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The
International Writers Magazine: Destination Africa
Mother
Africa
Trista Mrema in Arusha
Mother
Africa
I had totally forgotten about it
I forgot what
it looked like
the sight of so many black people. Ok, Im
black, to go further, I'm Tanzanian/Kenyan, but I was Born
in the USA. I was raised with white folks in a predominantly
white land. I grew up thinking white is the standard, everything
else, secondary.
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That thought registered
subliminally throughout my childhood. Ok, so, I grew up and got righteous
a little, found by blackness (it was buried under my Bethesda-ness)
but that upbringing was always at work. Here, in Arusha, I see all the
dark people around and something strikes me
not like
Im clutching my purse or screaming darkies go back to Africa
(duh). Its more like I dont know where I fit in, in
all this blackness. Youd think that my blackness would just get
with the mass blackness and ungawa, black power until the
live long day, but the struggle is a bit different here and so am I.
I can either ponder this more deeply or order another drink from the
poolside bar.
I arrived in Arusha on the last day of presidential and parliamentary
campaigns. My father was rerunning for member of parliament for Arusha-Urban.
Even though my relationship with my father is pretty strained (I use
the terms relationship, father and strained
loosely), I thought it was damn cool to be witnessing an election first
hand; there was a campaign poster of him on the gate when we arrived.
Later that night, his campaign posse came over to discuss strategy
Florida
and that whole 'hanging chad' business aint got nuthin on
a third world election. You have to drop serious loot to make sure polling
places arent compromised, votes are properly counted and misinformation
is duly controlled
that doesnt necessarily ensure you a fair
race, you could still get hoodwinked.
On the morning of election day, daddysorry, I know it sounds spoiled,
but, to me, thats his namewent off to dip his finger in
ink and do his political rounds. My mother and I went to the market
to buy provisions for the eminent victory. The market was cool, strange,
buzzing, yucky. I absolutely LOVE looking at people doing their thing
in their own hood. I dont necessarily love checking out the butchers
dangling slabs of meat baking in the sun with an entourage of flies.
Actually, I do like checking that shit out, I just dont like thinking
about eating it later. No one else seemed to mind, so I fronted like
I have the same exact set-up back home. Behind covered mouth, I hushed
to my mother, Is this safe? As soon as I said it, I knew
I was going to eat whatever was handed to me, no matter her reply
maybe
I just trusted the skill with which our one-eyed butcher deftly cut
the meat.
The market had everything you could want, if you wanted it caked under
a film of dusty dirt. Heat and dirt tend to take the shine away from
things
strewn garbage, motley piled stalls and stray malnourished
dogs help to take the shine away too. And the poor kids fighting each
other to hold your bag of goods to make a couple thousand T-shillings
($1=1000 T-shillings) sort of puts you off the idea of a fun day at
the market. Sight seeing here comes with moral obligation. It was eye-catching
all the same and I guess I was too because I got a lot of attention
(see, they knew I didnt fit in either). We stopped at a fishmonger
who was loading in a mess of tilapia from Lake Victoria
I thought
that was cool, Tilapia from Lake Victoria, Im going
to name my band that.
We got back to the car and a bunch of boys crowded to fight for the
fee of protecting our vehicle while we were away (whether we asked for
it or not). I wondered, do you get used to the begging children
and eventually ignore them? When we first arrived at the market,
we were blitz-krieged by outstretched little palms
mommy (yes,
thats her name) got the brunt of it because she was the driver.
In a totally punk move, mommy diverted the boys to our cook, Katherine,
so they would bother her for money. When the boys saw Katherine had
no dinero, they came to me. I thought I was setting justice straight
by pointing them back to my mother, but really I was playing with their
emotions and empty stomachs (im a punk too!). In the end, I was pleased
to find my mother worried whether the boys would evenly divide the money
she gave them
not such a punk after all.
After that, we dropped Katherine off at a voting center. You could tell
she wasnt to keen but rather encouraged by mommys
delicate hand. We reposed for the rest of the afternoon
in our backyard under the sun. Mommy and I caught up about life in Arusha,
family drama and
and
my boyfriend. You should hear how proud
I am about my boyfriend
I had no idea until I started to present
him to my mother. I knew she would like him because hes French
and has a job and she considers it a miracle that any of her children
are in ANY kind of relationship (which would put her that much closer
to grandbabies).
4pm election day and the polls close. Daddy was optimistic but not so
sure, mommy swore victory was at hand
they both made me nervous
because you got the impression there was more at stake. I didnt
want to know what more was at stake
Im working very hard
to get my life as uncomplicated as possible, I can't stop now and pick-up
stragglers. By midnight, they still didnt have a clear winner.
Another posse formed at our place to call individual polling centers
for the up-to-the-minute tally and to calculate the big picture.
Benefiting from not being too close to the election, I took my ass to
sleep at around 1am. At around 3am, my mother came into my room, frazzled,
looking for a Nokia charger and muttering, it doesnt look
good, it doesnt look good. I prayed it would all be sorted
by the morning so I could go to the pool without feeling guilty (selfish!).
I woke up at 10am, and, while the final results werent in, victory
was close so pool plans could be made. One snafu, I forgot my bikini
in Amsterdam. No matter, Ill just borrow something from my mother
or buy a suit in town. Well, my mother only offered one-piece bathing
suits circa 1982. I took the least offensive one and prayed for a well-stocked
hotel gift shop (I went to a local hotel to use the pool). My cousin
Marc was driving me around because me mum hadnt slept all night;
he dropped me off at the la-dee-da Impala Hotel. I five-figure saluted
the glorious, pristine pool
I had not seen one since I left the
States. The concierge told me I wouldnt have luck in the gift
shop but I was excited and didnt care so I headed to the ladies
to change. Maybe I should have cared because I came out looking like
Nadia, the Russian Olympic 100-meter swimming prodigy. You know the
look; flat-chested, broad-shouldered, one-piece wearing, man-looking
athlete
that was me minus the swimming cap and athlete
physique. I wanted to take a picture to show how ridiculous I look,
but I was too embarrassed. Its bad enough standing out as the
only black chick (again?) amongst white tourists, but do I have to be
the only one-piece wearing nerd? No, I didnt have to
much
later, a woman, who I'm sure competed in the shot-put competition for
Germany, took a quick dip in a flowery one-piece
phew!
I have to sum up it now because I wrote the preceding bit while at the
pool
.at this moment, I'm drunk from the victory party. so, yeah,
we won and I'm going to sleep.
ciao ciao
© Trista Mrema April 2006
tmrema@hotmail.com
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