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 ...coming soon...