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How Kenyan Gospel Pop Birthed the Odi-Pop Craze

8 min read.

DAN ACEDA explores the new wave of contemporary pop music as one marked by urban, ahistorical, and accessible philosophy and idiom, and one that ironically, gospel music may have paved the way for – which is only possible because Kenyan gospel pop was only faintly related to religious or church music proper.

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How Kenyan Gospel Pop Birthed the Odi-Pop Craze
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The current wave of Kenyan urban music, and by extension, youth culture, has left observers scratching their heads. Where did it come from, how did it travel so quickly, and how has it so completely taken over the airwaves? Researchers Odipo Dev have already given us part of the answer — that the Internet has been very significant in boosting this new genre which is being referred to as Odi-pop or Gengetone. Specifically, it is a question of how online algorithms work to push what is already popular.

As a musician and scholar of music, my own observation of the trends leads me to another conclusion that would enrich Odipo Dev’s findings. In my view, it has been the huge popularity of what I am calling ‘gospel pop’ that cracked the door and held it open for Odi-pop to come through. In fact, the urban gospel scene in the second half of the 2000s was itself already a nascent version of this new sound.

This may seem bit ironical — that gospel music may have paved the way for a genre whose aesthetic that can fairly be described as ratchet. But in my view, this was possible because Kenyan gospel pop of the early 2000s was only faintly related to religious or church music proper. Kenyan gospel pop is popular because it cuts across class, regional, ethnic and especially generational lines. It is loved equally by a four-year-old as it is by her 60-year-old grandmother, which is important to consider when pop music is usually so strictly demarcated along generational lines. With this generation of gospel pop, the message was stripped down almost to its bones. It was simply music anyone could dance to. I see the new wave of ratchet Odi-pop as an extension of that philosophy of living one’s best life as loudly as possible and wearing your politics/religion with pride.

For the sake of definitional simplicity, I am proposing the collective term “Odi-pop” to refer to all the sub styles of this new sound. I am aware of each group having named their style separately e.g Gengetone, Dabonge style and so on and my definition is not trying to replace that. For me this musical style is basically pop but with a common sound (hip-hop rap influence blended with Carribean phrase and rhyme schemes, all constructed on an African rhythm base and performed in sing-along rap with heavy Kiswahili/Sheng inflections). My naming structure is borrowed from K-Pop.

Music or any kind of art, really, travels on a nonlinear path. This is why the conventional strategy for music marketers has been simple: spam the audience until they like it. It also means that the person with the loudest microphone controls content discovery as a whole. This is the reason why record labels would even go as far as to lock down distribution rights that were defined by geography, in effect controlling what an entire region would hear, and therefore effectively grow and maintain a market.

The Internet brought a disruption to this model, as Odipo Dev’s article illuminated, and broke down the power of traditional gatekeepers. And in the Kenyan context the traditional gatekeepers have been: media, politicians and the church — pop culture’s own axis of evil, you might say. The media with its own interests and relationships has for the longest time dictated what could be played, when it could be played. But these days there is so much Kenyan music on Youtube and Soundcloud for anyone who is looking for a different kind of sound.

Then there are the political elite. Politicians have always been alive to the power of music and have gone to great lengths to use it in their battle for hearts and minds. There’s also an uncanny relationship between dictatorships and thriving musicians. It isn’t always censorship — very often dictators encourage praise music, or at least uncontroversial music, frequently throwing money at anything that they believe will entrench love and adulation for them.

And finally the church, which was where these other two amplified their formal and informal censorship.

And so this explains the list of pop songs that did well in Kenya prior to the year 2000. They were all driven by a heavy dose of “message’’ and “meaning”, and Kenya’s politicians had managed, through the single broadcaster, to effectively limit the music to a specific list of themes. They replaced any local material that espoused other themes with foreign content. This explains why even today a song about sex written and performed by a Kenyan will struggle for airplay but one of the same theme by a foreigner will get tons of airplay with no questions asked.

It also fuels my claim about the effect of church music on Kenya’s pop scene. You see the only popular music that was exempt from the informal censorship from above was church music. In church, musicians could basically do whatever they wanted provided that they had the support of their pastor. However, outside of Kenya, the pop industries were not shackled in this way and so were growing in diverse ways. The result was that there was a huge demand for pop culture in Kenya that was raw and sincere. This demand was first met by the revolutionary Ogopa deejays and stars who made hit songs that were not carrying any cultural messaging. It was music for the sake of music. It was pure pop. Tumekuja kuwashika!

Pop music is a lot more anthropological than people like to give credit for. And the effect of the Ogopa Deejays was jarring to the sociopolitical system not because it was new but because it was visible. In the preceding decades, the despotic nature of the state, the arrests, detentions and summons to State House during the period between the late 60s and early 90s had effectively killed multiple waves of pop music. It also materially altered the expression of pop music by determining what would end up on radio.

Critically, it also effectively created multiple markets in the running of the broadcast industry. “Authorised” pop culture would rule the airwaves while “restricted” pop culture was confined to stage performances. This is what led to what we have now: two separate pop worlds. One visible one (with chart toppers) and other with popular live performers whose exploits are largely off the record and invisible.

And so what was achieved by Gidi Gidi Maji Maji and their lexicon-altering smash hit Unbwogable in 2002, which in turn was being amplified in the mainstream by Ogopa deejays and FM radio stations, was effectively a cultural earthquake. For the first time, politicians and the church had lost control of pop culture and it was now running wild. The opinion of a guy called Nameless became a factor in households that were previously relying on the cultural reality provided by the likes of Archbishop Ndingi Mwana a’Nzeki. Radio presenters of the era, Caroline Mutoko, Eve D’ Souza and Tina Ogal were now defining a new feminism and urban identity. Atoti ( Wicky Mosh featuring GidiGidi Majimaji) was now a term of endearment. Newspapers introduced urban pop culture magazine pullouts and this new wave captured the attention of the whole country. It was deliberately visible and extremely loud.

In the mid-2000s the system fought back vigorously. In a bid to take back some control, the corporate budgets were opened for what was defined at the time as “family and wholesome” content and closed for any other content. Any music not categorized as “Christian” was shunned. All major events were headlined by gospel music stars, and they hoarded media coverage.

Non-Christian ( secular) music almost disappeared from view. It was a silent put down. You may not have been aware of it, but at this time there was a very deliberate push to replace Kenyan urban pop music with foreign content. Nigerians, Tanzanians, Ugandans, Namibians, anybody but Kenyans. Nonini and Calif records were villains where P-square from Nigeria and Mr Nice from Tanzania were darlings. The playlists were altered and the videos removed.

However, in an interesting twist of fate, the aftershocks of Ogopa’s cultural earthquake were beginning to be felt in the gospel scene. The gospel stars were unwittingly amplifying the effect of the Ogopa Revolution. These band of artistes were more cool than they were Christian. Their themes were less theological and more existential. There was much less “come to Jesus” and a lot more “live happy and be free” – but within the confines of church. Importantly, this was the same area that non-Christian pop music had been focused on: the idea of gratification and happiness for today. And for me, it’s a very short hop from the secular musician DNA:

“Tunaweka shida zetu chini tunaweka mikono juu, banjuka tu”

(We put down our problems and raise our hands, let loose)

To gospel musician Daddy Owen:

“Mi napenda watoto, Mi napenda kuimba, Mi napenda kuenda church na kuomba, Mimi nitakata kata, Maboko likolo.”

I love children, I love to sing, I love going to church and prayer, I will dance, Maboko likolo.

In my mind, these two songs are almost identical philosophically. They are both pop songs but for different audiences, espousing a centrist view which made them accessible to both conservative and liberal audiences.

This is, in my view, the beginning of the sound that I have collectively called Odi-pop. It is a contemporary genre that is marked by urban, ahistorical, and accessible philosophy and idiom. It is a sound that is fundamentally localised hip hop, but draws from reggae and Caribbean music to build on its African rhythm base. The music is here to make you feel good. Right here right now. It rides on the language of now. It is very Michael Jackson-esque. These pop stars have more stage names and fewer actual names. They go out of their way to brand themselves as having no tribe, no politics and no history. It was just E-Sir. Or Nameless. And Now it’s Willy Paul, Bahati, Miracle Baby, and Reckless.

In this way there isn’t an ownership that could be linked to just one tribe, language or culture. For the first time in Kenya’s pop culture we can, all of us, own a pop star in the exact same way. Ethic is for all of us. So is Khaligraph and so is the idea of Wamlambez. Even the meaning is open to interpretation. You are allowed to translate it however you please. It can be a warm greeting, a chant at a sports event or it can be vulgar depending on your own politics.

The culture, as a product, is accessible to anyone. Any Kenyan could love Timeless Noel, Konkodi, Bruz Newton, or P-Unit because, after all, they represent an imaginary aspirational Kenyan that is free to love without encumbrance and in a language everybody can speak.

However, the most important part of the Odi-pop sound for me is that for the first time in my lifetime at least the pop scene is not referencing another context. It’s 100% trying to create its own identity. The new guys are not trying to recreate or localize anymore. They are not interested in that. They are interested in making something new. They are as sincere as they could be. It’s unapologetic.

To be honest I don’t know how long the current acts will stay relevant. That’s up to them and how they invest in the next few years. What I know is that the sound, Odi-pop and its philosophy has already endured a decade and there is no turning back. If we mark Banjuka by DNA as maybe the first track of this new philosophy and Figa by Ethic as the most recent then we can for the first time map a line between the pop releases across a decade. Figa is amplifying the wave created by Vimbada by Moji shortbabaa and Jabidii which amplified Bazokizo by Collo Majale which amplified the wave created by Odi Dance which amplified Kamua leo by Kidis, which amplified You Guy( P-Unit), which amplified Toklezea (Abbas) which amplified Tichi (Kenrazy)which amplified Banjuka (DNA). The artists are different. Their spaces are different but the philosophy is the same and their work is, for the first time in Kenya’s history, all on record.

And this is important. Because what the Odi-pop has done, by amplifying each other, is they are slowly bringing the scene back to the path that leads to freedom. And if you add the influence of the Internet and how content discovery is happening today, then you can see another important effect of this cultural moment. The big microphone is now being held by the pop stars. It’s the kind of dictatorship that thrust Bob Marley and reggae into world domination. It is a special kind of big voice that centers makers and doers, and people who imagine themselves to be more than they are, and who try to declare that as loudly as possible. Without apology.

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Singer/Songwriter Dan Aceda is a multi-talented award-winning artiste known best for his sweet melodies and edgy storytelling.

Culture

Racist Undertones in the Media’s Reporting of COVID-19’s Origins

News reports claiming that “wet markets” in Asia are the source of the coronavirus obscure the fact that the consumption of wild animals is common in the West. How can the Western media condemn “unacceptable” animal consumption practices in the global South while maintaining studious silence on the same in the global North?

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Racist Undertones in the Media’s Reporting of COVID-19’s Origins
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In pre-colonial Africa, before the Berlin conference that led to the “Scramble for Africa” among European countries and the subsequent creation of arbitrary territorial boundaries we now refer to as countries, “states” were defined by some form of shared heritage, not just in the form of hard tangible artefacts, but in culture – practices and knowledge that are acquired by peoples in situ. When populations moved, they carried this heritage with them and adjusted it to fit in with the new realities they encountered in their new homelands.

The current crisis precipitated by the COVID-19 global pandemic has severely restricted travel for recreation and business and the sharing of experiences and ideas across the world. In a manner of speaking, it has put globalisation on “pause” as countries must look inwards for ways to mitigate its impact on health, social, and economic systems.

The complexity of the COVID-19 pandemic lies in the fact that there is still no universally accepted approach to its mitigation or management. Individual countries have, therefore, been compelled to draw on their own intellectual and material resources to address the impact of the pandemic, with varying levels of success. Some countries have taken a reactionary approach, while others struggle to find direction, illustrating the need for us to retake control of our living heritage and re-imagine ourselves in the light of our own needs and aspirations.

Double standards

The true origins of this pandemic may never be known, so those of us who are lay people take what the media give us. The spectre of a zoonosis “jumping” from wild animals into humans through the consumption of their meat and the sheer speed of communication (or mis-communication) about this are among the most startling features of this pandemic.

When the pandemic started, the media were instantly awash with (frankly revolting) images of people of Asian descent eating whole bats in soup. Suddenly, newly-used terms like “wet markets” were de rigueur in news bulletins, as were images of Chinese markets with live and dead creatures of all kinds for sale, either whole, live, or in various stages of dismemberment. It was only a matter of time before the racist dog-whistle “bush meat trade” hit the airwaves (nauseatingly familiar to those of us who work in the conservation sector).

I have often spoken about how the portrayal of the consumption of wild animals is one of the most overt and widely accepted expressions of racial prejudice in our times. It has long been an accepted norm that the meat of wild animals must be described in genteel terms when it is consumed by white people, as is the killing of all manner of creatures. The nature of conservation discourse has normalised the use of the different terms “game meat” and “bush meat” even to describe consumption of flesh from the same animal species, based on the ethnicity of the procurer. Slaughter is routinely described as “sport” and dignified as ““noble” all over the world when perpetrated by white people, and occasionally elites of colour. After 20 years as a conservation practitioner, I am familiar with the cult-like manner in which we pursue the cause. It is considered above reproach, and all manner of ills can be visited upon human societies as long as they can be demonstrated to be serving some environmental conservation goal.

When the pandemic started, the media were instantly awash with (frankly revolting) images of people of Asian descent eating whole bats in soup. Suddenly, newly-used terms like “wet markets” were de rigueur in news bulletins, as were images of Chinese markets with live and dead creatures of all kinds for sale, either whole, live, or in various stages of dismemberment.

It was, therefore, a feeling of déjà vu when the tone taken by the Western media portrayed the outbreak almost as some kind of “divine retribution” visited upon the Chinese people for the consumption of meat from wild animals. (This was before the virus spread globally and stopped being regarded as a Chinese problem.) Indeed, scientists were falling over themselves to look for coronaviruses in all manner of trafficked animals, like pangolins. Racial undertones have always been part of global conservation practice, and that is the reason why Europe and the United States have largely escaped the opprobrium that has been visited on China for the ivory trade, despite it being third globally behind the former two in this vice.

When wildlife is used as food in the global South and East, it draws near universal revulsion in the West with regards to the “cruelty” of the activity. Those who have visited the United States, however, are familiar with the seasonal hunting and eating of deer, elk, moose, squirrels, opossum and rabbits, not to mention turkeys, ducks, and other wild birds.

Those who are so irked by “wet markets” would do well to familiarise themselves with the “rattlesnake roundup”, an annual activity in the state of Texas in the United States. The roundup is a display of extraordinary cruelty where thousands of rattlesnakes are collected from the wild, mostly by being flushed out of their dens with petrol. It takes around two weeks to collect the required number of snakes for the festival, during which time the captive reptiles are kept in the dark without food or water. Come the weekend of the festival, the entertainment of visitors will include the ritual decapitation of snakes and the participants (including children) competing to strip skins off the still writhing snake bodies and flaying them for meat (which is served on site and consumed with a variety of drinks). Children also engage in making murals from hand prints in snake blood, amongst other activities.

A close observation of the reportage on this reveals the degree of effort put into “cleansing” this strange ritual, notably its description as a “celebration of culture” that brings in $8.4 million into the town of Sweetwater, Texas. The scale of the carnage hit a record high in 2016 when 11 tonnes (24,262 pounds) of rattlesnakes were reportedly harvested. The reporting didn’t specify that this represented around 10,000 snakes (calculation made from the average weight of a rattlesnake).

Those who are so irked by “wet markets” would do well to familiarise themselves with the “rattlesnake roundup”, an annual activity in the state of Texas in the United States. The roundup is a display of extraordinary cruelty where thousands of rattlesnakes are collected from the wild, mostly by being flushed out of their dens with petrol.

How then does the Western media contrive to maintain this critical focus on “unacceptable” animal consumption practices in the global South while maintaining studious silence on the same in their own countries? What then is a “wet market”? Can the Texas rattlesnake roundup be described as such, and if not, why not?

Characterising the consumption of reptiles, rodents, chiroptera (bats), marsupials (opossums) as “Asian” traits is simply racial prejudice. Similarly, the capture, caging and sale of wild animals in Asian markets is described as cruel whereas sport hunting, whaling, and foxhunting by Caucasian peoplesare accepted, celebrated, and even defended robustly, when need be.

Conservation, tourism and dietary tastes

Personally, as an individual with very conservative (some might say pedestrian) tastes in food, travelling is full of challenges in terms of foods that I encounter around the world. I remember particularly an incident of a Maasai colleague being perturbed by a dinner offering of “venison” at a lodge in rural Quebec in Canada. I had to clarify to him that venison is deer meat.

The Maasai are traditionally livestock producers and are known to frown upon the consumption of meat from wild animals. But this was a relatively mild challenge for him, compared to various raw meats, raw fish, marine crustaceans, and snails that he and I have encountered on our travels to different continents.

The variety of dietary tastes and preferences around the world are one of the most prominent indicators of human diversity, and have long been celebrated and studied by travelers and scholars. This pandemic, however, has upset the genteel veneer with which we present our differences and has left our class, racial, and cultural prejudices ruthlessly exposed. If indeed the slaughter of wildlife is a vile aspect of human nature, then why is Theodore Roosevelt’s 1909 hunting safari in Kenya so celebrated by a conservation body (The Smithsonian Institution) over a century later? This expedition was a bloodbath, where the hunters killed and trapped more than 11,000 animals, including multiple specimens of the “big game” species that Roosevelt took particular pleasure in killing.

Conservation and tourism have long been an arena that struggles with racism and classism, and my country Kenya has for the last 100 years been the poster child for what is good and wrong about the nexus of conservation and tourism in Africa. Due to travel bans and lockdowns, tourism in the country has largely collapsed. The obsession with foreign tourists (referred to lovingly as “arrivals”) has left established facilities struggling to appeal to indigenous and local clients for whom they had very little time under normal circumstances.

The real tragedy, however, is in the wildlife conservancies, where conservation NGOs had been going out of their way to convince and coerce previously resilient pastoralist communities to spurn their livelihoods and identities (that were based upon livestock production) and to share landscapes with wildlife. The narrative was that livestock was bad and their numbers had to be suppressed. The landscape didn’t belong to the people, but to the wildlife, and the wildlife had no intrinsic cultural value. It was for tourists, and pastoralists’ livelihoods would reside in service to the tourists.

To be a “good” (read: compliant) community worthy of handouts, the community needed to move to the periphery of their lands, leaving the best parts for tourism They had to reduce their herds (or move them away to go and overgraze someone else’s turf), and learn to serve (be a waiter, ranger, cook, or beadwork maker) at the altar of tourism.

Since the COVID-19 outbreak, reports from community conservancies invariably feature penury – communities struggling to make a living and depending on food handouts, all due to the collapse of tourism. For those who understand the livestock economy, pastoralist communities depending on food handouts is unthinkable in a year that has seen such abundance of rainfall and pasture growth. The conservation cult had succeeded in compromising the resilience of entire communities.

The language of environmentalism and assistance

Students of political history will experience déjà vu; 200 years after its initial foray, Western neoliberalism is once again bringing rural Africa to its knees by destroying resilience and creating dependency. The only difference is that this time it is hidden in the language of environmentalism and assistance.

The world today needs to wake up to the threat to social stability posed by the global environmental movement fashioned in the West. The pursuit of its goals is relentless, and has the hallmarks of a cult. Nonagenarian Westerners like Sir David Attenborough routinely prescribe future goals to young populations in the global South (backed by environmental cinema that deliberately excludes human populations from the frame). As our youth struggle with the visions of old Westerners, our leaders are confronted with advice and “guidance” from a European teenage girl, delivered with the glib assurance of someone who doesn’t have anywhere near the amount of knowledge required to confer a modicum of self-doubt.

As African students of environmental sciences strive to make their voices heard in academia, they get confronted by ludicrous theories like the half-earth theory, proposed by E. O. Wilson, a pioneer of ecology from Harvard University, one of the pinnacles of academia. This theory proposes that half the earth should be “protected” for the survival of biodiversity.

The world today needs to wake up to the threat to social stability posed by the global environmental movement fashioned in the West. The pursuit of its goals is relentless, and has the hallmarks of a cult.

However, what proponents of this theory don’t state is that this biodiversity will be protected mostly in the tropics, because the temperate lands do not have biodiversity worth protecting in such a drastic manner. Any attempt to actualise such a move would amount to genocide, but the world routinely accepts such fascism when environmental reasons are used to support it.

Indeed, the United Nations and other global bodies like the Convention for Biological Diversity (CBD) have taken up the cause, proposing to raise the recommended percentage of land under protection, from the current 14 per cent to 30 per cent. The voices pushing this movement are varied, but two uniformities persist – the voices are of white people and they say nothing about the difference in consumption patterns between themselves and the global South.

So-called “global” environmental targets must be tailored to meet the needs and aspirations of individual nations, or we run the risk of imperialism. Yellowstone National Park was created by violence and disenfranchisement, but it is still used as a template for fortress conservation over a century later, and celebrated as a world heritage site.

For generations, our consumption patterns have never been spoken about globally, because to do so would be to acknowledge that we in the global South have always been sustainable societies. Logic dictates that our consumption patterns shouldn’t now be used to vilify us as the source of a scourge, which strangely appears not to have affected us in the way the global North expected.

The term “new normal” has been bandied about ad nauseam to describe the post-COVID19 world. In reality, the manner in which the people and the environment of the global South have been exploited by the Occident over generations has been abnormal. The coronavirus crisis may have just set a few things right.

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Culture

Food Kiosks Are Revolutionising Kenya’s Urban Culture

The majority of urban residents in Kenya cannot afford to go to established restaurants and eateries. To cater to their needs, food kiosks have sprouted in cities such as Nairobi. These kiosks not only serve delicious and nutritious food, they are also meeting places for the urban working class.

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It is 1 p.m. on a hot, sunny, Friday. Across from the Sigona Golf Club on the Nairobi-Nakuru dual highway that is being reconstructed by the Chinese construction company China Wu Yi, Phyllis Ikoa’s food kiosk is teeming with men in helmets and overalls munching their hot, fresh lunch with their rough seasoned hands. At Ikoa’s food den, it is break time for her customers, who have just ended a gruelling morning shift.

Ikoa’s food kiosk, popularly known in local parlance as kibanda (shed), is nothing to talk about: it is small and many of Ikoa’s customers lack sitting space, which comprises form benches and makeshift tables. The kiosk is occasionally smoky because she often uses firewood as fuel for cooking.

Yet, despite the apparent “discomfort”, nothing beats Ikoa’s steamy, well-cooked food served at the most affordable of prices. Nothing compares with the camaraderie that her food brings among the easy-going, jocular, casual labourers who congregate at Ikoa’s eating den to gossip about their supervisors and site managers.

“I practically know all my customers by their first names,” said Ikoa. “It is important for me to know them because they keep my business going. Without them, I wouldn’t be in Kikuyuland.”

Ikoa is a Mteso from Adungosi village in Malaba town, Busia County, which is more than 400 kilometres from the Sigona area, which is 17 kilometres from the Nairobi city centre. From Tesoland, Ikoa brought her culinary skills that have diversified, as well as rivalled, the local cuisine. The local cuisine is mostly unsophisticated and usually consists of githeri – a stewed broth of maize and beans, occasionally spruced up with potatoes and chopped carrots.

Ikoa’s food menu is diverse: Chapati and madondo (beans), rice and ndengu (green grams), ugali and tilapia from Lake Victoria, stewed matoke (bananas) from Uganda, and stewed or boiled meat that can be accompanied with either chapatti, ugali or rice.

Ikoa told me her customers prefer to eat her specially cooked meat, Teso style, with ugali. But it is her chapatis that have made Ikoa a popular name in Sigona, a location within the larger Kikuyu constituency in Kiambu County. Because of the popularity of her chapatis, some customers demand the inclusion of tea in her menu, so that they can enjoy the option of chapati and tea as a snack.

Ikoa’s food menu is diverse: Chapati and madondo (beans), rice and ndengu (green grams), ugali and tilapia from Lake Victoria, stewed matoke (bananas) from Uganda, and stewed or boiled meat that can be accompanied with either chapatti, ugali or rice.

Phyllis Ikoa’s chapatti-making skills have turned her into a household name in and around the Sigona area. “They’re people who come from Kikuyu town to eat my chapatti,” said a proud Ikoa. Kikuyu is just about three kilometres southwest of Sigona. There are others who come all the way from Kiambaa. Kiambaa is a bit further; it five kilometres up north of Sigona. “They all say my chapatis are really big and tasty.” I asked her why her chapatis have become famous and popular: “What now can I tell you? I prepare them well, they’re soft and they are big enough for one to enjoy them with either tea or with an accompaniment of your choice.”

I found a female customer who works at the Sigona Club house at Ikoa’s eating joint. Looking sophisticated with her permed hair, she heaped praise on Ikoa’s chapatis. Despite looking out of place, the lady said she was not restrained by those concerns.

“Because of the lady, I’ve been getting orders to make her chapatis for ‘important’ people,” said Ikoa. By important people, Ikoa meant people who ordinarily would never be seen ordering chapatis at her kibanda, or even letting people know where the chapatis were cooked. She also makes, on order, chapatis for families who may not have the time to make them, or because they think she makes them tastier, and for unmarried men and women living alone.

“Phyllis’ food is the best around here: it is well-prepared, it’s nutritious, it’s fresh, it has variety, but above all, it’s affordable,” said mzee Santana, one of her loyal customers.

Santana is a caddie at the Sigona Golf Club. Now in his mid-70s, he carries a wide range of experiences. He has seen it all. He has been a caddie for 46 years since 1974, when he first came to look for work in Sigona from his home town of Limuru. Without food sheds like the one run by Ikoa, Santana told me, many caddies would be going hungry.

“Where would we be eating and there isn’t a food kiosk inside the club? In any case, the club would never ever dream of having such a structure inside the club’s precincts,” he said.

With a club house that can be seen from the road, the golf club only caters for the golfers, who happen to be some of the wealthiest Kenyans and privileged foreigners working in the country. At lunchtime, as the golfers took their break and troop to the club house, the poor caddies’ had to worry what and where they would fill their stomachs with.

“Phyllis just came the other day,” explained Santana. (The other day for mzee Santana is about 10 years ago.) Before the arrival of Ikoa, there wasn’t any kibanda anywhere; the caddies would just laze in the sun during the lunch hour while the golfers enjoyed the sumptuous meals.

Before the real estate construction boom around Sigona area started about a dozen years ago, caddies comprised nearly all of Ikoa’s customers. “Over time I developed a rapport with them and even when they did not have ready cash, I’d still give them food and they would pay me afterwards once they had the cash, said Ikoa.

Ikoa has an exercise book in which she records her debtors’ names. Today, most of the people who are in that book are casual labourers who are paid weekly, on Fridays. Because of Ikoa’s credit facilities, they can eat and pay later.

“When I began my business here, I realised two things”, said Ikoa. “My customers were the lowly-paid rough and tumble workers who operated on a shoe-string budget, hence they required pocket-friendly priced foodstuff, if they were going to afford to eat it. It’s true, people can’t do without food, but only if they can afford it.”

The food seller said that to keep her customer base happy and always coming back to her, she knew she wasn’t going to compromise on the quality of the food and the pricing wasn’t going to fluctuate too much. “If you want to keep your customers intact in this industry of ours, quality of food is of utmost importance.”

Ikoa has an exercise book in which she records her debtors’ names. Today, most of the people who are in that book are casual labourers who are paid weekly, on Fridays. Because of Ikoa’s credit facilities, they can eat and pay later.

For Sh50 Ikoa’s serves you with a hot plate of rice and madondo and a spattering of vegetables (either cabbage or sukuma wiki), or rice with ndengu, or stewed matoke. For Sh70, you get, depending on your preference, a big brown or white round chapati served with madondo or ndengu.

“Phyllis’s food is filling especially for us guys who do tough manual work, because she serves it in good portions. Here, you know, you’ll be served with fresh food because the food is cooked on a daily basis. You can never hear of anybody complaining of stomach upset, for example, so we’re good,” said Kimani.

Ikoa’s sumptuous delicacy of ugali and tilapia with staked soup, at Sh100, is a favourite among her customers. “She introduced a delicacy that was not very much known in this area. Now people eat fish here with the expertise of the lake region people,” observed Kimani.

Friday is a particularly busy day for Ikoa. It is when the casual labourers are paid their weekly wages. On Fridays, Ikoa knows that she has to prepare lots of chapatis and bean and ndengu stew because of a special clientele that passes by at around 2 p.m. Some Muslim youth who work at the Shell petrol station on the opposite side of her kibanda, have formed a good habit of passing by her kibanda on their way back from the mosque, which is 600 metres up from her food kiosk. They order lots of chapatis, which they eat with bean stew served in a large bowl for the four lads to share, and eat with their bare hands. After eating chapati with madondo, the lads drown the food with copious cups of black tea.

Ikoa told me that with the onset of coronavirus, her kibanda business has been badly affected. “Many of my customers have been laid off and I had really to scale down on the food I was used to preparing. Some of my customers would come to me and beg to be given food, with the promise of paying me later, but from what work? It was difficult”.

Mzee Santana told me once coronavirus was declared in Kenya, “the first thing our bosses did was to lock themselves in their houses and keep away from the club. When they gathered the confidence to trickle back to the club, they said they didn’t want to see us near the club and near them. Can you imagine?”

So, outside the club’s main gate, one can see many men waiting outside in groups of three and four. Santana said the club’s management had decreed that all caddies, henceforth, would only be let in the club’s premises with the express permission of their respective golfing bosses. “This means that work becomes intermittent and therefore unpredictable. But one cannot stay at home waiting to get a call from his boss for work.”

Likewise, Ikoa cannot afford to stay at home doing nothing. “After a couple of weeks into the lockdown, I was getting calls from my customers, asking me to venture out and make some food for them. Some of them just wanted a place to hang out, away from their restrictive homes, which they were not used to staying at all day long.”

Hence, during this coronavirus crisis, Ikoa’s kibanda has become a meeting place for her customers, who discuss their trials and tribulations, and pool their little cash and buy food from her, while persuading her to provide them with food and keep a record in her exercise book.

Not an entirely new phenomenon, vibandas have always been around since the early 1970s, when they served only tea (in heat-resistant glasses) and mandazi, mainly in estates in Eastlands, which lies in the south-eastern part of Nairobi. Today, they are found practically along every road and street in the city, especially in working class and informal settlements. They, in essence, have become an integral part of the city’s culinary food parlours, serving exotic indigenous dishes and foods that were once ordinarily made in homes.

Street food embodies the essence of Nairobi’s culture, and during the COVID-19 crisis, it is street food vendors that have sustained people who do not have the luxury to have a home-cooked meal or to order food from restaurants. It is the likes of Ikoa, who with their expertise in preparing food that is nutritious and affordable, that have revolutionised the culture of street food in the city.

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Culture

An Ode to the Comic, the Transgressive Counter to Stifling Official Narratives

Being a visual medium, just as the map is, the comic book is a kind of counter-cartography that centres the people, which imperialist narratives would rather see reduced and captured in the extractive logic of mapped territories and nation-states.

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An Ode to the Comic, the Transgressive Counter to Stifling Official Narratives
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History is the science of the state, while memory is the art of the stateless.”
– Wendell Hassan Marsh

I’ve never been good at drawing. My hand-eye coordination is rather mediocre, and my visual intelligence middling. Even academic concepts that required some level of 2D/3D visualisation, such as geometry, made me have to actually apply myself. My home was always the written word, in language, in libraries, in novels and stories, to the level of pure abstraction. Which is why algebra and calculus, though challenging, were still somehow delightful – they were a kind of language of their own.

And yet, I’ve always found myself lost in maps. Even though I “dropped” geography as a subject as soon as I was able to – this, I would attribute to my geography teacher whom I was clashing with at the time – I still kept my beloved Philips World Atlas. I used to pore over maps of obscure places like Kiribati and Patagonia during night preps in boarding school instead of doing my homework.

The map is a visual representation of space, compressing land, distance and physical features into a super birds-eye view – if a bird could fly high enough to gain a glimpse of a whole country, continent, or world. By this, maps become instruments of power, giving humans a perspective that is impossible to acquire in real life. Thus maps are never neutral, and are not unequivocally factual or objective – politics and power are always packed into each line and curve, each hill and valley.

What would it look like for Africans to create maps that represent the way they see and experience their own lived realities and experiences? How would one pack in our histories, struggles, movements, triumphs and identities into representations of physical space?

The Pan-African quarterly gazette Chimurenga Chronic explored these ideas in their March 2015 issue titled “New Cartographies”, but questions still remain. For instance, when representing Somalia should one go by the lines drawn by Europeans at the 1884-5 Berlin Conference, or should one go with the territories that Somalis call home, which encompass parts of Ethiopia and Kenya? What of the Swahili Coast, “which extends from Kenya through Tanzania and northern Mozambique to include parts of the Indian Ocean, and whose reluctance to be integrated into any nation-state project other than its own goes back seven centuries”? How about the Sahel region, where the sand obscures the pretentions of “international” borders for people like the Hausa and Fulani?

What would it look like for Africans to create maps that represent the way they see and experience their own lived realities and experiences? How would one pack in our histories, struggles, movements, triumphs and identities into representations of physical space?

That edition let memory run loose on history. The idea of memory and lived experiences being transgressive in the face of officialdom has stayed with me since, and has recently re-emerged in my mind in The Nest Collective’s comic book series on Mekatilili wa Menza and Wangu wa Makeri, illustrated by Joe Barasa and Daniel Muli, with Ray Gicharu as art assistant.

For me, the comic book is the transgressive counter to stifling and oppressive official narratives. Being a visual medium, just as the map is, the comic in my view a kind of counter-cartography that centres people, which imperialist narratives would rather see reduced and captured into the extractive logic of mapped territories and nation-states – a logic that has now evolved to the point where, as expertly elucidated by Kalundi Serumaga, African people have become hostages to their elites, for whom borders assume a menacing role, not just in keeping others out, but to ensnare and enclose “their” people in. And in combining text and pictures – which are typically drawings, not photographs – the comic book exists in this liminal space where possibility, not foreclosure, is at the heart of representation.

“Working with the comic book form was quite an adventure because we as the Nest Collective don’t typically work in comics, but we were attracted to the infinite possibilities of the comic form because in comics you can draw a thing, whereas in film – which is one of our primary forms – you’d have to build a whole set,” Njoki Ngumi, member of The Nest Collective, tells me. “The comic book form allows you some distance, your idea doesn’t have to exist corporeally; it can exist directly from the imagination of the illustrator.”

This series in particular takes the stories of two formidable women in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, whose encounters with the colonial apparatus elicited very different reactions from both. The story of Mekatilili wa Menza revolves around her resistance to British taxation of the Mijikenda people. She dances the kifudu dance at village clearings, a funeral dance that would attract curious onlookers because it was out of place and out of context to perform on an ordinary day. When she had attracted a crowd, she would challenge the people to resist British taxation and control. In the comic’s rendering: “Are you slaves or are you free people? Are you not sons and daughters of this good earth, just like these pale ones? Why then do you let foreigners dictate to you how you shall live your lives?”

For this disturbance of the peace, Mekatilili was banished to Kisii, some 800 kilometres away from her coastal village. Twice the British exiled her, and twice she returned to her people in Mijikenda. How she travelled all that way, at a time when there existed a very rudimentary transport network, and without a map, isn’t addressed in the comic strip, though the LAM Sisterhood, in their Brazen theatre performance in 2018, imagined her walking all the way for weeks until her feet blistered, bled and eventually became calloused and mangled.

This series in particular takes the stories of two formidable women in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, whose encounters with the colonial apparatus elicited very different reactions from both.

Wangu wa Makeri, on the other hand, reacted to British taxation by becoming a headman, a colonial tax collector and an enforcer. She gained this position by leaning on her relationship with her lover, Karuri wa Gakure, who was paramount chief of the Kikuyu at Fort Hall (later renamed Murang’a). Wangu’s husband, Makeri, knew about this relationship as Karuri often would spend a night at their home in the course of his duties and travels as paramount chief. (Traditionally, when a male visitor came calling, one of the host’s wives was expected to “entertain” the visitor at night.)

However, in time, Karuri and Wangu’s relationship developed into an intimacy that was beyond the bounds of their traditional arrangement, and when Karuri let it slip that he was looking to name someone headman, someone “strong and trustworthy, that people can respect…who can collect taxes and punish lawbreakers”, Wangu declared: “Let it be me!”

Wangu ended up being the only female Kikuyu headman/woman during the whole of the British colonial period. She would acquire a reputation as a brutal enforcer. “Her outlandish punishments for tax evaders were the stuff of legend,” the comic book states. “Lawbreakers would have to carry her on their backs, suffering humiliation and ridicule from their neighbours.”

Is this why Wangu wa Makeri is taken to be such a “controversial”, “notorious”, and “near-mythical” figure (descriptors that all appear in the text)? Because she was unashamedly ambitious, amassed power and embarrassed men?

Her rule came to an abrupt end in 1909 when Wangu joined in to perform the kibata dance, a dance that was reserved for young warriors. In the process of vigorous dancing, her garment falls off, exposing her. Her detractors say she intentionally danced naked before her people.

Unlike Mekalilili, for whom dance was revolutionary and redemptive for the people, Wangu’s dance – with her in the precarious role of a woman in a traditionally male role – leads to her singular downfall. The system of colonialism which she had served so diligently could not save her in this instance.

The comic series maps these contours of power and patriarchy, revealing how, like in all oppressive systems, the oppressed often do have a chance to become complicit and collude with the system, but that this power is ultimately uncertain and tenuous. Or, they can fight back, and risk punishment and exclusion.

Still, thinking of the comics as a series of people-maps is useful to appreciate that the past is never really the past. We are still living with the fallout from the actions of those who resisted the colonial state and those who colluded with it – and sometimes that binary is not as neat as it first appears. Wangu’s role as an enforcer of the colonial state upended patriarchal expectations of her, and Mekatilili’s status as an old widow made her an unlikely revolutionary because fighting is usually expected of the young and male.

Unlike Mekalilili, for whom dance was revolutionary and redemptive for the people, Wangu’s dance – with her in the precarious role of a woman in a traditionally male role – leads to her singular downfall. The system of colonialism which she had served so diligently could not save her in this instance.

More than any other medium or form, comics straddle this divide between the world of concepts and the world of lived experiences, between the way the world should be and the way it really is, the place where hard, “objective” data fails and life happens. Just as one scans back and forth on a map to orient oneself and the physical space represented on the map, the comic book reader scans back and forth in order to refocus on previous panels and to find new elements for the construction of meaning. Readers literally make sense of the story through a “plurivectorial” reading experience, as if each page were a map.

Quoting Chimurenga Chronic again, “The syntax of comics – specifically, its reliance on visual substitution to suggest continuity, the representation of time through space, and the fragmentation of space into contiguous images, demands an active participation on the part of the reader. This fosters a unique intimacy, a physical and emotional closeness between creator and audience, the reader and the text.”

Comics are the medium that grapple with the most with uncertainty and even lack of data – most comics set discrete borders around their gaps, the “gutters” between panels. Comic critic Aaron King describes these comic gutters as “bordered entropy”, a place where the artist chose not to or did not have the means to portray information.

And this is what makes the comic form so life-giving, especially in a context where the official written histories typically capture the perspectives of those in power and erase those on its underside. How exactly Mekatilili got 800 kilometres across a wilderness teeming with dangers isn’t the point. It’s that the kifudu dance was danced again and that the Mijikenda are still striving for the return of vigango (totems representing ancestors) that have been stolen and taken to Europe and America. It is that there was a woman who was officially given the title of headman.

It’s not about being as direct and as practical as a map, but more about letting memory run transgressively loose on history.

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