How To Drink From The Potent Brew
A story of Kenya’s prodigal urban youth.
I am a proud black Kenyan womxn. I have always been proud of being Kenyan. I have always identified with my Kenyan-ness. Growing up, like many in my generation, I disavowed many of the divisive politics we grew up listening to, foisted upon us by the ruling political class in the attempt to acquire, and keep power, through divide and conquer.
Kenya is a beautiful, fertile land filled with some of the most wonderful people you will ever meet. Unfortunately, our political history post-independence is marred by politics based on ethnic groups. Most of our presidents and representatives in the houses of the legislature are elected based on their tribal background. (In the West, and among many historical and social scholars, the general consensus is: the word tribe carries with it many negative connotations. In Kenya however, we use the term interchangeably with ethnic groups and it does not conjure up images of savagery or primitivity. Despite this, it is important to note the fact that the history of the word is loaded with white supremacy and the evils it birthed in Kenya, Africa and in many indigenous groups across the world).
Kenyans of my generation saw, and continue to see, first hand the unfortunate realities which come to be as we elected leaders based on their tribes. Election cycles are dominated by subtexts of one tribe teaming up with another tribe through their leaders in order to win the presidency. The term ‘tyranny of numbers’ grew to popularity in Kenya in the 2013 election cycle to describe the teaming up of the Kikuyu and Kalenjins to secure the presidential seat.
I will not go into the colonial roots of the practice of using ethnic groups as a tool to divide and conquer. That is a story for another day. I say all this to say: urban youth in Kenya will generally identify more with their Kenyanness over their tribe as a form of quiet opposition and resistance to the political status quo. This is not to say that Kenyan urban youth do not struggle with these unfortunately deeply ingrained values, however, we strive to base our outlook on the Kenyan experience as a whole, as opposed to that dictated by our tribal background.
For instance, my parents come from two different tribes, which among their age group was an oft-seen form of personal revolution. While I identify with both of my ethnic backgrounds, I generally see myself as Kenyan before either tribe. This, in itself, is a beautiful thing. A silent yet powerful (r)evolution which grows with every generation in Kenya, where it will eventually birth a society unmarred by tribal constraints.
“When the missionaries arrived, the Africans had the land and the missionaries had the Bible. They taught us how to pray with our eyes closed. When we opened them, they had the land and we had the Bible” — Jomo Kenyatta
Our first president Jomo Kenyatta expressed so poignantly the relationship between Christianity and colonization. This pattern is clear across Africa. The gun and the Bible were almost inextricably intertwined during the scramble and partition of Africa. In his 1972 book ‘How Europe Underdeveloped Africa’ Guyanese intellectual Walter Rodney explains: “The Christian missionaries were as much part of the colonizing forces as were the explorers, traders, and soldiers… Missionaries were agents of colonialism in the practical sense, whether or not they saw themselves in that light.”
Christianity in itself is not evil. However, history is littered with myriad instances where religion was co-opted by a group of people for immoral, inhuman and sometimes downright evil causes. Colonization is one such instance. As Christianity advanced in Kenya so did the colonizers’ influence over the land, its resources, as well as the people and their culture.
The aggressive push to Christianize Africans by colonizing forces was not driven just by the belief that the Europen culture was superior. It also served a practical cause. A number of rebellions against colonizing forces across Africa were spurred on by traditional religious practices and beliefs.
In Tanganyika, part of modern-day Tanzania, Kinjekitile Ngwale led the Maji Maji rebellion. Maji stands for water in Swahili. The name of the rebellion is an allusion to the bewitched water given to the revolters by the prophet and medium Ngwale which led them to believe they would be immune to German bullets. Closer to home, Mekatilili Wa Menza, a widowed mother from the Mijikenda of Kenya, used a sacred dance called Kifudu to galvanize the coastal ethnic group into rebellion. Thus it was in the best interest of colonizers to stamp out any factors that could empower Africans into resistance, and traditional religions were one of the biggest of these.
“A man without culture is like a Zebra without its stripes.” African Proverb
Religion influences culture and vice versa. Unfortunately, in Kenyan ethnic groups during pre-colonial times, the connection and correlation between the two were very strong. As people lost their religion so did they their culture. Christianity is now the religion with the highest number of followers in Kenya. It, as well as Islam, is popular across Africa making two of the most-practiced faiths on the continent.
Back to present-day Kenya, here is a group of people actively challenging their deeply ingrained belief to demarcate themselves along tribal lines. Here is a group of people who interact with the religious and cultural practices of their ancestors only through GHC (Geography, History, and Civics) textbooks. Here are people attempting to be and express their Kenyan-ness but are having trouble accessing their ancestral wisdom and history to do so.
Now, our parents have become the biggest enforcers of Christianity. Recently I asked my grandmother to educate me about the traditional practices of her tribe, in the attempt to re-establish my connection to my ancestral roots, she said: “Don’t worry about that, those things were evil and we are now saved.” While well-meaning, these factors contribute to creating a group of people, floating like hyacinths in a lake of supposed culture, but without any deep roots.
The condition of the millennial urban youth in Kenya is one without a connection to their culture. We remember our culture on special occasions, like weddings, funerals, and circumcisions. I liken our connection to our culture as that which you have with your shadow. You know it’s there, it follows you around and you will sometimes acknowledge it when it is convenient for you but you generally have no need to engage with it.
“You never miss the water until the well runs dry.” Swahili proverb.
When I lived in Kenya, I identified strongly with the culture urban Millenials had created in Nairobi. This consisted of protesting against the political class and their machinations, whether on social media or through civil disobedience. It consisted of stretching the coins in your wallet to fund your startup while simultaneously contributing to a seemingly never-ending number of social causes.
It consists of drinking Tusker (our local beer) and how we converge in bars at the end of the day under the guise of avoiding traffic, always with the words ‘one for the road’ dancing on our tongues. It consists of going to Hells Gate National Park, when we have saved up enough, to ride bicycles right in the midst of buffalos and Warthogs. It is also funny Twitter beefs with west Africans (Hello Nigeria), complaining about the insane traffic in Nairobi, loving and vehemently defending our local artists and creators.
This is the urban millennial culture in Nairobi, that I had grown up living and breathing. Maybe this speaks to my personal shortcomings but I never questioned my connection to my culture. I never questioned my connection to my ancestral roots. Everywhere I looked I saw the vision of my ancestry and culture. It is after all ingrained in the color of our skin, our names, our accents, and our food.
Unfortunately, the vision I saw was a ghost. A watered-down version of culture. A deeply diluted offering of a once-potent brew. After my move, this apparition was no longer in my field of view. And it exposed my superficial connection to my ancestry. I ended up feeling lost. Initially, I was unable to understand why I felt this way. Here I was, in love with a baby on the way, yet so inexplicably sad.
Fast forward to a few life-changing situations, the arrival of our son, an auto-immune disease, and finally, it dawned on me. I didn’t know who I was outside of the ghost I identified with. I could no longer practice the urban culture I had lived in Nairobi. I needed a deeper connection with my ancestral culture. I needed to drink the potent brew for myself.
Uncovering the true and deeply sacred culture of my people has led me to levels of self-discovery I did not know was possible. Now finding this information is not easy and I have merely scratched the surface. (If you are Kenyan and are looking for information on your history, The National Archives in Nairobi CBD is a treasure trove.) However, the little I have found and continue to find has changed me in so many ways.
Moving away was the alchemist for me. But for many of Kenya's urban youth, there is a renaissance occurring. We are recognizing the value that lies in our ancestral wisdom and history. However, we are also cognizant of the shortcomings of past generations and will not blindly accept anything.
It is a beautiful juxtaposition of learning and unlearning. You can see the seed flowering through the natural hair movement, the push to support local brands and acts, discarding the vestiges of western and other externally-derived social and cultural influences such as English names. Despite their physical location, Kenya's urban youth are coming back home. We are now drinking from the potent brew.
