What Eye Saw

There’s a way in which films are that much more fun when you share them with a crowd. In my final year of high school, I would walk to Stella’s home for action movie VHS tapes. Never mind that I didn’t have a VHS player, there was a cute, young bird involved and that’s all that mattered. She was older, as they often are. And came with a horde of boys peacocking to win her. I was not deterred. Our connection was intellectual and much deeper–or so I consoled myself. Stella had just sat for Kenya’s final high school exams. Having attended Kenya High, a top school in Nairobi, her smarts were beyond doubt. I envied her air of maturity; that, I-know-more-than-you look. I was eager to drink from her fountain of knowledge: borrowing her notes from French class and relishing the perfume smell that accompanied each page turn.

Steven Seagal’s Under Siege was a great reason to hang around Stella’s house. I borrowed the VHS at least once but never actually watched the movie. That part of my life has many memories of me visiting friends so I could watch films. I remember making numerous trips to my grandpa’s house in Ngong so I could sit and enjoy the God’s Must be Crazy series. My sisters and I would usually pass by their house on Sunday afternoons after church. We’d do lunch, and as we ate one of his kids would play the movie on their VHS deck. The films disturbed me then, and still do even now.  And yet I keep returning to them.

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Left, Kenyan comedian Eric Omondi, in a 2017 rendition of Gods Must Be Crazy. Photo Credit: Instagram @ericomondi @254dave_photography

Ngahu. That’s the name under which the main character in the movie series Gods Must be Crazy is known by audiences in Gĩkambura. Whenever I visit my grandma’s house and we screen these films, as captivating as the action is, I find it much more interesting to watch the spectators.

I’ve come to understand the action in the Gods Must be Crazy narrative from a postcolonial paradigm. I see the antics of the characters as racist projections by a white hegemony that could neither fathom African intellectuality, sophistication, nor culture.

My cousins do not share my interpretations. They are genuinely amused at the childlike amazement that Ngahu displays when he encounters a firearm, an automobile, an airplane, or even a soda bottle for the first time. They laugh at Ngahu, rather than identify with him, as I do, from an expansive pan-African paradigm. To them, Ngahu deserves his ill luck; they view the star actor as a country bumpkin with much to catch up on in terms of urban civilization.

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