Chapter Four.
Nairobi, 1986-87.
A second encounter hastened the end of my naivete’. Although this one stemmed from a course assignment, it can be said to have bridged the academic and personal sides of my political education. At any rate, such categories are usually meaningless.
Every student at the U. of N. who came from a francophone, or other non-anglophone, country (e.g., Angola), was required, during their first semester, to enroll in an introductory course in English-As-a-Second Language (E.S.L.). In 1986, the University did not yet offer an examination through which students could by-pass this requirement. Although I was among those who, perhaps, least needed the class, it turned out to confer a great benefit. (Life, as I have implied, is often governed by the law of unintended consequences.)
In order to practice our spoken English, a few weeks after my matriculation each student in ESL 100 was required to find, and interview, “a person of interest.” Since competition for celebrities and other telegenic public figures was keen, I determined to sortir des sentiers battus [“think outside the box”]. I came up with what seemed to me a clever idea: I would look for someone accustomed to interviewing others, i.e., a journalist.
So, one afternoon after classes, having an hour or two before I needed to go to my job (of which, more later). I borrowed a telephone from my friendly landlady, and called “Customer Service” at the Kenya Clarion. When a receptionist answered, I boldly asked to be connected with the Editorial Department. To my surprise, without requesting further information, she put me through, and someone actually picked up.
“Charles Okello here. What can I do you for?” Why did this name sound familiar? Ignoring the small joke, I nervously stated my business. He laughed, and replied, “Well, my friend, today is your lucky day. Hold the line, please!” It turned out that, by some quirk, I had been connected with the Head of the Editorial Department, a well-known journalist.
After a few moments, another male voice got on the line, this one deeper. “Emmanuel Juma speaking.” To my disbelief, I had now been connected with perhaps the most famous political cartoonist in all of eastern Africa. During my two months in Nairobi, and even before, in my days at L’institut, I had chuckled over this man’s drawings, many of which hilariously lampooned the ruling class and other “fat cats,” in both Kenya and nearby countries. There was even one that depicted Ngongo’s President-Dictator, General Nkwema, eating grossly from huge, glittering copper dishes. That one has obviously stayed with me.) Anyway, mastering my surprise, I started to repeat what I had said to his boss.
Emmanuel Juma cut me off. “Yes, yes, I will be glad to accede to your request, Mister Tshombe. (No relation, I presume?) Why not? You can interview me over lunch tomorrow, if that’s convenient. I, myself, have this time free, because I just sent in my drawing for Thursday’s edition. Shall we meet at, say, the Omnivore, at noon? That way, we can beat the crowd. And, oh, this will be my treat, of course.” I agreed, of course. “Shall I give you the address?” I told him that I knew it.
Not that it would have mattered, but the arrangement suited me at least as well as Emmanuel Juma said it suited him. My only class the following day, Intro. to Econs., ended at 11:15, and since the celebrated Omnivore was an easy half-hour’s walk from the University, I would hardly need to break a sweat -- unless (I irrationally worried) I happened to run into that Zimbabwean again! Since I did not have to report for work until four, I would presumably have time after the lunch and interview to gather such wits as my menial job required.
That brings me to my long-postponed job description. I was employed as a janitorial custodian at a well-known dry-goods store. My hours were four to ten, six days a week. The pay was sufficient to garder le loup [“keep the wolf from the door”].
As I would learn at the interview the next day, my great good fortune in securing it was the consequence of a practical joke. Charles Okello, Mr. Juma’s superior, had passed me off as the nephew of a wealthy businessman who was a major shareholder in the parent company of The Clarion. After we had ordered a delicious fish stew, to be washed down with a local beer, the cartoonist alluded to this imaginary uncle, and I was unable to restrain my laughter. The explanation followed, as did the interview.
An hour-and-a-quarter later, as we were shaking hands out on the sidewalk, Mr. Juma shrugged off my profuse thanks, then muttered, “I must think of an ingenious way to get even with Charles.” Then, he quickly added, “Not to say that our meeting has been anything but a pleasure, Mr. Tshombe! I hope your project receives highest marks. Oh, would you be so kind as to send me the transcript before you turn in the final paper? I ask this because of your method of recording our conversation.”
He tapped the side of his forehead, which meant he understood that I had relied on memory. I did agree, of course. Then, in a daze, I returned his soft handshake, and we parted.
You will have noticed, Reader, that, thus far, the account of my meeting with the famous cartoonist has not included any of my questions or his responses. I thought it more expeditious to append to this account excerpts from the transcript that I hand-delivered to the newspaper’s offices a few days later. Mr. Juma made only a few minor corrections, and an addition or two. I wound up receiving 11.5 points for the completed project, and I would have received the full 12, if not for a few spelling and minor grammatical errors. The instructor was, as they say, professeur jusq’au bout des ongles [“a stickler”].
The following extracts may have the benefit of hindsight, in that they come from the portions of our discussion which turned out to have the greatest bearing on my subsequent life as an activist. I am sure you have heard the truism that people from “oral cultures” have strong memories. Understanding, too, that the interview proper did not begin until we had each consumed the better part of a l500 ml. bottle of beer, here are the excerpts. Caveat lector! [Reader beware!]
PT: For which African leader, or leaders, do you feel the greatest esteem?
EJ: Julius Nyerere, of course, or as we call him, Mwalimu. Do you speak Kiswahili, my friend? The meaning of the soubriquet is “teacher.”
PT: What, in particular, about Nyerere do you admire?
EJ: Well, of course, you know that he was the inventor of Ujamaa, the idea that a polity should behave as if its citizens were a large family. I mean, many African leaders have espoused the virtues of socialism, of community, and employed the slogan, “Africa for the African.” Such slogans are to us what “motherhood and apple pie” are to the Americans. But, unlike most of the others, this man, Mwalimu, who began his working life not in politics, but as a village schoolteacher, always walked the walk. To his great credit, Julius Nyerere never lost the common touch. And, then, there was his particular vision of African socialism. But don’t get me started! Ah, how I love this man!
PT: Am I mistaken, then, in thinking that you are Kenyan-born?
EJ: A common misconception, caused by my surname. “Juma’s” are found in several countries across the region. In fact, although I have lived and worked in Nairobi for almost a decade now, I am a born and bred Tanzanian.
PT: But given what you have said, why did you…”
EJ: Simple, my friend: opportunity. Nairobi is where a journalist like myself can earn a living. Oh, of course, I cut my teeth at the Arusha Clarion, but in 1978, when I was starting a family, I transferred to the Kenyan branch. The two papers share joint ownership, you know.
PT: Can you say a bit more about your decision to relocate? I mean, I know through personal experience some of the hardships faced by people who live in exile.
EJ: Well, Pierre -- may I call you that? -- I had two main motives. First, the one I just mentioned, money. As Nyerere has said, procuring sufficient capital is perhaps the single greatest stumbling block to African socialism. To me, personally, as well!
PT: Understood. My Econs. professor never stops lamenting that fact.
EJ: And the second motive for leaving the friendly confines of my native land? Heh, heh, you may be surprised when I tell you. The second reason involved a different type of opportunity. Once I had found my true vocation, as political cartoonist, my admiration for Mwalimu presented me with a Hobson’s Choice -- a “choice,” that is, in which both options are bad -- either to traduce my hero, or to succumb to journalistic castration. In other words, I decamped to Nairobi for the chance to batten on fatter, juicier targets!
PT: Speaking of targets, I’ve heard that, when one or another group wins an election here, they say, “It’s our turn to eat.” How big a problem is corruption in Kenya? And does the election victory of a particular ethnic group –- Kikuyu, Kalenjin, or Luo -- signal a shift at the table?
EJ: I should say so! Over the years, perhaps half my cartoons have involved political gluttony. Since we are, ourselves, in the midst of consuming a delicious meal, I will not disgust you with the specifics. But I will say that the incumbent P.M., who will soon be standing for his third term in office, should pay heed to his burgeoning waistline.
PT: Are your masters at the Clarion not offended by your cartoons?
EJ: Ha! One of the things that protects both Charles, my boss, and me, is that we are both outsiders. He is from Uganda, you know. People can say, “What do this Ugandan and this Tanzanian really know about Kenya?” It makes them feel better. But one of these days -- or years -- I am certain they will give me the sack!
PT: Why hasn’t that happened already? I mean, you have been…
EJ: Again, my friend, the simple answer is money. As my masters know full well, when the average Kenyan buys the paper, he or she turns immediately to the Editorial pages, where they can count on enjoying a knowing chuckle at my latest drawing.
PT: One last question, please, Mr. Juma –- a comment, really. From all that you have told me, may I say that you seem to me to be a tickbird, of sorts, riding on the back of the capitalist rhinoceros? Do you consider yourself more of a subversive, or an ameliorationist?
EJ: Oh, ho, ha ha ha! “Tickbird,” eh? Oh, ho, you are a very funny somebody, Mr. Pierre! “Subversive?” “Ameliorationist”? Seriously, the truthful answer can only be both!
That this interview was my favorite assignment during the time I spent at the U. of N. is not to say my classes were devoid of other interest. The two or three that I initially took during each of my first four semesters were all good, perhaps because the school’s twin focuses on business and agriculture proved so fruitful to a proto-activist like myself.
For instance, a course called “The Economic Legacy of Colonialism” (“ECLEGCOL”) included a month-long unit on the concessionaire system, which was still wreaking havoc in those nations of our region formerly governed by the French or Belgians. Of course, that particular unit had special significance for me.
To give but one further example, during my fourth term in Nairobi, I enrolled in “Land and Politics (LAP)” This class (for which ECLEGCOL was a prerequisite), examined several of the burning issues of east African agriculture, such as ongoing occupation of the most fertile lands by settler populations, thereby keeping alive colonial-era arrangements. My professor, the renowned Dr. Trevor Mwita, often waxed eloquent about the political implications of the resulting discontent among small holders. For several weeks, LAP focused on famous rebellions in which agrarian issues had played major roles. Perhaps the best-known example was the Mau Mau Uprising, in Kenya. Our syllabus included even the Afulaya, previously known to me from that memorable lunchtime harangue by my schoolfellow, Andrew, at L’institut Pedagoque, back in Fort Chaltin.
Such courses provided my formal introduction to organized political dissent. Several professors (including Dr. Mwita) vaguely alluded to their sympathy with and, possibly even membership in, clandestine groups. Introducing our guest lecturers, these professors were sometimes vague about a guest’s affiliation, leaving us to draw our own conclusions.
One such guest, in Land and Politics, apparently hailed from the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC), whose name had, by then, been changed to Zaire. An impressive woman, she was introduced only as “a disciple of the late renowned political and military leader, Pierre.” As his namesake, I knew that “Pierre” must refer to none other than Pierre Mulele, the late charismatic leader of the Kwilu Rebellion, in the DRC. In Nairobi, more than a decade after his death, was it still dangerous even to speak the man’s name?
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