I fell off a horse today

[flashback from July 2016]

I fell off a running horse today. I should start by saying I'm 100% ok..My lipstick didn't even smudge - Mac is the 8th wonder of the world.

I was always afraid of falling off a horse. You know that's how Don Draper's dad died. I think he fell off a horse and it kicked him in the face. Mine was less dramatic than that.

I think what happened is that my horse - Oasis - has been watching Usain Bolt and was inspired. We were three riders - Aurelien Chu who is an expert rider. Mou Na who is also a novice like me, but loves speed. Me who has ridden a few times but only with very calm horses that rarely/never gallop.

We start off, it's lovely - Aurelien is galloping, me and Mouna are mostly strolling or trotting.i see signs very early that my horse is an overachieving leader - never a follower. Oasis wants to be ahead of everyone while me I'm ok with staying close to the reassuring presence of the guide. By the ocean, she wants to run in and play around. I can appreciate that - I'm a water baby too..

Then the excitement begins. Mouna wants to go fast but her horse (my horse's twin) will only gallop for 5 seconds then chill. My horse on the other hand wants to go for gold. Every time anyone gives the call for their horse to run, it's my horse that goes off running. At first I'm freaked out by the speed - then I start to enjoy the adrenaline. I learn to lean forward when she's galloping and really squeeze my thighs hard so that you don't lose balance. We are at an ok rhythm - she gives me that nice adrenaline rush but when i kanyaga brakes, she stops. Everytime Mouna or Aurelien tell their horse to run, it's Oasis who runs fast.

Women, they never tell you. Wear a sports bra for horse riding. The ladies had long escaped from their prison.

Then we are galloping and she decided she has to be number one. So me I'm kanyagaing brakes telling her number last is ok. She wasn't having any of that. Now she's trying to overtake Aurelien's horse - sibling rivalry has already made her pass Mouna's horse. She's flying (at least that's what it felt like to my novice self.) She sees Aurelien's horse in the distance and says "bilaz! It can't end like this." Now she's really flying - I'm pulling the reins saying "Arrête! Arrête!" forgetting she's more conversant in wolof than in French. I lose balance and feel myself fall...

Oh my gosh! I've fallen off a running horse. I roll as far as I can - I don't want her to land on me! Turns out I have no need to worry, Oasis didn't even look back.. I thought we were friends! I petted you before the ride. The guide saying "Elle aime les câlins"/"she loves cuddling"…Me too! We have some sort of sisterhood!

Naaa aaah - this girl went for gold:-) Are you ok? Yeah - except my ass really hurts. I landed on it - which is a good thing.... Many worse ways to fall. I stand up ...hold up! What is that noise in my ear? VOK? Turuuuuuruiiiiii turuuuuuruiiiiii

.. Why do they sound so far? I fall on my ass again... .i momentarily remember there a major connection between balance and your ears.. After a few minutes I'm ok to stand up, get back on Oasis and finish the ride - with the guide holding her reins..

Oasis you're cool - we cuddled and took a selfie and all after that, but please don't judge me next time when I take Mouna's horse. It's not you.

It's me.

Celebrating Christmas in Senegal

This time of year, when you take a walk in the streets of Dakar—the capital city of Senegal, that is 92%-95% Muslim in one of the hottest parts of the world, you stumble upon decorated snowmen, Christmas trees with cotton snowballs, traditional masks covered in Christmas lights. It lifts your spirits and gives you hope the end of the world might not be as near as it seems.

The other day I told someone here I love the religious tolerance in Senegal. They told me it’s not “religious tolerance” but “solidarity.” I love that.

I’ve always been uncomfortable with the term “tolerance.” Something about it inherently means there is something wrong about the other—that it has to be “tolerated.” It’s like how you have to tolerate your kleptomaniac friend or your hypochondriac relative. The word ‘tolerance’ gives us the feeling that we are somehow more superior in some way, but graceful enough to not detest our object of tolerance—even though we feel we have every right to.

Teranga—that’s the cornerstone of Senegalese society. Senegalese people are known to be extremely warm and welcoming to each other and to strangers. It is something they highly value as a society. In addition to that, they respect other people’s cultures and way of life even if it’s contrary to theirs. In the streets of Dakar, you will see women in small shorts or mini-skirts alongside other women in Hijab. No one will bat an eyelid. Your way of life will be respected and in turn you should also respect their way of life.

Full article available here on Quartz. 

Up close and personal with sea creatures

Two months into my Dakar move, I heard about a grand annual race that takes place from Dakar to Goree island – a distance of 4km. I love swimming! Me and a few friends decided to start training for the race by swimming from Ngor to Ngor island and back a few times a week. I still recall that first time. It was something from a bizarre comedy. This was my first time swimming in the ocean. Of course I have swam in the Ocean a few times, but it’s more of jumping, catching waves etc. – not intentionally leaving the shore to swim into the deep of the ocean – get to an island across and swim back. I have also swam in other water bodies including a river in Arembepe, Bahia in Brazil. There I was enjoying the swim in the peaceful river when my friends called me back. “Watch out for the snakes!” So river swimming – yes there are risks. My favourite open water swimming was in Lake Tanganyika in Rumonge, Burundi. That water was perfectly clear, freshwater lake – no salt, calm…and I was told that in this particular part there are no hippos or crocodiles. It was such an idyllic place to swim.

The ocean though – I had my concerns before. What about the salt? I was going to wear goggles but you know you can never trust those things – the number of times they get misty and you can’t see anything. What about the waves? We were going to swim at 7am and the waves were not expected to be terrible. What about the sharks? There have been only 4 shark attacks in Dakar from 1828 – 2004. Basically if I got attacked by a shark, then it was fate.

There were 5 of us the first morning. We got to the water at 7am. The view was lovely – the sun rising over the ocean, rocking boats by the beach, a nice view of the island we would be swimming to. We began swimming and everyone got to their natural rhythm. We were all swimming at different speeds and doing different strokes. I chose to do breast stroke as it was the easiest to breathe in, given the waves coming in from the side. I would have drunk too much water if I tried to do crawl – and crawl is tiring for a long-ish swim. Everything was going perfectly up until I was really close to the island. One of my friends is an outdoors rockstar. She had already done the Dakar to Goree swimming race twice, rides a scooter, surfs all the time……ooooh and by the way, she also happens to be an amazing project manager at DalbergJ, in addition to being a really nice, kind, fun person! Before we started swimming, she warned us “When you get to the other side, there will be rocks but don’t worry. They appear much closer than they actually are.” At that point, I had wondered why rocks should be something to worry about – I would soon learn.

I got to the rocky part – the rocks were still far beneath me. With my goggles I got to see lovely small fish swim past me. I was marveling at nature. I went a bit further and because the tide was low, the rocks were much closer to me. It was becoming hard to swim as the water was now really shallow and the rocks were touching my thighs. The obvious instinct was to walk on the rocks…..

But……

The rocks were covered in poisonous sea urchins.

At first I didn’t see the sea urchins. I stood on the rocks a bit. At this point, Tania (the rockstar) turned back and told me – “Ciku don’t stand. Keep swimming. Swim flat so that you don’t touch the rocks. There are urchins on them!”

Up to this point, my interaction with sea urchins had been limited. There had been a plate full of live urchins that my crazy cool Japanese friend – Natsuno – had ordered the first time we went together to Point des Almadies. Those things are ugly! So I knew they were ugly and move like something from a nightmare.

I had later learnt that on top of being a very creepy meal, they are extremely dangerous. Two weeks before, Tania had been surfing and landed on sea urchins on a rock. Her knee had been the size of small football for 4 days.

I knew I wanted nothing to do with these urchins – not on my plate, not under my skin.

“Ouch!”

“Did something sting you?”

I replied, “Yeah. My foot hurts and my finger too.”

“Oh no. You’ve been stung by sea urchins. Let me see if there is a way to get to the beach without having to pass these rocks.”

By this time I was petrified. I had no desire to get to the island anymore – we were close enough, but would have to go through poisonous territory to get there. I decided to turn back and swim back to the mainland. By the time I got to the mainland, my foot and finger were stinging. From an inspection of my wounds, we suspected that my finger had been stung by a jellyfish, while my foot had sea urchin spikes in it. Tania got a needle, heated it usinga lighter and got to work. I thought I would need a shot for the spike removal but it wasn’t too bad.

Some spikes were really deep inside and Tania advised to call a doctor home to come remove them immediately or risk getting really swollen and having to deal with lots of pain. A doctor was called and I needed quite a bit of language support from my friends as I could not even pronounce what got me Les oursins (sea urchins) et une meduse (jellyfish). I kept on saying Les Oiseaux (birds.) Clearly the doctor must have been wondering how “birds stung the sole of my foot.”

Aaaah. I got up close and personal with these sea creatures! Be warned. These stings get worse day by day. On the first day I thought “this is not too bad.” By the 3rd day it was really painful to walk. I had to bail out of a weekend trip to Gambia.

Sea urchins, next time I will eat you.  

Quotable quotes from the Hargeysa International Book Fair

There were so many remarkable people at the Hargeysa International Book Fair (HIBF) and so many things they said that I still reflect on. 

"Marriage in our society is not considered a partnership, but an ownership"

"I am always in competition with myself. I am always in competition with the challenges that I have."

"I have this powerful urge to solve problems."

"All Somaliland needs is that recognition and the acceptance that Somaliland will not cross that bridge of forming a union with any other country again, because there is no bridge to cross." 

Edna Aden

Edna Aden embodies the Somaliland spirit of hope, tenacity and aspiration of a nation. A trained nurse, senior WHO official, first female Foreign Minister of Somaliland, activist and sincere advocate of women’s rights. After a successful career at the WHO, Edna invested her personal wealth and knowledge to reduce the staggeringly high levels of preventable infant and maternal mortality in Somaliland. She has built Somaliland's first hospital and is training 1000 midwives. 

"There are two diasporas - the diaspora who remain and the diaspora who return to their home countries."

"We have to respect the knowledge and lived experiences of ALL people"

"We need to open up spaces to brothers and sisters doing the work rather than owning these spaces ourselves. When Eritreans are drowning in the Mediterranean, it's my phone that The Guardian calls...."

Hannah Pool

Hannah Pool is an Eritrean born British journalist and curator. Her memoir titled "My Father's Daughter" is simply riveting. Snippet below from her true story. 

"In 1974 Hannah Pool was adopted from an orphanage in Eritrea and brought to England by her white adoptive father. She grew up unable to imagine what it must be like to look into the eyes of a blood relative until one day a letter arrived from a brother she never knew she had. Not knowing what to do with the letter, Hannah hid it away. But she was unable to forget it, and ten years later she finally decided to track down her surviving Eritrean family and embarked upon a journey that would take her far from the comfort zone of her metropolitan lifestyle to confront the poverty and oppression of a life that could so easily have been her own."

**

"A story that needs to be told, never forgives silence"

Okey Ndibe

Okey Ndibe is a novelist, political columnist, and essayist.  He is the author of the highly acclaimed novels "Arrows of Rain" and "Foreign Gods Inc," among others. 

"I would rather stay in a cocoon and not flourish than live in a society that is corrupted."

Chuma Nwokolo

Chuma Nwokolo is a highly acclaimed Nigerian poet, writer and editor of several novels including "Diaries of a dead African", "How to spell Naija", "The ghosts of Sani Abacha" etc. He is also currently proposing a revolutionary bill called "Bribecode" that could deal with the issue of corruption in Nigeria. 

"I came up with my first poem at the age of 8 when I was lost in the wilderness, all alone and I needed to communicate with the animals not to harm me."

Hawo Jama Abdi

Hawo is a  young female poet and a disability rights activist who was born blind

"Telling us to talk about Nigeria in an hour is similar to placing an elephant in the middle of the market and giving us small knives to carve it up with."

"We are culturally incapable of brevity"

"We have imbeciled ourselves by assuming we can't learn more than one language."

"If you have to eat a toad, you have to eat a big one."

Professor Niyi Osundare

Prof. Niyi Osundare is a prolific poet, dramatist and literary critic

"Stories have a lot of moral lessons. It's an important way to impart lessons to children."

"When you bully someone, it's similar to crumpling a piece of paper. You can unfold it, but the creases remain."

Maimouna Jallow

Maimouna is a writer and curator of stories focusing on Ancient Tales of East Africa.

Arriving in Somaliland

I woke up around 5am in Addis - had a hurried breakfast then left for 8:30am flight to Hargeisa. I got to the airport and most of the women were in full hijabs. I was wearing diracs that I had bought from a kind Somalilander woman in Eastleigh called Fardowsa. She had assured me that this would be appropriate dress code for Hargeisa. Now that I was standing at the airport in a sea of women in full hijabs I began to get nervous that perhaps I had not bought appropriate clothing for my trip. 

We got on the plane. First and business class was all white people. I figured out they must all be working for development agencies. Economy class was the rest of us:-) We got to Hargeisa around 1pm. I arrived and met a really friendly French girl who was attending the festival. As we were chatting, we bumped into a very well-known Malawian professor of literature - he used to be a judge for the Caine Prize. I love literary festivals - you get to rub shoulders with the most fascinating people. I have found African writers to be the least pretentious people i've ever met. Maybe it's because as writers you might get fame, but very rarely have the fortune. I get the feeling that festivals with musicians or actresses would be more hierarchical - with the more famous artists not really mingling with "the watus." In literature festivals, all of you get to interact. As a new writer, I always feel so fortunate to be in the midst of people whose work I have admired for a long time and be sharing a beer or a rolex (egg rolled in chapatis,) and talking like old friends. Writers are also wacky - so I always feel quite at home at literature festivals, as I have always been a bit of an odd-ball.....and the conversations are the best!

The Malawian professor had arrived but all his luggage was lost. We got out of the airport and I remember wondering why there was no real customs check. We just landed, got our bags and left without anyone searching them. We got to the hotel -  a really lovely comfortable hotel. I slept for half an hour then went down to  the reception for lunch. I met some lovely Kenyan ladies who work at the Rift Valley Institute. My head scarf game was not yet on point. I had done a very traditional head scarf style that covered all my hair, my ears etc. I figured it was better to err on the side of too-conservative in the beginning then look around and see what everyone else was doing after a few days. Unfortunately I had tied my headscarf so tight that I couldn't hear anything well, my neck was hurting, breathing became a bit labored and I could not eat.....Rookie error. I had to excuse myself from lunch to go and tie it in a way that could allow me to function...

We left for the festival grounds. I stocked my books at the official festival bookshop. As I was walking around, I found another bookshop stall. The owner called me over, looked at my book and asked for 10 copies. She gave me $100 immediately for the books. I was really impressed. Most times at festivals, you stock your books and only get paid at the end for what sells. I had always heard that Somalis are the best people to do business with - and now I was seeing it. No haggling. No "come back after a few days we discuss", No "we will see" - Just "How much is it? Ok. Give me 10 copies - here is  your money." It has a lot to do with how tight family and clan relations are in Somali culture. A lot of Somali businesses are ran on trust rather than on official contracts.  People don't want to betray that trust because you not only bring shame on yourself, but shame on your family, your clan etc. It could explain the success of Somali money transfer businesses such as Dahabshill or Somali prowess in in international logistics e.g.  Salihiya cargo - that can get your stuff from locations the world-over to their warehouse in Nairobi. They are able to use the global Somali network of relatives to ensure logistics is flawless. The other thing about Somali businesses - especially retail - they are highly price competitive. When I went to South C to buy my diracs, I was so surprised to learn that each would cost me $3 for the fabric and $0.50 for stitching. I could not even negotiate. Where else are you going to buy a full outfit for KES 350? Only in Eastleigh..The customer service might not always be that great, but hey - many places have horrible customer service and still charge you an arm and a leg. 

I stayed on for a session on ancient manuscripts and a Somali play that I'm not quite sure I understood. It was in Somali.  I think it was about a fight between animals, but I could also just be making this up given how little I understood:-)

Everywhere I looked around at the festival, I saw the most beautiful women in the most amazing fabrics. Fardowsa had been right - my diracs would be quite at home here in Hargeysa.  I remember every single Somalilander I met saying "Thank you for coming to Somaliland." It just made me feel so warm and fuzzy inside that someone would thank me for coming to a festival I had been dying to attend ever since I first heard of it. 

No - thank you Somaliland and thank you Hargeysa International Book Fair for having me. 

Somaliland is not a fancy name for Somalia

Can you imagine the first time I learnt about Somaliland (and the fact that it wasn’t just a fancy name for Somalia) was at the end of 2014 when I was dating a Somali-British guy who had been born in Somaliland? All this time anytime I heard about Somaliland, I thought it was another name for Somalia. Similar to Cote d’ivoire = Ivory Coast or something like that.

Anyway fast forward a few years and now I was living life as a proper fiction novelist – traversing the African continent for book launches, literature festivals etc. I heard about the Hargeysa International Book Fair and how amazing it is and decided I have to get invited. I’m a bit of a stalker, an optimist and have wide networks -  so the time lag between me hearing of something and getting there is usually not that long:-). I know I am lucky and I never forget to appreciate it and be helpful to others whenever I can.

I got to the airport for my flight to Hargeisa and realized I had left my specs at home. This was not going to work out – it was one of the rare instances I was flying wearing contacts (dailies.) I paid my cab guy double fare for him to go back home and bring me the stuff I had forgotten on my bed. I got to the airport and I had so much wahala – I had my flight details sent to me but the flight details they had at the airport had the wrong name. My flight had unfortunately been booked under the name I commonly use – Ciku Kimeria – rather than my passport name. I had feared this and had reminded the organizers a few times, but it happens. It’s an honest mistake – people assume that my chosen name is also my “Government” name. I was desperate to get on that flight as I had heard there are not that many flights on that route. I pleaded with the airline people – please call the travel agent who booked the flight (as they had those details on their end.) On my end, I was desperately contacting the festival organizer. These were the least helpful airport people on earth. They did not seem to recognize the urgency of my issue. The lady was typing slowly, asking silly questions etc. then finally it happens, “Yeah. Your flight has left you!”

Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrgggggh

So I end up being sent to the Ethiopian Airlines office in the airport – they were even less helpful than this lady. “From this office we can only send emails – no calls”…Like….seriously?? So they could only send an email to the Ethiopian Airlines person in Hargeisa who had to change my details – then we wait – me chewing my nails, her filing hers (ok…just kidding, but she might as well have been doing that for how laissez-faire she was.) No response to the email. Finally I let her borrow MY cellphone for her to call their Hargeisa contact who would change my flight details. My flight had left at 1pm and all this foolishness was only resolved at 3pm. I was finally sorted out and booked on a 5:30pm flight to Hargeisa with an overnight stop in Addis.

I found mypal – James Murua – literature blogger extraordinaire also stuck at the airport. He had arrived in the morning for yet another flight to Hargeisa (also to attend the festival) and the airline had told him the flight had been cancelled. Not a small issue – his airline only had one flight a week to Hargeisa – meaning even if they bumped him to the next flight, he would miss the whole festival.

We did the only logical thing to do when you’re stuck at the airport and have nothing to do, but wait…we drank – 5 or so beers each – to lighten the load.

Finally managed to check in for the 5:30pm flight to Addis. We got to Addis at 8pm. There was an airport shuttle to the hotel I would be spending the night in – I sat and waited in this airport shuttle for 50 good minutes. By this point I was so tired and ready to get my own taxi to this hotel. I would have to leave the hotel at 5:45am for my next flight to Hargeisa and these people were wasting my precious sleeping time. At the hotel I quickly ate then went to the room to sleep. This was the coldest hotel room of my life in the global South. Actually I don’t think I have ever been in such a cold hotel room even in the North – because if it was winter, there would be a heater in the room. Ah – actually I’ve been in a colder room, but that was in the Bolivian desert. There was a good excuse for it to be cold. Hotel room in Addis – what’s your excuse?

I requested a blanket and waited another hour for it to come. I was so irritated by the time I slept..especially knowing I needed to be up in five and a half hours. 

Why going to the Hargeysa International book fair should be on your bucket-list

With the Hargeisa International Book Fair gaining more popularity in the recent past, there is interest from many to know more about this undiscovered gem and also the little known country behind the festival.  

Do not consider yourself naïve if this is the moment you learn that Somaliland is not just a fancy name for Somalia, but rather is an autonomous region that has been existing peacefully for over 20 years – yes, 20 years. If it comforts you I was as clueless as you likely are about Somaliland’s existence up to a few years back. Once I came to terms with the fact that the world as we know it was hiding lots of useful information from me, I was further amazed to find out that one of the region’s most spectacular and well attended book fairs takes place every year in the capital of Somaliland – Hargeisa. With that I vowed that I would attend the book fair and discover what all this was about. I was extremely fortunate to attend the Hargeysa International Book Fair (HIBF) in August 2015 and here are the key highlights of it for me as a non-Somalilander.

The flowers of Hargeisa – its women and their brightly colored outfits: I had not been quite sure what to wear in Hargeisa. A week before my trip I went to Eastleigh in Nairobi to shop for diracs. I found myself at the shop of a lady from Somaliland called Fardowsa. Her fabrics were beautiful and brightly colored. I have nothing against bright colors, but the last thing I wanted to do in Hargeisa was be in any way inappropriately dressed. I knew that the dressing would be quite different from that in Nairobi, and I did not want in any way to look like a silly foreigner. Fardowsa assured me that the outfits she had picked for me were quite acceptable, but I was only sure of this once I got to Hargeisa. The women wear the most amazing fabrics and colors. I had never ever used a headwrap in my life, but in Hargeisa I learnt that there are ways to wrap your hair that are quite fashionable. The real flowers of Hargeisa are indeed the women. It was great to see HIBF celebrate this women with a colorful exhibition titled “The flowers of Hargeisa” that featured women making a difference in Somaliland.

Sitaad (religious drumming by Somali women) inspiring nationalistic pride in Hargeisa. Of course, I was dying with curiosity to watch Sitaad drumming at the festival. We had been repeatedly told that Sitaad was a music form exclusively performed by women – a sufi Islamic practice interlinked with spiritualism and one of the few public artistic outlets that allow women to bring up issues affecting them and explore issues of fidelity, peace, philanthropy etc. My curiosity was piqued. It was wonderful to be invited by Somalilander women to join them in the dance. The most beautiful moment was when a Somaliland flag appeared out of nowhere, the room was in a state of frenzy, the drums grew louder, the women singing asked in Somali – “Whose flag is it?” The response “SOMALILAND!” “Whose country is this? “SOMALILAND” Whose constitution is it? “SOMALILAND”. I was entranced by the nationalistic pride that revealed itself through Sitaad. Now I knew why guide books talk about Sitaad as having the ability to get participants into a state of “ecstasy” and “spiritual intoxication.”

The blind poet who composed her first poem at the age of 8 while lost in the wilderness: Once upon a time an 8 year old blind girl was accidentally left behind by her nomadic family in the wilderness as they moved to another location. In a state of fear, this little girl heard the laughter of hyenas around her, sounds of the wild terrified her. To calm herself, she recited a poem to a hyena close to her. She eventually made it to safety and credits the poem with enabling her to “speak to the wilderness.” This is not a fairy tale – this is the true story of a young Somalilander poet by the name Hawo Jama Abdi. Listening to this girl’s story (in translation as she was speaking in Somali,) was extremely captivating. The power that art has to strengthen, to heal and to inspire.

Women of the World (WOW) session in Hargeisa: One afternoon, we had a lovely session with women from Somaliland, those from the diaspora and those from elsewhere on the continent and beyond. It was wonderful to hear women young and old voice the challenges they face as a result of gender discrimination. What was even more inspiring was hearing the stories of those who have defied the odds against such discrimination. Somali women who have opened and run very successful businesses in Hargeisa despite some of the backlash they face, great women such as the 78 year old Edna Aden – Somaliland’s first foreign minister, a trained nurse, senior WHO official who is currently building Somaliland’s first maternity hospital. Women who have fought and continue to fight the good fight for gender parity in their communities.

Long lunches, tea-time discussions that we hoped would never end and evenings spent chatting up to 2am: The discussions at literary festivals are one of the most exciting aspects of the fair. I can’t count the idle hours spent discussing everything under the sun with the likes of Chuma Nwokolo, Dr. Mpalive Msiska, Prof. Osundaro, Okey Ndibe, Nadifa Mohamed, Quman Akli, Dr. Siham Rayale, Maimouna Jallow, James Murua, Hannah Pool, Zahra Jibril etc.

Henna at the salon with festival guests including Nadifa Mohamed and Hannah Pool: I can unashamedly claim that one afternoon in Hargeisa, I got to visit a henna salon with Nadifa Mohamed (“Black mamba boy”, “Orchard of lost souls”), Hannah Pool (“My father’s daughter”) and other wonderful guests and spent a few hours getting henna tattoos on our hands.

Laas Geel – prehistoric paintings in caves and rockshelters: While this is not part of the festival in any way, being in Hargeisa gives you the ability to take a one hour drive to caves with rock art that dates between 9,000 – 3,000 BC. The rock art is among the oldest found in Africa. It has been recommended that Laas Geel be protected as a UNESCO World Heritage site, but due to the regions complicated diplomatic situation, the area has been left to its own defenses. The over 5000 year old rock art in the caves is in remarkably great shape, but it is unsure how long the site will be able to remain as it is without formal protection.

Love of literature: A friend who attended the HIBF in 2014 told me about one day when Somaliland’s most famous poet – Haadrawi – performed. She is also Kenyan and could not understand his poetry in Somali, but was amazed by how captivating he was. She looked around her and the huge venue was full – there were people on the windows. Outside there were people sitting on trees trying to hear him recite his poetry. This image for me is a testament of the love for literature in Somaliland. Students bought books of other African authors who they had only recently met at the festival. Thousands attended the different sessions – even those who did not speak English perfectly, still attended the English sessions and engaged as much as they could. It was simply inspiring – especially thinking of similar sessions in Nairobi where one normally sees the same faces and starts to wonder if it will ever be possible to fill a huge auditorium unless you are Ngugi wa Thiong’o. The selection of books available in Somali was also quite surprising – the realization that so many people write and read in their local language.

Warmth & hospitality: Only in Somaliland can you get to a shop, not have enough money for your purchases, try to take some back and have the person at the till tell you, “No, it’s fine. This is enough.” It was one of those moments – we were enroute to Laas Geel and stopped at a shop to buy water and other things we would need for the journey. At the till I realized I didn’t have enough money and attempted to take some things back, but the person serving me would not allow that. I left the shop feeling terribly guilty. “How could they let me pay them less?” My Somalilander companion told me, “That’s normal here. If you go into a shop and you clearly have an emergency, they can even let you take things for free.” I had no words – leaving a shop without paying? Not in Nairobi! There were so many instances when I felt overwhelmed by the warmth and generosity of people. During my sessions at HIBF, every Somalilander’s question began with “I thank you for coming to Somaliland.” It was said with such genuine warmth that I really hoped I was a worthy guest -  at least a guest deserving of all the praise.

Highlights from Writivism festival in Uganda

As a new writer on the scene, I have been quite fortunate to attend a few literature festivals in the past years. Every time I hear of a new festival, my heart skips a beat as I wonder how to get myself invited. I cherish these opportunities to meet with like-minded individuals, expand one’s networks in the writing world and get to discover really amazing books that I might otherwise not have come across. Of course it goes without saying that also the opportunity to get signed copies of books from amazing authors I have only seen on TV or read about in magazines and newspapers is an obvious bonus to the whole experience.

While I still need to write lots more about my time at Writivism Uganda a few years back, here are some few highlights:

Room 124, Minister’s village: The Kenyan in me ended up having a room party the first night in Kampala – and most other nights. I recall looking around my tiny room at one point and seeing Mukoma wa Ngugi, Pa Ikhide, Renee Edwige Dro and Donald Molosi. I remember thinking how happy I was to be in such great company. What had started as a tiny room party with Moses Kilolo and Ndinda Kioko had morphed to become a party with great literary giants of the continent – all in my tiny room – 124.

Re-enactment of Jennifer Makumbi’s commonwealth prize winning short story “Let’s tell this story properly” by high school students: I get very flattered when someone quotes a line from my novel “Of goats and poisoned oranges.” I could only imagine what was going through Jennifer Makumbi’s mind as high school students got on stage at the Kampala national theater to dramatize her most famous short story. It was beautiful to see contemporary African literature being brought to life by high school students in the country of her birth – Uganda

Today it’s me – a Motswana playwright and director bringing to life the story of Ugandan musician and HIV/AIDS activist Philly Lutaaya: If someone told you that an actor and playwright from Botswana spent 4 years writing a play about a very beloved and tragic figure from Uganda, learnt to sing all his songs in Luganda, picked up a Ugandan accent, spent time with his family to fully understand the man that was Philly Lutaaya – what would you do? You would likely want to see this play. Watching an African honor another African from a different country in such a respectful manner, telling his story with an African voice was simply inspiring. Be warned though – when you plan to watch Donald Molosi’s play “Today it’s me,” carry lots of tissue with you.

Sessions under trees at Maeesha gardens and at Makerere university: While Maeesha gardens was extremely hard to find, having sessions on Afrofuturism under an open sky (Renee Edwige Dro, Rachel Zadok, Ikhide Ikheloa, Moses Kilolo), blogging masterclasses (James Murua, Nyana Kakoma). The sessions at Makerere held historical significance given this was the exact same venue where Chinua Achebe, Wole Soyinka, Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Bloke Modisane, Robert Serumaga and other greats attended the first conference of Anglophone African writers. Sitting in the same venues where these literary giants sat and having sessions such as “From the bedrooms of African Women” by Nana Darkoa, “What do oil resources mean to African writers” by Richard Ali, Writing an African historical novel by Jennifer Makumbi – was simply surreal.

A night of intense debates at 822 Terrace: I will always laugh when I recall this night. They switched off the lights and we never left. They stopped selling drinks and that did not chase us away. When writers talk, we talk and talk. Sometimes it gets heated, but as long as the group is respectful, everyone leaves as friends even if they don’t share the same opinion on various topics. 

My first literary festival – Storymoja in Kenya

This was a few years back – and it was the first festival that plunged me into the writing world. Muthoni Garland was the first festival organizer who decided to take a chance on me and my novice self – including giving me a panel with Kenyan literary greats. I was humbled and still look back at that opportunity with so much gratitude.

Still lots to be be written about that time at Storymoja but my top memories are below:

Attack of the Shidaz; I loved watching Muthoni Garland’s play at the festival. The performers were excellent and made her writing come to life. I really admired how they were able to engage the audience and have us become part of the performance.

The authors’ room at the venue: I loved this space. Friendships were made and cemented in this room. This is where I got to meet the likes of Harriet Anena (“A nation in labor”), James Murua (“Nairobiliving” “JamesMurua.com”), Beverly Nambozo, Alex Nderitu (When the Whirlwind Passes), Ndiritu Wahome, Kinyanjui Kombani, Juliet Barnes, amongst others. The friendships I made in this space have led to lots of other interesting opportunities (interviews, referrals, festival invites, drink-ups etc.)

Uliza Kiatu, H_art the band: This is not even my own memory, but one from my mother and my sister. They keep speaking about how they heard some heart-tugging guitar chords being played, turned around and found H_art the band playing their amazing hit “Uliza kiatu” right next to them on the grounds. These are the types of things that happen at Storymoja – you never know what amazing performance could be starting right next to you.

Wole Soyinka keynote address: You have never seen a full parking lot until you have seen the parking lot on the morning of Wole Soyinka’s keynote address. Seeing the legend in person would have been enough of a memory to take to my after-life even if all he did was just stand there and smile. Seeing him in person and hearing him touch on topics that are so dear to my heart – him reflecting on the Westgate terror attack that took place during the previous year’s Storymoja, hearing him pay homage to all who died during the attack – including the great Ghanian poet Kofi Awoonor and hearing him talk about issues that really spoke to my soul were almost too much to take. To date, my favourite non-fiction work of Soyinka’s is still “Climate of Fear” from the Reith lectures. It was an honor to see him echo sentiments from this timely piece in person.

Seeing Vuyelwa Maluleke – an amazing South African performance poet in person. It was the night of the gala – all the VIPs and VIIPs were gathered there. I am not actually quite sure how I managed to get into the gala. All I know is that the moment I fell in love with poetry (and began to see it as something other than the never-ending torture it had been in high school) was somewhere between seeing Vuyelwa perform at the gala and meeting all these other amazing African poets who brought poetry to life. She performed “Big girl” and I fell in love. Since then I have become obsessed with her other poems including   “Hair” and “Big school.”

Last days in Comoros

It was a Friday. We had lots of morning meetings then I came back to the hotel around midday as everyone went to the mosque for prayers. After lunch, I decided to go to the bank to change money. I was running out of local currency. There was a super long line at the bank. All of a sudden a guy came into the banking hall and spent half an hour or so yelling at another guy. We all just watched – no one came to pull him away or kick him out. A lady later whispered to me that it was an altercation between employer and employee. The employee had checked his account and had not yet been paid in full.

I got back to the hotel only to realize I had actually not changed enough money. I was off by a factor of 0. Oh boy! Who was going to go back to the bank? I went to the hotel reception to see if they could assist me. Quite coincidentally there was a gigantic guy sitting at the bar throwing back some whiskys (on a Friday afternoon – do you boo boo.) Spyros heard me asking the bartender about changing money at the hotel. Spyros turned out to be a half Greek – half Tanzanian clove trader who was more than happy to take my dollars and give me Comorian francs. I changed 400 USD with him and I was really impressed by how quick it all was – and what a fair deal he had given me.

The next morning we were leaving Ndzouani to head back to Grand Comores (Moroni). The airport was hectic. Everyone was rushing to us giving us packages to take to people in Ndzouani. Comoros kept on reminding me of what the world was when we all trusted each other. My gut instincts is – stranger at the airport giving me a package – wants to make me a drug mule. My travel companion though happily took everyone’s package. One of the packages was from an old man. It was an envelope containing his passport that needed to go to the Malagasy embassy in Ndzouani – and money. Just how trusting are people? I can never imagine giving someone my passport.

Today again we had the same female pilot from Malindi. Saturday was a work day for us in Comoros. I was struggling getting used to this system. By the end of Friday, my body generally crashes and I want to have “me” time for the weekend – not have stakeholder interviews. Our morning in Ndzouani started with Government meetings that took almost 3 hours.

Lost in translation. I remember on our drive to the Government meetings, our car was booming Eamon’s “F*** you” None of my travel companions was Anglophone – as such none of them seemed to realize what the lyrics were. I find it quite hilarious how curse words can only be fully appreciated by those who speak the language well.

After that my field work was officially done. I found a lovely hotel and had a 4 hour lunch – including a beer or two.

I left Moroni for Nairobi the next day. It had definitely been an interesting time in Comoros.

The school at the top of the mountain and other scholarly tales

Today was an early day. We were up and about by 7am distributing surveys. Surveying a third of the schools in a country (albeit a small one) is no mean feat. Something had been getting on my nerves for a while and I finally told my travel group about it. We would be driving with a plastic bag for trash. Whenever we would get on the main road, the local consultant would just chuck the trash out of the window. Juste comme ca. I HATE littering. How don’t people connect in their minds the link between their individual actions and a polluted environment. If you are reading this and you are the type who throw trash anywhere other than a dustbin – stop it! You are not being a good citizen on the world. The group was so surprised that I thought littering was a big deal. People – we can do better.

Anyhoo, one of the schools we visited today was on the top of a mountain. We drove up as far as we could then we had to get out of the car and walk up the rest of the distance. I died a thousand deaths – it was crazy hot, I was in a work suit and I HAAAATE elevation. I’m done with mountains. I’ve been done with mountains for a long time, but they are not yet done with me. I got to the top of the mountain huffing, puffing and sweating buckets. It was not a pretty sight. Thankfully I was in flats – I only wear heels for field visits when we have Government meetings in a known part of the capital city. Otherwise I assume there might be lots of unplanned walking.

Finally we got to the top of the mountain. The people there were an interesting mix. This mountain was on the side of Comoros closest to Madagascar. As such, some of the people there looked Malagasy.

On our way back down the mountain, we gave two people a lift.  It turned out they were going to try and make their way into Mayotte for medical treatment using a pirogue. Can you imagine what types of problems it creates having a little piece of Europe right next to you? One poorcountry next to another that has the same people but is much wealthier and has all the amenities of a Western nation.

The next series of schools for the day were an interesting mix. There was one very remote one – when I took a few pics and showed the kids, they ran away – believing it was magic. That is how remote this area was – the kids had never seen a digital camera. I stopped taking pics as it got disruptive.

We went to pick up surveys in 10 other schools we had delivered them to and not a single one had been filled. Sigh. We got to schools where the Director could barely converse in French – and the surveys had been in French. Schools where barefoot children would run in and out of the director’s house like it was their mother’s kitchen. I concluded that corporal punishment doesn’t happen in Comoros (a good thing.) You would have caught me dead in primary (or high school) just sauntering into the headmaster’s office like that. Hell would have frozen over and some serious caning would await you (especially in primary school. High school was mostly for hot slaps that left your ears ringing.)

Shikomori for beginners + Leaving Moheli for Ndzouani

Marahaba = Thank you (while in Kiswahili it is a response to a greeting, “Shikamoo” “Marahaba”)

Lala unono = See you later (while in Kiswahili it means “sleep well”)

Watiti = children (while in Kiswahili the word is watoto)

Fahamu = Listen/Pay attention/be cautious (while in Kiswahil it means “to know”

Fundi = teacher (while in Kiswahili it means “repairman” e.g. carpenter, plumber etc.)

Kizungu = French (while in Kiswahili it means “English”)

This last one in particular fascinated me. I realized kizungu in the Anglophone sense is English, only because the wazungus in our context were British, but in a Francophone sense, kizungu (i.e. the language of the wazungus) would be French while it would be portuguese in a lusophone context.

Someone needs to do a study on coastal people and mysticism. Before we left the hotel at Moheli, I ate breakfast by the beach. There was a certain guy on the beach who looked unstable. The hotel owner told me that he had stolen a mattress from his mother’s house. His mother had then gone to see a witchdoctor to place a curse on whoever stole the mattress -not knowing it was her son. Ever since that day, he had lost his mind. The hotel owner told me he also had a friend who stole a necklace from his own mother because he wanted to sell it and use the money to go to Europe (I’m assuming it was a very expensive necklace.) His stomach started growing and growing – finally he died. I vowed there and then never to steal anything from my mum -  and if I did, to make sure she doesn’t go to the witchdoctor.

We left the island of Moheli for Ndzouani on a Sunday morning. We got to the airport at noon even though the flight was at 3pm. It was a long wait. I was pleased to see a female pilot and co-pilot. After the flight I chatted a bit with the pilot and she was actually Kenyan -  born and raised in Malindi. On arrival, I met a lady who was half French, half German and I was so excited to speak in German. It had been a while. This was the first time I noticed my French was interfering with my German. It’s as if my mind only has space for one foreign language at a time.

I got to Hotel Papillon (butterfly) and it was ok. I spent the rest of the day resting – discovered our hotel had a bar later on and took the first beer of my time in Comoros. That beer felt so refreshing! You never miss the water till the well runs dry. 

Adjusting to a different culture and finally getting rid of a certain bugga--boo

The afternoon of the day The Terminator went hard on the non-compliant teachers was a Friday. At lunchtime, everyone went to the mosque for prayers. I was left at the beach to kill time – there are definitely worse ways to kill time:-). After that we went for lunch at a small roadside place. I had the most delicious fish ever – everyone insisted I should order it and said it was rare and a specialty in Comoros. It was called “poisson rouge” which translates to “red fish.” It was only months later during a French class that I learnt goldfish are poisson rouge. Comoros has rare goldfish that grow to a full size. That fish was delicious and so soft! There was a lovely baby at the restaurant. I could see the fascination in our driver’s eyes. He told me how much he loves babies – and he had many of them. When he had come to pick me from the beach earlier, we had met his wife and one of their small babies. He was such an affectionate father. Later on the streets we had met one of his daughters and he had called her over, hugged her tenderly, exchanged kind words with her and given her some money to go treat herself. Comorians were really warm. We kept on stopping everywhere along the way to give people lifts.

We had some official meetings later in the day. Given that some conservative muslim men don’t shake women’s hands, I had chosen to take the cue on what was appropriate from the interviewee. Most times I would simply bow my head and do a small hand wave. If they reached out for my hand, I would shake their hand too – but I would never stretch out my hand first – just in case they did not shake hands with women. You can imagine my confusion when one of our government interviewees cheekily asked me to kiss him on his cheek after a meeting. It was quite strange. It would have been less strange if he had just initiated the cheek kiss – a lot of Franchophones greet in this way – but asking for it just gave me a very creepy feeling….plus he was sitting down and I was standing – so I had to bend down to give this awkward kiss – with a few men standing behind me. I had already began to get self-conscious about my work clothes in Comoros. In many other countries, my work pants and skirts would be normal, but in Comoros the women generally covered up quite a bit and I instantly felt like my regular work pants were suddenly waaaaaaay too tight – when I compared them to the other women’s dressing.

On our long drive, we passed a lovely lady who came to greet our driver. Instantly from the way they interacted with each other, I knew they were an item. There is a certain energy that’s around two people who have a thing together. I think he noticed I noticed and decided to entertain me and the local consultant with the highlights of his love-life. Yes, this was his girlfriend. He has 2 wives, 2 ex-wives and 8 children in total. I have no idea how anyone manages all these close relationships. All those wives, lovers and babies. When do you sleep?

In Comoros, I also experienced for the first time the faux pas of not knowing how to behave in certain situations in a muslim country. For example, sometimes we would walk into a government building for meetings – find our interviewee in the middle of prayer and my first instinct would be to wait outside till they finished. My Comorian colleagues for the trip however would tell me it’s ok to wait in the room as the person finishes praying. I felt like I was intruding.

There was another thing in Comoros that I never quite figured out. Most of the areas we were visiting were extremely remote and we were using latrines. For some weird reason, all latrines had 3 holes. 2 small ones and a bigger one. What was that all about? One small one and one big one would make sense, but why the three?

Later in the day, the local consultant declared his undying love for me in a long soliloquy. I did what I usually do in such situations – I feigned ignorance and acted like I thought he was telling me all these things in a platonic way.

My salvation was to come later in the day. In the next island we would be in, the hotel I was to stay in was more expensive than the one he was to stay in (he had already been paid his part and that was to cover his accommodation too.) He tried to be cheeky and call our other consultant in Moroni to insist we need to stay in the same hotel so as to be more productive. He was told that this would only happen on his own budget.

When I met the local consultant after he had been told this news, he almost had tears in his eyes. I sympathized with him as much as was polite to do so, but secretly oh secretly I thanked God for saving me from all this awkwardness I had been dealing with in the past few days.

Ni kama vindeo - ni kama ndurama

Today morning, the first issue we had was finding fuel. There was a fuel shortage and we desperately needed to fill up the car tank or we would not be able to make it for our meetings. We ended up at a petrol station that looked like the back of someone's house. A huge jerrycan came out of nowhere, we filled up and left for our meetings.

Previously we had distributed surveys that needed to be filled out by 3 people at each school - one by the teacher of CP1 (standard one), CP2 (standard two) and the Koranic pre-school teacher. Today, the head of the teachers' association was joining us as we went to pick up the surveys. Heads would roll. 

School one - Not a single survey had been filled in. We patiently sat as they started to fill them out. The head of the teachers' association had to explain some of the French to the teachers. 

School two - The School Director is not around. None of the teachers are to be found. Head of teachers' association asks for directions to the school director's home. He is at home fast asleep - from what I gather standing outside his house with my extra survey copies. Our guy - who I shall now call - The Terminator - yells at him. Orders him to get in our car and take us to find the other teachers. On our way there, The Terminator sees one of the teachers we need on the road. You can tell from his disheveled look that he's heard trouble is in town. The surveys! Where are they? He sheepishly hands us blank surveys. The terminator gets out of the car gives the guy a dressing down and orders the director out of the car. He tells them that they must get the surveys back to our hotel by end of day. 

I am now so exhausted from all the unavoidable drama. It's lunchtime and we haven't yet had a chance to eat. We need to drive a few hours to our next meeting. On the roadside, we stop by a coconut plantation. The Terminator calls some young boys from the roadside and asks them to climb up the tree and get us some coconuts. I'm still trying to figure out if he knows these kids - as they obediently climb up the trees. This is not the first time i've seen people stopping random people and asking for favors that back in Kenya would get you looked at as if you have totally lost it. I guess it's beneficial when there are few degrees of separation between people in a country. Anyone could easily be your relative and as such the only thing that is important is seniority. Kind of similar to how in Kenya upcountry, anyone can send anyone's child - because if you refuse to be sent - you know information will get back to your parents....Try that in Nairobi....Woi!

Why did I refer to the day's drama as unavoidable? So many factors. One - the project I was working on was the evaluation of a program that had funded a major revamp of the curriculum in Comoros and provided tools that were used throughout the country. The Terminator felt that it was a personal insult to the funder for the beneficiaries to not even spend 5 minutes to respond to a nationwide survey knowing well how the education system in the country was underfunded and how much it really depended on external funders. 

Two - did I really blame the teachers for sleeping when they should have been at work or farming? Would you keep going to work if your boss didn't pay you for 3 months? Then why do we expect the same of teachers and some other civil servants. They are human too. If they can't pay their bills by doing their job, are you going to stop them from dedicating more time to their farms - at least there they can earn a living.

Finally though, due to all these problems is it fair for children to not have the same chance to excel in Comoros as in other countries because they spent a significant amount of school time without teachers, materials etc? In the long run, it is these young children who suffer when systems fail them. I was a young African child once. Where would I be if my teachers more often than not were on strike. Don't get me wrong - teachers went on strike a lot when I was growing up in Kenya - including the year of my high school examinations. Even then these were fortunately exceptions. I was also fortunate enough to be from a family that could afford to pay for holiday tuition to strengthen my skills when schools closed. Textbooks were expensive, but we had them. We had power blackouts too, but again these were the exception - not the norm.  Teaching at that time was still viewed as a profession to be admired - as such we had qualified teachers. We were therefore positioned for success. When conducting this project and another one in Kenya that had me visit informal schools in Kibera and under-a-tree type schools in Turkana, I realized that for so many children - going to school is a privilege, having the resources to survive there is a dream, thriving is a miracle. I remember the kids I saw in Turkana who studied under a tree with only a very thin sheet above them - hearing stories from the teachers about how sometimes some of them passed out due to heat exhaustion....We should do better for the next generation. 

It's very easy to get caught up in politics - in whichever country we are in, but I want us to think of the real lives that are affected when systems fail. 

This picture above gives me hope. Little girls in school - something that most of us take for granted. Millions of children around the world will never get the opportunity to step into a classroom and most of those children are the ones who stand to benefit the most from accessing the great equalizer that is education - marginalized children from impoverished communities in poor countries - triple jeopardy. When I look at Nimroh and Hanissah I am hopeful about the future of my continent. In this little girls I see future Nobel prize winners, agents of positive change in this world, I see hope cloaked in the body of a 5 year old girl from a village no one knows exists but whose name she will one day put on the world map.

Those moments you wish you had just spoken your mind

I was to wake up at 6:30am today to be ready to leave early for meetings. My alarm clock did not go off. I woke up much later when the local consultant was banging on my door. Such a fail - almost late! I ate breakfast in a rush. We drove for hours to get to our first meeting. 

Our first meeting was rough! The sun was hot and the interviewee had the most soothing voice I have ever heard in my life. The head of the teachers' association had tagged along with us for meetings that day - the nice old fiery guy. Quarter way through the interview he fell asleep. The local consultant had discovered there was wifi in this particular school we were at - which was surprising to me too. We were in a very remote area but the wifi was perfect. He spent the rest of the interview on his phone. I was so irritated but didn't know what to do. I needed him to ask the questions - which he did - but he would immediately go back to his phone - which was both rude....and frustrating for me - as it meant I was left to my own defenses to understand the responses. 

After this meeting, we had a three hour drive to the next meeting. The views were stunning but I began to worry how much work we were actually going to get done in my 2 weeks in Comoros - if the distances between my meetings were so long. This second meeting was only attended by the local consultant and myself. After the meeting, once we were walking out of the building to our ride he tried to hold my hand and walk hand in hand. I was so creeped out. I just quietly pulled my hand away, but didn't say anything. In retrospect I realize this is where I should have given him a piece of my mind, but I kept on justifying his actions to myself. "Well, it was just a hug and now he's trying to hold your hand. Maybe it's the culture here?" Now I realize, if something makes you uncomfortable, it makes you uncomfortable and you don't need to go through it without speaking your mind, "to avoid problems." No one should make you uncomfortable and if they do, you should let them know.

This was a Friday and work hours in Comoros are 8am - noon on Fridays then 3-5pm - so it turned out we really hadn't wasted time going from place to place. We would not have been able to have meetings either way. 

We get back to the hotel and have a delicious snack of hot milk with cardamon and something else I don't recognize, but find quite delicious. I decide to take a walk on the beach around sunset. Shortly after - he arrives. He asks if I want a picture of myself on the beach. I gladly accept - only to remember immediately after, that this might become another awkward moment. I find it hard to pose as I normally would - because now the person behind the camera/phone is looking at me with a bit too much excitement. He insists on taking the pictures with his phone and whatsapping them to me whenever we find wifi....even though my phone has a waaaaay better camera. When I go to look at the pictures on his phone, he tells me something that I don't quite understand but bit by bit I realize he is telling me, "You have a great figure - not too fat, not too skinny."

Yuck!

I go to bed later that night wondering how some men have the ability to make you feel dirty simply by looking at you.

You just might bucket in paradise....then eat yummy fish to make up for it

This was one long day that started in Moroni. I was ready to get to the hotel and sleep, but this was not the case. We got to the next school and there was a proper baraza here. Everyone was sitting outside under tents, dancers welcomed us, we were dressed in mushaino (glitter ribbons.) An announcement was made about the project we were working on. I was called to the podium and gave a 2 minute speech about our project – as best as I could without any preparation. Some prayers started and ended the meeting. Though I didn’t quite understand what was going on, I was able to understand a little more when people mixed French and Shikomori. For my benefit they called the English teacher at the school to the podium to give a speech in English. It was so unfortunate. His speech in English was worse than my speech in French – and he was the English teacher….An interesting thing I noted was that in Comoros most of the school directors were women. I remember looking it up later and realizing that though the island is still plagued by issues such as child marriages, girls not being educated as much as boys etc, in certain spheres of society there is more equality among the sexes than one would expect.

On our route home, we passed by the Ylang Ylang forest from my previous post. It was magical – even at that late hour and after a physically exhausting day. Driving through the mountains though was a bit scary as the roads are very narrow and full of turns – at each turn, the driver would hoot to alert other drivers that we were coming. I think the reason we didn’t see any accidents though was because in Moheli the number of cars I saw during that full trip would not fill a small mall’s parking lot. The island also does only have less than 50,000 people. 

We got to our hotel at 8:30pm and it was a wonder – not in your typical way. There was no internet. Gosh – I am clearly a millennial if that was my first complaint….The toilet did not flush. There was a bucket of water by the toilet to flush it. The showers had no water – there was another bucket of water for showering.

Dinner was amazing though - despite all the other challenges. I had fish and potatoes for dinner. After dinner, when we got to the doors of our rooms – the local consultant hugged me goodnight. It was very strange, but I chose to assume that this was a norm in Comoros. 

In and out the ylang ylang forest in Comoros

In and out the bamboo forest, 

In and out the bamboo forest

In and out the bamboo forest, 

You are my Partner (Partiner?)

Patti, Patti, Patti, on my shoulder

Patti, Patti, Patti, on my shoulder......

You are my partiner!

[Flashback from 2014]

Feeling pretty fortunate - my current project in Comoros has all the elements I love in a project - human interest topic (Education), direct community engagement (getting to visit lots and lots of schools, interviewing teachers and parents,) lots of travel in exotic locations and a great team! My typical day starts with having meetings from 8am to around noon after which the next 7-8 hours are spent driving to the most remote of places to either hand out or collect surveys. Surveying a third of the primary schools in the whole country is quite an exciting task. I have seen so much of the different Comoros islands in the short time I have been here. We have gone to schools where there is no real road to reach, schools that are in villages almost hidden in the forests, schools by the beach etc. Today we went to one school that was on the top of a mountain and we had to walk for at least half an hour up the mountain with me trying to act as if I was not huffing and puffing - while I was clearly suffering in the heat in my work suit:-) The other night in the island of Moheli, we were driving through a road along a huge forest at around 8pm. It was pitch black (the area is uninhabited but there are also power issues in the country - it is usually very very dark at night without electricity in most areas, except for places with generators.) All of a sudden, the air all around us was filled with the most amazing scent. I thought I was imagining it - why would a forest smell like perfume....It turned out to be a forest of ylang ylang - a rare essential oil used in perfumes that coincidentally happens to be 30% of Comoros exports (I found out after googling it after the incident.) We rolled down the windows as we drove and I closed my eyes and lost myself in the enchanting scent from the forest deep in the mountain.

Do you really speak French?

You know that moment when you feel like an impostor? Actually those moments are many. What I should really say, is “those moments when you are actually caught being an impostor.  When your 40 days are up….Siku za mwizi ni arobaini (a thief’s days are 40) and me I was on my 39th day – and I didn’t know. This was what happened on my first day of field work in Comoros.

Thus begins the day….

I woke up at 6am. I had successfully not given in to the big bad wolf the previous night – despite my thirst for something stronger than mango juice. I was to leave the hotel for the airport at 7am. The driver had not understood this. He thought he was to come at 8am. Mini-crisis, but it was averted. He managed to still get me to the airport on time. On the way to the airport I noticed the strangest thing. Lots and lots of women were walking around the city with yellow/white pasty facemasks on. Yes, proper facemasks in broad daylight. You know the ones I’m talking about. Every romantic comedy has a scene like this. Girl is chilling in the house in her most comfy “seng’eng’e ni ngombe” t-shirt, that leso that has a hole, a headnet and a green face mask. Unbeknownst to her, her Romeo is coming over to surprise her. Ding dong! She rushes to open the door – just like that – cause you know Nairobi is so safe, you just open the door without first carrying out a background check on the person behind it. Alas! It is her prince charming. He has come to surprise her with a bunch of roses and a pair of tickets to Paris! He had a crazy revelation when he was chilling drinking his Jameson with the boys at Tamasha. “She is all I need! I am tired of this life of debauchery, mismatched bedsheets, bachelor meals. I need to marry her now…..All this money I have been saving to buy a pro-box to use for biashara…..Yote ni vanity. I am buying us tickets for today to fly to Paris and propose to her on top of the Eiffel tower!” Later in the day you can see his love interest has gotten over her earlier mortification at being found with a green face mask on. They hold hands as they board their evening flight to Paris.

Ok. Snap out of it. Which African is this getting a visa in a day to anywhere in the world?

Ok, but you get the point – yes, that face mask that women only put on in the privacy of their homes to exfoliate, detox, open pores etc….some women in Comoros are walking around with it on the streets daily “to keep their skin from getting damaged by the sun.” That’s the official word on the streets, but I did tend to notice some tell-tale signs of bleaching in some Comorian women when I did see their faces and compared the color with their knees and knuckles….This bleaching thing is really affecting black people worldwide. 

Anyway, we get to the airport and turns out the local consultant we have hired – he knows everyone in Comoros – including my driver.

It was a really quick flight to Moheli – on a small plane – it took around 30 – 45 minutes. Once we arrived at Moheli – we were picked up by the head of the teacher’s association in the island. He was a fiery old man – I really liked him. He was extremely passionate about education and required excellence and dedication from those working for him. You can imagine that this is no easy feat in a country where teachers’ salaries hadn’t been paid in over 3 months at the time of my visit. He immediately took us to a focus group meeting with other heads of the association. It was during this meeting that I heard snatches of conversation from our local consultant saying I would lead the interviews – which were to be in French. I thought I had heard my own things. We had agreed that he would be the French expert. We had questionnaires translated into French – he was to lead the interview and I would support given my limited language skills – especially when it came to issues such as vocational training, efficacy of the curriculum changes, teaching pedagogy etc.

I was screwed.

The next meeting started and I was told to start – it was so embarrassing. I couldn’t even pronounce half of the words on the questionnaire right. After a few minutes, the local consultant realized that he was indeed going to have to do his job. It worked out much better once we switched because then I could focus on listening to the responses, understand the meaning, take notes etc. – rather than sweating as I tried to understand what the respondent was saying, think of how to ask a follow-up question, take notes and wonder how I was going to get through the next question that had so many words I had never seen before in my life….Le sigh….Impostor

After this we had 2 more meetings with groups of teachers numbering 4-5. The local consultant had all sorts of questionable habits – like hitting on the female respondents thinking I didn’t understand what he was doing. We then went to another school, but as soon as we got into this village – there was a very somber mood everywhere. It turned out a 30 year old guy in the community had been unwell – he had just died and the whole area was in mourning. The school had even shut down for the day. I quickly learned how small and familial everything was in Comoros – everyone knew everyone; everyone was somehow related to the other or at most one degree of separation from the others. That’s not surprising though given the population on all the 3 islands totals up to less than 800,000 people. In this particular island I was on, the population was 54,000 people.

We went to yet another school – in this particular school – it took over an hour to find any teachers or the school directors – the head of the teacher’s association gave them a proper lecture. It was a bit awkward being there for this “Vous-etez parasseux”/”You are all lazy!” I pretended I didn’t understand just how much trouble they were in.

This was only halfway through the day and it was turning out to be very eventful….

Little red riding hood in Comoros

The first and only time I ever flew business class, was to Comoros.  This was because on the day I needed to get to Comoros – all economy flight tickets were sold out. It was a 7am flight to Moroni via Mayotte. At that time I wondered, “Where on earth is Mayotte?” I was so upset when I discovered that Mayotte was in fact in Africa and was still a French territory. When we learnt about the Scramble for Africa and colonialization, why did they leave out the chapter about some African territories still being held by European countries? In Mayotte, obviously there was no getting out of the airport – as we were now in France (though still in Africa…) and I didn’t have a Schengen visa. Oh, I almost forgot – in business class – you get offered champagne – even at 7am – I could not resist:-)

The plane announcements were a bit different. The pilot mentioned we would be watching a certain movie – then proceeded to list the cast – Bette Midler….the director…I don’t remember. I got to Moroni and the weather was lovely. I got out of the airport and jumped into the first cab I saw. Ahmed, the driver was really friendly. He had spent some time in Nairobi and Zanzibar – he spoke perfect Kiswahili. We had a few minutes of small talk, then he jumped straight into the question many Comorians ask a few minutes after meeting you, “Are you married?” I am beginning to think the world-over, questions such as marital status, age, number of children etc. are the first things most people want to know about strangers, but we have been taught it’s impolite to ask such questions without knowing someone well. I say this because the more I travel, the more I realize that what “we” consider appropriate is not the same everywhere. I say “we” because even that needs to be questioned. Who am I talking about when I say we? Kenyans? Africans? Africans who have lived abroad? That’s the thing with culture – it is not static and there are so many sub-cultures even within what might be considered the dominant culture.

I needed to change cash. I told Ahmed about it – expecting we would go to an exchange bureau, but instead we ended up at an Indian owned supermarket – the owners changed money for me behind the counter. As we drove through Moroni, I kept on waiting to see the real city center – somewhere perhaps with many high rise buildings, supermarkets etc., but this did not quite happen at any point. 

I got to my hotel and the view from it was stunning. Comoros had such great natural beauty – I kept on wondering how it could be so stunning, but not be a tourist attraction. There is so much potential in Comoros as there is in many other struggling nations – if only certain major issues could be resolved. Around 2pm I was called from the reception to meet with my project team-mates. I was in very casual clothes – I  got down and the team instantly said we needed to go visit the client. I was a bit mortified as I didn’t have a chance to change into more formal clothes. I survived though – I think the client assumed I had just flown in. It was more of a courtesy call – rather than a real visit. I was able to converse in French enough to not look absolutely ridiculous, but I had an awkward moment when the client needed to give me a phone number. Has anyone ever been given a phone number in French? This is what this number will sound like.

731-96-74 = Seven hundred thirty and one. 4 times 20 and 16. Sixty plus fourteen….

In short, it is absolute rocket science. Someone starts reading out the numbers and you realize you just can’t keep up or understand. After various tries, I just humbled myself – gave them my notebook to write it in.

Also the client kept cracking jokes – I joined everyone in laughter – though I only understood a fraction of what he was saying. The challenges of languages you’re not perfect in.

After the meeting, I went back to the hotel. In Comoros, we had hired a local consultant to help me navigate the islands – I would be traveling around the country. Our project entailed surveying about a third of all the primary schools in the country. I was to cover the islands of Moheli and Ndzouani with the local consultant, while my Francophone colleague would cover the main island – Grand Comores/Moroni. Me and the local consultant were mostly conversing in a mix of French and Shikomoro (which has some similarities with Kiswahili – about 20% of the words are Kiswahili ones, though with some interesting variations. For example “Lala unono” means goodbye in Shikomori, but in Kiswahili it means sleep well. Fundi means repairman (carpenter, mechanic, plumber etc.) in Kiswahili but in Shikomori it means teacher. I am always fascinated by how language changes over time. I had noticed that the only other people staying at the hotel – were high ranking military officers from the African Union troops. I could tell they were all from different countries as I overhead conversations in Portuguese, French, English etc. in a variety of accents. I went to my room in the early evening, but my door wouldn’t open. One of the army generals passed close to my door and saw me struggling. Quite coincidentally he was Kenyan – General Githinji. He must have been in his mid 60s.  I thanked him and got in. A few hours later, my room phone rang. I was surprised – who was looking for me in the evening?

“Hello! Wanjiku. Ni General Githinji. Ndina kawine guakwa. Uka ukude kawine mum”/ “Hello Wanjiku. It is General Githinji. I have some wine in my room. Come have a sip.”

Funny thing was – I would actually have killed for some wine right around then. I had not realized how hard it would be to get alcohol in Comoros, but this little red riding hood – knew the big bad wolf was not luring her to his room for wine. I was not born yesterday.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m about to sleep. I have an early morning flight. Have a good night General Githinji/Big bad wolf trying to lure me with candy...."

The island in the storm - 18 coups in 24 years..

Once upon a time a jinni  dropped a jewel into the ocean. The jewel caused a great circular inferno. When the smoke cleared, the Karthala volcano had created four islands known as Ngazidja, Mwali, Ndzouani and Mayotte.

Each island started off as a tiny village with one family, then two families then soon a whole community. Centuries later, the islanders sent an emissary known as Mtswa-Mwindze to Mecca on hearing about the Prophet Mohammed. Mtswa-Mwindze experienced many delays during his trip and on his arrival in Mecca, he was heartbroken to discover that the beloved prophet had died. He stayed on in Mecca learning this new religion, was entranced by it and on returning to his homeland started off at Ngazidja converting his people, till he finally got to the smallest of all the islands – Mwali and converted all his people to Islam. 

Centuries later, the Bantu occupants of the island started to trade with Madagascar and the Middle East. These traders fell in love with the islands and several settled there. Pretty soon the population became a mixture of Yemeni and Omani Arabs intermarried with bantus and later Malayo-indonesian people. Locals initially traded coral, ambergris – a surprisingly sweet smelling component of whale faeces used as a fixative for perfumes, ivory, tortoiseshell and gold. With time though, the locals discovered a commodity that fetched them an even better price – their skin. Communities turned on each other – neighbours became slave traders and rationalized the new trade with religion, ideas of cultural dominance and a dog-eat-dog mentality that said, “Well, if we don’t subjugate the other and sell them, they might do the same to us.”

When the Portuguese stumbled on the islands, they were ripe for domination. Their thirst for slaves had been shared by Madagascar that sent its warriors to Comoros to get more slaves. The East African sultanate that ran from Zanzibar to Kilwa to Mombasa began to crumble around the same time as when the Europeans arrived in the 16th century. The French came to the islands in mid 1800s and signed an agreement with the Malagasy king in Mayotte in which he signed over Mayotte to the French. France realized that the climate in the islands was suitable for plantations and quickly made all the four islands, plantation colonies planting sugar, the rare essential oil plant – ylang ylang, vanilla, coffee, cocoa bean and sisal. All these plantations required a strong workforce. 24 years into France’s occupation of Comoros, 40% of the population were slaves. 

In the early 1900s, France again took advantage of the personal greed and ambition of a Comorian ruler. Sultan Said Ali of Bambao – one of the sultans of Ngazidja – the largest of the four Comorian islands, placed the four islands under French “protection” in exchange for French support of his claim to the whole island. In 1912, France combined Comoros and Madagascar to be one territory – a move not unique to the French but a major cause of the several border conflicts that still plague the African continent given how arbitrary borders were drawn separating tribes or in some cases putting together warring communities into a single country that was then expected to simply accept these new divisions and strange partnerships. To date there are 47 disputed lands in Africa – majority of them border territories, shared water bodies and islands. 

In 1975, three of the four islands gained independence after a referendum from the French ensuring the people really wanted to be self-governed rather than remain under France’s imprisoning wing. Mayotte voted to remain part of France. Families slept as relatives and woke up with some of them as French citizens and others as Comorian citizens – a slice of France on the African continent. 

In less than a year, the first Comorian President – French allied Ahmed Abdallah was removed from power in an armed coup. His replacement was still warming his seat when 5 months later he was ousted by his Minister of Defence – Ali Soilih. Quite coincidentally all this political turmoil was taking place at the time Mayotte was to have its second referendum vote to decide whether to remain as part of France or join Comoros. This time 99.5% of those in Mayotte voted to stay with France as opposed to 64% in the first vote years earlier. They had seen what could happen when a country fell out of favour with France and did not want any part of it. 
President Ali Soilih was beginning to believe he had broken the bad luck streak of Comoros coups when a French mercenary – Bob Denard with support from the then Rhodesian and South African governments was sent to Comoros to spice things up a little. President Soilih’s socialist and French isolationist agenda did not sit well with their former master. Bob Denard had cut his teeth in the Algerian war then in the failed Katanga secession in DRC. He would later also be involved in other coup attempts and rebel fights in Angola, Rhodesia, Gabon and Benin. 3 years into President Soilih’s rule, he had faced 7 additional coup attempts. With little luck in each, he was finally forced from office in 1978 and killed. 

Comoros’ first president Ahmed Abdallah was reinstated as president and he had a long-lived 11 year term as president. His rule was characterized by authoritarian rule and a return to traditional islam. In 1989 he began to see the end times and suspected that there was about to be another coup attempt. It was long overdue. He called the head of his presidential guard – the same French mercenary – Bob Denard to his office and signed a decree ordering the presidential guard to disarm the armed forces. He was apparently shot dead by a disgruntled military officer after signing this decree and Bob Denard was immediately evacuated to South Africa by French paratroopers.

Soilih’s older half brother took over as President and had an impressively long 6 year presidential term. In 1995, Bob Denard attempted another coup in Comoros. This time the French saved the President and sent him to safety in Reunion islands. A French backed presidential replacement was fortunately found and became president of Comoros by election. 

Fearing that their country would never know peace, the islands of Ndzouani and Mwali declared independence from Comoros in order to restore French rule in their islands. There were major labor crises in the country, government suppression and constant secessionist conflicts. France rejected the pleas of the two islands to become a part of France. There were bloody confrontations between federal troops and rebels. Yet another coup took place. This would be the 18th coup in Comoros in the 24 years since independence. 

The country finally moved to a system of semi-autonomous governance in which each of the 3 islands have their own president and there is a rotating role as president of the three islands. In 2001, French trained Mohammed Bacar seized power as the President of Ndzouani. In 2007, he staged a vote to confirm his leadership. This was rejected by the African Union and the Comorian federal government who then seized rebel-held Ndzouani in a move welcomed by most. Bacar is said to have tortured hundreds if not thousands during his tenure. Bacar fled to the French territory of Mayotte on a small canoe – a “kwassa-kwassa” dressed as a woman to seek asylum from France.

Modern day Comoros is a struggling country trying to rebuild itself after decades of poor governance.