What Eye Saw – II

Part of my religious education since elementary school has always revolved around Hinduism. Sita and Krishna were not merely names on temple sites in Nairobi, but also deities I read about.   But what really brought this education alive for me was watching the Ramayana epic on TV. Back in the day when Kenya Broadcasting Corporation was the only TV station available, they aired Hindi movies every Sunday afternoon. Most of these were Bollywood hits, complete with subtitles and the musicals. We never watched these films for the acting; it was subpar, and yet there was an allure to viewing a small sliver of a continent we knew little about. Unlike the West, India did not bombard East Africa with enormous amounts of cultural artifacts. Instead, over several centuries, India had shared with us her traders, her laborers, her sailors, her cuisine, her spices, and eventually her rail building expertise.

Ramayana, hence, was both exotic and familiar. Kenyan folk lore was populated with animals who spoke, fought, and interacted with humans. Seeing Hanuman and his monkeys was merely an extension of the hare, leopard, and lion who connived with humans in Gikuyu oral literature.

Sita. Beautiful Sita. 8-armed Elephant God. Multiply armed mihiananu. Idols populate a Hindu mythology book. “That is worship of false gods,” quips my nanny. And yet. And yet, these manifestations of godliness fascinate. Even the winged horse beckons to me, offering insight on the nature of divine power. I know not to how explain these allure, much less to others than to myself. I let go, and dive deep.

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Hindu temple, Mombasa

My canoe. This weekly escapade from an island, waters shimmering silver off the screen. The moon glowing blue as I tune the VHF. I voyage forth into the unknown. My will unfolds ahead of me into adventure. The unknown seduces me into forsaking home. Forsaking chores as I while away in my thoughts; indulging my  whimsy and mind mapping exotic destinations I am yet to call home. Coconuts and palm trees occupy the thin space between dreaming and waking. Sand filters down into my bed sheets, and my piss laps back and forth on the mattress, softly like the sea-green waters. The dimly lit room smells of a beach at dusk, and I peer my eyes into the horizon, confirming that I’ve indeed left all else behind. The firewood kitchen next door wafts into my nose, and I flutter my eyes. At once catching, making, and digging into my piscine meal. I am my own Man Friday.

Because soon, I shall be Home & Away. Not even the thick Aussie accent keeps me at bay. I wander, in and out of these middle-class lives, intent on small town living. The restaurant. The beach. Each spot echoes back to me, frustratingly, mirroring my own inactivity. The girl. There’s always one. This time she has long flowing hair, brunette. And dimples that wink each time she yells at an older, ruder brother. Teenage pregnancy. I plug in and out of the thickening plot. The predictability of the narrative is a large part of its success. This could be me. Could be us. If you ignore the trappings of the first world. Later on, when I finally visit the Opera House, I shall wonder at the writing off of darker hued peoples from this landscape. The result of anxious settlers eager to assuage their own culpability.

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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.