Dreams are Alive - From the Diary of a Border-Being

Rush Hour Paris #paris #parisien #metro #mornings #borderbeing (from instagram series) © Emeka Okereke

For the past two weeks I have had an impossible itinerary (a word I have used a tad too often lately). I have been criss-crossing continents and cities to an extent that I am oblivious to the components and intricacies of space and time. Now I am in Paris. I always think of Paris in a love-hate manner, never conclusive of  what I make of the city. At most, I am constantly aware of my affection for this city. It was the first city I visited and lived in when I came to Europe. It formed my first impressions of Europe, of the West, of the white race. And if one would go by the adage that “First impressions matter most”, then one might as well summarise any expression of disdain or scepticism for this city as a mere secret admiration. But “matters most” does not necessarily imply “loving most". I would say that Paris was where my consciousness and insecurities of being regarded as the “other” became tangible and for that it will always remain the city that matters most. 

So whenever I am in Paris, it feels like a second skin, as if I have been walking the streets all my life, riding the underground for eternity. The smell in the air is distinct and outrightly familiar. My French immediately jumps out of the box of my vocabularies unannounced and no matter how long since I last spoke French, it comes all rushing back with no décalage between thoughts and words.

I wonder if I would love to live in the city again or maybe it holds something more precious than the practicality of being grounded in a particular place. Perhaps it embodies an experience I would rather associate with in an abstract manner than through the day-to-day routines of living in a place. This same reason makes it ever more sublime when I connect with friends and colleagues with whom I shared impacting times. For me meeting them again is usually more than what it implies. It carries within it that tenderness and sensitivity tied to the experiences of having lived in Paris. I do not think I could say the same for any other city - not even Lagos. If I should digress a bit to reflect on Lagos:  Lagos is a place like no other in the sense that it renders the feeling of being at home. It is definite in its function. I do not for once doubt my place in it, no matter the circumstance. I feel grounded in it, even if my stay was only fleeting (which is usually the case). This tendency towards permanence brings about the non-relativity of space and time as regards to my affinity with Lagos. It does not matter how much or little I spend there, this sense of permanence grounds me.

I am tempted to bring Amsterdam into the stream of comparable cities. Amsterdam is another city where I have tangible ties, in straight terms, a family. But there is something about the city that constantly purges me of all connectivity to it. I have many times tried to understand this, and the furthest I have been to conclusion is that I find it difficult to fit into a place where there are too many lines intended only to put people in line. I strongly believe that it is against free will. In everything, there are usually thin lines between opposites and this thin line is where the ingenuity of a person’s freedom ought to flourish. It is in negotiating these thin lines in order to find balance and harmony within a given context that the creativity of spirit is unleashed.  When there is a desperate struggle to make this thin line stark, bold and literally discernible by common sense usually based on economic undertones, then it is a recipe for the bondage of the soul. When everything is ordered to the letter, what then is left to intuition? It might seem in the surface that all is well and smooth, living a safe life. But is “safety” not as indulging as “fear”? This incompatibility with synthesised mode of existence and the constant search for the true purpose of being is what leaves me in a perpetual state disconnection with Amsterdam. However my only anchor becomes my family, the only thing I cannot close my ears and wish away.

Back to Paris. I am now at St. Lazare station, a connection point for so many metro lines and suburban trains and currently a huge shopping mall project resembling that of Les Halles in the centre of Paris is on the way, what I found interesting is how the on-going construction has forced the people to navigate the spaces differently from how
I have always known it, there is a bit of an “incoherence” in movement and more likelihood of intersections, bumping into things and each other - at least if only it could lead people to look around rather than look ahead as they walk.

 I have come down to meet Qudus Onikeku, the Nigerian contemporary dancer, and a very good friend. My years in paris were scattered with impressive moments shared with this young man. He comes with a defiant energy, always at a boiling point. Over the years, as he matured, he learnt how to choreograph this energy to a successful end. Did I mention he is a choreographer of contemporary dance? As is always the case, whenever we meet, things happen. Dreams begin to hover around in the air, and soon enough they become tangible. Today was no different. There we were sitting at one of the two Starbucks coffee located in St. Lazare. We were upstairs and we took our position in such a way that our view became a constantly moving parisian traffic made up of people and cars intersecting at zebra crossings. We talked about everything, of course beginning with our views and philosophies. He talked about his recent inclinations which is the Afroparisian Network - an utopia of a project that renders a big picture of injecting new life into the the dynamism of arts and culture in France and beyond through the proactivity of black culture.

Somewhere during our conversation, we  touched upon pre-colonial values. Lately, I have been occupied with the question of pre-colonial knowledge, not as a nostalgia into a consciousness that was never lived, but rather in order to understand and therefore articulate a direction towards this ever sprawling energy hovering around in continental and Diasporan Africa. we all know by now that something is brewing within the black race and culture. It is obvious that what has come to stay has been unprecedented. what seems uncertain and a great deal fuzzy is the direction towards a constructive purpose. Energy is energy, and like a double-edged sword has the tendencies to strike down its bearer. It is also transient, that is to say it moves on or moves away when not put to use. Therefore the urgency at hand leans heavily on reflections as regards what direction to put this energy to use in such away that through black culture a new Utopia can be added to the attributes of universality while proposing a route to the freedom and thorough independence of the black race. In the long wrong all race will be independent of the other, and if one race should be dependent on the other, then it will be done independently.

Qudus narrated a brief epiphany he experienced just a few days ago when he attended a friend’s wedding in Toulouse. This friend is from a traditional french Family and the marriage rites took place in a Catholic church with all the rites performed to the fullest from the church to the after wedding ceremony. Qudus said he just realised that this feels familiar to him. It is the same weight, importance and symbolism given to marriage in the Yoruba culture, the only difference is the most obvious which is that they were invoking traditional french culture of sharing and humanity but also that of the Catholic - something that has become rare in any setting in a place like Paris.

I have decided to use Qudus’ experience as if it were mine because it greatly resonated with my intuition about this matter. So many times I too, have experienced this sought of differences between the provinces and cities especially but not limited to the European context.

What does this say to us Africans whose first hand experience of Europe is usually the big cities where all human values have receded to be replaced by a quest for survival and haste towards the grave as an end?

The Europeans we find in most European cities are those who by the virtue of a realignment of their values towards other ends, have moved away from the traditional culture of their people that once embodied the humanity of a given people. They throw away the deficiencies of these traditions without retaining its sublime attributes. They threw away religion along with the possibility of spirituality that could have been found therein. And over time, things become more and more distorted especially when economic deficiencies are answered with the gluttony of consumerism.

This is to  say one thing, if we Africans must contribute anything tangible, we must come to the basic level of objectivity and for us to do that, it is important we are grounded in our culture, drawing from the implications and symbols of precolonial knowledge and philosophies because more often than not this knowledge attests to a universality that has been greatly down-trodden if not completely lost elsewhere in other cultures, especially in the cultures of the so-called developed world. Furthermore we would be operating from a point of weak foothold if we do not ground ourselves in the meanings and symbols of our precolonial knowledge. It is only when we return many steps backward can we eventually retrace it with a conscious understanding of how we got here.

The nuances in the relationship between the white and black race are too many and too interwoven to be dismissed solely as the product of man’s wickedness to man. I believe that there  was something of universality lost to humanity, and it now falls on our shoulders to find that. How or what involved the atrocities of this loss of universality to humanity is something we can continuously debate until we are at our wit’s end, but it will never move us any inch forward if it is not done for the purpose of rediscovering lost values by taking an objective inventory of events. All nostalgia to the past aimed solely at pointing fingers will yield only barren results.

I will conclude by saying that the average African should see a rediscovery of pre-colonial knowledge as a necessary requirement for the journey towards free will, which when attained will propose a new way of being not just for the black race, but for the world at large. It will not seek to impose itself nor validate its position, it will simply pull all that is human together, in unity and fruitful exchange, and by the same nature is reinforced. 

Reflections on "Return to N'djamena"

Emeka Okereke with photographers of Photo Cam Tchad collective, during the workshop session in N'djamena. IB exhibition at Institut Français Tchad. Photo by Robin Riskin. IB 2013

We have just returned from N'djamena after a very intense but super exciting 12 days. As some of you may have seen from all the postings on Facebook, the project was exciting and very well received by the N'Djamena public.

The public engaged with the images displayed in a profound and unpretentious manner. They equally identified very much with the concept of Invisible Borders. What was intriguing (I believe, to them) was the fact that the exhibition featured mostly images from N'Djamena, but also Khartoum, Addis Ababa and a bit of Lagos and Abuja. From the feedback we picked up, the audience were able to situate themselves within the reality portrayed by the images. They identified familiar places, but were also able to project their imagination beyond as a result of the "openness" of the images and their tendency to depict occurrences in the public spaces of African cities. The N’Djamena audience was able to identify with the familiarity of places; people and structures proffered by the images, while at the same time relished the unorthodox gaze suggested by the works.

This exhibition in N'djamena afforded us the opportunity to learn a thing or two about interacting with the public within a specific context. It revealed to us the importance of "returning" to places, the city and people where the actual works were created during the past road trips. The people get to interact and connect with the work on a much more intimate and tactile level. Our preoccupation since the last four years is to understand and arrive at a method of using art as a tangible means of social intervention.

In Tchad we had a glimpse of that possibility: The Invisible Borders Road trip will be loosing a limb if at the end of it all, we do not get to show those work in the context they were made. In as much as it is very important to reach the rest of the world through exhibitions in far-flung places and online interactions, the indispensability of a return to places travelled cannot be over emphasized. This is the so-called building of Networks. It is even more so when the exhibition comes two years or more after the road trip. This interval in time leaves room for memory to play its role. The immediacy of the road trip finds its completeness in the return that should incorporate exhibitions, workshops, and other activities aimed at engaging the public using the works created in the past as a tangible reference. With such a pattern, it wont be too long before the results of such strategic knitting of exchanges becomes significant and a force to reckon with through out the continent.

During these 12 days, we had a workshop with the budding Tchadian photography collective known as Photo Cam Tchad. These photographers are in the process of coming into "being" but they had already set out on a good foot under the supervision of Abdoulaye Barry, a more established Tchadian photographer who has already instilled in them the ethics of specificity and categorizations into themes and body of work. This quality gave their endeavours a structure that enabled the audience understands their intentions where the quality of the images failed to do so.

The parent theme for the workshop was Urban Mutation, an attempt by photographers to document the transformation and resulting evolution of the city of N'djamena - a phenomenon that is in perpetual   replication across major cities in Africa. The artists see a duty in documenting this volatile process of change taking place in the city, a rapid progress to what would be the N'djamena of tomorrow.

Before the arrival of Invisible Borders, the collective had already began working on this parent theme, taking N'Djamena one district after the other. Each person has his or her own theme and subject they worked on. During the workshop, which lasted for about 8 days, we deliberated on the implications and significance of imagery in the African context: Photographers are writers of history and memory. On the other hand, with the advent of digital photography, we see a tremendous increase in the number of commercial photographers, and a rapid decline in photographers using photography as an art form and social engagement.

This of course can be attributed to the desperate need for survival and the uncertainties of making a living out of being an artist/activist. But, when this acute sense of survival is removed from the equation, what is left is the heavy truth that, history is likely to repeat itself again - a history of "Africa with no history" - if agents of imagery (and this extends beyond photography – I will add writing, film making, performance etc.), do not recognize and indeed put to use this power to preserve our histories through a tactile engagement and a subsequent reflections about the happenings of today.

I am of the opinion that, for Africa to see any real progress, the people must be sensitized and educated. The real invention then lies on what form and content constitute this sensitization and education – sensitisation and education towards what? The answer I believe is "towards self-reflection". Towards asking questions, profound questions about what constitute the occurrences within one's immediate environment. This self-reflection will induce as sense of worth in oneself, which will invariably materialize on the immediate environment as well as the one's neighbour.

The spaces and occurrences (the coincidence of spatial arrangement) depicted by photographers are only a materialization of the inward state-of-being of those therein. I am of the notion that every object, every line, every crack on the wall, and every footstep is a photographical depiction of who we are. In this sense, it is no coincidence, but choreography of a collective be-ing. In the same light, the photo object becomes not just a frame on the wall, but a landmark for journeys through our existence and those of others - more so when the photographs are viewed in retrospect, when it has accumulated debris of time's content.

As we use the space, and allow ourselves be nourished (or repulsed) by its ambience, we take part in a collective performance of designing that space. Everyone and everything related to that space take part in this perpetual art of spatial design, and hence the one with camera, a pen, or just his/her body.

Therefore social intervention through photography and other equally strong forms of artistic expression is not as abstract as it may sound, especially when weighed with the same scale as valuable contributions towards the progress of the society and the improvement of the standards of life of all peoples. All life is first conjured in the workspace of the mind (at least as far as humans are concerned), and every endeavour that aims at affecting mind-space, is not only essential, but inevitable in the rehabilitation of our already misguided sense of purposefulness and harmony.

Lagos to Accra on ABC Transport

Ecowas Passport in Hand | Emeka Okereke

Where will I begin this one? It's a few days after Christmas and the days are rushing towards the new year with lesser activities than before Christmas. I am in Lagos. Christmas for me has been sort of a laid-back one, more of reflections about life and its twists and curves. Naturally I was on the other side of things when it comes to all the high-sounding celebrations.

But then an opportunity came, an idea struck. I could go to Accra for a few days rather than get stuck in the monotones of Christmas here. What is it like in Accra now? As a Trans-African being, a border-being so to speak, it was not at all an unwelcome thought, one that is likely to see the light of the day in action. Besides, Ghana has always been the much contested neighbor of Nigeria, and events constantly affirm that.

What I did not immediately settle for was the fact that this was going to be a road trip. I considered flying, but given that everything during Christmas is double the price, it was not even thinkable to buy a plane ticket one day before travel, considering that my budget is such that does not allow for some crazy maneuvering, this is the point I always dreamt I was as rich as Michael Jackson (but if I continue like this, I will surely match his craziness someday).

So the nearest option, was going by road in the good old ABC transport, the only known road transportation company that plies this Trans-African route. In conversation with a friend, who is of the same age grade, he told me that when he was young, he could remember his dad coming home  from the neighboring countries clutching an ABC transport ticket. ABC has been in operation for 19 years. They have managed to work their way into the way of life for most Nigerian road commuters. Immediately I got excited at the prospect of going by road on board this thriving transport company.

I got to the Amuwo Odofin Terminal at 6.30 am, it was already swarming with travelers. They were quite organised with lots of porters assisting the passengers to weigh and tag their bags. My journey was more  a result of some acute restlessness, so I am neither exporting nor importing, just carrying few clothes but most importantly, my portable office, laptop, iPad, phones and most naturally my camera. This time I am rolling with my G12, trying to keep the journey as simple as it can be.

At 7.25 am, check-in starts. It was systematic, easy, in the next 15 minutes the engine of the 52-seater Marcopolo had been engaged, another five minutes it began to pull backwards out of the parking lot. But at the same time, the prayers kicked off by the in-bus pastor, who prayed and washed the the bus "with the blood of Jesus" and prayed that as the bus moved forward, so would our business, our life and our success, to which most people echoed "Amen."

And I pondered prayers: it seems to me that most of the time that we pray to God, it is to ask something from Him! How about the aspect of worship? That which is just about thanksgiving for the mere fact of being alive and having the luxury of asking favours. Is it not said that He has already given us all things? That what is left now is for us to muster faith as tiny as a mustard seed and all can be ours? And does faith not come from work, everyday activities in and to the name of God? Does it come from high-sounding demands and petitions? I must say that it is in all these prayers and attitudes towards God that man's lack of faith and conviction in God is most revealed. We do have a conception of God as the greatest of all powers, but as human beings, is He only useful when we do not have or cannot fathom any other solutions to our problems? I wonder if there will be so many churches if we are not so abjectly poor. The poor want to be rich, the rich are afraid to be poor, and in-between these poles there are thousands of churches, defining one God. But hey, this is just one man's opinion, I stand to be corrected.

My thoughts drifting…..

Now we have meandered our way to the border, in-between I was multitasking, pinching away on my iPad, twitting and chatting on my phone to justify my sudden journey to some close ones. I had my earpiece deeply stuck in my ears, as Nas was blasting away, "I know I can be what I wanna be, if I work hard at it." Nas is an artist I respect greatly; when he sings, I just don't dance, I listen. At 11.15, we got to Seme border. But before that, the attendant took us through a crash course of what we should expect at each border. He spoke impeccable English and French, and afterwards he asked if there was anyone who did not speak any of the two languages so he could speak in the person's local language. I wonder if that was a joke or if he has truly learnt to speak the local languages of these regions. We got to Seme, our passport was handed over to the attendant, we stayed in the bus while they took care of the formalities. In less than 45 minutes we were on our way. For me, such stress-free border crossing is somewhat unusual, considering that in the Invisible Borders trip every border is a bottleneck. Most times because we refuse to pay all the backyard money and that meant more delays, more stress. This time it was unreal, but on getting to Hilla Conji, the border between Benin and Togo, we had to come down and traverse the border on foot.

Togolese Border | Emeka Okereke

The Togolese border was quite busy, I could not tell exactly why this was so, neither could I figure  out why changing Naira to Ghanaian Cedi was much more feasible, and even cheaper there than at the Ghanian border proper. Also one gets the impression that things were much cheaper in Togo than in the two countries flanking it on both sides. One could still buy things with the Nigerian Naira, the Ghanaian Cedi and of course the French CFA. It is intriguing how borders become a mishmash of those entities they tend to demarcate. Soon we were done with crossing into Togo with no further drama except that this exodus-like crossing was accompanied with buying food and drinks for the rest of the journey ahead.

Now we were back in the bus, I decided to take a nap…

I woke up because apparently my neck could no longer take my sitting, or should I say sleeping position. For lack of something better to do (or better still, to cure my acute restlessness), I began to read Victor Ehikamenor's "Excuse Me". First few pages and I was already lost in his world of twisted humour that has you fixing the pieces of childhood memories together in order to make it a whole experience again. As a wanderer with many encounters of life, it is easy for one important experience to overlap the other as remarkable events fight for front row seats in my life. Reading Victor's descriptive reality of a Nigerian childhood had me relishing my own childhood over again, and during those moments I was lost to what was happening around me, I was back 20 years ago or more in time, when as a child you lived life never knowing that it would turn out this demanding, you had wishes and fantasies, but you never thought that the actual process of getting you to the acme of those wishes will turn out to be the most remarkable events rather than the final fulfillment of the events itself. The process is the fulfilment, rather than the outcome of the process.

We were still in Togo, and as I looked out the window, I saw CIMTOGO, my guess was that this is the Cement Company (but a play of words in my head likened it to "Cemetery Togo"), a gigantic building looking like a grotesque structure especially in the backdrop of the dusty harmattan atmosphere. There was a slight standstill, but this was because the road was being constructed by of course, the Chinese. They have come to be known as the Road-makers. The image that comes off is of the same cliché: local workers spotting their helmets and their Chinese boss, usually a little man, tight-faced (makes you wonder what will happen to that face if by an act of God he smiles), pointing or talking out orders to his workers. Sometimes it feels like by mere watching you could even sense the reluctance on the part of the local workers to carry out the orders. I wonder how they eventually get by, Chinese is a tough language to speak (and they are not that interested in making a big deal out of spreading the beauty of their language through cultural schemes like the Germans and French do), yet they are constantly working with Africans who obviously cannot be bothered to speak Chinese on their own soil even though their daily bread depends on it. But somehow, they get the job done, they pave the way. They are everywhere, not just roads, they also built the Africa Union complex in Addis Ababa, and will be running it for two years.

Ehh, chale! This China thing, it is also drawing the interest of what is left of Europe, mainly Germany and France, then India, soon it will be the United Arab Emirates (I doubt that though, except if oil turns to ice under the ground, or if the West runs out of ideas that they would love to duplicate). It made me wonder how slavery and colonialism happened. Was it not an accident? Was it not just a bunch of explorers who came, saw and thought they could conquer? When they took an elbow and saw that it was met with little resistance, they decided to take an arm, and then eventually both arms, then at some point, thought why extract salt from the ocean when we can take the ocean? Then they took all the body in large quantities, across shores. Can we not see the handwriting on the wall? That history is pushing to replicate itself? Africans, as you make your bed, so will it decide who eventually lies on it, whether you or someone else. Shikina!

We got to Aflao border, the last for the day, I have always loved this border, in the past we had so many good things to say about this border, the Ghanian border officials are just too good to be true, they are straight to the point, no delays, no shouting no maltreatment of any kind, but most importantly corruption is greatly curtailed at this border. So I was at all not surprised when we were asked to come down for our luggage to be manually checked by the customs, we performed this task with no hassle. It was time to buy some Ghanian sim card, I did and in matter of minutes I was hooked on to the internet! I continued my tweeting and all the Facebook updates. It was dusk now, coming into Ghana we just gained one hour, so it was about 5.30 pm while it says one hour more on my wristwatch which was still set to Nigerian time.

 

The Chinese and the Worker | Togo 2012 | Emeka Okereke

-->

--> We forged ahead towards Accra, as if the bus attendant knew, it was time for some comic relief, our very own Nigerian comedians, from the popular comedy show, "Night of a Thousand Laughs," graced the screen for the rest of the journey, Basket Mouth, AY, Gandoki, I go Die, Aki & Paw Paw, and many more. It was laughter all the way as we watched them make jokes out of very daunting issues, making us laugh as a better alternative to crying. The depth of their art is hidden in the safe confines of comedy. I respect these guys, they have made this industry lucrative and relevant from nothing, and they keep perfecting it, taking it far beyond the shores of Nigeria, insisting that our ways of being and living be seen as just what they are: "We be who we be, take am as you see am".

At about 7.30 pm Ghanian time, we arrived in Accra, and people began to alight in a good mood and I could hear a woman somewhere in the bus exclaim, "Thank God for Journey Mercies o". Yes, Thank God for a first time experience that was really worth it. ABC Transport is a pioneer in that dream of building a Trans-African Transportation that will encourage Trans-African dealings and exchanges. They are amongst those elements of our society working on a daily basis to make this a way of life which it will become for us all in no distant future.