And Home Was Kariakoo

by M G Vassanji

  Subsequently I visited Nairobi every few years. One of my sisters came to survey secretarial colleges here and ended up getting married. And when socialism put the crunch on Tanzania’s Asians, my mother—even though she was in no position to be affected—succumbed to panic and moved with my two brothers back to Nairobi. I was at the time studying in Boston, and the abandonment of my Dar home that I had now come to love caused me considerable grief. It was to Nairobi that I would go to visit my family, now living on 5th Parklands Avenue. The flat came with a dog called Foxy, whose diet consisted of throwaway stale chapatis from the neighbourhood. The prayer house was across the road, and at four in the morning when people went to meditate there, the dogs from the neighbourhood would gather on its cricket ground and howl together as though in their own prayer. Compared with Dar, Nairobi was a dog city, reflecting partly the influence of white settlers, and partly the fact that its quiet, dark suburbs were prone to robberies. But you would not see a dog being walked in these neighbourhoods, they all remained behind the fences. What dogs those were who gathered outside the prayer house would always remain a mystery; but at a little past 5 a.m., when people began to emerge from their meditations, the dogs would trot off in their own different directions. Foxy was one of them.

  Now as we arrive by bus from Arusha, Nairobi doesn’t appear all of a sudden, the enigma in the distant mist or haze, a fantasy beckoning from the grassland; it’s simply there, suddenly, following a spate of Masai villages, a couple of cement factories, and—with increasing traffic—shops and guest houses that all merge into a great urban sprawl. Evening has fallen and the highway is lit up. And as we proceed, a strange panic seizes me: isn’t there any familiar landmark left, has it changed so dramatically in the six years since I was last here? Is Nairobi lost to me now? But then comes the clock tower on Uhuru Highway, the Parliament building and the old downtown to the right—there is Kenyatta Avenue, we turn into Koinange Street near Karimjee Gardens and there’s the chicken place across, at which corner we drop off some passengers, and this is Nairobi. That old thrill returns.

  Nairobi used to be an Indian and “European” town, its city centre defined by the backbone of Government Road with its suiting stores, safari outfitters, sports shops, chemists, book shops, and the Kenya and Twentieth Century cinemas. For Asians, the heart of Nairobi city centre was the Khoja Ismaili khano at the head of Government Road, a grey-stone two-storey structure with a clock tower. Indian Bazaar came off here in one direction, with a string of clothing stores followed by spice and grain merchants. Farther up, Government Road met the rather posh Delamere Avenue, where a policeman in white uniform and helmet stood on a pedestal smartly directing traffic. To one side of him was the New Stanley Hotel, the watering hall for the whites.

  Opposite the New Stanley, occupying a corner, was a child’s version of heaven: Woolworths, in a burst of light and colour, displaying in its windows and on its shelves and counters heaps of exciting stuff bidding for the heart, especially if you were from humble Dar. Toys and games, cricket bats and balls, chocolates and candies, story books and comic books, imported from England, of course; and pencils and pens, paint boxes and compass boxes, school satchels and school bags. Mostly unaffordable, but you could not return to Dar without coming away with some mementos from here—tall pencils with a plastic toy or a crook and a frill at the top were an affordable favourite.

  From the Khoja khano, on the other side of Indian Bazaar ran away the informal and hectic River Road, where many Indians lived and ran shops for Africans, and where one was also likely to be pick-pocketed. Behind River Road were the Odeon Cinema, which showed Hindi films, and Indian restaurants. And then came the valley of the Nairobi River, beyond which were the Indian suburbs of Ngara, Pangani, Parklands, reachable by the single Limuru Road which went all the way down into the Rift Valley and Nakuru, Naivasha, and then back up to Kisumu at Lake Victoria (and Kampala, if you were so inclined), following the railway.

  The old khano looks faded now, and insignificant, dwarfed by the tower across from it (on the site of which an Indian corner store would display condoms in its window). The wide front entrance had streams of Ismailis going in and out everyday, but now the door is closed for security reasons and you enter through an invisible side entrance in an alley. Just inside the main entrance was a large reading room with an oval table. Desperate Tanzanian Asian boys hung around the khano in the 1970s, having escaped the trials of socialism by means licit and otherwise; they would come here to the khano lobby to rest and exchange notes, always bewailing the low value of their currency—100 Tanzanian to 60 Kenyan. (Now it’s 1,600 to 60.)

  If Dar es Salaam snacks on kababs and bhajias, Nairobi does so mostly on cakes and pies. But Nairobi, like Dar, has changed. Government Road is now Moi Avenue, Indian Bazaar is Biashara (Business) Street. The streets are more crowded, the population of the city having multiplied more than tenfold. And following the “Indian Exodus” of 1968, when all those who were not citizens had to leave for Britain, the stores are mostly owned by Africans. Upscale shopping has moved to the malls, one of which, Westgate Mall, was the site of a recent horrific terrorist attack. Many of the old, squat colonial buildings of grey stone are gone, replaced by towers. But Macmillan Library stands intact within its compound, right behind Indian Bazaar, though it looks forlorn; the mosque next to it, however, has expanded and imposes on the area. There is a “Somali Mall” where once Indian shops stood; and there are more women in hijab, some of them running the shops, than was once conceivable.

  And yet, despite the changes, Nairobi has maintained a level of integrity. The streets in the city centre are identifiable (and walkable), the suburbs with their bungalows and apartments are mostly intact, and the more grotesque and vandalizing forms of development have been avoided.

  Still, Nairobians uniformly complain—as people do in Dar—about the traffic, the corrupt cops, the haphazard construction. But there is a difference. Traffic is dense in Nairobi, but it moves, doesn’t come to an absolute standstill awaiting divine intervention; the drivers are smart and sophisticated, they manouver through traffic; Dar—portions of it—are crippled at rush hour. In Nairobi, flyways and walkways have appeared, new roads created, old roads widened to ease traffic. There is green space and the houses have gardens. Am I simply revealing that thrill and that bias of the native returning? Yes, but even in the past, arriving from beloved Dar, the comparison was inevitable, starting with the weather, and one was always awed.

  In Nairobi, service is crisp, efficient. We want to open a bank account; a young assistant manager at the DT comes with me to help me get a photo taken. At the studio-cum-shop, it takes exactly four minutes. While I wait, I notice two photos of the “boss” taken with presidents Clinton and Obama; could they be real? Not likely, but I don’t ask. Next door the name board of a beauty salon, hanging over the sidewalk, displays four identical images of Mrs. Obama. The Obamas are big in Kenya. In Dar, you might find photos of Obama displayed, but also “Osama” written on the backs of buses. That evening I send a scanned photo page of my passport to the bank manager. He duly acknowledges receipt early the next morning. Now really. Forget Dar, even Delhi isn’t as efficient.

  Why this difference in the two cities? Weather is one factor, of course. The January heat in Dar is such that the pursuit of a single chore wears you out. But it’s also the people, the culture. Dar is Swahili, a culture of ustarabu and kusubiri—patience and style; a willingness to see humour; an identity tied to language. The irony is that with such a strong identity, there is not a sense of public space. In Nairobi a few years ago I was told that the people of a neighbourhood were collecting money to buy cars for the police—who claimed they did not have them; and others were petitioning against the opening of a bar in their neighbourhood, in violation of zoning laws. Jeevanjee Gardens, once slated for development, was saved due to the efforts of concerned citizens.

  The problem with Nairobi is personal safety. It always was violent, and i
t’s become progressively more so. Exaggerations aside—I have been advised not to walk through crowded city streets in broad daylight—it’s impossible in Nairobi to meet a person who has not experienced violence, or does not know someone who has. In Dar, where dinner parties are held in Oyster Bay roof terraces and outdoor barbecue places open specifically at night, in Nairobi’s Muthaiga the wealthy hold elaborate luncheons with imported wines, fortified behind gates and guarded by dogs. Tanzanians will agree, yes, Nairobi is wonderful, the cultural life is superb, the weather is ideal, service is efficient—it’s way more advanced. Would you want to live there? No. Better the laid-back slowness, the informality, the waiter who does not know Cabernet from konyagi. We’ll get there eventually, in our own way.

  The University of Nairobi, formerly Royal College, is located in what once was an exclusive white enclave, some hundred yards from Norfolk Hotel and not far from the city centre. The Norfolk with its elegant veranda bar (the Lord Delamere Terrace) thrives on its colonial look and reputation, the ugly memories of racism now mostly forgotten. Tourist brochures give lists of famous people who stayed here in the past—Theodore Roosevelt, Karen Blixen, the cast of Mogambo, Ernest Hemingway, and presumably his one-time wife, Martha Gellhorn (whose close friends the Blocks owned the hotel for a period). The bar was the watering hole for the “white mischief” settler crowd, and Lord Delamere, it’s said, once rode into the dining hall on his horse. But what’s history or quaint colonial folklore for the tourist may not be worth remembering for the Kenyan African. “Coolies” would bring in the white patrons on hand-pulled rickshaws, and a bumpy halt would get the African a lash on his back right outside where the taxis now stand and the security guard frisks you.

  In the heyday of the 1960s, when the East African community was real and a political federation still viable, Tanzanian students were sent to the University of Nairobi to study engineering, all expenses paid. (The affiliated University of Dar es Salaam was where Kenyans came to study law and learn left-wing politics.) It was a thrilling three years in the metropolis, a time away from community and family eyes, a time to flirt with the opposite sex. Nairobi was where you dressed smartly. It was cool enough to do so, and you didn’t sweat much. The boys immediately upon arrival proceeded to the friendly Indian stores on Government Road to be fitted with blue blazers with an insignia sewn on the breast pocket, identifying them as proud Nairobi undergraduates. This dress code was not official, however—some inspired shopkeeper had simply invented it to make profit. I spent three quite carefree months in the engineering faculty, and recall walks to the post office to check mail in the evenings, dining in the women’s hall with Asian girls—and frequent visits to the dean to have my major changed. I had requested to study electrical engineering, my government had enrolled me for civil engineering, where it insisted that I stay. If the Tanzanian bureaucracy had relented, life would have taken a different course. As it was, a warm letter arrived from an American university with a promise of financial assistance, and I left, but with a vow to return that was never quite fulfilled.

  Now it is decades later and I am back, walking on the still sedate-looking Harry Thuku Road, the 1960s-style engineering buildings on one side of me. Where I had once studied mechanical drawing and electrical circuits, I notice, there is now also a space science department. The squat police station lies ahead, at the corner on University Way, which has acquired two more lanes and a pedestrian overpass. Across on the other side, is the old city centre. This time I am here as a guest of the literature department to give a keynote address, and I speak about the years in East Africa following independence, and in particular about the young Asian politicians, intellectuals, and writers who sought to define themselves as Africans. The subject has a resonance today, especially in Nairobi; how much, I will soon find out. The older faculty members wistfully remember those years, when Ngũgĩ wa Thiongo was around, and the younger professors sound a little envious. I have come as an African, and I speak as an African, and I am in my native city. Nevertheless, I did not expect the welcome I receive. Nairobi in the past, despite its attractions, always seemed … formal, somewhat hostile, a city where the bitter whiff remained of the acrimony of racism and colonial rule. But much has changed. A new generation has arrived. During this visit I have noticed confidence and ease, and I am received warmly, as a man from Nairobi who lives abroad. Two days before, I had sat down to give a workshop to a group of young Asians and Africans, and felt perfectly at ease. And when my hosts took me to a somewhat deprived primary school in one of the Nairobi slums, at the inaugration of its library, my escort told the all-African youngsters, Don’t pay attention to his skin colour, he is an African like you. It was a moving moment. Perhaps my own ease comes from the fact that I am also from Canada and Tanzania. And I have had the luxury of distance, reflection, and years in which to come to terms with myself, with the realization that I am always from a minority—though, somewhat quixotically, I never think of myself as such—wherever I go, and therefore I do not have to prove anything.

  But now I am made to realize that there is indeed some resentment left over in Nairobi, only it has moved elsewhere.

  After my lecture, a member of the audience, Neera Kapila—who was a kind host during a previous visit—comes forward and presents me with a book she has authored. It deals with Asian contributions in the formation of modern Kenya, and as she makes the presentation she tells me that it is a corrective to the fact that “we” have not been represented adequately in the national narrative. A pregnant moment. It highlights a grievance and an ache, feelings and sentiments I understand and yet that are quite beyond me now.

  In the white settler world of Kenya, described in many books, most famously by Elspeth Huxley, Beryl Bainbridge, and Isak Dinesen, and romanticized by Hollywood and British television, the Asians hardly existed if at all. Following independence, they have been either caricatured as venal and alien, or simply ignored. There have been a number of books about Kenyan Asians, but they are hardly known outside a niche audience. (Ironically, the Nairobi booksellers, who are Asian, happily peddle the “white mischief” tales, which seem to sell briskly.) This cultural argument, this feeling of neglect is—to a large degree—typically Kenyan: Tanzania and Uganda are not the stuff of adventure and romance; and Tanzanian Asians (except the Zanzibaris) never cared much for history, they are simply there.

  Of course, unfairness, injustice, and discrimination should be highlighted; this is how a society corrects itself. Self-correction happens to be a constant feature in the evolution of North American identity—for example, in the representations of minorities (of Asian, African, and other origins) in film and television and in the textbooks over the decades. A dangerous new trend in Kenyan (and occasionally Tanzanian) thinking is the openly racist argument that would distinguish the “indigenous” African from the others. Therefore, Neera Kapila’s book has a place as a corrective and a prompt to the national conscience, as does the Asian newsmagazine Awaaz, as does the Asian Heritage Exhibit now looking for a permanent home.

  But the otherness can also become a debilitating marker, a permanent self-identity, as it has become in India, where one cannot simply be an Indian, and minorities and the majority are defined by the constitution. In Nairobi now this sense of an Asian “we” unsettles me. It should not be there fifty years after independence.

  The question arises, But where have the Kenya Asian historians and romanciers been in any case? I have met many of them over the years; but they all seem to have been sucked into the bane that is the pariochialism of their own narrow Indian community, a black hole that draws in the bright-eyed idealists and turns them into caste and sectarian functionaries.

  Where are the Asians? This question is asked at Kenyatta University when I speak there. There is not a single brown face but mine in the packed hall. I put this question to Sarita, a brilliant young Kenyan who studied at Cambridge and London and returned. She is of the new generation. For her holidays she goes up Mo
unt Kenya with her young family. But in answer to my question, she replies that local facilities at the universities are so inadequate that she herself would prefer to send her kids to Oxford or Cambridge if she could. As would many others, undoubtedly, of whatever race—but would these Kenyan Asians of a fourth generation return? Or will the Asians only continue to deplete and further marginalize themselves?

  We leave for Arusha and Dar early next morning, departing by minibus from the Karimjee Gardens. With us are a few Israelis on their way to climb Kilimanjaro; a woman in hijab on her way to Mwanza; a Chinese girl with only a few words of English and Swahili. The university is a short walk away, so is the khano. The air is cool and bracing—so unmistakeably Nairobi in the morning. Can a place leave such an indelible mark that you can breathe it every time? I imagine, perhaps. I realize I have been reclaimed, partly, as I always seem to be.

  25.

  Closing the Circle

  IT’S A BRIGHT SUNDAY MORNING IN DAR, and I’m sitting in the front row of a gathering inside a quietly festive Diamond Jubilee Hall, in Upanga, ten minutes’ walk away from my former home, wondering how I allowed myself to slip into my predicament. Actually I’m panicking. A few days before, I was approached by some people to speak words of wisdom to a graduating class of young students; I could be as brief as I wanted; I might speak of careers in science and the arts. They, everyone, would be delighted and honoured. There are ways of approach that appeal to your vulnerability, and I knew I could not refuse without sounding brash and arrogant. These people were from my tribe, so to speak: I came out of them, we had lived and prayed together, we went to the same schools. The ties were emotional. The fact that intellectually I had gone my own way was irrelevant.