I was sitting down with fellow youths during a two-day First Aid training inside a German Red Cross Society lecture hall; in the German city of Freiburg. Just before taking a short break, the trainer inquired about how many of us had no driving-licences or were willing to take the offered Driving course. I didn’t raise my hand for I had a driving-licence acquired from my home country earlier before I traveled abroad.
One talkative lady seated next to me on my left moved closer and asked.
Hast du ihn verstanden? ( Did you understand him?)
“Yes I did, however I have one already. What I need to inquire from him later is the possibility of getting an international driving-licence.” I replied.
“What! I thought you don’t have roads in your country” She remarked with genuine surprise – sustaining the frown on her face for some seconds. The youth on my right hand-side joined the conversation at this point.
“No! There are roads but no traffic rules.” he said looking at me as if to allow me time to shed light on his remark. I said nothing, prompting him to take over again.
“Yes, my parents were in Africa for holiday and they told me that drivers don’t stop at the Ample or Red light and, that Zebra crossings are also there, however people cross at their own risks. Sometimes pedestrians…”
‘…look, Africa is large, in which country were your parents?’ I interrupted apparently getting rather annoyed that he could make such conclusions after a single visit in one part of Africa.
It wasn’t abnormal for me to get annoyed with fictions of such nature or stereotypes about Africa or Kenya in particular.
‘I don’t remember the country, but it was in this country where there’s Masai Mara. I think in Kenya”
“Oh, I see. Should we go to Edeka or McDonald?” I asked, changing the topic abruptly. We then walked out to the nearby McDonald for Lunch.
While queuing for my food and all through lunch, I kept pondering the issue that had caused a storm in my tea-cup; I thought of the funny comments about traffic rules and driving-licences from my colleagues and no roads in Africa. Technically what they were saying was true because the more I pondered on the issue in my mind, the more the true picture of what goes on roads in my country glared at me. Not positively.
“In a way, they’re right’ I said to myself and smiled bitterly as memories of how I acquired my driving- licence flashed through my mind.
It was towards the end of September 2006 back home in Kenya when I asked a close relative for cash to enable me join a driving school in Nairobi. She gave me the cash and asked me to join the government-owned driving school, which she said was the best.
I walked inside a lonely old premises situated near south B where theory classes were on-going. Apart from the single old lorry parking in front of the building whose faded colour I could not easily recognise, there was no sign that I had reached the government driving school premises. I moved on, walking directly towards one of the offices and inquired for admission of which I was told to wait until the next intake, this was to be in three months. Since I did not have three months to wait, my relative and I inquired from one of the best private driving schools in the country where I was allowed to begin my courses anytime.
I took the prospectus from that private driving school with me home, to read it for myself after inquiry and payment for my theory classes. According to the well elaborated prospectus from this very famous driving school, learners were to take up 15hours field/practical lessons distributed as 1hour per day in 15 days, while the theory classes had no time-limit.
My plan to attend the theory classes first before showing up for the practical part of the driving course went on successfully. There were all kinds of learners, but the one that I still remember until today, was that short, rotund man in his mid forties, who pick-pocketed a shopping list and a memory card from me; I was still learning German-language and had scribbled down some few vocabularies on a card and carried it with me for remembrance and the shopping list had remained in my pocket after I had gone out shopping few hours earlier. This man was standing behind me and executed his action when I raised a question that caused laughter.
“Many drivers don’t obey the traffic lights and in many occasions they ignore zebra crossings even if there are pedestrians waiting to cross the road. Why is it so? Do they…I mean, are they qualified drivers?” this was my question.
The theory teacher looked at me and said, “Take what I’m teaching you seriously and pass your exam. whatever you’ll do after receiving your driving licence will be upon you.”
There was loud laughter. Those seating in front of me turned to face me and I felt hands tapping my back softly. I also felt a hand sweeping my behind at once and I turned to check – the back pocket of my jeans pant had been swept clean, and the men behind me looked so honest that it was difficult to get a single suspect. We had little argument, of course, but all was in vain. When I was walking out after the lesson, I met this short, rotund man standing outside the exit door. He was squinting his eyes trying to read some German words in a small card.
“In case you can’t understand the words, try reading the shopping list.” I said to him.
He looked at me without a word.
“It is in English.” I added. He threw the card down and gave me a thumb and a smile as I walked away.
As soon as I felt that there was nothing new to learn from the theory classes, I thought it was time to talk to one of the officials at the reception to book me a driving instructor at my convenient time, which was the following day. With no job, my only focus at the time was learning how to drive within the shortest time possible.
My main plan therefore was to begin with the C class of a vehicle before touching a small car, so I was directed to a station outside the city square where lorries were available for driving lessons.
I reported to this place at 1400hrs the following day and attended a theory lesson together with other learners while waiting for my first practical lesson scheduled to begin at exactly 1500hrs.
At exactly 1455, I went to confirm with the receptionist to ensure my practical course was valid as scheduled and that I had driving instructor.
“Haraka ya nini, wewe yako ni saa tisa (What’s the hurry for! You are not scheduled until 1500hrs.)” said one of the three receptionists.
I did not argue, but waited for the next instructions from him. He called me after a while and mentioned to me the vehicle I was assigned by reading out its registration number and the name of my driving instructor.
I walked out to search for the vehicle. It was parked between several other Lorries, however, there was nobody inside the vehicle.
After waiting outside for more than ten minutes without seeing my instructor, I walked back to inquire from the receptionists if my instructor was anywhere around.
“wewe ingia ndani ukae atakuja” ( just go in and sit, he’ll come to you)” said one of the receptionists.
My driver showed up at around 1520hrs and, without apology for coming late, he gave me a book to sign my name and date. I took the booklet and confirmed that my signature would show that I had completed my first 1hr-practical lesson. I tried to ask him whether my thought was right and he got annoyed so I signed it to avoid having an annoyed instructor.
“So, because this is your first practical lesson, we will only learn about important parts of this vehicle, their names and purposes. No driving on your first lesson” he said.
The lesson ended at around 1545hrs.
On the second day, my instructor came 15 minutes late, but I was eager to begin moving that old Lorry. We started off and moved on. The road was tared but was no different from a rough road – it might have been tared during the colonial period. We had to move left and right to escape the many pot-holes. We moved on some 400meters ahead where my instructor told me to make a U-turn to end the lesson 35 minutes after the beginning of that lesson.
“Kwani hutoi lunch,unaenda tu hivyo! Hivyo tu! (Can’t you buy me lunch? You just leave like that! just like that!)” he said to me. On his face was a mixture of seriousness and a smile.
“It’s almost 4pm, are you sure you didn’t have lunch?” I asked.
He shook his head and stared at me before saying:
“Wewe unataka kujua gari kweli? Sawa, tuchekiane kesho. (Are you sure you want to learn how to drive? OK! See you tomorrow)”
The third day was a very familiar one with issues such as punctuality and buying of lunch coming up. After my third practical lesson, I went to complain in the offices that the time I did spend on the road always differed from the time allocated on their prospectus. That wasn’t good communication as far as I knew, and still know.
“Wee Jaluo wacha siasa hapa! time haijalishi. (you Luo man don’t create issues here. time’s not an issue.)”
My major complain was resisted. However, one of my issues was solved by assigning me a different instructor. My new instructor was comparatively punctual when we met the following day.
We took off slowly and drove for about 300 meters when he suddenly asked me to halt. I didn’t know why we were stopping until I realized he wanted to warn a vendor woman selling fruits and vegetables by the roadside.
“Kanjo wanakam nyuma.(the city council officers are coming)” he shouted to the woman.
The Nairobi city council officers are known for searching for those who invade paying for their business licences. A business is illegal without a business licence, and there’s no compromise for that. In this case, the woman had no business licence and how my driving instructor knew it, I also don’t know.
She tightened her leso first, and began stuffing her wares in a large nylon bag in a hurry, but was told not to hurry for the officers were still at a distant. She therefore took her time stuffing her wares while chatting with my instructor as I waited patiently. Somehow it did not seem as though my instructor had work at hand.
“ Can we proceed now ?” I asked politely being cautious. My instructor looked at me then at the woman and turned to me again.
“Weka mafuta ( accelerate!)”
It was not until the second day with my new instructor that he started becoming ‘hungry’ during the lesson. He asked for his ‘lunch’.
“Isn’t this a a holy month and from your name, I should think that you would be fasting like your other brothers and sisters! What’s the lunch for? huh!” I said to myself immediately he asked for lunch from me. I did not want to offend him, and so played mum.
After a few days with him, I decided to take up one more lesson and then try out a B class vehicle. The B class vehicles were available at the city centre.
At the city, I was delighted to be assigned a youthful instructor whose youth, to me, was a symbol of hope and I expected him to be such. He was about 24years of age and I hoped to be more free with him than I had been with the other instructors.
We belted up in a saloon car at exactly 10:00 o’clock as scheduled and we took off at around 10:02 am where he drove me first to a distance place away from the large traffic in the city centre.
It was a journey from the city centre through Haile Selassie avenue to Uhuru highway and towards south B. where he stopped, 20 minutes later, to give me a chance.
It was smooth going as compared to the lorries, but 10 minutes later before I could completely enjoy my lesson, I was asked to back-crawl near a residential area where he took the ignition key and walked out behind some roadside kiosks. No word was said to me as I remained seated in the car.
He came back twenty minutes later, opened the door, sat on his seat and asked me to proceed. I looked at him again, his face was then shinning and I concluded that whatever he had taken, whether tee or coffee, must have been hot. At this point, I had saturated my anger mode.
In Nairobi, everyone knows how expensive food is at the city centre,. Somehow, I let my new instructor aware that that time for my lesson was not to be converted into his breakfast time.
“It seems to me that you´re only consuming what’s not yours” I said.
“Wacha! unataka time ama kujua gari ( Do you want to have time or the knowledge to drive a car!) he answered angrily. I however challenged him to stop arguing over time when he knew that even his boss would not entertain such nonsense. That, to me, was unprofessional. I felt sad to be rubbing shoulders with each of my instructors, but I thought it was about time someone pointed out their unprofessional behavior.
Immediately we reached the city centre, I walked straight to the office and requested to have a female instructor.
Apart from the numerous phone calls she made and received during our lessons, my new female instructor was better than the rest. I took my last three lessons under her instruction and waited for my examination. I had already rubbed shoulder with enough people and therefore didn’t mind if she called her hair salon or dedicated her time checking her face occasionally on the mirror during my lesson. I was compelled to use time at hand to drive carefully knowing that I was technically on my own in that car.
Three days before my driving school exams, another potential trouble popped up my way; The theory teacher was receiving a lot of ‘lunch tokens’ from other candidates, yet there was nothing from me. He finally reached me and took me a side during a short break to explain to me why it was essential for me to stop ‘being mean’.
“The 15 days that you guys spend here are, of course, not enough. So, we give this cash to your examiners to make them understand, otherwise none of you would pass the exams, or just very few would pass if any.”
That was too tough for me to tackle alone. I was not employed and the money I had used for the driving-licence packaged had been given to me by a relative. There were no stipulations of extra moneys before exams were to be taken. So I had no idea how to broach the issue thus asked the theory teacher for more time to look for the required cash of Ksh1000.
In a bid to look for help to tackle that emerging problem, I walked out to send a text message to The Integrity Centre and fifteen minutes later, I received a phone-call from The Kenya Anti-Corruption Commission at Integrity centre.
A gentleman introduced himself to me and asked me to show up at the Integrity centre for a talk.
As I walked over the fly-over across Haile Selassie avenue away from the Kenya Polytechnic, I met Joseph, one of the candidates who was also to take his driving test together with me. He was walking lazily in front of me, obviously tired. we chatted for a while and I gathered that he hadn’t eaten anything that day and that he was walking to meet his friend, a mini-bus driver to ask for a free drive back home to Kibera (The second largest slum in Africa). Well, I sympathized with him when he said that he had no ksh20 for his fare back home or money for lunch. However when he confirmed to me that he had already paid the extra Ksh1000 for our examiners, the sympathy I had for him disappeared. His message was, indeed a shocker.
My journey to the integrity centre from my driving school was fairly long, I walked across Uhuru park (freedom Park) hoping that I was doing something to free my country from a vice. The usually green Uhuru park was no longer green due to inadequate rainfalls, and the more I walked the more my black shoes were turning brown due to dusts.
On my arrival at the Integrity centre, I surrendered my passport at the reception and was allowed in. Up the stairs I went and reached the first floor to begin a fresh explanation since I had mispronounced the name of the person I had contacted and as such it was difficult to meet him.
While still reporting my case in one of the well designed chambers situated on the left side from the entrance, a voice came to save me from repeating myself. I could recognise his voice not his face; we had only talked on phone. He was smartly dressed and the smile on his face assured me that I was meeting a friendly person.
“Hi Dominic! I told you to to ask for me or my colleague and come straight into the office!”
“Oh Hello! I think I mispronounced your name and…”
I walked behind him towards his office and into a separate office on the left side of the first floor. His colleague was waiting for me too.
“Yes Dominic! have a seat” said his colleague who was in a white shirt with blue strips.
We talked casually, made jokes, laughed a bit and I felt at home. Even the language/dialect they used (sheng) made me feel more comfortable to explain everything without much ado.
The sad news came when they said that they had no powers to stop corruption in the private sector. It was disappointing to learn that all my efforts were fruitless.
“but the examiners aren’t private sector” I tried to argue.
“You are right, see; what we don’t know is whether the money is actually meant for them, and if the cash is to be delivered to them, as said, still we are not in a position to prove that” explained one of the men, rotating a pen on his right hand vertically above his desk. His colleague was staring directly at me with a smile, a professional.
“So the private sector is at liberty to go on and do it? With impunity?” I cried.
The two gentlemen began pressing me to move upstairs to their senior and file a case.
“Oh my God! …to file a court case!”
“Yes! we will give you the needed support.”
“No no. no! You see, my biggest worry is that I’ll be leaving the country soon. So, that means I will be nowhere to attend the court hearings.”
Before leaving their premises, they asked me not to pay any more money to my driving instructors and that should I fail the exams, they would finance my fresh driving course. That was a wonderful assurance, of course.
I wasn’t looking forward to paying that extra cash as well as failing my driving test.
“Wee ishia huendeshi hiyo gari ( just go and drive that car)” said one of the men.
I walked out smiling after some jokes, but immediately I regained my ID from the reception on the ground floor and left the building to begin thinking of my driving school, I was a sad man again. My efforts had been in vain.
The D day finally came, when more than 100 candidates gathered at one centre for their driving test. I was among a group of about thirty candidates who were stuffed in a Lorry and a traffic policeman took control of the vehicle for a while.
He stopped after arriving at a perfect location and called the first candidate to seat behind the wheel. There was tension when the first candidate began with a strange speed followed by an emergency break that steered the rest of the waiting candidates to yell in fear.
I expected the person sitting in front of me to turn behind so that I could say sorry but he didn’t. There was so much tension in the car thereafter. My forehead was in pain. The candidate behind the wheel was smacked twice on his head as the rest of us laughed out loudly.
The next candidate drove over the pavement and received a smack too. The driving distance was also not so long; it was hardly more than 300meters. When my time finally came, I began pretty well and moved softly while the examiner was talking on his phone. He suddenly gave me a sign with his right hand to move to the left-hand side of the road, but I over did it. The vehicle lifted up all over sudden and I knew that I was overstepping the pavement. A heavy punch landed at the back of my head and I felt like my world was ending. 250 meters later, I was instructed to stop and call the next candidate.
I later finished my theory exam, which took less than 10 minutes and went away to wait for my driving-licence, which was expected soon.
In few weeks, my driving licence with the Initials EAK was out.
Yes, I know that there are many causes of road accidents, but each time I hear of or witness a road accident in EA or EAK, I always think of my EAK Driving Licence and the story behind it.
From the McDonald I went direct to submit my name and register for a driving course, which I genuinely needed. The first Aid Trainer wrote down my name and I felt happy. Perhaps, he thought that I hadn’t understood him earlier. In any case, German has never been my mother-tongue. As such, I would always have the benefit of doubt.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
The Dallaian Immigrant
Almost two weeks after my arrival in Germany, my eyes began to open aiding my desire to explore new places and ideas. My language course was a good enough tool to help me curve out a social window from the boring house of loneliness; I was then able to meet new friends or go shopping alone without having to bother my house mates or other friends. The more my language knowledge improved the more I felt integrated into my new society and began, as a result, falling in love with the place.
On this day, waking up in the morning had to be very early and at odds with my routine. I had to prepare breakfast and attend to my homework, which I was always eager to do before attending my language classes as from 1:00pm to 5:00pm. Everything I did on this day was done in a hurry, but without a complete exclusion of care. On my daily planer, there was a phone-call to be made from a cyber café in the city center to my parents back home. I also had to register with the authority as a new member of the society and go shopping for some school items before attending classes. It was a precisely busy schedule.
To save time, I decided to do the unusual. After finishing everything at home, I boarded a train from Littenweiler Train station to the main train station at the city center, rather than commuting with the usual Tram that required 16 good minutes to reach the same destination, arriving six minutes after the train.
But, before boarding anything to do with public transport, it was always important to confirm whether my Regional travelling card was carried with me. For that reason, as I footed it along Bahnhof street in Littenweiler from the student’s apartment- few meters to the appropriate Train terminal, I passed my right-hand across the left back pocket of my pants and felt the presence of my wallet. That was an assurance that I was an OK fellow. The travelling card was so important to me that it had to be made part of my wallet- without it in my wallet the wallet was almost as useless as my forgotten and disappeared tail.
I kept walking at a comfortable pace for I had quite a luxury of time between then and catching my train. The sun was shinning, fine, but it was still very cold. There was snow covering the nearby hills, and I could also see traces of snow covering the stagnant grass beyond the clean dark footpath under my feet.
A red painted Train from Neuestadt towards Freiburg city’s main Train station finally approached and I walked in out of the cold. There were four empty seats near the entry door to my left and, while removing my winter Jacket, I walked to occupy the one next to the window and placed my bag on the seat next to me leaving the two seats opposite me as free as they were. As I stood up to insert my winter gloves into the pocket of my Jacket hanging above the window, I had an eye to eye meeting with a Dallaian man who was seating behind me. He waved at me with a smile on his face and gently patted his chest twice. I reciprocated his greetings with a matching action and emotion.
After about two-minute ride, I heard some men talking loudly behind me, one was almost shouting while the second voice was trying to explain something. There was a real problem behind me; the Dallaian man had no travelling ticket and was trying to explain how he had forgotten it at his workplace.
“Oh Damn! He can’t even pass a straight face test!” I whispered to myself, not because I was surprised but because I was annoyed with the Dallaian man. Deep in my mind, a thought was at its height of creation that the Dallaian man was a big shame to any other person of Dallaian origin, in and outside that train, for he was either creating or promoting a stereotype that Dallaians would rather prefer easy and illegal ways of doing things than adhering to the enacted beautiful laws. However, when the Train conductor approached me, I prepared to make it tacitly clear that that wasn’t the case; a man’s mind is not a perfect tool for cogitation; it might have a little room for failure and a bigger one for improvement. He greeted me and I replied with a warm smile as I stretched my hand to flash a wallet out of a back pocket of my thick winter pants.
“Scheiße!” a yell came out of me uncensored.
“I remember putting a wallet inside my pocket, but…but this is not a wallet!”
The conductor was starring at me with a smile, as if to say. “We’re used to that!” …In a sarcastic way. He was a medium-sized man in his early fifties with grey hair, grey eyes and a fairly long grey moustache.
He spoke to me in alemannic German, common in the black forest region. I couldn’t understand him clearly, not at the best of time- leave alone then when I was in a hot soup.
I knew he was used to misunderstandings, as such. But my language proficiency was genuinely below par.
Yes, I was out of words and removed the item that was in my pocket; a small green notebook with a passport between it and handed over my passport to him, as per his demand.
“Was it a one-way ticket or a monthly regional ticket?” He inquired.
“It was a monthly regional ticket”
“Student ticket?” He inquired as he recorded some information on his digital assistant.
“Exactly”
“So, you will receive a letter in few days with instructions on how to pay the fine of €40, 00. But in case you find the ticket at home, do take it to the main train station for confirmation- alongside the letter you’ll receive from us. Then you will only have to pay a fine of €14, 00.”
“Heh! That’s enough to comfortably feed me for a whole week!”
“Sure! Me too, but it’s cheaper than paying the full fine and, the cheapest way is to always remember to travel with a ticket. Isn’t it?” He said with a smile.
I gave him my full address and a smile on top of it.
By the time that problem was sorted out, we were about 4 minutes to the main train station. The other Dallaian man stood up from his seat smiling at me and, I assumed that the smile was a gesture of identity not solidarity- men of the same origin in the same plight. He walked to seat opposite me for a talk.
“Comment ça va??” he said.
“français?” He added after seeing that an answer to his greeting was not forthcoming.
“No! Anglophone” I replied, forcing him to tune to English. He inquired to know my exact Dallaian state after letting me know his as well as what he was up to in Freiburg or Germany.
“I am Mika and work in a steel company in Titisee. In fact, I’m just coming now from an early morning shift. I’ve been here for fifteen years now…and you?”
“I’m Jamba. This is my second week here and, I’m attending language classes at the city centre at the moment”
“Really! But you look as though you’ve been here for quite a while now.” He remarked. For such a remark, I couldn’t know whether to say ‘Thank you!’ ask ‘Why?’ or simply smile.
“Where were you before coming to Germany?” He added
“I’m actually fresh from Dala.” I said. A smile flitted across his face as he examined me from head down my feet. I pulled down the trouser on my left leg to cover my shoes before he could notice that my socks weren’t exactly of the same colour. I was in a hurry and couldn’t find my grey socks. So I picked the black one to make a pair.
“Welcome to Europe my brother. The laws are hard and first but the loopholes are in plenty- you only need not to be ashamed of anything; just try to divorce dignity and respect from bread and butter issues and you shall live your dream. Don’t you have any dream or goal in life?”
“Of course I do! I want to study and…”
“Jolly good! That too is a dream. It must be achieved by all means. No going back home empty-handed, that is, if you must go back. You know, we aren’t here for holiday. Are we?”
A flippant laughter came out of me.
“Yes! You know, if you have full scholarship or, say wealthy parents to send you money all the way, you may not open your eyes to see the reality. You don’t send drinking water from home to quench the thirst of someone in the middle of a fresh-water lake. Do you?” I maintained silence prompting him to laugh victoriously. “Hah…Ha ha ha… you see, oh! Let them pay for you, but you should be working hard towards self-reliance”
“You are very right. But how do I go about it? Right now I need to focus on one thing first!” I said.
“Don’t worry boy. There is certainly no problem with having your finger in many pies. I told you, I’ve been here for many years and seen plenty. There are many paths towards success. Just don’t be afraid, shy or ashamed. (He turned to look behind his seat) These young women you see around here can sort you out a great deal” He said, secretly pointing at two women at their late forties, who were walking towards an exit door. At that point, he clearly confirmed from my face that, indeed I was surprised.
“Yes. I know right now you might look at them and think that they aren’t young. Just wait, ha ha ha! (Laughing) They might be almost twice your age but the more you open your eyes the younger they become. You understand me? (Silence) even your mum will understand…you see, (gesticulating) when your parents tell you that your future lies in your hand, they mean exactly what I’m telling you. I have a son too. Whenever I tell him that his future depends on himself, he knows what I mean and I’m proud of him because he is only 19 yet living his own life in Paris.”
“Wao! How did he make it, or how is he managing it? Is he studying right now?”
“Don’t worry! I said you’ll open your eyes.”
Whenever he spoke, and especially after he mentioned my mum, her voice kept on vibrating in my ears with her last words to me before I left home.
“We are Dallaians, people with own culture.
There are those who will want to make you believe that,
given a geographical change or economic circumstance, vices can qualify as virtues.
…If you must receive advice from a failure make sure it is exactly what he/she never did.
If anyone teaches you his or her culture, don’t reciprocate by embracing it in Toto
and forgetting your own, but by teaching him/her your culture as well.
If someone takes you to his worship house today,
don’t wait until he/she asks you to show up again and again, take him/her to yours tomorrow.
If you engage in anything that you feel your own parents or siblings shouldn’t know,
know it by yourself that the undertaking is not worthy your salt.
Don’t sell yourself; your values, your dignity for love of material life.
Integrate not by losing and gaining but by preserving and gaining.
Your culture is the rose in your hand; you know its thorns better than the rose
in another man’s hand- remain a Dallaian, a real son of Dala”
The train grinded to a halt at Terminal 7 of the main Train station and I immediately inquired from Mika on where to find an International calling station. We walked together towards the large glass building at the train station where he was to show me an Internet café doubled as an International calling station.
There were several people or passengers inside the building waiting to either catch their train, receive their loved ones or just enjoy the inside warmth away from the cold weather. Mika spotted some familiar faces and walked straight towards them.
They were four Dallaian Men standing and chatting in one corner near the elevator system. They turned to greet Mika, speaking happily.
“…and who is he?” asked one of the friends facing me.
“This is Jamba” answered Mika as we shook hands the Dallaian way.
“New arrival?” another man asked as I shook his hand.
I said yes to him, but Mika was already speaking on my behalf.
“No, no, no! He is a student! He’s actually planning to study” He said. They looked at me again before turning to Mika to begin a long conversation.
One of them pointed to me the direction of the International calling station, which was situated some few yards from where we were standing. “You see that staircase 30 meters away? Use it to reach the first floor and you will see the Internet café.”
I followed his instruction after exchanging contacts with Mika. While climbing the staircase, I kept asking myself what I had just gathered from my fellow Dallaians.
“I’m not a new arrival but a student despite the fact that I landed on this soil last week? Huh! So students never arrive, or should I say new arrivals never study? What exactly did Mika imply by ‘No, no, no? He’s a student! He’s actually planning to study’ to reject the notion that I’m a new arrival?”
Just as per the direction, the calling station was easy to find. I walked in to buy an international calling card for €5′00, which had a bonus of €3′00. According to the audio information given by the card manufacturer when I dialled some numbers as instructed, my air-time was 125 minutes. So I was cock-sure that a chance to communicate with my parents and cousins was in existence. First, I began by calling my Dad. We talked and laughed but I was surprised to be told, some 50 minutes later, that my credit was insufficient to continue with the call. That happened while I was still explaining something to do with culture shock to my mother.
I hated that calling card for the dishonest information. But such dishonesty was as familiar to me as an oath.
_______
After accomplishing everything as programmed, it was some few minutes left for my language class and I was among the 8 students in our class waiting for our language teacher and other students to arrive. On my left were two blond haired Russian ladies, Alexandra and Liliya. The blue-eyed Alexandra was a very polite type but could laugh at anything slightly funny or strange, while the grey eyed Liliya was quite to the contrast- very talkative, inquisitive and humorous.
On my immediate right was Jefferson, a tall youthful man from Philadelphia, USA. As we chatted in different accents making mistakes and laughing at ourselves while we waited for our teacher, a man in his late twenties walked in. He stood at the door 5 feet 8, two meters away from us and observed the classroom for seconds. He then noticed an empty seat next to Jefferson and walked to occupy it after greeting us by passing a handshake to each one of us as he pronounced his name, Hassan.
“Are you a new student?” Liliya inquired.
“Yes! Have you gone far with learning?”
“Not too far. You can still catch up through revision!” I answered.
“Well, where do you come from?” asked Jefferson.
“I’m from Iraq, and you?” said Hassan.
“What! …Iraq!” exclaimed Jefferson with an open surprise that caused laud laughter to the ever-laughing Alexandra.
“Yes, from Baghdad”
“Baghdad!” surprised again. The two Russians and other classmates laughed out loudly.
“Why are you shocked? You’ve never met an Iraqi before, or don’t you expect Iraq to be inhabited?” commented Liliya, as her compatriot laughed even lauder.
“You sound like you are from America!” said Hassan, facing Jefferson but avoiding an eye to eye meeting with Jefferson.
“Why! …because of my accent?”
“No, the surprise on your face” (we all laughed)
“Don’t you have any friend or relative in Iraq?” added Hassan.
We couldn’t stop laughing at that conversation. I was particularly laughing at the manner in which the ever-laughing Alexandra was making a funny noisy laughter, with her head hitting her friend’s back and tears rolling down her chins.
She continued laughing even after the language teacher had arrived, and occasionally during the lesson. A totally different teacher arrived to step in for our usual teacher who was out of sorts. She was in a pair of blue jeans trousers, a dark-grey oblique shoulder polo-neck pullover and was carrying a rucksack on her back.
We were learning about sentence construction in past tense, present perfect and past participle, and the teacher asked each one of us to construct a sentence using the German word dürften (allowed)
Während meiner letzten Schulprüfung, dürfte ich nicht sprechen (I wasn’t allowed to speak during my last school exam) said Jefferson. It was then my turn to speak and I said this after a careful construction:
“Als ich jung war, dürfte ich ins Kino nicht gehen (I wasn’t allowed to go to the cinema when I was young)” I said with confidence.
“Yyeaaah…but… (Thinking while swaying the fingers of her right hand, moving them clockwise and anti-clockwise, again and again facing my direction) Well… OK… the sentence is in good form, but where he (Jamba) comes from…actually, there are no cinemas.” commenced the teacher. I sat attentively like all other students, to listen to her explanation of where I come from. Liliya was equally attentive but her compatriot Alexandra was warming up for her loudest laughter of the day, so it seemed.
“They go out in the nature, especially at sunset or just when the whether is good. In the nature they can watch the beautiful sky as the clouds move slowly in different beautiful shapes…”
“Oh nice!” said one student. Almost everyone’s eyes were between me and the teacher.
“Yes. So beautiful- a scenic panorama of it’s kind. It’s actually known as Sky cinema, so gorgeous. But, sometimes they go out just to watch wild animals walking or grazing freely in the nature…It’s a breathtaking experience.” she paused to look at me, or perhaps I were to loud her wonderful revelation. I was only looking at one Dallaian lady who, even though she was from a different Dallaian state from mine, was equally surprised.
“Well, where do you come from?” asked the teacher.
I looked at her face to see if she was at the junction of a big joke and was only looking for a punch line. She wasn’t. She was just a teacher, with extra information. I thought of a German proverb “A teacher is better than two books” and decided, painfully, not to argue but to challenge her.
Alexandra, the Russian classmate, was already laughing with both her hands covering her mouth. I cleared my voice to say something to our teacher:
“Well, I’m surprised that you know what is in my home country, yet you don’t even know where I come from- you don’t know my home country!”
As the rest of the class broke into lengthy laud laughter, the teacher concluded to herself that her comments were getting into nerves of her Dallaian student and opted to continue with important topics of our lesson.
She had to skip the ever-laughing Alexandra from presenting her constructed sentence with the verb dürften, because the Russian lady was completely unable to speak- she was still laughing at the Sky cinema story.
To date, whenever we meet or have long telephone conversations, Alexandra still laughs when reminding me of the sky cinema story. It must have been a funny story to her. Or, perhaps the funny thing wasn’t the sky cinema story, was it me?
Still, I do not understand why the teacher came up with that story even before knowing my origin. What country did she have in mind and how did she come to conclude that I came from there? By looking at the colour of my …eyes?
My surprise was, indeed well grounded; never once had I visited a country with breathtaking sky cinemas, as such. Still, until this day, I do not know where to locate one.
_______
It was 1710hours, time to go back home and I was standing at the city theatre tram station waiting for Tram number one, which was to arrive in 8 minutes. A middle-sized man with a round pot-belly in his late forties approached me. He was in a dark suit with shiny black shoes. On his right hand hang a brown leather briefcase.
He greeted me in French but later changed to English after noticing my failure to sustain a French conversation for more than 4 seconds. And, because I disapproved his lingual expectation, he inquired to know my origin.
“I come from Dala”
“Oh! You are a cowboy, or should I say ranger?”
I thought of what he meant first “No, no, no! I’m from Dala not Dallas, Texas!”
“Oh! I see! So you are a Dallaian. But most Dallaians speak French. Don’t they?”
“You are right. English and French are also spoken in Dala”
“Yes, including several other Dallaian dialects”
“They are actually languages that can qualify as global lingua francas, in case there’s need. Most of them are not dialects.” I insisted.
It did not take me long before I knew his intent. However, I let him beat about the bush as he scouted for the right nail.
Well, my name is Kevin. I like talking to Dallaians so much. You know, you people are very…I mean so…”
“You mean, very submissive?” I interrupted knowing that I had to save his time so as not to miss my Tram.
“Yes. But also…but not in a negative way”
It had three minutes left for my Tram to arrive. He finally informed me of his Worship centre and invited me to join him on their forth coming convention, fortnight later. Meanwhile, he also invited me to his worship centre that coming weekend.
“No, no, no! It doesn’t matter where you go to pray. Just come and see how we conduct our services!”
He said that as a reaction to my comment that I attend religious services in a different worship house.
“This must be the one my mother was talking about” I thought, after recalling my mother’s words. “If someone takes you to his worship house today, don’t wait until he/she asks you to show up again and again, take him/her to yours tomorrow.”
“There are many Dallaians here, some of them are refugees. But not you, one can easily tell the refugees by the way they dress.” He said. His statement revealed a lot to me; that as a Dallaian, I had to always dress smartly if I needed not to look like a refugee. But because there were natives even in that Tram station, who were not smartly dressed, I had to argue with this preacher…and make him take his statement back. “We need to dress as per our wish just like any other native of this country, not native or non-Dallaian is smartly dressed! Is their any refugee amongst the natives?” I added regardless of his apology. For the few days I had been around, I had seen some men with worn-out trousers that resembled Swiss cheese. But they were neither Dallaians nor refugees.
The tram finally came and I walked in thinking of the busy schedule that was on my diary that day and how I faired on with everything- the encounters and the situations I had found myself in.
Out of the many thoughts on my mind, it was the sky cinema story that occupied the lion’s share. I couldn’t stop smiling to myself. While travelling, I tried not to give the picture of a mentally challenged person in that Tram. Being a Dallaian with, a different hairstyle from other passengers made it easy for anyone to spot me in the corner of that Tram. Adding a smile to my face would have made me an unavoidably visible figure in the whole Tram of over 100 passengers. What I did was to try to avoid laughing or smiling to myself.
I almost achieved that by forcing in the thoughts of my Travelling card that was landing me in real trouble. There was no need to worry about it so much for I was almost reaching home, and there was no conductor in that Tram either. “After all, I have a fine to pay and a regional travelling ticket at home for the whole month. Why a one-way ticket now!” I thought, not knowing whether I was right or wrong.
After leaving the second-last station towards the last station, I realized that some passengers were turning their necks to watch me. It was then that I also realized that there was a lady seating opposite me-she was starring at me, occasionally turning her neck to face behind. My mind acted swiftly and made me aware that someone was shouting at me about 10 meters away.
“Why are you looking at me? Stop it!” A lady shouted facing me.
“I don’t know him but he is looking at me and even smiling at me!” She said to her partner, a blondish man who turned to meet my face but cared less. My anger level was springing up but because her own forefathers once said that “He who conquers his anger has conquered an enemy- be silent or say something better than silence” I began conquering my anger by keeping quiet, at first, as I prepared to say something far much better than silence. After all, silence is a fence around wisdom.
A good friend, native of my host country, had already whispered to me earlier that some people, especially women, often perceive that Dallaians are always on hunting spree- hunting without standards just to boost their immigration status. Such women can be a big nuisance to Dallaian men and women who have no interest in hunting, no hunting tradition, are engaged or married. And, those Dallaian immigrants who have their own preference or special standards in mind rather than the immigration law might feel the pain too.
I looked at the lady and suspected that she was one of those women with such thoughts. As a gentleman, very diplomatic as my name, Jamba, defines me, I concluded that it wasn’t in good shape to shout back and call her stupid. “Doing so might either create or promote a negative stereotype that Dallaians are never diplomatic or are violent people. I might not just be me, but us” I thought. Clearly, the lady had laid down the necessary procedure for conflict and it was upon me to decide what to do with her conflict. I wasn’t chicken hearted- what I knew is that my next decision would have the ability to paint or repaint the image of a Dallaian man; I refused to resolve to the cowboy way of conflict resolution.
Because we were approaching the last Tram station, I stood up on my feet and walked towards the exit door where the lady was standing. Meanwhile, the tram was still running, so I turned to the lady’s male partner on my left and made sure I spoke in my mother tongue, not his.
He stretched the skin on his forehead and said
“Ich verstehe gar nichts! I understand absolutely nothing” It forced me to repeat myself in English.
“Were you speaking to me or something? Well, you know I was thinking of my own funny stories when I saw the two of you looking at me and saying something. Were you conveying some important information to me?” I said with a warm smile.
“No! Not me. She was the one.” He said, pointing at the lady.
“Ach so! So she was the one looking at me!” I added with soft and audible voice, facing the lady with sharp but friendly eyes.
Because she wasn’t used to speaking English and, apparently, had forgotten almost everything, her reaction and my whole action brought laughter to her male partner and, even, some male passengers near us laughed the loudest. “Well done man!” said a male voice. I walked out feeling pretty fine and went straight to my address after beating her in her own game of shaming.
_______
“Home sweet home” I said to myself as I pulled out the jacket and scarf from my body after opening the door to feel the warm temperature.
One of my housemates, Annabel, was coming downstairs to the kitchen. We greeted each other and talked for a little while.
“How was your Day?” she inquired.
“It wasn’t too bad. I managed to call my parents and talked for a while then…”
“Wao! That was good. I always feel good when keeping in touch with my parents in Hamburg. Family is very important, you know” she interrupted.
I learnt that she had already cooked and was walking towards the Television room to have her dinner while watching news. I too had to go to the kitchen to prepare mine.
Few minutes later, I had a name call; Annabel was calling me. But, before leaving the kitchen, I looked at the kitchen alarm-timer and confirmed that there were 7 minutes left for my meal to finally get cooked.
“Hey, Jamba! You’ve always been complaining of lack of news coverage from your home country, there’s something for you today. Feel happy (laughing)…Ha ha ha! Just seat and wait- it was a news headline and the real news is yet to come” said my housemate.
She was in the leaving room with a lady who was a stranger to me and two other male housemates.
“Oh! Meet Maureen my classmate. Maureen meet Jamba our housemate from Dala” said Annabel.
We greeted each other and, from her dressing style, I kept wondering why she was called Maureen. She was dressed in a Chinese flying golden dragon Cheongsam.
“She is a Chinese, but why is she called Maureen?” I asked myself. “Perhaps that’s just her nickname or perhaps it is the effect of globalisation!” I thought again. “This system of using foreign names has been as common as poverty in all Dallaian states. Perhaps Dallaians are embracing globalization faster than others since it is very difficult to find non-Dallaian people, say a native German or Dutch with Dallaian names such as Jamba? What my grandfather told me was that some powerful forces came to Dala and swept away Dallaian values replacing them with foreign values and that, today, anything Dallaian is related to Tradition while anything foreign is related to modernity. By that he meant that if one doesn’t want to be seen as very local, one had to speak a foreign language. And, for your information, a foreign language does not mean the native language of a person from a neighbouring Dallaian State. It has to be a language like German or French, whose origin is not Dala. In fact, even some Dallaian Media still refers to independent Dallaian Languages as dialects. For instance, a Dallaian Journalist would say something like “…the NBA Star speaks German, French, English and 8 other Dallaian dialects” referring to Dallaian languages that are fully independent just like any other, so-called, ‘modern language’. Of course, there are dialects too in Dala”
Well, I allowed such thoughts across my mind chiefly because I had no interest with whatever was being aired on TV as news. It was something to do with a musical celebrity, who had suddenly become bald-headed after visiting a barbershop. It just reminded me of my plan to shave my hair that coming weekend, but because I had to pay a fine of €14′00 to the Railway company (DB), shaving my hair had to be, strictly, a dead plan. I waited for real news to start even though I was sure not to feel proud of whatever was to be aired on TV, not unless it were something to do with sports.
The news finally came and there began an embarrassment- It was about police brutality, or attempt by police to stop a public demonstration in my Dallaian state. We watched footages of youths lying in pools of blood, we saw dead bodies pilled together in morgues and heard doctors saying that most victims and bodies had gunshot wounds or live bullets in them. The Dallaian governor was still out of reach. At this juncture, Annabel turned to me and posted a serious question.
“Will you go back to your country?”
As if that was the question in everyone’s mind, they all turned to face me and waited eagerly for their answer.
Well, everything, but the answer to this question is still fresh in my mind; I swear! I do not remember the answer to that serious question. What I remember is having turned to the Maureen lady to make noise and divert people’s attention away from the horrifying news and video footages.
“Maureen, nǐ shuō Hànyŭ ma? (Do you speak Chinese?)” I asked.
She was positively surprised to hear me speak Chinese and stood up on her feet and walked closer to me. I appropriately assumed that that was a standing ovation to my linguistic ability.
“Oh, hăo! (Laughing) Wŏ shì Zhōngguó rén. Nǐ ne, Nǐ yě shuō Hànyŭ ma? (Ooh, cute! I’m a Chinese. And you, you speak Chinese language too?)”
“Māma huhu (A little bit)” I responded.
We chatted for a while and I learnt that Maureen was just, but her nickname. She had taken it as a nickname because many non-Chinese people found it difficult to memorise and pronounce her first name, Muolihua. Muolihua is such a beautiful name which means, Jasmine (flower) in English.
Even though everyone was surprised to hear me speak Chinese, none of them directed her/his attention to our conversation. Instead, they glued their eyes to the screen to continue watching the darkest side of Dala. And, while speaking with Muolihua, I saw a different video footage picked somewhere in a beach. There was a Marine vessel with some Dallaian passengers in it, what attracted my ears the most was the statement said by the news anchor that “…the new arrivals are being taken care of by the UNHCR” I underlined the word “new arrivals” for it clued me in on what Mika meant by saying that I wasn’t a new arrival “No, no, no! He is a student!”
Believe me you! All my encounters or happenings since that morning, from the fine in the train, dishonesty with the international calling card, the refugee issue and the sky cinema story to the shouting lady in the tram, never made me an angry man. It was that television video footage that spoilt my day, completely. I walked out to go and check my food in the kitchen, feeling very sad. While walking out with thoughts, a voice came from behind me: “Zàijiān!” That was Maureen saying goodbye to me. Without letting her understand my emotional status, I turned to her with a forced smile to give an appropriate response in Chinese language as I closed the door.
“Zàijiān (Good bye)!”
“Dala has once again failed to protect me from shame, has failed to respect humanity, has failed to safeguard the dignity of her dead citizens leave alone those still alive. Why did they allow dead bodies to be filmed? Why didn’t they cover the bodies lying in pools of blood in the streets? Why must they shoot at unarmed demonstrators in the first place? “Do they want other people to view us as failures? – People who cannot organize create and deliver any good? Why do they make decisions that are unpopular with their good citizens of integrity- decisions that can only herald civil unrest and loss of lives?
And, those with the behaviour of forming militia groups, why can’t they just form political parties instead? Some of these thugs are well educated… God! Is a connection between education and civilization in existence, really?
Now the Dallaian public is turning to foreigners for help when their well educated leaders are still defending their acts and offending the masses. When others, so-called ‘foreigners’ come in to extend helping hands to helpless Dallaians, the Dallaian leaders will then talk of sovereignty. Damn! Is sovereignty a shield against justice? There is no rule of law, no participatory governance, no respect to decisions from the ballot box, No …You failed to do it right, why tell others that you do have a sovereignty? Huh!
F**k your sovereignty!
F**k it up!
F**k!
Ff…”
“Uugh! …Heh! Are you OK?” shouted Annabel.
She had just opened the kitchen door in a rush and almost ran back outside. She stopped at once causing a folk from the plates she was carrying to fall down. It was then that I not only realized that my food was badly burning a meter away from me. I also realized that I was actually holding a frying pan with my both hands. And was hitting it strongly above the dishwasher each time an F-word came out of my mouth. It appeared as though I was crashing a strange insect on top of the dishwasher.
Yes, the lady was shocked, but I was equally shocked and upset. A thick dark smoke was all over the kitchen, coming from the burning food. She moved closer to see whatever was being crashed by a frying pan. What she saw was a dark mark, which came to existence as a result of the pan-dishwasher collision. Because a straight answer to any of her highly imminent questions wasn’t available with me, I opted to walk out of the kitchen and leave her with tough speculations.
An hour later, at around 8:30 pm, someone knocked at my door. I stood up from my bed and opened the door to find that all my four house mates were in front of my room.
“Oh my God! It was this serious! I’m finally a mad man!” I thought.
Michael, the one whose room was next to mine moved forward to speak on their behalf. He pronounced my name almost as “Chamba” but it was OK with me because it sounded better than “Yamba” as some people still do pronounce it.
“Hi Jamba! We all understand your feelings now. Well, we were equally upset with the footages and the way things are happening in Dala. You know, the disappointments, the extra-judicial executions, coup d’etáts and human right abuses of many kinds. But that’s beyond our control now. We have to live our dreams in spite of everything. We have to find other ways to bring happiness in our lives, even if it means forgetting the ugly things.
As your friends and house mates, we feel that you need to sleep well, and for that reason we have arranged the table for you. Come on, you need to eat before you sleep. You are invited to come with us to the dinning room.” He said, patting the back of my shoulder and slightly pulling me out without any resistance from me.
After having a heavy dinner and playing English Billiards with my house mates till 10pm, we called it a day.
I went back to my room knowing that my surrounding was full of very kind people, or perhaps civilized?
I picked my phone to reset the alarm for the next morning, but before doing that, I had to read the Text messages that had arrived on my absence. They were two text messages from one sender. I had to begin with the earliest.
Boy, now that ur Dallaian state
isn’t an exemption- tiz literally
burnin, Hop u’ll open ur eyes en
Reassess ya gols in lyn wit ya immigration status.
Don B stupid en go bk hom!
Mika
The papers you receive from class
are important but those you receive
from the alter are very important.
Start hunting as early as now,
B4 tiz too late.
Mika
That was Mika, the one who told me “…not to be ashamed of anything; just try to divorce dignity and respect from bread and butter issues”
Choosing words to reply that Text message might have sent me back down the emotional roller-coaster. So, the best option was to say a short prayer before allowing myself to fall asleep.
“Lord, the most merciful the most beneficent,
you taught me, through my mother, that anything dirty at home shall remain dirty everywhere and dirt shall never be good.
When we are at home in Dala we define papers as academic documents and we all struggle to get as good papers as possible. How can it be that when we cross the Sea away from Dala, the same mouth changes the good definition to something else? Lord, it is what some Dallaians go through when searching for these ‘papers’ that lead them into shameful, dirty ways of life. Help us retain our dignity Lord! Help us maintain the original definition of Papers and aid our campaign for good papers. Bless our good hosts and bless all the powerful friends of Dala- give them even more geographical and cultural knowledge of other places and people and may they give us keys to life without changing the padlocks Lord.
Lord, give our Dallaian leaders the knowledge they lack and make them know that decisions they make in any Dallaian state have got effects in Dala and as far distance as here. Help them act wisely and not otherwise Lord. They might display us as uncivilized people just because of their political bickering or survival politics. But Lord, I pray that all these shall come to past, sooner than later. God Bless Dala! In your name I seal my prayer! Amen”
On this day, waking up in the morning had to be very early and at odds with my routine. I had to prepare breakfast and attend to my homework, which I was always eager to do before attending my language classes as from 1:00pm to 5:00pm. Everything I did on this day was done in a hurry, but without a complete exclusion of care. On my daily planer, there was a phone-call to be made from a cyber café in the city center to my parents back home. I also had to register with the authority as a new member of the society and go shopping for some school items before attending classes. It was a precisely busy schedule.
To save time, I decided to do the unusual. After finishing everything at home, I boarded a train from Littenweiler Train station to the main train station at the city center, rather than commuting with the usual Tram that required 16 good minutes to reach the same destination, arriving six minutes after the train.
But, before boarding anything to do with public transport, it was always important to confirm whether my Regional travelling card was carried with me. For that reason, as I footed it along Bahnhof street in Littenweiler from the student’s apartment- few meters to the appropriate Train terminal, I passed my right-hand across the left back pocket of my pants and felt the presence of my wallet. That was an assurance that I was an OK fellow. The travelling card was so important to me that it had to be made part of my wallet- without it in my wallet the wallet was almost as useless as my forgotten and disappeared tail.
I kept walking at a comfortable pace for I had quite a luxury of time between then and catching my train. The sun was shinning, fine, but it was still very cold. There was snow covering the nearby hills, and I could also see traces of snow covering the stagnant grass beyond the clean dark footpath under my feet.
A red painted Train from Neuestadt towards Freiburg city’s main Train station finally approached and I walked in out of the cold. There were four empty seats near the entry door to my left and, while removing my winter Jacket, I walked to occupy the one next to the window and placed my bag on the seat next to me leaving the two seats opposite me as free as they were. As I stood up to insert my winter gloves into the pocket of my Jacket hanging above the window, I had an eye to eye meeting with a Dallaian man who was seating behind me. He waved at me with a smile on his face and gently patted his chest twice. I reciprocated his greetings with a matching action and emotion.
After about two-minute ride, I heard some men talking loudly behind me, one was almost shouting while the second voice was trying to explain something. There was a real problem behind me; the Dallaian man had no travelling ticket and was trying to explain how he had forgotten it at his workplace.
“Oh Damn! He can’t even pass a straight face test!” I whispered to myself, not because I was surprised but because I was annoyed with the Dallaian man. Deep in my mind, a thought was at its height of creation that the Dallaian man was a big shame to any other person of Dallaian origin, in and outside that train, for he was either creating or promoting a stereotype that Dallaians would rather prefer easy and illegal ways of doing things than adhering to the enacted beautiful laws. However, when the Train conductor approached me, I prepared to make it tacitly clear that that wasn’t the case; a man’s mind is not a perfect tool for cogitation; it might have a little room for failure and a bigger one for improvement. He greeted me and I replied with a warm smile as I stretched my hand to flash a wallet out of a back pocket of my thick winter pants.
“Scheiße!” a yell came out of me uncensored.
“I remember putting a wallet inside my pocket, but…but this is not a wallet!”
The conductor was starring at me with a smile, as if to say. “We’re used to that!” …In a sarcastic way. He was a medium-sized man in his early fifties with grey hair, grey eyes and a fairly long grey moustache.
He spoke to me in alemannic German, common in the black forest region. I couldn’t understand him clearly, not at the best of time- leave alone then when I was in a hot soup.
I knew he was used to misunderstandings, as such. But my language proficiency was genuinely below par.
Yes, I was out of words and removed the item that was in my pocket; a small green notebook with a passport between it and handed over my passport to him, as per his demand.
“Was it a one-way ticket or a monthly regional ticket?” He inquired.
“It was a monthly regional ticket”
“Student ticket?” He inquired as he recorded some information on his digital assistant.
“Exactly”
“So, you will receive a letter in few days with instructions on how to pay the fine of €40, 00. But in case you find the ticket at home, do take it to the main train station for confirmation- alongside the letter you’ll receive from us. Then you will only have to pay a fine of €14, 00.”
“Heh! That’s enough to comfortably feed me for a whole week!”
“Sure! Me too, but it’s cheaper than paying the full fine and, the cheapest way is to always remember to travel with a ticket. Isn’t it?” He said with a smile.
I gave him my full address and a smile on top of it.
By the time that problem was sorted out, we were about 4 minutes to the main train station. The other Dallaian man stood up from his seat smiling at me and, I assumed that the smile was a gesture of identity not solidarity- men of the same origin in the same plight. He walked to seat opposite me for a talk.
“Comment ça va??” he said.
“français?” He added after seeing that an answer to his greeting was not forthcoming.
“No! Anglophone” I replied, forcing him to tune to English. He inquired to know my exact Dallaian state after letting me know his as well as what he was up to in Freiburg or Germany.
“I am Mika and work in a steel company in Titisee. In fact, I’m just coming now from an early morning shift. I’ve been here for fifteen years now…and you?”
“I’m Jamba. This is my second week here and, I’m attending language classes at the city centre at the moment”
“Really! But you look as though you’ve been here for quite a while now.” He remarked. For such a remark, I couldn’t know whether to say ‘Thank you!’ ask ‘Why?’ or simply smile.
“Where were you before coming to Germany?” He added
“I’m actually fresh from Dala.” I said. A smile flitted across his face as he examined me from head down my feet. I pulled down the trouser on my left leg to cover my shoes before he could notice that my socks weren’t exactly of the same colour. I was in a hurry and couldn’t find my grey socks. So I picked the black one to make a pair.
“Welcome to Europe my brother. The laws are hard and first but the loopholes are in plenty- you only need not to be ashamed of anything; just try to divorce dignity and respect from bread and butter issues and you shall live your dream. Don’t you have any dream or goal in life?”
“Of course I do! I want to study and…”
“Jolly good! That too is a dream. It must be achieved by all means. No going back home empty-handed, that is, if you must go back. You know, we aren’t here for holiday. Are we?”
A flippant laughter came out of me.
“Yes! You know, if you have full scholarship or, say wealthy parents to send you money all the way, you may not open your eyes to see the reality. You don’t send drinking water from home to quench the thirst of someone in the middle of a fresh-water lake. Do you?” I maintained silence prompting him to laugh victoriously. “Hah…Ha ha ha… you see, oh! Let them pay for you, but you should be working hard towards self-reliance”
“You are very right. But how do I go about it? Right now I need to focus on one thing first!” I said.
“Don’t worry boy. There is certainly no problem with having your finger in many pies. I told you, I’ve been here for many years and seen plenty. There are many paths towards success. Just don’t be afraid, shy or ashamed. (He turned to look behind his seat) These young women you see around here can sort you out a great deal” He said, secretly pointing at two women at their late forties, who were walking towards an exit door. At that point, he clearly confirmed from my face that, indeed I was surprised.
“Yes. I know right now you might look at them and think that they aren’t young. Just wait, ha ha ha! (Laughing) They might be almost twice your age but the more you open your eyes the younger they become. You understand me? (Silence) even your mum will understand…you see, (gesticulating) when your parents tell you that your future lies in your hand, they mean exactly what I’m telling you. I have a son too. Whenever I tell him that his future depends on himself, he knows what I mean and I’m proud of him because he is only 19 yet living his own life in Paris.”
“Wao! How did he make it, or how is he managing it? Is he studying right now?”
“Don’t worry! I said you’ll open your eyes.”
Whenever he spoke, and especially after he mentioned my mum, her voice kept on vibrating in my ears with her last words to me before I left home.
“We are Dallaians, people with own culture.
There are those who will want to make you believe that,
given a geographical change or economic circumstance, vices can qualify as virtues.
…If you must receive advice from a failure make sure it is exactly what he/she never did.
If anyone teaches you his or her culture, don’t reciprocate by embracing it in Toto
and forgetting your own, but by teaching him/her your culture as well.
If someone takes you to his worship house today,
don’t wait until he/she asks you to show up again and again, take him/her to yours tomorrow.
If you engage in anything that you feel your own parents or siblings shouldn’t know,
know it by yourself that the undertaking is not worthy your salt.
Don’t sell yourself; your values, your dignity for love of material life.
Integrate not by losing and gaining but by preserving and gaining.
Your culture is the rose in your hand; you know its thorns better than the rose
in another man’s hand- remain a Dallaian, a real son of Dala”
The train grinded to a halt at Terminal 7 of the main Train station and I immediately inquired from Mika on where to find an International calling station. We walked together towards the large glass building at the train station where he was to show me an Internet café doubled as an International calling station.
There were several people or passengers inside the building waiting to either catch their train, receive their loved ones or just enjoy the inside warmth away from the cold weather. Mika spotted some familiar faces and walked straight towards them.
They were four Dallaian Men standing and chatting in one corner near the elevator system. They turned to greet Mika, speaking happily.
“…and who is he?” asked one of the friends facing me.
“This is Jamba” answered Mika as we shook hands the Dallaian way.
“New arrival?” another man asked as I shook his hand.
I said yes to him, but Mika was already speaking on my behalf.
“No, no, no! He is a student! He’s actually planning to study” He said. They looked at me again before turning to Mika to begin a long conversation.
One of them pointed to me the direction of the International calling station, which was situated some few yards from where we were standing. “You see that staircase 30 meters away? Use it to reach the first floor and you will see the Internet café.”
I followed his instruction after exchanging contacts with Mika. While climbing the staircase, I kept asking myself what I had just gathered from my fellow Dallaians.
“I’m not a new arrival but a student despite the fact that I landed on this soil last week? Huh! So students never arrive, or should I say new arrivals never study? What exactly did Mika imply by ‘No, no, no? He’s a student! He’s actually planning to study’ to reject the notion that I’m a new arrival?”
Just as per the direction, the calling station was easy to find. I walked in to buy an international calling card for €5′00, which had a bonus of €3′00. According to the audio information given by the card manufacturer when I dialled some numbers as instructed, my air-time was 125 minutes. So I was cock-sure that a chance to communicate with my parents and cousins was in existence. First, I began by calling my Dad. We talked and laughed but I was surprised to be told, some 50 minutes later, that my credit was insufficient to continue with the call. That happened while I was still explaining something to do with culture shock to my mother.
I hated that calling card for the dishonest information. But such dishonesty was as familiar to me as an oath.
_______
After accomplishing everything as programmed, it was some few minutes left for my language class and I was among the 8 students in our class waiting for our language teacher and other students to arrive. On my left were two blond haired Russian ladies, Alexandra and Liliya. The blue-eyed Alexandra was a very polite type but could laugh at anything slightly funny or strange, while the grey eyed Liliya was quite to the contrast- very talkative, inquisitive and humorous.
On my immediate right was Jefferson, a tall youthful man from Philadelphia, USA. As we chatted in different accents making mistakes and laughing at ourselves while we waited for our teacher, a man in his late twenties walked in. He stood at the door 5 feet 8, two meters away from us and observed the classroom for seconds. He then noticed an empty seat next to Jefferson and walked to occupy it after greeting us by passing a handshake to each one of us as he pronounced his name, Hassan.
“Are you a new student?” Liliya inquired.
“Yes! Have you gone far with learning?”
“Not too far. You can still catch up through revision!” I answered.
“Well, where do you come from?” asked Jefferson.
“I’m from Iraq, and you?” said Hassan.
“What! …Iraq!” exclaimed Jefferson with an open surprise that caused laud laughter to the ever-laughing Alexandra.
“Yes, from Baghdad”
“Baghdad!” surprised again. The two Russians and other classmates laughed out loudly.
“Why are you shocked? You’ve never met an Iraqi before, or don’t you expect Iraq to be inhabited?” commented Liliya, as her compatriot laughed even lauder.
“You sound like you are from America!” said Hassan, facing Jefferson but avoiding an eye to eye meeting with Jefferson.
“Why! …because of my accent?”
“No, the surprise on your face” (we all laughed)
“Don’t you have any friend or relative in Iraq?” added Hassan.
We couldn’t stop laughing at that conversation. I was particularly laughing at the manner in which the ever-laughing Alexandra was making a funny noisy laughter, with her head hitting her friend’s back and tears rolling down her chins.
She continued laughing even after the language teacher had arrived, and occasionally during the lesson. A totally different teacher arrived to step in for our usual teacher who was out of sorts. She was in a pair of blue jeans trousers, a dark-grey oblique shoulder polo-neck pullover and was carrying a rucksack on her back.
We were learning about sentence construction in past tense, present perfect and past participle, and the teacher asked each one of us to construct a sentence using the German word dürften (allowed)
Während meiner letzten Schulprüfung, dürfte ich nicht sprechen (I wasn’t allowed to speak during my last school exam) said Jefferson. It was then my turn to speak and I said this after a careful construction:
“Als ich jung war, dürfte ich ins Kino nicht gehen (I wasn’t allowed to go to the cinema when I was young)” I said with confidence.
“Yyeaaah…but… (Thinking while swaying the fingers of her right hand, moving them clockwise and anti-clockwise, again and again facing my direction) Well… OK… the sentence is in good form, but where he (Jamba) comes from…actually, there are no cinemas.” commenced the teacher. I sat attentively like all other students, to listen to her explanation of where I come from. Liliya was equally attentive but her compatriot Alexandra was warming up for her loudest laughter of the day, so it seemed.
“They go out in the nature, especially at sunset or just when the whether is good. In the nature they can watch the beautiful sky as the clouds move slowly in different beautiful shapes…”
“Oh nice!” said one student. Almost everyone’s eyes were between me and the teacher.
“Yes. So beautiful- a scenic panorama of it’s kind. It’s actually known as Sky cinema, so gorgeous. But, sometimes they go out just to watch wild animals walking or grazing freely in the nature…It’s a breathtaking experience.” she paused to look at me, or perhaps I were to loud her wonderful revelation. I was only looking at one Dallaian lady who, even though she was from a different Dallaian state from mine, was equally surprised.
“Well, where do you come from?” asked the teacher.
I looked at her face to see if she was at the junction of a big joke and was only looking for a punch line. She wasn’t. She was just a teacher, with extra information. I thought of a German proverb “A teacher is better than two books” and decided, painfully, not to argue but to challenge her.
Alexandra, the Russian classmate, was already laughing with both her hands covering her mouth. I cleared my voice to say something to our teacher:
“Well, I’m surprised that you know what is in my home country, yet you don’t even know where I come from- you don’t know my home country!”
As the rest of the class broke into lengthy laud laughter, the teacher concluded to herself that her comments were getting into nerves of her Dallaian student and opted to continue with important topics of our lesson.
She had to skip the ever-laughing Alexandra from presenting her constructed sentence with the verb dürften, because the Russian lady was completely unable to speak- she was still laughing at the Sky cinema story.
To date, whenever we meet or have long telephone conversations, Alexandra still laughs when reminding me of the sky cinema story. It must have been a funny story to her. Or, perhaps the funny thing wasn’t the sky cinema story, was it me?
Still, I do not understand why the teacher came up with that story even before knowing my origin. What country did she have in mind and how did she come to conclude that I came from there? By looking at the colour of my …eyes?
My surprise was, indeed well grounded; never once had I visited a country with breathtaking sky cinemas, as such. Still, until this day, I do not know where to locate one.
_______
It was 1710hours, time to go back home and I was standing at the city theatre tram station waiting for Tram number one, which was to arrive in 8 minutes. A middle-sized man with a round pot-belly in his late forties approached me. He was in a dark suit with shiny black shoes. On his right hand hang a brown leather briefcase.
He greeted me in French but later changed to English after noticing my failure to sustain a French conversation for more than 4 seconds. And, because I disapproved his lingual expectation, he inquired to know my origin.
“I come from Dala”
“Oh! You are a cowboy, or should I say ranger?”
I thought of what he meant first “No, no, no! I’m from Dala not Dallas, Texas!”
“Oh! I see! So you are a Dallaian. But most Dallaians speak French. Don’t they?”
“You are right. English and French are also spoken in Dala”
“Yes, including several other Dallaian dialects”
“They are actually languages that can qualify as global lingua francas, in case there’s need. Most of them are not dialects.” I insisted.
It did not take me long before I knew his intent. However, I let him beat about the bush as he scouted for the right nail.
Well, my name is Kevin. I like talking to Dallaians so much. You know, you people are very…I mean so…”
“You mean, very submissive?” I interrupted knowing that I had to save his time so as not to miss my Tram.
“Yes. But also…but not in a negative way”
It had three minutes left for my Tram to arrive. He finally informed me of his Worship centre and invited me to join him on their forth coming convention, fortnight later. Meanwhile, he also invited me to his worship centre that coming weekend.
“No, no, no! It doesn’t matter where you go to pray. Just come and see how we conduct our services!”
He said that as a reaction to my comment that I attend religious services in a different worship house.
“This must be the one my mother was talking about” I thought, after recalling my mother’s words. “If someone takes you to his worship house today, don’t wait until he/she asks you to show up again and again, take him/her to yours tomorrow.”
“There are many Dallaians here, some of them are refugees. But not you, one can easily tell the refugees by the way they dress.” He said. His statement revealed a lot to me; that as a Dallaian, I had to always dress smartly if I needed not to look like a refugee. But because there were natives even in that Tram station, who were not smartly dressed, I had to argue with this preacher…and make him take his statement back. “We need to dress as per our wish just like any other native of this country, not native or non-Dallaian is smartly dressed! Is their any refugee amongst the natives?” I added regardless of his apology. For the few days I had been around, I had seen some men with worn-out trousers that resembled Swiss cheese. But they were neither Dallaians nor refugees.
The tram finally came and I walked in thinking of the busy schedule that was on my diary that day and how I faired on with everything- the encounters and the situations I had found myself in.
Out of the many thoughts on my mind, it was the sky cinema story that occupied the lion’s share. I couldn’t stop smiling to myself. While travelling, I tried not to give the picture of a mentally challenged person in that Tram. Being a Dallaian with, a different hairstyle from other passengers made it easy for anyone to spot me in the corner of that Tram. Adding a smile to my face would have made me an unavoidably visible figure in the whole Tram of over 100 passengers. What I did was to try to avoid laughing or smiling to myself.
I almost achieved that by forcing in the thoughts of my Travelling card that was landing me in real trouble. There was no need to worry about it so much for I was almost reaching home, and there was no conductor in that Tram either. “After all, I have a fine to pay and a regional travelling ticket at home for the whole month. Why a one-way ticket now!” I thought, not knowing whether I was right or wrong.
After leaving the second-last station towards the last station, I realized that some passengers were turning their necks to watch me. It was then that I also realized that there was a lady seating opposite me-she was starring at me, occasionally turning her neck to face behind. My mind acted swiftly and made me aware that someone was shouting at me about 10 meters away.
“Why are you looking at me? Stop it!” A lady shouted facing me.
“I don’t know him but he is looking at me and even smiling at me!” She said to her partner, a blondish man who turned to meet my face but cared less. My anger level was springing up but because her own forefathers once said that “He who conquers his anger has conquered an enemy- be silent or say something better than silence” I began conquering my anger by keeping quiet, at first, as I prepared to say something far much better than silence. After all, silence is a fence around wisdom.
A good friend, native of my host country, had already whispered to me earlier that some people, especially women, often perceive that Dallaians are always on hunting spree- hunting without standards just to boost their immigration status. Such women can be a big nuisance to Dallaian men and women who have no interest in hunting, no hunting tradition, are engaged or married. And, those Dallaian immigrants who have their own preference or special standards in mind rather than the immigration law might feel the pain too.
I looked at the lady and suspected that she was one of those women with such thoughts. As a gentleman, very diplomatic as my name, Jamba, defines me, I concluded that it wasn’t in good shape to shout back and call her stupid. “Doing so might either create or promote a negative stereotype that Dallaians are never diplomatic or are violent people. I might not just be me, but us” I thought. Clearly, the lady had laid down the necessary procedure for conflict and it was upon me to decide what to do with her conflict. I wasn’t chicken hearted- what I knew is that my next decision would have the ability to paint or repaint the image of a Dallaian man; I refused to resolve to the cowboy way of conflict resolution.
Because we were approaching the last Tram station, I stood up on my feet and walked towards the exit door where the lady was standing. Meanwhile, the tram was still running, so I turned to the lady’s male partner on my left and made sure I spoke in my mother tongue, not his.
He stretched the skin on his forehead and said
“Ich verstehe gar nichts! I understand absolutely nothing” It forced me to repeat myself in English.
“Were you speaking to me or something? Well, you know I was thinking of my own funny stories when I saw the two of you looking at me and saying something. Were you conveying some important information to me?” I said with a warm smile.
“No! Not me. She was the one.” He said, pointing at the lady.
“Ach so! So she was the one looking at me!” I added with soft and audible voice, facing the lady with sharp but friendly eyes.
Because she wasn’t used to speaking English and, apparently, had forgotten almost everything, her reaction and my whole action brought laughter to her male partner and, even, some male passengers near us laughed the loudest. “Well done man!” said a male voice. I walked out feeling pretty fine and went straight to my address after beating her in her own game of shaming.
_______
“Home sweet home” I said to myself as I pulled out the jacket and scarf from my body after opening the door to feel the warm temperature.
One of my housemates, Annabel, was coming downstairs to the kitchen. We greeted each other and talked for a little while.
“How was your Day?” she inquired.
“It wasn’t too bad. I managed to call my parents and talked for a while then…”
“Wao! That was good. I always feel good when keeping in touch with my parents in Hamburg. Family is very important, you know” she interrupted.
I learnt that she had already cooked and was walking towards the Television room to have her dinner while watching news. I too had to go to the kitchen to prepare mine.
Few minutes later, I had a name call; Annabel was calling me. But, before leaving the kitchen, I looked at the kitchen alarm-timer and confirmed that there were 7 minutes left for my meal to finally get cooked.
“Hey, Jamba! You’ve always been complaining of lack of news coverage from your home country, there’s something for you today. Feel happy (laughing)…Ha ha ha! Just seat and wait- it was a news headline and the real news is yet to come” said my housemate.
She was in the leaving room with a lady who was a stranger to me and two other male housemates.
“Oh! Meet Maureen my classmate. Maureen meet Jamba our housemate from Dala” said Annabel.
We greeted each other and, from her dressing style, I kept wondering why she was called Maureen. She was dressed in a Chinese flying golden dragon Cheongsam.
“She is a Chinese, but why is she called Maureen?” I asked myself. “Perhaps that’s just her nickname or perhaps it is the effect of globalisation!” I thought again. “This system of using foreign names has been as common as poverty in all Dallaian states. Perhaps Dallaians are embracing globalization faster than others since it is very difficult to find non-Dallaian people, say a native German or Dutch with Dallaian names such as Jamba? What my grandfather told me was that some powerful forces came to Dala and swept away Dallaian values replacing them with foreign values and that, today, anything Dallaian is related to Tradition while anything foreign is related to modernity. By that he meant that if one doesn’t want to be seen as very local, one had to speak a foreign language. And, for your information, a foreign language does not mean the native language of a person from a neighbouring Dallaian State. It has to be a language like German or French, whose origin is not Dala. In fact, even some Dallaian Media still refers to independent Dallaian Languages as dialects. For instance, a Dallaian Journalist would say something like “…the NBA Star speaks German, French, English and 8 other Dallaian dialects” referring to Dallaian languages that are fully independent just like any other, so-called, ‘modern language’. Of course, there are dialects too in Dala”
Well, I allowed such thoughts across my mind chiefly because I had no interest with whatever was being aired on TV as news. It was something to do with a musical celebrity, who had suddenly become bald-headed after visiting a barbershop. It just reminded me of my plan to shave my hair that coming weekend, but because I had to pay a fine of €14′00 to the Railway company (DB), shaving my hair had to be, strictly, a dead plan. I waited for real news to start even though I was sure not to feel proud of whatever was to be aired on TV, not unless it were something to do with sports.
The news finally came and there began an embarrassment- It was about police brutality, or attempt by police to stop a public demonstration in my Dallaian state. We watched footages of youths lying in pools of blood, we saw dead bodies pilled together in morgues and heard doctors saying that most victims and bodies had gunshot wounds or live bullets in them. The Dallaian governor was still out of reach. At this juncture, Annabel turned to me and posted a serious question.
“Will you go back to your country?”
As if that was the question in everyone’s mind, they all turned to face me and waited eagerly for their answer.
Well, everything, but the answer to this question is still fresh in my mind; I swear! I do not remember the answer to that serious question. What I remember is having turned to the Maureen lady to make noise and divert people’s attention away from the horrifying news and video footages.
“Maureen, nǐ shuō Hànyŭ ma? (Do you speak Chinese?)” I asked.
She was positively surprised to hear me speak Chinese and stood up on her feet and walked closer to me. I appropriately assumed that that was a standing ovation to my linguistic ability.
“Oh, hăo! (Laughing) Wŏ shì Zhōngguó rén. Nǐ ne, Nǐ yě shuō Hànyŭ ma? (Ooh, cute! I’m a Chinese. And you, you speak Chinese language too?)”
“Māma huhu (A little bit)” I responded.
We chatted for a while and I learnt that Maureen was just, but her nickname. She had taken it as a nickname because many non-Chinese people found it difficult to memorise and pronounce her first name, Muolihua. Muolihua is such a beautiful name which means, Jasmine (flower) in English.
Even though everyone was surprised to hear me speak Chinese, none of them directed her/his attention to our conversation. Instead, they glued their eyes to the screen to continue watching the darkest side of Dala. And, while speaking with Muolihua, I saw a different video footage picked somewhere in a beach. There was a Marine vessel with some Dallaian passengers in it, what attracted my ears the most was the statement said by the news anchor that “…the new arrivals are being taken care of by the UNHCR” I underlined the word “new arrivals” for it clued me in on what Mika meant by saying that I wasn’t a new arrival “No, no, no! He is a student!”
Believe me you! All my encounters or happenings since that morning, from the fine in the train, dishonesty with the international calling card, the refugee issue and the sky cinema story to the shouting lady in the tram, never made me an angry man. It was that television video footage that spoilt my day, completely. I walked out to go and check my food in the kitchen, feeling very sad. While walking out with thoughts, a voice came from behind me: “Zàijiān!” That was Maureen saying goodbye to me. Without letting her understand my emotional status, I turned to her with a forced smile to give an appropriate response in Chinese language as I closed the door.
“Zàijiān (Good bye)!”
“Dala has once again failed to protect me from shame, has failed to respect humanity, has failed to safeguard the dignity of her dead citizens leave alone those still alive. Why did they allow dead bodies to be filmed? Why didn’t they cover the bodies lying in pools of blood in the streets? Why must they shoot at unarmed demonstrators in the first place? “Do they want other people to view us as failures? – People who cannot organize create and deliver any good? Why do they make decisions that are unpopular with their good citizens of integrity- decisions that can only herald civil unrest and loss of lives?
And, those with the behaviour of forming militia groups, why can’t they just form political parties instead? Some of these thugs are well educated… God! Is a connection between education and civilization in existence, really?
Now the Dallaian public is turning to foreigners for help when their well educated leaders are still defending their acts and offending the masses. When others, so-called ‘foreigners’ come in to extend helping hands to helpless Dallaians, the Dallaian leaders will then talk of sovereignty. Damn! Is sovereignty a shield against justice? There is no rule of law, no participatory governance, no respect to decisions from the ballot box, No …You failed to do it right, why tell others that you do have a sovereignty? Huh!
F**k your sovereignty!
F**k it up!
F**k!
Ff…”
“Uugh! …Heh! Are you OK?” shouted Annabel.
She had just opened the kitchen door in a rush and almost ran back outside. She stopped at once causing a folk from the plates she was carrying to fall down. It was then that I not only realized that my food was badly burning a meter away from me. I also realized that I was actually holding a frying pan with my both hands. And was hitting it strongly above the dishwasher each time an F-word came out of my mouth. It appeared as though I was crashing a strange insect on top of the dishwasher.
Yes, the lady was shocked, but I was equally shocked and upset. A thick dark smoke was all over the kitchen, coming from the burning food. She moved closer to see whatever was being crashed by a frying pan. What she saw was a dark mark, which came to existence as a result of the pan-dishwasher collision. Because a straight answer to any of her highly imminent questions wasn’t available with me, I opted to walk out of the kitchen and leave her with tough speculations.
An hour later, at around 8:30 pm, someone knocked at my door. I stood up from my bed and opened the door to find that all my four house mates were in front of my room.
“Oh my God! It was this serious! I’m finally a mad man!” I thought.
Michael, the one whose room was next to mine moved forward to speak on their behalf. He pronounced my name almost as “Chamba” but it was OK with me because it sounded better than “Yamba” as some people still do pronounce it.
“Hi Jamba! We all understand your feelings now. Well, we were equally upset with the footages and the way things are happening in Dala. You know, the disappointments, the extra-judicial executions, coup d’etáts and human right abuses of many kinds. But that’s beyond our control now. We have to live our dreams in spite of everything. We have to find other ways to bring happiness in our lives, even if it means forgetting the ugly things.
As your friends and house mates, we feel that you need to sleep well, and for that reason we have arranged the table for you. Come on, you need to eat before you sleep. You are invited to come with us to the dinning room.” He said, patting the back of my shoulder and slightly pulling me out without any resistance from me.
After having a heavy dinner and playing English Billiards with my house mates till 10pm, we called it a day.
I went back to my room knowing that my surrounding was full of very kind people, or perhaps civilized?
I picked my phone to reset the alarm for the next morning, but before doing that, I had to read the Text messages that had arrived on my absence. They were two text messages from one sender. I had to begin with the earliest.
Boy, now that ur Dallaian state
isn’t an exemption- tiz literally
burnin, Hop u’ll open ur eyes en
Reassess ya gols in lyn wit ya immigration status.
Don B stupid en go bk hom!
Mika
The papers you receive from class
are important but those you receive
from the alter are very important.
Start hunting as early as now,
B4 tiz too late.
Mika
That was Mika, the one who told me “…not to be ashamed of anything; just try to divorce dignity and respect from bread and butter issues”
Choosing words to reply that Text message might have sent me back down the emotional roller-coaster. So, the best option was to say a short prayer before allowing myself to fall asleep.
“Lord, the most merciful the most beneficent,
you taught me, through my mother, that anything dirty at home shall remain dirty everywhere and dirt shall never be good.
When we are at home in Dala we define papers as academic documents and we all struggle to get as good papers as possible. How can it be that when we cross the Sea away from Dala, the same mouth changes the good definition to something else? Lord, it is what some Dallaians go through when searching for these ‘papers’ that lead them into shameful, dirty ways of life. Help us retain our dignity Lord! Help us maintain the original definition of Papers and aid our campaign for good papers. Bless our good hosts and bless all the powerful friends of Dala- give them even more geographical and cultural knowledge of other places and people and may they give us keys to life without changing the padlocks Lord.
Lord, give our Dallaian leaders the knowledge they lack and make them know that decisions they make in any Dallaian state have got effects in Dala and as far distance as here. Help them act wisely and not otherwise Lord. They might display us as uncivilized people just because of their political bickering or survival politics. But Lord, I pray that all these shall come to past, sooner than later. God Bless Dala! In your name I seal my prayer! Amen”
Thursday, February 18, 2010
China and the race for Supremacy
The battle for world supremacy heightened by series of wars, colossal carnage, Imperialism, changes in world socio-political orders, colonialism and the scramble for, and petition of Africa was thought to have been brought to a halt after the collapse of Soviet Union- subsequent to the fall of the Berlin Wall in November 1989. But years later, it is emerging that the fall of the Berlin Wall was only but a turning point to the on going battle for supremacy; the battle by a country, religion, or ethnic group to completely conquer and dominate the rest. Today, only few of the above named groupings would still prefer the military way to either spread their Ideologies (religion, politic, language and culture) or keep them afloat. The majority of them have preferred to use their financial powers and diplomacy as the best tool to bolster their struggle for supremacy. Apparently the few countries that stretch their military muscles are facing stiff resistance regardless of their wealth. In fact, most citizens are becoming increasingly cautious with the presence of foreign military in their countries as well as the presence of their own military in foreign countries.
In Africa, for instance, we saw the intended plan to move the United States African Command (USAFRICOM- headquartered in Stuttgart, Germany) to Africa, meet opposing forces that left the Bush administration with no option but to annul the move. Of resent, we’ve seen the Okinawans being determined to have the US military base moved off Okinawa Island, Japan. Protesters in Okinawa asked the US to “build peace not base” Well, why must a country establish military bases in foreign countries with well established military? Is it to safeguard her interest? During the scramble for, and petition of Africa, language and culture was one of the most effective guns loaded with bullets of colonization. And, today most of these European countries are still crossing their national borders to spread their languages and culture; France has set up her cultural centers (Alliance Française) up to estate level/ residential areas in Anglophone Africa. Germany too is on this struggle and has seen her Goethe institute opened worldwide, and many students are taking classes. In East Africa, more than 100 students seat for German language exams at Goethe Institute every month in Nairobi alone. This is despite the fact that the tuition fee charged for a German certificate course is more than that paid in Kenyan high schools for a full year.Britain too has seen her own British council scattered worldwide including places like Russia where they are not fully-welcomed.
In the colonial era, Africa had to learn English, Portuguese, French and others. Today, the motherland speaks more than what she learned from her colonial masters: There is German, of course, and she is currently learning Chinese and Japanese languages. If every ethnic group, country or religion were to participate equally to this competition of letting others know or have what one has, it would have been a healthy competition or a battle for world peace- as it could result to promoting understanding. But because only a few wealthier or mightier powers are able to take part, it becomes a battle for Supremacy. The poorer will remain on the receiving end, with little or nothing to give: the poorer/weaker you are the more you receive and know while forgetting what you had, and the richer/stronger you are the more you give and little you add to what you have. In this regard, Africa has taken more than give the rest of the world in terms of language and culture. Many people, especially in Asia and the US, know less about Africa than Africa knows about them. We’ve seen a vice-presidential candidate, Sarah Palin showing her inadequacy or total lack of knowledge about Africa during the last presidential election in the US.
Yes, it is very true to say that there are faculties of African studies in all major Universities worldwide, but that is just not enough. If there is no plan to establish effective African cultural centers to match the likes of Goethe Institute, Alliance Française, Confucius Institute and others, Africans will still be meeting friendly people abroad whose remarks or perception about Africa and Africans are quite disappointing.
A Congolese friend got upset with when I asked a German lady, a third year History student at Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg, to be as honest as a German and tell me what pops in her mind whenever the word Africa lands in her ears . Her answer was very brief “A Lion!” The Congolese man was upset for he anticipated a disappointing answer. Because she (the German Student) had never even been to Africa for a safari holiday and see the king of the Jungle, I concluded that she, and others like her, should better be made to know more about Africa and Africans than they know about Lions, poverty and Safari holidays.In the same breath, when a well educated Taiwanese friend in Europe, with masters in her field of study asked me “…what color is your blood?” I did not consider her a racist! She knew nothing about Africans, leave alone Africa; She was a thick ice that needed an African axe (knowledge) to get broken. As for the case of spreading language and culture, Britain or Anglo-culture seems to be on the right path towards winning the race, especially now that commonwealth is very attractive and its membership is open to all, with conditions that herald Anglo fusion of others (language and culture, Ideologies, mentalities etc) but with an iota of effect to the purity of anything typical English.
Wealthy countries in the European Union have kept their relationship strong under the European flag, but the competition among them is stiff outside the EU border. The Irony here is that, as these European countries move out to spread their languages and culture, they're being ambushed and swept away by English from their very bases in Europe. The perceived reality that English is the language of the world is making it even difficult for many European languages to survive extinction.
In Germany for instance, more English words are finding their ways in via the media, both printed and electronics. These new words, such as “Top ten, Talk Show” and many others, are first quoted as foreign words but they never remain foreign forever. In a language class in Germany, a language teacher taught me to say recyceln or recycling (recycle) because “…es klingt kühller/cooler, it sounds cooler than the original German name wiedergewinnung- (with a light touch). Yes, it sounds cool/English.
The Hip Hop culture, Hollywood movies and Rap music are among the tools used to spread English language and Anglo-culture. Many youths find it “cool” and very important to sing in English language as this helps them increase their sales by reaching a wide audience. This is a stable fact, as most Fm stations play music sang in either English or German in Germany, English or French in France or English or Italian in Italy. In Germany, English music takes the lion's share of airtime on FM radios. Interestingly when you are on the German side of the border away from France, you will hardly hear French music being played on German FM radios and it is the same when you cross over to the French side of the border where you will hardly listen to German music on radios. In Africa too, you can listen to music in English language in Francophone zones, but hardly can you hear French language music being played on radios in Anglophone countries like Kenya, unless if it were a mixture of African language and French as sang by Congolese musicians or Angelique Kidjo of Benin. It is either African language or English in Anglophone Africa.As for the case of England, It did not surprise me when I spent a whole Saturday listening to a London based online Fm and the only music I heard being sang in foreign language was a song by R. Kelly featuring daddy Yankee. Well, the song is only about 50% sang in English.
England is the country where foreign languages were dropped as a compulsory subject for school children in the age-bracket of (14 to 16) in 2002 while the rest of Europe begins learning as early as 7 years old. In Germany, most school pupils begin learning foreign languages in the 5th class. But there are still those who do it at their tender age of 7. Well, I’m not sure whether people whose native language is English have got no interest in other people’s languages, but one US Soldier then stationed in Germany once told me “…why learn their language when they can speak English? …if you speak English you can’t get lost anywhere!”
As these western powers struggle to teach people their way of life and promote their agenda by all means- including internationalizing their media houses, China pops in, very timely, with a CCTV and a Confucius Institute. Through this CCTV one is able to view the positive side of China. The timing and the name of the Chinese Institute has nothing to do with causing confusion; it is the Chinese cultural centre named after a renowned Chinese philosopher and is there to promote Chinese language and culture internationally besides bolstering her relationship with the outside world and keeping her fast growing economy on track.The institute has set up foot on influential African countries like Egypt (Suez Canal University) South Africa (Stellenbosch University), Kenya (University of Nairobi), Nigeria (University of Lagos) and more than 10 other African states. It was not by mistake that the first Confucius institute in Africa was established in Kenya and not Angola, a country that has stronger economic ties with China and has got the largest population of Chinese citizens in Africa. In fact, it only makes a statement that the drive to bring the institute to existence is not in tandem with china’s economic growth policy but her ambition to tilt the world’s attention towards her as the forthcoming super power.Confucius institute has received its share of criticism from the west and Asia alike, with some terming it as “a representative of Chinese diplomacy” Asian Times online. But, in spite of the criticism, the Institute is expanding and growing at the same pace as China’s Economy: The first Confucius Institute was opened on Nov. 21.2004 in the Korean city of Seoul, yet to date they are 396 worldwide, most of them in western countries (over 60 in the USA). In fact, there are schools in the west, which are ready to higher teachers from China just to have their students learn the Chinese language and culture. According to McDowell news online (mcdowell.com) McDowell county school board, in North Carolina, had accepted to recruit and fund at least two teachers of mandarin dialect of the Chinese language to teach in McDowell school for three years. This is a situation where by Chinese language and culture is being given attention where others like Spanish, German, Italian or French can only be mentioned.
In Africa, unfortunately, the institute is helping to expose some universities as money oriented rather than academic oriented; some universities hosting the institute are capitalizing on the fact that the Chinese government is funding the education , to earn from it by charging the students tuition fee. When I asked one staff member, in front of Chinese language students at a leading University in Nairobi, why she was asking for tuition fee even without any printed fee structure, she fumbled with the question but managed to give this answer “…we need to pay lecturers and buy books for the Chinese library…” Clearly, she failed a straight face test, for everything is financed by China.
As this struggle for supremacy continues, those who began earlier to conquer and influence the world with their language and culture seem to be far much ahead. But China is yet to pull the last shot and everyone will face east. The superpowers of today should now be keen to promoting human rights issues and fundamental freedom in china rather than frustrating her ambitious and, seemingly, unstoppable plan to becoming superpower.
The most populous country is increasingly turning out to be what she wants to be. We should check her human rights records but allow her to twinkle today, for tomorrow, she will be the star.
By Dominic O. Otiang'a
In Africa, for instance, we saw the intended plan to move the United States African Command (USAFRICOM- headquartered in Stuttgart, Germany) to Africa, meet opposing forces that left the Bush administration with no option but to annul the move. Of resent, we’ve seen the Okinawans being determined to have the US military base moved off Okinawa Island, Japan. Protesters in Okinawa asked the US to “build peace not base” Well, why must a country establish military bases in foreign countries with well established military? Is it to safeguard her interest? During the scramble for, and petition of Africa, language and culture was one of the most effective guns loaded with bullets of colonization. And, today most of these European countries are still crossing their national borders to spread their languages and culture; France has set up her cultural centers (Alliance Française) up to estate level/ residential areas in Anglophone Africa. Germany too is on this struggle and has seen her Goethe institute opened worldwide, and many students are taking classes. In East Africa, more than 100 students seat for German language exams at Goethe Institute every month in Nairobi alone. This is despite the fact that the tuition fee charged for a German certificate course is more than that paid in Kenyan high schools for a full year.Britain too has seen her own British council scattered worldwide including places like Russia where they are not fully-welcomed.
In the colonial era, Africa had to learn English, Portuguese, French and others. Today, the motherland speaks more than what she learned from her colonial masters: There is German, of course, and she is currently learning Chinese and Japanese languages. If every ethnic group, country or religion were to participate equally to this competition of letting others know or have what one has, it would have been a healthy competition or a battle for world peace- as it could result to promoting understanding. But because only a few wealthier or mightier powers are able to take part, it becomes a battle for Supremacy. The poorer will remain on the receiving end, with little or nothing to give: the poorer/weaker you are the more you receive and know while forgetting what you had, and the richer/stronger you are the more you give and little you add to what you have. In this regard, Africa has taken more than give the rest of the world in terms of language and culture. Many people, especially in Asia and the US, know less about Africa than Africa knows about them. We’ve seen a vice-presidential candidate, Sarah Palin showing her inadequacy or total lack of knowledge about Africa during the last presidential election in the US.
Yes, it is very true to say that there are faculties of African studies in all major Universities worldwide, but that is just not enough. If there is no plan to establish effective African cultural centers to match the likes of Goethe Institute, Alliance Française, Confucius Institute and others, Africans will still be meeting friendly people abroad whose remarks or perception about Africa and Africans are quite disappointing.
A Congolese friend got upset with when I asked a German lady, a third year History student at Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg, to be as honest as a German and tell me what pops in her mind whenever the word Africa lands in her ears . Her answer was very brief “A Lion!” The Congolese man was upset for he anticipated a disappointing answer. Because she (the German Student) had never even been to Africa for a safari holiday and see the king of the Jungle, I concluded that she, and others like her, should better be made to know more about Africa and Africans than they know about Lions, poverty and Safari holidays.In the same breath, when a well educated Taiwanese friend in Europe, with masters in her field of study asked me “…what color is your blood?” I did not consider her a racist! She knew nothing about Africans, leave alone Africa; She was a thick ice that needed an African axe (knowledge) to get broken. As for the case of spreading language and culture, Britain or Anglo-culture seems to be on the right path towards winning the race, especially now that commonwealth is very attractive and its membership is open to all, with conditions that herald Anglo fusion of others (language and culture, Ideologies, mentalities etc) but with an iota of effect to the purity of anything typical English.
Wealthy countries in the European Union have kept their relationship strong under the European flag, but the competition among them is stiff outside the EU border. The Irony here is that, as these European countries move out to spread their languages and culture, they're being ambushed and swept away by English from their very bases in Europe. The perceived reality that English is the language of the world is making it even difficult for many European languages to survive extinction.
In Germany for instance, more English words are finding their ways in via the media, both printed and electronics. These new words, such as “Top ten, Talk Show” and many others, are first quoted as foreign words but they never remain foreign forever. In a language class in Germany, a language teacher taught me to say recyceln or recycling (recycle) because “…es klingt kühller/cooler, it sounds cooler than the original German name wiedergewinnung- (with a light touch). Yes, it sounds cool/English.
The Hip Hop culture, Hollywood movies and Rap music are among the tools used to spread English language and Anglo-culture. Many youths find it “cool” and very important to sing in English language as this helps them increase their sales by reaching a wide audience. This is a stable fact, as most Fm stations play music sang in either English or German in Germany, English or French in France or English or Italian in Italy. In Germany, English music takes the lion's share of airtime on FM radios. Interestingly when you are on the German side of the border away from France, you will hardly hear French music being played on German FM radios and it is the same when you cross over to the French side of the border where you will hardly listen to German music on radios. In Africa too, you can listen to music in English language in Francophone zones, but hardly can you hear French language music being played on radios in Anglophone countries like Kenya, unless if it were a mixture of African language and French as sang by Congolese musicians or Angelique Kidjo of Benin. It is either African language or English in Anglophone Africa.As for the case of England, It did not surprise me when I spent a whole Saturday listening to a London based online Fm and the only music I heard being sang in foreign language was a song by R. Kelly featuring daddy Yankee. Well, the song is only about 50% sang in English.
England is the country where foreign languages were dropped as a compulsory subject for school children in the age-bracket of (14 to 16) in 2002 while the rest of Europe begins learning as early as 7 years old. In Germany, most school pupils begin learning foreign languages in the 5th class. But there are still those who do it at their tender age of 7. Well, I’m not sure whether people whose native language is English have got no interest in other people’s languages, but one US Soldier then stationed in Germany once told me “…why learn their language when they can speak English? …if you speak English you can’t get lost anywhere!”
As these western powers struggle to teach people their way of life and promote their agenda by all means- including internationalizing their media houses, China pops in, very timely, with a CCTV and a Confucius Institute. Through this CCTV one is able to view the positive side of China. The timing and the name of the Chinese Institute has nothing to do with causing confusion; it is the Chinese cultural centre named after a renowned Chinese philosopher and is there to promote Chinese language and culture internationally besides bolstering her relationship with the outside world and keeping her fast growing economy on track.The institute has set up foot on influential African countries like Egypt (Suez Canal University) South Africa (Stellenbosch University), Kenya (University of Nairobi), Nigeria (University of Lagos) and more than 10 other African states. It was not by mistake that the first Confucius institute in Africa was established in Kenya and not Angola, a country that has stronger economic ties with China and has got the largest population of Chinese citizens in Africa. In fact, it only makes a statement that the drive to bring the institute to existence is not in tandem with china’s economic growth policy but her ambition to tilt the world’s attention towards her as the forthcoming super power.Confucius institute has received its share of criticism from the west and Asia alike, with some terming it as “a representative of Chinese diplomacy” Asian Times online. But, in spite of the criticism, the Institute is expanding and growing at the same pace as China’s Economy: The first Confucius Institute was opened on Nov. 21.2004 in the Korean city of Seoul, yet to date they are 396 worldwide, most of them in western countries (over 60 in the USA). In fact, there are schools in the west, which are ready to higher teachers from China just to have their students learn the Chinese language and culture. According to McDowell news online (mcdowell.com) McDowell county school board, in North Carolina, had accepted to recruit and fund at least two teachers of mandarin dialect of the Chinese language to teach in McDowell school for three years. This is a situation where by Chinese language and culture is being given attention where others like Spanish, German, Italian or French can only be mentioned.
In Africa, unfortunately, the institute is helping to expose some universities as money oriented rather than academic oriented; some universities hosting the institute are capitalizing on the fact that the Chinese government is funding the education , to earn from it by charging the students tuition fee. When I asked one staff member, in front of Chinese language students at a leading University in Nairobi, why she was asking for tuition fee even without any printed fee structure, she fumbled with the question but managed to give this answer “…we need to pay lecturers and buy books for the Chinese library…” Clearly, she failed a straight face test, for everything is financed by China.
As this struggle for supremacy continues, those who began earlier to conquer and influence the world with their language and culture seem to be far much ahead. But China is yet to pull the last shot and everyone will face east. The superpowers of today should now be keen to promoting human rights issues and fundamental freedom in china rather than frustrating her ambitious and, seemingly, unstoppable plan to becoming superpower.
The most populous country is increasingly turning out to be what she wants to be. We should check her human rights records but allow her to twinkle today, for tomorrow, she will be the star.
By Dominic O. Otiang'a
The United States Of Africa?
After seeing a toothless organisation that stomached several military coups and civil wars, Colonel Muammar Gaddafi had a dream to have the organisation changed to a more serious one, the AU.
Many can confirm from deeds that the AU is far much better than its predecessor OAU. It is from a spirit of togetherness that Tripoli aided the burial of OAU and the birth of a little stronger AU and is still active in nursing the AU to make it strong enough to compete with the likes of EU and The United States of America. Since this has not yet been achieved, the dream from Tripoli, in my view, is still valid.
Our very own scholars have argued out that we are far from getting there, citing strong and genuine reasons like the difficulties that we face in our countries and regional blocks such as EAC, SADC and ECOWAS.
Africa has lots of scholars scattered in every corner of the world who can help her succeed in achieving the Kwame Nkurumah Dream of the US of Africa. It pains when most of this scholars say no to the idea of a true union when in fact they are enjoying life under unions such as EU and USA; flying from Washington DC to Alaska without visas or from Paris to Berlin without the same while they deny a common African citizen in Africa a chance to move freely from Mogadishu to Lagos or Cairo to Pretoria.
Our very own leaders, those who go to Addis Ababa to vote against the idea of a strong Union, have got resources, if not powers, to move them freely to any corner of the world, even without Africa having to unite. They have powers and opportunity to create strong cohesions among the citizens in their own countries and regional blocks in preparation for a continental union. They also have powers to divide their citizens on tribal, religious or ethnic lines and make the Nkrumah dream an impossible one. Should they choose the latter, it will be a common African who will be disadvantaged.
In 2010, some of our politicians will be flying to South Africa for the FIFA world cup, while the youthful and more energetic Africans are planning to make it by road. The weak union in Africa simply means not everyone willing and able to move to the South for the FIFA world cup will make it, especially those common citizens planning to go by road.
Our leaders and scholars have on several occasions talked of sovereignty as a scapegoat thus denying us this wonderful idea of a United States Of Africa.
Well, with the exception of Ethiopia, didn't we lose our sovereignty after the Berlin treaty of 1885? When the existing forms of African anatomy and self-governance was eliminated and the continent was divided between the European powers, division that still exist.
When our micro-nations were reduced to tribes and our mother tongues and fully fledged lingua- francas baptised as dialects? Isn't this the reason why it is almost illegal to speak African languages in our public institutions in some African countries?
Apart from mighty powers of some African despots, is there any sovereignty to lose? If there's any, do we need it? Allowing genocides, religious/ethnic violence, xenophobia, shocking police brutality and unjustifiable military coups to go on without outside interference just because we are a sovereign state?
If we sincerely have something to call sovereignty then, of course, we can still unite and make our union as strong as the European Union, at least.
When Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie won a literature prize in 2003, the news in the Nigerian Guardian was "Nigerian wins literature Prize in the USA" she was a Nigerian not Igbo, Yoruba, Christian or Muslim. Similarly, when Justice Joyce Aluoch from Kenya was elected to the benches of the ICC in the Hague, the headline news posted online was "Kenya judge joins ICC"
Kenyans of all ethnic groups, religion and colour were seen tossing champagne, singing and dancing at a Nairobi Hotel. They had united to celebrate the appointment of one of their own, not one of their tribe. Moreover, Africa as a continent- from Egypt to South Africa and from Somalia to Senegal united in celebrating the victory of President Barack Obama- Yes! The most famous African in the Diaspora.
The point here is that we tend to unite on matters international and divide on internal issues. It simply means that the US of Africa will help us achieve unity in our countries especially those countries with ethnic tensions. We will be competing against another country or state rather than another tribe, clan or religion. To prove this right, you will need to wait until the Kenyan parliament amends their constitution to provide for a devolved government or federal government. Should a Federal government be allowed in Kenya, tribal politics will also descend to clan level in each federal state.
This could explain why, in the African Diaspora, there are several organisations for citizens from every African country; The Union of Liberian Associations in the Americas (ULAA) or Ghana Union in Southern Germany and several others. However, from a country like Nigeria with federal system of government, there are unions such as Igbo union as it is in Freiburg Germany or Kwara State Association, KSANG in North America. It tells something here, but we should be proud of our own ethnic groups or our own culture, to be precise.
This is why we may disagree with Libya's strong man, Colonel Muammar Gaddafi on issues such as Somali piracy, but on matters of US of Africa, we should give him the thumbs.
by Dominic O. Otiang'a
Many can confirm from deeds that the AU is far much better than its predecessor OAU. It is from a spirit of togetherness that Tripoli aided the burial of OAU and the birth of a little stronger AU and is still active in nursing the AU to make it strong enough to compete with the likes of EU and The United States of America. Since this has not yet been achieved, the dream from Tripoli, in my view, is still valid.
Our very own scholars have argued out that we are far from getting there, citing strong and genuine reasons like the difficulties that we face in our countries and regional blocks such as EAC, SADC and ECOWAS.
Africa has lots of scholars scattered in every corner of the world who can help her succeed in achieving the Kwame Nkurumah Dream of the US of Africa. It pains when most of this scholars say no to the idea of a true union when in fact they are enjoying life under unions such as EU and USA; flying from Washington DC to Alaska without visas or from Paris to Berlin without the same while they deny a common African citizen in Africa a chance to move freely from Mogadishu to Lagos or Cairo to Pretoria.
Our very own leaders, those who go to Addis Ababa to vote against the idea of a strong Union, have got resources, if not powers, to move them freely to any corner of the world, even without Africa having to unite. They have powers and opportunity to create strong cohesions among the citizens in their own countries and regional blocks in preparation for a continental union. They also have powers to divide their citizens on tribal, religious or ethnic lines and make the Nkrumah dream an impossible one. Should they choose the latter, it will be a common African who will be disadvantaged.
In 2010, some of our politicians will be flying to South Africa for the FIFA world cup, while the youthful and more energetic Africans are planning to make it by road. The weak union in Africa simply means not everyone willing and able to move to the South for the FIFA world cup will make it, especially those common citizens planning to go by road.
Our leaders and scholars have on several occasions talked of sovereignty as a scapegoat thus denying us this wonderful idea of a United States Of Africa.
Well, with the exception of Ethiopia, didn't we lose our sovereignty after the Berlin treaty of 1885? When the existing forms of African anatomy and self-governance was eliminated and the continent was divided between the European powers, division that still exist.
When our micro-nations were reduced to tribes and our mother tongues and fully fledged lingua- francas baptised as dialects? Isn't this the reason why it is almost illegal to speak African languages in our public institutions in some African countries?
Apart from mighty powers of some African despots, is there any sovereignty to lose? If there's any, do we need it? Allowing genocides, religious/ethnic violence, xenophobia, shocking police brutality and unjustifiable military coups to go on without outside interference just because we are a sovereign state?
If we sincerely have something to call sovereignty then, of course, we can still unite and make our union as strong as the European Union, at least.
When Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie won a literature prize in 2003, the news in the Nigerian Guardian was "Nigerian wins literature Prize in the USA" she was a Nigerian not Igbo, Yoruba, Christian or Muslim. Similarly, when Justice Joyce Aluoch from Kenya was elected to the benches of the ICC in the Hague, the headline news posted online was "Kenya judge joins ICC"
Kenyans of all ethnic groups, religion and colour were seen tossing champagne, singing and dancing at a Nairobi Hotel. They had united to celebrate the appointment of one of their own, not one of their tribe. Moreover, Africa as a continent- from Egypt to South Africa and from Somalia to Senegal united in celebrating the victory of President Barack Obama- Yes! The most famous African in the Diaspora.
The point here is that we tend to unite on matters international and divide on internal issues. It simply means that the US of Africa will help us achieve unity in our countries especially those countries with ethnic tensions. We will be competing against another country or state rather than another tribe, clan or religion. To prove this right, you will need to wait until the Kenyan parliament amends their constitution to provide for a devolved government or federal government. Should a Federal government be allowed in Kenya, tribal politics will also descend to clan level in each federal state.
This could explain why, in the African Diaspora, there are several organisations for citizens from every African country; The Union of Liberian Associations in the Americas (ULAA) or Ghana Union in Southern Germany and several others. However, from a country like Nigeria with federal system of government, there are unions such as Igbo union as it is in Freiburg Germany or Kwara State Association, KSANG in North America. It tells something here, but we should be proud of our own ethnic groups or our own culture, to be precise.
This is why we may disagree with Libya's strong man, Colonel Muammar Gaddafi on issues such as Somali piracy, but on matters of US of Africa, we should give him the thumbs.
by Dominic O. Otiang'a
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