by Auma Obama
Our route was to take us to Lake Garda and then through Tuscany. We wanted to visit Assisi, and, of course, Florence and Pisa were on the agenda.
We reached our first campground in the evening, checked in, paid, and picked out a site to pitch our tent. That night, Karl got to know me as a city dweller who was afraid of the dark. Later on in the journey, we even had to spend the night in the car a few times because I simply felt too uneasy in the tent. In Tuscany, I was actually more afraid of people who might mug or abduct me than I had been of dangerous animals in the Kenyan wilderness.
In Florence, we viewed the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore with its beautiful dome, visited the Uffizi Gallery, strolled through the narrow streets of the city. There were swarms of tourists everywhere, and we kept coming across Senegalese and Ghanaian street peddlers. We liked it there so much that we extended our planned stay.
We had decided that Florence would be the southern boundary of our trip. On arriving in Pisa on our way back, I was disappointed to discover that the famous leaning tower was much smaller than I had imagined it.
Finally, we reached Milan, the last Italian city we wanted to visit. The first stop was the cathedral, the Duomo di Santa Maria Nascente. No sooner had we entered the magnificent church than we saw a monk slowly approaching us. We smiled politely, and he spoke to us softly.
“Miniskirt is not permitted here,” he whispered.
“Miniskirt?” we asked, surprised.
He nodded toward me and said to Karl, “The lady. She is not allowed to show her legs like that.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. The denim skirt I was wearing reached down to just over my knees. For me it was anything but a miniskirt. Karl, the Catholic and former altar boy, seemed to understand immediately. He apologized profusely, promptly took my hand and directed me toward the church gate. He knew me all too well and was aware that I would not yield without a good explanation. In his mind, he undoubtedly already heard me protesting. “But why? That’s hypocrisy! What matters is what is in people’s hearts, not how long their skirt is.” But before I could open my mouth, we were already outside again.
“It wouldn’t have been worth it to argue with them about your skirt. They still would have thrown us out,” Karl said. “There wasn’t much to see anyway.”
The vast cathedral square lay before us, lined with the expensive boutiques for which Milan, the city of fashion, is so famous. In the shop windows, mannequins presented the latest fashions, among them clothes that barely covered the most intimate body parts.
“What hypocrisy!” I said with a strained voice. Milan was ruined for me. We didn’t stay longer in the city and set off again on our return trip to Heidelberg. There, I faced new challenges.
* * *
The discovery of my “African identity” in Germany went hand in hand with dealing with the Germans and their view of us Africans. It shocked and disappointed me that most of the Germans I met knew so little about Africa. They talked about it as if it were not a continent with fifty-three states, but one big country. Time and again, I had to correct my conversation partners, “Africa is not a country, Africa is a continent!” And then I would often just get the reply, “Yeah, yeah, but as I was saying…” And the person in question would go on speaking as if my remark had been merely a trifling interruption of an important statement.
The fact that our massive continent in all its diversity was given such little regard moved me to deal more intensively with the prevailing image of Africa in Germany. For me, the question of how this could be changed became central.
* * *
One day I met Ali, who had studied economics and was actually named Alfons. He had very light skin, curly, almost ash-blond hair, and was a typical “alternative” German. To my ears, his Arabic-Muslim sounding name did not at all fit with his appearance.
Ali and I decided to work as a team. We organized a series of seminars with which we intended to portray Africa and the Africans more realistically than we felt the media did. In doing so, we also wanted to emphasize the connection between the prevailing clichés and Germany’s Africa policy, and make clear to what extent these false images also influence government decisions in matters of development aid.
In the beginning, it was great fun to hold these seminars with Ali. From Heidelberg, we traveled to the various places where our events were planned. Usually, the seminars took place on the weekends and extended over several days. The participants arrived on the first evening, and then spent two days discussing Africa, its individual countries, the diverse cultures, languages, and people—all this against the background of the preconceptions of Africa that the participants brought with them. We also employed film footage, presenting documentaries and feature films made by Africans or Germans in order to convey a multifaceted, nuanced image. Our work was so well-received that we got further engagements, particularly from the Friedrich-Ebert-Stiftung, a foundation for political education that was closely associated with the Social Democratic Party.
We gave our talks in a lively fashion and complemented each other really well. Ali, the German, made many jokes and mocked his own prejudices, which made it easier for the participants to speak about their resentments and stereotypes. I myself lent the portrayals a certain intensity through my firsthand experience as an African. And from my perspective, I could describe the impact of the Germans’ view of Africa on the life of an African in Germany. At these seminars, I often said jokingly that this time I was the one providing development aid. However, I was repeatedly confronted with the objection that as an African I could not view the situation of the “black” continent objectively. I was simply too personally affected. It bothered me that I was frequently considered incapable of forming an evaluation for that reason. If those people then participated in the seminar a second time, they often became unpleasant know-it-alls. They no longer engaged in discussion, but stuck rigidly to their assertions, argued with us, and even seemed to enjoy these confrontations.
At first, I tried hard to convince them of the importance and rightness of our message. But over time, I sensed more and more strongly their arrogance and stubborn refusal to accept our judgment of things. They had acquired their knowledge from books, newspapers, and television and believed that it corresponded to the facts. It became particularly clear to me in these confrontations what enormous power the media possess.
The more these disputes repeated themselves, the more I lost patience, and finally my impatience turned into frustration. I sensed an ever-widening gulf between me and the participants.
In the period that followed, I accepted offers to hold seminars less and less frequently. Instead I gave talks. I traveled to the place to which I had been invited, gave my lecture, answered questions, and left. Here there were none of the repeat encounters that had so demoralized me.
* * *
I studied in Heidelberg for four years. In comparison to the Kenyan university system, the German one was substantially more open—at least in the humanities—and had given me the freedom to choose my own classes and even exam dates. I had really enjoyed assuming the responsibility for designing my own course of study and now it was approaching its end. My thesis had to be written. I had chosen a literary topic. And from that point on, I sat for entire days in the university library or at home, where I discussed with my friend and then-roommate Maria her corrections of my German writing. I enjoyed this time of research, writing, and discussion. Then came the final exam—and at last I held my diploma in my hands.
But my university days were not over yet. I wanted to pursue a doctorate. For me, this wasn’t about attaining a higher academic title. My love for Karl was the decisive factor. To leave Germany for good and go back to my native country alone was inconceivable to me at that time. For Karl, too, a separation was out of the question, and so a doctoral program was a way to stay with him longer.
I applied for a doctoral scholarship from the DAAD. But the foundation wanted me to return to Kenya and t
each German at the university there. Nonetheless, I was able to convince the decision makers that a doctorate was necessary for an academic career in German studies. Thus, I was granted a scholarship, but under the condition that I work for a year in Nairobi as a tutorial fellow at the university before continuing my studies in Germany. The DAAD remained adamant about that: Kenya or no new scholarship.
After I had come to terms with the fact that I had to leave Germany for a while, Karl and I discussed what would happen with our relationship. He had just passed his first state law exam and was free to do what he wanted with the six months before his second state exam. He decided to do an internship in Kenya during that time. After some searching, we found an internship for him with UNEP, the United Nations Environmental Programme in Nairobi. But because he could not come with me right away, we would nonetheless be separated at first.
19.
MY RETURN TO KENYA was truly a challenge. Though I was looking forward to seeing my native country, I was also afraid of all the uncertainty that lay ahead of me.
Immediately after my arrival in Nairobi, I had a lot to do. I had to get all my belongings, which I had shipped from Germany to Kenya, at the port of Mombasa and bring them into the capital. Among my things, there was also a car, for as a returning Kenyan with permanent right of abode I was permitted to bring my own car into the country tax-free. That might sound simple, but it entailed a huge bureaucratic effort. I had to go from one ministry to another, fill out numerous forms, and submit them at all sorts of agencies.
When Karl finally arrived, all this still wasn’t done. He was astonished when he saw how many bureaucratic hurdles had to be overcome in Kenya. He said that he could never live permanently in this country—the bureaucracy and corruption would make him crazy. At the time, I thought nothing of it and just laughed. After all, both of us wanted to go back to Germany.
At first we stayed with my Aunty Jane in Kariokor, an old, somewhat run-down neighborhood near the center of Nairobi, where the Carrier Corps had lived during the colonial era. She provided us a room in her apartment. But we were not her only guests. People were constantly showing up, usually relatives, who wanted to stay for one or two days, but then ended up staying with my lively aunt for weeks or even months. She threw none of them out, even though they not only lived with her for free but also ate with her without contributing a cent. Sometimes there were so many people there that some slept on the living room floor, in the kitchen, or in the storeroom.
Somewhat annoyed about all the self-invited guests, I asked Aunty Jane one day why she took in all these people. She just looked at me with a smile and said, “You’re here, too. Should I send you away?”
I found this comparison unfair, because we had gotten in touch months earlier and arranged the time of our stay. We also shared in the household costs and the chores that came up. But I didn’t say anything. For my mother’s sister, it was always natural to share everything she had with her relatives. What we gave her thus benefited everyone. It reminded me of the discussion I’d had with Barack in Chicago about my father.
What might partly explain her behavior is the fact that my aunt had no children of her own. For her, we were all her children, and probably she was also afraid of being alone after her husband had left her. On top of that, Aunty Jane adhered strictly to Luo customs and was extremely superstitious, especially in her attitude toward death. She had always been terribly afraid of dying alone. She once told me that she chased no one away because otherwise no one would come to her funeral. At first I thought that she was joking, but she was, in the truest sense of the term, dead serious.
So we lived with Aunty Jane among various relatives. Karl started his internship and took a UNEP bus across the city to his workplace every day. After a few weeks, my job at the University of Nairobi finally began, too, and now that I was an employee of the university, we could move into our own apartment. It was in Kileleshwa, one of the nicer neighborhoods in Nairobi. Behind our apartment building stretched a lush, inviting garden, along the end of which a stream flowed. The tall trees that stood in the small park attracted several little monkeys every evening, who climbed around in their branches. If you ever forgot something edible on the balcony, you could be certain that the animals would make off with it.
Despite his reservations about the Kenyan bureaucracy, Karl settled into his new surroundings very quickly. Because I had sold the imported car early on, we bought an old blue VW Beetle after a few months. Now we were mobile again.
At the university, I taught German to a group of very pleasant Kenyan students, but because they could barely get out a sentence due to sheer shyness, I constantly had to encourage them to participate. That was more of a strain for me than the teaching itself.
At that time, I often thought back to my German teacher Mrs. Kanaiya at Kenya High School, in whose lessons we had always had substantial discussions. My students, however, lacked the courage to participate in class. But I did not accept their insufficient language skills as a reason for their timidity. How else would they learn German if not by speaking? If necessary, they could even complete sentences in English, as long as they participated actively in class. But because this rarely happened, I became bored with the work pretty quickly.
Alongside the job at the university, I taught German at the Goethe-Institut in Nairobi and gave private lessons, in order to supplement my income. With the extra money, Karl and I could take trips through the country, since he received no salary from UNEP and had to live on his savings.
* * *
One day, on the spur of the moment, we drove the old Beetle to Lake Turkana in the north of the country. Because I didn’t think myself capable of driving alone with Karl to the lake over four hundred miles away, I asked Patrick, the younger brother of my friend Trixi, who was now studying in Munich, whether he wanted to come with us. He immediately said yes, and without extensive preparations, we set off. We took with us additional gasoline, a very simple three-person tent, and some canned beans and meat. We planned to buy everything else on the way.
After we had driven almost all day, our bones somewhat stiff from sitting for so long in the cramped Beetle, we reached the lake in the late afternoon. There we followed a sign that said TURKANA LODGE. Although we had only very little money with us, we thought that we might be able to spend the night there. After the drive, a bed seemed more pleasant to us than the hard ground in the tent.
The lodge on the shore of the great lake that stretched out before our eyes looked deserted; in general, the whole area made a rather lonely and desolate impression. But as we approached the lodge, we saw that it wasn’t closed. We sat down on the porch and enjoyed the tranquillity and the impressive view of the endless surface of a body of water that is about fifteen times the size of Lake Constance in Germany. Shortly thereafter, a waiter approached from the bar and brought us a menu.
“Let’s see,” I said, taking the menu and asking the waiter to give us some time to choose. He nodded and went back to the bar, from where he nonetheless did not stop looking at us.
“He probably thinks we have no money,” I said to Karl, slightly annoyed.
“And he’s right about that,” Karl remarked, grinning.
“But he can’t know that. He’s tolerating our presence only because you’re here. Otherwise he would have sent us away a long time ago.”
“Why me?” Karl asked, confused.
“Because you’re white. So you must have money. That’s what the people here think anyway.”
“If only he knew!”
“Yes, if only he knew!” I didn’t find the situation funny at all.
It was not the first time that we ended up in a situation like that. Time and again it had happened that we went into a restaurant and the waitstaff completely ignored me as a hanger-on to a white man, until it was time to pay and Karl pointed to me. But at that point, the embarrassed faces were no comfort to me.
“Okay, let’s see what we can even eat here,”
said Karl. “Because we’re definitely not spending the night here. Have you seen the room prices? For that we can buy our groceries for a week.”
“How do you know that?”
“I saw it at the entrance, on the way to the bathroom.”
Ultimately, Patrick and I ordered Sprites and Karl a Coke. The waiter seemed less than thrilled about our lavish order.
Besides the superb panorama, Lake Turkana had nothing special to offer. I went to the shore and dipped my hand in the water—carefully, because the lakeside vegetation looked like a favorable stomping ground for crocodiles. I knew that those hungry reptiles lived here. The water looked very clean and shimmered silvery blue. I marveled at how soft it felt, almost like hand cream.
We had quickly emptied our glasses. The unfriendly waiter was still standing nearby, as if he wanted to chase us away, which irritated me even more in light of the fact that the lodge looked so deserted and we had ordered something, after all. He should at least be happy to have the company, I thought, and I didn’t leave him a tip.
We set off, because we still had to find a place to spend the night before dark. Pitching the tent was itself an adventure, because the ground consisted only of sand and tufts of tall grass—and was thus extremely ill-suited to the task. But we didn’t want to change the site and search for more solid ground, because we preferred to stay near the lodge in case of any danger.
Somehow, we managed to pitch the tent between the tufts of grass. Even in retrospect, I still shudder at the thought that not at all far from our scarcely protective shelter crocodiles were undoubtedly prowling around.
The night was an adventure in itself. For hours, the wind howled outside, and I had the feeling that any moment the tent would be lifted off the ground and carried out into Lake Turkana. A few times, Karl or Patrick had to leave it to hammer down the stakes again. As soon as they unzipped the flap, the wind blew sand into the tent, which settled in every fold and crevice. The only good thing about the sandy ground was that it provided a relatively comfortable bed, even if sleep was unthinkable for half the night due to the wind.