essay to Mr. Kristof

UV15 minimum sun-screen, white-gold * and a good sense of humor…

Africa has a heart like a minibus-taxi in Johannesburg, always space for one more.

My heart was consumed by her at the age of ten when I watched Out of Africa until the bloody part where the writer-lady went bezerk with her whip on the lion trying to get her oxen. Twenty years later, I have also taken a few shots at government officials and business men who cared more about protocol than the people dying of Malaria on donkey-carts outside locked clinics.

Three years ago, I traded my blue-prints for words. Today, I have completed four of my six semesters of a graduate degree in Media Communications in this alternate universe called the United States of America. I do most of my time travel in the shower or movie theatres. Amid the torrents of wasted water or the smell of synthetic popcorn, I transport myself back to the burnt reds and ochre of my Mother Continent.

Kenya protected Karen Blixen from death-by-boredom in a potential life of civilized femininity. She began writing her stories trying to survive the long draughts on her farm. I began writing mine after my brother died and my mom’s genetic disease (Muscular Dystrophy) launched its relentless coup on her body. Fighting seems inevitable to my fellow Africans, but equally indigenous is our storytelling.

I migrated to the northern hemisphere in search of mentors, technology and learning from the giants how to dream big. Texas proved the pinnacle of God’s irony but I have grown beyond my wildest imagination amidst this sprawling concrete jungle without any natural forms of oxygen or chlorophyll. My peculiar accent still peaks interest but at least every American friend of mine knows that we have paved roads and internet in my hometown.

It proved easier to switch from the Queen’s English into another version of my second language than accepting my own ethnocentrism and global ignorance. I possess the unique vocabulary to translate Africa into American with a heart knitted to people in both spheres and existential knowledge of their current worldviews.

On a practical level, I am addicted to making life difficult for myself and have a unique knack for storming in where Hummers fear to tread. As a matter of fact, I am actually sneaking into Zimbabwe this summer on my way to building a community centre on the Mozambican side of the border in the province of Manica. I worked on the border post between Namibia and Angola in 2002 when the contractor dug up a live mortar bomb where the storm water drain was supposed to go. I have slept in almost every conceivable position, temperature and precipitation combination and strongly believe that one can judge the level of one’s contentment in life by how much joy the sound of running water can produce.

Individualism has paralyzed the developed world, people long to discover meaning and purpose in their efficient lives. Africa’s humble people have taught me what courage looks like. I would like to go on a reporting trip with you and share it with the rest of the world.

*an extra roll of twin-ply toilet-paper