A Summer Pause in Prague: Part II

Part I

Prague Castle district (c) Alexandra Tran

I wake up to overcast skies for my first proper tour of Prague. As has long been my custom, I’m booked on a pay-what-you-feel walking tour, this time of Prague's Castle district. On my way to the tram stop, I see a text from Isaak offering to show me around his historic neighbourhood and cook me lunch. And here am I thinking he was just being polite when he suggested swapping details. I reply that I’d be glad to meet up later in the week, politely proposing a more neutral eating spot than his flat. I’ll later get a missed call from him. There’s an almost 20 year age gap between Isaak and I. I wasn’t expecting - or rather I’d hoped - not to have a reason to point that out…

En route to the meeting place for the Prague Castle tour, I’m taken by the city’s size and topography. For some reason, I expected Prague to be shabby chic; lots of discoloured mediaeval or early modern stone buildings (of which there are some) and the streets a bit on the grubby side. Au contraire. I can see how it has earned its enchanting Bohemian reputation. Despite the grey, the city retains its beauty. In contrast to what I'd worried, it’s not the anti-climax to that which I felt visiting Florence.

Our tour guide is not an indigenous local but rather a boisterous, smokily-hoarse North American called Jeff, with a protean accent.  If there’s one thing to mar the experience, it’s the presence of one too many obnoxious and loud US tourists, searching for an excuse to slag off communism or anything that falls outside their parochial frame of reference. The exception is Phoebe, a more demure Texan gal who approaches me when she realises that I’m a fellow solo-traveller.  Amongst the group are a Belgian couple who keep to themselves, a husband and wife from Washington of which the woman is heavily pregnant (and talkative, see above) and another Brit, frequently showing PDA to her handsome and muscular South Asian significant other. The gestures seem more territorial than out of pure affection.

To his credit, Jeff has the verve to further enliven stories of Hussite rebellions, Habsburg family imperial takeovers, An English alchemist-turned-spy, defenestrations of Catholic clergy, the errant tendencies of the current occupant of the Castle's presidential suite, Petr Pavel and Nazi terror. 

Reportedly the biggest palatial complex in the world (70,000 square metres), the Prague Castle grounds are resplendent, with equally majestic views of the city from the vantage point of the hilly terrain. (The group cheats by taking a tram up to our starting point). The tour also encompasses the Strahov beer-making monastery - still in operation.  The sun holds out enough for us to catch the changing of the Castle guards. They must remain as po-faced as their British counterparts and all for not very impressive pay, we’re told.

(c) Mikhail Mamaev

When the clouds gather, we take shelter in a capacious café for what turns out to be a false alarm.  The heavens do eventually open with a vengeance not long after the close of what turns out to be an extended tour.  There’s enough time before the downpour to enjoy a scenic ramble around the Castle district. Nervous that the combination of sandals, the wet and the downward pull of the sloping cobbled streets will not end well for me, I pop into a chocolatier. The cashier immediately interrogates me about my own origins. A little guarded, I reply by asking about his own. East Africa. I mention I was recently in Kenya.  I buy some unpleasant (and unbeknownst to me) liquor-filled chocolate to make it at least a little worth his while before my hasty exit.

I disappear into a non-descript eating establishment nearby, for sustenance as well as shelter from the deluge.  It’s all part of my whimsical adventure. I note that for the first time in the last nearly 10 years of birthday travels, my holiday is not blessed with consistently glorious weather. At that success rate, I should consider myself fortunate.

It’s back to my accommodation for some rest before re-emerging for dinner and another live show.  I continue to follow Monika’s culinary recommendations. As I endeavour to eat less meat during the weekdays (for ecological reasons), I opt for one of the veggie options near to the gig venue. 

On the tram into town, there’s a man - likely down-and-out - emitting such a rancid odour, something akin to rotten flesh, that he clears the carriage. I’ve come across enough hygiene-conscious rough-sleepers to know that this is not the norm. What’s to be done? He doesn’t seem to be in pain but the stench suggests something is awry.

The evening continues inauspiciously - albeit on a more trivial note - as I try, and fail, to locate the restaurant. I spend over an hour searching, to no avail. In all my walking around, I do stumble across the Jazz venue, AghaRTA. I’ve already bought a ticket for the show but still haven’t eaten. Annoyingly, and unlike most of its competitors, AghaRTA does not serve proper meals. The kindly barman tries to show me the directions to my restaurant of choice on his phone but it only leads to more confusion. I’m surely going to miss the start of the gig in any case. I settle on an Italian place next door to the Jazz club, with the barman’s warning in my ear that the places in the vicinity, The Old Town Square, are a ‘scam’. The food is nonetheless quality at an accessible price. I rush to catch what I can of the show, begrudgingly trying to make peace with the fact I won’t get my money’s worth if I’m to make it home before the last tram.

I arrive just before the band takes a ‘short’ break of half an hour. During this recess, I notice Phoebe slip in with a young woman whom I assume is her daughter. It’s the sole highpoint of the evening thus far. Phoebe offers me a seat closer to her but I decline. I want to make a discreet exit when the time comes.

Charles Bridge, Prague (c) Alireza Banijani

The act that night is a Soul/Funk covers band. Their set features Aretha, Sade and lots of Stevie. The musicians - drummer, bassist and a dexterous pianist - are solid. The vocalist has a decent voice with a good range but is not a soul singer. Something in her delivery gives the performance a cruise-ship feel. Fortunately, the instrumentation and clever arrangements elevate the set overall. I even manage to enjoy myself. Well, as much as I can, watching the time so closely.

As I leave, I try one of the basic Czech phrases I’ve tried to memorise on the barman. He’s gracious enough to correct my dodgy pronunciation when I ask.

The following day marks the half-way point of my trip and is my birthday proper.  I’ve signed up this time for a guided tour that includes Prague’s Old City, ‘New’ City (established in the 14th Century) and the Jewish Quarter. Unbeknownst to me on booking, it’s the same tour company as before. Both guides are Yanks who’ve settled in the Czech Republic. It’s an even bigger group than the previous day. Before we’re divided up, I ask one of the guides if there are any Czech locals who work for the company. Very few, she says. Not many Czech guides do the tours in English she explains, which I find surprising, given the high level of proficiency in the region.

Our group’s guide, Bev is - again - stereotypically loud and a little over-confident but she knows her stuff.  We spend an extended moment in front of the astronomical clock, which Bev times perfectly for us to see the hourly one minute ‘show’. Bev explains that many tourists find it overrated, although she’s not amongst the clock’s detractors. Her in-depth knowledge of its mechanism says as much. 

Bev also goes into some detail about the religious wranglings in the region, attributing the country’s currently predominant atheism and agnosticism to this troubled history. I imagine decades of communism has also played its part. Speaking of which, Bev incorporates a segment on Czechia’s Red history which I’d prefer she’d skip (I’d rather hear a local's perspective). That said, it’s not as Cold-War-ideological as it could have been. As we step into the Jewish quarter, a man with a strong North American accent wearing a kippur greets Bev enthusiastically, declaring her the ‘best guide in the business’. I recall seeing him in the neighbourhood the day before. Despite his glowing appraisal, Bev claims not to know who he is or what he does in the area, apart from asking people if they’re Jewish. 

I happen to be wearing my keffiyeh. Whilst I know not all Zionists are Jewish and not all Jews are Zionists, have even seen some ‘Free Palestine’ paraphernalia dotted around the city and gave the thumbs-up to a UK tourist wearing a watermelon T-shirt, I’m not sure what to expect. Fortunately, I don’t receive any negative reactions.

The time spent in the Jewish Quarter is not as expansive as that of a similar tour I took in Budapest, contrary to my expectations. I’m a little underwhelmed.

(c) Grigorii Shcheglov

In between stops, I get speaking to Jaco; a half-Russian/half-Peruvian based in Germany with a fascinating itinerant backstory encompassing South America and the Benelux region. No surprises that he’s a polyglot. An Aussie couple from Melbourne, Joe and Stella, also strike up agreeable conversation. They’re touring the world for several months. I commend their home city’s music scene and they oblige by making further recommendations.  We hang out for a while after the rest of the group has dispersed, post-tour.  Joe and Stella might well also be in Japan when I next plan to visit, inshallah. To be continued…maybe.

Next stop is Café Louvre, one of Prague’s many plush Art Deco cafés that Monika suggested I check out. Founded in 1902, in its heyday it was frequented by the likes of Czech literary giant, Franz Kafka and Einstein. It also has a celebrated Jazz club attached.  En route, I stop by a curious Book/LP/Art combo-store selling vinyl copies of classics by A Tribe Called Quest, Sade, Adele, Lauryn Hill and more recent names like Tyler the Creator amongst others.

Café Louvre is so popular that there’s a queue when I arrive. Considering its history and reputation, the waiting staff aren’t stuck up; cordial even. The diverse menu is also affordable. I keep it light with soup, warm goat’s cheese and honey salad and a classic Pavlova. (I allow some leeway for sweatmeats given the occasion.) I don’t regret any of my choices. Meanwhile, as with each passing year I continue to be touched and amazed by how many folk remember to send me birthday wishes.
 

After some rest at the accommodation, I’m back out for dinner and a show at the Jazz Republic club. The restaurant is once again a recommendation by Monika. It’s in the same part of the city, The Old Town Square/Jewish Quarter - in which I was lost the night before and where the tour passed that same morning. 

En route, I notice a text from Isaak, asking about my plans. 

Since I’m still quite full from lunchtime, I decide to switch up the order of my evening and do some Jazz first and end with dinner. I’m glad I had the presence of mind to reserve my ticket at Jazz Rep. The club has a free entry policy but it’s an intimate space and demand is high. Johnnies-come-lately are turned away at the gate.

Unfortunately, whilst doors open at 8pm, the show starts well over an hour later and I have dinner reservations at half-9pm.  For the second night in a row, I’m destined to catch only snatches of a gig. Whilst I wait for show time, the venue steadily fills up with a crowd that is surprisingly diverse in age. There are far more Gen-Zeds in attendance than I’d have thought. There are also a lot of East Asians in the vicinity. I don’t assume they’re all tourists. I’ve learned during one of the tours that prior to the recent influx of Ukrainian refugees, the Vietnamese community was one of the most sizeable minority populations in the Czech Republic. The connection dates back to the friendlier relations between the countries during the communist era.

(image courtesy of Avantgarde Prague)

I stay at Jazz Republic for one and a half songs before leaving for dinner reservation, albeit just in time for last orders. 

Perhaps this is why service is so quick. My duck confit with red cabbage is delicious, falling off the bone. I’m attended to by an animated young man with a dry sense of humour called Markus. He earns every penny of the many tips I’m sure come his way. He’s so charming that he can get away with littering his customer banter with expletives. He tells me that the restaurant is unusual for such a touristic area in that it attracts a lot of locals. Always a reassuring sign for an eaterie.

Markus also warns me in very colourful language to avoid anywhere in the area claiming to sell the Hungarian desert, Chimney Cake. I wouldn’t have room for that tonight anyway.  I do nevertheless have a hankering for ice cream which I’m able to satiate at a more reputable establishment. Not before first passing by Jazz Republic again to enjoy a little bit more of the show.

The Old Town Square is still teeming with activity. One thing that does dent the Prague charm is the surfeit of vomit, particularly at bus stops, at any given time of the day. It’s as if some tourists are thoroughly abusing the country’s beer-making tradition.

Soundtrack: Maravilhosa Bem (album) by Julia Mestre; Mutt by Leon Thomas; One Night in Prague by Benny Sings; On Time by Lecrae

A Summer Pause in Prague: Part I

 5 + 1/2 min. read

(c) Eduard Delputte

I’m back in Eastern Europe for another birthday getaway and sooner than I thought. After coming away feeling ambiguous about my second visit to my once-beloved Croatia in summer 2024, I’d planned to switch gears and attend a Jazz festival in Southern France that’s been on my wishlist for decades. One look at the train ticket prices was enough to change my mind. For that cost, I could pay for a flight ticket to a number of destinations elsewhere in Europe and still have something left over for accommodation.

A long-held latent interest in Prague thus returns to mind. I’ve heard only good things. It’s often spoken of in the same breath as Budapest, of which I retain pleasant memories. The Czechian capital it is, then. As usual, I book myself on some tours. I also research the city’s vibrant live Jazz scene which must have also been lying dormant in my subconscious. In addition, the head of my church home group, Monika, is a Prague native. She sends me a useful list of must-sees (many of which are already on my itinerary) and, just as important, the best places to eat at a reasonable price.

I purchase some Czech koruna and board a Saturday afternoon flight to Prague via Frankfurt. The forecast for my week-ish excursion East is mixed, although the sun is supposed to win out. It’s certainly not the case when I arrive. The overcast skies make good on their ominous grey and the heavens open, just as I reach my accommodation. Printed map in hand, it’s not much use when the signposting isn’t obvious. So close but yet so far, I walk around aimlessly in the rain until I ask a kindly young English-speaking woman for help. In terms of hospitality - so far, so good. It’s already an improvement on the bus journey one year earlier to my accommodation near Split. Nobody pays me much attention. I am pleasantly surprised to see a black woman with her baby - and not a tourist - en route. It won’t be the only time. Prague is more diverse than I anticipated.

I’m welcomed at the Airbnb by Nina, the daughter of my host, Lyda. She speaks English, her mother does not.

 Nina will be joined by a sturdy young man whom I assume is her beau.  As much as I’d rather not compete for bathing and toilet facilities, I also feel less isolated sharing a space with others. 

The streets of Prague (c) Eugenia Pankiv

The flat is hidden away on the equivalent of a vast council estate built during the Communist era, Monika informs me. It might not be very close to the city centre but it’s well connected, and according to her, a more authentic experience of Prague. 

Inside, the premises are bright and clean as the online description suggests, immediately putting my mind at ease.

I’m reluctant to go back out in the rain for food but needs must. Fortunately, that good old Soviet-influenced work ethic is in my favour. The local supermarket closes at 10pm. It’s adjacent to a shopping precinct with a branch of budget German drugstore, DM as well as the equally versatile transnational Dutch chain, Action. I’m a happy woman.

The next day is a tranquil Sunday full of sleep, livestreamed sermons, Netflix and YouTube. I’m exhausted. It’s as if the past few months of activity are still catching up with me. I have an itinerary but have factored in chunks of rest. Today, the only things on my list are dinner, and perhaps checking out the Sunday night jam at Jazz club, U Malého Glena.

It’s a lovely weather day, alas, forecast to be the best my week in Prague has to offer.

I dine at Lokál; a farm-to-plate gastro-pub serving traditional Czech cuisine, as recommended by Monika. With several sites across the city, I choose the one closest to the Jazz club.

Image courtesy of Prague's Pub and Beer Guide

Making unplanned detours, trying to locate Lokál, I catch a glimpse of Prague city centre and the Old Town. I’m already charmed by the little I’ve seen.

Finally reaching restaurant, as I wait in line to be seated, a fellow cuts in front of me. The sullen waiter says nothing. As I’m shown to my seat, I hiss at the interloper ‘There was a queue!’. More fool him. I end up with a nicer seat overlooking the street.

Whilst I’m tucking into some flavoursome braised beef, bread dumplings and salad, the same character comes round to clarify what I said to him. Now I have my food, I’m relaxed and I patiently explain my gripe.

‘I didn’t see you’ he says, and blames it on dropped blood sugar levels. It turns into quite a convivial conversation. He introduces himself as Mehmet, from Turkey. We arrived in Prague at the same time - the day before - but he’s already anxious to return to Istanbul. Mehmet is keen for me to visit his native city and asks for my details before he leaves. He laters pops up as a follower on my LinkedIn page.

The service at Lokál is very speedy and my waitress is attentive and polite. Once I settle the bill, I head straight to U Malého Glena for the Sunday night jam. It’s an intimate space, resembling a converted wine cellar. There’s hardly any room in the main performance area. Overflow punters therefore look-on from the bar, with a TV screen overhead of the stage.

A quartet led by an alto saxophonist - the sole female in the band - open with their own slick set, before the jam begins. 

Meanwhile, I get speaking to a Jacob Collier-lookalike called Isaak. He’s a little familiar with the Brussels’ Jazz scene, having been interested in studying Jazz guitar there at one time. He’s here to support his tutor who’s playing with the houseband. He’s my favourite guitarist, Isaak gushes.

We talk Jazz guitar favourites, general musical taste and Isaak’s preferred music venues in Prague. When I mention his resemblance to Mr Collier, Isaak laughs knowingly. He whips out his phone to show a picture of him and the man himself taken several years ago in Spain. Isaak is a mere teenager in the photo. He said Collier had inspired his own decision to go into music full time. Isaak found out Jacob was playing Barcelona at the time and flew out hoping to meet him. The gamble paid off.

U Malého Glena Jazz club (image courtesy of Valnupried)

The saxophone-led quartet is supposed to host the jam but they all vanish. Instead Leslie, an elderly African-American jazz singer, takes over. He kicks of the evening with renditions of But Beautiful and Just in Time. After his set, I hop on to perform with the constantly rotating musicians. I err towards songs that are familiar enough without being cliché. This time I opt for two safe bets from my repertoire; Que Insensatez and Stella by Starlight. 

The instrumentalists seem pleased with my choices, even if it’s a mostly tough crowd. Nothing new I suppose, for a Jazz gig.  A couple of pianists commend my performance. I admit, I get off to a shaky start (the more seasoned Leslie tries to coach me from the sidelines on how to instruct the musicians). It therefore means a lot (more than it should) to have the approbation of Jazz instrumentalists. They’re not easily pleased. One of them, Alastair, is a Brit who’s been based in Prague for years. Likewise, Leslie has spent several decades in the Czech Republic. 

Alastair tells me it’s an unusually busy night for the jam. It must be the high tourist season, I hypothesise. Amidst the broad variety of instrumentalists there are also a few vocalists, for a change. Some musicians stand out amongst the typically high standard. An assured and dynamic young pianist, for instance. Isaak’s guitar solos are also enjoyable (if on the epic side).

I feel upbeat. My first proper night in Prague and I’ve already made it through to one of the many Jazz venues.  A certifiably good evening.

Soundtrack: Maravilhosa Bem (album) by Julia Mestre; Mutt by Leon Thomas; One Night in Prague by Benny Sings

Part II & III coming soon...

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