant Gikandi (who, for health reasons, can only join by Zoom), key note speakers include award-winning Kenyan novelist, Yvonne Adhiambo Owuor and Mukoma wa Ngũgĩ – son of Thiong’o. 

Owuor describes herself as a logophile, beholden to a turbulent love affair with the English language, riddled with colonial friction – all sentiments to which I can only respond: Me too. Fellow keynote, Kyomuhendo speaks of how English imposed itself through colonial education policies, becoming the language of instruction and no longer a foreign tongue. She relates this process with an air of understandable ambivalence. Repeatedly, I hear familiar and infuriating stories of how African pupils were chastised for speaking local languages in the vicinity of school.

I envy Yvonne and Goretti’s multilingual repertoire, which naturally includes indigenous languages. A colonised person can have a much more agentive relationship with English when it’s not their mother tongue; a term, for me, that stings with rupture.

Owuor’s poetically humanist keynote is excellent. She incorporates Korean philosophy, apposite citations from the Gospels and makes unambiguous references to Zionist slaughter in Palestine, as well as war-torn Congo and Sudan. These horrors cannot be contained if the underlying logics are not addressed, she warns. Given its spread, English(es) can – should be –  harnessed for alternative worldmaking. Kyomuhendo echoes this rallying cry as she describes how she’s transformed the colonial imposition into a tool for her own writing and literary activism.

Part II, Part III, Part IV and Part V

Solo Debut: Part II

 5 + a 1/2 min. read

Part I

(c) Brett Jordan

The morning of my presentation, I arrive later than I’d have wished after too little sleep and unrealistically attempting to complete some life admin first. Fortunately, my intervention isn’t until after lunch. I’ve finetuned my slides to make them as user-friendly as possible. I’ve rehearsed, rehearsed and rehearsed again the paper itself. My only concern is timekeeping. I warn the moderator I might go over the designated 20 minutes, despite my best efforts.

As I’m being introduced I notice slight panic amongst the tech team. They appear to have ‘misplaced’ the final presentation I sent a few days ahead. The delay is eating into precious presentation time. Not to worry. I have a Plan B. From the mixed experience I've already had with the organisation of the conference, a contingency plan is basic wisdom. I brought the latest version of my talk on a USB stick...

...Except a Plan B isn't enough. Someone seemingly neglected to download a PDF reader on the in-house device. I have a possible Plan C. My latest presentation is also ready to go on my own laptop. However, we can't switch devices, since one of the participants is joining us via Zoom from the US (Trump-Vance migration law antics).

Now I'm starting to worry. Times is of the essence. All these decisions are having to be made in split seconds. I also have a PowerPoint version of my paper on the USB. Alas, I realise part way through that it’s not the update. For a second, I think of stopping and recommencing but time constraints won’t allow. My paper doesn’t correspond with much of this now outdated version of my slides. I apologise profusely. I proceed as seamlessly as I can but I’m rattled and very annoyed. If anger is a secondary emotion then beneath it I’m crestfallen.

I poured my heart into making the visuals of my presentation as engaging as possible, only to be sabotaged by administrative incompetence. This hasn't happened with any of the other papers I've observed. I recognise mistakes happen but with more than one person on the case, this was wholly avoidable. The recovering perfectionist I am, it would have always bothered me but less so if I were more seasoned.

Raphs and others will later commend my paper (although I feel they're just being nice). The moderator allows me to complete my presentation and I only skip very little. After a slow start, with my co-panellists seeming to attract more questions, the Q&A becomes more favourable for me. The salient questions permit me to address things I was forced to jettison with earlier drafts because of time considerations.

In the scheme of things - war, inequality and climate breakdown - sure, a cock-up over slides is not a big deal. Still. To say I’m gutted about the mishap is an understatement. It’s coloured the experience.

I’ve learned a valuable lesson. I won’t leave it to chance that conference organisers have got their proverbial together. Even if I make a nuisance of myself, I’m going to double-check everything of importance.

The next morning I’m greeted by warmth and sunshine. I throw on some summer gear and head out for the final day of the conference. Unlike many fellow guests, I’m not in a rush. My return train to Brussels leaves the following day. That will also give me time to hit some of my favourite German general stores to purchase inexpensive toiletries, as usual.

To my surprise, the good weather and stimulating interventions that morning help lift me out of the hangover funk from the previous day’s debacle. Sally gives an unexpectedly memorable paper on how apiculture is emblematic of all that's wrong with late-stage capitalism. Her fellow speakers on the Plantation Capitalism panel - both Europeans whose scholarship concentrates on populations from the Global South - welcome my (by now) standard question about how not to replicate extractive dynamics in academia.

(c) Tamas Szabo

During the break before the last keynote speech, I converse with special guest, South African polymath, Uhuru Portia Phalafala. GAPS has invited her to do a reading from her new book, Mine Mine Mine; an epic poem about the deleterious socio-cultural effects of the South African mining industry past and present. It’s told from the perspective of one of her grandfathers. Phalafala is genuinely intrigued by my project, especially my research on the late and underappreciated anti-Apartheid activist and midwife, Blanche La Guma.

The reading overlaps with lunch, for which we’re provided with a tasty vegan ‘brown bag’ option. Sat next to me is a veteran attendee of the GAPS. He's a bit of a soft-left provocateur in this (supposedly) radical space, from what I’ve gathered of his interventions. Between the keynote speech and Uhuru’s reading, we have a thought-provoking conversation -or rather a good-natured debate - about the Kenyan literary giant Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o’s ideas on linguistic decolonisation. (Thiong’o passed away earlier that week.) Whilst I have a lot more time for some of Thiong’o’s more hardline views, my interlocutor finds them essentialist and over-romanticised; objections that are not without merit. He’s glad Thiong’o apparently softened his position in later years.

Phalafala’s reading - or rather performance - has the room enthralled. I’m not one to sit and read poetry on my own but I do enjoy it in spaces where it can be collectively appreciated. It’s a heavy text, as would be anticipated. Uhuru’s fully embodied delivery, including the use of sound effects, makes it all the more mesmerising.

Phalafala leans on a traditional spirituality. Whilst some of the animistic practices to which she refers are diametrically opposed to my own Christian worldview, part of decolonising my faith is to resist having an impulsive suspicion of every aspect of indigenous spirituality. It involves finely parsing what to keep and what to reject; discerning what reflects something of God’s truth sans baggage. The same can equally be applied to certain Christian traditions.

This event is one more example of how South Africa, particularly the past and present injustices of Apartheid, have come back into focus for me of late; academically, spiritually and politically. This resurfacing is accompanied by a familiar grief and anger that I’m hesitant to acknowledge fully, for fear it calcifies into bitterness. I ask also how much it is mine to entertain, not being South African myself. Yet, do I need to be from that part of the world for these sentiments to be legitimate? I share some of this with Uhuru during the Q&A after she is interviewed by one of the academics in attendance. 

Phalafala is scheduled to do a similar reading at my university, where I’ll have another opportunity to absorb the text and pick up things I missed the first time. I’m grateful to have caught the preview.

Solo Debut: Part I

 7 min. read

(c) Andrei Stratu

During the first days of my PhD - which does not seem long ago at all - my supervisor, Brigitta recommends I submit a paper for an annual postcolonial conference in Germany, known as GAPS.  Most of the research team is encouraged to do the same. My supervisor would not be in attendance, so if my abstract were accepted, it would be my first time flying solo at an academic conference. (I’ve previously co-presented a paper with Brigitta). The May 2025 iteration of the GAPS is about the challenges neoliberalism poses for the discipline(s) of Postcolonialism. I appreciate the overtly political angle. It would allow me to position my paper with unapologetic ideological frankness. However, I don’t feel confident enough to make a fully-fledged submission. To my mind, I’m the rookie of the research team; less seasoned than some of my colleagues. Or rather, I’ve been away from academia the longest. I therefore submit an abstract as part of the Under Construction panel.  Irony will have it that not only do the conference organisers ask me to present a full paper, mine is the only abstract from my research team that GAPS immediately accepts.

Beyond the significance of presenting a paper for the first time on my own, the GAPS conference will also coincide with the end of my first PhD year. It’s gone fast. Scarily so. My supervisor is already talking about ideal monograph submission deadlines. The months leading up to GAPS are fraught with pressures without and within; negotiating my own anxious tendencies as well as Brigitta’s high and often confusing expectations.

GAPS will be the first in a run of conferences for which I have successfully submitted abstracts. I’m surprised. I applied for several, not expecting to receive a positive response for all.  Between late spring and mid-autumn, preparing for conferences will preoccupy much of my time. The beauty of it is that this preparation allows me to work simultaneously on my thesis. In addition to the feedback from other academics in attendance, writing a paper helps me formulate my ideas in a sequence. I have been writing stray portions - or vignettes, as Brigitta calls them - but preparing my paper obligates me to be a lot more structured. Whatever isn’t used in my intervention can be repurposed for other papers as well as fleshed out into future chapters. 

The initial draft of my GAPS presentation is at least twice as long as the 20 minute allocated speaking time. With the help of Brigitta and my life coach, Pieter, I whittle it down but I’m still running over. I make my peace with the chance of being cut off part-way. Whatever remains is important. There’s only so much I can ‘kill my darlings’, as one of my colleagues would put it.

The conference is held in Bielefeld, a city so apparently non-descript that some German friends tell me of a running joke amongst compatriots: that the place doesn’t really exist. The gag is also mentioned at the conference, when one of the organisers reads an article about Bielefeld's bland reputation from a major US journal. Admittedly, I’d have never heard of the city but for GAPS.  I book my train ticket well in advance and initially regret it when the conference programme becomes available. Nothing of import really takes place well into the first day - Ascension Day - so I could have travelled that morning. However, on arriving I appreciate the wisdom of giving myself an extra day to settle in. My DeutschBahn trains run slightly behind time, although not as bad as what I’ve heard of late. That cliché of German clockwork efficiency has been severely called into question after years, if not decades, of infrastructural underinvestment.

Bielefeld, Germany (c) Tobias Bennett

For my outbound journey, I have no assigned seating which is trickier to negotiate than I could have anticipated. After having to shift seats several times, I end up sitting next to Marcus; an Anglo-Irishman. He is also on his way to a conference in Germany; the far more glamorous Berlin. It turns out to be a providential encounter. Marcus has a high position in a well-known left-of-centre publishing house. I spot him reading a collection of the writings of Amílcar Cabral and the approbation is out of my mouth before I can stop myself. It turns out that we’re taking the same connecting train from Cologne. We lose each other making the switch. Our paths cross again when Marcus is on the way to the onboard café and I’m left to improvise a seat in the wide passageway, after being turfed out of my temporarily occupied priority seat by a train guard to make room for an elderly couple.

It’s otherwise a stress free trip. Once I work out where to pick up my tram, it’s a straightforward ride to my slick and well-rated accommodation - the waiting time notwithstanding. To my surprise Bielefeld is a proper city; not the sleepy, quasi-rural set-up I expect from all the bad press. A few hours after arriving at my Airbnb, I meet the owner. He plays Lounge and smooth Bossa Nova music loudly on his speakers. It's getting late but it's not so bad. He has good taste.

Bizarrely enough, the conference is scheduled on a public holiday. I knew that France and Belgium acknowledged Ascension Day but I thought it was just a Catholic thing and that Germany, apart from the papist South, would treat it as a regular working day. Apparently, it’s a holiday for much of mainland Europe.

I arrive at the conference in time for registration and a light veggie lunch. I see at least one familiar face, Dr. Johann Larsberg who was a keynote speaker at a conference which I helped to co-organise at the University back in Brussels last December. I’m a conduit of salutations on Brigitta’s behalf for Johann and fellow professors and conference organisers, Penelope and Deedee, that I’m yet to meet offline.

At times like these, I’m grateful to be socially autonomous. Networking isn’t a chore. Damilola, one of only two other black women at the conference, makes a beeline for me during a break and doesn’t hide her motivation. That kind of solidarity is indispensable in these spaces. I extend it to the Black folk I see on the streets of Bielefeld. For a small city, where some locals still look at me with curiosity, I'm surprised how many Black families I see.

After hesitating to confirm my attendance at the conference dinner too far in advance, I gladly join the cohort that evening for the self-paid event at a restaurant in town.  The environs reverberate with EDM. Some techno festival in the area, apparently. Very stereotypical.

I meet some impressive young academics, Sally and Raphael - or Raphs - also engaged in the Palestine struggle. I identify them from their keffiyahs. I’ve decided to leave mine in my suitcase until the second day of the conference, when I’ll be presenting. I’ve heard anti-Palestine sentiment can be crazy in Germany. I don’t know if I’ll be half-choked by someone trying to snatch the keffiyah from my neck - although I should be willing to take the risk. 

Sally is German and Raphs is Austro-Ecuadorian. I’m keen to hear what it’s like organising for Palestine in Germanic spaces. Both of them are eager to hear how serious GAPS are about their postcolonial commitments. Sally takes the opportunity to bring up Palestine after the first keynote speech - a controversial critique of postcolonial and decolonial theories that engenders lively discussion. The keynote speaker that afternoon joins us via Zoom. She's stuck in the US after being advised not to leave the country, in the wake of recent draconian migration policies; not the only participant at the conference in that position. She unequivocally supports Sally's argument that no serious discussion about postcolonialism can ignore the plight of Palestine.

(c) Jamie Lopes

Sally isn’t otherwise impressed by what she’s observed so far; biased public statements and an unwillingness to discuss Gaza at the hours’ long AGM (which I skipped) earlier that day. There’s a promise that the issue will be raised at the roundtable discussion at the end of the first official conference day. It’s not. Not really. Speakers tip-toe around the topic so much as to practically avoid the subject altogether. The chair of the discussion, Josie, is supportive of the Palestinian cause. She and I speak after one of the earlier sessions. Josie explains the painful journey she’s made as a German to uncouple the collective guilt over the Holocaust from Justice for Palestine.

As the roundtable moderator, Josie tries to diplomatically angle the conversation in that direction but to no avail. I’m debating about whether to address one of the speakers’ comments about Holocaust exceptionalism but in this context, I wonder if I’m the best person to take her up on it. Afterwards, in private, Raphs argues that it’s often left to racialised people to speak up in these spaces. We shouldn’t always feel the burden when there are others in the room who are perfectly capable of raising their voices. Sally leaves immediately after the roundtable, visibly irate. Disillusioned by the conference, Raphs says he doesn’t envisage coming again.  

On the day of my presentation, I’m tired but in good spirits. The talks I’ve attended have been stimulating, particularly the Q&A’s. They expose the gap (no pun intended) in my own knowledge of post and decolonial theories. I always say I’m in academia but I’m not an ‘innate’ academic. Some of my layperson framing of these ideas come from activist spaces. I’m a little confused, for example, when a keynote speaker accuses the post and de-colonial disciplines of ignoring Marxist analysis. That’s not the impression I get from the grassroots, where at least critiques of capitalism are implicit to anti-imperialist organising.

One recurring observation from various interventions is that these conversations can’t remain self-indulgent academic preoccupations. We need to translate these into real world change.

Part II