It is easy to romanticize poverty, to see poor people as inherently lacking agency and will. It is easy to strip them of human dignity, to reduce them to objects of pity. This has never been clearer than in the view of Africa from the American media, in which we are shown poverty and conflicts without any context.
All Of The LIGHTS
You read in ‘Building a nation’ about my first few moments in Bukavu, DRC. That day got a lot more interesting very quickly. Fast forward to my aunt’s place, I arrive with my grandfather and my family is excited to see me, but are busy with preparations for la dote (French for lobola ceremony) that was to take place in two days. I sit down and one of my cousins, Charlene, is sent to bring me food. She happily does so, brings me my pap, fish, lenga lenga and plantain. She follows moments later with water and soap to wash my hands. Naturally, I’m feeling a little overwhelmed by the special treatment because it’s usually my job to take care of guests, or I simply take care of myself. As I’m having my meal, she brings me a bottle of mineral water to drink and my first thoughts are “wow! I even get to drink bottled water, joy!” I took my dishes to the kitchen afterwards, noticed it looked completely different to what I had expected. Instead of the conventional kitchen counter, stove, sink and all the typical kitchen accessories, I am confronted something different. There wasn’t a stove, at least not the kind of stove I’m used to. The kitchen had a mbabula (a charcoal stove) for cooking. There was a cement floor instead of tiles which made sense considering this style of meal preparation. I open the tap to wash my dishes, no water comes out of it.
Her and I sat and watched TV together, the Kardashians with French voice-overs. We have a good laugh at how I’m struggling to understand the French on TV (they speak so fast it sounds like singing to me). Our aunts then send us to the dress-maker to choose a design for one of my many wedding outfits. As we are walking, Charlene is a bit worried that I’ll slip and fall. Now understand that the soil there is so muddy and slippery, almost all the roads are gravel, and falling is so common nobody laughs about it anymore. Luckily I’m able to hold my ground and avoid all the water puddles from the rain. She says to me “I’m sure you think our country is dirty, where you come from there isn’t mud everywhere like this”. I tell her that South Africa isn’t like this, but no, I am not thinking Congo is dirty, I think it just needs some taking care of. She laughs. We walk on and she tells me I’ll learn to get used to life here, it is dirty and there isn’t much, but it’s her home and she loves it. She goes on to say “I even like the mud. I don’t want to leave my country, I want to make it better. Everyone talks about leaving…” I remember then that I have no intention of permanently returning. An hour or two later at the house, my aunts and I are talking and suddenly the electricity go off, complete darkness. No lights. No streetlights. Nothing. Everyone acts natural and keeps talking, till they notice I seem a bit shocked by this. They laugh and say “Welcome to Congo! We are used to this”. Battery operated torches are fetched and life simply goes on. I go to the bathroom later using my phone as lighting. I try to flush, no water. There are two large water cisterns in the bathroom, I catch the point now.
Over a couple of days I learn to adjust to the pattern, there is only electricity for a few hours during the day, it returns for a few more at night. When there is electricity, charge your phone, laptop, everything! Don’t try cooking on the stove, the current is too weak for that, the electrical stove will barely switch on. I also learnt that my dad’s stories of studying by candlelight aren’t old man’s tales. My cousin is in first grade, she does her homework with the aid of a torch too bright for me to even look at close by. I worry about the condition of her eyes in a few years. She doesn’t even fathom that homework time could be any different. I also learn that bottled water is the norm in these parts, you can’t be drinking that strangely cloudy liquid that comes from the taps, when it comes. Also, water and electricity in these parts are joined at the hip, come and go together. If you’re going to drink tap water, boil it well (explains mom’s strange boiling habits).
I find this issue extremely significant, especially considering the masses of water in Bukavu. Lake Kivu, one of the Great African Lakes is a watery volcano waiting to erupt. Beneath its waters one finds an increasing amount of methane gas which is a potential hazard for volcanic activity, and even more than that, a potential energy source for several countries in Africa. Here comes the juicy bit, there is already talk of a power supply running from Lake Kivu into Rwanda. It’s baffling to think that a region with an ample supply of water, which in turn gives them an ample supply of gas for electricity, would so greatly lack both. Even more concerning is the reality that the DRC has for a number of generations been successful in producing quality engineers, amongst other useful professionals. Why then do we struggle to produce the facilities needed to give our people access to water and electricity that lies in their backyards?
War is synonymous with a great drain. Not only are the resources of war-stricken countries taken and shared with everyone but them, but so are the brains the country produces. Unfortunately for the DRC, most of the professionals it has birthed have opted to emigrate to other nations in search of a ‘lighter’ life. Those to follow, those with potential to be great, are most likely to do the same. War is difficult, the struggles of African nations that still aspire for a demeaning ‘Third-World’ title is heart breaking, and unnecessary. Why are African descendants forced to thirst after resources that should be theirs to share as they please, forced to ask for a drink of water in foreign lands? I am saddened that this section of my writing appears to be so dismaying, but how can one in a dark situation determine whether the glass is half empty or half full when all the lights have been turned off?
However, people like Charlene inspire me to not only see the light in a bad situation, but to be the light. It certainly takes boldness to choose to remain in a country all are trying to escape, and above that to aim to make a difference. To her I say, remember that
“You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house.”
Rag – I
From rags – I
June 30, DRC Independence Day
Dear Democratic Republic of Congo, It is Independence Day today. Today, there will be a rally in the streets of Johannesburg for you, like there has been each year. Today, I will see many of your children telling the world that you have had yet another year of Independence, and I will be desperate to believe them. Today, I will choose to remember one of your heroes Patrice Lumumba, and pray you realise that this generation is capable to breed many more like him. I am tempted to celebrate, but I can’t. My family lives on your soil, many of them have died on it, and have been buried beneath it. Their memory has been forgotten, labelled as a silent statistic of war because nobody speaks of the millions of children you have lost. Nobody has been brave enough to be honest about the brutality of rape your daughters see each day. That the gold, diamonds and minerals you treasured for them have been stolen. But today, I will hold on to hope. You will heal. You will grow. There will come a day when you are no longer exploited, and neither are your children. I will remember your pain as much as I do your victory. One day, you will not only be Independent, you will also be free…. “…Our wounds are too fresh and too painful still for us to drive them from our memory. We have known harassing work, exacted in exchange for salaries which did not permit us to eat enough to drive away hunger, or to clothe ourselves, or to house ourselves decently, or to raise our children as creatures dear to us.” – Patrice Lumumba With love A daughter of your soil, raised by a sister land
I will learn to pray for you
Building a nation: Mining out stories of war
I have a confession to make. Stepping into Rwanda in April 2014 I had my own perceptions of what the country would look like, what its people were like. Knowing a bit about its history and conflict with Congo, I expected that I would find even a sign of devastation, that I’d be met by cruel people. Rwanda has become infamous for the genocide that occurred within the country, for bloodshed and malice against themselves and against the Congolese. Within my own community, I was constantly fed the stories of the Rwandese declaring war against the DRC, returning kindness with cruelty and the most atrocious acts of war. Thus, I had anticipated to naturally find remnants of this history. I did. However, it was nothing quite like how I had expected it to be.
Let me begin by saying that Rwanda is a beautiful, clean country. From the airplane, I was pleased to hear the boarding announcements done in Kinyarwanda and then in English. I was greeted with friendly service from Rwandese airhostesses and airhosts, as well as from airport officials. The buildings I saw were not as tall and glorious as those here in South Africa, but had a simple civilisation to them. The roads were paved. The vegetation was glorious, a green more marvellous than I had ever seen, especially close the Lake Kivu. Although I was unfortunately unable to take a good look at the country, I realised quickly that the country was well taken care of, and from an outsider’s perspective so were its people.
Crossing the border into the DRC was like stepping into a new world, stepping into the impoverished image of Africa the world is presented with on TV. The border gate was surrounded by a crowd of people waiting to offer a cab ride, to carry luggage, assist with pretty much anything. If you have travelled to African countries you would understand that this is a far cry from an unfamiliar sight. What plagues my mind up until this day is the realisation that it was an elderly woman that asked to carry my bag to the car. As my grandfather and I drove through the boomgates on the ill-kept gravel road, I recall a sadness that filled my heart concerning the visible poverty in the country. In South Africa, people dressed in evidently old clothing, unkept hair and worn out shoes are the poor. At that point I struggled to differentiate between those who are poor and those who aren’t. Fancy clothes appeared to be a luxury, but I convinced myself that this is just the border gate, the poor are at the border gate. We proceeded to Formalities, my grandfather and I, and the friendly service came to a quick halt. Unlike it was in Rwanda, there was no sense of patience but a strange suspicion of my presence, a harsh tone in the manner they spoke to me. Luckily, my grandfather is well known and I was able to leave without being completely blown off.
Driving onwards, I recall clearly the most painful scene of my stay there, and very unfortunately, it would not be the only time my eyes are exposed to such fearful sight. Documentaries on the DRC introduce you to one of the scariest tactics of war used by the Belgium colonisers during the reign on Neopal. In order to instil fear in the nations, the hands and feet of people who failed to obey cruel orders, or the hands of the ‘lazy’ were chopped off as a warning to others tempted to repeat similar offences. My mother had once told me that during the war with Rwanda, this same cruelty was repeated. And there I was, 18 April 2014, face to face with and handless and footless man, realising how quickly what seemed to me to be merely a historical event of old was in fact the painful reality that haunts a nation. I had no words to say concerning this, so I embraced the silence in my heart, the silence in the car.
Granddad spoke, he pointed out to me a number of buildings, telling me what they once were. Most of the buildings and houses in Bukavu have a classic Victorian theme to them, they don’t posses the same glory that is associated with Western versions of these homes, but one could tell that in their day, these buildings were quite a sight. Naturally, I asked about what they are used for now, the response was evasive. “People are trying what they can, but nothing is functioning as they used to when they whites were around”. Silence. He went on to tell me how different DRC is from South Africa. The roads for one, were utterly disastrous. From my observation it appeared as though there were no lanes to drive in, cars seemed to be coming at us from all directions. I was convinced there’d be a crash (which is apparently an extremely rare occurrence) ;but it turns out the roads are an organised mess. I was informed that the roads worked well too, when they whites were there…
During my stay I soon realised that the history of the DRC was narrated to me in two movements, the epoch of the whites and the devastated present. I was left with absolutely no sense of the in-between I am now so eager to hear about. What has happened to the days of Independence? What did we as a people achieve in this time? What has happened to the memories of our heroes? The silences around this issue baffle me, especially considering the noise expressed when celebrating Independence in the country. To build a nation, one requires at the very foundation this very sense of independence, a confidence in the country, its rulers and its people. A surety that out of the nation can come forth sustainable livelihoods, futures of promise for those that are yet to come, and above all, a hope for greatness and glory that works together for the common good of all.
The DRC, without blame on her part, is struggling as with labour pains to birth a nation. Her children are pushed down the street in wheelchairs, with no arms or legs. Maimed. Yet, she expected to build something, be something, to utter kind words to visitors after experience has taught her that sheltering foreigners leads to war. In her memory is the recall of a colonial past where though she suffered, she ate and drank. Her children had houses and were well fed. Today, she sees that she still suffers, and food and drink are not so easy to come by, neither are homes in which she can shelter dreams and nurture her young into a nation. These two epochs share in common fear, fear of what was and fear of what is.
Once we arrived at my grandfather’s home, I noticed something I was soon to realise was common to find in many homes I was to visit. On the walls and across furniture that would make space for it, were plastered religious images of Christ and the Virgin Mary, sometimes even written prayers. As I reflect upon this today I pray in my heart that upon the hearts of this country may be plastered an image of Christ so that they may begin to believe the scripture that reads
“We have not been given a spirit of fear, but that of power, love and a sound mind”
My heart is seeking that we may begin to recall the victories of old, remembering that in the midst of persecution God made a way for our deliverance and he can do it again. Through our own hands, black hands, black intellect. That like the whites, we too are capable. We too are human. We too can build a nation. We too can gain independence. Even though we once were maimed…
Rag – I
From rags to ‘I’
“You know you a…
“You know you are dead
When a rock settles
At the back of the throat
You don’t ask questions
And all the answers you know
Remain unchanged”
The poem CURIOUS by Lebo Mashile… Reminds me to never stop questioning, thinking, learning….
The Return to… Africa?
Never in my life have the writings of Steve Biko resonated in my mind more than at this very moment. Never before have I realised the extent to which I am privileged, live in a privileged system whose development has been accredited to the presence of the white man. Never before, have I found myself to think that maybe, just maybe, the whites should have stayed in Africa just a little longer. In my writings I unashamedly encourage a spirit of martyrdom to the benefit of those who find themselves in the most marginalised, compromised positions in society. In my first article, I speak of blackness and Africa. I realise that pulling out the ‘race card’ in this day and age may be sensitive and compromising; however, regarding the present day situation it appears to me that someone ought to take the first lashing for the sake of the truth. In the spirit of Bikonianism, I desire to state clearly that my intention is not a return to racialism and the categorisation of black and white, but to play a role in the liberalisation of generations of people programmed to think along the lines of race. Who have been made to think, and have been given false evidence to believe that one race is indeed superior to the other. That progress would be impossible without the white hand. In essence, I seek to give Africa, to give black people, the reassurance that they too are human. I find myself in the DRC for just over a week. Before my arrival, I had a conversation with a cousin telling her about my excitement regarding my ‘homecoming’, to which she responded “I’m afraid that you’re so excited, DRC is not like South Africa. I doubt you’ll like it there”. Being the optimist that I am, I concluded that ‘different’ would do me some good, that it was a much needed change of scenery. On the plane, I decided to take a closer read at the book compilation of Steve Biko’s speeches and writings, I Write What I like. Although I am extremely familiar with the ideology of Black Consciousness, there was a depth of reason and logic brought out when reading his own words, a controversy that forces one to deeply consider where (s)he places oneself in terms of their own liberation and that of others. Biko highlights the importance of black people (in the context of the apartheid system; and duly to colonialism) being the founders of their own freedom, the masterminds behind it, the voice of it, the hands that weave it together. In South Africa, we see how this manifested, at least in terms of political freedom. I do not deny the presence and appreciated efforts of ‘whites’ in the liberation of blacks from an oppressive apartheid system, but stress that when reflecting upon South Africa’s freedom heroes, the names of black men (a topic for another day) come to mind. Furthermore, Biko advocates for the realisation that there is something good in blackness, that in blackness one can find intelligence, purity, that ‘black is beautiful’ can be more than a slogan. Black Consciousness has no home in Congo. It becomes immediately apparent from entrance into the border that the country is in a state of desolation. The very first adverts I saw were selling the pleasures of beer, and the beauty that can be achieved through skin lightening creams. Apart from a single billboard promoting the fight against AIDS, the ads I saw in the following days of my stay were no different. Driving on that bumpy road, I saw too many hopeless faces, too many run down homes and downtrodden buildings, too little sign of hope. A few of the buildings still contained the remnants of a former glory, a reminder of what the “whites made possible”. The question that kept coming back to mind continuously was what do we as a nation have to show for ourselves? What have we achieved with our liberation? What do we think of ourselves as an African nation, as a Congolese people? In the next couple of entries, I hope to give a detailed account of my experience there. More than anything, I hope to paint a clear picture that we cannot blame these people for the state of the nation, and their current perceptions of themselves. War and strife, like victory, gives its children an inheritance. It is up to us whose eyes have been opened to a better world, to take even the most pittiflul inheritance and make of it a legacy worth remembering. May Africa return to glory… Rag – I From rags to ‘I’
But maybe
Afrika is dreaming
Like the world is dreaming,
and Afrika is bluesing
Like the world is bluesing,
and it’s beautiful,
live as a runaway chicken,
as a newborn goat trying out its new knees,
Afrika is the whole world’s starving child
and the universe’s wise grandmother,
Afrikans are dressing up in fantasies
and walking out of the villages and into
the cities and out of the cities
and back to the villages, via the
cave and the beach and the mountain
and the moon.
There is no limit.
There is no boundary
– Phillippa Yaa de Villiers
Poverty, Humanity, and God’s Eyes: Some More Equal than Others
Growing up, I remember seeing images of Africa, of African children unbathed surrounded by flies in the blazing heat and I would wonder how that smelt. I remember the pictures of women, carrying water pots on their heads, or sitting in the market place calling out to those walking by to purchase something. I remember little of men, except television images of those in military clothing, and young boys carrying weapons by their sides. Even more clearly, I remember the voice of my father talking about Congo, home. About the war. About peace. Suffering. Poverty. About making a difference. About being African. About being black. Growing up in South Africa, I knew little of the realities of war, let alone of hunger or poverty. I grew up in a relatively middle-class home. What I knew of poverty were street kids in neighbouring townships and I’d wonder to myself why they wouldn’t go home. I noticed they were black, like me. I noticed all the street kids in the storybooks, they too were black. So were the maids, the car guards, the street vendors, and everyone who came to our door asking for food. Rejected by the black kids for not being black enough seeing that I spoke absolutely no zulu, I found myself befriending the white girls. Playing with their hair amazingly delighted at its texture, at how they didn’t have to keep it braided like I did. I was intrigued by stories of their homes, swings and playrooms, sleepovers and foods I would only find at a party. I found myself imagining I was more like they were. I named my dolls after them, all of which were white and beautiful like they were. One day, a black friend brought her doll along to school, a black doll, the very first I had seen of this kind and I was excited, until all the other kids said how ugly it was. Their remarks reminded me of what they had said about me, that she was dark, ugly. I knew then that she had to be white to be good. And if by fall of sad fate she’d find herself black, at least she should’ve been light. I am grown now. Although I am fully aware that this is not the single, complete reality of Africa, I still see images of Africa’s children plastered all over the media, bellies swollen with hunger. I see men, and young boys fighting wars dressed in military garments as if to create the illusion of manhood. I see women and girls, suffering the brutalities of rape and violence. I see black. I see darkness. I see evil. I see the night, and I pray for the morning to come. It is fearful to think that even today, the darkest wars that face humanity seem to be the plague of its darkest people. It is as though blackness has come to attract even the scorching heat of hell. Blackness has become synonymous with all sorts of atrosities and calamities. One watches in wonder about how it is that an entire people, loved by God, would hunger for peace, eating daily from the hands of injustice? “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God”. Many of us who identify with the Christian faith would be familiar with this scripture. I notice two important points. Firstly, peacemakers can only exist where there has been a disturbance of peace, where there is strife. One surely cannot come to make peace where peace already exists. Secondly, in the same way that sons are understood as being reflections of their fathers, thus making peace reflects a godly attribute. Africa is blessed. She has mothered many peacemakers, unsung heroes, sons of God. She’s raised people willing to sacrifice their lives and freedoms for peace to reside in their land, and in the hearts of their peoples. One must mention the likes of Lumumba, Mandela, Biko, who violently pursued peace. Lumumba, sought peace for the Congolese nation by seeking freedom from the oppression of the colonies, he later died in the name of this cause. Biko sought to put the black (wo)man at peace with their own blackness, to create a consciousness of their own and thus manoeuvre their own freedoms. Mandela demonstrated a peace that comes with reconciliation and forgiveness, not forgetting those following in his legacy that offered restitution to sustain that peace. It is for me remarkable that these heroes would sacrifice their lives for the sake of attaining peace. Many hundreds of years later, Africa remains faced with the same issues we waged war against for the sake of peace. Blackness is as problematic as it was before. Blackness finds no beauty within herself; she stands constantly compared to the white ideal of what it means to be beautiful. Blackness is hungry; she remains the face of poverty on the TV screen and on the street corners. She can say very little about true freedom, her fate remains determined by hand-outs from the West, yet within her belly lays precious jewels, from her womb comes the finest fruit. She drinks the blood of her own children dying daily in wars. She yearns for someone to once again die to self, to the luxuries of convenience for the sake of Africa, and every black soul within her. She yearns for the spirit of martyrdom, for the heart of a peacemaker. I write as a social analyst, hoping that through what I see and what I write, I may contribute to the liberation of my own people. My desire is that I may be even a tiny candle, giving hope, light and direction. I believe in the equality of all people, and hope that even those with dark skins will one day see that they too are worthy of living in what is at present ‘the luxury of equality’. The most beautiful lights are seen in the night. In the darkness of our blackness, may we see the light of true hope through our midnights. Rag – I From rags to ‘I’
Ramblings of a Martyr 