Africanah

I’ve been reading Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's latest book entitled, Americanah. While reveling in the similar ways that I experienced America coming from Bermuda and the opposite cross-culture shock of experiencing Kenya I felt inspired to blog my own version which I will call Africanah.
 

         This month marks two years of living in Kenya for me. They say that it takes at least two years to get over experiencing culture shock before one can truly begin to enjoy the new location. Like the opposite of Ifemelu in Adiche's Americanah , I’ve gotten used to saying, “Sorry” to someone after they've tripped over a crack in the sidewalk or if something bad has happened to them. I’ve grown to understand that when someone doesn’t call you back it actually means, “No” but not wanting to disappoint you, the person would rather let you figure out the meaning of the subliminal silence on your own. If anyone wants to know by the way, I STILL GET DISAPOINTED!

I’ve also discovered that my English accent is what separates me in the eyes of Kenyans from being truly African but simultaneously grants me a privilege that I did not have living in my own country. “You have the right accent” someone once told me. I think back to the many times I called a business to make an inquiry back home in Bermuda and realized that the person on the other end could hear my slurred, Bermudian tongue and knew that I did not have “the right accent.”

In Kenya I have “good hair”- must be mixed with some muzungu. In Bermuda my hair is picky, knotty, can’t get a comb through it, needs a good conditioner, will only grow if you lock it.

From afar I look at Bermudian politics as a plethora of cloudy philosophies and repeated points in history rather than current happenings. I observe food programmes and religious charities as a mockery of developing nations. I prefer benevolent dictatorship to fascism disguised as democracy. I’ve decided that the tribalism in my own country may be more lethal than the tribalism expressed here in Kenya except that Bermudian tribalism is a slow-killing poison that will subdue and silence the lesser before it kills.

I’ve concluded that it will be at least 50 years before being a hippie, hipster or hobo is fashionable in Kenya. To be retro is now and to be postmodern is to be lost.

While I live trying to prove how African I really am; “We eat cassava and dance to Soca which sounds like Lingala or Luo Benga,” upscale Kenyans live trying to prove how Western they are; “We eat red jelly like the British do and only wear European-brand clothes.” The Africanah becomes caricatured into Shaka Zulu turned Kunta Kinte while the Kenyan caricatures him or herself into a bedazzled version of Queen Elizabeth.

I’ve come to embrace wide skies and yellow Acacia trees even though I miss palm trees- especially ones covered with Christmas lights. I am a real Africanah now. But somehow I feel like I always was. 

 

Modern Mom? Escape of the Un-evolved, Modern Mammal

As Sakata gets underway, Zahari's cast comes off and he begins physical therapy, Shai's football trip, book projects, music projects, dance and yoga...this article rings true more now than ever. This article was first published in artlife magazine but I thought I'd post it here as well:).


Flight is an essential anthropological instinct that goes back to the earliest human beings. The ability to protect oneself in response to present or pending danger is linked with the desire to survive, evolve and continue the cycle of life. Millennia later, there are no dinosaurs to outrun and no mammoths to hunt but the instinctual desire to avoid stressful situations is still an essential part of the human reality and shapes our day-to-day existence in more ways than one would like to admit.
The need to escape is not gender specific or solely work-related but a mechanism that allows us to either deny or acknowledge that a problem exists. During the denial or acceptance process of the stressful condition the escaper consciously makes an effort to neutralize or eliminate the problem for a brief moment in time through physical or mental avoidance.

The Hungry Dinosaur

Sometimes life’s mounting pressures are comparable to a savage dinosaur running hungrily towards us. We imagine ourselves as leprechaun-size Neanderthals as the ground below our bare feet begins to quake. The dry earth crackles and our eyes grow bright with fear. As the unruly noise stomps closer and closer towards us, fear grips our entire being as the very earth we stand on feels unstable.
Suddenly the trees nearby begin to rustle violently and we realize that this could be the end of life as we know it. Our feet begin to kick up dust without consent while we run with arms flailing wildly into a nearby safe cave. We know that eventually we will have to come out of hiding and face the grave beast but for now, inside this cool haven, we are safe.

The look of the modern cave has changed in appearance over the millennia. Today’s caverns are no longer jagged rocks with a dark, hollow interior and small-mouth opening that contain lively pictograph inscriptions. Spas, virtual games, Disney World, nightclubs, movie theatres, alcohol, hallucinogens, television, bug spray, air conditioning, junk food … the list could go on. These are the caves that have been invented for the modern, evolved, human when life feels unsafe. We know that soon we will need to come out of hiding and face whatever stressors we left outside but at least for now, we are safe.

Escape of the Neanderthal Mom

Every month, I engage myself in writing for the Mom’s Corner Column. I’ve written about my over-obsession with playing classical music for my son while in utero, the stress of cooking for the holidays, internal conversations during play dates and my lack of energy to manage my two young children while baby food globules drip from the ceiling. The funniest thing about all of these articles is that when they were written exaggeration was unnecessary. I smile cheekily when I imagine the usual coffee drinkers reading my articles as humorous fiction.

What I failed to mention during these written depictions of my life is that with every subsequent mom event the need to escape from the mounting pressures of life grew substantially. I love my family and kids but sometimes, especially in the early days, I found almost unknowingly that my feet began to run without my consent even though there wasn’t a dinosaur to outrun or a mammoth to hunt. Suddenly, I’d find myself dashing down the road with arms flailing wildly and sweat pouring down my face and into my eyes. Some would call this exercise but I knew better.

At other times the running was metaphorical. The kids knew that chocolate was only for adults. This was the slogan that I created as an attempt to consume the majority of sweets that dared to enter into my house. “Mommy’s throwing up because she’s sick” my oldest child innocently told my mother-in-law one morning after a night of neo-teenagerism. My feet were once again running off without my consent. Perhaps I should’ve chosen the spa treatment instead?

Feeling helpless and powerful at the same time for my growing need to escape and my growing knack for creating escape routes for myself, I decided that I needed to locate a safe pictograph-like cave before the raptor was in sight. I could decide to where or if my feet would run and thereby choose my response to the stressor before it arrived. Perhaps I had evolved or perhaps I had maladapted to a variety of coping mechanisms? Either way, my desire to persist through the jungle of life was robust and if I could help it, the cycle of life would continue.

By Joanne Ball-Burgess

What a Year! 2012

Hi everyone,
It has been several months since I wrote in this blog. Even though I haven't written anything here for a while my mind has been turning over with thoughts while my journey continues here in Kenya. About a month ago while on my way to see my agent for a meeting I found my knuckles turning white while clenching the backseat of a motorbike that was travelling way too fast while cutting off buses and trucks on the way to town. In Kiswahili a motorbike is called a boda. As we weaved in and out of traffic and even onto the sidewalk people jumped out of the way and someone shouted to the driver, "Hey, drive safely with that pretty girl!" While my life flashed before my eyes I thought about how life is sometimes like a boda. We climb on with a destination in mind but sometimes we are unprepared for the speed at which life takes us.

Did I mention an agent? Yes that's correct. Back in August of 2011 when we first stepped off the plane into Nairobi I vowed that if things did not work out well for us, in a year we would move back to Bermuda. When August 2012 came around, I was about to become a Kenyan celebrity as well as a teacher at Woodland Star School. So on weekends I am a judge for the biggest East African dance competition on television called Sakata and on weekdays I am the Social Studies and Poetry teacher at a niche school in Kenya that infuses the creative arts into every inch of the curriculum.

Being a dance judge has been a growing experience for me. I am naturally a critical person when viewing the visual and performing arts and am happy to offer constructive criticism on any given day. The unfortunate thing is that in a competition of this nature someone has to go home. I think back to the first show that we did. There were lights, makeup, people calling my name and people wanting to take my picture. As we ascended onto the stage and the cameras began to roll I looked to the side and remembered the teenager who wanted a life of adventure and freedom. In my way, dance became both for me. That was how I began dancing. As the lights continued flashing I thought to myself, "God, is this where it was all leading?"

 As the first show continued and finally came to an end there were smiles for some dance crews and tears for others. The responsibility of choosing who would go to the next round weighed heavy on me but there was no time to wallow as the next show would begin soon and there would be more makeup, lights and screaming people. The reactions to me being a judge were also a mix of emotions. Some people would say that I am mean or unfair while others have said that they appreciate the feedback and have grown from my criticism. As an amature celebrity I have learnt not to read the comments about me posted on the Internet (good or bad) and to stay focused at every minute.



Science-Art Crossover

My Universe

People who Inspire Us

On weekdays I am not Judge Joanne but Ms. Ball-Burgess. There is no time for makeup, no lights and no screaming fans or anti-fans:). There are screaming children however who are creative in nature, very opinionated and used to the free-spirited education process at Woodland Star School. In some ways these children are far more scary than the most passionate fan whose dance crew has just been sent home. These kids are hungry for education and look to me as the one who will give them meaningful experiences in Poetry, Social Studies and Music. Naturally I infuse dance, visual arts and song into all of my classes but when I am tired there is no one to say, "Judge Joanne needs water!" or "Judge Joanne needs a fresh coat of lip gloss!" These varied experiences keep me balanced and full of creative energy. They also allow me to see the world at different angles and remind me of my past and present simultaneously.

In one year of being in Kenya life has changed dramatically and in many ways and life has also remained the same. It has been a year of realising and embracing my passions, learning that my life is not my own and coming to terms with my own insecurities that come to the surface once the television cameras are turned off. Overall, life is good, family is precious and Kenya is an amazing place. Thank you for embracing me.

Oh, I forgot to mention, that you can watch Sakata on Citizen Television at 8:05pm every Sunday Kenyan time. For those of you outside of East Africa or without a television here is the live stream http://www.citizentv.co.ke/live.

Dancing for my son's birthday (Update)

Hi everyone and Happy Mother's Day yesterday!
Remember several months ago I promised that I'd keep you updated on my progress with learning traditional dances here in Kenya? Well I thought I'd post a link for you all to enjoy. As you know from the content of the blog posts that I write, dance is a huge part of my life. It is important for me to learn the culture of a place and what better way to understand culture than through folklore?

On May 5th my youngest son celebrated his birthday.  I decided that I'd dance for the occasion. Five years prior it was a 12 hour labour of love. A circle of celebration that culminated into a new person that I held in my arms. Somehow it seemed like he had been here before.  A loud, strong and determined little boy with big cheeks and black curls on his head made his way into our lives in a big way. We named him Zahari Nidhan which means Illuminated  Treasure.

Sometimes the dance of life is painful and sometimes it is full of joy. Sometimes the joy and pain are synchronised in the dance.

Before I get too carried away with poetry enjoy the video!



I'm interested to hear what you think:)

When I'm Not Blogging...

It's been a while since I posted on this blog.  The proverbial blank page is not synonymous with a lack of exciting topics to write  about however. Every day my experiences here are multi-layered and dynamic...sometimes they contradict each other and other times I need to decide which storyline I wish to follow. Should I write about my children's experiences "in Africa"? I'd like to be able to say that they are here receiving an "African" education but sadly they've been thrown back into a 1972 leftover colonial education although the faces are black and the accents are Kenyan. Should I write about my "saving the world" ventures? That's always fun but rarely do these happenings come in the dramatic form that they are usually expressed in. Rather, the simple, unplanned gestures that should be a part of normal human living are ways that I try to save the world-one act of kindness at a time. Or perhaps I'll write about the hippy farmer's wife that gardens nude beside her husband and practices yoga poses with her feet firmly planted in the Kenyan soil. Or maybe I could write about the ordinary girl from Warwick who moved to "Africa" and became a goddess. "Please place my fruit offering over there" I say as I point with my very cultural- looking scepter. I hear drumming faintly in the background.

But sometimes the experiences and stories never filter onto the blank screen as shapes and symbols that make verbal sense but rather remain as happenings and metaphors in my mind. Sometimes I wonder, "How will I explain this? Or at the moment where I begin to write a new post, the now familiar but nonetheless annoying random electricity outage occurres. As I sit in a dark room surrounded by candles, dynamic life does not lie still. Even in the darkness this place is teaching me something so that when the light returns, another lesson has been learned and the mind filtering process begins again. The old blog post idea now seems futile.

Two weeks ago I posted on my facebook page that, "I feel a blog post brewing". This week a friend of mind responded by saying, "It must be potent now". Indeed the posts are potent and usually roam around in my head for several weeks to several months before making it into written form. But as I am sitting in my living room watching a gecko run by, looking at the coconut on my table that wasn't eaten, the piles of books beside me, the 8lb bottle of Shea butter beside the books, teaching notes, random toys, fish food and painted Easter eggs I think about all of the various streams of my life and see an interweaving of my life's story through all these items.

When I look at the coconut I recall the smiling face of the vendor who sold me 3 this week. I still see his smile, several teeth are missing and the others are pretty decayed but he smiled from the heart and it felt genuine. I think about the many times we tell others to "smile" in the West when on the inside there is a frown. Have we lost the art of accepting one's heart reflection? I look at the books and see not only books that I am reading, but books that my sons, ages 4 and 6 are reading. I remember teaching them to read and smile. I look at the 8lb bottle of Shea butter and hope that a new business venture is looming on tomorrow's horizon.

At the moment I am not the goddess, the super mom or the hippy wife. My scepter has disappeared. Out of frustration I told my husband today that I don’t want to hear about his new agricultural happenings or how he plans to solve world hunger. It’s been several weeks since I’ve seen the garden and my children are behaving like brats. I blame it on the rainy season and the full moon. Perhaps the full moon is a season. Life has not halted its footsteps for me. I am running a race to catch up but as I look up breathless my sweat stained eyes can barely make out the writing. I see that the results have been predetermined.  Although the electricity is still on, a darkened room with flickering candles appears and welcomes me into its embrace. I walk into it as if called upon to partake in a holy Séance. I return illuminated and full. The animation stills. I reach out and touch the allegory. In a single moment where life remains at rest for just one second, I rush over to the computer and begin typing…

Digital Postcard from Nairobi

 

A letter from one culture to another 

Dear Bermuda,

It has been seven months since I've been in Kenya. I haven't seen a lion yet and my children are not starving. Please consult with Kenyan mobile technicians on the latest phone application technology.

I must also tell you about a most amusing sight that I have witnessed in this marvellous land. Every afternoon on my way home I see two rather inebriated looking men who are supposedly fixing the road. They fill up the potholes with sand and rocks and stand in the middle of the road requesting money from passersby with the most pitiful gaze that I have seen in all of Africa. At the end of the day they quickly remove the rocks and the sand and the next morning begin their ritual of "fixing" the road again. After several weeks they disappear from our street and I breathe a sigh that this agitating sight of unsustainable business ingenious has ceased for a while. After several weeks they are back again with the same business plan. The other day Quincy gave them a shilling just for having the gull to pull it off.  After witnessing this charade I have determined to never again speak badly about Works & Engineering. Even if there are six workers fixing a hole and 5 of them are standing there to make sure that the one guy is doing the job correctly.



And you know, I don't know why "they" say that Bermudians cannot make time. To be a half an hour late for an event is simply breathing time. When people are constantly 2-3 hours late for meetings however this is not breathing time. Note to Kenyans; you are not on time as long as the sun is in the sky.

By the way, please do not delay your visit to Kenya for too long. The tribal dances are engaging invigorating and provide the participant with a great workout. If you took a couple months to learn some of the Luo, Luhya or Kiganda dances you'd be the hottest thing on the dance floor during the Socca Show.  When you come however please mind the traffic. Flashing lights do not mean that the police are nearby. Here, it simply means, "Slow down! I'm coming through and I'm not gonna stop!"

If we cannot smile at the surprises that life brings us then life becomes dull and motionless. Please send my love to the family and take care.

Best Regards,

Bermy Girl living in the Motherland

Lavender Lullabies

It’s evening time. Just sitting here at my computer…again.

Husband is reading and the kids are dreaming about magic keys that glow and hot flowing lava that sparkles blue and pink. I tell them these stories every night. Nowadays they help me to tell their stories and create their own lullaby of gorgeous midnight wonder.  I’ve written stories for the ears of many children but it’s probably safe to say that only two sets of ears will ever hear these stories and maybe, just maybe they’ll remember one of them. I hope so. People say that what we do here in Kenya is magical-planting greenhouses for schools and learning local trades. They say, “When you come home you can teach us how to live without lifes fineries”. Although I’m not sure what this means. I feel more wealthy than ever right now.

 If one can live in their home country amongst everyone who they know and love while feeling the wide wind between their toes and the tall sun on their head then this must be that finery that they speak of. But if the wind ever becomes thick and the sun is covered by an unnamed cloud then...

I’ve just put my children to bed again. Tonight we read about Gandhi and Nelson Mandela and…Sleepyhead. I’ve told them that one day they can change the world. I hope that one day I can do the same.

Shai's Masai Project