Once upon a cold Berlin - Part 1

I traveled out of Nigeria for the first time in 2003, and since then I have not stopped. I am one of many Nigerians who are usually harassed and humiliated even before there was a reason for it – and usually for no reason other than my “green passport”. I have had the opportunity to live in the so-called first world, to integrate as much as becoming one of them through opting for nationality, but my mindset has always been simple: “I am a Nigerian by birth and by lineage, whatever comes after that is secondary and I can do without”. I consider myself a traveller and not an immigrant. So I carry my Nigerian passport everywhere I go, bracing myself for the worst at every checkpoint.

In February 2010, one of my trips within Europe was brutally cut short and I was forced out of the continent. What did I do? I exceeded my visa for a period of eight days! I was stopped at the Schonefeld airport in Berlin by the Polizei (German federal Police), as I arrived from Paris. What followed next was a journey through the nightmares of so many immigrants and deportees of which none are written about because the government of most of these western countries continue to hide their disdain for immigrants under the carefully-crafted modern slave-tool called immigration policies. Moreover, the people who often fall victims to these humiliations are those who will never have the means of making their voice heard. So every single day, stories of organised crime under the disguise of the law go untold, while most of the citizens of these countries remain in the shadows of a truth veiled by their government. Once in a while, news come from the desert and the sea, of many immigrants who drowned or were shot dead as they try to traverse the borders, but a whole lot of them make it through the desert hell, only to find a colder hell waiting for them within the walls of deportation camps and the cruel fists of the police backed by scornful immigration policies.

More than a year has passed since my ordeal, but I do believe I owe it to many immigrants and deportees all over the world to recount my experience and indeed publish it.

Berlin – Shonefeld, February 2010.

Looking at me from afar, I fit the profile for those who are always stopped and checked, and then when checked, I fit the profile, of those who ought to be thoroughly checked, so that was what happened, my passport was taken to their office and they checked all of my visas one by one (they were probably surprised at how many visas there were, you know, that good-to-be-true feeling). Unluckily for me, I had all this while been reading the Schengen visa wrongly, I never knew my visa was expiring, I thought I still had at least a week to finish my business and head back to Lagos via Paris. I will not bore you with long stories, neither do I want you to get discouraged from reading on seeing the number of pages, but it suffices to say that what for me felt like a fiction got more and more real, as I was thrown into the detention room, told I cannot go into Berlin and finally I will have to see a judge who will decide how best to go back to Lagos right from that airport. But it got more interesting, as these procedures led me not only to the judge, but to the detention camp where I spent three nights with a whole lot of other deportees, mostly Africans, and – to be expected – Nigerians!

Ignorance of the Law is No Excuse

Like I said earlier on, my offense was that I exceeded the validity of my visa by Eight days. I was given a multiple Schengen visa by the French embassy which had validity of 6 months, but with a clause which says I can only stay for 90 days. From experiences with other countries I had visited like South Africa and Mozambique, this will mean that on no account should one overstay a period of 90 days in ONE entry. This was how I was thinking, but it turned out that according to the Schengen, the law is completely different. With this same visa, I have been to and fro Europe on three occasions. On the day of the incident, I was going from Paris to Berlin to spend four days there and then leave for The Netherlands where I was due to have a PhD entrance interview at the Leiden University. I had no luggage, because all my photographic equipment and luggage were still in Paris where I ought to return in a week’s time to board my return flight to Lagos. I had barely crossed the baggage hall when a German policewoman walked into my way in other to stop me. Well, I anticipated that, it’s the most normal thing, in fact, it has become so frequent that at times I resist the impulse of walking up to them myself and handing over my passport!

The Police lady flipped through my passport, (I guessed she was not blind to all the many visas and stamps in there and they were not all Schengen visas which means, there are other countries in the world worth visiting). She managed to find the visa in question, and according to the dates, it was valid, but she was not convinced. She worked away with my passport and came back in what seemed like 15 minutes to announce that I violated the law. First of all I laughed, and asked myself if she was that desperate to find a fault. Then she began to explain: although according to the dates, my visa was still valid, but I was given a 90-day stay, which means the summation of my three visits to Europe must not exceed 90 days, and here I already exceeded by eight days! So in those 15 minutes I waited, she was actually busy calculating my entry and exit dates for all my three visits to Europe since I was given that visa.

They say ignorance of the law is no excuse, and in nowhere is that so true than with the German police, at least from my experience. There was no common-sense consideration for my situation. There were many ways they could have resolved my problem, but the immigration policies were made to be hostile and severe, all to the ill fate of immigrants. There and then, I was taken to their office in the airport. Here, I must say that the only police officer who treated me with dignity was the man who took on my case from the Lady who stopped me. But after him, everything else was hell. He took his time and explained the situation to me, and made me understand that he too, is a servant (or rather a slave) of the law and must do what he must.

Now, I can’t go into Berlin, and I could not believe my misfortune when they told me I will have to go back to Lagos from that point. The painful truth is that I will remain on the transit area of the airport until morning when I will be presented to the judge. I was also told that I could be banned from Germany. Wow! Banned, I have been to Berlin over eight times, and even lived there for more than three months, on no occasion did I over-stay my welcome, not even in Paris where I lived for four years, but here I am, facing a ban for a flaw of only eight days! What kind of law is it that overrides common sense, if not the one designed to inflict pain rather than justify?

The Judge

It was February and Berlin was cold. Trees, houses and all the greens where hidden under cakes of snow, swampy streets and foggy skylines. All these I could make out from the van I was been driven in, through a tiny window space. This van was built to transport criminals as the last half of it was a cage of metals and a lock. This was where I was sited – cage locked, and in handcuffs. To the policemen, they were probably doing another round of a routine, but to me it was horrible, humiliating, to be treated like a criminal, in a cage like an animal and much worse because it was a “crime” against freedom of movement. Every of my being rebelled against this abject subjugation of my freedom. Everything seemed strange and unwelcoming. The police, the air... Berlin.

I felt a sought of a surreal loneliness. Here I was, locked in this van, and I cannot even see where I was driven to or those driving me, all I could discern where series of stops and turns the vehicle made. It was not as if I was going to be physically tortured or killed, but the feeling of heading towards an unknown destination, and moreover against one’s will could play a nasty trick on one’s sense of being and existence. The fact that I am being transported by human beings who are more or less like trained robots in their attitude, made it all the more chilly.

Before the van ride, I had been held at the deportation room at the airport, a room of about 10m² with white walls and a long wooden bench. Nothing else. The first humiliation came when the police came in to do a routine search – on my body. He had clinical gloves on both palms and asked me to undress up to my bare skin, completely naked! I calmly refused, protesting that I passed through the airport surveillance and I had no dangerous object on me. They said it was routine, I told them they may have to skip this one, I could only go until my boxer shots but I will never show them my penis! The policeman stepped out for a bit, then came back and told me it is fine to keep my boxers on.

This scenario will repeat itself on two occasions at the deportation camp of which one of them lead to them trying to force my boxers down.

Now, before the judge, I stood, with the policemen who brought me. She was a female judge. To tell you how tolerant the Germans are to foreigners, none of the Germans in that room, the policemen and the judge inclusive – could speak any other language other than German. However, there was a translator (he was also a lawyer) from Mali with a greasy hair all combed backwards, he looked like he should replace one of those figures in posters of Dark & Lovely. He translated English to German and vice versa. Somehow he gave off the impression of being a puppet on their string.

My first question to the judge was if someone could tell me why I was in handcuffs. The police replied that it was for my protection. I asked, “Protection from myself, from you or whom?” Even though I was careful not to fall into the trap of Africans-are-violent? The answer to that came with an instruction from the judge not to put me on handcuffs henceforth.

The judge looked at my passport and admitted, that my case was that of an uniformed traveller, but the procedures ought to be followed: I will have to be deported to Nigeria! But before then I will be held at the detention camp until the police finalise the modalities of my deportation. By this time, I was having “fun”. I was caught up in the mixed feeling of ending all of this nonsense, and just leaving Berlin, and the curiosity to see what the detention camp is like. So I kept calm, and said myself, “Go with the flow”.

To be continued...

Next: Deportation Camp!

Exchange In Changing Times

As I sit to write this article, I am yet again confronted with a double intuition: should I? Should I not? This stems from the fact that the issue I intend to address contains aspects that lends itself as inevitably important because of its positive attributes, so much that it feels incomplete not to pen it down. But within this also contains situations that breed causes for unrest and scepticism usually seen with dealings of exchange involving these two concepts: Africa and the West. In my mind, it is as if this mixture is unpleasant, as if one contaminates the other, making the option of saving my mind’s breathe very tempting. But again, my mind has a way of rejecting all the sleeping pills especially if it is saddled with something worth sharing. So as an attempt, I will endeavour to sift the grain from the chaff, not to eliminate the chaff, but to place them side by side with the grain.

In June 2010, I got an email from a Spanish organisation known as AECID, an arm affiliated with the Spanish ministry of culture. It was for a photographic project in Spain. The concept was short and direct to the point: seven photographers living in Africa are being convened under a project known as Africa.Es (Africa dot Es), a project which will see each photographer from a particular country photographing an assigned city in Spain, for just a period of one week. It is an initiative which rides on the back of the AECID’s many agenda towards promotion and development of cultural exchanges between Spain and Africa.

Exchange! The big word, the contemporary word, a word with several connotations, some use it when they want to mildly say “aid”, or “globalisation” and to add the good old brother, “colonisation”. Therefore whenever I hear that word, my antenna instinctively begins to tingle, watching out for underlying meaning. Such was my impression of the first email, but then this proposal came with an adjoining clause: the photographers are to be invited for seven days to their respective cities in Spain, and could use their time in the city as they wish without any limitation nor suggestions as regards the theme, style and the medium with which they approach their work. There is no specific amount of images to be delivered thereafter; neither was there any curator to play the middleman. Equally, the monetary promise could actually be termed quite satisfying, the photographers will be well paid from the author’s fee to cost of pre and post production, which leads me to the first argument about exchange:

It is the norm for African artists and curators to be invited to exhibitions and commissioned projects only to be promised little or most times nothing in the way of a financial reward. I speak here specifically of the plight of the artist from Africa, much worse, those living in Africa. If there is a slight shift for the better, it is mostly seen with those of the Diasporas, who through proximity and a true knowledge of the system could obstinately insist on their right, but even at that it is still deplorable. In the spirit of exchanges as they often claim, how can one ever justify the fact that despite the shortages in funding, that an organiser is able to produce an exhibition and sometimes even invite the artist to the opening but could not afford an author’s fee? And sometimes even a per diem? Recent cases involve utter humiliation of the artists by transporting them several miles to a venue only to offer them dungeons for accommodations. Some that I know tend to answer this question by asserting that exhibitions in museums and festivals are not the key source of income for artists, but rather galleries and art fairs. But in counter-argument, any exchange suffices as a source of income for the artist as long as a budget is designated for such a project. In my opinion, it is the vestiges of the utter undermining of the artist in relation to her works, coupled with the fact that negotiations demands a two-way agreement and African artist seem to assume or rather have been conditioned to believe that they can’t peel off the price tag on a commodity and call for a renegotiation.

It is not so much about the actual amount than is a sense and a feeling of mutual exchange which becomes absolutely void when an artist is deprived of any of her rights. Beyond the monetary implications of an author’s fee, it also plays a symbolic role especially in Africa where most people still regard art not as a career. It is a manifesto in counteraction of that notion. It becomes increasingly important, that a certain amount of money is earned for every honest artistic endeavour. It does not devaluate the artist or her source of inspiration, if anything the lack of money is counter-productive. There are countless examples of such extortions in the name of exchanges but one pattern I have noticed is that, these people tend to “help” the artist in public, but steals from her in private. When I say this, my thoughts align with all these kangaroo awards and call for applications, reminiscent of wolves in sheep clothing.

Having ascertained my position on the above, it is imperative to point out that a selected few in the wheel of the artistic mechanisms do embrace the concept of exchange by according the artist her rightful compensations both monetarily and ethically. The Africa.Es project falls deservedly in this category. The artists were not considered beggars who even with their consistent record of outstanding talent and achievements still needed to be sympathised with. The terms of exchange were clearly spelt out, “you have what I want, you want what I have”, and it was respected. Furthermore, the monetary implications of the profession was not intertwined with the artistic demands of the project giving rise to one patronising the other, but rather each entity had its own orbit of operation and was treated as if on par with each other.

A second argument relates to the concept of freedom of manoeuvre within the volatile abundance of the creative magnetic field. A project which assembles artists together but offers them the freedom of free thinking beyond the safe-margins of themes, subjects or models creates the foundation and the only platform needed for genuine creation. Already there is a sense of “fresh emanating from the anticipation that something new for the artist – even if not for the art scene – will take form. In cases like this, it is even alright for the artist to be confused with an absence of a landmark to begin her creative process, for inherent in this confusion is the ability to detach oneself from familiar norms.

The South African artist, Zanele Muholi who amongst other things she suffers as a result of the subject of her quest, is at the brink of being marked with the stigma of a “queer photographer”. Being a Lesbian herself, her works are stark revelations of her sensitivity towards the marginalisation surrounding same-sex. For the same reason, she is somewhat of a hotcake for all those art projects that would want to identify with such boldness. But to her, she feels she is becoming an object of art-politics because the essence of her work was as a result of a natural course of events, that which has to do with the artist investigating her personal unrest, but it does not conclude her essence, she is other things besides a lesbian photographer, and as a young artist, the only way to explore that part of herself( which could still be unknown to her) would be through projects which do not play to into the hands of order and classification.

In the Africa.Es poject, she was assigned the city of Las Palmas de Gran Canaria. Plagued by the language barrier which was a shared predicament between all the photographers except Arturo Bibang from Equitorial Guinea, she found herself in an unfamiliar terrain. As Patrick Wokmeni from Cameroun stationed in Seville asserted in his essay “being away from home is confusing, but this uprooting experience could be productive artistically speaking”, Zanele found herself struggling with the absence of verbal communication (which is confirmed was a deficiency) coupled with being faced with a different subject – the Island. From that came a new body of work which lacks nothing in the intensity and starkness of her previous subjects. She photographed landscapes which embody the juxtaposition of beauty with imperfection, not as something to be repudiated or condemned, but as the inevitable adverse of the human condition – “as long as we are human beings, we will always produce a by-products in the quest towards perfection, so take note even in the white man’s land there is imperfection far from the stories we’ve been conditioned to”. She didn’t need naked female subjects to make her point.

In the same light I perceive the work of Mamadou Gomis, from Senegal who photographed in Bilbao. The rendition of his perception of the city through the elderly, enveloping them in an aura of vivid but subtle colours and shades, forces the question: did he have to specialise in how to photograph the white skin? Of course not, but in detaching himself from the reality of his Senegalese backdrop, immersing himself in a new space, helped by the fluidity that comes with the freedom to just observe, tantamount to a retreat, he was able to capture those images that could have easily disappeared in between the lines was he to approach the subjects with the seriousness of a thematic assignment.

Other photographers not yet mentioned are Nii Obudai, from Ghana, assigned to Valladolid, Mohamed Konaté from Mali who worked in Barcelona, and myself, from Nigeria assigned to Madrid. The catalogue of the project, of about 283 pages featuring about 12 to 25 works of each artist also bears texts from these artists. Texts from Miguel Albero (head of departments of cultural cooperation and Promotion), Santiago Olmo and Salvador Nadales both independent writers herald the concept of the project, providing a backdrop for the understanding of its departure point. All textual contents are in three languages: Spanish, English and French (in that order). Looking at the catalogue, one agrees immediately that nothing was compromised in terms of quality, at the same time was not overloaded with over-ambitious ambiguous chit chats which would have been distracting. The texts from the two writers were rich in content, while being modest. It is not a book made in Spain for the photographers, it is a book made by the photographers, in Spain.

Having said all this, we are not oblivious of the fact that such a project is a political agenda, and as such must fulfil that purpose. During the opening we witness in various instances, politics at play. Some photographers pointed out that a few of the images they would have preferred in the catalogue were omitted mainly due to its content. While such an argument could easily get lost in a valid counter-argument that not all works could have fitted into the catalogue, it still remains viable that the photographers think this is not proper. But most important is that the photographers own the exclusive rights to their images and are not restricted in any form to show them in any of their future projects, including those not shown.

Such is one of the models of exchange in these changing times, worthy of commendation if dealings between two long-opposing concepts – Africa and the West – will ever be considered anything near the fruitful expectations of human equilibrium.

The views I have expressed above are my analysis from a point backed by opinions picked up from artists who also were part of this project. Though I may have sounded too certain of my views, that is because I am certain of the point from which I analyse. However, I do not claim any authority besides that bestowed on me through the power of the freedom to express. That suffices for me.

© Emeka Okereke. The Hague, March 2011

Addis Foto Fest , a Successful Strategy

Photo © Tom Saater

As I am still on the move, I want to quickly share my experience so far of Addis and the First Addis Ababa Foto Fest a.k.a AFF. I arrived in Addis Ababa on the evening of the 4th of December 2010, flying five hours from Lagos with Ethiopian Airlines. It was a smooth journey, and when I arrived at the Bole International airport, the immigration routines where not at all complicated and in a few minutes I was already at the arrival area. Suddenly, I spotted Aida Muluneh!

Now, about Aida Muluneh: she is one of the most energetic and positive-thinking photographer and artist I have ever met, with a warm outlook and a charming smile. When I first met Aida, it was in Paris and my first impression was “here is the young woman with so much energy to let out”. We discussed projects; what was wrong with the African art scene and what ought to be done, this was in 2007. One thing about such conversations of long hours in a bar over pints beer is that most of the issues discussed never leave the bar how much more being realised. We discussed issues such as putting Ethiopia on the photographic map, as well as initiating an African Photographers association. But today, I am proud to say that Aida with an indomitable energy in collaboration with an equally positive team of Ethiopian, French and German administrators was able make the First Addis Ababa Foto Fest a dream come true. Before that she had founded an association called Desta for Africa whose major motive is to promote education and awareness through art across Ethiopia and Africa in collaboration with other continents of the world. Under this platform, emerging Ethiopian photographers have been discovered through locally-initiated workshops and master classes as well as international exchanges of which worthy of mentioning is the two-way exchange between Ethiopian photographers from Desta Africa and German students co-ordinated by Aida Muluneh and Eva Maria Ocherbauer an Austrian artist residing in Berlin. Aida is the founder and curator of the Addis Foto Fest 2010 and prior to the festival she was appointed the director of The Debre Kristos Desta Centre Museum, also known as The Modern Art Museum of Addis Ababa.

Aida and I hugged warmly and as expected she was like “I told you I will bring you to Addis! Welcome to Addis!” On the drive into the city, through Bole Road, we spotted billbords announcing the festival, but that was only the first and the least of many surprises to follow. The next day, I was opportuned to meet with Thomas Tschiggfrey, the production manager of the Foto Fest. He is of a recommendable drive, always on the move, never at one place, constantly on phone calls and behind the wheels. He is French, but his dedication on the contrary was completely unpretentious. Through him, I discovered the organisational scale of the festival. He took me around the city from one venue to the other. The office of the Festival is situated at a compatible space at the building of the Goethe Institut of Addis Ababa and comprise of dedicated team of about eleven staff and some volunteers from the University. What immediately struck me was the efficiency in organisation, every little detail is sorted out. Now this might sound to some people as something easy, but if you have ever organised an event, then you already know that you are most likely to pay a big price for the neglect of the tiniest details, everything is linked from the smallest to the most obvious.

I was completely amazed at the fluidity that exists between Aida and the rest of the team. The first thing one prepares for in big events such as this is the inevitability of obstacles and how to scale through them. As I observe from Aida to the rest of the team, they sure had found ways to work around differences and obstacles. The general impression one perceives is that all hands are on deck. The passion was too explosive to go unnoticed. But even at that, the atmosphere was relaxed as if all effort takes place latently to reveal an extraordinary outward outcome.

In terms of content, the result was equally at every inch powerful and inspiring. The overall selection is as if Aida as the curator takes her departure point from unveiling an aspect of the history of Ethiopia in its most representative and comprehensive form, introducing Ethiopian and non-Ethiopian photographers whose works in the past and present is referential of a certain era or situation in the history of Ethiopia and Africa including the diasporas. An aspect of the festival centered on an in situ residency program and master class, with artists arriving three weeks before the festival in order to create works in the city and conduct workshops with local photographers. Artists involved in this segment are Akinbode Akinbiyi, the Nigerian photographer residing in Berlin, Yoyo Gonthier, from La Renion based in Paris and Dawit L. Petros from Eritrea and Canada, living in New York.

The Goethe Institut continued their tradition of the portfolio review which unites photographers and curators from Africa and beyond in an interactive session. It is usually called “closed portfolio review” in the sense that it is specific to those artists and curators invited by the Goethe instut, but the influx of these artists and curators gave the festival a much more substantial trans-African, stroke International feel. It also featured the works of famous photographers such as Dudley M. Brooks and Jamel Shabazz, from the United states. Jamel, a very jovial and passionate man was constantly impressed by the energy around owing mostly to the fact that it was his first time in Africa. At 50, he radiates an air of humility that personally inspires me, he kept referring to Addis Ababa and the Photo Festival as a one-in-a-lifetime experience, and admitted more than once that he has been deeply inspired by the works and people he encountered. Dudley’s works were of the tragedy of the Haiti hurricanes, impressive black and white images with chillingly touching undertone.

I could go on and on about how this festival being the first with its challenges supersedes previous mega-budget projects which I have been part of. But then, this article will no longer be what it was meant to be namely, a chip of the iceberg. It suffices to say that in this festival, I witnessed the future of Africa, for the first time I realised that African artists are beginning to own their creation and its processes. There is now a sense of consciousness in the artistic endeavours; the works on display rightly indicated that though one may still talk about western influences (in as much as we can talk of African influences in equal terms) the thought processes and artistic language has been mastered in such a way as it propagates an indigenous message and deal with questions that are Africa-oriented. They are no longer creations meant solely for export; they are home-made and could exclusively be consumed by those at home.

Another aspect which should not be considered the least is how the festival was able to inculcate the indigenes of Addis Ababa with the idea of the event so much that three-quarter of the attendees of every opening were made up of students and inhabitants of Addis Ababa. This, for me was one of the greatest achievements, coupled with the fact that they also managed to garner the support of the government and local enterprises.

The Addis Foto Fest is an example of how we ought to proceed in modest but very impactful endeavours if indeed we want to succeed. It is much better to expend our energy on small and realistic projects whose impact could be far more reaching due to its concept and approach, than in big projects which again are a carry-over of the caricature embedded in the status quo. When I say this, my thoughts swiftly relates to the 3rd World Festival of Black Arts taking place presently in Dakar of which I am also a part of. Millions of dollars has been spent in organising this gigantic event, yet it feels as if it offers nothing new talk more of an alternative to what has already been the norm in artistic practices in Africa. In this 21st century, it is not enough to throw money around in the name of projects, for that will be tantamount to throwing money away, which beyond doubt could be considered of limited supply compared to all the problems saddling the continent. We ought to employ strategies that consider tangible approaches of tracing and solving problems which the stunted growth of art in Africa can be attributed to.

By Emeka Okereke

Killing Two Birds with A Stone (NGOs in Maputo)

When I arrived in Maputo, I was thrown off balance by the amount of “non-governmental organisations” otherwise briefly known as NGOs scattered, not only all over the city, but throughout the country as a whole. Like a friend once put it: “Mozambique is like a lab where these people come to try out all sought of things before they take it elsewhere”. Well, it sure gives the impression that Maputo keeps a lot of people busy. These organisations actually claim to be of service to the indigenes of Mozambique, they have come all the way to make life better. As I write now, I am still overwhelmed by the enormousness of these organisations. They are everywhere and in every sector! NGOs for HIV AIDS, Maleria, Women, Children, Agriculture, Economy, Health, Food, Water, Housing, Clothing, Education, Culture etc. They consist mainly of Western “voluntary and non-voluntary” workers whose sole aim is to be the saviour of these deprived and poor people! To put it in another form, they are strong sympathisers and identifies with the plight of Mozambicans. They range from Americans to Canadians, Mexicans, Russians, French, English, Brazilians, Portuguese, Spanish, Italians, Indians, Belgians, Germans, and even South Africans - All in one country!

I have been to a few other African cities, and I am not sure Maputo is the poorest or the most ill-fated of them all, so why so many NGOs at a go? Everywhere I go, almost with any westerner I meet. When I ask “so what do you do?” he or she would be like “I work for an NGO that is responsible for...” Oh...wait a minute, maybe hence forth, I should rule out the first question and start with “so what NGO do you work for?” To be sincere, I never got down to the details of how these people really operate, but from what I saw, I could tell the situation of things:

so how come you people ride in all these expensive cars and eat in all these expensive restaurants, yet claim you guys are out there giving to the needy? What portion of the “help” are you giving? Are you really giving that portion good enough to BE help or just that one good enough to be SEEN as help? How come each time I see you in these flashy cars and flamboyant restaurants, I do not see those you claim to help? Are you keeping a better portion of the help for yourself? Are you helping yourself?

The other day, I ran into one of these young Italian NGO workers (probably in her early or mid twenty at a place called “Nucleo de Arte”, an art-association-turned-mar

ketplace for exploration of opportunities brought by foreigners, and of course where these foreigners meet their would-be Mozambican friends. The gathering happens every Sunday (amidst live band usually keeping everyone high-spirited with some awesome Mozambican tunes), even Mozambicans have nicknamed the place “our church”. Now, when I got talking to this lady, She told me she came to Maputo to work for an NGO, and now her contract is almost up, but she would like to stay on if she could find another NGO job that could pay her at least 800 Euro (in the first place, I wonder why she was calculating in euros; that is not at all the Mozambican currency!) She went on to tell me that in her CV it states that she speaks five languages amongst other things. But then I said to her “you speak all languages except for the one you really need to be qualified for a job as a voluntary worker in Mozambique; which is, at least Shangana,” This she rightly admitted. So what then is her interest in Maputo when even her CV which should be a symbol of her strong ties to her area of interest is completely out of synch with the basic requirement?

This greatly reminds me of the so-called white “liberals” continuously hammered on by Steve Biko when he wrote:

“These are the people who argue that they are not responsible for white racism and country’s ‘inhumanity to the black man’. These are the people who claim that they too feel the oppression just as acutely as the blacks and therefore should be jointly involved in the black man’s struggle for a place under the sun. In short, these are people who say they have black souls wrapped in white skin... The game at which the liberals have become masters is that of deliberate evasiveness. The question often comes up ‘what can I do?’ If you ask him to do something like stopping to use segregated facilities or dropping out of [uni]varsity to work at menial jobs like all blacks or defying and denouncing all provisions that make him privileged, you will always get the answer – ‘but that’s unrealistic!’. While this may be true, it only serves to illustrate the fact that no matter what a white man does, the colour of his skin – his passport to privilege – will always put him miles ahead of the black man.”

My point is: it is difficult – if not impossible – to get the impression that these foreigners are really in Maputo to help because true help only comes from a soul that really understands the concept and the hindrances of ‘not-having’. As we know, most Western citizens (and those from the needless class my continent) have long lost touch with that part of humanity (and many are continuously born with it as an inherent deficiency), but instead they are experts at individualism and the feeding of their fears with violent exploitation of other people’s resources.

So my aim here is to throw some light at the often under-estimated situation which is not only misleading to those numerous Mozambicans and Africans who always think ‘love is in the air’ but a serious delusion to those foreigners who believe that going to Africa to visit the “poor and the sick” is good enough to nourish their guilty souls with the pleasure of having truly helped a person even though they don’t have a clue as to what “poor and sick” means.

I will start by saying that true help comes first from the one who needs the help, because only he or she can set the parameters of his or her needs due to the personal understand of the situation at hand. Therefore it is quite realistic in this sense when we say “heaven helps those who help themselves”.

On the other hand, to help someone is not to give what you do not need. Actually in this case, it is the contrary: the other is helping you get rid of your waste! The help must not be a one-time problem solver but its values must depend on the extent at which it redefines the comfort of the helper. To help is to sacrifice, to sacrifice is to give based on conditions which are not determined by the helper but by the needy. To help is to acknowledge the common sense in sharing beyond the boundaries of profit and loss. In other words, in helping one could lose or gain, it is of no significance. The helper through helping also profits, sometimes, through the virtues and priceless values of true sharing. Therefore the helper could be said to be indirectly helping himself, this though should not come so much into consideration as the essential motive for help. When we help, it is first before anything, to relieve the other of a difficulty which we truly understand its gravity. To help only out of guilt is a selfish kind of help that finds fulfilment in the giver and not in the receiver.

I use the word “help” a lot because that is what it is: Africans like everyone else – including the westerner – need help, but they are not beggars! For the needy not to be seen as beggars, they ought to make demands according to the limits and excesses of their predicaments. And if the helper really wants to help, he will give according to their demand if he has the resource. It will not be the usual situation of “whatever you give is alright”. That is why when I see people throwing one or two-cents coin to a beggar on the street, I usually think: wouldn’t it be more noble if they don’t give at all for they are actually giving those coins they will never use...But how about giving even a euro, or maybe five or ten euro bill? Ok, that might even mean going too far, but at least something that will eat into one’s comfort no matter how little.

My sweetheart Jelka gave me a perfect example of what could be seen as the “White liberal’s” idea of “help”: for my birthday, she bought two tickets for a concert of ‘Micheal Franti and Spearhead’. Now when I saw the gift and checked up the artist, I was filled with excitement and said a cheerful “thank you”. But supposing the choosing of a concert ticket was because she is in need of concert, and wanted me to go with her, will this gift then pass for a birthday gift? NO, we might as well say it is a gift for her that got me fooled into thinking it’s a gift for me. Therefore she would have succeeded in “killing two birds with a stone”, or better put, she would have “eaten her cake and had it back”.

In my opinion that is a perfect representation of the relationship between most NGO workers and the indigenes they claim to help. They come to a city like Maputo where living conditions is a lot more favourable and free from all the constraints of logistics and administrative issues they find back home in the West; free from the purposelessness of life they contend with everyday in their so-called “first world”. They lead a care-free but happy life; they go and live wherever they want without any form of restriction but instead an absurd adoration because of the “hard currency” and that skin colour “their passport to privilege”. Yet in all this, they make this Mozambican believe they are the ones being helped. Who is helping whom? What is worse is that you see the Mozambicans sheepishly smiling and talking about “how life is good”. Sometimes I wish I could slap that smile off their faces and out of their day-dreams, for normal people with a sense of purpose do their duty in the day and indulge in rosy dreams only while resting at night!

It is sad and shameful when you see these Mozambicans run after these foreigners literally like beggars. They give too much value than deserved to these people from the west. Why? These people do not even have what it takes to survive for even a minute under the living conditions of the average Mozambicans. So if anyone should be revered, who should that be? It is a total fraud and injustice I refuse to identify with or accept and hence my bitterness.

Now, that is not to say that I was not blessed with the fortune of experiencing first hand those few foreigners whose inherent values are true and honest. The likes of Viviana, an Italian volunteer who worked for an organisation taking care of people infected with AIDS was in everywhere authentic. She worked hard and remained truly modest at all times. She mixed up honestly with the people and even lived in a small home with a family in Maputo. I heard that she paid 3000 Euros to the association from her savings in other to come to Maputo for the aid work. Unlike the majority, she had no car, and I always get the impression that she had taken her time to know the city and the people even though she had been there for only 2 months. A few times, we shared her experiences while she worked for the association. I know she is not the only one of her kind, but it suffice to say that in a every rule, there is an exception, and it is a pity that sometimes, the good grains get counted among the chaff.

My concern is that we get rid of the lids to the closet of aid deception and let some light in. Let’s call a spade what it is! Mozambicans, the most profitable help you can ever get is that which you give to yourselves by striving with all efforts to catch the rope of opportunities dangling above your heads. As for our white friends who really want to help: like a Catholic priest once asked to my hearing, “can you give until it hurts?”

To conclude this long ranting, I would say that as I think or write, I am usually tempted to cover my opinions in beautiful diplomatic clothings, I often ask myself if things are still that bad. But each time I look around me especially while in Europe I realise that what has changed in racism is just the form. It has gone off the official books and even out of fashion, but it still resides deep in the hearts of the people, I see it, I feel it and often time I witness it. So if for nothing else, this tells me that enough have not yet been said on this issue, and the tone is way too far from being mellowed. So while some people might want to accuse me of sounding like I live in the 60s, I say to them: “Go out to the streets and observe closely and you will be baffled this is 2008”.

The Popular Saying

Everywhere I go to; there is a mentality that prevails. I have already stated some of it in previous writings, but in my recent encounters, I have gotten a better grip of its cankerworm effects. When a black man is wealthy (or show signs of some certain affluence) he is either championed or envied by friends, families or peers, but when a white man is wealthy, it is “normal”. This is in nowhere more present than in Maputo. Though, it will be an error to limit such a situation to just Maputo for we can say the same of all Africa. It will not be wrong to even call it a Black Man’s mentality. But in Maputo, it is of a ridiculous alacrity, to the extent that people do not even judge things according to beauty, but by colour and there is no room for a second-guessing in between what one sees and what one knows.

Personally, I experienced a lot of this while I was working at the ferry boat that travels between Maputo and Catembe. My project was to document the activities within the harbour, with my camera which had an imposing physical presence; I attracted a lot of curious eyes, but what was abnormal were the comments that follow: “look! He is making those pictures to go and sell them abroad!” But then, in that boat I am not the only one who make photos, there are tourists, but of course for the tourists, it is “their culture”.

When I discussed this phenomenon with my friend Mario, he said: “you know, we have a popular saying that when a black man eats meat it is either he is sick or the meat is sick”. It was the funniest thing I have ever heard in my life. Immediately, I had a flash back to those days I was growing up with my parents where we eat chicken only on Sundays. I can now see why Sunday was special: it was healthier than other days! Ok, that was a joke, but on a more serious note, such an adage was extracted from the reality of the average modest man who does not go about squandering his resources, but when looked at from a different context, it justifies the limitations in one’s mental abilities to rise up to the point where meat will not become so important as to be eaten only during festive moods or when there is a sign that the meat will go to waste – Mental poverty!

Even the so-called affluent Africans such as our leaders are abject victims of poverty, otherwise how does one explain the continuous siphoning of the nations resource into personal accounts? The mental derangement caused by the long years of poverty has taken a form of a hyper insecurity when this leader is suddenly rolling in bags of money – he dare not imagine for one day not having money. The fear is like that of death.

In today’s Africa we ought to re-invent our reality with our dreams of hope and a better continent to come. Though most people today in the west and those of western standards can afford the luxury of self-contentment and even of pessimism, one could find a justification in their situation – they have enjoyed a very long period of “good life”- Most people in the west cannot, in their widest wildest imaginations conceive the concept of being hungry for just half a day! And, I am not talking of the rich, but just the average middle-class individual.

But we Africans cannot dabble in such for it will be utter illusion. It will be like the proverbial fool chasing after rats while his house is on fire. We have lived in poverty and deprivation for too long, we were born into the worst, we have lived all our lives in it, now it is time to hope and work for the best. In Africa, with the culture of brotherhood and responsibility towards family, our demise extends even beyond us, for it is not enough to be “doing well” until everyone in your family –both nuclear and extend – can attest to that.

Also it is time we re-defined poverty or affluence for that matter. In my country Nigeria, it is the norm to equate wealth to how much money resides in one’s bank account. Money is only one of the means to wealth, but it is funny how it is given so much priority. That is the biggest problem in Africa – a lot is concentrated on the accumulation of money. The leaders only engage in what will amount to physical cash, so that is why they do not understand the concept of building a healthy nation – development is usually one-sided and often towards the direction of their pockets. But in this century, we ought to be looking at strengthen other values induces a better quality of life, notably relationship between people, self-esteem, human capital, dignity, respect, love and knowledge all these are different yardsticks for the measurement of wealth.

Therefore to the well known three elements of the basic human need, i.e. food, shelter and clothing, I will add a fourth: education. Knowledge is the most vital constituents of wealth if we have to build a stable society today; in fact it has been the missing component since the independence of Africa. Knowledge is wealth, I will not go further than saying that even wisdom is not enough, for wisdom is the ability to maximise knowledge, but without knowledge one’s wisdom is a vacuum.

To digress a little...Just the other day, I had a conversation with a friend who is French. We got to the point where we began to express our aspirations, and she said “I am really fine with who I am, I am not looking at being something better or worse. I am just ok being me”. But then I said to her “we can trace the root of your declaration back to your country and the standard of life there: you have always lived in a situation of average satisfaction, and coming out to Africa, you have just realised that you’ve got nothing much to complain about”. An argument ensued: she tried to convince me that she’s got problems like anybody; that she works hard to earn a living. Of course I do agree, but then I insist that she has never known the torture of toiling day-in-day-out without reaping the adequate fruit of her labour. That is what Africa is, and that is why “I am not happy the way I am”.

There have been millions of rallies an protest, even bloodshed, over two centuries before my friend was born, which has led to her favourable condition today, but I guess she actually never bothers herself with such profound thoughts. She wallows in the luxury of being French in Africa (meanwhile sometimes, it is not very easy to be a French in France, all these people looking like they fell right from heaven when they come to Africa are in reality looking for where they could feel like a “big fish in a small pond”, where they could be noticed, where they could be shown some attention, some kindness; where they could be seen as exceptional for being whatever, and where else other than Africa? In their country no one sees them, even with their wealth, everyone is self-occupied. If you know what that is, you will understand the great privilege these people enjoy in Africa: It really kills to be all that you are and no one really cares.)

Anyway, back to my point...In Africa, we are saddled with so many responsibilities. There can never be limits to our dreams – not at this point in history. Our history is filled with documentations of oppressions, first from the West, and then from the black dictators who took over from them. We have never had a chance to be anything else. Even today, we continue to deal with pressures from all angles: struggles of day to day survival, shackles of a hereditary colonial mentality, and the gradual re-invasion of the continent by the West (and if you ask me, I will say this time it is much worse, for at first it was driven by the pleasure of power and discovery, but now it is out of necessity: the West is congested by its excessiveness, its abuse of everything good and the valorisation and everything bad. They have reversed and re-shuffled all standards of the human nature; they have shaken the puzzle pieces into a point of no logical coherence. Confusion everywhere! Out there it is quite claustrophobic. Then it is only natural that Africa and places like it provide a fresh basis for hope in a world where people are at the mercy of their own vomit!)

Therefore, the average African should fasten his seat-belt, the tide is fast approaching. It is time to make the bed, for we have never had one to lie on. But in doing this, we will have to realise that before we can make a fruitful journey we must decide on a direction, but also with a map of what it entails. Live your dreams! Otherwise you will watch others live it for you, and then you will again whine about how your “possessions” were taken away from you when, in fact, you sold it for a penny when you never had the foresight nor the imagination to make anything out of it! Instead of complain, comment! The more complains you make the more excuses you fabricate to procrastinate self-determination!