Inspired (not) by Africa
I came home after a month long in Kenya, and I was at work the next next day.
“You look tan!” “you must be having lots of fun!” “did you enjoy your time away?” “I am planning my sabbatical there in a year!” exclaimed my co-workers.
I was forced to smile and chit-chat superficially for a few days until… my therapy session. In forty five minutes, I was able to summarize my time in Kenya, synthesize the complicated relationships between extended family members and analyze what the trip meant to me (while thinking about the stigma of attending therapies).
I asked myself why I have not dedicate a full 50 minutes to tell that story to somebody, not my husband, not my family, not my best friends, but my therapist. Not even my journal! I bought a new journal for the trip, and I only wrote down a few pages when I was stranded at the airport!
But I do have the answer: IT IS COMPLICATED.
First off, my flight(s) were a mess. It took me longer than a direct flight to get to where I am supposed to. Then the home, aka my in-laws home, is a brand new semi D near city center, quite different from where it once was.
Walking around the residential estate, a chinese lady was jogging, she passed by me twice with music playing aloud, and it was Andy Lau’s voice, and for a minute I forgot that I was walking around Nairobi, Kenya.
11 years after I first stepped foot into this country, people are no longer doe-eye when encountering an Asian face in the streets of Nairobi. Chinese construction companies has built highways, intercity trains and skyscrapers for years and has been slowly carving out neighborhood for themselves, just like the Indians did several decades ago. I have heard of a Chinese grocery stores near a friend’s where I will be visiting just to see what kind of goods they are providing here. It was not too different from my excitement when I first learned of a huge Chinese supermarket back in the States.
But the empty walls, familiar family photos and albums hidden in lower shelves, new furnitures, all in all a very disorienting newness is throwing me off. I felt like I have to work on “feeling like home”. There is a house helper who lives in the servant’s quarter (SQ), so I woke up to a full table set up for breakfast: fruits, tea, porridge the very first morning. Working in my in-law’s kitchen, I felt handicapped for there’s no cleaver, wooden chop board and chopsticks.
My brother-in-law is the visual representation of change to me. When I first met him, he was 10. And now, he is 21. The family experienced drastic change in those eleven years that is really hard to put into words.
For a month, I was a very visible observer. I stood out as the Asian daughter and sister-in-law in the crowd. I was allowed into close-door conversations, and I could quietly observe the thrust and tension between people and things around me. It was not an easy nor comfortable position, therefore I was not completely relaxed the whole time.
Our vacation sets the scene towards a grandiose thanksgiving celebration during our first week in Kenya. We left the city for a 3–4 day getaway in the mountains. It was a castle built by a self-made man whose dream was to built a castle in his hometown after he made it. It was a beautiful escapade with lots of buffet to feed for days. Time slowed down. We felt like royalties. It was Christmas. However we had to tip-toe around drinking and activities that wasn’t kosher enough for the parents. We didn’t linger around crowds or site-seeing sites, just with each other in the dining halls.
The eve of the thanksgiving celebration, the kids (my husband K, my brother-in-law B and myself) went to an opening of a K’s cousin’s business, an alcohol shop with sitting area. There we met many cousins who came and celebrated by downing free hard liquors available to us. Though they are cousins, K seemed to genuinely enjoy their company, they asked questions like, “Why are you so smart?” “How did you make it to PhD and America?” — questions that could be asked by any strangers frankly. I had to pull K out of the situation (with a lot of challenge) so that he could wake up fresh and ready in the morning for the Thanksgiving celebration that was all about honoring his minted doctorate degree and job at an ivy-league institution (Weeks later, when K was already back in US, we learned that the very same cousins celebrated some birthday back at the same spot, and we weren’t invited).
Many people came for the thanksgiving. It was in the grounds of a fancy restaurant. Pretty tents were erected and beautiful table cloths and chairs cover were set up just for the event. Had it not been raining, it would be even more ‘perfect’. The atmosphere reminded me of weddings, where you can see important family and friends, but you can never truly catch up or engage with them, because their main function is bearing witness to this ‘manicured’ and ‘curated’ event. However, all the congratulations and compliments cannot take away the sorrowful and lonely nights we endured through those graduate student days. We were poor, mentally drained, and myself unauthorized to work, but we kept going for the promise of a recognized, comfortable life after the doctorate degree. As an artist, it is in my nature to point to the truths that are difficult to process or swallow. It was through those fragile details that I appreciate the moments of triumph.
But alas, I can only illustrate a few anecdotes of change and the inequality of access due to class and economical status observed by yours truly in Kenya. Perhaps I’ll write a different chapter zeroing in on private and public education, American and local educated African graduates, the state of NOT grieving, church life, and the colonial mentality that the elites possess in (re)creating exclusive spaces. Till then, feel free to drop a line or two regarding this piece.
