Sean Jacobs's Blog, page 221
April 25, 2019
Why are South African children struggling to read properly?
Image credit 6000.co.za via Flickr.
Eight out of every��10��children in South Africa can���t read��properly. Not in English, not in their home language, not in any language.��According to��The Progress in International Reading Literacy Study (PIRLS), an international comparative reading assessment:��78% of Grade 4 learners in South Africa cannot read for meaning, and this is��significantly worse for children tested in African languages���93%��of Grade 4 students tested in Sepedi could not read for meaning with similarly large percentages��among��Setswana (90%), Tshivenda (89%), isiXhosa (88%), Xitsonga (88%), isiZulu (87%) and isiNdebele (87%). At this stage of a child���s development, the ability to locate explicit information and make straightforward inferences about events and reasons for actions is considered crucial��for��learning��other subjects from Grade 4 onward. South Africa is unique among upper middle-income countries in that less than half of its primary school children learn to read for meaning in any language in lower primary school. Out of the 50 countries surveyed, South Africa came last.
According to��Stellenbosch University economist��Nic��Spaull, there are three��explanations: Foundation Phase teachers (grades 1-3) do not know how to systematically teach reading; the poorest schools in the country are extremely text-poor and there is wasted learning time during the school day. But this becomes more complicated when viewed through the language lens: the sobering reality is that��because��many children are quickly pushed into learning in a new language (English),��and��this is a major factor��contributing to their��low academic success. The negative effects of early illiteracy cascade to adversely affect the development of cognitive skills and later educational development.
Neuroscience research��reveals��that��early childhood is��the ideal time to develop the basic skills��for��reading fluency, and the degree to which children acquire language skills and become motivated, habitual readers, is a strong predictor of future academic success, educational attainment, employment and income. Additionally,��the costs of addressing reading problems��are much lower in early primary school. But improving literacy outcomes requires resource inputs���teaching, learning and leisure reading materials���for both teachers and children to use in class and at home.��Research��has shown that if children learn to read in a familiar language, not only do they stand a better chance of learning to read with meaning, but the transfer to English is easier. And yet, despite all this evidence that reading books are a cost-effective means of improving��education��outcomes, South Africa is very far from having abundant, accessible and affordable African language reading materials. Why?
Answering this��is��tricky���it���s almost impossible to separate the global challenge of English���s��hegemony��from national policy issues on language use in schools; or to prioritize the technical development of one language (through editing guides or benchmarking standards) at the expense of another (South Africa has eleven official languages). Other issues��include��cultural biases in books translated from English, the marketability of African language books deterring traditional publishers,��and the dearth of information��about��the demand for��African��language��children���s books. So, poor in-school early literacy results concatenate with��many other��factors that extend far beyond the domain of education departments.
The policy context
South Africa���s legislation gives specific recognition to the right of learners to learn in their home language, illustrating��the government���s awareness of the value of teaching and learning in��indigenous��languages. Recent policy developments bringing together issues associated with South Africa���s multilingual reality��include��The Draft Incremental Introduction of African Languages policy,��which aims to improve proficiency in previously marginalized African languages,��and��The Draft Learning and Draft Teaching Support Material (LTSM) policy, intended to guide the provision and management of LTSM in schools.��The Legal Deposit Act��requires producers of any type of publication to deposit one or more copies of the publication at a recognized national institution, most commonly, the National Library of South Africa.��But a��cursory look at most library catalogues, where English and Afrikaans books reign supreme, drives home just how rare quality children���s books in African languages are.��Fortunately, there is body driving book development in the country:��The South African Book Development Council��(SABDC) originated out of an industry-led initiative in 1998 and, despite the absence of statutory recognition and inconsistent funding, continues to operate as an effective non-profit organization, driving a successful national reading campaign, an��Indigenous Language Publishing Programme��and excellent research reports.
Mapping the market
Issues of demand manifest differently across the four types of book markets: academic (���university press���-type); educational; trade (fiction and non-fiction books aimed at the general market); and libraries (school libraries fall under the Department of Basic Education,��public libraries under the provincial Department of Arts and Culture, managed by municipalities).
Some of the challenges associated with stimulating demand include:��in class, learners typically have to share books and are seldom allowed to take them home; at home, many learners have no books to read and��only 15% of learners can take a library book home;��and��only 8% of public schools in South Africa have functional libraries.��A no-brainer would be for parents and caregivers to drive children���s reading development by taking them to public libraries, but��73% of South African adults (nearly 24 million adults) self-identify as not being readers.��Similarly concerning,��only 60%��of teachers��read outside work requirements. Few adults show a preference for reading in African languages.
Additionally,��factors driving up the cost of books��(across markets, in all languages) include skills shortages across the book development value chain (except for distributors); high paper pricing; high VAT charged on books;��and��offshoring of printing.��Publishing in African languages is perceived��to be��a high-risk venture by publishers, because of the market driven nature of the industry, which requires economies of scale, well-functioning distribution mechanisms and, critically, a market that can afford to buy.��Smaller publishers are most likely to publish in African languages but struggle to get their books on��government-approved��distribution lists���often the only route to become financially viable in a concentrated market. In fact, the��Competition Commission recently initiated an investigation into a��cartel of book publishers.��Small publishers also face high distribution fees and prohibitively expensive marketing costs,��more so��for African languages.
At traditional publishers, decision-makers are rarely African language speakers,��with��a��limited understanding of the experience of growing up without enough to read. Consequently,��developing these books is not an intuitive priority. Limited sectoral transformation also means limited original writing by black authors, so most publishers default to poor quality translations of English books. Despite the limited authorship, editing, publishing and distribution capacity, there is a sense that the tide is turning, and hope that more support opportunities will arise.
The��South African��publishing��sector is extremely sophisticated. According to the��Annual Book Publishing Industry Survey 2016, annual turnover exceeds $365 million��and educational publishing makes up 67% of total net turnover for publishing and, uncannily, 67% of these publications are in English. These outputs and sales are almost entirely dictated by the National Department of Basic Education through its curriculum requirements and procurement. In trade publishing, 69% of books are in English, 29% Afrikaans and only 2%��of��adult fiction and non-fiction��are��published in��indigenous languages. Remember, South Africa has eleven official languages. For Children���s Literature, 37% English, 61% Afrikaans and only 2% for all the indigenous languages combined. Output and sales here are primarily based on consumer demand and library purchases. Clearly, tackling multilingual early literacy requires multi-sectoral, economic and political efforts.
Translating from English to African languages might be a quick way to get more titles out, but this has both cultural and linguistic disadvantages���the world portrayed in translated books is not always relevant to African children, often with Eurocentric underlying social constructs, so the context of the stories may be��unfamiliar,��or the illustrations may have a racial bias.��Once translated, rhyming stories for children often no longer rhyme in African languages.��This is a��very small number of skilled professionals able to translate fictional texts, particularly for children. So,��more technical support is needed for the book development sector to support authors, editors and illustrators producing original children���s titles in African languages. Similarly, attention to procurement, distribution and marketing is needed to advance publishing in African languages.
This is where decolonization discourse should be front and center, not as��sloganeering,��but��as a set of��practical, policy-orientated propositions to systematically change oppressive industries��and institutions.��For example, the design of mechanisms to ensure fair payment for children’s authors working in African languages or prioritization of guides to elevate standards for writing, editing and translating across African languages.
In 2018, I attended a��seminar by the��National Education Collaboration Trust��on ���Language and Decolonization.��� The keynote speaker, Professor��Leketi��Makalela, specializes in the interface between languages and literacies, and advocates for multilingualism to enhance identity construction and epistemic access.��His exposure of��monolingual and epistemological biases as a burden for educational development; and his decolonization agenda, with its empirically sound explanation of literacy challenges in South Africa as a colonial carryover, took me down a riveting rabbit hole of��linguistic slavery��and hybrid languages like��Kasi-taal��as the antidote. Decolonization according to Professor��Makalela��helped me to locate literacy challenges in South Africa outside of both the too-recent��Apartheid��imaginary and the one-dimensional framing of literacy as solely a problem for teachers to fix.
Much promising work is currently being done by both individuals and organizations invested in improving early literacy (many of whom helped this research) and there is growing social awareness on the importance of both reading and African languages. Responding to early literacy challenges in a multilingual country means bringing these two together; but it also means expanding decolonization��agendas from��the��current focus on��higher education to start right at the beginning of the education journey.
The research for this was originally commissioned by��Tshikululu��Social Investments.
April 24, 2019
Another rhino report
Image credit Cloudtail the Snow Leopard on Flickr (CC).
Rhinos are making headlines again. More specifically, those who are killing rhinos for their horns are prompting continued reporting about rhinos, poaching, hunting, corruption, conservation, safari, black markets, China… These reports rehash old tropes and ignore the ongoing inequalities between black and white ownership and control of land.
Earlier this year,��the BBC published��an article��by Alastair��Leithead��about increased elephant and rhino poaching in Botswana. His concern was, ���Botswana attracts high-end tourists from across the world because of its international reputation for successful conservation.��� Such conservation and tourism are positioned as apolitical in their desire to save wildlife for future generations, but this inhibits a more serious conversation about the racialized, capitalized, and privatized foundations on which the global conservation industry is built.
This caught my attention because I was in the midst of writing on��Leithead���s��short documentary report from August last year, ���Rhinos: Killing and Corruption.��� Therein,��Leithead��detailed poaching in��Hluhluwe-iMfolozi��Park in��KwaZulu��Natal to highlight connections between trade in rhino horn and corruption in the national parks and local/regional/national government. I was introduced to this documentary in the context of how its portrayal of��Mangosuthu��Buthelezi and Ian Player as the saviors of the rhinos was a ���bit off key��� (the editors��� words). Player headed Operation Rhino in the 1960s, an effort to translocate rhinos from��the then��Umfolozi��Game Reserve to other areas of southern Africa as a way to save them from extinction. Buthelezi was a founder of the Inkatha Freedom Party and the head of��the former��KwaZulu��bantustan. He��remains head of the IFP today.��Leithead��interviews Buthelezi who places himself in solidarity with Player��and was quoted stating the whole of South Africa today ���reeks of corruption.�����Such comments ring nostalgic and gloss heavily over the complex socio-political history of conservation in��the province.��Particularly��off-putting here is how larger systemic disparities around race and class that persist in conservation are obscured by the nature of the reporting on conservation. Whether the filmmakers intended it, they feature white rangers in charge of saving rhinos, contrasted with black criminals.
The white knight mentality in global North reporting on conservation across Africa is clearly evident (the documentary includes footage of Player on horseback and��bakkie-riding down a rhino with a dart gun) and a topic which this site has previously addressed (���Open letter to 60 Minutes��� from March 25 2015). This disparity in reporting is not confined to conservation. See��coverage of recent “tricky” debates over the restitution of��museum collections��or efforts to��combat Ebola��in the DRC.
Leithead���s��documentary on��Hluhluwe-iMfolozi, as well as the video clip in the Botswana article, produces the war to save rhinos in dramatic fashion. Helicopter surveys and darting of rhino are overlaid with a stereotypical drumming soundtrack that recalls a sense of edgy adventurism. At one point,��Leithead��is filmed injecting a sedative reversal into a rhino���s ear after a dehorning mission. Such an interlude in the story transforms the reporting of rhino poaching into a piece of eco-tourism entertainment, blurring the line between reporting and adventure that hearkens back to 19th century hunter/adventurer travelogues of dangerous encounters in darkest Africa.
Like those travelogues, the destruction of wildlife remains ascribed to black Africa, with protection as the prerogative of whites. This white hunter/black poacher argument is not new,��yet its recurrence here demands further interrogation. In��Leithead���s��documentary, the lead veterinarians and anti-poaching advocates, conservation professionals��are��white (male and female). The unnamed rangers represent a population of black bodies caught up in a�����syndicate�����of illicit trade in rhino horn and corruption.
By placing Player���s tenure as head of��Umfolozi��as the golden age of rhino conservation��Leithead��has by implication placed black control of South African National Parks, and thus the ANC and black governance more broadly, as the central obstacle to successful conservation. Further, the solution posited in the report is not just another white savior to shepherd national conservation efforts.��Leithead��notes, almost as an aside, that private reserves do not have the same problems with poaching as��Hluhluwe-iMfolozi���they are smaller lands where animals and poachers can be more effectively controlled through fencing and armed anti-poaching patrols. Perhaps unwittingly (pointing to the entrenched and insidious nature of racialized understandings of African wilderness landscapes), this hints at private land ownership and management as a solution to the poaching problem. In South Africa, private safari and hunting farms remain primarily white owned and often comprise very socially conservative political communities.
The article on poaching in Botswana produces a similar racial division between the white owners of wildlife sanctuaries and lodges on the one hand, and the poachers and the politics of black African governance on the other. This is exemplified in a comment by Mike Chase of Elephants Without Borders on the sharp increase in poached elephants when he says, ���that���s how quickly poaching can settle into a population.��� It is unclear which population he is referencing���elephants or rural communities in Botswana���perhaps it is both.
In the midst of current debates over land expropriation without compensation in South Africa, such a portrayal of the politics of conservation that implicitly sees the future of wildlife management and conservation as a white privatized, militarized, and luxury tour should alarm us. What remains off-key about such reporting is that race and racism are operating on different registers. White private capital and knowledge is set up against black corruption and mismanagement. This conditions the apolitical calls for conservation and hides a more complex and nuanced form of racial coding that reinforces both the legal and illegal consumption of African wildlife. Speculative value of wildlife has driven the rhino trade as much as it has high prices for luxury tourism and hunting safaris. In both instances the exoticized experience of wild��Africa is tabled for sale and auction. Instead of another report on rhinos, this demands a reconciling of the tenacity of white privilege, capital, and racism in the creation and operation of conservation in South Africa.
The African Union passport and dreams of democratic mobility
Image credit Riccardo Palazzani via Flickr (CC).
During the 32nd Summit of the African Union (AU), in early February, delegates��unveiled logistical details on the issuance of the AU passport.��The travel document is scheduled for wide release in 2020 and will give citizens of member states the right to travel across the continent without a visa. The passport is the first step towards implementing��Agenda 2063, a ���strategic framework��� designed to accelerate socio-economic growth through the sustainable expansion of domestic industries, transportation and communication infrastructures, and democratic governance���all of which could make Africa feel like a single country.
A number of prominent��Africans have already been issued with the passport (which has been in use since 2016 for government officials and other dignitaries). Recently, a few of these have��complained that it doesn���t allow visa-free travel to all AU member states. So, it would be easy to dismiss the new passport and Agenda 2063 as quixotic, attempting the impossible given the continent���s current politics and bureaucratic inefficiencies.
Nevertheless, this passport and the potential for a truly mobile continent could also subvert historical and contemporary knowledge that considers African nation-states as over-determined by their colonial history and lack of democratic longevity. As the chaos of Brexit, Trump���s America, and France���s Yellow Vests escalates; the West has finally realized what Africans already knew: liberal democracy is a highly unstable system of government. All the protests, uprisings, foreign government interference, xenophobic violence, routinized gender violence, ethnic/regional conflicts, and detention camps��is��what democracy looks like.
During 20th century struggles for liberation, Africans endured political chaos at the hands of Western democratic governments. Sixty years later, the same type of chaos has created an existential crisis in the West and produced debates on democracy���s future survival. In the first decades of decolonization, liberation leaders worked to resolve a fundamental contradiction:�� how to extend freedom, equality, and prosperity to��all��its citizens. But given the political and economic failures of the post-independence era; “decolonization” and “decolonial” have taken on new meanings.
Today, decolonization is more than the removal of foreign bodies from demarcated places; it is also working towards the subversion of Euro-American modernity and the epistemic violence that erased, silenced, or distorted modes of communal organization and knowledge from indigenous communities. While decolonial social movements have made tremendous strides within academic communities and popular culture, most famously during South Africa���s��#FeesMustFall movement, it has been more difficult to translate such subversion into a radical disruption of politics that can articulate a viable alternative to liberal democracy and the nation-state. Even though decolonial movements highlight how the historic freedom of the West and the nation-state was/is constituted through the unfreedom of communities both within and beyond its borders; the only practical solution today is to��fully��incorporate the unfree into the democratic governments that most affect their life. Ironically, this incorporation will require the West to be decolonized.
Immediately after World War II but before the independence movements in Africa and the Caribbean, Aim�� C��saire of Martinique and L��opold��S��dar��Senghor of Senegal proposed to forego national independence and endorsed a radical interpretation of the French Union. They advocated remaining part of a French Union that would incorporate colonial outposts as equal states in a federation with France.
Their goal,��Gary Wilder argues, was for Africans and Afro-descendants to decolonize France. A process that would have compelled the French to take direct responsibility for their imperial (mis)adventures and realize Africans��� humanity. ���While C��saire���s and Senghor���s proposals were considered counter to an authentic African identity; when juxtaposed with debates about Afro-French identity after��the 2018 World Cup, their goals now appear more radical than national independence. By suggesting that the political chaos in the West is part of a decolonization process, there is a tacit realization that there never could be a satisfactory apology or financial settlement for colonialism. Rather a sustainable form of justice begins with humble acts that are within our reach, such as the recovery of silenced and distorted histories, cosmologies, and knowledge from the colonial era that can disrupt contemporary politics and inspire the future.
Mobility, the Wits University social theorist Achille��Mbembe��suggests, is perhaps the greatest chance to generate societal transformation as the quest to survive compels novel engagements with others, which can eventually lead to new modes of being. It is hard to appreciate the radical potential of mobility from a 21st��century vantage point, given the slow march of time and the urgency placed on African states to deliver justice now. But we often forget how movement is an essential practice of life, especially in Africa where geography, urban design, and infrastructure make long journeys essential for survival.
The AU passport simply expands the scope of where one can travel and live a��democratic life���a life in which migrants engage with their new communities and together they shape their future survival. Decolonizing Africa���s future is a move towards dismantling expectations that assumed African states would replicate their colonial forebears; and rehabilitate innovate ideas that sought to transcend the reproduction of Africans��� subjugation. Even though the AU passport and African integration appear as a consequence of the 21st century, African integration as a political future dates back to 1924 with Marcus Garvey���s poem��Hail! United States of Africa��and his goal of returning Afro-descendants to Africa. Another node in the African integration genealogy is Muammar al-Gaddafi���s goal to introduce a continental currency and incorporate Caribbean states into the AU.
Finally, there are new possibilities of incorporating the diaspora given��Ghana���s right of abode.�� Ultimately, the emergence of the AU passport, at a time of��global��democratic crisis, translates the pragmatic goals of easier travel, trade, and migration into a new decolonized future for Africa and its diaspora. A future that will come, in part, due to the failures of Euro-American modernity.
April 23, 2019
Gutting the public sector serves no one
Buzi evacuees being treated at the clinic set up by the Indian Navy at Beira Port, Mozambique. Image credit Denis Onyodi for IFRC/DRK/Climate Centre via Flickr (CC).
For the past��10��years,��my research��has��centered��on regional food provisioning and exchange��systems. Since 2014,��our��Malawian and American��research team has��focused��on Lilongwe���s food economy,��where it became evident very early on that��collaborating��with��the��municipal government��was��necessary��to understanding��and supporting��city food systems.��This is because a vibrant,��equitably��accessible,��and remunerative urban food economy hinges on the material conditions of the city and��its��markets, and the extent to which people��can access clean water, toilet facilities, electricity, sanitation services, secure trading spaces and storage facilities, decent drainage, and��transportation. In other words, food provisioning and exchange that meets the needs of citizens��requires the attention of public sector��decision-makers and planners with the purview over city infrastructure and economic development.
Collaborating with the public sector is��necessary��because��the��widely-distributed food exchange networks that feed most people in Africa will continue to be an important source of food and livelihood��well into the future. Perhaps they even��are��the future.��Though the public sector���s involvement��is necessary by virtue of��its��responsibilities, the extent to which��it��can��support food-related economic and physical infrastructure��is severely limited. Like the retailers, transporters and markets for which��it has��responsibility, the public sector is severely resource-constrained.
Many African cities and towns are growing quickly; housing, markets, and economic activities emerge almost overnight in areas devoid of municipal infrastructure to support them.��Municipal offices that would ostensibly be responsible for oversight exist, but are��often��functionally invisible on a day-to-day basis. Officials in these offices are commonly perceived to be rent-seeking, non-responsive, non-transparent, and overly aggressive, and they often are (see, for example the��brutal evictions recently carried out in Lagos, Nigeria). But, even with��the best��of��intentions, and under normal conditions, many city officials lack the tools, training, staff, and resources to respond constructively.
I explain this as background for��a response I made to a tweet by Africa is a Country, which observed that the��state was “basically invisible” in the aftermath of Cyclone��Idai.
Most readers of Africa��is��a Country do not��need��a recounting of��the effects of structural adjustment policies, which marked the beginning of the fetishized��private sector��in Africa, and��emphasized market liberalization and expenditure cuts to public infrastructure, education, social services, and research and extension.��But,��it is worth reflecting��on what a gutted public sector portends in the context of climate change.
In virtually all messaging from��organizations concerned about mitigating and adapting to the effects of climate change, the��primary responsibility�����to develop and implement integrated policies and programs that build resilience��and reduce the vulnerability of their populations��� falls to national governments.��Cyclone��Idai��has revealed just how��incapable��Mozambique���s��administrative state��is��of accomplishing the most basic of tasks;��even issuing a warning about the impending storm was beyond their scope. It is easy to blame pervasive internal corruption for this failure, but important to situate that corruption in a historical context.
The run-of-the-mill dysfunction that characterizes��much of Africa���s administrative state, and the relationships between government and citizens��(like those in the Lilongwe food system), is an outcome, in large part, of colonial legacies and ongoing neocolonial conditionality. A��2018 report by the Political Economy Research Institute��notes how ������structural��conditions�����can exert a deleterious effect on bureaucratic quality, as they increase the risk that bureaucrats fall prey to special interests and reduce the range of policy��instruments available to��bureaucrats��������Though this report concerns economic planning, these same obstructing conditions also apply to bureaucratic functioning writ large. For example,��conditionality��puts caps on spending and��imposes limits on the number of personnel hired��and the��benefits that can��be offered.
State capacity is a widely recognized determinant of bureaucratic policies and practices that serve citizen wellbeing. Ongoing conditionality, which serves free market ideology, degrades the capacity of the state.��This does not bode well for the unfolding��climate��disaster that��will��require both immediate and long-term strategic planning;��the ability to marshal scarce resources towards prevention and reaction;��leveraging the capacity of different units of government through coordinated responses;��supporting public research and extension systems to develop novel approaches;��and communicating with communities about what they can do to reduce risk in a climate-changing world.
For those interested in these topics, I���d recommend the work of��David Dodman and David Satterthwaite,��the working paper�����How structural adjustment programs impact bureaucratic quality in developing countries��� by��the��Political Economy Research Institute��at the��University of Massachusetts Amherst��(also,��this discussion��on the Real News Network)��and��AbdouMaliq��Simone and Edgar Pieterse���s 2018 book,��New urban worlds: Inhabiting dissonant times.
The Nigerian electricity story
Still from Take Light.
In��Nigeria, the��acronym��NEPA famously has��two possible meanings. The first is��what it was originally meant to designate,��the National Electric Power Authority.��(Blackouts��are��often��met with the exclamation:�����NEPA has taken the light!���). The second popular interpretation is that NEPA stands for Never Expect Power Always.
In flickering text, the documentary��Take Light��opens with this paradox: Nigeria is Africa���s top energy producer and has one of the world���s largest gas reserves. Yet over 50% of Nigerians do not have access to electricity. And for those��who��do, it is rarely for more than a few hours a day.
Electric volatility in many ways defines the contours of possibility in everyday life and death in Nigeria, determining how and when people move, the tasks that can��be��accomplished��in a day,��entrenched classed cartographies of access and exclusion,��and the kinds of businesses and social services that can operate functionally.��Inspired by the childhood of director��Shasha��Nakhai��in the southeastern Nigerian city of Port Harcourt,��the��78-minute documentary��takes head on��Nigerians�����everyday experiences of��these��electricity instabilities.��And even during the documentary���s��staged��interviews��and��other��scenes, light inevitably flickers on and off.
Take Light��follows a cast of charismatic characters in and around Port Harcourt, who are all trying to make do in less than ideal circumstances. A calm control room manager��skillfully��coaxes��the��switchboards of a massive, creaking electric distribution system to minimize��regional��blackouts.��A pragmatic but��weary��electrical��engineer��attempts to��manage��a hospital���s��electrical��supply,��which��feebly��powers��everything from��life-saving��surgeries to corpse-preservation��refrigerators.��Parents��rub��ample handfuls of talcum powder on their children���s sweaty bodies on nights that swelter without electricity for fans.��A stealthy electrician rewires the city by night for homes trying to circumvent electric meters.
Take Light���s��narrative anchor, however,��is the level-headed Martins, an earnest employee of the Port Harcourt electricity distribution company. Along with a team of other employees, Martins��� job includes��arguably one of the most undesirable��tasks��in Nigeria���cutting off the electricity of community residents with outstanding unpaid electric bills.��The film��follows��the��escalating confrontations��between��electricity company workers and��community residents��in Port Harcourt.
As residents try to make sense of soaring electric bills, they��attempt to evade the formal electric grid, tamper transformers, and��protest being unplugged��from the grid, at times verbally and physically assaulting electricity company workers. In a cat-and-mouse game, electricity��company��workers��empathize with the everyday struggles of community members while also��attempting��to enforce payments��of the overloaded and strained electric��sector, which has an estimated total��$1.2 billion in unpaid electric bills.��By interweaving a variety of employee and resident perspectives, the film layers a��complex��picture of the ethics of enforcement: no one is good or bad, but everyone is trying their best to survive��in meagre electric��times.
This ambiguity��pervades��every level of the��energy��dilemma in Nigeria, and fingers��of��blame point in many directions.��While residents directly confront the electricity company workers, the electric company workers point the blame up the chain of command, and those up the chain of command also continually point elsewhere.��Take Light��also gestures towards the structural inequities of transnational corporate control and profit structures of Nigeria���s oil and gas sectors through footage of Niger Delta militants��� autochthonous demands of greater access to oil wealth. Furthermore, the privatization of state assets, including the electricity sector, emerges as an important but underexplored thread in the documentary. The film makes obvious that the newly privatized industry inherited a strained and indebted infrastructural system, but the implications of such widespread privatization remain ambiguous.
The film somewhat vaguely suggests that��postcolonial government corruption is one of the many reasons for the lights being off, and interviewees throughout the film refer to a��general�����they��� when��describing electricity shortages and mismanagement.��From��technicians��to��residents to politicians to Niger Delta militants, it remains unclear who the guilty ���they��� really is, whether it is the privatized electricity sector companies,��a range of��politicians, transnational energy corporations, or some combination of all of the above. Pointing out guilt is not simply an ethical consideration but rather a pragmatic one that identifies possible targets of transformation.��The optimism of a clean energy activist lifts the end of the film by suggesting that a broader civil society-led social movement (#lightupnigeria) may transform Nigeria���s energy landscape by targeting mass education around the energy industry.
Ultimately,��the��Nigerian electric story��is��not only a material one of infrastructural capacity and failure, but a symbolic one that makes sense of broader systemic��phenomena.��Everyday conversations��in Nigeria��are peppered with stories about the constantly fickle electricity���friends commiserate a fantastical monthly bill of hundreds of dollars after receiving only two days of electricity; neighbors quietly rewire their homes to tap into the electric supply of the city street lamps; co-workers exasperatedly discuss transitioning to inverter generators; and university students share tales of administrators punishing student protestors by withholding electricity from selected dormitories. These stories are also central ways of discussing power and its machinations in Nigeria, and the ambiguity and��ongoing��questions are��perhaps the most��important takeaway of��Take Light���s careful exploration of a range of everyday voices.��As the lines of a poem in��Take Light��ponder: ���Why does NEPA take delight/ In taking the light?���
Groundbreaking win for Zambia’s farmers against British mining giant
Image credit Jeffrey Barbee for Thomson Reuters Foundation via CIF action Flickr (CC).
In a��historic ruling��on April��10,��the UK Supreme Court has allowed 1,826 Zambian villagers to pursue their case against UK-based mining giant Vedanta in the UK courts. Farmers in Chingola have been��fighting for more than a decade for compensation��after��serious pollution from a mine owned by Vedanta���s Zambian subsidiary, Konkola Copper Mines��poisoned their land and waterways.
The ruling is a significant step forward.��Although��it��doesn���t mean that a positive outcome is certain���the company has vowed to ���defend itself against any such claims at the appropriate time������for now, it means that the door��to justice��is still open.��It���s also helpful to��others adversely affected by corporate operations, because it��clarifies��the parameters of a company���s��legal�����duty of care.���
At the same time, it creates a risk that companies��might��start to adopt a hands-off approach to managing human rights and environmental risks in the corporate group.��Legislation is urgently needed to clarify companies��� responsibilities and make it easier for��communities in Zambia, and other countries,��to access justice in the UK.
‘Duty of care’
Until now,��courts have relied on factors��outlined in��a previous��ruling (Chandler v Cape Plc),��which limited a��UK parent company���s��duty of care��to��employees��of��its��subsidiaries.��In the��Vedanta case, the Court��ruled��that a��UK��parent company��can arguably��owe a duty of care��to��other people��affected by��its��subsidiaries��� operations,��on the grounds that they��could be impacted by��the��degree of��control��exercised by a parent company��over��its��subsidiary.
The judges gave some examples of what constitutes ���control.��� A��parent��company might��establish policy and guidelines��for its corporate group��and take��active��steps to make sure these are��implemented, or make public��commitments��relating to��its��responsibility to��communities and the environment,��which��it then fails��to put into practice.
In this case, the��judges��cited��Vedanta���s own public policy commitments,��which��stated that��the company had control over the��Zambian��mine and��was��responsible��for��its��subsidiaries��� operating standards.��This shows that��a��company���s commitments are worth more than the glossy pages��that��they���re printed��on���companies must be held accountable for them.��
A concern about the��ruling��is that it��might��deter��companies��from��making��public��commitments��to��protect��human rights and environmental standards,��for fear of being held liable. But��the��reality is that while��taking a hands-off approach��might��reduce���the theoretical probability of���one legal risk,��it��would expose companies to a host of other risks that could cause���greater damage.��Companies��are��also��under��a great deal of��pressure from journalists, NGOs and others��to be seen to be acting responsibly��and transparently, so backing off from public commitments risks reputational damage.
UK���s responsibility
A��disappointing��aspect��of��the ruling was the��judges��� finding��that��the��proper place for the case to be heard was in��Zambia.��The case was only��allowed to proceed��in the UK because the claimants would have faced significant barriers��to justice��in Zambia,��including��lack��of funding to bring their claims in a Zambian court.
That��could��mean that in future,��to bring a case against a UK company in a UK court,��claimants��might��have to prove that there are significant obstacles to justice in their own country,��as well as��proving that the company owed them a duty of care.
The��Court��should have��recognized��that such��a��case should be heard in the UK��by virtue of the fact that it concerns a UK parent company.��It is the��UK���s responsibility��to��regulate��its multinationals��and their operations.��They��shouldn���t be��allowed to reap��financial��rewards��running��operations in��countries��such as��Zambia,��while palming��off the��cost of their social and environments��risks��on��to local communities.
What next?
Now, the Zambian farmers��� case��will��either be settled or will go to trial��in the High Court at a date to be determined.
The case also��makes��it��clear that we need legislation to��clarify��multinationals�����responsibilities��to��prevent��human rights��abuses��and environmental damage, to ensure that communities do not have to fight so long and so hard to��get��justice.
The Corporate Responsibility Coalition (CORE)��and more than 20��organizations��have launched��a��call��for a new law��to make companies��take action to prevent��negative impacts��from their��operations��(including their subsidiaries)��and supply chains,��and to make it easier to hold them to account when they fail to do so.
April 22, 2019
Who��gets to speak for black French people?
Promo pic from Girlhood.
At the beginning of April, 2019, a fierce debate��took��off on French-speaking social media. The controversy was around a mural by French��artist��Herv����Di��Rosa that was painted to commemorate the 1794 abolition of slavery in France’s colonies. In it, two black faces smile with exaggerated red lips, a chain breaks between them.
The mural was painted in 1991 inside the French National Assembly. The image also graced the National Assembly���s website until��professor and filmmaker Mame-Fatou Niang and novelist Julien Suaudeau��began an��online petition��for��its��removal. Di��Rosa defended his work��in the media, but the��French Parliament��removed��the image from��its website.
For��Di Rosa and his supporters, removing the mural is an act of censorship. He argues that his critics don’t understand his aesthetic. His supporters aruge that if we just understood art��and��Di Rosa���s��satirical ���pop cartoon��� representation of slavery,��we would understand that a��black face with bulbous eyes��and��fat��red lips is an entirely appropriate way to honor the memory of the enslaved who fought for their liberty in 1794.
This is not the only time that a��white artist���s representation of��black people in France has gone awry. A more recent and less immediately controversial work, C��line��Sciamma���s��2014 film Bande��de filles��(released as Girlhood��in English), suffers from similar problems as Di Rosa’s mural.��Both works deny that context matters��and therefore reproduce��stereotypes��that��fail to capture the people they��claim��to represent.
If��Sciamma���s��4-year-old film and��Di Rosa���s 28-year-old mural have resurfaced in 2019 debates about race in multicultural France,��it is because the underlying��problems of power and representation are still fundamental. Simply put: Who gets to speak for black French people?
The National Assembly mural undoubtedly bears resemblance to historic racist colonial depictions of black people.��Di��Rosa’s defense��is that he is��an ���equal offender��� who caricatures everyone, a defense also used by the editors of Charlie Hebdo.��But what does it mean to ignore the historical context of these colonial images and to reproduce them today? What does it mean when an artist chooses to adapt a signature style��that has been weaponized to��dehumanize��black people? What does it mean to claim that the grotesque is simply an aesthetic to a group already crushed under the weight of grotesque historical representation?
The only way this mural is allowed to remain in the halls of power is if the artist���s privilege to portray black people supersedes the historical and present-day implications and consequences of that portrayal. Power and privilege intersect in the halls of the French Parliament.
As for��Bande��des��filles,��admittedly the film���s��beautiful and seductive cinematography made its pitfalls much less evident, even to savvier viewers.��It��is now a staple on the syllabi of French college courses���not to problematize its representation of black girls but rather as an accurate portrayal of black French girlhood.
However, for many black French thinkers and artists, the film��is anything but that.��DJ Christelle Oyiri,��for example, has��discussed the film���s heavy reliance on synth as an inauthentic soundtrack to the girls��� lives. She sees the choice of synth over dancehall, rap or techno as��Sciamma���s imposition of her own��musical��aesthetic into the black French cultural space.��By��Sciamma���s own admission, she did no research before writing her script but remains convinced that the film is a successful representation of the lives of��black girls.
Others have pointed out the inexplicable violence of the protagonist��Marieme���s��brother. While the actress��Karidja��Tour�� does an excellent job of conveying her inner turmoil, her brother���s interior life��and��his violence towards his sisters is never discussed. It need not be explained. It is already a given. He is a��black man from the banlieue. He is violent. And in that equation lies��Sciamma���s��reliance on the images that have come before, on the fixed ideas of the banlieue that her audience will already bring to the film. Bande��de��filles��does little to trouble those fixed ideas.
The film���s��cinematography is troubling as well,��especially��Sciamma���s��choice to consistently have the camera pan slowly and languidly over the bodies of��Marieme��and her friends.��Sometimes their faces disappear and all we have is an obsessive exhibitionist display of stomachs, thighs, arms and breasts.��For��Oyiri, Bande��de��filles is ���like a��white feminist gaze tending to objectify black femininity.���
In reviews of the film, prominent media outlets praise Sciamma���s��dismembering gaze, giving rise to a plethora of exoticized descriptions of the actresses.��This included gems like�����feline silhouette, African braids and doe eyes�����and�����flowers of the projects, swaggering and painted like Red Skins on the field of an unsuspecting battle.�����Sciamma��has no control over what reviewers will say about her film, but it is clear that the exotic, colonialist language arises from the gaze that��her lens invites viewers to adopt.
Like��Di Rosa���s mural, Bande��de��filles insisted��that art can ignore context, replicate the same tired stereotypes and pass��them��off as creative. Certainly, representation matters, but in this case, context matters too. And ultimately, not all representation is representation.
April 21, 2019
Zombie statistics and poverty porn
Still from Welcome to Sodom.
After watching��Welcome to Sodom,��an Austrian documentary film about��Agblogboshie��in Accra, Ghana,��and��debunking the myths��that form the premise of the film, I discussed with colleagues some of the other aspects that may play a role in the making of the film. Two ideas stood out: zombie statistics and poverty porn.
Zombie statistics��are, according to��Oliver Hawkins:
False statistical claims which have found their way into the public debate��and��are repeated endlessly and uncritically.��They are called zombies��because no matter how many times you beat them to death with evidence, they keep coming back to life.
Amy Keegan, of��Wateraid, argues that��in order to make progress, we have to kill off��the zombie statistics.��Although��zombie statistics seem��to��bring a certain situation to the attention of many, as��unsubstantiated statistics they��are counterproductive, says��Cheryl Doss,��a��Yale��economist:�����Advocates lose credibility by making claims that are inaccurate and slow down progress towards achieving their goals because without credible data, they also can���t measure changes.���
Welcome to Sodom is based on��a��zombie statistic��that just won���t die, namely��that��Agbogbloshie��is�����the largest e-waste dump in the world.�����This��claim��has been��made��so often by reporters,��NGOs, documentary makers, and��even some��academics, that��it seems to have taken on a life of its own. Yet,��there is no evidence to support it.��What is��large��about��Agbogbloshie��remains��unclear.��The��entire scrap metal yard covers about half a square kilometer, while��a��specialized e-waste site��in��Giuyu, in China,��used��to��cover 52 square kilometers.
The factoid��usually cited in support of the claim that��Agbogbloshie��is the largest e-waste dump in the world is the tonnage of e-waste��that��is�����dumped�����there, often ���illegally��� and ���every��year.�����In 2009,��PBS Frontline released a documentary film called��Ghana: Digital Dumping Ground, which states ���Agbogbloshie��has become one of the world���s digital dumping grounds, where the West���s electronic waste, or e-waste, piles up���hundreds of millions of tons��of it each year.�����But the documentary provides no reliable evidence to support this estimate, either for the world or for��Agbogbloshie.
This is because it��cannot be��true.��According to the��ITU,��the��entire��world produced��almost��50 million tons��of e-waste��in 2016, well below the PBS estimate��of 2009.��As��Lepawsky��notes, if all containers arriving at the ports of Ghana would contain e-waste, this would amount to close to 17 million tons, not hundreds of millions of tons.��Yet, the statistic about millions of tons��of e-waste just refuses��to die: in��2014, the��amount��of e-waste��dumped in��Agbogbloshie��was reported��in a headline��to be about��50 million tons��per year.��In 2017,��another news source��mentioned��600,000 tons��illegally dumped e-waste��in��Agbogbloshie, again��without a reference to back up the claim.��Most recently,��the documentary Welcome to Sodom��states that��250,000 tons��of e-waste is illegally dumped in��Agbogbloshie��every year.��Again, no documentation to back up this claim.
Estimating illegal commodity flows is always difficult, but the real issue is that��most��of these��media��reports��don���t��use��statistics based on documented research.��Do we actually have reliable data about the import of e-waste in Ghana or the ���dumping��� of e-waste in��Agbogbloshie? In academic research,��both��the��Environmental Protection Agency of Ghana��and the��Ghana e-Waste Country Assessment��are��often cited.��They state that��215,000 tons��of��electronics entered Ghana in 2009, of which 30% was new. Of the 70% used electronics, 20% was useable after repair and��about��15% or 22,000 tons��was e-waste��that ended��up at informal e-waste recycling places in Ghana.
Although��academics are more careful with their statistics, they��can also contribute to the (re)production of zombie statistics��or factoids.��For example,��a��study��published in 2017��cited the��same��EPA��report as discussed above,��but��revealed��that��280,000 tons of e-waste��(not 22,000 tons)��entered Ghana��in 2009.��The��factoid��is��now��taking on its own life��in the��Environmental Justice Atlas.��How different e-waste numbers can be,��becomes clear��in��a��Masters��thesis��from��the University of Ghana, published in 2018. The data is��based on��people��following��the e-waste��flow��into��Agbogbloshie��for 15 days. It shows��that the average amount of e-waste brought in per day is 2,186 kg, which translates to 798 tons of e-waste per year.��That is a fraction of the��numbers mentioned above.
Poverty porn
According to��Matt��Collins, poverty porn is�����any type of media, be it written, photographed or filmed, which exploits the poor���s condition in order to generate the necessary sympathy for selling newspapers,��or��increasing charitable donations or support for a given cause.” Beth Wilson��describes it as�����a term of criticism applied to films which are accused of being made for a privileged audience and offer up stories of poverty and suffering for their enjoyment.�����Matthew Flinders��tries to understand the lure of poverty porn and wonders:�����Could it therefore be that the gap between the very rich and the very poor has grown so severe that a market for ���poverty porn��� has emerged in order to provide the former with some form of social anchorage, however shallow and meaningless?���
Is��Welcome to Sodom��poverty porn?��The film is made for a privileged��audience��and exploits the poor���s condition to create�����powerful��� and ���shocking��� imagery��to generate both sympathy and��guilt. Maybe this combination fits��what Flinders calls��social anchorage:��by triggering these two emotions, the privileged audience can connect for a moment with the��lives lived by��the people of��Agbogbloshie.��We are left with a sense that our consumption of electronics is somehow connected to the lives and livelihoods of the people of��Agbogbloshie, but we are not helped to better understand��the��global systems underlying the��unsustainability of the��electronics��we consume. In that sense, Welcome to Sodom entertains us for a while, but it��is unable to intelligently connect��us with the��multiple realities and injustices��that��shape��Agbogbloshie.
Both��zombie��statistics and poverty porn arise from the desire to raise awareness and force the audience to take responsibility. But those good intentions can get in the way of making change. While fake numbers and powerful emotions may,��in theory,��help mobilize citizens, consumers,��and decision-makers, in reality they impede progress by channelling our activism down dead-end pathways and making it close to impossible to measure change. How can we know if we are doing the right thing if the evidence we are acting upon is bogus?��The use of zombie statistics and poverty porn��may��be the result of people with good intentions,��but this doesn���t make them less responsible. As��Martin Luther King��Jr.��said:�����Shallow understanding��from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will.���
The Joe Miller model
Joe Miller. Image credit University of Virginia.
My well-worn copy of��Joe��Miller���s��Way of Death: Merchants of Capitalism and the Angolan State��(published by��University of Wisconsin Press, 1988)��tells��its own��story.��Over 700 pages of dense and elegant prose, it was one of the first (and finest) books I read as a graduate student. Its history of��the spread of��mercantile goods��in��the��commodity-poor environment��of West-Central Africa,��of accompanying��spread��of��debt and dependency��from��Mbundu,��Imbangala, and Lunda trade regimes��through the Brazilian plantations to British financiers��shaped my understanding of Central Africa in the mercantile world economy. As I��honed my interests��and as I spent more time in��that part of the world,��Way of Death��provided research questions��and methods��for my PhD research. I came to understand��how anthropological insights into kinship and dependency could be applied��in��historiography.��Even as the��methodology��of��Way of Death��convinced��me of the value of��the��archive,��Joe���s��focused historiography on the��Imbangala��and Mbundu resonated with my attempts to understand the historical significance of eastern Lunda��oral traditions alongside the��succession��of��Lunda��political��titles.
In my view, Joe made two key interventions. The first related to��his��doctoral��research with Jan��Vansina��on eastern and Central Angolan Mbundu states. His research��offered��a��more��nuanced understanding of the Lunda��and Mbundu��oral traditions��than��Vansina���s��Kingdoms of the Savanna��(University of Wisconsin Press,��1966). He published this work�����The��Imbangala��and the Chronology of Early Central African History,�����in the��Journal of African History��(1972,��and��then��in��Kings��and Kinsmen: Early Mbundu States in Angola��(1976). (Vansina��refused to republish��Kingdoms of the Savanna��in part��because he found it so fundamentally revised by Miller���s work).��The��intervention here was��firstly��methodological���revolving around whether��historians should understand characters in oral traditions as historical personas or political titles���with implications for the historiography��and periodization��of eastern Angola and central Africa.
His second��key��intervention emerged a decade later, with��Way of Death.��This��intervention was��conceptual,��methodological, and empirical, of interest to a broad range of scholars.��Way of Death��is��a��carefully researched work that pioneered��the use of Angolan and��Portuguese archival sources��underutilized��in English-language scholarship.��But, like all great works of scholarship, it��introduced��a conceptual shift.��Prior to the 1970s our understanding of processes of enslavement and African forms of slavery were limited.��During the 1970s and 1980s there was much discussion around African forms of slavery, in particular generated through the seminal Miers and Kopytoff conference and collection.��Through a discussion of cases across the continent,��Miers and Kopytoff��related��slavery in Africa��to��different��forms of��lineage��dependency. Their analysis was��conceptually interesting but��comparative and��static��rather than��historical. Miller���s revolutionary insight in��Way of Death��was to dynamize such forms of dependency by��relating them to��the movement of debt through the Atlantic world, and, along caravan routes,��into the��interior of��Central��Africa. This transformed��our understanding of the��political economy��of the Atlantic world,��and, in particular,��of��slavery and��enslavement in the hinterland of Angola. (The influence of Miller on the work of scholars of Angolan slavery such as��Roquinaldo��Ferreira and Mariana Candido is clear.) For me, as a scholar of the interior, Miller���s work allowed for a new understanding of the relationships��between power, wealth, and debt in early modern��Central Africa.
As I became a teacher,��Way of Death��found its way into my classes, to��student��groans,��but appreciation by the end.��As I taught with it, I got to know it better, and its themes, arguments and methodologies��kept��inspiring��my scholarship. It is one of��the��few books that I��pick up, again��and again, to revisit some��historical��theme,��argument, or source (Joe���s referencing is so thorough that I have heard editors refer to a particularly broad and deep referencing of sources as the ���Miller model���).��Partly inspired by��Way of Death,��I��turned to��earlier periods that��resembled��its��historical processes:��the��influx of foreign��commodities��spreading debt��and dependency.��I found��Joe���s��conceptualization��of��West-Central Africa during the��18th��century��helpful��in��understanding��the��Central��African interior��during the��19th��century, as the slave��and ivory��trade extended there from west and east African coasts.
I��began to��write up��my��research��on the��19th��century about a decade ago; it was only then that I first met��Joe��in person. We��talked��in��a��Ghanaian slave fort��that, ironically, was playing host to a conference on the end of the slave trade. He seemed friendly enough; I handed him my conference paper, mumbling about how it needed work. ���I will read the paper,�����he told me, ���but I��do not��take apologies.��� I suppose he meant it lightly���it was terrifying. He sat in��the row in��front of me on our��return trip to the��United States��and fell asleep while reading my paper. Well, that was that, I thought.
A few weeks later, he sent me the kind of detailed comments that few��can��write��or��take the time to��write:��deep,��engaging comments that make a difference. He considered what I was trying to say, if I had evidence for these claims, and how better to present the arguments. I struggled with the comments;��some of the most worthwhile��months��of my professional life were spent responding to��them.
In our last encounter,��a few months ago,��I complained��to Joe��about��my��recent��departmental administrative tasks. ���They encourage us to be narcissistic,��� he chuckled, ���and then expect us to get along.�����In Joe���s��final��email to me, commenting on something I had written, he wrote, ���History is nothing if not ironic.�����A��final irony: Joe was one of the least narcissistic people I���ve ever met. His professional life��remains��a model for collegiality, for understanding,��and��for��generosity. His hard work, dedication, and sheer brilliance shaped��how��generations will think about African history.
April 18, 2019
The meaning of party politics in Ghana’s urban neighborhoods
Then President of Ghana, John��Mahama, addressing the UN in September 2015. Image credit Cia Pak for UN Photo via Flickr (CC).
On February 23,��many Accra residents��excitedly posted��photos of Ghana���s former president John Mahama across��Facebook��after his primary victory.�����God Bless Ghana!! God Bless the NDC!! God Bless Our Flagbearer!!!,�����read one of posters by the NDC Youth Wing.��The NDC is the��National Democratic Congress. The��Youth Wing also��posted��the flier, ���The Return of #JM To Restore Hope��For��a Better and More Prosperous Ghana.���
The NDC���s��John��Mahama��was the country���s president from 2012 to 2017��before��he lost the presidency to Nana��Akufo-Addo��of the New Patriotic Party (NPP). The two will compete again in the 2020 election.��And��just like��the United States, the race for��the presidency��is��on.��Campaign season has��come early.��What does the��upcoming��campaign mean for young people in Accra, and why��do so many of the urban poor support��Mahama��and the NDC?
For many poor��urban��Ghanaians, especially those who hail from��the��historically marginalized��rural areas outside the Ashanti Region, the NDC signals hope��for a better life.��It offers a voice for��people at��the grassroots;��a space for uneducated, informal workers to enter the��power structures��through its local ���branches,��� and access higher-ups in government who��are actually making decisions.
This highly structured political apparatus has its roots in the��campaign strategies��of its founder Jerry John Rawlings in the 1980s, as well as the successful��mobilization tactics��used by Ghana���s first president Kwame Nkrumah. Rawlings was known to visit local neighborhoods and participate in communal labor exercises.��He took cues from��Nkrumah, who��built an Independence movement with the support of ���verandah boys,��� a collection of young people in organizations like the Young Pioneers and Builder���s Brigade who sought control over their lives outside colonial rule, but also outside the traditional leaders and��elite who dominated public life.
For many poor urban Ghanaians, especially those who live in its squatter settlements or ���slums,��� the governing NPP represents the opposite.��Many��residents��tag NPP politicians as arrogant and��distant, who speak ���big English.�����In the NPP, the youth must ���wait their turn,��� and that turn never seems to come.��This is despite the fact that many of their public policies���universal public education and improvements in��healthcare benefits���are quite similar.
Mobilization at the grassroots
It is in this context that��we should understand��Mahama���s��return to Ghanaian politics.��Mahama isn���t��an��ordinary candidate. He��has returned to Ghanaian electoral politics just two years after being ousted from the Presidency after��one full term��as president.��In 2016, a poor economy, massive electricity load shedding, and rampant corruption allegations doomed his re-election campaign.��But since then, he has rebuilt his image by traveling the world and leading election observer teams across��the continent.
He has returned in full force at the grassroots:��he won the NDC primary in overwhelming fashion, defeating six other candidates with more than 95% of the vote.��One particularly revealing victory was his landslide win in��Odododiodioo��in��downtown Accra���the��one where the NDC Youth Wing put up a poster,�����The Return of #JM To Restore Hope For a Better and More Prosperous Ghana.�����Mahama��won the NDC primary with 97.09% of the vote.��Residents��here��see��Odododiodioo��as the heartbeat of Ghanaian politics.��They are proud of their politics��and��enthusiastically��declare,�����If you win��Odododiodioo��Constituency, you win Ghana.���
Odododiodioo��is where Kwame Nkrumah first served as Member of Parliament, while leading the Independence movement.��In a surprising shift, the constituency broke with��the NDC��in 2000��and voted for the NPP���ushering in a new era of democracy. The constituency is the stronghold for��the nationalist wing of the��Ga, the ethnic group that is indigenous to Accra. Powerful Ga families inhabit and govern the oldest quarters of James Town and Ussher Town.��But��the constituency��also encompasses the country���s largest squatter settlement Old��Fadama,��where��the majority of residents��have migrated from��regions of the North, in addition to the thousands of migrants��coming from other��regions.
It is the past and future of Ghanaian politics.
NDC organizers���often deemed foot soldiers in the public discourse���come��from all walks of life. They are market-women, fisherfolk, keep-fit club members, boxers, rappers, biker boys, fishmongers, assembly persons, footballers, macho-men, land guards, fetish priests, tailors, and imams. They gain recognition from the political parties,��aim to raise their status��in their communities, and often gain valuable resources��and government contracts. The NDC relies on them for their ability to mobilize votes, but also legitimate their authority at the grassroots.
NDC��organizers��today��are quick to forget the��disappointments of the 2016 campaign, and��celebrate��the��development projects in the constituency that were completed under Mahama���s watch, including��the��Bukom��Boxing Arena,��Mudor��fecal treatment plant,��the��Korle Lagoon dredging project, and numerous schools. ���The list goes on an on,��� youth organizer��Nii��Addo��Quaynor��says.
The��development projects are central to building Accra into a modern city. But each of these projects also has a history of contentious struggles between neighborhood residents, traditional institutions, local leaders, politicians, and government agencies. For example, the Korle Lagoon dredging project coincided with the eviction of thousands of people in Old��Fadama. Many Ghanaians only know the settlement by the name of Sodom and Gomorrah, and��the longstanding eviction notice against the neighborhood is one of the most politicized��subjects in local political discourse.��Alternatively, the��Bukom��Boxing Arena��celebrates Ghana���s rich history of successful��boxers, but also��appeases��members of the indigenous Ga ethnic group��where��boxing��infuses the��cultural and social life��of the community.
Controlling the city
The distribution of state resources and services are embedded in broader struggles over control and authority in the city. For many native Ga, the development of Accra into a superstar city is synonymous with the strengthening of the Ga people and its social institutions. While the Ga make up less than half of Accra���s rapidly growing population, they still hold the most important positions in city government, or Accra Metropolitan Assembly.
These positions have significant national electoral consequences. For example, former appointed Municipal Chief Executive of Accra��and��James Town��native��Alfred��Oko��Vanderpuije��used his close connections with chiefs and local landowners,��as well as his position as mayor,��to gain��international notoriety and��secure��investment opportunities. This helped him build power and support at the grassroots, where he is able to influence who becomes branch executives. He��parlayed this into his current position as MP of��neighboring��Ablekuma��South Constituency. During the recent primary, his influence went a long way to mobilize support for Mahama.
The rapid growth of the city���one that has seen the city grow from under 1.65 million in 2000 to more than 4 million today���has placed new pressures on the indigenous population, and has sparked a nativist backlash against some migrants as they are viewed as a threat to the Ga ethnic homeland.
For migrants to the city, on the other hand, democracy and its ensuing distributive politics offer residents a claim to Ghanaian citizenship, but also rights to the city of Accra.��These claims often challenge Ga authority over the city, and many natives worry that squatters threaten��the status quo.��Migrant opinion leaders gain authority in their neighborhoods by starting new businesses��in enterprises like��scrap dealing,��operating private toilets and showers,��and��butcher��shops. For others, migrants confront extremely dire conditions.��Young girl head porters called��kayayei��live in dense quarters and often face physical and emotional abuse. The hustle��and bustle of the big city���with its intense cash economy���brings��new challenges and stresses to migrant populations.
Party politics in an urbanizing society
Party politics in Accra, therefore, is best understood in this context of rapid urbanization, and the contentious struggles for citizenship and rights. This is something that Mahama and other NDC candidates understand well.��Mahama has deep ties to��Odododiodioo��constituency that extend at least as far back to��his time as Vice President and President of Ghana. His name resonates throughout the streets of Accra, where he developed a robust organizational apparatus deep into the neighborhoods of the city. For example, between 2011 and 2016, the NDC inaugurated more than a dozen new��local organizational structures, called branches,��in��Old��Fadama, doubling from 11 to 27. His partnership with popular MP��Nii��Lantey��Vanderpuye, who has close connections with local assemblypersons, also helps.
An��NDC��youth organizer, who has��ties to Old��Fadama,��explains, ���It is generally believed that he is the most popular candidate in the NDC and can lead us to victory in 2020. Related to this belief is that he has the resources to campaign, and his name is a household name.��� While it is unclear exactly where Mahama gets his financial support,��he��has alleged ties to Lebanese and other Asian businessmen, and his brother is one of the wealthiest businessmen in the country. These powerful businessmen are��likely��seeking influence so as to gain government contracts if Mahama comes to office.
���His former appointees who have resources and are the real power brokers on the ground are still loyal to him,��� explains the youth organizer,�����and advise their ���clients��� to vote for him.�����Former government appointees like��the former mayor��Vanderpuije, but also other MPs and Ministers of State, are able to rally support on his behalf.
���As for the people of Old��Fadama,�����the organizer��explains, ���they are hungry for power to the extent that they don���t even care about the past. The past doesn���t matter to them especially now that Mahama is assuring them that he will not repeat his past mistakes.�����But this is not only about power for power���s sake. Many residents complain that the NPP government has affected their businesses. In particular, they complain of harassment by the security forces and Ghana Police Service.��These state bodies are accused of protecting��NPP party organizers, who sometimes use violence and coercion to control the neighborhood.
Like politics everywhere, candidates don���t have to be perfect. They just have to be better than the other guy.��As a��previously disappointed but recently elected NDC party officer explains, ���I am now a party officer and hence must work only for my party���s victory. Since Mahama was elected as our flag bearer, I must work to bring him (with my party) to power. Otherwise I am still disappointed in him.��� This is true for many activists���and political operatives across the��world���who remain loyal to the party in order to establish their own political careers.
Despite very diverse interests��that are often in competition with one another in everyday life, urban poor indigenes and migrants look to the NDC as a way to claim citizenship, gain social recognition, and improve their lives. While political scientists often reduce these practices to neopatrimonialism or ���competitive��clientelism,��� the urban poor understand them as central to how democracy works in the country.
And for the��residents of��Odododiodioo?��They��are hoping that��their Member of Parliament��will be named Mahama���s running mate.
���But it is just a dream,��� the NDC��organizer��explains with a smirk.
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