Tribe

I summarise the staple food of the Texan, so far, as meat. Burgers, Steak and chicken tenders.* A state of ranchers in a land where efficiency is the motto. Maximise the little (even if it means modify its genes or inject it with growth hormones), repackage it, make it magnificent and sell it to the world.

It seduces all whom the indignation of stagnation is worse than the abrasion of skin colour politics. Even though at night they dream of the groundnut paste they left back home, the brown one where the oil oozes out when ready, in the morning, the idea of a meritocracy pursues them. It is a place where things work.

Another thing about the Texan tribe, is that they will start up a conversation, make a joke, exaggerate a smile, pick your things off the floor, pay attention to your baby, all in a bid to earn an extra dollar or ten. Dining out is an arcade game where you do not know just how much you will have to throw up in the air and they don’t know how much they will catch.

It is interesting that tribes in the Savannah thought that whiteness was synonymous with senseless donations and unrestrained philanthropy. Only now that a certain Aid body is being disbanded is it becoming clear that corruption is a human DNA not an African one and that for personal gain, people can and have done many things, even if it means remote controlling your brain with a never ending algorithm.

©amk

The majority of the inhabitants of the Savannah grasslands and the (former) Tropical rainforest on the other hand, have for long had no understanding of money, time or even individual wealth for that matter. Generations of batter trade and communal living are behind us, but still, we will rejoice with an unexpected visitor, collect large sums of money for the very important cause of a communal celebration of marriage rites and hand cash over to babies. It is called black tax these days, and will all be way outside a Ramsey approved budget because, we give even without having.

A tribe of people, which, in comparison to the rest of the world is microscopic; people who speak the same language and understand the various meanings in the different intonations of the exclamation – Eh. EH. eh eh. Eeeeh. 

We are a tribe of people who are warmed by the presence of others, relying on others sometimes without expectation of return. Sometimes though, the warmth of others inflames us, and we like to meddle in the spiritual world, easily shifting from prayer to enchantments.

©amk

Yesterday, we drove away from a dental appointment where once again, I was before strangers, in a deficit in cultural interpretation not even Duolingo can help; language being a silent understanding that people have of each other. I have found myself on the sharp end of both, looking for warmth in the white blocks and tinted glass windows where you can see only your own reflection. And yet, even here, I am in hiding. Anonymous. My son asked me if something on the television reminded me of home, of the constant noise of people and things. How much does he remember? I think of the sun. I think of the wait, the weight of it. Some days I think about the loud speakers blaring announcements of concerts, through the streets which already, are buzzing with murmurs of ‘cockroaches’ (cockroaches also known as biyenge– small radios with poor quality sound), the pickups carrying these promoters, passing lazily through the traffic jam and then slowly disappearing along the street, a web of familiarity even in the discourse of loneliness.

©amk

Some nights ago, I looked up at the bright blue night sky with twinkling stars and I saw a pattern of stars I used to find. I wondered if they too were looking up at the same sky. The night here never gets as dark. The wind, smells like, nothing. I’m far away. It’s good for me. A place of dreams. Not a place for crutches.

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