Asante, Nairobi: Part IV

 5 min. read

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thirteen, she says.

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

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

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

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

Nairobi at night (c) Yonko Kilasi

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part I, Part II, Part III & Part V 

Asante, Nairobi: Part III

 4 min. read

(c) E.U. Pirker

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday nights in Nairobi are a thing, she beams.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great music, good company and good conversation? Bliss.

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

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

Part I, Part II, Part IV & Part V 

Asante, Nairobi: Part II

 4 + 1/2 min. read

The grounds of the University of Nairobi
(c) Visha

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

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

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

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

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

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

(c) Joshua Hoehne

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part I, Part III, Part IV and Part V

Asante, Nairobi: Part I

7 + 1/2 min. read

(c) Daniel Eliashevskyi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part II, Part III, Part IV and Part V

A Breathless Semester

 6 min. read

Image: Nathan Dumlao

The unplanned mini-hiatus since my previous posts is a reflection of how hectic the final quarter of 2024 has been; not least, December. The first two weeks of the month are consumed with preparation for and/or participation in two big conferences. The first of which is the major annual event of LILAC (Liminality in Literature Academic Centre); the University sub-department to which my team belongs. For this particular event, my colleague Elif has been recruited - or coerced - into joining the organisational team. She is balancing these responsibilities with her own research, as well as preparation for various other conference papers.

When applying for the PhD, my professor friend, Danny Dorling, advised that there would be a lot more event organisation and project coordination than one would gauge from the vacancy ad. 

Brigitta, our supervisor, is a gentle and emotionally-intelligent soul but also a woman of very high standards; be it strict adherence to grammatical rules or conference planning.

One week after the LILAC event, the EMW (English in a Multilingual World) gathering takes place. This time it’s my colleague Geraldine and I, alongside several other LILAC colleagues of varying seniority, who are roped into organising. The conference booklet becomes the bane of our existence. Subject to much proofreading, revisions and weeks and weeks of email exchanges, the booklet will still be riddled with mistakes after going to print. Most notably, the University’s in-house comms team manages to miss out a whole abstract page.  Their work generally leaves a lot to be desired. Despite the many exchanges and astute observations of colleagues, the oversight somehow escapes our collective attention. We resort to printing out inserts.

If that weren’t enough, there's a last minute cancellation by one of the EMW keynote speakers, who’s caught a strong bout of COVID. By then all the promotional materials, including the booklet, have long gone to print. Miraculously, Brigitta manages to find a hail-Mary replacement; one Dr. Johann Larsberg. Cue another page insert.

During these intense weeks, Brigitta prefers the team to be on campus as much as possible. Furthermore, a number of administrative meetings are squeezed into this period; likely in an effort to grab folk before the Christmas holidays and campus closures. I’m also obligated to attend sessions during the once-a-year Ethics Week, in order to complete the compulsory online training for PhD researchers. It’s a mind-numbing, box-ticking exercise as well as a missed opportunity. This year’s theme is on the use of AI in academia and military research. The sessions are mostly didactic and non-interactive. In addition, the University’s Free Palestine campaign group, of which I’m a member, criticises the event for ignoring Israel’s use of technology to terrorise Palestinians, as well as the institution’s continued complicity through collaboration with Israeli academia. 

Apart from Ethics Week and/or conference planning, there are numerous other events - not all during office hours - abstracts to draft for more conferences, team workshops for which to prepare and our own reading and research with which to contend. I feel all the project management and admin is distracting me from the ‘real’ work of study. This is something with which I need to make my peace quickly. As the official team project coordinator, these duties fall on my shoulders even more than that of my colleagues. I share my concerns with my life coach, Pieter. He's gone through the PhD process himself, whilst working and raising a young family. Piet advises me to observe the rhythms of one full academic year to better understand effective time management for the future.

Image: Claudia Wolff

Once the conferences arrive, they are stimulating and even fun; in a frenetic way. The good grub is an added bonus. The second keynote speaker at the EMW conference is Prof. Dr. Kristophe Meyer; a specialist in the evolution of varieties of English in the former peripheries of Empire. I learn a lot during his session about the growing influence of Nigerian pidgin - already amongst the top 12 most spoken languages globally, according to the statistics cited by Prof. Meyer. He also has quite the handle on UK - particularly London - argot, influenced by various waves of Afrodescendant migration. I'm tickled by this elderly Swiss-German professor's use of slang during his keynote address, as well as our own one-to-one conversations. Prof. Meyer makes many references not only to Naija but the South-East London multicultural landscape in which I grew up. His interventions thus take on a rather nostalgic air for me.

As well as keeping an eye on catering, alongside our most affable colleague Jessica, Geraldine and I try to catch as many of our immediate team members’ presentations as possible. Frustratingly, there’s a scheduling clash between Elif’s paper and that of new colleague, Maddox. In Autumn she took over from our former teammate, Janneke for whom the PhD wasn’t a good fit. She subsequently returned to teaching. Maddox came personally recommended by Janneke. It’s so far been an auspicious transition. Also hailing from Flanders, you’d never know from Maddox' naturalistic English and clipped diction.

Alas, during the EMW conference I’m caught between her accomplished presentation on travel writing, checking on the caterers and following Elif’s intervention. Something has to give and thus, I don’t make it in time to catch the latter part of Elif’s paper, much to my regret.

For the sessions of the LILAC and EMW conferences I do attend, I pose challenging questions. Whilst attending one particular presentation, I find it especially hard to bite my tongue. All three participating academics speak on Afrodescendant literatures and contexts with which none have any direct experience. Two of the speakers are European, one is East Asian. This wouldn’t be an issue if academia didn’t already strongly reflect the racial and class inequalities of the real world. I am the only black face in the room. I debate on whether to say anything at all.

I reflect carefully on how to formulate my question in such a way that makes my point, whilst causing the least amount of offence. Many of those who’ve packed out the session also specialise in Afrodescendant literatures.

I affirm that I’m not advocating academic segregation. Neither would I claim to represent the entirety of the 'Black British Experience' - whatever that is. However, what might be merely source texts to my paler-skinned fellow academics aren't just abstract stories to me. They often reflect something of my lived experience. It bothers me that certain (neo)colonial practices are being inadvertently replicated. A group that is minoritised in the Western context are effectively being objectified by 'outsiders' for research purposes. It risks being extractive, as phrased by one of a number of black academics with whom I’ve discussed this sensitive issue. How to avoid it?

One visiting professor comments about the power of literature to break down barriers and change perspectives, citing Richard Wright’s memoir Black Boy; one of my own personal favourites. She's not wrong. I don’t have to be an Englishwoman of the early 19th century to enjoy the work of the Brontë sisters, for instance.

Image: Shubham Sharam

Nevertheless, this appreciation does not redress existing macro/structural inequities being reproduced in academia. She further tries to find common ground by making a well-intentioned but tone deaf comparison to the prejudice her parents faced as Spanish migrants to Belgium. Once again, I diplomatically attempt to point out the limitations of such an analogy.

To my surprise, there are sympathetic nods and remarks during and after my intervention, by the likes of Prof. Meyer no less, for which I’m grateful. Still, I sense a shift in the atmosphere. One faculty member, about whom I’ve had reservations from the outset, approaches me with a feigned friendliness that drips with passive-aggression. When they ask for suggestions on how to address the quandary, I can almost hear a ‘wise guy’ left off the end of the sentence.

I remind them of my own endeavours to acknowledge the complexity of the issue, as well as remarks made by Dr. Larsberg during his own keynote speech. Referencing the work of a Polynesian poet, the main theme of his intervention is the decolonisation of literary analysis. Whilst Johann was not in the room when I raised my question, you’d think from his presentation that we’d previously consulted on the subject. He also uses terms like ‘objectification’ and ‘extraction’ to warn against colonial capture, all whilst recognising that there are no quick fixes.

Vindication.

As pointed out by my sweet and sympathetic Dutch colleague, Karolijn - also researching Black British literatures - awareness is the game. Or, as I like to call it, methodological humility. It’s incumbent on white or non-black academics in these spaces to acknowledge imbalances and colonial overhang.

A few days later, we will review this conversation as a team at our all-day Christmas outing in Flanders.  Maddox once again commends me for raising the issue. If not you, then who? Brigitta agrees that it's no bad thing for academics to be upfront about the motivation for their field of study. Particularly when it pertains to minoritised groups of which they are not part.

A First Time for Everything: Part II

 5 min. read

Part I

(c) Maddi Bazzocco

Each day of the conference, lunch is provided by the institution. A group of us gather daily to dine in the canteen. It's during one of these food-related gatherings that I discover, by chance, Brigitta is amongst the cohort's many smokers. Moreover, I have the distinct impression she'd rather I didn't know or catch her in the act.

The afternoon meal is far heavier than I’m used to eating at that time of day during the week. The ensuing drowsiness catches up with me on the first day of the conference. (To avoid a similar soporific effect the day of my presentation, I avoid a hot lunch altogether).

Meal times are an opportune moment to become acquainted with other guests. After seeing her name pop up in different contexts over the years, it'll be the first time I meet Maria-Teresa, the conference organiser, in person. Maria is a petite, feisty but good-humoured quinquagenarian, with a voice like gravel from years of chain-smoking. She gravitates towards African animism, pouring libations at the start and end of the conference. When she half-jokingly suggests we pray to the gods, I good-naturedly explain that I'm more of a Jesus girl. This elicits a smile.

Frederick – or Freddie – is a convivial Irishman with a waggish sense of humour and a longstanding affinity with the Spanish language. German Celia’s Spanish sounds so proficient, I initially mistake her for a native.

I get on well with Agneta, an academic whose interest in African studies evolved from her social work with East-African refugees re-settled in her native Nordic country. She is also the adoptive mother of black children. She’s the second European participant I’ve met who’s raising African children in a predominantly white environment. 

I’m conflicted. I’ve always been against the idea of white couples adopting non-white children, no matter how well-intentioned. There is a huge gap of lived experience and cultural transference, no matter how many books are read or online fora one joins.  It manifests even in something as (not-so) simple as hair; of great cultural significance to most Afrodescendants. I've seen black children growing up in a white family, with hair that's turned to locks through lack of care; most likely down to ignorance on their adopted parents' part. It's unintentional but infuriating.

In the case of my academic colleagues, I acknowledge this is not some Hollywood star’s fetishisation of brown babies (at least, I hope not). I don’t question these individuals’ genuine efforts to divest from white supremacy. I believe their solidarity with Afrodescendants is sincere. However, this particular kind of cross-cultural adoption seems to me one of the most flagrant examples of white saviourism; a massive blind spot. I dare not raise it lest I cause offence or I’m perceived as truculent. If the conversation must happen at all, it’ll take longer to build that kind of rapport than an auspicious few days at a conference in the Med.

(c) Patrick Tomasso

It’s one of the few times I’ll feel slightly at odds with the group. It’s somewhat indicative of my time in Continental Europe for the past seven years. Don't get me wrong, the conference is a largely positive experience and I’m thrilled to attend. Nevertheless occasionally, for reasons time doesn’t permit me to expound, I feel my perspective as an Afro-Brit sets me (involuntarily)  apart from an otherwise sympathetic cohort. Or maybe it’s just me and how I (over)think.

Ahead of my own presentation, I fit in several run-throughs.  It's scheduled on the penultimate day of the event, giving me lots of time to mentally-prepare. Brigitta isn’t keen on me being over-rehearsed. We squeeze in one practice before our combined intervention.

The Hispanophone presentations tend to be better-attended than those in English. The Spanish students clear the room when it’s mine and Brigitta’s turn, leaving behind mostly our academic peers. It’s a success all the same. I’m more relaxed during my intervention than I'd anticipated and the reception is enthusiastic. Colleagues take a bona fide interest in my project, surprised by how much has already been done in a few months. I’m both exuberant and relieved once it’s over. I can better enjoy the rest of the conference.

That same night, a delegation will arrive from the UK. The mostly non-Afrodescendant contingent is led by Charmaine; the daughter of South Asian parents with connections to East Africa and the British West Indies. She is blessed with a mellifluous, near-hypnotic speaking voice. Charmaine is the significant other of a renowned Black-British auteur. She doesn’t fail to divulge how many careers she’s helped to get off the ground, including some within my own social circles.

Charmaine and her entourage are a fascinating bunch. On the last night over dinner, for example, I have a lively conversation with a conservatoire-trained musician of African, Asian and French extraction. We swap war stories of our respective experiences living in France.

(c) Denise Jans

Charmaine and co have taken time out of hectic schedules to make the latter part of the conference. It’s therefore a shame that their session –a documentary and post-show Q&A - must be truncated owing to poor time-keeping. Charmaine keeps her sang-froid but she’s understandably miffed. All in attendance are regretful that we are denied the full experience.

On the day of departure, Reggie kindly offers to drop Brigitta and I off close to the airport. My supervisor will stick around a little longer to enjoy some cultural events, before taking a late-ish flight back to Belgium. I, on the other hand, will return on an earlier plane (notwithstanding a one hour delay). 

On the drive towards the airport, all three of us converse in French about any and everything. That is, when I'm not passed out from fatigue, sleeping in a rather undignified pose.

Not long after dropping off Brigitta, Reggie complains of the lack of black contributors during the final sessions. He proceeds to speak candidly about his frustration over the general lack of representation. I counter that the conference has been more diverse than I expected. However, I eventually open up more about my own misgivings over academic spaces, in which Afrodescendants are the topic of discussion but usually not being the ones to lead it. 

I’m taken aback by Reggie’s frankness. With his half-Spanish children and going by some dubious comments he makes about a photo of Agneta’s blonde (naturally!) future daughter-in-law, I assumed he was assimilated enough into the mainland European cultural landscape not to notice and/or care. 

He speaks of opportunists, exploiting a niche because they know there are too few black academics to provide much competition. His candour comes as a relief, echoing several conversations I’ve had with sympathisers of diverse ethnicities since beginning my doctorate.

Reggie deposits me in front of my airport terminal, to which I’m indebted. As with most of the other participants, I intend to remain in touch.

It’s a warm day;  a far cry from the chilly Belgian climes for which I’m already sartorially prepared. As I go through the check-in motions, at security I’m asked to remove my boots. One of the agents then inspects my head wrap for what I presume are traces of drugs. My hair was also covered on the inward journey, and yet nobody at Brussels thought to touch up my head-gear.

It’s not the best lasting impression of Spain. Fortunately, at least for this trip, it will not be my only one.

A First Time for Everything: Part I

 5 + 1/2 minute read

(c) Dan Dimmock

Way back at the start of my PhD journey, my supervisor, Brigitta, suggests we make a joint intervention at a conference in Spain, in early Autumn. She doesn’t have to ask twice. 

The start of October marks four months since my doctoral studies began. In that time, I’ve gathered a wealth of information; enough to feel comfortable sharing the first fruits of my research, even if the overall project is still taking shape.  This will be my maiden voyage; the first academic paper I'm presenting for an external audience. (It feels very grown-up just to utter those words.) Plus, Spain in Autumn beats temperamental Belgian weather any day. It’ll only be my second trip to the Iberian giant, almost two full decades after my first.

The run-up to the conference has its fair share of twists and turns. There are several iterations of the programme, issues with funding, and sporadic - not to mention confusing - communication. Brigitta is concerned it might not go ahead. Fortunately, conference coordinator, Maria-Teresa confirms in time for us to be reassured.

Brigitta and I will be making the same outbound voyage. I worry that it might be over-exposure. Yet, thank goodness, these concerns are largely unfounded. It’s a pleasant, albeit exhausting trip by plane, train and -in the end – by foot to the hotel. 

Brigitta invites me to take the window seat on the train ride from the airport, to enjoy the pleasant landscape. She is an individual of select words but we’re not short on conversation. Knowing my own loquacious tendencies, I try to be conscious of not over-sharing. Nevertheless, during the course of the week, at times I question whether I’ve held true to this resolve.

The conference will take place in a small city with a large university population. The weather is even more propitious than has been forecast when we arrive. Sunset also occurs later than in Belgium, allowing us to enjoy the vestiges of summer that bit longer. Sunrise, on the other hand, is surprisingly late.

The majority of conference participants are staying in the same hotel, a stone’s throw from the Faculty, as recommended by Maria. 

Each room is a capacious studio-style en suite, with kitchenette (although one has to pay five euros a day for access to utensils). From my window, on a clear day, there’s a decent view of the distant Pyrenees. 

The programme begins late in the afternoon and continues well into the evening. I assume these are stereotypical Spanish siesta hours. Rather, it appears that it's been adapted so that the university’s own students can also attend. The beauty of these unconventional hours is it leaves the whole day to catch up on other tasks, as well as explore our surroundings. On the days where the programme is predominantly or exclusively in Spanish (no funds available for simultaneous interpretation), I skip these sessions for more downtime, often joining towards the end of the evening’s activities which almost always overrun.

Apart from an especially soggy day, the weather is favourable for whiling away time in the old mediaeval town, browsing some of the discount Spanish chains, or taking advantage of my student status for a free trip to one of the museums. I’d prefer to do a guided walking tour but alas, there are none available in English or French during my stay. A gulf has grown between me and the Spanish language since my school days, when I was a more zealous student. It’s been surpassed by my interest in Portuguese which, unfortunately, doesn’t get me anywhere this side of the frontier.

(c) Rut Miit

The colloquium itself is truly a bilingual and inter-disciplinary affair; literature, history, linguistics, gender and sexuality studies, and ethnography to name a few areas of expertise. The thematic common denominator is the African Diaspora in Europe. The conference also commemorates the anniversary of the founding network, one in which Brigitta is embedded.  I’ll discover that I’ve crossed paths with a number of participants back at the 2022 Afro-European conference in Brussels, long before my doctoral studies were on the horizon.

By now, I’m used to these spaces being dominated by Europeans speaking about African-Diaspora related themes. (Maria-Teresa herself jokes that when Caucasians study their own societies and cultures, it falls under Sociology. If they embark on African-related socio-cultural studies, it becomes Anthropology.)  I’m thus pleasantly surprised to discover a decent number of fellow Afrodescendants presenting papers. This is relative, considering the power imbalances ensconced within academia. For all its liberal ideals – or maybe because of them  - universities' teaching staff largely replicate the structural inequalities that pervade wider society.

Amongst the black contingent is Clémentine; originally from Cote d’Ivoire. She decided to do several interdisciplinary masters and a PhD in Spanish because she ‘liked the challenge’. She’s on her second doctorate. There’s Reginald, or Reggie. Originally from the DRC, he’s spent most of his adult life in the Catalonia region. Ngame is a handsome yet down-to-earth, Rwandan whose family fled to Spain in the early 1990s.

African-American Dr Louisa-Grace Brown specialises in African migrant communities based in the Mediterranean and has a solid command of the European-variety of Spanish. Yet, as she points out, even with a proficient knowledge of the language, Spaniards tend to question the Black presence in the country more so than other former empires (e.g. Portugal). 

Louisa-Grace will give the inaugural address at the conference; a dynamic intervention that sets the standard. Dr Brown throws in smatterings of Spanish, and even Gaelic (she’s also studied Scottish & Welsh independence movements).

  A few other black participants connect remotely, making it more or less 50/50 African/European representation.

The first night, I join Brigitta and her friend and fellow academic, Clarissa for tapas. (By then, I’ve already done some panic grocery-shopping, unaware that evening meals are covered by external funding). Clarissa is a polyglot from Sardinia who has lived all over Europe. Our conversation encompasses the Continent's staunch denial about its colonial past, racially insensitive books, Mainland Europe vs. the UK and misogynoir; the latter subjects introduced by yours truly. Despite my efforts to exercise restraint, these being such sensitive topics, I find myself getting carried away.

Part II

Expanding Horizons: Part 1

 

I’ve been approaching autumn with a level of apprehension. Although not expecting another soul-sapping lockdown order from the Belgian authorities, I do anticipate some light restrictions. Brussels has had a high-level of vaccine hesitancy and the infection rates have been worrying. Whilst other regions are enjoying greater freedoms, the Brussels’ authorities are applying more caution. Yet not as much as I’d envisage. Nightclubs re-open in early October. Proof of vaccination isn't required until the middle of the month, even if some venues use their discretion to enforce this in advance.

Cynthia invites me to a literary event late September, situated in thriving Place Flagey. Renzo, the third element of our cultured trio, has another engagement so it’s just us girls. The reading takes place during a national strike. Earlier that day I attend my first solidarity demo in Belgium, alongside members of my union and other comrades. I’m surprised by the turnout. I expect a small gathering of the faithful not the hundreds, maybe thousands, that assemble to protest stagnating wages.

Most public transport is not running, as drivers stand in solidarity with their comrades. There’s a limited service that allows me to get to work and, in theory, to the event in Flagey. Cynthia and I live in the same neighbourhood. She is hesitating between driving down herself (good) or an Uber (monopoly platform with exploitative tendencies = bad). Although I’d appreciate a lift back, it doesn’t occur to me to ask for one to the venue. I underestimate how sporadic the bus service will be that evening. A couple of wrong decisions has me showing up to Flagey three-quarters of an hour later than the advertised time.

I still catch a good chunk of the event. A Scottish and a French writer discuss growing up gay in working-class communities and read from their latest work. It’s a stimulating conversation, even if the discourse around class seems to be grounded in a more static, 20^th Century understanding.

Cynthia and I reunite after the interview in the theatre lobby. I’m not that surprised to discover she's already made new friends; two young women who are also attending on their own. Numbers are exchanged before Cynthia and I head to find where she parked her expensive four-by-four, bought as an apology gift by an abusive ex. The Friday night madness is in full swing; notably too many men turning the streets of Brussels into a public toilet. I’ve seen a disturbing amount of that living here, day and night. We both wonder out loud why men can’t exercise the same control over their bladder as women generally do. Or whether the Bruxellois are afflicted by a urinary infection.

Cynthia pulls up outside my building. We spend an hour swapping notes on our various mis-adventures with the male species in Brussels. If she’s more experienced than me, it hasn’t been any easier for her. We come to similar conclusions around the levels of co-dependency in the City, encouraging each other not to get swept up in that game.

That Sunday I have the pleasure of being accompanied by Renzo to church. It’ll be his first experience in a Protestant assembly. So conscientious am I to break my occasional tardiness, I arrive well in advance of our meet-up time. Just as I look for a way to while away the wait, I spot Renzo outside the Metro, raring to go. He attributes my early arrival to the Lord.

 It’s reassuring that he’s made it. The week has been very hard on his morale.

Lorenzo approaches this unchartered territory with an open-mind and a gamely attitude. He endeavours to negotiate the worship music with his baritone. The repertoire would be unfamiliar to most of those outside of the contemporary charismatic movement. 

He’s attentive during the service. Perhaps more naturally introverted, Renzo is nonetheless cordial and conversational as I introduce him to some of the church family -including the senior pastors. He comments on the sense of community. I’m relieved that he hasn’t found the experience alienating.

After service, we have a lunch date with Brenda. The previous weekend, I join my lovely Austrian friend and some of her work and former-uni chums, to help her move into her shiny new home. Brenda makes the masochistic decision (IMHO) to furnish everything from scratch with Ikea goods. Over that weekend, friends will take informal shifts to aid the unpacking and set-up. I stick around a little to help with the sofa and some chairs.  The fellows stand around talking politics whilst us girls do most of the heavy-lifting. There's a lot of buzz around the new ABBA project. 

By the time Renzo and I come round for lunch the following weekend, Brenda’s abode looks almost show-room perfect, despite her insistance to the contrary.

Germans’ messy is most people’s perfection, I tease.

Lorenzo is a plant-based diet veteran, going veggie long before it was du jour. Brenda prepares accordingly, stocking up on vegan options down to the butter. She’s a most accommodating hostess. Renzo is intrigued by her year spent in Naples after secondary school, where she was linguistically immersed enough to emerge fluent in Italian, give or take a few years of regular practice. The discussion is expansive and unforced. Renzo is at ease. He’ll later remark what a solid and well-adjusted individual Brenda is.