Snapshots from the ASAUK Conference 2026@ Durham University: Part II

 5 min. read

Part I

Durham, UK (c) Jeffrey Zhang (Unsplash)

Breakfast is included in the price of the room. I’d usually skip out on it during a weekday, considering it too indulgent. I’m nonetheless so scandalised by the daily fee, I insist on getting my money’s worth.  At breakfast, Diego introduces me to Gina, one of his compatriots whom he’s met at the conference. The full gamut of my Portuguese is on display, from the worst to the best. At least it’s practice. I ask if either have come across other Lusophones. They nod. Gina mentions over-hearing some fellow Brazilians and speaking to a Cape Verdean participant.

I’m hoping Diego will accompany me to the main venue but he’s yet to check out. He’ll meet me there, during my intervention for which I’m already late. I have no idea how to get to the lecture hall. I take a chance by following a young woman with what looks like a conference bag.

It’s quite a trek to the lecture theatre. I don’t trust my orientation skills to have made it on my own. In the process, I reckon I work off at least a bit of the more generous than usual breakfast I’ve consumed (a portion of scrambled eggs, veggie sausages, baked beans, a dollop of yoghurt, sprinklings of muesli, fruit and half a bagel? Wanton excess).

I arrive at the venue in time for the latter half of the first of my co-panellist’s talk, as part of the Histories of Women at Work: Works of Care stream. Diego arrives as the second panellist, Matimba, is in full flow. She’s a confident white Zimbabwean post-doc, currently based at Cambridge University. Her activist parents decided to reverse the colonial convention and give their daughter an indigenous name. Matimba has in turn done the same for her son, whom she claims doesn’t have any connection to her Zimbabwean ‘roots’ otherwise. I get it, I tell her, I’m just not sure what I think about it. 

I’d be the first to decry the proliferation of Western names amongst Africans. Matimba agrees with my framing of it as a form of cultural annihilation. Nevertheless, on reflection, I’m not as convinced as she that the response is for more Europeans to give their children African names. 

It’s well-intentioned but comes across as a paternalistic gimmick and even cultural appropriation. The aim is not for more white people to walk around with non-Western names. It is for African parents not to feel embarrassed/reluctant/hesitant/sceptical about giving their children indigenous first names (forget that middle name business that so few people ever use in every day life). 

Despite the many ways Anglophone Europeans in particular find to butcher my own West African name, and being aware that in a world of systemic discrimination it puts a target on my back in certain contexts, I still wear it as a badge of honour. I often say, only half-joking, that it’s the one truly African thing about me.

(c) Tiago Silva

Structural racism makes us overly concerned with what white Westerners think of our names. What should matter is how we Africans regard them. That won’t change simply because a few Caucasians choose Kwesi over Kevin, or Bunmi over Becca for their own children. It's not a favour to be returned.

If we diverge over nomenclature, Matimba and I have overlaps in our research, which we share during and after the session. Over the course of the day, I’ll be made to understand that my intervention was received well. Rehearsing ad nauseum was not in vain.

I enjoy some choice snacks during the tea break (another indulgence) and a convivial conversation about Afro haircare with a Nigerian artist accompanying her academic husband. Now that my presentation is behind me, I’m free to roam the conference, spread all over Durham’s campus. I’ve already spotted three sessions I’d like to attend at the same time. In the end I narrow it down to a panel on former liberation movements in Southern Africa and another about the economic imperialism inflicted on African states by international financial institutions, bond markets and Eco-colonialists. I end up at the latter when I discover the other has no more seating left. I’ll be glad to have made that choice. The session on economic imperialism has a more ethnically-diverse, not to mention all-female, panel.  In any case, I’m ever-ready for a refresher on economic policy, as I often feel my grip on that domain remains tenuous. 

It turns out that two thirds of the panel and some of the audience all write for the same anti-imperialist publication which, to my shame, I’ve not heard of until that point. The session is followed by lively discussion about the agency of African heads-of-state in their own oppression (and therefore their potential liberation), the wedge that neoliberal policies drive between social and economic policy, and whether a ‘purist’ Marxist class analysis is adequate for attending to the intersectional nuances of marginalisation.

(c) Jeffrey Zhang (Unsplash)

Two of the guests are of Ghanaian extraction. One of them, Dzidula – as I guess from her indigenous name – is part of the Ewe ethnic group, like my late maternal grandfather. Thanks to her, I learn my mother’s surname is the equivalent in Eʋe of ‘Makinde’ in Yoruba; that is ‘the one born after twins’.  Dzidula sees many linguistic similarities between the Ewes and Yoruba. I've learned something new. I was aware of the historical link between the Yoruba and the Ga but ignorant of any connection with the Ewes. 

Incidentally, that day I'm wearing a traditional outfit handmade by my Ewe colleague, Geraldine. I'll regret not sharing this small detail with Auntie Dzidula.

I’ll insist on calling Dzidula 'auntie', which makes her feel awkward. I mean nothing but respect by it. She’s of my mother’s generation. It’ll be like calling my mum by her first name. 

We convene for lunch and I find out more about the others in the anti-imperialist collective. (Uncle) Kofi studied law up to PhD level before dedicating his life to professional activism. He found his legal studies in the UK too ‘positivist’, he says. Dzidula spent most of her academic career in Ghana, and then accepted an opportunity to work for a prestigious London university to avoid spending her whole working life in one location. Independent researcher Portia, originally from Italy, knows more about the activist credentials of one of my almae matres than I do.

Before I realise, the afternoon is fast spent. I can squeeze in one more session before leaving to catch my train. The decision about which panel to attend is already made and life is much easier for it. Loyalty demands I join Diego’s session, chaired by Kadija Sesay. It’s a very eclectic panel, with presentations on performance-based Yoruba funeral rites, representations of the enslaved in West African cinema as well as Diego’s paper on Gayl Jones' depictions of Brazil in Anglophone literature that side-step fetish and cliché. The post-show discussion is as vibrant as the previous panel I attended, if not more so. I manage to catch up with Dr. George before and after the session. She has a hard time placing me until I pass her my business card. In fairness, it’s been a decade or two since our last encounter.

Another tea break. I say ‘Até logo’ to Diego and ‘Adeus’ to Gina, grabbing a couple more deluxe flapjacks on the way out to catch my bus to Durham train station. To my chagrin, I’ll miss out on yet another conference keynote lecture.

As I step out into the sunny and mild afternoon, I hear inflections of melodious Portuguese as a group of Brazilian scholars congregate in front of the lecture theatre, before we all eventually head towards the same bus stop.

Snapshots from the ASAUK Conference 2026@ Durham University: Part I

 5 min. read

(c) Al Nik (Unsplash)

I’m officially just over the halfway mark of my PhD and it’s getting real. Nebulous enquiry and rabbit holes must submit to the discipline of tailored arguments, if my colleagues and I are to complete our projects on time. Our supervisor, Brigitta advises us from very early on in the (calendar) year to focus on writing, and not be distracted by attending too many conferences. This advice is especially apt to me. My first year and early into my second were awash with academic presentations. I didn’t expect to receive so many positive responses to my abstract submissions. It’s been a heck of a ride. My conference adventures have afforded me the privilege of travel further afield both in Europe and on the African continent. Conference preparation has been great in helping me formulate arguments. However, it is time consuming and disruptive to the regular programme.

At the start of 2026, I finally experience what it’s like to have an abstract submission turned down. That one would take me to Senegal, all expenses paid. You can imagine how tough the competition is. Several hundred applications for 20 spaces. The rejection turns out to be a blessing in disguise. Life gets pretty hectic around that time. Dakar will wait, I suppose.

To adhere to Brigitta’s admonition, I limit myself to one other conference application this year. The call for submissions by the African Studies Association of the UK (ASAUK) comes on my radar via the British Black Studies Digest in autumn 2025; almost a whole year before the next biennial conference is scheduled to take place. The 2026 theme, Narrative, Power and the making of African Worlds is a cosy fit for my research. It takes place early/mid-September at Durham University, in England’s North-East. (Not as glamourous as Dakar, of course). I start to re-arrange my Q3/Q4 2026 plans around it. If my abstract is accepted, I’ll bring forward my usual late autumn UK trip and combine academic business with pleasure, passing by London to see family and friends. Fortunately, my submission is successful.

By the time ASAUK 2026 rolls around, it feels like a lifetime has elapsed between when I first spotted the call for abstracts.

According to the conference website, there are umpteen streams. I’m concerned that the vastness of the event will lead to all kinds of organisational faux pas, including important, travel-related info coming through last minute. To my relief, the organisers release a tentative programme at least a month in advance, so I know exactly when to travel up to Durham ahead of my session. The conference programme is as intimidatingly lengthy and detailed as I fear. So many panels, too little time. 

On the plus side, I find it extremely reassuring to see so many African names amongst those giving interventions. I’d guess it would be more than the (personal) fifty-percent threshold of Afrodescendants that I already consider pretty decent. The Yoruba ethnic group seems to be especially well represented. The head of operations is also Nigerian. Given the geographical focus of ASAUK, a strong African presence should be obvious. I’m just so used to Europeans and other non-Afrodescendants dominating the academic space, even when it comes to matters concerning the African continent, it remains somewhat a novelty.

One of the draws of attending a conference in the UK is the thought that it would be cheaper than the usual academic excursion elsewhere. I’ll be staying at mum’s for free for most of the trip. I’m sure that I can find decent and affordable accommodation near Durham Uni. Neither do I expect the registration fee to be especially high. I’m wrong on both fronts. 

It's proportionally the most expensive conference I’ve attended, with eye-watering daily rates for academics based in Europe – even for pre-docs. For some reason, I can’t find any cheap and cheerful lodgings in Durham either. I don’t want to risk staying outside the city in case it’s a nightmare to commute. I turn to the ASAUK organisers for assistance. They do indeed have available campus accommodation – at double the nightly rate I’d hoped to pay, and for what turns out to be a new and clean – but still basic – room.

Durham, UK (c) Jeffrey Zhang (Unsplash)

I start to curtail my conference plans according to the ballooning budget. I’m not getting any university funding for this trip, at least not yet. Furthermore, the Eurostar rates are pricier around that period. Add to that the train ticket to Durham, and even with the best available deal, it all mounts up (I could 'coach' it but the bus timetable doesn’t suit my agenda). I already know I’m not planning to stay for the whole three days of ASAUK 2026. I have Manifiesta plans back in Belgium that same weekend. However, I did hope to attend for two days at least. In the end, I cut my cloth according to my size and only participate on the day that I’m presenting. Alas, it won’t give me as much time to fraternise with other attendees as I’d like.

At least I’ll have company from my research team. Diego is a visiting professor at the Belgian University, originally from the North-East of Brazil. Naturally, my interest in the language and culture – especially Brazilian music – facilitates our rapport. Diego is very patient as I try to practise my still-faltering Portuguese (precisely because I don’t get enough oral practice).  Diego will be presenting as part of the stream coordinated by writer, literary scholar and general Girl-About-Town, Kadija George. Kadija and I met many moons ago, in a different literary context. I look forward to reconnecting when I attend Diego’s intervention.

On arriving at Durham, it’s soon clear that the conference is taking over the city. I stop a random fellow and ask for directions, assuming he’s a member of the general university population. He's not. His response instead suggests we’re in town for the same event. 

Interacting with locals, I realise that I’ve developed an affection for the North-Eastern intonation with age. It could also be attributed to having spent so long out of the UK.

I ask a bus driver at Durham station’s terminus whether I’m on the right track to locate my accommodation. He gently reprimands me for not letting all the passengers off first before stepping on board. ‘Oops. Londoner’, I reply apologetically. It’s odd, since in Belgium, I try to be attentive to this sort of etiquette because so many Bruxellois are not. 

On the eve of my presentation, after checking in to the accommodation, I squeeze in a couple more run-throughs. My panel is first thing in the morning. It’s been weeks in the making. I can’t say I’ve committed my intervention to memory but I have been working on cadence and making sure my speech is dynamic enough to hold folks’ attention. I’m not one of the numerous academics I meet who can arrive at a conference with their presentation still incomplete. My brain just doesn’t work that way.

Part II

Iberian Ambivalence: Part II

Part I

(c) Sofia Olmedo

My presentation takes place half-way through the congress week, giving me time to finetune it. I assume mine is the only intervention entirely in English, although I’ll eventually find out (too late) that it isn’t. To add to the confusion, I’m told last minute by Manuela and Reggie that I’ll be part of a French-speaking panel. Even if I’d known, translation would have required more time and energy than I had. I agree to do a brief introduction in French and, at Reggie’s behest, a summary of the research if necessary.

It does turn out to be necessary.

Whilst my co-panellists are all French-speakers, they opt to present in Spanish. The one exception, supposed to join via Zoom, is a no show. I was looking forward to being able to follow a paper for once.

Overall, I have mixed feelings about my intervention. The presentation itself goes well enough. Unlike in Bielefeld, there are no technical issues and I’m well-rehearsed, with a bit of freestyling. However, I feel the moderator rushes me more than most other speakers (perhaps because she can’t understand me). I also don’t like being a linguistic outlier. There are mercifully some English-speakers like Clarissa and Maria-Teresa in the room, and I’m grateful for their support (they'll later confirm their approbation to my supervisor, Brigitta). Yet, I can’t vouch for some others in attendance. I know that not all my co-panellists are proficient in English. One of the Francophones present indeed requests a summary of my overall project. I'll later find out from a Brazilian in attendance that, whilst she usually feels more comfortable with English than Spanish she couldn't follow me because she's used to the North American variety more than the British. I initially sympathise, comparing it to the difference between Brazilian and European Portuguese. Overtime however, this feedback irritates me. English was imported to North America from and imposed by Britain, for crying out loud.

It might be one of the most polished presentations I’ve given yet, once again, the language barrier chips away at the satisfaction.

The following morning I see a text from my mum, asking how it’s going. I don’t hide my conflicted views. 

That day, I arrive later than planned at the conference for a session moderated by Maria-Teresa. I’m there to give her and Annetta – who is presenting  – moral support. It’s another morning full of fascinating panels from which I can draw little benefit. If I had more Spanish, I’d have been spoilt for choice between sessions.

After the panel concludes, I strike up a conversation with one of the speakers, Tim, a North American scholar based in Argentina for a couple of decades. He’s very keen on my project and to show how much he knows about early 20th century British-Caribbean literature, although that’s not the focus of my study. He at least is well-informed enough to be familiar with the term ‘Windrush’. It’s these conversations during the breaks that have become most valuable. They are all the more important given I can’t participate in any of the Q&A sessions– a conference highlight for me in any other circumstance.

Even during the moments of fraternising, the fear of another dead-end conversation because of linguistic-limitations makes me more hesitant than usual to initiate banter. I already have a stand-offish side despite leaning strongly towards extroversion. This time however, it’s more a question of practical barriers than moodiness.

Not long before the lunch break, I slip out of a plenary and head to the train station. As has become almost indispensable on my travels, I’ve booked a place on a walking tour that afternoon. Outside, the sunny climes have returned. En route I get some measure of Madrid’s vast size, or at least where the university is in relation to the starting point of the tour in the city centre. It’s an estimated hour-plus commute.

Shortly after boarding, a rap duo sets up their speaker and treat the packed carriage to a freestyle. At least, it’s a treat and novelty for me as an outsider. It might not be so charming if I lived here.

(c) Marcelo Ortega

Sitting in close proximity to the duo, I’m aware that they address me once or twice from the eye contact and hearing a couple of recognisable words like ‘negra’. I can’t make out anything else. Heck, I can’t always follow rap in English. Maybe it’s just as well, in case I wouldn’t like what they said. I bop away in ignorance, with an encouraging smile. They don’t overstay their welcome and are so discreet in collecting change, they’re gone before I have a chance to tip them. My enthusiasm for busking on public transport depends on the instrument, performance or what I’m already listening to on my MP3. I would have gladly patronised these two for their gumption alone.

I arrive at Sol station and tentatively make my way to the meeting point. The tour guide, Xavier is a good-looking and charismatic Spaniard. He has the effervescent personality for such a gig. I imagine he’s ideal company in this context but with that face, body, height and charm, he’s a heartbreaker in any other. 

Xavier is raring to go, even when half the tour group don’t show up. Before we set off, I mention that I’m staying in Alcalá. Xavier explains that his graduation took place in the city. He warmly urges me to check out its rich history, informing me of local tours. I was ignorant, assuming all roads led to Madrid-proper. I learn from Xavier that Alcalá was once bigger and more significant than Madrid before the latter grew as a capital. Alcalá is a city, he says, whilst Madrid is technically a town. When I describe it as a suburb, Xavier warns that Alcaláns would not take kindly to that assignation. 

His rapid and heavily-accented English can be hard to follow at times but his good-natured verbosity is infectious. The tour encompasses the Puerta del Sol and exploits of Carlos III, biscuit-making Carmelite nuns, the oldest operative restaurant in the world, Ratiño Perez - the rodent equivalent to the tooth fairy (with little decorated houses built into walls all over the city), the depravity of Franco and lots of info on the now waning but morbidly fascinating matador tradition. I never heard so much about bull-fighting, and surprise myself with how many questions I have. Xavier shares that the custom is increasingly stigmatised across Spain.  I’m shocked to learn that matadors have died from being gored this side of the 21st century (although our guide grossly exaggerates how recently). The ones who perish are considered the best, Xavier explains, in his wry fashion. 

Around the city, apart from the pesky ubiquitousness of Hallowe’en paraphernalia, Madrid is already kitted out for Christmas. Xavier explains the capital prepares early to best live up to its reputation of spectacular festive illumination.

Sol, Madrid (c) Alvaro Bernal

The tour concludes in the shadow of the Palácio Real, a short-ish walk from the Debod Egyptian temple, donated to Madrid by the North African country for the city’s help sparing it from water damage on the building of a nearby dam. Bizarrely, I see a man wearing a T-shirt referencing Lewisham; the South-East London borough where I grew up and in which much of my (maternal) family still lives. Curious and excited, I try to discover the connection. It turns out, he doesn’t speak a word of English.

The sun starts to set over the lovely view from the temple grounds. I only wish I’d had time to do the tour earlier, so I could’ve seen more of Madrid. With a long train ride ahead, alas, I don’t have time to explore other parts, such as the ‘new’ city. Still, I can’t go back to Alcalá without sampling the famous squid sandwich or Boca de Calamari. I take the scenic route back to Sol station via the Almudena Cathedral. As I approach Sol, a delicious sandwich tucked under my arm, I see Palestinian flags blowing in the air. As I hasten over, I note it’s a hodgepodge rally for reproductive rights, the release of various prisoners of war, as well as solidarity with Palestine.

Back in Alcalá, I bump into conference colleagues on the way to dinner. Meanwhile, I still have the pesky matter of accommodation for my last night to sort out. Lucia gave me details for an English-speaking contact who works at another establishment.  We speak on the phone, and she asks me to confirm my reservation by email. I duly send the message but there’s no response. It seems the incompetence and poor customer service has followed me from Belgium.

 It’s fairly late by the time I return from central Madrid. Nonetheless, to avoid the risk of missing out on a reservation, I pop back out to book the room in person.

It’s an extremely frustrating exchange with the fellow on reception duty. He knows nothing of his colleague’s conversation with me. Neither can he trace the email, since she didn’t give me the main address. He’s monolingual with only smatterings of English. I don’t have anywhere near the Spanish I need to explain the misunderstanding. It’s an insight into how marginalised one can be when they don’t speak the dominant language (which is English, in many contexts).

The receptionist uses an app to translate my panicked explanation. This back and forth does nothing to allay my agitation. 

It initially seems as if there’s no room at the inn. Seeing my distress, somehow he magics something up for the following night. Despite not having my passport on me, he registers what details I can provide. Since returning from Japan, I’m on a tight budget. Thank heavens, a timely insurance refund allows me the freedom to pay for lodgings on the spot. I don’t otherwise trust the hotel staff not to give my room away in the interim.

After such an upbeat day, the old ambivalence returns. 

The following day is the last of the conference. As I tarry to get out of bed, I reflect on how the week hasn’t been as easy-going as I anticipated. It doesn’t help that I have to switch accommodations just for one night. I’m irritated at the thought of the unnecessary rush and inconvenience instigated by the residence manager's unprofessionalism. I never do receive a satisfactory explanation from him and am cautious about pushing for one.

During the morning tea break, I converse with some Afro-Brazilians I’ve met earlier in the week (grateful for the warmth and Portuguese practice). I later chat with Maurice and Nneka, a US-based Nigerian-Brit professor in Spanish Literature.

Hearing that my Spanish is all but non-existent, Nneka asks What are you doing here? I’m not offended. It's a good question.

(c) Alex Vasey

We’re later joined by Mercy, a Ghanaian also specialising in Hispanophone studies. She and Nneka recount the good, bad and the ugly of living and studying in Spain during the late 80s/early 90s. Nneka is a fascinating character. Tall and deep-voiced, she reminds me of Maya Angelou. Nneka ditched dreams of becoming a model once-upon-a-time to move into academia. That made my dad happy, she says dryly. She learned most of her Spanish by immersion in Madrid, admitting that she didn’t realise that English wasn’t the main language when she arrived.

I learn quite a bit from her about the US higher education system, particularly the difference between public and private institutions. If there are state-run universities then why is there so much student debt? Federal money funds programmes and staff at public institutions, not subsidies for student fees, Nneka explains.  During the closing plenary, I remark that I wish there was a back entrance through which I could sneak out. Nneka replies that in the US context, an extra exit is now an architectural requirement in response to school shootings.

Nneka and I snatch whispered conversations at the back of the auditorium. We discuss our complicated feelings about Afrodescendant-related studies being so dominated by Caucasian academics. No matter how well-intentioned, it often comes across as being born out of a (neocolonial) sense of entitlement and/or a desire to corner a niche. Nneka mentions that one of the speakers has suggested this won’t change until Black academics come out of predominantly white spaces and form their own. An academic Garveyism, one could say. I sympathise, yet contest that the contributions of non-white academics can be so easily delineated, as to suggest that academia ‘belongs’ to those of European descent.

The congress rounds up, almost an hour later than scheduled. We are herded together for a group photo. Some guests good-naturedly raise a chorus of the anti-Apartheid anthem, Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika, as we gather. We subsequently disperse to our various destinations.

I greet one of the participants on the way to collect my luggage. He’s a little too enthusiastic with the bise and I wish I have the presence of mind to refuse. He invites me to join a few of the others for a late lunch. I’d like that very much but I’m in a hurry to check into my new hotel ahead of an online meeting. Lunch for me will be a couple of veggie Argentinian empanadas.

(c) Lucas Oriogun

My new digs for the night are a lot more spacious and plush than my former. That’s one upside to the change. Another is its proximity to historical sites. I embark on a serene sunset promenade of the attractive neighbourhood. The weather is once again propitious. I have a clear view of some distant hills behind the remains of the city gate. The nearby historical archbishop’s palace is a magnificent Moorish-influenced building. Not for the first time I wonder why a minister of God would've required such an opulent abode. 

The streets are alive with activity. It will remain like this well into the night, thanks to the Spanish tendency to eat later in the evening. I appreciate it. The city is never dead.

For dinner, I had vague plans to reconnect with Maurice and other conference participants at the hotel. Too bad that our paths won't cross again before returning to our different corners of the world. Not being on WhatsApp and part of the conference chat group, I have no means of getting in touch with him.

It’s therefore a wistful solo stroll on my last night in Alcalá to a local restaurant for generous portions of seafood.

Soundtrack: Play This Song (single) by Mariah Carey & Anderson .Paak, Red Moon (single) by Tom Misch, Without You (single) by Larse feat. Obi Franky, I Hope That We Never Fit In (single) by Peter & Kerry, Technicolour (single) by Joya Mooi & Ric Wilson, Outside the Light (album) by The Will Barnes Quartet

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