My Cup is Full

Beautiful souls, let’s set the mood: I’m feeling good. I really am.

And, I’m disturbed and aware of the trauma and hurt around me, but I’m feeling hopeful. You should feel the same: Listen to Hapo Zamani (loose translation: I am drunk because of the White Afrikaner man...but we’ll be back home).

Ok...here goes!

Rawtid! Where do I start? Every once in awhile, most of us get in this space: we have every intention of calling that loved one, we think about them daily, small distractions just seem to get in the way. Then, so much time passes. It becomes embarrassing and now you’re almost afraid to call because it warrants some proper excuse behind your absence. Well, friends, I’m sorry for being so late. I appreciate all the concerns and pushes to write, I am embarrassed that it has taken me so long. I don’t have a proper excuse--I’m just living, loving, working, and enjoying life. I still don’t like to write, especially about me, but I am trying.

For the past few months, I feel like I’ve been opening my eyes on Monday mornings and then, with a squint, Sunday evening is right there. But better late than never, sivyo? Now that we have the awkwardness out of the way, with all the love and warmth of Dr Louis Bennett, come mek me hold yuh hand. I miss you!

I’ve had this post in the works since last October. October not only marks so many independence celebrations across East Africa, but it is also the celebration of Diwali, and my birthday. When you grow up not celebrating what other kids celebrate and cherish, namely Christmas, you learn to really love your birthday. I remember being so jealous of other children in prep school that I even stole someone's present. Ms Bell, sorry for lying. Ok, and stealing.

All these October festivities had me thinking: what do we celebrate and why? Whether simple or complex, what do you appreciate? What are you grateful for? I bought the painting below as a birthday gift to myself.

Untitled. J. Ndungu. Is she filling her cup, or pouring for others?

Each morning I wake up to this painting and I feel so full. I acknowledge that my cup is full. I am so grateful to be here.

Each day is an opportunity to not only fill my cup but to serve others. I know the word “serve,” especially for those of us dedicated to social justice is often problematic (I really need to retire that word this year). For example, when education non-profits ignore that the community “served” or most impacted by their work has little or no power over the direction of the organisation and how it develops and uses its resources, that organisation can do more harm than good by assuming they know what is best for others. They can “serve” and act without listening and deeply understanding. I do not mean that type of service. I mean service with ears. The service that comes with listening before speaking and acting.

We must be willing to serve by listening and observing what is really happening without acting on assumptions or undeveloped observations. That doesn't mean that the people who we serve can’t serve themselves, in fact, they must. We also need to recognise that we all need to serve each other. So many people serve me, help me, enrich me, and make me a better person. This post is dedicated to all the people, feelings, experiences, reflections, and things that I am grateful for; all filling my cup.

Here goes:

1. Deliberate silence: This is such a complicated experience for me to explore, but I will try my best. I feel proud that I did not use the word `unpack.’ If you’re reading this, you are well aware of systematic and institutionalised forces of oppression, yet, most college students and rising community advocates in the U.S. are exposed to the concept of unpacking privilege through Peggy McIntosh. But the reality is that we’ve been knowing these things but they only get validated when people in power say it. There’s nothing to ‘unpack,’ these experiences are the daily experiences of the silenced and oppressed which are still being carried. Saying we ‘unpack’ these issues of injustice and oppression diminishes the current and lived experience. People are still hurting and carrying heavy burdens. I’m retiring it expeditiously (shout out to my T.I. fans).

There are so many instances of overt oppression, discrimination, and self-loathing that seep into everyday experiences here and almost all seem to stem from interactions with foreigners. As a foreigner, I am struggling to find the relevance of my voice in combating these acts of oppression and spending more time listening instead of speaking. Though all of us have a part to play in dismantling what hurts others, failure to listen and deeply understand the ramifications of speaking up may deeply hurt those being oppressed.

Take for example the following summary of a scenario from an ex-pat, usually of colour, that I’ve heard now at least 5 or 6 times over the course of my 7 months here: “I was at a hotel/restaurant in Westlands/Kilimani/Lavington/Kampala and I observed a White/Chinese/Indian customer berating a Kenyan/Ugandan worker, it was incredibly verbally abusive. I was so afraid to stand up to the customer if I reported it to management, owned by someone who is White/Chinese/Indian, would the worker get punished? How could I trust that the owner would not take the side of the customer? Would my voice really matter?”

When we are first-hand witnesses to bad acts, it may feel heroic to stand up to make our voices heard at the moment, but the reality is often that they may get fired. Someone’s inability to feed their family is just as harmful as absorbing racist and classist aggression. White people and people in positions of power love being saviours and good samaritans: for glory, with little change or purpose: they speak quickly. Perhaps better alternatives are to publicly shame these people, boycott their businesses, and create our own enterprises to foster self-reliance. And since this is my blog, my public shaming goes to Carnelly’s Restaurant in Naivasha for my personal witness to their disrespect of black customers. There are far too many inclusive, thriving, black-owned businesses like Pallet Cafe that are also providing excellent service while hiring employees with disabilities. We have no excuse, there are now so many platforms and listservs to find black-owned and socially responsible businesses: Cuisine Noir, Support Black Owned, and Black Wall Street. On top of that, there are also local government initiatives to support the growth of local businesses like Made in Kenya branding or JAMPRO registration. The reality is that too many creditworthy black and minority-owned businesses struggle within the finance system to get access to lines of credit to compete on fair terms with others. You and I can do far more by deliberately finding ways to support them.

But our purchasing power is not enough. So much of my struggle here has been more difficult when black Kenyans espouse so much adoration for things and people foreign. Don’t get me wrong, we do the same thing in the West Indies, we love when barrel come from farrin. We take it even further in Jamaica: the government often intentionally uphold trade policies that benefit foreign industries and corporations over their own (maybe that’s why we’ve become the Worldbank darling on economic recovery but the middle class and poor can’t see the benefits). It is so much cheaper to purchase imported lamb than buying local goat (this is according to my mother because you know I don’t see the point of eating meat). Despite a once-thriving industry, only 20% of Jamaica’s dairy demand is met locally (it was 65% in the 1990s), and the most blasphemous to me, the land of wood and water with good good bottled water like WATA and Catherine’s Peak also imports several water brands. We are even welcoming and importing labour: getting a work permit in Jamaica is a relatively painless experience. That is not the case for Kenya: here, there is a healthy requirement to not only demonstrate finding specialised talent within the professional pool of the country but that employers also hire a local understudy. This is incredibly smart and helps to provide more opportunities for local talent.

Though Jamaica is now considered an upper-middle-income economy and Kenya a lower-middle-income economy, Jamaica still imports five times as much as it exports, whereas Kenya only imports three times its exports. I recognize it is unfair to compare a small island and population to a physically large country with a population 17 times greater but for crying sake, Jamaica’s public debt is 104% of its GDP! My point is that so many of us in the global south are still economically dependent on others and see the foreigners as saviours. How can we keep functioning like this?

I grew up hearing so much adoration of things British and American (primarily in school), I was honestly very excited by Kenya’s immigration and land ownership laws, that value Kenyans first. Though these policies make my life more difficult, I respect intentional laws to protect locals (though I wish more African countries would develop pro-Pan-African policies by relaxing or differentiating business registration, land and employment legislation, or even park access fees to attract more blacks from the diaspora). That’s why it was shocking to discover the dominance of white ex-pat leadership in business and the social impact sector, especially in education.

During my first month here, Bob Collymore passed away. As the former CEO of East Africa’s most profitable company, Safaricom, Collymore’s death permeated every conversation and event in July. At first, I thought Kenyans were just incredibly reverent to the dead. I now know that is not true, no one brought up President Moi’s death or when they did, it was not with the same level of sadness (I recognise he was very problematic and all the pomp and circumstance around his burial services made me miss Buju! I’m still salty). Collymore’s leadership meant something positive to many Kenyans.

I was personally proud to know that another West Indian lead so much growth for an already innovative company. But I was disturbed by the conversations Kenyans were having about who should replace him. In Safaricom’s almost 20-year history, it has been led by non-Kenyans. I listened as so many Kenyans shared that Safaricom must be led by a foreigner. “We’re not ready to lead it ourselves” they shared. “Kenyan’s are too corrupt” they lamented. This was puzzling to me, these were all statements from Kenyans who I adore and respect. I thought to myself, it was run by a Guyanese! The same country that killed my hero, Walter Rodney. One that is still going through significant political corruption. I wanted to shout: You think West Indians are not corrupt? How can you make such blanket generalisations about your own people?

But instead, I remained silent. My voice doesn’t matter here. I am not Kenyan...yet! And this is the lesson I wish allies would learn: you can and should just show up and listen, you don’t need to lead the conversation. A Kenyan will become the next CEO of Safaricom in April: ultimately, people will make the decisions and take the steps to solve their own problems. And it sure helps when the government nudges them to act appropriately. I am grateful for the gift of learning how to be a deliberate listener and observer.

2. Being on my toes.

I am also grateful for constantly being on my toes. Some may call it frustrating, but I find it incredibly beautiful to constantly be on my toes. I’m becoming far more mindful, aware, and unassuming. I pause before crossing the street, wait, am I looking left or right first? Before I leave the house, I need to consider, do I have the right converters--you’d understand when you try to work and your chargers can’t fit in any outlets. Do I have my passport? Which passport do I travel with today?

Before I moved, my phone died a lot because I would forget to charge, or just did not feel like charging it to be honest. That never happens here, how else would I access M-Pesa? I am so much more thoughtful about not only consistently charging but also travelling with a power bank.

The biggest growth point though, like everyone else in my family ( ok, perhaps not Ashenafi and Shana-kae), I would misplace phones and keys so often. I’ve intentionally used keyless doors over the last four years because I knew myself too well. I found comfort in pseudo-science to justify my forgetfulness. 16 personalities claim that us Diplomats, more than any other personality type, will misplace important things regularly. That is changing! Being in a foreign place is pushing me to be far more careful, thoughtful, and mindful. I appreciate these small adulting growth points.

3. /ˌRɛk(ə)nsɪlɪˈeɪʃ(ə)n/

Can we be grateful for indirect experiences? I am. I am so grateful for the hordes of blacks in the diaspora who were living their best lives in Ghana last year. I can deeply relate to those who participated in the Year of Return events with excitement, wonder, and self-discovery. My first journey to Africa was through a university program called Journeys of Reconciliation as a student in 2002 to South Africa. Some of you may recall that term from the first freedom ride to challenge segregation in the United States, but the purpose of Emory’s program was to explore the root causes of conflict and build relationships between the university and communities around the world. We tried to understand barriers of race, religion, nationality, gender and class and ways in which those barriers can be overcome. At such a young age, it was difficult to listen to what sounded like unending stories of pain and suffering but enlightening to witness stories of liberation, growth, and triumph. On a personal level, it was enriching to see so many black faces. I remembered struggling to feel fully at home in Atlanta, navigating being black in America and being perceived as a black American (which is fine, but that required me to understand and embrace what that meant). I felt free in South Africa and could make so many immediate connections to daily life practices: taking off shoes in a home, greeting and respecting elders, praying over food.

I can imagine how so many Black Americans, Black Europeans, and the Island-massive who made their way to Ghana felt. So much of being on the continent is an experience in reconnection. I’m sure many folks were connecting the dots in how they dance, think, and connect with each other. All of a sudden, the Anansi stories, Kumina, and Obeah starts making more sense. I am so grateful for our folks who are feeling fulfilled and connected.

Even those of us who did not make it to the Year of Return festivities have so much to celebrate: there are so many black people slowly making their way back to the continent and finding loving and supportive communities. I appreciate my Kenyan diaspora women aka the Lamu group (two Black Americans and another West Indian [barely...she knows what I mean]): our Sunday lunch/brunch/dinner, random shopping, but a commitment to personal growth and exploration grounds and root us in something beyond ourselves. It is pretty amazing to have a community of like-minded women to foster self-growth. Johanna, Mecca, and London...I love you and appreciate you.

Hey Lamu ladies!

4. Connecting with Nature

Ngai, I am in love with these hikes! I’ve always loved hiking...ok, I liked hiking for 30-90 minutes on weekends in the U.S. Kenyans can HIKE! My two goals for 2020 are to hike Kilimanjaro and go on a Wendy Williams show (again, don’t hate on my love of most things ratchet...how you doin’?). I am so grateful for the beautiful landscape, waterfalls, and wonderful connections with other people who love all things nature.

There is something so humbling about trekking through the unknown, relinquishing control, but persevering through never-ending vertical trails. And then exhaling and relaxing in the amazing views that come with summiting. This is my cup at its fullest. Feeling connected to creation and other people feeling that connection. Mecca, thank you for always being an excellent companion and Tipwa Tipwa, thank you for organising amazing experiences.

That pre-hike excitement. Yes Original butta (brother) and Mish...didnt know what you were getting into, huh?

These false summits...where is the real peak???

So exhilirating when close to the end!

5. Connectivity online.

Friends, though I am not into social media, I love how the world opens up through our phones. I use Whatsapp far more now and I am so grateful for all the family groups, diaspora groups, and amazing statuses (I even post sometimes...look at that, my privacy walls are slowly crumbling!)

I am so grateful for friends online who pour out so much love and positivity: Arondel (my brother; I can’t give you his number but he and his wife have an amazing store) and Dianne/Ms. P (Uncommon’s most loving teacher/coach/school mom and amazing yoga instructor) your posts are so rich. Thank you for being authentic, loving, and brave in sharing who you are, what you believe, and how we can become better humans to each other. I truly look forward to your updates each day.

It is so easy for us to forget the important yet amazing things in life that give us meaning: our mindsets, experiences, and personal connections all make us who we are and how we perceive our place and purpose on this earth. I am grateful for You!

You are a beautiful manifestation of love and connection: you push me to write, scold me when I don't, and support me when I do. Thank you for indulging me in sharing and I pray that you also share with me. If you don't live here, know that you are most welcome here. If there is anything I can do to get you here, whether to visit or move, just reach out. And if you are here, let's link up link up to lime, reason, hold a vibes.

Love and Liberation,

SD