Comment

Barber Shop Chronicles / 27 December / Uganda

On the 7th of December, I left London to travel through SubSaharan Africa for six week researching a play about barber shops. The project is supported by The Binks Trust, The British Council and Fuel Theatre Limited. This is the fourth of six journey-logs.

Barber Shop Chronicles / 27 December / Uganda

If I thought Kenyans were relaxed, they are absolute firecrackers-on-speed compared to the ever-at-your-own-leisure-ease Ugandans seem to stride with. Even the airport staff are so relaxed, I feel as though I'm queuing at a supermarket, casually checking myself into their country. My bag is the lone luggage on the conveyor belt, I grab it and head out searching for a taxi from Entebbe where the airport is, to Kampala, the capital city. My driver is a fast-talking uncle of crisp movements and quick eyes. I climb into the passenger seat and we are off. His name is Mugasa Blick and he tells me a little about how Swahili is used; only 30% of the country speak it compared to the 100% of Kenya, that there are various ethnic groups, so various languages, but the most commonly spoken is English. We drive past shops entirely painted and decorated with the logos and colours of rival mobile phone companies - Airtel and MTN, red and yellow respectively - aggressively advertising in a country where I imagine aggression doesn't work.

I check into the Shangri-La hotel, leave an hour later to explore my neighbourhood. The hotel is tucked just behind the Sheraton, a ground-hugging-sprawling bungalow compared to the multi-storey sparkling tower of the Sheraton Hotel, rising up from this hill, one of the seven Kampala is built on. The public modes of transports are the Matatus (buses similar Kenya's) and Bodabodas - unlicensed motorbikes that dart in and out of traffic, by far the fastest way to travel. I hop on a boda and ride to the Nakumat, (local shopping mall) to purchase an MTN SIM card. The mall is three stories tall and is busy for a lazy Sunday afternoon. Kids ride up and down the escalators as if in an amusement park, laughing at the sensation of moving whilst standing still. I eat at a food court, letting the warmth of early evening slow down my racing thoughts on what to do tomorrow.

Monday, 30th of December and I meet Patricia who works for the British Council in Kampala and she further contextualises Uganda's relationship with the English language. She says that during the Liberation War between Uganda and Tanzania, the leader at the time, Idi Amin, was distrustful of Ugandans who held positions in the government, who'd completed their education in England and spoke English far batter and fluently than he did. He deposed a lot of them, gave their jobs to those he trusted and insisted they carry out the duties of their office in Swahili. They were brutal times and after the war Swahili became synonymous with hard time and the military. The people refused to have their everyday conversation overshadowed by those difficult times and wanted another national language. To avoid the problems that may arise from favouring a local tribal language over others, English was settled on. I explain the barber shop project again to Patricia, where it began, what it is trying to do and the experience thus far. She suggests a bunch of places to check out, a strategy, a plan of action and insists that I visit Alex, a friend of hers who runs an arts organisation. We drive for a few minutes and the landscape changes from the presidential and business side where I am based, to the packed pedestrian of the city centre, and eventually, the partially rural ‘roaming-goats’ working class side of town.

Alex is direct, intelligent and hardworking, you can tell by how he talks, how, as I explain the project again, I feel like he is underlining lines and phrases from the play's sales pitch. He leans back and says that I need to stay away from affluent barber shops, that I must go to other places for local conversations, everyday problems. He says they will not be kind to a foreigner recording their talk, so I must do it discretely. There will be langue-barrier he says, people gossip in their dialects not in English. He suggests hiring an interpreter for the day: Jackson, a friend, playwright and actor, who everyone knows as 'Dre', "Like the doctor" Alex says laughing. Dre is an easy going, softly spoken, loose-limbed starving artist like I am and I find camaraderie and kinship in his views on Nigerian literature and the implications of being an "African Writer".

The following day we travel by foot and matuatu to three barber shops. Dre explains that the largest tribe is called Buganda from which the country gets its name: Uganda, Baganda is the plural for Muganda (what you call a lone Bugandan) and Luganda is their language, which Dre speaks in the barber shops, doing his best to initiate conversations. I discretely push the record button on my device and try to guess what is being talked about, I watch the familiar dance of testosterone and intimacy/bravado and humility/storyteller and his audience play out in a different tongue. After the third barber, Dre and I sit and he translates. With a sinking feeling, it becomes obvious that this arrangement is not working. I have never recorded without asking for permission first. As Dre speaks, I realise I need to be more active. If I could understand what was being said, I would have asked this question at this point, agreed here, disagreed there, teased this topic out because someone else had spoken of it in London or Johannesburg... and a host of other things I had been doing automatically, before pressing the record button. I thank Dre for his time and resolve to find another shop where English is the language of gossip. Michael (from Kenya) had paired me with a lady called Beverly, a friend, fellow poet and member of Kampala's literati. Beverly gives me the number of a barber called Simon based in the Ntinda shopping complex in Bugolobi and later in the evening, I wrestle the price from 7,000 shilling to 5,000, hop on the boda and we weave through the red tinged-world that is the sun setting on Kampala. The journey takes a little over 15 minutes and from the moment I walk into the beauty salon where Simon rents a chair and works from, it is non-stop with talk. Simon is a diamond of a barber of a man. He has been cutting for 15 years, his clients go back a decade and they trust him so much, after he explains my project and I ask hesitantly if I can record our conversation, one says 'I don't give a fuck' and another looks at the recording device as though an insect before the unstoppable locomotive force of his opinion on the ills of the world. He talks about love. In a rich thick accent, he lectures passionately and wildly on the dangers of loving too much. I don't ask who hurt him in the past, he tells everything unprompted. Another client discusses surprisingly contemporary attitudes to dating, to Uganda's dowry system, to fatherhood and when they ask about my own marital status, they collectively chastise me on being single, how unusual it is (they say) for a Nigerian not have two or even three girlfriends at at time. Back at the hotel, I fall to sleep listening to the conversation and dream I have two girlfriends. I wake up sweating from the stress of it.

It is the early hours of the 31st of December, new year's eve and a sudden loneliness is a gulp in my throat. I spend most of the day writing, half planning to mark the year's end from the comfort of my bed, but eventually, I go out to meet Phiona Okumu, writer, journalist, curator, country-hopper, enthusiast; an everything woman. Above all, she is an old friend and we see in the new year together. The first day of 2014 passes uneventfully, I write for all of it and on Friday, head out to meet Simon for the last time. We leave the mall in Ntinda, take the first two left turns and enter a health centre. There is a pool table by the pool side. The soundtrack to the music of striking cue sticks, is child's play, laughter and splashing water. Now and then, a daughter runs to us from the pool to high five her father, who is among us, before diving back into the water. Simon buys a round of drinks for everyone and I'm drawn against an experienced player, smooth and precise to the clumsy ogre that is my style of play. We play three rounds, he takes the first match when I have two reds left to pot. Miraculously, I take the second, and he absolutely destroys me in the third. As we play, Simon explains that he had been working since 6am that morning, he'd driven to a client's house before coming to the mall, that it had been non-stop. I ask if he will ever open his own barber shop, he says he has been saving for it already and also plans to open a shop for his girlfriend. Simon knows his business well, he discuss work incentives for future employees, ways of generating positive attitudes to life for the mental well-being of clients, how to sustain longevity and the best location for his business. After the match, I thank Simon for his time, for allowing me into his world and flag down a boda to take me back to hotel. It is night time and the driver dodges potholes and speed bumps so smoothly, I drift off on motorbike and imagine a thriller set within Kampala's bodaboda community - think Spartacus meets Biker Boyz meets West Side Story with an oracle figure loosely based on Simon.

Whereas the South Africans mostly spoke on politics, Zimbabweans mostly on music and Kenyans on African development, the Ugandans overwhelming spoke of love. As if to confirm this, behind the breakfast buffet table, Jimmy, who works at the hotel, tells me about his last relationship. He walked in on his girlfriend cheating on him. He recounts a joke by the Nigerian comedian Basktemouth. Basketmouth explained how Hollywood had colonised our ideas of relationships; in movies, you have guys climbing mountains, threatening to jump from heartbreak and it turns out okay in the end, but in Africa, you'll jump and die! Hollywood romances he says, should come with the same warning that precedes WWA (World Wrestling Allstars) t.v. shows: 'Don't try this at home'. We swap email address, promise to keep in-touch, and after packing, I make a list things I have learnt:

1) Storks are common as muck in Uganda. 2) Kenyans believe Ugandan girls are aggressive. 3) Swahili is regarded as the language of the military. 4) The bodabodas are the bad boys of traffic. 5) Ugandan soil is very very red. 6) The dowry culture is still thriving. 7) The source of the River Nile is in Uganda. 8) There are 56 tribes in Uganda. 9) The largest tribe in Africa are Manchester United fans. 10) I am a superficial tribesman.

Next stop, Lagos, Nigeria.

IMG_3008
IMG_3008
IMG_3009
IMG_3009
IMG_3010
IMG_3010
IMG_3012
IMG_3012
IMG_3013
IMG_3013
IMG_3018
IMG_3018
IMG_3020
IMG_3020
IMG_3021
IMG_3021
IMG_3028
IMG_3028
IMG_3031
IMG_3031
IMG_3042
IMG_3042
IMG_3044
IMG_3044
IMG_3052
IMG_3052
IMG_3060
IMG_3060
IMG_3077
IMG_3077
IMG_3087
IMG_3087
IMG_3095
IMG_3095
IMG_3222
IMG_3222

Comment

Comment

Barber Shop Chronicles / 22 December / Kenya

On the 7th of December, I left London to travel through SubSaharan Africa for six week researching a play about barber shops. The project is supported by The Binks Trust, The British Council and Fuel Theatre Limited. This is the third of six journey-logs.

Barber Shop Chronicles / 22 December / Kenya

The airplane taxis into the airport from Johannesburg. I find the nearest cash machine, line my wallet with the local dough and slip into the Nairobi night. The cab driver is chatty as we drive towards the city, it is his last day of work before the Christmas holidays. He intends to park his car outside his house, get to the coast, and lie on a beach for five days. We arrive at the accommodation for the duration of my stay, the Kenyan Comfort Hotel on Mundi Mbingu Street. The staff who are sleepy at this late hour of night, perk up at a new arrival. The computers are down so the receptionist checks me in on faith alone, says she has upgraded me to a double bed, but should a woman stay the night, I am to pay an extra $20 dollars. I'm too tired to question why, so I sign, climb to room 305, unfurl the mosquito net, crawl into its belly and sleep.

What I know of Kenya is limited to its language, its mispronunciation by Britons of a certain era (Keeeenya) and a faux romanticism about its capital Nairobi. In the morning, I shower, go down for breakfast and discover that though English is the lingua franca and everyone speaks it with reasonable command, most people think in Kiswahili, so gossip in Kiswahili, so in barber shops, most of the conversation will be in Kiswahili. I do not speak a work of Kiswahili. The bright morning dims a little at the prospect, but I go out to meet it and complete the task for the first day: find barber shops and get a local SIM card. I turn right out of the hotel and following a market worker's advice, walk down to the Gilfillan building, up the first flight of stairs and into two barber shops right beside each other, bursting with customers. The first on the right is a relaxed affair, pinkish walls, the barbers are in casual clothes and are sat at a sofa close to the doors, confidently asking male pedestrians regardless of hair length, to come in for a hair cut. The second on the left is a visually superior setting. All the workers are in navy and white uniforms. The walls are lined with mirrors, they see to both women and men’s hair and every corner of the shop is taken with a chair, a customer and someone tending. I ask to speak with the manager and the older gentleman/receptionist with rust coloured teeth, points me to a younger man working hard on his client’s head. I explain, or rather try to explain my project but I get the sense that because I am not wearing a suit and that I am not there to spend money, I am of little importance to him. I tell him I will return the following day and leave.

Back at the hotel, I spend almost two hours speaking with friend and fellow writer Jessica Horn via text message. She links me with the few friends she has in Nairobi who, after I explain, are excited by the project. The one person I know is a Michael Onsando who I'd planned to meet that evening. Mike calls to say he is downstairs and because we have a good friend in common and because he is a writer, there is a shorthandedness to how quickly we speak and for the first time, I'm relaxed and confident I will get what I need from this city. Mike takes me to his parents’ house for dinner. His parents are welcoming and charming in that old-African-hospitality kind of way and I greet them the way my parents taught me to, on my knees. Mike's father asks me to sit immediately and his mother visibly blushes. I explain about the project and where I'd just come from. Mike's father talks a little Kenyan history, how it was considered a potential site for the jewish homeland - that is to say when it was under British rule, it was optioned as a location for Israel. After dinner we go to Michael's barber's, a shack of a shop he'd been visiting since he was a boy. It is small, serves only two customers at a time and is utterly aesthetically perfect. I take pictures as Mark, Michael's brother who I asked to come along and get a hair cut, sits for the barber to begin. The conversation is about rugby vs football & basketball, Kenya's television/digital migration, an attempted mugging, and township tours for tourists in South Africa. Michael is going away with his family for Christmas, as I board the taxi back to my hotel, I thank him for his time, wishing him the season's best.

It is the 24th of December and the city is rapidly loosing its population. As it is with main cities during holidays, numbers diminish as folks leave for their family homes or ancestral villages. Nairobi is no different. I return to Gilfillan where in the pre-Christmas bustle, everything is being talked about. I can tell from facial expressions and vocal tones that what I want for my play is within reach, close, but for I don't speak Swahili, so far away. I go to the other shop where the brash manager asks the rust-toothed receptionist to deal with me. His name is Daniel. He works as an actor, sometimes as a writer. When I explain the project he says "ah, you are looking for things like that scene in Coming to America, when Eddie is in a barber shop" and I have to restrain myself from hugging him. He suggests other barber shops where English is spoken and should that fail, I should return on the 27th and he will tell me stories from his shop. Later that night, Aleya who worked for Storymoja, Kenya's literary Hay Festival puts me in touch with Ian, a friend of her's, who directs me to a barber shop where indeed, English is partially spoken and the conversation there are about business. Swiftly, it moves to the dwindling influence of the west over African economies, laws for same-sex and inter-racial adoption and what effects financial/gender equality might have on Kenyan households and families. The gentleman and I talk long after I stop recording and I get the sense that there is a loneliness in his life, one he cannot express or divulge to the wife and daughter he “must return to” he says as we shake hands and part ways.

It is the 27th and my social network has widened to include the vibrant, chatty and infectious Njoki who works at a respected arts centre called The Nest. Not only does Njoki invite me for Christmas dinner with her parents, but she comes over to the hotel to help translate some parts of recorded conversations from Kiswahili to English. As we climb the stairs, the friendly receptionist reiterates the rule, that Njoki must not go up to my room without the $20 fee and the reason settles into place. At night, the streets of Nairobi are lined with prostitutes - at traffic lights, junctions, the mouths of alleys, etc. Rather than banning the practice on their premises, the hoteliers makes a little on the side by charging extra should their customers wish to indulge themselves. Njoki laughs at my naivety as we type up the conversations. Two friends of her's arrive in a beautiful black people-carrier (Njoki had told them about the project) and the plan is to visit their barbers. As we drive through the city, they comment on how unusual it is to go at this speed at this time of day, for Nairobi is overpopulated, congested and thick with traffic every other time of year. We go to the Unga House shopping centre in Westlands and in the barber shop there, the talk is of Kenyan infidelity, sexual repression in Saudi Arabia and incredibly enough, what vegetable is best suited to a woman's... needs.

The 28th is my final day and Njoki pulls out the Ace in the deck of dazzling cards I believe her friends to be. His name is Brian and ten minutes after we meet he had me convinced that "morals is the new cool" — we need to bring them back in the stories we tell if we are to save our societies and ourselves — he says of the media's sensationalist tragedy stories that "we began to focus on people who have problems and forgot that everyone has problems" suggesting this is why we can step over the every day hungry and downtrodden on our streets, but willingly give to huge disaster-relief efforts. Brian takes me to visit Calif, his hood in Nairobi. We take the public mode of transport called Matatus (taxis in JoBurg) - a rudimentary bus system. Brian breaks it down thus: 'Tatu' is short for 'Mapeni Matatu' which means '30 cents' which was the original flat rate price to use one. As we drive, there's evidence that Obama's influence is alive in Kenya. We pass shops called 'Obama's corner' and 'Yes We Can Limited'. I tell Brian about a trend in Zimbabwe of odd-sounding names, and he says the same exists in Kenya, he has met people named 'Eminent Person', 'TearGas' and 'Coalition Talks'. The barber shop is small, seats four clients at a time and each one is occupied when we arrive. Brian introduces me to the staff who ask questions about the project and the talk is a dream-find of conversations, one of those roving funny and at times alarming ones. Topics range from Nigerian and Kenyan witchcraft, to love potions and urban legends, to adequate punishment for rapists, to men having sex with hens, to 'acceptable' bestiality, cross-border travel, and the strength of the Kenyan shilling weighed against the Ugandan shilling. When Brian's cut is done, we leave the little bustling shop and Brian speaks excitedly of his ongoing projects. He writes 'Classmates', one of the biggest and most successful comedy series on Kenyan television, currently in its 9th series. Brian talks of a pilot he had just made about Matatus, how years before, there used to be a culture of showmanship built into their usage, they'd have neon-lights and 42inch t.v. screens mounted on the sides, some with laser-lights and hydraulics. He says folks would spend nights riding around town in them for entertainment - forget about bars and clubs, these were venues themselves - but the new government outlawed the practice. He speaks nostalgically of those days, says Nairobi seemed like a different city and his show is to celebrate those times.

We go to a local fast food joint where Brian introduces me to four close friends, all working in the television and film industries. We discuss 'authenticity' regarding African stories. Bruce is adamant that there is no such thing, there are just stories. I argue that some stories are culturally specific, therefore, if the culture does not exist in Africa, the story cannot be African, thus, the opposite must be true; there must be stories that are specific to Africa, therefore 'African stories'. Brian asks for examples, I suggest global warming in the Inuit community; those who live in Igloos. If a story is about melting Igloos, it could never be an African story, it would be alien to this continent. Brian disagrees, explaining there are some Kenyans who live in mud huts. Because of global warming and increased rainfall, their huts are 'melting', turning to liquid, so such a story could play to Inuit audiences: there are stories and regardless of how specific, they can be adapted and made universal. Later on, I recount a crude joke I'd adapted to suit Kenyan audiences to make Brian laugh. Usually it features an Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman, but I replaced them with three of the 42 Kenyan tribes. They are discussing making love to their wives. The Luo man says when he finishes making love, so satisfied is she, she levitates two feet off the bed. The Luyah man says that's nothing. When he finishes, he gives his wife a deep tissue massage and she floats ten feet off the bed. The Kamba man dismisses both of them, says when he finishes, he wipes his manhood on the curtain and his wife hits the roof! The joke worked in this context, somewhat proving Brian's point: contexts can be adapted: there are just stories and how we respond (or don't) respond to them is a measure of our life experience and knowledge of the global human experience.

I am to meet Aleya and her friend Njeri for my last night in the country, to eat at a Koroga, an Indian outdoor restaurant where you are provided raw ingredients and you cook your own meal. Before the taxi arrives, I stare out at the sun kissing the Kenyan horizon and make a list of things I have learned:

1) Kenya was a potential site for Israel. 2) There's a place called Soweto in Kenya. 3) Of the 42 tribes, Luo men are the flashiest. 4) Assumptions are made of men who travel alone. 5) Kenyan mosquitos are as relaxed as Kenyans. 6) Kenya's class system is very similar to Britain's. 7) Israel built parts of the Eastlands region of Nairobi. 8) The soil from the region was shipped to Israel. 9) Israel, it follows then, is built on Kenyan soil. 10) History is truly, effing incredible.

Next stop, Kampala, Uganda.

IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2865
IMG_2865
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864
IMG_2864

Comment

Comment

Barber Shop Chronicles / 15 December / Zimbabwe*

On the 7th of December, I left London to travel through SubSaharan Africa for six week researching a play about barber shops. The project is supported by The Binks Trust, The British Council and Fuel Theatre Limited. This is the second of six journey-logs.

Barber Shop Chronicles / 15 December / Zimbabwe*

I wasn't granted a Zimbabwean visa before I left London. The plan was to visit the consulate in JoBurg, first thing on Monday, 9th of Dec and apply for a visa. The plan failed. The backup plan was to visit on Tuesday, but all of Joburg is shut for Nelson Mandela's funeral ceremony. That plan failed too. The consulate do not open on Wednesdays, so on Thursday, I finally make it and the queue is long, boisterous and baking in the heat. When it is my turn, the attendant asks that I have the hotel booked in Zimbabwe reprint my reservation on a letter headed paper and I should return with it later today. I ask, assuming that were possible, how long it would take to process the application. He replies 'ten working days'. I will not get the visa in time. The new plan is to exclusively to find Zimbabweans in JoBurg, to speak with them in barber shops they frequent.

It is Monday 16th of December. Christmas is nine days away and many Zimbabweans have gone home. Those left are running around buying gifts for relatives and preparing to leave. I am sat outside the hotel in Braamfontain weighing my decreasing options against the indifferent and beautiful skies, when my friend Milisuthando points to a waiter running by saying “His name is Jackson, he served my friend well at a bar, he is incredibly knowledgeable and politically astute about Zim.” I give chase, catch him in a tiny corner shop and ask if he'd mind speaking with me, if I can have his number. He agrees and we plan to meet later in the week.

Shoni mentions his brother-in-law is from Zimbabwe but is running around, moving house, gathering for the migration home for Christmas, but he will try to set something up. The conversations I have heard about the Zimbabwean presence in Johannesburg have been overwhelmingly positive, to the point of being negative. 'They are hard working' becomes 'They work too hard working' becomes 'They are taking our jobs' becomes 'They work twice as hard for half the money'. During the Windrush period of British history, such sentiments were levelled at Caribbean and West Indian immigrants, then at Black Africans, and now such is levelled at Eastern Europeans in the UK. A dark part of me takes pride at having found final, first-hand proof that black Africans are at least partially as prejudiced to one another as some Europeans are to themselves, proof that "we are not all the same". Instantly, a lump of shame rises in my throat at the realisation that I still on some level, judge Africans by European characteristics and standards, negative or positive. Exactly how deep does the colonial rabbit hole run through me? If an African is an island, is he still a man? What is a man? I choke on the shard of self-hatred and carry on.

Tuesday, I meet Dwain, a slim-built, dreadlocked Zimbabwean musician living in JoBurg, who regularly visits Harare. He confirms what I imagined, that I was not granted a visa because I applied as a writer from the UK, Zimbabwe is not kind to such folk. I ask why and he says it is because of what the west say about Mugabe, how he is spoken of. Dwain adds that because I have a Nigerian passport though, I should have just boarded a flight to Harare, that despite the restrictions detailed on the consulate's website, I'd have been able to purchase an entry visa at Harare's airport. He adds that many guys have dreadlocks in Zim, it's in fashion now, so at the moment barber shops are not frequented that much. I ask why this is the case and he replies Bob Marley played at their celebration of independence in 1980 when, after bitter, bloody battles, they finally won the struggle against Imperialism and British rule - Rastafarianism is big in Zim. I tell Dwain about the Ghanaian barber in London who loves Mugabe, claims he is what a leader should be: one who fights for his people come what may. I ask what Mugabe did exactly, why he is so hated and Dwain says simply 'he took back our land'. It's that simple. No theory, no fancy political rhetoric, he took back what was ours, force was used where necessary. I ask if this is why sanctions were placed on the country and he confirmed it so; the Zimbabwean dollar plummeted, because of this and the battles, Zimbabweans left the country, but things are brightening up, people are coming back, banks are reopening, cash machines are working, he makes more money playing in Zim than he does in South Africa, when he returns, he plays Chimurenga music (Chimurenga means 'struggle' in Shona, a Zimbabwean language) in an attempt to counter reggae and Marley's overwhelming influence. He says I would have loved Harare, a city that never sleeps - is what its name means - and I promise to visit in future.

It is Wednesday the 18th. Evening. Jackson is dodging my phone calls. Shoni's in-law is too busy. I have three days before I leave South Africa and there isn't a Zimbabwean in sight. Hours before, I'd journeyed to Pretoria, a town close to JoBurg, following a lead to a Zimbabwean barber. When I arrive, he tells me he only does dreadlocks confirming what Dwain said, but he has no more clients for the day. Before this however, he grills me on the project. 1)Why barbers shops? 2)Why Zimbabweans? 3)What kind of conversations? 4)Will I pay the barbers and clients? I reply: 1)Because men talk freely there: 2)Because Zimbabwe is English-speaking and I can understand such conversations and there are Zimbabweans in the UK - I am travelling to countries that have a significant presence in there: 3)Any kind of conversation will do, the play is an anthology of subjects, not a single theme or narrative. 4)No I cannot pay the barbers or clients, I cannot afford to pay people to talk to me about anything and everything; it isn't financially sound. He nods, satisfied at my answers having grasped the scope of the project, maintains he cannot help, but wishes me good luck, shaking my hand warmly.

Thursday and I am even more desperate, I begin asking anyone and everyone. Titus a taxi driver promises to link me with a place he used to frequent, calls a couple hours later with a number and an address. The following day Titus drops me at the spot, a tiny shack of a barber shop in Hillbrow. The language spoken is a mixture of Zulu/Shona and I do not understand a word of what is said. Titus had already explained the project to the owner, who welcomes me warmly, gestures to a place prepared for me to sit and watch how this, his tiny, hot, bustling world works.

The walls are the dirty side of off white. When the clients arrive, the barbers speak over the deep South African house music blasting from the speakers, just loud enough to whisper jokes, set them at ease, then send their shoulders shaking in ripe, plump laughter. One barber sips a bottle of Heineken as he works. The clients are mostly women - for the barber shop is unisex - and they all seem to want the same thing. The barbers comb thick white relaxer into their hair, starting from the back, the neck, combing upwards to the crown and finally the front. They let the relaxer cook the hair, thinning the strands for a few minutes before the wash. The barbers guide them gently by the elbows to the even tinier back-room, where they wash throughly and deeply, massaging the scalp, sweeping and rubbing with their thumbs. When they return, the barbers comb and blowdry in long strokes, blasting clouds of water and chemicals from the hair, combing till it is tamed, till it flops down heavy, deflated as defeated tribes. Sunday morning, I am to leave South Africa, and hunched at my desk, I make a list of things I have learnt this week:

1) Pres. Mugabe has at least eight degrees in various fields. 2) Pres. Mugabe has been awarded a dozen or more honorary degrees. 3) Pres. Mugabe is probably the most educated politician on the planet. 4) Ndebele tribesmen are in Zimbabwe and South Africa. 5) The South African king Shakka was by all accounts, a badass mother. 6) Hell hath not fury like a Zulu scorned. #Shakka 7) We are all racists. 8) Harare means 'City that never sleeps.' 9) Harare North is what Zimbabweans call London. 10) I deeply miss Harare North.

Next stop, Kenya, Nairobi.

IMG_2842
IMG_2842
IMG_2844
IMG_2844
IMG_2849
IMG_2849
IMG_2850
IMG_2850
IMG_2856
IMG_2856

Comment

Comment

Barber Shop Chronicles / 5th December / South Africa.

 On the 7th of December, I left London to travel through SubSaharan Africa for six week researching a play about barber shops. The project is supported by The Binks Trust, The British Council and Fuel Theatre Limited. This is the first of six journey-logs.

Barber Shop Chronicles / 5th December / South Africa.

Two days before I leave on the six-week research trip across Sub-Saharan Africa, I'm sat in the living-room watching the news. Years ago, when I realised t.v. stations had political agendas and each episode of the news is as curated as any 'reality' t.v. show, I began to boycott them, but for some reason, this night, I am drawn to the box, to the dispassionate voice of the newsreader. As he speaks, he is interrupted by a news bulletin live from South Africa. PresidentJacob Zuma is speaking behind a podium and I know what he is about to say. I have feared this for years. I call out. My older sister comes running from the kitchen and I wrap my arms around her waist. Zuma says that Madiba has died — the first democratically elected president of South Africa, Nelson Mandela, has passed away and I lose my breath.

I am to travel in two days to begin researching Barbershop Chronicles, an anthology of conversations, a play about what men talk about in barber shops. The first stop is Johannesburg, South Africa, and I predict accurately what the conversation will be about. When I land, I'm collected by a taxi driver who works for the British Council and he gives me the first of many lessons I will learn about the country, its many languages and tribes, that JoBurg was a mining town, that Soweto is home to one million people, that Nigerian Christian evangelism is BIG here. I check into the Easy Hotel on De Korte Street in Braamfontain, email the few contacts I have in the city and have a dinner with Milisuthando, aka, MissMilliB - blogger, fashion writer, voice of her generation, really a renaissance woman through and through and through. As we drive, she speaks passionately of the history of Apartheid, the living legacy of that institution, the unbalance of economic power that persists, the hopes and dreams of black South Africans and what she imagines must be done to secure a peaceful future. I ask politely if I can record our conversation and I do so as we speed through the empty Sunday night city streets. Later on we visit Kitchener’s, a popular after-hours watering hole. Mili and I discuss the project and the differences between JoBurg and Cape Town. When she excuses herself to use the bathroom, the bar breaks into Mandela praise and struggle songs, swaying passionately in his honour, the television reeling documentary, after condolence, after solidarity messages. The barman lines up shots of something dark, sweet and fiery for the entire bar and we toast Mandela's legacy.

I meet Shoni the following day, my official 'fixer' for the trip. He is a quick witted, dirty-laughtered, laid back, good natured dude of diamond smiles, who admonishes me after purchasing a SIM card, to put away my phone when walking the streets. 'This is Joburg' he says, 'You must be careful'. But it feels too much like a lazy Brixton afternoon, and that brand of danger I can handle. We drive around visiting barber shops, Shoni doing his best to introduce me and the project to the guarded barbers. I take down names, addresses, dates and times to swing by and the day finishes at Yoeville which Shoni says is the most multiethnic neighbourhood in Sub-Saharan Africa. As we walk, everyone is here: Cameroon, Ghana, Zimbabwe, Tanzania, Nigeria, Malawi, Jamaica, Trinidad, Zambia and more, all spilling into the streets, all mixing their languages with Zulu, Afrikaans, English, Xhosa and more. Shoni suggests we go visit a friend of his and we drive to Greenside, across town, to Mandla's house. Mandla, Shoni's friend, isn't nicknamed 'Street Boss' for nothing. He knows JoBurg like the back of both palms and is plugged into street fashion, street culture and contemporary music. He runs Street Cred, a festival of all that I have listed, and as we speak, it becomes rapidly apparent that we have common ground, that there is work we can and must do together.

Mandela's passing is everywhere. Posters line the roads and bus stations. The t.v. and radio stations have jingles and snippets of songs laced into every ad break. People call in to talk of nothing less. Points and counterpoints are made about the adequacy of the ANC (the ruling political party) to run the country, the nature of deal Mandela made on his release from prison, the attempt to rebrand Mandela as a peace-loving-turn-the-other-cheek kind of brother, rather than the fiery freedom fighter who not only used violence, but supported Malcolm X's use of force, such that he featured in Spike Lee's biopic of the man. Soweto is home to a large stadium where Mandela's ceremony is to be held. Dignitaries from the entire world fly in, from Banki Moon to David Cameron, President Mugabe to Desmond Tutu, three US Presidents including Bill Clinton. The politicians make long speeches. The sign interpreter gets it wrong. The soldiers and police attempt to maintain order, but in the stands, the people sing. It has rained every day in JoBurg. It pours throughout Mandela's funeral, a lashing rain, relentless in its density and duration. Some say this is an omen, Madiba warning from death. Shoni had told me previously of 'The Night of Long Knives' a prophecy believed by Afrikaners when black South Africans reclaim their country and wealth by force. He says this jokingly, adding that he is not a fighter, doubts it will ever happen but there is a something in the JoBurg air.

In the barber shop though, conversations are also about the every day, for life goes on. Shoni and I get our hair cut at a little joint down the road from the hotel. Abel, our barber from Cameroon is a small man of precise hand gestures. His francophone/African tongue makes rough work of English, speaking in rapid bursts, he explain he is the good brother - referring to the Bible Story - Cain is the bad one. He started cutting when he came to JoBurg, never learnt back home because he believed it was a job for dropouts, he dropped out of uni, left Cameroon to make money, and here he was. But he thanks God, says, it is nothing short of God's glory that he is able to make a living here, to feed himself. Some of his colleagues don't have up to R1000 saved but he does, and will pay for his University fees. In the ceremony, Presidents Mugabe (of Zimbabwe) and Obama (of America) receive the most enthusiastic and generous receptions. SA's president, Jacob Zuma's was as voluminous but negative: he was booed by his own people, on an international stage, the world's media watching. Able says this is bad, we should not have booed our leaders, 'they will go away if we do so'. I ask if he thinks they are doing a good job and he goes quiet as if he believes this is beside the point; they are leaders, we must respect them. Period. On the other hand, Shoni says this is what democracy means, we must boo them! Boo!

On Friday, I visit J's Barbershop. It is near Melrose Arch, a predominantly white-world away from the black-African of Braamfontein and Yeoville. J's reminds me of barber shops in London. HipHop is the soundtrack, barbers wear their jeans low, there are sofa's for waiting clients and clothing rails for of clothes for sale. I speak with Tumi, a private banker who'd been coming to J's for years. After talking about language differences and his varied receptions when travelling to different parts of this country, his tone softens on the topic of romance. A new relationship, a new girl, what he thinks of their future prospects, what his friends think of her, how he has watched her interact with family, that he thinks he has found 'The One'. I ask if he has communicated how deeply he feels, 'Does she know?' And he replies 'No, You have to act tough, can't let her know just yet, maybe after a year' (!).

As part of grant from the British Council, I am to run a creative writing workshop with a group of poets led by Thabiso Mohare, of British Council JoBurg, of Word & Sound - a poetry organisation. Thabiso is a soft-spoken, dreadlocked charismatic man of many talents - most of the folks I meet seem to be multifaceted here. When I first met Thabiso, he'd just been commissioned to write a poem for an American radio station on the mood in South Africa following Nelson's passing. As we drive to his apartment to hold the workshop, I learn a little more of his glowing plans for poetry in Southern Africa. At the apartment, the writers arrive and there are many of them, each with a different voice, aesthetic and approach to writing. After brief introductions, I lead a two hour, thirty-minute workshop on imagery and language. We discuss and critique 'Litany' by Billy Collins, 'The Jabberwocky' by Lewis Carol, and 'The Forgotten Dialect of The Heart' by Jack Gilbert. We discuss what is gained and lost in using words to communicate and greater what is gained and lost in using the English language instead any of the 12 languages of the 12 tribes in SA. After that, we write poems. We read these poems to each other. We eat, drink, nourish one another.

Soon it is Sunday. I'd been denied a Visa to Zimbabwe - the next stop on the six-week research trip - so I must now stay in South Africa for a few more days, attempt to get a visa, and in the meantime, seek out Zimbabweans resident in the country, to hang with and talk. When heavy sanctions were placed on President Mugabe for his violent land reform programmes, three million Zimbabweans fled to South Africa. Finding them should not be a problem. At night, I make a list: Things I have learnt:

1: The Night of Long Knives. 2: Samuel Eto'o is the most successful African footballer of all time. 3: Mandela was of the Xhosa people, the runt of South Africa's indigenous tribes. 4: Xhosa folk sided with the Dutch and English when they colonised South Africa. 5: Joop! fragrance sales rose by 80% in the first three months of its PR campaign. 6: The campaign was masterminded by MissMilliB and her team. 7: 'Our poverty is the 8th wonder of the world'. 8: Mugabe is a hero to most South Africans; his use of violence was just in their eyes. 9: The still waters that run deep in South Africa are not still. Not at all. 10: Hunter's Dry is the king of ciders.

Next stop, Harare, Zimbabwe?

IMG_2790
IMG_2790
IMG_2791
IMG_2791
IMG_2797
IMG_2797
IMG_2798
IMG_2798
IMG_2800
IMG_2800
IMG_2820
IMG_2820
IMG_2822
IMG_2822
IMG_2823
IMG_2823
IMG_2824
IMG_2824
IMG_2826
IMG_2826

Comment

Comment

Freewrite // 13 November

A ‘Freewrite’ is a writing exercise designed to see what the subconscious throws up: to write freely without editing, planning etc. There are many variations. I use this one when I lead writing workshops, I ask participants to give 10 random words (which we add in roughly one-minute intervals) and also a half-sentence to begin with. Words: Fire, platypus, death, mountain, beans, magic, unicorn, rocket, fairy, sleep, pitch.

The football pitch was wet. The boys and I sat on the coach, our heads resting against the cool window pan longing for the world outside. It wasn't just wet, it was waterlogged, each blade of grass drowning in its watery grave, its thirst every quenched. Some prayed for fire, that a furnace would descende and dry up the ground for the game to begin. The goal keeper, from the back of the bus explained how a platypus would make a great goalie given the weather conditions and coach explained this was the death of masculinity; in his day, they played through rain storms, they hiked mountains to find flat turf closer to the gods and there, they defied the laws of humanity and gravity. The striker wondered out loud if magic beans would grow to mountain tops, if destiny was built into the language of football at all and the mascot, dressed as a unicorn explained he was made of the stuff, he could make crowds cheer, dance to his every whim, he was magic itself. The boy jeered and dared him to dance the pitch dry with his magic and he rocketed out of the coach to the pitch and danced and danced.

Later, the boys claimed when the skies opened up and lightning struck the unicorn mascot, it threw him up in the air and his white suit burst into flames and fire like a fairy in flight and the others who were asleep woke up and shook their heads in disbelief.

Comment

Comment

Freewrite // 24th October

A ‘Freewrite’ is a writing exercise designed to see what the subconscious throws up: to write freely without editing, planning etc. There are many variations. I use this one when I lead writing workshops, I ask participants to give 10 random words (which we add in roughly one-minute intervals) and also a half-sentence to begin with. Words: Jigsaw, macaroni, riot, banana, fish, anger, crucifix, struggle, salad, penuts.

The police arrested the old man. A bull ring of squad cars amassed outside his house. Their lights flashing in the august dusk and to further humiliate the old man, the superintendent on the scene had the youngest, blondest female officer lead him out, her hands like a bright vice around his wrists and the old man snarling through the scattered jigsaw of neighbours, applauding as he struggled past. A little girl who would grow up to be a police officer threw handfuls of macaroni as he walked past remembering the riots she'd seen on television, imagining her fists were hurling bits of bricks at the old tyrant. The old man bent over banana-like into the unmarked police car which slipped into the night, a fish into the school of traffic.

There was anger. The old man felt it spreading uncontrollably from his teeth, a vice-like rage, a want for violence loosened in him. Through his opened ripped shirt, he glimpsed his crucifix and quietly cursed God, Christ and all his diciples. Years from now, he'd recall this was when he lost his struggle with faith and the good book. Th rage tumbled through him. He vomited the salad he'd had for lunch in the back seat and watched quietly as it dried into the fabric turning hard, his pupils reduced to peanuts in the dark.

Comment

Comment

The Butterfly Hotel

So, my five favourite poems from Roger Robinson's new book are: Brixton - the detail, the fluid precision Month One - heartfelt, emotive Trinidad Gothic - sublime Wild Meat - this has inspired a poem As All The Boys Did - breathtaking ending.

Came out recently, published by Pepal Tree and you need this in your life.

20131027-093759.jpg

Comment

Comment

Barber Shop Chronicles. Call out.

Barber Shop Chronicles.Introduction and call out. October 2013. Inua Ellams

Years ago I heard of a programme to train barbers in the very basics of counselling so that they would know how to handle sensitive things their clients might say. I wanted to be a resident writer at that barber shop in South London, to find out what those stories might be and to write something inspired by those stories. The idea has grown to this project called 'Barber Shop Chronicles' where I will begin in barber shops in London and travel to countries from Southern to Western Africa looking for stories. The continent is changing so rapidly that we of the diaspora communities barely keep up. I want to gather the ways in which the continent is changing (the day to day issues and problems) directly from locals, from the intimate and intense conversations men have in barber shops. Rather than focusing on a single person's story, I'll be searching for themes to build an 'anthology' of conversation that will link communities on the continent with communities in the United Kingdom. When I return to London, I will create a play using what I find.

Help! Between December and January, I will be travelling to South Africa // Cape Town, Zimbabwe // Harare, Tanzania // Dodoma, Kenya // Nairobi, Uganda // Kampala, Nigeria // Lagos or Jos, Ghana // Accra and Sierra Leone // Freetown. I’m hoping to find one or two barber shops in each city, to mine for stories. I will be spending no more than a week in each place, so will need the ground work to be done before I arrive. So, I was wondering if you could help me?

I am looking for a charismatic, welcoming barber who has regular, clients he knows well, places that have a very strong community feel, frequented by both young and old generations, where the language spoken is English, where everything is discussed. No place is too small or too large, everything from tin shacks on road sides to larger complexes are welcome, and the barbers themselves (who will be key to this process) can be young or old. When it comes to writing the play, I can change names and locations of people and paces if they would like to remain anonymous.

Thank you.

Comment

Comment

Freewrite 26th August. #Greenbelt

A ‘Freewrite’ is a writing exercise designed to see what the subconscious throws up: to write freely without editing, planning, punctuation, paragraph etc. There are many variations. I use this one when I lead writing workshops, I ask participants to give 10 random words (which we add in roughly one-minute intervals) and a half sentence formed using the last word. The half sentence is the starting point for the freewrite. This freewrite was held at the Greenbelt Festival.

Words: Expedition. Pissed. Banana. Origami. Injury. Space. Reality. Cyborg. Fluffy. Carpet.

There was a carpet, a fake persian. It lay half in shadow and half in the light streaming through the windows in the old mosque. Dust clung to the air like old prayers, a withered expedition to God that failed halfway out the mouths of the penitent. The air was pisses off that it held these dead dreams. A burst banana lay in one corner, a moshpit of fruit-flies dancing above it, their tiny wings like origami paper fluttering the dusty prayers. An old woman nursing an ankle injury limped into the space and knelt down on the carpet. The dust gathered around her mouth as she bent over praying, pleading for some other reality, that the cyborgs her grandson talked about might help alleviate her pain. Her prayers were steadfast, honest, fluffy as they soared upwards towards the ceiling where the star and moon watched over the silent waiting city.

Comment

Comment

Clubbing.

Clubbing.

It begins with shackling necklaces across throats:
the distorted custom of wearing amulets to battle
talismans to war; we are new hunters, wear jeans

to camouflage, clutch mobile phones like spears
journey for the village / town / city square, meet
the rest of the tribe mostly in short skirts, armed

with stilettos, armoured by Chanel. Dusk thickens,
the customary bickering between us commences
through the jungle vines of power lines/stampede

of zebra crossings/night growth of streets bustling,
our ritual is natural, till the traders come. Greater
armed, they divide with such ease that most of us

are taken. Those who resist are swayed by liquor
deals, sailed to darkness where the master spins
a tune not our own. We move stiffly to it as minds

force indifference, but spines have a preference
for drums. Rage building, we make our melody,
fight to find our feet until the master tries to mix

our movement with his song… but the rhythm is
uneven and the tempo, wrong. Against its waves,
we raise voices in anger, fists in protest, dancers

in the tide, militant against the music, a million
men marching through seas. But we still know
how to cross water, the ocean holds our bones;

explains our way of navigating past bouncers
like breeze into the cool air, where clouds pass
like dark ships and find us beached, benched

with parched lips, loose-limbed and looking
to light. Now, the best thing about clubbing
is not this, or the struggle to make hips sway

just so, not the need to charge cloakrooms
as if through underground railroads. No. 
best thing about clubbing is the feeling

of freedom on the ride home.

Comment

Comment

Freewrite // 1st of May

A ‘Freewrite’ is a writing exercise designed to see what the subconscious throws up: to write freely without editing, planning etc. There are many variations. I use this one when I lead writing workshops, I ask participants to give 10 random words (which we add in roughly one-minute intervals) and also a half-sentence to begin with. Words: Chocolate, Yellow, sky, cardboard, door, scent, blue tack, gravel, dog, bowl.

For a moment, I forgot what the wind feels like, what it is to run with something infinitely faster, lighter and barely of this world. There are parts of earth that are liminal, things we only see in the briefest glimpse, and are gone, a blink's worth of words: the faint faded taste of chocolate on a lover's tongue and you wish you were there before. Or finding an old book book yellowed at the edges and wanting to have held it white and just pressed. The sky is filled with this liminal energy, clouds, those gatherings of water hold faint traces of all who have drank before. When it falls, rain on open mouths, hard faces, cardboard in alleys, roof tops, reservoirs, its the dead falling all around us. The rain drops on windows are warnings, the door is splattered with screams. The after rain scent is of wounded soldiers, blue, tacked to the living, they are clinging, sinking through our skin, through gravel to the soil of us. A dog barks, lonely and knowing into the heavy dusk and the curved bowl of earth waits to drink again.

Comment

Comment

2012: A Snapshot

Earlier this year The Houses of Parliament and Apples and Snakes commissioned me to 'crowd-source' a poem democratic engagement and parliamentary representation. On Twitter, Facebook, here on my blog, in workshops, on bus rides, at the optician's, in supermarkets I asked questions and this is the by product. Thanks.

2012: A snapshot.

A pub on stilts. Its shadow: long and dark,
cast along the tall grass, St George’s cross
ripples in breeze, a tartan kilt dangles off

a window sill, a sky ever stuffed with rain,
one red dragon - half sunk on the horizon
is how I picture the United Kingdom.

There are steps carved of wild wood and
old stone, they shake but master the weight
of all who come. Hung over the fireplace is:

a stuffed bird, sketches of veterans, framed
paintings of chalky cliffs, ceramic castles
adorn the mantle-piece, and if you listen

to those closest sat, whose voices rumble
out of broad chests decorated with medals
you’ll hear stories of days gone by,

when men were men and that was that.
The pub sits on stilts. By the long counter,
Miriam, 25, wise for her age, giggles

but finds enchanting the frayed man
who yells in opposing voices; she finds
truth in the rough quarrel of his tongue.

He yells: his voice is never heard, then
yells: he is just misunderstood and Liz,
46, seeking solitude, asks him to be quiet.

For her, we are snowflakes; our leaders
stand in blizzards, their task is difficult:
to sculpt us into beautiful. Further back,

in suits, tapping at computers, measuring
the slow gait of growth are the savvy mocha
drinkers, tech heavy heads who talk rapidly

of financial liquidity, the cost to the nation,
the worth of things. Dan thinks of whispering
to his unborn twins. He is with the fathers;

they nervously seem to count loose change,
frown, then order one drink. The cleaners
stop their second shift: a cup of water before

the third and overhear journalists speak of
finding ‘dirt’. For all their fancy talk, one thinks,
they don’t know the meaning of the word.

Tense are professors. By the dart boards,
they wonder if the veil will fall, if students priced
from tuition fees will cease to fill UCAS forms.

These young ones fill the centre, feel ignored,
battered, berated, bullied, bored by those who
speak for them. Betrayed by flashing bulbs,

some huddle into headphones, their heads
bound to driving beats. Their conversations
turn around music; how bass alleviates

the weight of their world, how sparse snares
hold their sense of loss, how rappers speak
best for them in this pub that sits on stilts.

By the juke box, the writers try to mix
free speech with unflinching sincerity.
The pastors preach their God’s true word,

scientists break what puzzles us. Athletes
shrink from alcohol to meditate on starting
guns, the gold, silver and bronze that call

for muscular perfection, turns the world
to our capital where identity gleams with
questions: Who are we? What's our thing?

Some murmur gently quiet themes of food,
beer, football, equality, a shifting cloud
of answers fill this pub that sits on stilts.

The economists, shop keepers, postmen,
midwives, bus drivers, the pharmacists,
mechanics, most want the simple things:

The farmers, chemists, bankers, plumbers,
chefs... the endless list want better healthcare,
decent housing, jobs and truth above all this;

Truth of headlines. Truth of law. Truth of
taxes. Truth of war. Truth of power. Truth of
knowledge. Truth of who and what corrupts.

The pub rocks on stilts. The doors creak with
a passport’s opening, immigrants come;
strands of songs rise from their hopeful lungs

and outside, if you happen to walk along,
if you gather up our raging symphony,
if you catch our twisting varied tongues,

if you listen to our many songs, we will
teach you all the world’s knowledge:
the complex right, the complex wrong.

Comment