On eating Black Women

On World Art Day, April 15 and how they celebrated in Sweden

The social networks are abuzz with the latest sensational story of how the Minister of Culture in Sweden, Lena Adelsohn Liljeroth, took part in an art event which was supposed to highlight the issue of Female genital mutilation (FGM). The event was held at the Moderna Museet in Stockholm, the capital's museum of modern art.

In the photographs and video footage making the rounds on the internet, the minister is seen cutting a cake which is in the shape of the torso of a black woman. The cake, which is of a dark, ruby red velvet filling with black icing, was created by a black artist Makode Aj Linde, whose head forms that of the black woman, is seen with a blackened face and he screams each time a guest cuts a slice of the black woman (er, cake). The minister is laughing and she cuts off the genital area (clitoris) of the black woman (er, cake), and artist Makode screams.

Here is the video.

No doubt this footage has infuriated many people and accusations of racism have been leveled at the project. Indeed, there have been calls by the African- Swedish Association for the resignation of the minister for culture for having taken part in what they describe as a “racist spectacle”.

However the fury that I have seen particularly from African women has to do with the fact that this project was supposed to bring awareness of the very painful and complex issue of genital cutting. This is no laughing matter for any sane human being but certainly not for African women. The idea that someone who holds a position of authority and power, and who is a woman as well would take part in what is a humiliating, degrading and offensive project in the name of “raising awareness” shows a disconnect between herself and the women who have to deal with FGM.  That her sensibilities were not assaulted by the callousness of this project signifies a huge gap between African women and their issues and western women. This project is in my view no different from the” Hottentot Venus” Sara Baartman and other African women who were exhibited as freak show attractions in Europe in the 19^th Century.Sara Baartman was tricked into going to Europe, where she and other African women were paraded naked in museums and public squares and gawked at by all and sundry, for their “huge buttocks and peculiar genitalia”. The objectification of African women’s bodies by the west is rife in the pornography industry and there at least one can argue that the women who participate do so willingly. However when this happens in the context of a serious issue such as FGM and it is done in the name of “art”, then there needs to be a strong unequivocal response against such an unacceptable, ugly and insensitive “art”.

The fact that the artist is black does not in any way diminish the gravity of this racist and demeaning project. The black artist who created this may be accused of being a dim witted misogynist, but the racial over tones of this project cannot be denied. His blackness does not legitimize anything done here and the message about the seriousness of FGM is totally crowded out by the hideous manner in which that message has been conveyed. One does not need to watch an ugly cake in the form a black woman having its clitoris cut off to the sound of screaming, while a crowd watches, drinks in hand with smiles on their faces to bring awareness of FGM. This says a lot about the people who were present and who applauded and actually saw nothing wrong with the whole scenario. Gosh that they could even eat the black woman (er, cake) is sobering.

The humiliation and dehumanization that comes with patronage is a huge price that Africans pay in order that their helpers might feel good about themselves. This is one occasion where I question whether many of those who seek to help Africans to solve their myriad problems do so out of a genuine empathetic desire to see an end to debilitating conditions or whether it really is about a thorough ego massage and the kudos that come with “doing good”.

However as long as we Africans continue to have problems for which we are not doing enough to bring solutions, as long as our governments continue to focus on looting and clinging to power, as long as our elite human resources continue to walk away without a backward glance, as long as our intellectuals continue to complain but do nothing, there will be more humiliation, mockery and dehumanization coming our way, and black women (er, cakes) will be eaten in Sweden and other places where African women are exotica. If we as Africans are serious about being viewed as human beings capable of thinking and acting in our own best interests, until we demonstrate that we are our own best advocates, we will continue to be spectators of our own destiny and to be seen as nothing more than strange children who are in a perpetual state of arrested development, disabled beings who don’t know what they want or need. We are treated the way we allow people to treat us. Disrespect of the kind demonstrated in this event is not acceptable in 2012. Only we can put a stop to this debilitating imagery of ourselves.

Since this blog was written I have joined hands with other women and organizations to write an open letter to the Minister of culture in Sweden. The link is below, please sign it and forward this blog to your friends and contacts. Fell free to google this issue and you will become aware of the widespread rage and consternation at this vile project.
http://www.change.org/petitions/minister-of-culture-sweden-apologise-for-the-display-of-offensive-artwork-of-black-women


 

On lifestyle change: Keeping it simple

 On lifestyle change: Keeping it simple.

I decided to do this blog post because I have been getting many questions about how despite having four kids I have not ballooned to unimaginable proportions. Rather than repeat the same information in individual inboxes and emails I thought it best to put it in one place. Let me just say from the outset that what I do is primarily for health reasons and that looking fine and tight and all that, are all very, very welcome side effects!

Here is the real deal. Do not go any diet. They do not work. Take it from the diet queen herself. You name it I have tried it (Atkins, South beach, Cabbage soup, etc, etc, etc.). Companies that create and sell these diets count on the fact that some desperate individuals, despite trying a diet and failing dismally, will go back and try another one or try the very same thing over and over again. They have made millions selling people a whole bunch of temporary quick fixes, most of which can cause serious health problems. A day came when I decided they were not getting another penny from me.

So this is what you have to do: you have to tell yourself that you are looking for permanent long lasting change, not a quick fix. You also have to convince yourself that just as it took time to get the weight on, it will take time to get it off. This is not as easy as it sounds because we want results and we want them now! Its human. However many people get discouraged when they feel they are trying very hard for very little visible result. It is a lifestyle change, not a quick fix. Once you have those things in place, start making small incremental changes to your diet. This means, what you eat, how often you eat, how you eat and where you eat.

 Educate yourself on the caloric content of food as well as the nutrient content; in other words, the proportion of protein, carbohydrates and fat and (very important) fiber. Watch the sodium content and the preservatives that may be used in the food. If a food package has a long list of names that read like a pharmaceutical catalogue, then axe it. There are a lot of chemical additives in food which are responsible for weight gain, cancer, allergies and many other non desirable effects.

 Then you start by reducing, not eliminating simple sugars like sucrose, starches like white bread, white rice, white flour, white pasta and opting for whole grains like oatmeal, whole wheat bread with no high sucrose corn syrup, brown rice, quinoia.  The reason I say reduce is because at no point should you feel as though you are depriving yourself. That can only lead to unhappiness and frustration (because you now start to live for the day the depravation will end and you watch the scale like a hawk). Start substituting and cutting back slowly on these until a time when you eliminate them altogether.

 If you have access to it, Mhunga (Inyhawuti), Rukweza (uphoko), and wheat flour make great sadza and they are whole grains high in B-vitamins and good old fiber. Also good old corn on the cob (chibage/umumbu) is much better for you than the refined maize flour used for sadza. I recently discovered oatmeal flour so I use that to make sadza or to make porride for breakfast.

 Fiber is very important for the health of your bowels. Fiber keeps waste moving through your bowel and prevents the build- up of toxic waste which has been associated with colon cancer. It fills you up so you eat less and it is has no caloric value and so cannot make you fat.

On the protein, if you like yoghurt and milk, opt for low fat or fat free varieties. Watch the amount of carbohydrates in yoghurt, For example those fruity types are usually loaded with unnecessary sugar. Try plain yoghurt and add cereal or honey or chopped fruit to make it palatable. Lean cuts of beef, chicken, pork, fish, cheese, amasi, beans, nyimo, nyemba, ishwa (izinhlwa), Mhashu (inswabanda) are all great protein sources. Cut of any visible fat from your meat and get rid of that chicken skin (I can hear the Nando’s fans going ahhhhh! That is where the flavor resides mahn!!!). And stay away from those greasy thick cut vinegar- drenched chips tooJ.

Also you are better off eating fruit than drinking juice, which in most cases is spiked with some form of sugar. Also the processing of fruit to make juice often strips it of its nutritional content and goodies called phytonutrients are lost as it sits on the shelf or during processing. These phytonutrients have been demonstrated to be anti cancer and anti inflammatory agents, so diseases like arthritis can be kept at bay.

 In addition, you don’t get the fiber in juice that you would get with fruit. Eat your fruit as snacks and dessert. Vegetables are so vital to weight loss because you can eat a plate of them before anything else and the fiber fills you up so that you eat less of everything especially at night. I generally don’t eat anything but a plate full of vegetables at night and I am done.

Try to stay away from processed foods as much as possible and eat as close to natural as you can. Take a daily multivitamin/multimineral supplement and drink lots and lots of water. “Lots” is in the order of 1-2litres a day. I have a 2 -litre bottle that I fill every morning, add a little lemon juice and it must be finished by the time I go to bed.

Eat frequent small meals and do not skip any meals because then you pig out at the next available opportunity. Life is for living and food is one of the greatest pleasures we have. Indulging in a drink or two once in a while, or a slice of good cake is perfectly acceptable and in fact encouraged. I generally am very strict about what I consume Monday to Friday and then at the weekend it’s on! I do not binge, but I eat what I like without a second thought. Then Monday morning I am back in the saddle. This is my lifestyle and this is how I maintain and try to stay healthy.

Sleep: get adequate sleep. Contrary to popular belief it is a necessity to get good quality sleep for at least 8 hours a night. Sleep is not a luxury and if neglected can undermine your weight loss activities. It may in fact be responsible for your weight gain or your body's refusal to shed weight despite your best efforts. Lack of sleep is a stressor on the body and when the body is under stress its hormonal (endocrine) system malfunctions. This results in fat storage hormones storing more fat and fat metabolizing hormones becoming ineffective. This initiates a whole cascade of events which lead to over eating, eating high carbohydrate content foods as a way to offset the fatigue that sets in.

I don’t think I need to stress how obesity and being overweight is detrimental to health. This is a fact we all know. What most of us do not really know is what is overweight? Obesity is something we can clearly define and see. My definition of being overweight is when you huff and puff while climbing up a single flight of stairs, when you feel as though your heart is bursting each time you exert yourself. However a visit to your doctor for a series of body measurements will tell you where you are. Diabetes, Hypertension, arthritis, heart disease, stroke and cancer can all be prevented by paying attention to diet and ensuring that the body gets adequate exercise to keep it humming in top condition. Depression is also linked to being obese and overweight because these conditions affect self esteem and one’s perception of self may be distorted.

My passion for running is really a reflection of my passion for health and vitality. I like to feel alive and when my body is in motion, when I feel my muscles working and the blood coursing through my veins, I feel alive and thankful for life itself. Find a form of exercise that you enjoy and that you will commit to doing at least 3 times a week for an hour. I alternate running with working out in the gym and with dancing with my 4 daughters in the basement. We dance to Ndombolo, to Pop, or Kwaito or Juju music, or any music that fires us up on any given Saturday morning. Just keep that body moving.

I hope I have shared, in simple terms what I think can give you the results you want. Just take it a day at a time and avoid jumping on the scale too often. Weighing once a week is adequate and gives you an accurate reading than weighing in daily. Also remember that at different times of the month the female body retains water which can be reflected in the weight reading. My rule of thumb: I don’t bother with the scale because I weigh more due to the muscle I have. I use my clothing as the true measure of where I am headed.

 What motivates me you ask: the fact that I want to see my girls grow up, go to college and be happy and successful in their adult lives. The fact that every day of good health is a gift that I do not take for granted and so seek to preserve that health as best as I can. The fact that I owe it to those who love me to be in good health so I can give them the best of me. The fact that I believe I have lots to do as a contributor to the human community and that I need to be in good health both mind and body in order to give my best effort. This is why I do what I do.

My Zimbabwe Part II-On Potholes and Police Ahead: Poetry Interrupted

A road trip across the country side of Zimbabwe is poetry in motion. Breath taking scenery flies by on either side of the winding tarred roads. From Mutare to Masvingo, that three hour drive through magical mountains, past sturdy thick- waisted baobab trees resolutely pointing their stunted limbs skyward, is a visual sensation. Our energetic and easily bored daughters are sitting quietly, their eyes taking it all in as it whizzes past. Cyril is driving and he occasionally sneaks a look out of his window but he mostly enjoys only what his peripheral vision allows. He has to be on the alert for the occasional stray goat that may dart across the road bleating stupidly, or be ready to slow down for a herd of cattle crossing from one side of the road to the other. Once in a while a wild animal, a small antelope, might scamper out of the bush, make as if to traverse the asphalt, then dive back into the clumps of trees as though it has suddenly remembered that many of its kind have ended up road-kill, belly up in the heat, getting bloated by the hour until they explode to release a dizzying stench along with their innards. Such a fate is not his portion today. Perhaps tomorrow.

 The sky is a clean, refreshing blue, littered only by the fluffy white cotton wool swirling and tumbling across its expanse. This sky and its litter of clouds is a constant companion on many a road journey and to look up is to be sucked into it, lost in its blueness and cloud phantoms; now elephants and  cherubs, then monkeys with curly tails and tall top hats. The girls’ eyes have closed in sleep and I allow my mind to wonder about who lives in the clusters of huts that form homesteads along the road side. I imagine conversations quarrels, laughter and whispers encased daily in the mud walls I think of the cries of the new born soaking into the walls, the beginning of  a new history and memories.

Just as my mind relaxes into my story, Cyril is slowing down, thanks to a sign that reads “Police Ahead”. In a moment of irritation I think to myself how some things never change. From as far back as I can remember, police checkpoints have been a consistent feature on a road trip in Zimbabwe. In the late seventies, during the war for independence, there were police checkpoints as well as checkpoints manned by the Rhodesian Armed Forces. I remember the diarrhea- inducing fear that these stops would evoke and I remember my father being as affable as possible as he responded to terse demands for his driver’s license and for his reasons for being on the road. Sometimes he was interrogated as to whether he had had any clandestine meetings with the terrs (black freedom fighters then know as terrorists or terrs by the Rhodesians). After what seemed like forever, he would be allowed to drive on. Now here we are a good thirty years later and we are pulling over to the side of the road at a police checkpoint.

“Ah! Boss, how are they where you are coming from?” The officer in his navy blue pants, grey shirt and black boots uniform asks.

“All is well with everyone”, Answers Cyril, Mister Diplomacy frank –free- and -friendly.

The officer looks around the car, peers into the back seat at the pile of sleeping children, and sniggers. “Christmas box, boss” he says swinging his arms back and forth in what is supposed to be a casual gesture, signaling camaraderie.

“Ah you beat me to it bros, I was about to ask you the same thing. What are we drinking today?” Cyril responds with his own barks of fake laughter.

The officer guffaws, throwing his head back while wagging his index finger at Cyril,then he waves us off, wishing us a safe onward journey as he moves away from the car.

As we pull away, slowly, I loosen my teeth which have been firmly clamped on my tongue to stop me from blurting out at the officer: "What exactly are you trying to achieve by stopping random cars, asking after people you do not even know and therefore cannot in all honesty care about, proceed to ask for money, in the spirit of Christmas, then laugh like a demented hyena and wave goodbye? You did not ask for a license, registration, check the brakes or search for contraband or for soil from Marange (The rumor mill has it that people drive to Marange, dig up as much soil as their cars can carry and then once safe at home sift  through it for diamonds).” Cyril looks over at me after my rant, smiles and turns his attention back to the road.

This scenario will repeat in cyclical fashion every hour or so, and at each checkpoint, I have to convince myself that the neuronal connections that link my brain and its rampant activity to my tongue have been fried and therefore I am not able to utter the expletives that are free flowing and jostling for expression through my voice. There is no tongue, I tell myself, because to have a tongue  such as mine, at these checkpoints is to risk a 4 hour stopover at the side of the road in the blazing heat until you pay and grovel your way back onto the road and onward with your journey. But if- let us assume- I had a tongue, this is what I would ask:

"With due respect officer, sir, exactly what is your job description and are you paid well for roasting like a maize cob in the hot sun and for fishing (albeit surreptitiously) for bribes while your bosses sit up in nice cool offices in Harare? Are they aware that you are manning this checkpoint or did you and your fellow officers decide that this was a cool, easy way of making something extra on the side? Or maybe your bosses have explained that in order to keep people on the straight and narrow, in order that they may know their place, and that ‘Zimbabwe will nev-ah be ah colony ah-gain,’ you all have to man these checkpoints as a deterrent to anyone who has treasonous ideas lurking in their treasonous heads? Hmmm Officer, you can tell me (nudge nudge wink wink)."

We proceed after each checkpoint and I go back to the poetry in my head. I watch the landscape and think about all the frisky things Cyril and I could get up to in those bushes (It’s the heat, you see. Too much sun does that to a girl, and if she happens to be sitting next to a hot guy handling his business at the steering wheel…). As soon as these thoughts are blossoming and taking on exquisite forms, they are frozen as I feel the car swerve dangerously one way and then the other. Cyril has just missed driving into a gaping gnarly black wound on the road. Potholes, mxim! Now I have lost my delicious reverie and I am clutching my seat, taking deep breaths to try to ease the painful thudding in my chest. The road’s smooth surface is marred with potholes, giant man-hole type potholes which you have to swerve if you want to ever arrive at your destination. They remind me of a picture of Lagos I once saw of a group of men taking a bath in a pond that had formed in the middle of the road, the formation of a new phenomenon; the pond hole!  “Com an take your bat for free ohhh! Bring your own soap an sponge oh!”

I wonder how those who drive under the influence negotiate the pock marked roads on their way home from “MaNdlovu’s House of Happiness” or “Sesilia’s Sultry Sundowners”. The potholes are worse in the cities, a constant, silent indictment on the grossly inefficient, underfunded (or could care less) city councils that are responsible for road maintenance. Citizens are still made to pay road tax and it is infuriating to think that people pay in order that their vehicles can be damaged on the terrible roads, some of which are now no different from the dirt roads in the rural areas. Swerving to avoid potholes is one of the causes of accidents in the country, resulting in unnecessary loss of life.

I look over my shoulder into the back and see that the girls are still fast asleep, oblivious to the ‘police ahead’, the potholes and their mother’s poetry interrupted. Just as well.

Barbs.

My Zimbabwe part I- from this Diasporan

This is the first in a series of blogs on my recent visit to Zimbabwe. They will be written as they want to be written, so here we go:

My Zimbabwe is beautiful. My Zimbabwe is radiant and vibrating with barely repressed energy. My Zimbabwe hums with possibilities, and potent power simmers like a mirage on its dazzling tarred roads. My Zimbabwe is rich in natural and human resources. Her people are “made of sterner stuff”. Her children are robust in spirit; resilient with defiance and determination in their eyes. Her children laugh from their gut; deep sincere infectious laughter that washes over their ragged clothes and bare feet, leaving them clothed in quiet dignity, heads held high, backs straight and shoulders square. Her children cry out, in quiet voice while quiet tears trail down their dusty faces and yet they laugh and they live. They do not want pity and they are contemptuous of patronage. They do not want hand outs and they do not need crutches and if there is an ear willing to listen, that ear will be privy to what they want, what they need, what they desire and dream about: Opportunity.

From the rural villages of Nyamaropa and Chivi, to the cities of Harare, Mutare, Masvingo and Bulawayo, I felt the energy, strength, determination and the hunger for a chance, an open doorway, or even a mere crack in the window of opportunity.  I saw Zimbabweans going about their daily lives, like hungry calves milking even the tiniest udder of opportunity they came across: selling produce, toothpicks and paper clips, making bracelets out of tiny springs from old parker pens, begging to guard your parked car for a dollar, while you attend to business in some office, selling boot leg movies and CD’s, braiding hair (“I will come to your house, mother”), pedaling barrels of second hand clothes from first world places, merchandizing firewood, air time cards, newspapers, biscuits and anything you can think of. I saw them.

 I witnessed the trendsetters, the go- getters, the dealers and the movers- and- shakers, strutting across the potholed streets as though they were marching purposefully down Oxford Street in London, or Michigan Avenue in Chicago; striding to some place, to take care of business, to close the next deal, to make that money: those Dollars, those Rands, and those other forexes.

 I saw Bright yellow Hummer jeeps, gas guzzling Escalades with Chrome rims. I saw women dressed in Gucci, Prada and carrying Coach hand bags while teetering on feet shod in Steve Madden, and red soled Laboutins, swaying to the sounds of Rihanna ring tones on Blackberries and I-phones.

I saw women sporting dreadlocks tinted in browns, shades of blond and gold. I saw women with straight and curly and flipped up weaves. I saw women in twist braids, short hair and long hair. I saw skinny women, fat women, dark skinned as well as light skinned women. I saw them all buzzing around at Nando’s and Chicken Inn and chatting and laughing and bearing pearly white teeth through painted lips- red lips, purple lips, pink lips, orange and brown lips. I saw them all. In their skinny jeans and jeggings and thick belts and bright colored cropped tops. I saw them all. With their men. Tall men skinny men, pot bellied men, short men, gray heads and stud muffins. Men. All of them with one thing in common: fat pockets too small to contain their bulging wallets. I saw them leaning over, all sexy and coy, laughing all languid and suggestive, leaning closer to their men, other women’s men, men old enough to be their grand fathers. I saw them, the “small houses”, the mistresses and minor wives wielding major power and spending major money. I saw it all.

I witnessed the church going mothers and fathers in their “kuwadzana” uniforms. I witnessed the feverish fervor of the young born -twice Christians, Bible in hand, the weapon against powers and principalities and the key to plenty money. I even had the fortune of being handed a flier to a revival “Come and claim your miracle, mother. (Mother is the term in current use in Zimbabwe for women of my age…[sigh])”. The only miracle I was in need of at that moment was the miracle of a clean public restroom- but that, my friends, is a whole ‘nother blog post.

Where was I? Oh I am witnessing and seeing Zimbabwe.

“The poor ye shall always have with you” [The Bible]. Indeed the poor were there, intermingling with the new rich, diluting the scents of Vera Wang, Cloe and good “Old Spice” with sharp, nostril stinging body odor. They were there, getting splashed in rain water from the puddles in the potholes as the big Hummers and the Mercedes drove through them. Holding their begging cups they ran across the streets, weaving in between the slow snake of cars, tapping on windows for alms. They were there, a part of the textured fabric of Zimbabwe, my Zimbabwe. My Zimbabwe with mountains of garbage scattered throughout her cities. My Zimbabwe with wood fires burning within the city as people cook their evening meals. Dazzling red sun set on the horizon. Zesa has taken the lights- power cuts, power sharing, power struggles. My Zimbabwe, enveloped in the dizzying drone of generators, distorting the night sounds and drowning out the crickets, the annoying high pitched mosquitoes and the croaking frogs.

As I settled down to sleep each night, my head would be full of the sights and sounds from the day and I would hold each person I had encountered, each scene in my mind and give it’s a story an ending.

My Zimbabwe may be broken, maimed and bleeding. But a clot has formed and the hemorrhaging will stop. The scab has formed and the wounds will heal. My Zimbabwe is ailing, but she is alive. My Zimbabwe has changed, but so have I. She will have scars, and so will I. My Zimbabwe will recover but it will take time, plenty of time, life times…

In memory of Ndapiwa, on Word AIDS Day, 2011

I wrote this poem when I was 18 years old. I had been to a hospital visit, to Mpilo hospital in Bulawayo. My passion for medicine propelled me to catch two minibuses from home to the hospital to potter around the wards and play doctor. I made myself useful by holding newborn babies while their mothers took a bath or ate. On this particular day I held Baby Ndapiwa, who was HIV positive while her mother went to wash and when she came back, Ndapiwa was gone. I remembered her today, and I searched my old notebooks for her poem and found it. Here it is:

Dark empty pools staring into space

Small pinched lips wince slightly in pain

Nostrils flare in an effort to draw air

She turns her head on a thin frail neck

Veins, a dense network visible

 On the side of her head

I spot a tiny pulse at her hot, hollow temple.

Tiny chest heaves and sags,

Ribs stand out like antlers on a stag

Her swollen belly is rounded and hard

Her twig legs lie limp across my arm

She cries a little, a hollow forlorn sound

No tears fall save those from mine eyes

She turns her head towards my face

And fixes me with an expressionless gaze.

Look at me, she screams.

Look at me and do not wince!

Look at me and love me!

Don’t turn your face away in disgust

 You have to look at me, you must!

I look upon her countenance

And cringe as fear seeps slowly through my bones

Tenacious twig fingers encircle one of mine

And I wish I could flea

A noose tightens painfully round my heart

As she flutters her eyelids. Now closed.

Barbara Mhangami (1990)

The next piece is an excerpt from a work in progress. It was inspired by the many many people, friends and family that I have personally held or walked next to as they journeyed on and out of this realm because of AIDS. We have a Heroes Acre at my grandfather's village in Chivi with over thirty family members who died from AIDS. Whenever I visit home, my grandfather takes me to throw a stone on the graves of members who have passed on in my absence. He cries and asks why he should have lived so long to bury his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren, losing them to this hideous ailment called AIDS. Here is my story:

On World AIDS Day-2011

“Er, Sister Kuku, my daughter, a calamity has befallen this family… you see life"

"Is it one of my sisters or their children? Is it uncle Obert, Uncle Hazvi, Uncle Mhike.."

 I am rattling all my relatives’ names starting to feel panic rising in me when my father cuts short my litany.

“It’s your Aunt Melody. Er, you see, she..”

I have snatched myself off the mat and am outside running, tripping on a piece of wood, losing a sandal as I make my way towards the sleeping hut we shared. I hear my mother’s cry, "Kuku wait!” but I am at the door of our hut. My heart is beating so fast I feel as though it will explode out of my chest. It hurts to breathe.  I fiddle with the latch on the door, but it swings open with ease. It is dark in the room and I peer inside before stooping low and getting in.

My nostrils are assailed by the sickening stench of urine and feces. I try to breath but I gag and step backwards as though I have been physically shoved by an invisible hand. I steady myself against the mud wall and put my hand over my mouth, willing myself not to retch. I search the room frantically in the dimness and my eyes land on a small bundle of blankets in the far corner. I scour the room again, desperately trying to find my aunt. There is very little in here and I am compelled to take a second look at the small bundle on the floor. I look hard, then I see a tiny movement.” Vatete Melody!” I call out, teary now. I feel lost all of a sudden! Where is my aunt? Vatete Melody! My voice cracks and I exhale hard. Its sounds more like a groan.  My eyes have now adjusted to the light and I cannot remove them from the bundle with the tiny movements, up and down rapidly like something breathing shallow breaths, in–out-in-out. More movement this time and I hear a mewing sound, like a kitten. I see a pile of bones in a loose bag of brown skin trying to sit up. I move closer, propelled forward by some unseen force. I feel light and numb as I fix my eyes on the shrunken piece of humanity before me. ‘Kuku. She mews and sounds as though her voice is projecting into the back of her throat rather than out towards her mouth. I keep looking. She has no lips. Her teeth and red- raw gums are bare. Her nose is two holes in her head. That aristocratic bridge is gone. She has reddish fuzz on her head and her cheekbones jut out like rocky outcrops on a hillside, with deep hollows beneath them. I see a pulse jumping under the skin on her neck. There are two swollen lobes, ugly and obscene-looking, behind her ears, dwarfing them. She pants from her effort to sit up. I move closer and kneel down beside her. I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s my mother who whispers that I should not touch her. I slap her hand away from me, feeling a violent, volcanic anger.

“If you touch me again..” I mutter through clenched teeth.

I am alone with my Aunt, I sit beside what is left of her, feeling ripe, hot tears flowing down my cheeks in a steady stream. I do not take my eyes of her for a second. She searches my face, her black fiery eyes sharp, alert and focused, their whites whiter than ever. She is out of breath and asks for water. I reach over to the green metal cup next to her and I put it to her lips. Her teeth make a clanging sound against the rim of the metal cup as she swallows gulps of water thirstily. I am astonished to hear water trickling and gurgling down her throat, into her stomach, through the rest of her digestive system and out with a squirt onto the make shift napkin between her emaciated legs, fashioned from pieces of an old bed sheet. I look at her in a white vest and a napkin. She looks like an old withered baby.

“She cannot keep anything in even for a few minutes, whispers my mother’s co-wife.” She is kneeling next to my aunt and I. My aunt winces in pain as she tries to lie down again, wiped out.

I stroke her head. It is damp and the fuzz feels like baby hair. I touch her face. It feels hard and cold. Like stone. I take her hand in mine, slowly, deliberately. I take each of her fingers one by one, gently feeling the joints. The tears keep flowing and the front of my habit is damp. My nose is running but I make no attempt to wipe it. How is it possible that a person could be eaten from the inside out, like a house infested with termites? Nobody knows they are there until the house collapses in a pile of dust. That is my aunt. She has been eaten, sucked dry until she has collapsed in a pile of bones. I hold on to her hand as I did when she came from her city jobs. I hold onto it the way I did when we took a bucket of warm water to the back of the compound at night, to wash and giggle under the stars. These hands scrubbed my back. These hands plaited my hair and clapped enthusiastic encouragement as I tried to dance. My aunt told me about periods and showed me how to keep myself clean. My aunt giggled with mirth as she teased me about my budding breasts. My aunt laughed at my derogatory descriptions and imitations of our family members. She taught me how to blow bubbles from Bazooka bubble gum. 

Now here she is. Hollow, with a faltering heart beat and gurgling breath. The death rattle.

She moves stronger this time and sits back up. “You must write about me. Write it all down.”

She heaves, “Tell them about me Kuku.” She heaves again.

My father says, that’s enough, she needs to rest, but she persists over his protests.

 “I am too much, too beautiful, too loud, too vibrant to be forgotten.” She heaves and coughs and falls back on her blankets, totally spent. I am still holding her hand. “Kuku, she says panting,

“Yes Vatete, I respond calmly,

“This is not God’s fault. Do you hear me?”

Yes vatete, I hear you.

“Good,” she sighs. “Tell them about me.”

My grandmother’s younger sister, my father’s and my aunt’s mainini, has been summoned to come and take care of my dying aunt. She comes into the room and firmly asks everyone to leave so she can wash vatete. I do not move, and she does not ask me to. Mbuya Anna washes my aunt, talking soothingly all the while. She sings a tune I do not know, and after she is done, she rubs her with sweet smelling Johnson’s baby lotion and sprays her body with impulse body spray-musk. “It’s my signature scent. It says Melody is on her way here, has been here or is around here, somewhere, somewhere.” I smile in spite of everything. That is what she would want.

My Aunt Melody is dead and we have buried her.

“Nematambuzdiko, our condolences” is all I hear at the bus stop as I wait to board the bus and head back to Bondolfi Mission.

I heard them whispering at the funeral, “How else would she have died, that one? It’s that terrible disease of whores. She was so thin you could count her ribs under her skin. What a shame on the family. And such a beautiful girl too.”

On the power of Images : to inform or to distort

                                              
The first time I saw this picture in my Face Book news feeds, I saw it as a thumbnail and as with most such images I scrolled on and did not pay it any more attention. The next day I saw it again and I curiously enlarged it, wondering what the little girl in the picture was doing kneeling on the ground. Well I got the shock of my life when I saw that what I thought was a little girl was a woman, bare breasted kneeling beside a tiny grave in which there lay a tiny human being. I started crying. I could not stem the flow of tears and I became really angry. I sobbed and continued to stare at the picture on my computer screen and yet I had a hard time nailing what I was so angry about. I am looking at this picture now, having decided to calmly describe why this is in such poor taste and in my mind a cruel and callous picture.

When I look at this picture and the manner in which I saw it, I realize the fact that poor Africans are so often stripped of their dignity. Here is a woman who has lost her child, probably to hunger or to some easily curable disease. She probably held her child to her dry breast and tried to give it sustenance but had nothing for it to nurse on. Then she decides to bury her child, grief stricken as I can only imagine, and there is a camera clocking away, documenting images of her sorrow, her pain, her vulnerability, her partial nakedness. I ask: as a mother myself, how would I feel if there was such a gross intrusion on my personal grief and loss? How would I react to a camera man, probably unknown to me, taking pictures while I stared at the corpse of my child, lying naked in a hole in the ground? What is the purpose of such a picture I ask?

This picture when I saw it came with no title, no name, and it was not attributed to any photographer or journalist. It has been circulating on Face Book and people have been pasting it on their walls. I have seen many varied reactions: some are mad and feel violated at being forced to see such a deeply saddening picture. Others are moved to tears and cry for Africa. But I ask again: what is the purpose of such a picture? Was this woman even asked if she wanted an image of her kneeling beside her baby’s grave circulated around the word for all to gawk at?  What does she stand to gain from all this “publicity”? Where in Africa was this picture taken and is it right to assume that it is in Africa? Mind you images like this are so associated with Africa and therein lies my problem with it: there is nothing on the picture that says where in Africa this is (That is if it is even in Africa, could be in Haiti or Grenada), and so this leaves room for assumptions that this is happening in the whole of Africa. After all Africa, for many in the West is a country. Because there is no name, no story attached to this picture, viewers are left to draw their own conclusions about what is going on, leaving room for more assumptions: that in Africa, women are left to bury their dead children alone in a hole in the ground and that African women, real African women, not the westernized kind, go around topless.

On another level my anger was an embarrassed sort of anger that we have leaders on the continent who shop at the most expensive stores the world over, who own homes and yachts and diamonds and run the country’s finances as though it was their own personal bank account, while what is in that image is going on. That health care systems and agricultural sectors are in bad shape, while people starve, and die of diseases that are considered eradicated in other parts of the world. That while  governments elsewhere have emergency plans and contingency plans to deal with drought and other natural disaster situations, governments in Africa have the hands stretched out to NGOs and WHO to come in and help.

The images of Africa continue to be images of the kind I have shown here and Africans as a whole are tired of seeing themselves represented in this fashion en masse. Yes the continent has its problems, yes there is disease famine and war, but these things abound in other places and yet we rarely see images so obscene (and jarring to the senses), of these places. Are the victims of Hurricane Katrina any more human than the Africans in refugee camps? Yet the images we saw during that natural disaster were not of dead people floating in the flood waters or half naked Americans sobbing heartbreakingly while clutching a dead child. It is not that these things did not happen, but there was a sense that some scenes were too sensitive to capture on camera. Why is the same respect for human dignity not afforded to Africans?

We have a responsibility to voice our concerns about such images and somehow vulnerable populations need to be protected against this kind of abuse. Yes, it is abuse to take a picture of someone who is mourning and who has not given her permission and then not to even bother to give her a name. She is just another faceless, nameless African in the throes of poverty and disease. It is not right to take advantage of people particularly when they are at their most vulnerable. It is low, empty of empathy and it is in poor taste.

What I really wished for more than anything when I saw this picture was to throw a shroud over the woman and her baby and to shield them from scrutiny and restore to them the dignity that poverty has robbed them of, so that they could say their goodbyes in peace. Surely every human being has that right?

Barbs

Only in America! Vietnam-Zimbabwe, Happy Thanksgiving

   

I had a fantastic encounter today! My manicurist whom I have known as Jimmy for a whole year became known to me today as Yung Wei from Vietnam. I had not seen him for some weeks and that is because I was too busy to get pampered in a spa. However, since the holidays are round the corner I decided to get spruced up in preparation for the festivities.

 Jimmy greeted me in his usual ‘Wassup Barb!’ as I sat in his wonderful massage chair. I pressed the on button on the arm rest so that the chair could start working its magic on my back. I responded to him and asked him how his trip to Vietnam was. Well if I had known that I was about to be transported to and given a deluxe tour of Vietnam, I would have come better prepared. As Jimmy worked on creating a set of bright pink nails with white tips on my fingers, I listened to the enchanting tale…

“My trip was great. It takes more than 22 hrs to get to Vietnam from here. I was happy to see my mum. She has been sick for some time now. Something in my heart told me it’s time to go. It’s been 15 years since I left. She was so happy she shouted “Yung Wei! You have finally come!”

I watched Jimmy transform into Yung Wei, as he described that first encounter with his mother after so many years. It was not so much the words he used but the manner in which his whole being was able to bring that experience to life for me. His face was rapt as he buffed and filed my nails with the precision of a pre programmed machine. His eyes filled up with tears which made them glisten like shiny black coals.

“I could not believe how old my mother has grown. There are wrinkles on her face and around her eyes. She has lost so much weight from the illness and her cheekbones jut out under her skin. She looks like a small girl, you know? I hugged her, but there was nothing to hug; just bones in a bag of skin. She was crying but no tears were falling. She is all dried up inside because of the illness, she cannot even make tears. I could feel she was so happy to see me but I could see that she felt bad that after all these years, I should find her in this sorry state.”

I felt my own tears well up in my eyes. I put my head back and blinked several times so they would not fall. What on earth did I have to cry about? Here I was getting my nails done and getting ready to party and this poor man has just returned from an emotionally harrowing trip home. I was silent as he placed the white tips and glued them onto my nail.

“I know my mother would have wanted to cook for me. When I was a small boy she cooked my favorite food every other day. It is called Hu tieu kho. Do you know it?”

 I shook my head.

“It is made up of noodles with different vegetables; mushrooms, bean sprouts, green onions, and carrots. You can add chicken too if you like. But when I was a small boy, we were too poor to afford meat. You can make it spicy by adding hot red peppers, you know. My village is in northern Vietnam, near the Ban Gioc Falls. Do you know it?”

 I shook my head again

“It’s the best place in the world. My mother is a great singer, you know. She is sings the Hat Van. This is music for the spirits. She is from the mountains. Mountain people are spirit people. They are very close to nature and they follow what the spirits tell them. I forgot all these things when I came to America. I forgot my ancestors. Vietnamese government stopped all forms of worship in my country. Did you know that? ”

I shook my head yet again. I had many questions for Jimmy. I was curious as to why he left Vietnam and what the country was like given the fact that it had been colonized by the French in the 19^th century. I wanted to find out how Vietnamese people felt about the war particularly because he was from the north, which had been on one side against the south, which was backed by the United States. However, I could see that Yung Wei needed to unburden, to tell his story his way. I did not interrupt.

As listened intently and imagined a hot spicy chicken and vegetable dish eaten under the warm sun listening to the sound of a waterfall. I imagined Vietnamese men and women in nearby rice paddies, planting and weeding their crops, all the while singing haunting melodies to their ancestors. The scene before me was idyllic and calm, and I imagined a little bare chested boy running up a lush green mountain slope and jumping into the frothy waters at the bottom of the water fall. I imagined the Victoria Falls, my best place in the world, and was overwhelmed by sadness. I knew why I was crying. Selfishly, Yung Wei’s story had become my own. The yearning and intense homesickness that he was exuding became my own nostalgia for a home that once was. My home country had changed over the years and so had I. I wondered whether realistically I could continue to call it home. I wondered whether both home country and I could accommodate the changes that time and life had wrought on us and whether we could somehow find a modus Vivendi, a compromise, much like in a marriage where both people learn to live with and accept the quirks and foibles inherent in the other. He had one sick family member back in Vietnam while I had many close family members who were ill.

Yung Wei’s voice broke into my thoughts.

“My mother has never seen my children, or my wife. It’s too expensive for all of us to go.”

Yung Wei has three children. His youngest is the same age as my twin daughters, who are 4 years old. He has a lovely picture of them in Halloween costumes on his work table. He glances over to his wife, who is working diligently on another customer’s hands at a table across the room and he smiles:  “We will soon catch up with you. There is number 4 on the way.”

I smile through my tears, which despite my best efforts have started to fall in rivulets down my cheeks, smudging my eyeliner and leaving trails that resemble dry riverbeds in my foundation. These are tears of joy, because despite the cloud of cold melancholy enveloping Yung Wei and me, his news of a new life in the making infuses the grayness with a soft, warm yellow light.

“America is the country of forgetting and remembering, he says with a sad distant smile.

“You can be so happy that you forget the hard times, the old country, the hunger and the poverty. But America can make you think about that country you left behind, the people you miss, the smells and the sounds. Do you know that?”

 I nod my head. “Yes Yung Wei, I know that. America is the place of forgetting and remembering”

He has done a perfect job with my nails and as I get up to leave, he comes round the table, gives me a big awkward hug, laughs heartily and says, “Yeah Barb, of course you know that! You’re from Nigeria, right? You and me are the same right? Old country to New country!”

I laugh with Yung Wei. “Old country to New country, Yung Wei and it is Zimbabwe I come from!”

“Oh!  Jimbabwe? Ok! Still, same thing! Jimbabwe- Vietnam, still Old country!”

At this both of us are guffawing and bumping each other like old friends sharing a private joke, as we make our way to the cashier.

“Happy thanks giving Yung Wei! Have a great time with your family.”

He looks into my eyes and says “Happy Thanks giving Barb! Thanks for listening. Oh, by the way, next time, use my New country name, Jimmy. Otherwise my customers will get confused. Old country name makes me remember too much!”

I blow a kiss towards Jimmy’s wife and their ‘bun in the oven’ and take my leave. As I walk to my car with the icy cold wind shredding my face, I think to myself: “This Thanks giving, I will take time to remember and time to forget and as I do this, I will have gratitude in my heart and a glass of Merlot in my hand. HAPPY THANKS GIVING to those in the Old country and those in the New, and to all those who straddle both Old and New!

Barbs