Millennials have been blamed for pretty much everything that is going on wrong in the world today. Marriage is failing, thanks to hook-up culture and Tinder’s “I’ll get with anything I swiped right on.” The real estate market is falling because millennials would rather spend all their money on avocado toast than take up mortgages and buy homes. The meat industry is failing because millennials care more about animals’ pain and after all, vegan is the new wave.
Millennials are entitled snowflakes with a fundamentally skewed sense of how the world really works. They complain on the Internet on how the baby boomers and Gen Xers have ruined the world with neoliberalism and polluted the planet with carbon emissions – if they are woke enough to simultaneously share a picture of their decaf soy latte next to a pristine Macbook on Instagram (#Workflow). They eschew responsibility and have a questionable attitude towards stable middle-management corporate jobs. They would rather “find themselves” by Air-B-n-bing and backpacking across continents, “do work that excites them” by building an app that delivers food via drones and “follow their passion” of selling torn clothes and labelling it avant-garde fashion – after all, if Kanye West did it, why can’t we?
“Why can’t they just listen? Why do they feel so damn entitled? Didn’t they know how hard we had it?”
The attitude the older generations have towards millennials, specifically, their perceived inability to “listen” to the words of the elder statesmen (and women) and the sheer gumption of making their future without being beholden to the past reminds me of an excerpt I recently read from The Secret Footballer: Access All Areas (Guardian Faber, 2015) on the author’s experiences coming through as a young professional footballer:
“Then a curious thing happened once I was signed by my first professional club: my fellow footballers, my teammates, laughed at me. I wasn’t a kid…they talked about me as if I was a teacher’s pet who had no idea how to play ‘proper’ football. I wouldn’t last five minutes. Some of them tried to bully me, until they realised that I bit back…
“I realised that the ritual was about keeping me in my place, but I wasn’t interested in playing along. They’d call it ‘paying your dues’, I hadn’t paid my dues in professional football. Fine. I’d call what went on a short-sighted, half-arsed form of bullying, really.
“Let me tell you the run of the before, the during and the after of that early football education. At first they laughed. The thought of a new nobody coming into their dressing room and into their dressing room was so strange to them that their only response could be to laugh. Then when the ‘nobody’ did well on the pitch it wasn’t so funny. They became jealous. This was counter to everything they had been taught to everything they had been taught when they started out in the academy, not long after they were potty-trained. His dues! His dues! He hasn’t paid his dues!”
It was all too relatable. Not because it was profound, but rather, because it was such an accurate description of my experiences in the legal profession for the past year and a half.
In the legal profession, “paying your dues” means ticking all the right boxes: an unforgiving four year slog in university (preferably a public one like THE University of Nairobi– never mind they have been on strike/closed for over a year– and counting); a backbreaking year at the Kenya School of Law, pass the bar exams administered by the Council of Legal Education – if you are lucky (an exam with a pass rate of only 10% or less, check the statistics); a six-month pupillage and a coveted spot “holding over” in a law firm. When you are done, Canaan beckons- admission to the Bar as an advocate of the High Court of Kenya, and all the rewards that follow.
While paying your dues, you should keep your head down. Be like a child in Victorian England – seen and not heard; preferably with a blend of stoicism and blandness of expression – think Mark Zuckerburg and his ill-fitting navy-blue suit before Congress. Offer no opinion on the irony as your boss points out that the Employment Act requires that employment contracts of more than three months to be in writing; yet you have never seen such a written contract for the ten months you have been employed there for a stipend that is way below the statutory minimum wage. Keep a stiff upper lip as you watch the former Chairman of the Commission on Administrative Justice, in open court, stating that being represented in court by a young lawyer is an act of “great contempt”. Smile and wave like the Penguins in Madagascar as your boss makes remarks, within earshot, that schools nowadays “produce nothing but half-baked lawyers.”
“Holding over” is a particularly loathed stage in an advocate’s career, falling just between the six-month statutory term of pupillage and admission to the Bar. It is a stage of professional purgatory – you are not a pupil but you are not an advocate either. It gets worse if you are in a firm where the carrot of being retained as an associate turns pupillage from what is meant to be a learning experience to a bare-knuckled Hobbesian fight to the death; a nasty, brutish and short period.
Immediately after my six-month pupillage, I was physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted. I politely declined a very generous offer to stay on at the firm and instead took the time off to recuperate. I lived my best life for the next three months: no more waking up at 5 a.m. to battle with the insane Nairobi traffic. A normal day would start at 11 a.m. with a healthy brunch and a dose of Netflix. I was on twitter for most of the day – sharing memes. I experimented with some projects – I started a legal blog that crashed and burned, miserably so on account of low readership. To earn a few coins, I took on research projects for law firms, “consulting” – I called it, to give a sheen of respectability to the work.
My decision brought immeasurable strain in my relationships. My parents were supportive, of course, they were, but I could always see the shake of the head and the silent sigh over the dinner table. The person I was “talking to” at the time could not handle my “lack of ambition.” My friends thought I had genuinely lost it. To them, I had committed the cardinal sin of looking a gift horse in the mouth and labelling it a sneaky gift from the Greeks “So much potential and you are here, throwing it all away.”
How could I turn down such a marvellous opportunity to make a reputation? How was I to get my name out there? Did I want to make it in this profession without paying my dues?
As recently as 2012, it was actually an offence for an advocate to start their own firm straight after being admitted to the Bar. One had to serve for at least two years under someone who had been in practice for five years, before entertaining the thought of going solo. It was a very invidious piece of gatekeeping backed by legislation – more specifically section 32 of the Advocates’ Act; naturally in true Kenyan fashion after the promulgation of the 2010 Constitution, someone went to court to challenge this.
The petitioners in Okenyo Omwansa George & another v Attorney General & 2 others  eKLR argued that this particular provision of the law was unconstitutional, as it subjected young advocates to forced labour and servitude. The law compelled a young advocate to work for someone against their will so as to attain an expected level of learning and experience in the legal profession to branch out on their own.
The respondents had a different view, of course. The rules were there for a reason: for the young lawyers’ own good. Supervised practice enables young advocates to gain experience under the tutelage of senior advocates, which prepares young advocates to discharge their most noble calling. It is a good idea to protect the public from the impetuousness of youth and their propensity to make mistakes.
The Honourable Mr Justice Majanja agreed with the respondent. He reasoned that the pursuit of a legal career is a voluntary act. Nobody forced anyone to become an advocate, the petitioners fully knew what the statutory requirements were. Furthermore, slaves do not have the luxury of leaving. The best the petitioners could do was to quit whining and suck it up for the two years.
This decision was short-lived. Section 50(2) of the Legal Education Act, 2012 repealed the dreaded section 32 of the Advocates’ Act. Free at last, free at last, young advocates were free at last, to practise on their own.
After my admission to the Bar in December 2016, the charade was up. I was 26, squatting at my parents’ house. The pressure was on to do something more meaningful with my life other than “writing things on the Internet.” I was tired of being broke. My rebellious nature ensured that I had burnt most of my bridges. This, coupled with the slight taste of freedom I had recently begun to enjoy, meant I was, for all intents and purposes, unemployable in conventional legal practice. Thankfully, the law allowed me to start practising law in the way I thought fit and in the words of the modern-day philosopher, Russell Westbrook III, I asked myself, “Why not?”
I realised that this was an undertaking I could not possibly accomplish by myself. I partnered with a friend (also 26) from university and law school, who was equally “directionless” according to his grandparents. We cobbled together a few resources and started drafting plans. In our youthful naiveté, we picked the worst possible time to start a new business. It was July 2017, a month before the General Elections. The way this country is set up, any semblance of economic activity is informally suspended for months before (and especially after) the elections.
“Let us see how this thing will turn out, then we’ll talk,” was the default Kenyan stock answer we got. In the very rare event we were fortunate to get some work, we did not get paid, because “Let us see how this thing will turn out, then we’ll talk.”
When the skirmishes broke out after the result of the August 8th election, I was mightily relieved that I would not have to go to our threadbare office – it was literally four walls and a room. I live near Kawangware and I was marooned in the house, in fear (but relieved) as the police brutally cracked down on non-existent protests. Even if I ventured out, there was absolutely no work to be done. When the Supreme Court nullified the results of the August 8th election and ordered a fresh election, my partner and I took it on our glass chins, because the cycle of “Let us see how this thing will turn out, then we’ll talk” had just begun. Again.
An outcome of the August 8th election was the deluge of election petitions that were filed. My partner was politically savvy and had made friends with clients at the firm where he had undertaken his pupillage. One of them was a losing aspirant who wanted us to file his election petition. We could smell the big time.
The politician was none too pleased with our quotation. In a heated exchange with my partner, he made a huge meal of the fact that he did not go with “experience” but rather with young hungry advocates. “You charge way too much for people just starting out. Give me a rate that reflects your ‘experience’. Otherwise, you’re just being too greedy, asking for too much, too soon.”
We refused his offer. He never filed his petition and poof! The big time vanished.
We learnt an important lesson along the way, reinforced by many futile attempts at bidding for work, identifying the dog whistles.
“People who have done this for years.”
“People who know what they are doing, not those who will learn on the job.”
Another experience my partner had was with one of his grandfather’s friends from the village. People generally do not take advice, especially legal advice, from people younger than their last-born children.
“Young man, I saw when your mother was changing your diapers. We held a harambee for you to study law, and YOU are here telling ME that I have to subdivide my land to MY DAUGHTER! YOUNG PEOPLE OF NOWADAYS, NO RESPECT FOR CULTURE! I WILL TAKE THIS UP WITH YOUR GRANDFATHER!”
That is not as funny as clients who openly question your age or your looks.
“I would prefer if you tried to at least grow a beard. It would give the impression that you are not 17.”
I recently sat down to lunch with a friend making the transition back into legal practice after a stint in academia. I had met her on one of these Law Society of Kenya things where people just love listening to the sound of their own voices, struck a good conversation and a respectful professional friendship. It is not every day I can call a PhD holder and ask her to have lunch. Over a very meh glass of red wine (her words) that was not a Merlot (I learned what a Merlot was not on that day), we shot the breeze and talked shop, from the Miguna saga to what the Lands Ministry was doing with e-conveyancing.
“I mean, be honest, you older lawyers, don’t respect young lawyers, and that’s a fact.” I suggested.
She gave me that long withering stare Stringer Bell reserved for his dumb hoodlums in The Wire. It did not help that she is bespectacled.
“First of all…”
I knew I was going to get it, and by it, I do not mean a Head of State Commendation.
“I have a legal assistant, who for all intents and purposes, is clueless. Zero initiative. He thinks he knows it all already so he doesn’t listen. You young people are too entitled yet you don’t want to put in the work. I understand you don’t have to go through our experiences, or live a life as hard as we did. I don’t expect you to read 100 law reports when kenyalaw.org have it for free, but come on. Basic stuff like punctuality, politeness, work ethic. Some of you make it so incredibly hard to take you seriously.”
“But…but…the pay,” I countered.
“The pay, we could do better with the pay, but the way this Kenyan economy is set up…we all got paid peanuts. Suck it up and get on with it.”
On the way back from lunch, I was still frothing indignantly about being owned, so I turned to my Instagram. An acquaintance from law school had posted his first draft of an agreement they were working on. On Instagram Stories, with the hashtag #LawyerLife #RespectTheHustle. It is really hard to defend millennials when someone pulls this kind of stunt and claims to take their work, their ethical obligations and themselves, seriously.
But the older generation has to understand that this is a new world and the worst thing they can possibly say to us is, “Well, in my day, we did it like this.” We do not have to walk to school for ten kilometres barefoot just because you did it “back in our day”, and we do not have to use a tin-and-wick lamps to study when there are solar-powered lights. We do not have to suffer the indignities you did on the come up; to insist on such and calling it “toughening up” is nothing more than institutionalised hazing.
As a young professional, I am sick and tired of being patronized by my seniors and made to feel as if I am not working hard enough, or that I do not belong, despite the Churchillian blood, sweat and tears I have spent getting here. There is no need for me to work twice as hard to be considered half as good, in the face of insurmountable obstacles placed by older people who have wreaked havoc on this economy through decades of mismanagement and poor governance. I will certainly not be called “half-baked” by someone who is in charge of teaching and churning out the “half-baked” student, after ruining the education system through underfunding, poor teaching methods and the rapacious pursuit of profit. I will not “respect my elders” when they have done very little to show me why they deserve that respect, other than being old.
And, no, I will not be paying my dues anytime soon, because I am coming out to claim them.
Confronting Racism in the Shackles of a Miseducation
I cannot claim to have been a victim of the odious, brutal racism of the kind daily suffered by – predominantly – African American men in the United States. The racism I encountered during my time abroad was of the insidious kind, the kind that lets you in through the door and feigns to accept you as an equal while reminding you that “the hand that receives is always beneath the hand that gives.”
Paysage avec homme nu dans la neige.
That was the title of the book and the subject of the exam.
Landscape with a naked man in the snow.
I cannot now remember the title of the course but I have kept the book and clearly remember the lecturer who taught it; a small, pasty-faced man with a balding pate and shifty black eyes. There we were, in his office on the second floor of the Faculty of Letters, Monsieur le Professeur behind his desk and me on the opposite side facing him, nervously ready to sit this oral exam. It started off well enough, my confidence growing as I responded to the lecturer’s questions.
Then out of nowhere, like a violent slap across the face, his beady eyes boring into mine, came this: “Tell me Mademoiselle, naked white men fascinate you, don’t they? Do you like the title of the book? What does it make you think of? You black people are really fascinated by us whites, aren’t you?” I sat there utterly gobsmacked, unable to conjure up any sort of response, in outrage or even in pretense at a smart literary comeback. Then Monsieur le Professeur seemed to snap out of it, dismissing me with a peremptory Vous pouvez disposer!
I left his office and stopped to stare out through the large bay windows that overlooked the square below, too stunned to immediately leave the building and join the throngs of students lazing about in the summer sunshine. I felt sad, mad, sullied, impotent. I knew I could lodge a complaint but how would I frame it? With what words? There had only been the two of us in that office so it would be his word against mine. Also, I was the only black female student in my faculty that year so I had no one to compare notes with. And besides, I knew I had passed the exam; otherwise, as was the custom, Monsieur le Professeur would have informed me that I would be taking a re-sit come September. Why then would I start a fight I wasn’t sure I could win?
Yet now I believe that this acquiescence, this doubting of self, this not fighting back, had been inculcated in me, and that I had internalised it well. I remember being in secondary school and the Mother Superior informing us that Africans were required to attend national celebrations at Uhuru Park. Africans. Not the Asians or the Europeans that were in class with me, many of whom were, at least from a citizenship point of view, as Kenyan as I am. Africans. Black. Everyone else stayed behind as we Black Africans made our way to Uhuru Park that day. We did not complain. I did not complain.
An Irish nun given to long digressions into her distant childhood in County Cork taught us African history. Apartheid and Bantustans came up, a map showing the various desolate locations to which black South Africans had been relegated pinned to the classroom wall. Yet I do not remember any sense of outrage on the part of the teacher. Or on the part of us students. Kenya’s colonial history, with its native reserves, its racism and its violence, was certainly not taught. It was a time to forgive but never forget, we were constantly reminded, the not forgetting bit invoked as an after-thought, sotto voce.
And nor was Kenya’s painful history invoked at home; we were not a political family by any measure. The parents worked and the children went to school and did what was expected of them. Only much later did it occur to me to wonder what it might mean for my family that my grandfather had been a chief in colonial times.
We learned to recite Shakespeare, and became intimate with the Mayor of Casterbridge; the English classics held no secrets for us. I fell in love with the language of love, taught to me by one Mrs Kiprono (why on earth would anyone study Swahili?) and flew off to take a degree in Romance Languages the minute I could. And thus did I come face to face with my miseducation.
I had been on campus a year, struggling to dominate the language of Molière, when the time came to renew my student residency permit, having done well enough to progress to second year. Of I went to the immigration desk of our local authority one October morning, joining a line of foreigners there for the same reason when, suddenly, up at the top of the queue, a young black man lost it. “What?! I am exploiting the Belgian taxpayer?! Do you know how long we Congolese suffered under your rule? Do you know that we built this country? Do you know what King Leopold did to us? Do you? Well, if you think I’m profiting from you I haven’t even started yet Madame! I have come to repatriate what you took from me!”. Apparently, the prim madam attending to the queue had questioned his motivation to remain in Belgium since he had failed his year but the young Congolese man was having none of it; he threw a monumental, show-stopping fit and got his residency renewed there and then. I had never witnessed anything of the sort before. I realised there was another whole history out there I knew nothing about.
That young man made me feel emboldened and when, some time later, a couple of cops jumped dramatically out of their patrol car in that neighbourhood of Brussels known as Matongé—on account of its numerous Congolese businesses—and barked, “papiers!”, at Jean and I, clearly hoping that we were undocumented illegals, we laughed in their faces as we handed over our student IDs. A young female lecturer of African descent recently arrived at the department of history had me transfixed when she took on a white professor at an international students event. In his cravat, floppy hat and carefully cultivated air of the worldly dandy, the prof had been waxing lyrical about his time at the Université Lovanium in Congo-Kinshasa, practically working himself into a state of ecstasy at the recall of the beauty of Congolese women dancers during faculty parties. Her “je danse, donc je suis?”, I dance, therefore I am?, abruptly put paid to that self-indulgent, paternalistic, walk down memory lane.
The scales had fallen from my eyes and I had come to the painful realisation that I had been lied to and that things were not as they seemed. I started reading properly, discovering the works of Cheikh Anta Diop and promoting them with the zeal of a recent convert, once eliciting the comment of a white friend that he would henceforth have to regard me in a totally different light, now that he was having to contemplate the notion that Africans had entire civilisations behind them. I was astounded.
A first full-time job after graduation brought me into the world of trade unions, a world where I expected that the rallying call—“Workers of the world, unite!”—excluded racists from the ranks of its diverse membership. That is until I found myself sitting between two Italian delegates to whom I was providing consecutive interpretation when a white speaker, referring to Namibians, ejaculated: “But these people are animals! You can’t do anything with them!”. (The man had a contract to undertake trade union education among the said “animals”.) I could not translate that statement, did not know what to do with it even as the two Italians kept asking me, “What did he say? What did he say?”. The meeting broke up in pandemonium.
I moved jobs a while later and found myself working under a Belgian director who liked to advance his reputation as a friend of Africa and Africans, holding court in his office through the doors of which hopeful African immigrés would flow, many met in the African nightclubs Monsieur le Directeur liked to frequent. Which did not dissuade him from treating very ill a young man to whom he had offered a job as his PR man, holding him by the contractual balls and giving them a squeeze every so often, just because he could. That young man eventually lost his job. And his mind. He was Congolese.
I cannot claim to have been a victim of the odious, brutal racism of the kind daily suffered by – predominantly – African American men in the United States. The racism I encountered during my time abroad was of the insidious kind, the kind that lets you in through the door and feigns to accept you as an equal while reminding you that “the hand that receives is always beneath the hand that gives”, as one senior manager, a Frenchman, put it to staff to justify why African beneficiaries of international development cooperation largesse needn’t expect to have their views taken into serious consideration in the execution of a project.
In the meantime, other books were published. Like King Leopold’s Ghost, a quick primer on the brutality of the agents of King Leopold II in the Congo Free State. My heart went out to the Congolese after that one. Or the horrifyingly detailed Britain’s Gulag, which at first I was unable to read to the end; the torture casually perpetrated in the Kenyan concentration camps by the colonists and their local collaborators was beyond anything I could bear to know. It took ten years for me to go back to that book, and to start asking questions about that time. I was shocked to learn from an aunt now in her early 70s that she knew of women who never did get married, could find no one to marry them, because they were daughters of known Ngati, the Kikuyu Home Guards that did the colonial government’s dirty work.
There was still the question of my grandfather who had been a chief in those times. I loved and revered that man, and did not want to have to contemplate that he might have been a party to the suffering visited upon Kenyans by the colonial government and its craven collaborators. And so I did not probe. Then, quite by chance, I fell upon The Swords of Kĩrĩnyaga: the fight for land and freedom, a book written by H.K. Wachanga, a former freedom fighter and, in those pages, I learnt something about my grandfather that freed me from the fear that my family had been on the wrong side of Kenya’s history.
[W]e met the Muhĩto Location Chief, Jeremiah Kĩnyua s/o Kĩru. He was a most unusual chief, because he had taken the second Mau Mau oath. He warned us that the government was searching for Kĩmathi, Mathenge and myself. He said Kimathĩ and Mathenge were to be tried for murder and that I was to be detained. He implored me to escape to Nairobi and hide there.
I learnt very recently from a contemporary of my grandfather’s that his chieftaincy was short-lived. Jeremiah Kĩnyua son of Kiru would not commit exactions against his people, and eschewed violence and corruption. And so he was quietly removed, never again to hold public office, living a dignified life and dying an honourable death four years shy of his 100th birthday.
Covid Organics: Towards an African Renaissance
Following the outbreak of a pandemic in the city of Wuhan during a Chinese winter that will forever remain etched in the annals of history, Madagascar has been dramatically thrust to the fore on the international stage with its announcement of the development of a herbal remedy for COVID-19.
Unlike other former French colonies in Africa such as Benin, Cameroon, Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), Senegal and Mali that have been acclaimed for placing the continent on the world map musically, Madagascar is not known for its musical prowess. The country pales in comparison to Cape Verde, that tiny island in the Atlantic Ocean that produced the gifted voice of Cesária Évora, and gave birth to Amilcar Cabral, the anti-colonial revolutionary and theoretician. But with the outbreak of a pandemic in the city of Wuhan during a Chinese winter that will forever remain etched in the annals of history, Madagascar has been dramatically thrust to the fore on the international stage.
Madagascar caught the world’s attention in April 2020 after announcing that it had made an extraordinary breakthrough in the field of (indigenous African) medicine. The Madagascar Institute of Applied Research (IMRA), which describes itself as “dedicated to biodiversity conservation and the discovery of drugs from natural products”, announced the development of Covid Organics (CVO) from the artemisia plant. Promoted as an herbal remedy that prevents and cures those who have tested positive for COVID-19, the drug has caused a sensation in a continent that has been marginalised by an international scientific community that views Africa as a spectator rather than as a player. But let me put a few things into perspective.
Long before CVO, the island nation’s flourishing plant life had been used for medicinal purposes, a tradition dating back to its pre-colonial days. The colonial epoch, however, disrupted this practice in order to introduce conventional medicine just like in other colonised African countries. In Madagascar, the practice was revived through the establishment of IMRA and deliberate emphasis was placed on the “value of plants in healing”, confirmed by the scientific tradition of investigating their chemical compounds to improve their efficacy. Remarkably, this revival began in the late 1950s when most African countries were on the cusp of independence and self-rule, with Ghana taking the lead (in 1957), and Madagascar and others following from 1960 onwards.
Political independence and self-rule coincided with the need to reclaim old practices and traditions that had been suppressed in the colonial era. The COVID-19 herbal remedy which continues to elicit excitement is, therefore, part of a long and rich African tradition that has resisted erasure.
Covid Organics comes against the backdrop of other encouraging and bold African interventions to combat various diseases that have plagued the world in recent decades. Before COVID-19, another viral disease stalked parts of West and Central Africa, resulting in more than 10,000 deaths. First reported in the DRC and in present-day South Sudan in 1976, the fight against Ebola has over the decades underscored the importance of the active involvement of local populations in deploying indigenous knowledge and remedies. Not many Africans are aware of the indescribable bravery of Sheik Umar Khan, a Sierra Leonean virologist who helped scores of Ebola patients before succumbing to the virus. Very few have heard of Dr Matthew Lukwiya, a Ugandan doctor who generated a substantial body of knowledge in the fight against Ebola before falling victim to the disease.
These few examples arguably contest the pervasive idea that conventional medicine and, to a large extent, western intervention are the only antidotes to African problems. The paradox in all this is the economic impoverishment of Madagascar, Sierra Leone and Uganda where a majority of citizens still live below the poverty line as compared to, say, South Africa, Nigeria, Kenya and Egypt. There are, of course, other factors that explain the economic differences, but the most important point here is that innovation tends to occur where the need is greatest.
No one epitomises this innovative spirit more than IMRA founder, Prof Albert Rakoto, whose earlier studies on the artemisia plant have contributed immensely to the development of Covid Organics. (The research on Covid Organics has been falsely credited to Jérôme Munyangi, a Congolese researcher.) Rakoto’s insistence on blending indigenous and conventional medicine is vital because it is likely to solve two problems with a single solution, retaining traditional medicine practices that are readily available within most African communities while adapting modern scientific trends to improve the effectiveness of plants such as artemisia in order to complement the strained healthcare infrastructure.
It is safe to say that so far Madagascar is reaping the benefits of its discovery if the coronavirus figures in the island nation are anything to go by. At the time of writing this article, the country had recorded 1,724 confirmed positive cases with only 15 deaths, and 732 recovered and discharged. The figures nearly mirror those of other former French colonies like Guinea Bissau and Equatorial Guinea which have reported under 20 deaths each so far, and are also the beneficiaries of the Covid Organics. Therefore, as the global pandemic continues to evolve, it will become increasingly foolhardy for the international scientific community to ignore this very interesting trend.
Recently, there have been thinly veiled attempts—mainly by western mainstream media outlets—to cast aspersions on the drug. Reuters described the herbal remedy as a “cure” , the quotation marks serving to cast doubts on the claims made by Madagascar about Covid Organics, while FRANCE24 brazenly and without batting an eyelid went ahead to call it “The president’s controversial ‘miracle cure’” in one of their news stories. Some of these problematic media framings go beyond the often false premise that nothing good can come out of Africa. Instead, they are part of a deliberate, but subtle ideological battle that persistently discredits anything African that might be of benefit to the world.
The use of the word “miracle” by FRANCE24 captures this vividly because it implies superstition – some irrational belief in the healing powers of the drug – instead of the deployment of homegrown science and logic in responding to a virus that has ravaged western countries more than any other part of the world. Some Africans have joined the fray in ridiculing the wonder drug, provoking a déjà vu moment reminiscent of Ocol’s infamous lamentations to Lawino:
We will round up
All these priests
[…] And herbalists,
[…] Dealers in poisons
Extracted from plants
The leading proponent of the drug is Andry Rajoelina, the wiry-looking Malagasy president with his signature toothy smile. Before he ascended to power, the 46-year old was an event organiser. He has progressively become the poster boy for the drug, and more importantly, for the shaping and reimagining the course of the African Renaissance. Through various interviews granted to media platforms, Rajoelina continues to insist that nothing will stop the continent from devising homegrown solutions to respond to local and even global problems. His memorable rallying cry was expressed during a television session with FRANCE24 when he asked: “What if this remedy had been discovered by a European country, instead of Madagascar? Would people doubt it so much?”
Rajoelina is not the first African to challenge the institutionalised racism that has plagued people of colour the world over since the advent of European imperialism. Pioneer pan-African thinkers and philosophers like Marcus Garvey, W.E.B Dubois, Malcolm X and Frantz Fanon dedicated their lives to fighting racism in a world that had been designed to minimise the contributions of non-white peoples. Accordingly, how did one reconcile with the nightmare that Dubois called “double consciousness”? The “sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity” that currently informs the discourse on Covid Organics? Lately, Julius Malema, who leads South Africa’s Economic Freedom Fighters (EFF) party, has been at the forefront in challenging and questioning inherited ideas of self-doubt and inferiority complex that Rajoelina also now contends with. Malema, like Rajoelina today, has been a fierce proponent of Africa and has even called for the dismantling of colonial borders that prevent ease of movement and trade among Africans.
Despite not being geographically located on the African continent, Madagascar identifies as African, not just because of its significant Bantu population, but because of a growing continental pride, especially among the younger generation. In the last few years, the rise and rise of African music like afrobeats (West Africa), kizomba music (in lusophone countries), rumba (in Central Africa), bongo (in Tanzania) and gqom and amapiano (in South Africa) has galvanized young Africans to new forms of negotiating and asserting their racial and geographical identities within a globalised world.
Madagascar’s development of a herbal remedy for COVID-19 has become an extension of this ongoing negotiation with identity that constantly invokes the slogans Africa Unite and I am proud to be African. Therefore, its location several kilometres further into the Indian Ocean has not dissuaded the Malagasy people from identifying with the pan-African goal of a strong, unified continent ready to determine her own destiny.
There are, of course, those who may voice criticism that Rajoelina’s COVID-19 remedy is not enough to catalyse the important conversation of the African Renaissance, and that it is a passing fad that will soon be forgotten as long as COVID-19 continues to mutate. While this argument is valid, the critics fail to acknowledge that indigenous strategies of confronting diseases, particularly those that are viral, including HIV/AIDS, remain instrumental in instilling optimism and hope in a continent that has been battered by persistent narratives of despair and Afro-pessimism. Madagascar essentially provides the continent with a new incentive to sustain, for example, the debate around patents and intellectual property rights that have received scant attention from African governments. The island nation further acts as a symbolic incubation centre for creative, radical and innovative ideas that are not afraid to confront mainstream thinking (on matters medicine) in the 21st century.
Madagascar’s story has just begun and it will continue to follow the same trajectory as long as the beneficiaries of the herbal remedy recover from COVID-19. Western media stations will have to rethink their reporting on African issues because the old ways will no longer work. African sounds, not just music in the sonic sense, but the capacity to speak and be heard will increasingly become the norm rather than the exception. A deepening African consciousness, that in the past was considered an anathema, will progressively influence new ways of engagement between fellow Africans within and outside the continent and between Africans and non-Africans. It is highly probable that the engagement—time is on Africa’s side (considering the youthful population)—will always be of equals and not that of a master and subordinate. With Rajoelina and Malema and Bobi Wine and many countless others accelerating these pan-African conversations through music, art, speeches, and most importantly, home-grown science, Africa’s voice is set to soar.
This Place I Cannot Call Home
There is adrenaline rushing through my veins. Too much cortisol is pouring into my system. Every time I hear a police car. To one group, the sound of a police siren is comforting. A sense of guaranteed protection of life and property. For others, it portends death.
In Memory of The Charleston Nine.
Tomorrow the sun will rise at nine,
And nine thin blades of grass will sprout straight,
Each single blade,
Tall and erect, green heads, sharp edges held straight,
Listening to the crickets at dawn,
Cracking their wings nine times,
Tomorrow at nine,
When the sun is warm and the earth is happy,
Standing at the cliffs of Charles-Stone,
With the winds at their command,
What if each bullet had a name?
What if you could call each bullet back?
Soon, when it leaves the barrel,
From cracking the air with the sounds of broken bones,
Of men, silent forever,
And each bullet was put to bed, to sleep,
Would that bring back life?
I came to this land in September of 2014. Just when Ferguson, Missouri was happening. I watched most of the rioting on television. I was not very disturbed that Michael Brown Jr. had been shot dead. I was stressed that Darren Wilson had fired at Brown twelve times. And hit him six times. I have watched people hunt lions in Africa. And warthogs. And other wild animals. There is hardly enough time to fire twelve times at a charging buffalo. Let alone an unarmed human. I was shocked at the hate and fear that would push a man, a police officer, to execute a fellow unarmed man in this heinous fashion. It all looked like a bad hunting trip. Something out of a horror movie.
I settled in front of the television. The communal loss and mourning flowed from the television, in clear crystal images. Into my veins. I watched it on repeat. Seeking meaning for it all. One of the people visiting my house wondered out loud what was wrong with these people. Why were they burning and looting? And fighting the police? She had made no comment about Brown’s death before this. She was only concerned about the loss of property.
It occurred to me right there and then that I was alone. Like many black people who go to parties with their white friends. And only learn they are alone when the police appear. Or when they get pulled over. And their skin colour suddenly makes them fair game. To be prodded. Inspected. Violated. Knelt on. The people who were bearing the pain of this murder, and the travesty of justice that would follow, were not dining with me at the same table, or dancing with me in the hipster bars that I go to. No. They were the ones out there in the streets. They were the prey. I was learning quickly. That not even a law education from Harvard can save you from the hunters of black bodies in this land.
I am folding into myself. Like a flower that has sensed a warning in the environment. A change in temperature. The coming of a storm. Of death. I am folding into myself to protect my seed. And the future generation. America has been good to me. Yet I am hesitant to freely enjoy its fullness. There is a tightness in my chest. There is adrenaline rushing through my veins. Too much cortisol is pouring into my system. Every time I hear a police car. To one group, the sound of a police siren is comforting. A sense of guaranteed protection of life and property. For others, it portends death.
Let me tell you a story. One day I was visiting a friend of mine. In front of his house, I met this man who looked like me. He was black. Of medium height. No visible body markings. He fit the description. Like in the emails I get at work. There has been a case of suspected robbery. The suspect is a black male. Of medium height. If you see a person of that description, please call 911. That is me. I fit the description.
This man approached me with measured caution. He called me brother. I came into town today, he said. I came to look for my cousin who cuts hair around the corner. I have learned that he left town. I am asking you for ten dollars to buy dinner. As I figure my way around. I did not feel threatened in anyway. He looked like me. Black man. Of medium height. I shook his hand. I gave him a twenty. And wished him well.
I stepped into my friend’s house. Before us was expensive whisky. And overpriced education. And imagined success. And sports. I told them about the man I had just encountered. The white men were unanimous that I should have called the cops on the guy. Let the police deal with it. They wanted the police to get on with their duty to the society—to remove the bad guys from our neighbourhoods. Men like the one who stole ten minutes from me. They were not welcome to wander around these neighbourhoods. This man I had encountered fit the description. I suddenly feared for him. Wondering where his night would end.
I am more aware of my surroundings. You are wondering how this feels? How freedom and equality feel in the land of the free? Sit down. Let me tell you. You remember what grandfather would say? That when the hairs on your neck stand stiff, when you step out at night. It is because there is a leopard watching you. Run back inside. Yell for help. Every able-bodied man must then get their spears. Leave the warmth of their wives. To hunt the leopard. Kill it. And its spirits. Before it kills a child. For nothing tastes as good as freedom. There is no gift more precious than freedom that a man can give to his son and daughter. Not here. My father. The freedom is only guaranteed to the offspring of certain peoples. The others can’t breathe. These people have found a way to extend the fear of the slave master, legally, into the heart of the black community. The police are their vehicle of delivery. The justice system reinforces it. In this way, the law has been used to bend the black man into shapes that work for America. Society is happy to spend funds on heavily policing the poor rather than on initiatives aimed at reaching out and integrating the black communities. Communities that have raised heroes in sports and the arts and have contributed to American culture. My father. I hope I do not sound regretful. Or Resentful. Or defeated.
It is June of 2015. It is almost a year since Ferguson, Missouri. It is almost six months since three Muslim students were massacred in a housing complex near my house, over a parking space dispute. On that day, the darkness in this white man’s heart, engulfed the whole community in a black blanket of sorrow and sadness. It would remind this sleepy community that the leopard is out there. Crouching. Ready to pounce from behind historical lines of racial tensions. And eat the minority. I was quickly learning about the fault lines of this country. The volcano beneath the smiling faces. The coded words. “You speak English so well”. “You should thank God you are here”. “It is very hard to be American, be thankful”. “We thank God for you”. “This place can’t be worse than your home”. I was also learning that it is harder to grow up black in Chicago than it is to grow up in Jericho, Nairobi. That America was created along racial lines. And morality also flowed like an electric current, along the boundaries of these lines. That it is so hard for the church to be one. That a compromise had to be reached, where Jesus was sliced in two, along racial lines. The one in black churches was shouted at. Implored. Yelled at. In spirit. Into action. Jesus save our black men, from death, from the police. From gun violence. The one in white churches, was thanked for the good life. For the good neighbourhood. For one country. Under God. For the gift of police. Blue lives matter.
Following the shooting in Charleston, I found myself in a black church, mourning. The preacher was white. I was disappointed because I wanted the rage in the sermon to flow to me through black lips. Black voice. Black anger. The voice that had trembled, while explaining to a police officer, why she was sorry for driving two miles over the speed limit. A voice filled with scorn. Twisted. Yelling. Fuck the system. Broken. By the loss of another brother. The sermon was meek. Organised. I wanted chaos. I wanted to question God. Why. The loss was palpable. I started folding into myself. I cried. I wrote poetry. I had been here hardly a year. And all the safe spaces were crowded with violence.
There are things we should not tell children. Me, I have started talking to Theo. Explaining to him, that though the police remove the bad guys, like they do in the movies, they also kill a lot of innocent people. Black people. People like me. That is why we have been marching. And that’s why I have not been able to sleep since George Floyd died. And Ahmaud Arbery. I am permanently suspended in this dream where I am riding my bike down a road. And a pick-up truck sneaks up behind me. They yell something. And everything descends into black beautiful petals. I wake up scared. Unable to sleep again. I think I am having nightmares about Ahmaud Arbery. They did not want him jogging in their neighbourhood. So, they chased him down, run him over and shot him in the chest. His running was making them so mad. So hateful. That they chose death, as the rightful punishment for him.
You know about Floyd. You called me. And talked to me. You don’t know about Breonna Taylor. You didn’t know about Trayvon Martin. You don’t know about this pain. You know about Dr King. You know about Malcolm. You bought his autobiography so that Kevin and I could read it. When we were 14. You don’t know about Emmet Till. How death can come to a black child falsely accused of whistling at a white woman. Who can kill a child for whistling? And walk free. And Philando Castile. And Tamir Rice. And Sandra Bland. And Eric Garner. And Freddie Gray. The list is longer than the length of the Nile. My father. I am folding into myself.
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