Chinua Achebe

30 November

        Yesterday I was beneficially reintroduced to a glorious quote from the great Nigerian author - Chinua Achebe - while I flipped through the cracked beige paperback that consists of debates regarding sociopolitical and cultural phenomenon across the continent. “People go to Africa and confirm what they already have in their heads and so they fail to see what is in front of them.” I suddenly vanished in Achebe’s words. How have my ingrained perceptions and stereotypical underpinnings of the continent effected, misrepresented or constructed what is virtually at my fingertips while here? How has the global media crafted my white, privileged sense of understandings concerning the continent? Why does popular discourse surrounding the continent focus on the grime of Africa, and so seldom document the extraordinarily diverse, vibrant and dynamic cultures?
        A few days ago, I ventured on a five hour southern journey to Kampala. After spending only a hundred and six hours here, I’m struck at the ways our brothers and sisters from the north are perceived. Just yesterday, I found myself in a ludicrously absurd mall-type arena. The place could have easily been nestled in Syracuse, New York, and I wouldn’t blink an eye, save for the fact that it was packed with 98% Ugandans. As I loosely conversed with the young 20s female merchant who collected change for the fresh and juicy orange and mango I purchased, I bit my lip. “I came down from Gulu just yesterday” I sort of pompously stated to kill the silence. Based on this girl’s horrified nonverbal reaction, I thought I uttered sinful words. I went on, “Have you been to Gulu?” The girl’s terms forced me to squint my eyes and steadily nod my head. “Why would I want to go up there where all those people are killing each other,” carelessly stated the clerk. After further deliberations with southern Ugandans, I’m realizing the merchant’s feelings aren’t isolated. “You mean there are night clubs in Gulu? I thought the place is still very rundown and war torn?” claimed the dreadlock sporting 26 year old dude I was in discussion with. The final quote potted it for me, “I fear Gulu and northern Uganda … those people are chopping each other up.” I’m kind of dumbfounded whilst hearing these rather ignorant philosophies. After all, Gulu is a five hour bus journey north of Kampala, and “war” has “officially been absent” since 07ish’. The subjugation and misalignments of fellow country folk and government officials are harrowing and worrying. (See work from Sverker Finnstrom and Chris Dolan). After listening to some of this absurdity, I was initially reminded of my pal Tonny’s (an Acholi from Gulu) hypothesis on the issue, “You know it was fear that brought problems to northern Uganda in the first place.” According to Tonny and other experts on the conflict, northerners in Kampala were (and perhaps still are) occasionally referred to as “Konies” after rebel leader Joseph Kony.
        When I initially arrived in the severely harsh and magical streets of the capital, I was reminded of its grave intensity. Immense crowds of young kids and older adults selling fruit, fried grasshoppers, hardboiled eggs, DVDs of Lucky Dube, belt buckles with Obama’s face on them, and plastic sneakers. Throughout my years in this lifetime, I’ve had the luxury of arriving to Kampala on about six different occasions. Without a doubt, I’ve clearly never viscerally or physically conceptualized Kampala in such an abstract lens. Perhaps it’s because I’ve spent the previous few months in the large mellow village of Gulu that I stopped in the middle of the mass chaos to watch a woman in a long bright orange t-shirt distastefully throw blows at two teenage boys on a bicycle. All the while the white chalky exhaust from the overcrowded, beat-up taxi-vans quickly distorted her fuming and aggressive face.
        On the same walk, I observed the fiery supporters of various political parties’ parade, dance, sing, blare music and run around the dusty, mosh-pit like streets near the New Taxi Park. As I attempted to meander my way up the minute hill back to my dwelling, I felt the hand of a desperate stranger reach into my right front pocket. There was nothing in there besides my hand. When our hands met inside the pocket, I instinctively yanked mine out and peered up at the dude. Our eyes reached one another, but I quickly turned my gaze, and realized there were perhaps no personal affiliations related to our interaction. Or does the “personal affiliation” come with the color of my skin and the laces in my sneakers? As I walked out of the grimy, smelly, swarming streets of chaos, I took a bottomless breath and realized “that’s it for now.” But how about my brother who dipped his left hand into my right pocket? It’s most likely “not it” for him, as he probably navigates those immense, exhausted boulevards on the regular. Why not take advantage of the gleaming white wealth and privilege that’s visiting a seemingly unfamiliar and foreign land? After all, what is there to lose? I grinned and reminisced about how feeble an attempt to loot my belongings as compared to the circumstances I experienced at Earnest Bai Karoma’s Presidential Inauguration in Freetown, Sierra Leone, a few years back.
        When heading back to Achebe’s words, I broadly beam at a snip of a joyous and fruitful walk I took last week in Gulu. My tall and lanky fourteen year old neighbor strolled alongside me through the village avenues with a destination of town in mind. Our intended targeted objective was to land at our favorite wooden shop where we could each sip on some fine cold orange Fanta soda straight from the glass bottle. I owed a gesture of appreciation to Willie as he chose to assist in hand washing my filthy and stinky clothes that brutally blazing morning. Without fail, whenever I’m walking the dirt paths of Gulu, scores of comments, greetings, laughter, etc. arise. Two-thirds of the time I’m ignorant to what is being offered, but can pick up small tidbits. The day with Willie was dissimilar, as I attempted to inquire what was being said. After a short while, I stopped asking, but was slightly amused at some contributions, and I pondered how much I’ve missed due to the language barrier.

“This munu will greet anyone.”
“This munu looks like he wants to fight.”
“Why doesn’t that munu pull up his pants?”
“I bet that munu’s bag is filled with money.”
“Munu, give me all of your money, or at least 500 shillings” (the equivalent to about 22 cents)
“This munu looks like Chuck Norris.”
“Munu give me your computer when you leave Uganda.”

        I plan on tucking Achebe’s miraculously poignant words at the forefront of my cognition. No question that I’ve fallen into the trap as labeling the mysticism on this continent as the “other.” I’m not only white, privileged and wealthy, but ultimately from the United States. Collectively whites have come to this area and attempted to “fix” it. A revered British explorer (from the 1850s) in Gulu – Samuel Baker – is credited for ending the Arab slave trade amongst the Acholi in northern Uganda. The amount of instances in which I’ve been asked if I’ve visited “Samuel Baker’s fort yet” is uncountable while up north. I’ve only slightly touched the surface of exploring with Acholi folk the actual underpinnings of Baker’s work. Did he really “save the Acholi from Arab slave traders?” Or were his selfish intentions rooted in prospering his privileged country of origin? I have strong opinions siding one way. However, I find it necessary to jot down some of this “savior’s” words…

“The treachery of the Negro is beyond belief; he has not a moral human instinct and is below the brute. How is it possible to improve such abject animals? They are only fit for slaves to which position their race appears to be condemned.”

      I’ve yet to discourse with some Acholi on Baker’s specific philosophies and thoughts, but clearly plan to when the setting permits. Are brown and black skinned people “only fit for slaves” (as Baker claims) due to mainstream media, explores like Baker and John Hanning Speke, technology and material development, etc.?
My next mission on this powerful excursion is to label Achebe’s words in my eyes as my inquisitive mind persistently runs.

Does "Our Uganda" include those northerners who are "chopping each other up"?