5 min. read
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 original skilled poetry,
having been sufficiently inspired by what has gone before.
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 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. Mercifully, 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 feel even more smug when I 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 with
small children in Nairobi than men.
Elaine asks one youngster in Kiswahili how old she is.
Thirteen, she says.
We feel a mix of anger and distress. 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 chasing personal breakthrough.
The eatery is another sprawling establishment in the middle
of nowhere, this time 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, albeit with too
many stray cats roaming around and a pre-independence aesthetic that I believe
pushes the limits of irony. It’s also a popular birthday destination. It seems
like every few minutes, the staff have to 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 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.
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