Sean Jacobs's Blog, page 372

I’m so happy in Cape Town

Cape Town is such a beautiful city. I mean, look at it: those majestic mountains, the deep blue sea, world-class vineyards, a new consmopolitan zone of creative hipsterdom, and not to mention the penguins swimming amongst the boulders!

Everyone worth anything wants a piece of this city. People from Johannesburg coming down to party in December, the Americans coming on their exchange visits, and the Germans doing whatever it is Germans like to do here. David Beckham, Roman Abramovich and Jack Nicholson all have holiday houses here. In December and January, Cape Town is a worldwide attraction that rivals any other city on Earth.

And now its beauty and tourist value is being augmented by a range of initiatives designed to inch our experience that much closer to paradise. We’ve got amazing new arts programs such as First Thursdays, Infecting the City, and that bright shining star in Signal Hill that keeps us excited and fascinated.

Strong local policing protects our mountains from rubbish (and homeless people), our beaches from violent dogs (and black youth), and our city from anti-social tagging (and those who tag). We have massive new office buildings going up and an extended convention centre in the works – not to mention our world class and picturesque stadium.

And District Six–oh I mean The Fringe–is so trendy now that one could even forget it has such a negative history!

We, the privileged classes of this wonderful city, have it so damn good. We are so happy in Cape Town (in contrast to the blight of the rest of the continent) that we now have a string of celebratory parties named for this very fact.

So, Happy in Cape Town?, which began as a November party in a massive Constantia house at the cost of a paltry R500 entry fee, has now upgraded to a 16th of December extravaganza at the Enigma Mansion in Camps Bay with a more respectful entry fee of R1,500. Attendees are “part of an epicentre of luxury, flair and effortless elegance that rival the continental European Summers.”

And, no doubt, it is a celebration. A celebration of what though?

The hard (or not so hard) work of maintaining the ill-begotten wealth of one’s family throughout the year.

The ability of this City’s top 5% to socially and physically separate themselves from almost any link to the hellish conditions of the significantly darker population of the City’s townships.

The construction of an elite and exclusive social network within the City and internationally, on which business and therefore profit is increased.

But most important of all, this is a celebration of the security elite Capetownians feel as a result of building a successful middle-class buffer between them and poverty.

It is not those who live in Bishops Court or Camps Bay who feel the angst so typified by the new Suburban Fear tumblr, which has exposed the shear level of racist anxiety of the black encroachment on white middle class suburbs. Unlike the elite, the inhabitants of white middle class suburbs don’t hire personal security guards to remove that “suspicious bm [read black male] looking at houses” but instead must do it themselves via vigilante civic organisations.

Which brings us to the reason why some Capetownians are so happy here that they have their own self-affirming events production company to prove it.

Hidden behind all this self-congratulating elite propaganda that infuses directly into popular culture, is the clear fact that, as the old anti-racist slogan goes, We’re over here because you’re over there.

Their happiness is because of others unhappiness.

In other words, poverty as well as other forms of inequality, are the direct consequence of elite and middle class wealth.

One does not have to read Das Kapital and understand how labor is accumulated to realize this (though it doesn’t hurt).

All one needs to do is look at this city; look at how the poor have been absolutely dispossessed from land, from access to water, and from other basic needs. One merely needs to open one’s eyes to how hard the poor workers slave in factories, in restaurants, and as servants for big fancy mansion parties merely to make the rich richer and happier.

The poor are working harder (both in the formal and informal economies) than ever before. But their income can buy less and less despite even greater pressure to consume. How expensive is bread these days? – and these loaves have never been of such deficient factory produced quality. How expensive are homes now? – and they’re falling apart at a faster rate than during apartheid.

It’s simple then, people are poor in order to make others happier – or at very least to create the facade of happiness because we all know that 25 year old driving his father’s Ferrari is so fucked up that he needs to celebrate his wealth snorting mounds of cocaine in order to hide his emotional angst.

In the end, we’re all in this together – we can’t pretend that wealth comes from anywhere else than the exploitation of other people’s labor and natural resources. There can be no celebration (or reconciliation for that matter) without revolutionary justice.

So, if after reading this, you’re not so happy in Cape Town after all. If you’re feeling that tinge of white guilt or that sense of alienation from such dishonest celebrations, a good place to start on something positive is checking out a farmworker’s union that has been hit with a cost order by a mean old Labor Court judge (whose son is probably dying to go to the party in that Camps Bay mansion).

CSAAWU has organized thousands of the most vulnerable, underpaid and abused workers in the Western Cape. If they do not raise R600,000 in the next few months, the union closes and the farmworkers lose just about the only thing which they have to organise themselves a better deal.

So click here and give what you can to support CSAAWU

Can an African language literature prize be inherently Pan-African?

Last month we announced the new Mabati-Cornell Kiswahili Prize for African Literature at the Ake Arts & Book Festival in Abeokuta, Nigeria. The prize has the express goal of recognizing writing in African languages and encouraging translation from, between and into African languages.

The prize is named after its primary sponsors, Mabati Rolling Mills (a subsidiary of the Safal Group), a roofing company based in Kenya and Cornell University, an Ivy League university in Ithaca, New York. That one of the major sponsors is based in Kenya, shows that African philanthropy can lead the way in underwriting African cultural production. Cornell’s support is through the Africana Studies and Research Center and the Office of the Vice Provost for International Affairs and falls under the broader vision of internationalization so that the Cornell community can be immersed in a globalizing world.

All African literature whether in European or African languages serves as a tributary to the greater ocean of the African literary tradition. A Kiswahili prize for literature is as Pan-African as a Yoruba or isiXhosa prize. If we can accept that a French and English prize is African, should we not see an African language prize as inherently Pan-African? It would be ironical to consider European language prizes to be more African than those honoring work in African languages. We need to dismantle the framework established by the Makerere generation in the 1960’s of the higher Pan-African and national literatures being in English and lower and divisive ethnic literatures being in African languages. There is a need for African literature in African languages to enter a global conversation with literatures around the world on a more equal footing.

The 15,000 dollar prize will be split into four and awarded to the best Kiswahili unpublished manuscripts or books published within two years of the award year across the categories of fiction/short fiction collection, poetry and memoir, and graphic novels. Recognizing that a major impediment to the growth of writing in African languages has been what to do with the manuscripts once written, East African Educational Publishers (EAEP) will publish the winning fiction entry. And the best poetry book will be translated and published in English by the Africa Poetry Book Fund. We are still looking for publishers interested in translations across other languages, African and non-African alike.

We believe that rewarding writers and translators of different African languages with prizes, scholarships, teaching posts, influential editorial and publishing positions would breathe life and most importantly salaries in to a new generation of professional multi-linguists. Instead of seeing the thousands of African languages as a problem, we need to see them as a resource. Imagine if every single African university had a translation center.

Imagine what these busy towers of babel would do for African literatures. Translations between African languages and between other world languages would enrich our literature while contributing to the larger body of world literature. Translations centers would give literatures multiple lives in different languages. It would enable us to identify skilled translators and professionalize translation. Rewarding writers and translators of different African languages with prizes, scholarships, teaching posts, influential editorial and publishing positions would breathe life and most importantly salaries in to a new generation of professional multi-linguists. Translation is the future that has always been with us.

Africa as a whole has a population of over 1 billion people. Yet even for African literature in English for example, there are only a handful of literary journals, prizes and publishers. And the situation is much more dire for writing and publishing in African languages. If we are to grow the African literary tradition, and increase literacy, we need more of everything. We need more prizes, more literary journals, magazines, newspapers, translators, publishing houses and more readers.

Back to the practicalities of the Mabati-Cornell Kiswahili Prize for African Literature. The award winning ceremony will be held at Cornell University, Africana Studies Center. The winning writers will be invited to take up residencies at Cornell University and partner institutions. The second and third award ceremonies will be held in Kenya and Tanzania respectively in 2016 and 2017.

For more information, see here.

5 Questions for a Filmmaker: Philippe Lacôte

Philippe Lacôte grew up in Abidjan, next to a movie theater named The Magic. After linguistic studies and a stint in radio, he started making film at age twenty-two. Among his films are The Messenger, The Libinski Affair, Cairo Hours and the essay/documentary/diary Chronicles of a War – a personal portrait of the neighborhood where he grew up during the first weeks of the civil war in 2002. Lacôte produced the much talked about feature Burn it up Djassa by fellow Ivorian filmmaker Lonesome Solo, which premiered at Toronto International Film Festival in 2012, and he directed the Ivorian contribution To Repel Ghosts to the short film compilation African Metropolis released in 2013. Philippe Lacôte’s acclaimed feature debut, , starring Abdoul Karim Konaté, Isaach de Bankolé and Reine Sali Coulibaly, premiered at Cannes Film Festival’s Un Certain Regard section and is opening in Côte d’Ivoire and France today, December 17.

What is your first film memory?

My first film memories are from our neighborhood cinema in Abidjan. When my mother had to run errands she would drop me there and pick me up 20 or 30 minutes later, with the result that I never got to watch an entire film, just snippets. One sequence that comes to mind was of two cowboys drinking whisky and talking around a fire. I don’t remember the name of the film, but I’ll never forget the shadows and the unreal atmosphere.

Why did you decide to become a filmmaker?

It wasn’t really a choice, but rather something that I had to do. There was this time when I was watching a Bruce Lee film at The Magic (the neighborhood cinema) with my friends. At one point in the movie, when a crook was chasing Bruce Lee, this guy got up and stabbed the screen to save the hero. In hindsight, I think that’s the day when I knew I was going to become a filmmaker. I discovered, in this art form, a way to be an artist without being seen, which suits my personality

Which film do you wish you had made?

’s Dreams, which is based on the filmmaker’s own dreams. I just rewatched a part of the film, about a boy who disobeys his mother and sneaks out to watch a procession of foxes on their way to a wedding. I love when the fantastical infiltrates the real and I love Japanese cinema.

Name one of the films on your top-5 list and the reason why it is there.

It’s either Charles The Night of the Hunter - Robert Mitchum’s portrayal of a fanatic pastor is amazing – or Indian filmmaker A River Called Titas. Both films are beautifully shot in black and white and both are extremely evocative and emotionally charged.

Ask yourself any question you think I should have asked and answer it.

Why do journalists always have one question that is impossible to answer?

Because they think that filmmakers have an answer for everything!

 

Why we can’t breathe

Unlike with the protests after George Zimmerman’s acquittal of Trayvon Martin’s shooting death in 2013, the nationwide protests following the grand jury decision not to indict police officer Daniel Pantaleo for choking Eric Garner to death on Staten Island, show no sign of losing momentum. Many wonder why the protesters’ rage is boiling over at this particular moment; after all, state and state-sanctioned violence against black bodies in the United States is not new.

The Staten Island grand jury’s failure to indict Daniel Pantaleo was seemingly the last straw, a week after Darren Wilson escaped being indicted for Mike Brown’s shooting death in Ferguson, MO. It follows countless other police killings or their families denied remedy by the American criminal justice system. Black rage against these injustices has been brewing very publicly–particularly via social media–for quite some time, and has now boiled over.

The last few years have revealed that, particularly at the state level, justice for Black Americans is an impossibility. Indeed, white supremacy flourishes under American federalism, which gives states the jurisdiction to terrorize disempowered citizens pursuant to state law. Florida’s “Stand Your Ground” law somehow empowers random white people to shoot black people of whom they are afraid, but not black women defending themselves against domestic abusers who boast, under oath, of their abuses. In North Carolina, police refused to conduct a thorough investigation into Lennon Lacy’s suspected lynching. In all of these cases and more, unless the federal government intervenes, the case is closed and justice is permanently unserved, It is all perfectly legal, perfectly racist, and perfectly American.

For many black Americans, the shame of realizing that no amount of compliance and achievement will guarantee you the protections of American citizenship, or even the most essential of human rights–life–has left them short of breath.

Neither voting nor higher education, nor a black president, can keep black people alive in 21st century United States. Negroes had no rights white men had to respect in 1896, and Eric Garner’s widow will live out the rest of her days knowing that the same was true in 2014. And so, there is revolt, because white supremacy cannot be reformed, but only overthrown, les it continue to choke the life out of its permanently disfavored citizens. Because there is no justice in the law, protesters have taken to the streets, in search not of equality within an oppressive system, but liberation from it.

Interview: The entanglements in Imran Garda’s debut novel

Every woman remembers that guy: the one that sidled up to her at her friend’s party (she was trying to look busy with a drink), sat by her side while other women made eyes at him, and—and without giving a thought to the fact that he should try to butter her up if he wanted to sleep with her—told her frankly that she’d based her opinions about pet political causes on erroneous information. You remember that guy? The one that was cocky enough not to care that his searing intelligence might burn you, and yet so vulnerable that you didn’t know whether you wanted to melt into him or throttle him? That man is the protagonist in Imran Garda’s debut novel, The Thunder that Roars.

Don’t get me wrong here: The Thunder that Roars isn’t a bodice buster, and Yusuf Carrim—Garda’s protagonist—isn’t a Barbara Cartland hero. Carrim is a South African-born investigative journalist who’s already made a name for himself by his innovative, insightful coverage of the Arab Spring. He’s currently based in New York, and professional opportunities are pouring in. Having no real ties to home or family, he’s able to go anywhere, take risks at which others with more responsibilities would balk. We already know that Carrim’s commitment is to his work, to the tangled political knots produced in conflict zones. His drive is built by a deep sense of loss and abandonment—an insecurity that’s perhaps born from having lost his mother at an early age, along with a defiant bravado created by having to prove that he didn’t, in fact, need to depend on anyone’s love.

Yes, he’s a conflicted, complicated man. When we meet him, he’s just bedded Michelle, a “half-Honduran-half Ethiopian siren” who matches him in complexity, but who comes across as politically shallow next to his savvy scepticism. Clearly, Carrim’s interest is driven by things that yield few avenues of entry; Michelle’s desire for him means she poses little challenge. When his father—a wealthy supermarket chain owner—writes him an email asking him to ferret out information about their missing Zimbabwean gardener, he returns to Johannesburg. Sam, the gardener, and the beautiful Lina, the family’s South African born maid, were Carrim’s companions though a childhood that was otherwise marked by loneliness and loss. Whether it is duty or guilt that takes him back “home”, or just the need to be away from the inane conversations that mark his life in New York City we don’t know.

We learn that the Carrim’s long-time gardener, Sam—after years of harassment and even a stint in prison for being “illegal” in South Africa—had decided to go to Libya, in an attempt to “earn good money” (16). Yusuf Carrim’s search for Sam unravels a story about the realities that those Africans with few privileges must face in the twenty-first century—we see that one’s nationality is nothing but a hindrance for people like Sam, whose nation state provides no place for one to make a living; we learn that that to be from such a place means that harassment and the fear of being reported by one’s neighbours are one’s lot. That instability can wear people down so much that they may take risks as great as uprooting themselves to go to Libya—a country that is so foreign to a Zimbabwean that Sam might as well have gone to the steppes of Russia—with little information about what they will be asked to do there.

I interviewed Imran Garda about his debut novel:

This is a story that reveals multiple types of “unhoming”: in Yusuf Carrim’s case, it is a psychological unhoming; he is born in a time when he and his family will no longer have to fear being dispossessed by the apartheid state, but can hardly call the palatial house in which he grew up—or even his body, one marked by scars for which he cannot account—a “home”. In Sam’s case, we see that being “unhomed” in a political sense continues for those who were not born within the borders of South Africa—with real repercussions. Can you speak a little about bringing these two types of dispossession—psychological and political/legal—together? One obviously seems far more privileged than the other, but theorists of exile often write about the impact of both forms.

Yusuf is young enough to be free from the kind of rampant injustices any of his older family members might have experienced under Apartheid. He also comes from money. His sense of dispossession stems mainly from his own family history (that which he knows about and that which he does not, yet) rather than the political and macro-economic factors at play. His actual home, as opposed to his country. And Yusuf has choices. This is the crucial difference between Yusuf and Sam.

Sam has few choices. He must keep moving, hustling, adapting to avert danger in a physical sense and the looming possibility of some authority taking away everything he has, everything he has worked for. He is a product of an unjust age. Internally disempowered in Zimbabwe and an economic refugee from the country — then treated like dirt in South Africa, no matter how long he’s been there for. He is married to a South African woman, has South African kids, has lived and worked in Joburg for years. But he’s still a Zimbabwean, stealing a job from a local.

Sam’s layers of identity – Ndebele, Zimbabwean, working-class, father, gardener… only serve to worsen his lot in life.

Yusuf’s situation is the opposite: The Arab Spring is blooming, journalism is changing and more diverse voices are getting the platforms that only Tom Friedman owned in the past.  Yusuf being South African is a plus. Indian another plus. A liberal Muslim a triple plus. It adds authority to his work (which is good, no doubt) and the power of this zeitgeist combined with social media propels him to a platform he might not have been ready for.

I wondered why you chose to saddle (accompany?) Carrim with a lover (Michelle)—a woman who is in love with him before she ever even has a conversation with him—before he embarks on his epic journey to find Sam. She’s not the traditional hero’s anchor figure, because she doesn’t really create enough of a tie for him. And (without giving too much away), you make it clear to the reader that when Yusuf returns, the return to her is not without challenges – it’s not a sigh of relief; it remains complicated.

Michelle is smart, also figuring herself out. A child of immigrants. She’s a beautiful and fascinating individual. But – we get to see her through Yusuf’s eyes in this book. So we are never quite sure of what to make of her.

Michelle has always wanted Yusuf. He knows this. He brings her into his orbit not because he’s always wanted her too, but because he can. And she was convenient.

It’s clear that Yusuf has mother issues. He cannot commit to any woman. Cannot bring himself to fully making a connection. Michelle comes back into the equation because, in real life, such men do so not because of any deep underlying love – but, as I said, often just because they can.

Readers begin to understand what drove Sam (the gardener) to take such a risk, going to Libya based on a rumour of a possible job. Carrim enlists a partner-in-crime, Professor Odinka (a Kenyan-born academic who provides humour, as well as intellectual analysis when Carrim’s journalistic mind is too dense to get finer points). Together, through some sleuthing, they glean bits of information from various reluctant informants. Much of what Carrim learns from both Odinka and Sam’s family members forces South African readers in particular to reflect on their prejudices and their ignorance. They may love the way their Zimbabwean or Malawian gardener coaxes roses out of the Highveld soil, or how well they care for the children, but there, they draw a line: if you get into trouble with the authorities, there’s only so much such loving guardian-employers will do. Beyond the transactional relationship, beyond platitudes about how much the gardener and the maid are “part of the family”, there’s little knowledge about those family members’ day-to-day lives. However, in The Thunder that Roars, you create entanglements that don’t allow us—or the Carrims—to pretend to a distance. Can you speak about why you added those complications and entanglements into these characters’ lives?

Great question. I love the entanglements. A big part of doing this was a desire to explore the nuances in post-Apartheid SA and how it relates to similar parallels in the global village. We often got to see work on SA (film, literature) that shows a white guy and a black guy, a racist Apartheid backdrop, some sort of Invictus-inspired Madiba-blessed catharsis. The white guy ceases to be racist. The black guy forgives. South Africa rides off into the sunset happily…

I wanted to dismantle this through the prism of Indian-Black relations, Black SA-Black Zimbabwean, SA relations to foreigners in general, Rich-poor, City-Rural…and “Prof” is one of the voices of conscience in the book. I love him dearly. Maybe someday I’ll write about him as a lead character.

We go from South Africa to Zimbabwe to Lampedusa…any reason for picking that particular trajectory?

Lampedusa, hanging there in-between Africa and Europe, a place of transit, a place most migrants never get to as they drown to their deaths, a place of refuge, a fortress defending Europe (or even the idea of Europe from the rest of the third world) was far too interesting to ignore.

Migration and displacement. It perfectly encapsulates the inner and the outer displacements that are crisscrossing each other throughout the novel. I also included it for its strong narrative links to Libya during the revolution.

You are well known for your journalism—working for Al Jazeera. Any trouble with readers thinking the novel is actually autobiography? What parts of your experiences as a journalist helped you create this character, add depth to the issues that Carrim learns about as he searches for Sam’s whereabouts?

“Well known journalist”? Thanks! Not totally true though. AIAC has far more readers.

Yusuf is not me. Perhaps he has parts of me. Undoubtedly there are strong demographic and bits of biographical similarities. But I would like to think of Yusuf as an amalgamation and a composite of other little bits chipped off the psychologies of many different men that I know, have known and have come across. The book was in part inspired by an irritation. Noticing how many young journalists were, like Yusuf, faking it to a certain extent. Capitalize on your brownness to be an expert on the Middle-East and speak with a sort of authority and gravitas that is not entirely deserved. Boost your twitter following too! As Yusuf journeys (internally and externally) I absolutely relied on many of my own experiences. Both as a young, flawed man who sometimes takes himself too seriously – and as a journalist trying to make sense of the world.

Plans for a next novel?

I have an idea for something that isn’t as close to home, I guess I’m deliberately unhoming too. Unfortunately I have a day job! Therefore, so far these have just been some preliminary scribbles in my notebook, a few tabbed pages, and a couple trips to the library. At least a third of it will be based here in San Francisco where I live. But it won’t be a contemporary setting. Will let you know once I’ve figured it out.

Remember Invisible Children?

Remember “Invisible Children” ? We don’t either. Yesterday they announced they’re winding up. Time to recall some highlights from the bullshit files. They were, frankly, full of it. To paraphrase Christopher Hitchens, if you gave Invisible Children an enema, they’d be buried in a match-box.

* We didn’t enjoy the viral video. At all. This is what we wrote the day it dropped.

* If anything what Jason Russell, who has a background in musical theater, got out of the build up to Kony 2012, was a series of bizarre music videos:

* If you can remember, the mainstream media aided and abetted Invisible Children’s attention seeking. Like The Guardian, even after Invisible Children’s campaign was exposed for what it was.

* They called themselves the Invisible Children. We called them out as the Invisible Christians.

* They made instant Uganda experts out of everyone, including random musicians. Like Soulja Boy who raps over some terrible beat and audio of Jason Russell. Like we wrote at the time: “If you want to be tortured (go listen to it). This is not even a song. It’s like a monologue set to some vague drum beat. And he drops the word ‘swag’ a few times'”

* They also spawned Henry Morton Stanley fantasies.  A while after the author of the book The World’s Most Dangerous Places and rugged man’s man, Robert Pelton, who went on Kickstarter for an “Expedition Kony” like it was the mid 19th century.

* Among all the Invisible Children BS, there were also great steaming helpings of bat-shit to be had. For example, here’s Jason Russell’s review (?) of a Dr Seuss movie:

[We] went out to see a movie, The Lorax, a Dr Seuss film. And I thought it was talking directly to me. I thought it was all about me. The character is wearing a stripy top like the one [his son] Gavin is wearing in the film and I was like, ‘That’s so weird!’ And the character is trying to protect these trees, and I thought it was me, and the trees were Rwandans.

* Ugandans saw right through it. Here’s journalist Rosebell Kagumire or people affected by Ugandan state violence. And months before the video was posted on Youtube, they could have asked Ugandan journalists and opposition activists what they thought about Kony or why Life President Yoweri Museveni and the US government focused so much on him.

* The last word goes to Charlie Brooker (he’s not American) who made the most sense:

Feel The Rainbow with Akosua A. Kumi of A.A.K.S

I can not begin to describe the joy, lust and energy, I experienced when I came across A.A.K.S handwoven bags on Instagram. I immediately had to know the who, what, where, why, and when of these amazing products. So, I did a little Internet research to find contact details, and sent a few questions to Akosua Afriye-Kumi, the “Colour-obsessed designer creating a range of eclectic handcrafted bags in ritzy colour spectrum of brights” who indulged us from Bolgatanga,a town situated in Ghana’s North East region, where her and a group of women have teamed up to birth these skittle shaming, eye-popping goodies.

On how she got started Akosua:

I have always had an interest from a very young age, scribbling, illustrating, collage work and painting as a favorite past time. To incorporate what I loved: art, colour, photography, patterns, illustration, I pursued a fashion program at Kingston University in London. I then followed my studies with interning at Peter Pilotto , Matthew Williamson and worked for William Tempest. This was a great foundation for me to work alongside young exciting brands and extremely talented designers.Their willingness to think off their feet, create new ideas, meet deadlines and control of style left me inspired. I knew I wanted to build something on my own, which would push me to wake up every day and give it my all. This thought process aided with the possibilities of creating in Ghana, my home, made it an easy decision to return and build a luxury brand which was proudly African.

On what inspires her:

A lot of designers take or find inspiration from  Africa, I want to do the same but actually be in Africa doing it. It is of complete importance for me to contribute to the creative economy in Ghana, along with pushing a new conversation at how we innovate and design in Africa as a whole.With this in mind,  I wanted to create a product which utilises locally sourced material such as raffia coupled with the traditional art of weaving, this is what is most appealing to me as it fully informs my design aesthetic, and brand ethos. Weaving is a skill and an art which is passed down generationally to the women weavers of Bolgatanga who create AAKS handbags.

On her Eureka moment:

It all began with my yearly trips to Ghana to see my family while i was in London. Having  grown up around basket bags I use to give them as gifts and also use for storage. I remember having a lot of  ‘I wish it was more like this , ‘I wish it was more like that’  moment… I wanted it softer, almost foldable and also more colourful with more vibrant blends of colours, coupled with beautiful detail and finish. Taking on this idea, I started researching into fibres, I knew raffia was soft, malleable and could create a different experience in the type of bag I desired. More importantly raffia’s attributes of being an organic, natural, biodegradable fibre which worked with my desire of creating an ethical product.

On her dream team:

Finding my weavers was a tremendous challenge which I am still reeling from everyday. In my first year, I  traveled all over Ghana: from Kumasi, Accra to Tamale with raffia in hand looking for weavers. Most weavers had no idea what it was even after close inspection, nonetheless I was determined to find a group of women who would bring my ideas to life and push my design endeavour forward. I stumbled across a weaving community through my travels in the Northern region of Ghana -Bolgatanga and I knew immediately their skill set (which i’d never seen before) was beyond exceptional and was one bring my concept to reality. Though a language divide existed, I being a native Twi speaker and the women being Afrafra speakers their willingness and excitement to take on a new challenge of working with a new material, raffia (instead of  straw), together we form a formidable and evolving partnership continuously challenging each other creatively.

On the process:

The dying process in finding our A A K S seasonal colours are achieved by boiling raw twisted raffia in a  hot bath of water, the dyes of colours  are then dropped in mixing them to achieve bright or dark colours and seeing the natural colours come to life is exciting, I plan my whole collection around colour effects on the eye. The process is simple but intensive. We source natural organic dyes in Ghana and test them accordingly for fastness. Sometimes the very dark looking wood dyes changes colour and turns bright yellow or dark red. I love this part of my design process as I feel it is an endless possibility of beautiful colour spectrums.

On Life observed in Bolgatanga:

Bolgatanga is an unexplored dry land in the Northern region of Ghana extremely hot day to day temperatures can be as high as 37 or 40 degrees in the dry season which is 8 months of the year. Women, men and children sit under trees to get some fresh air and weave to subsist their farm work and provide additional income. So basically they tend to farm in the rainy season and weave in the dry season.The women walk for miles or on bicycles and motorbikes to neighbouring slightly developed towns and markets to sell their woven straw bags. Locals normally use the basket as everyday bags or storage and the bigger communities come together and weave for export to neighbouring towns and big cities in Ghana.

On sustainability:

A.A.K.S. is a purpose driven, lifestyle brand for the conscious and stylish consumer, who is is willing to invest in a beautifully, quality skillfully handcrafted bag in turn countering the perception of made in Ghana/ Africa products which always seem to have a charitable/pitiful tune.  We pride ourselves in creating unique and well crafted bags, backed by mindful production for social impact.

We can be placed under the ethical or sustainable umbrella because we use organically sourced raw materials, raffia which is biodegradable and renewable. Its an inherent quality and very important part of my business ethos as all the choices we pursue now will affect everything in the future. With hopes of contributing greatly towards the struggling textile and materials industry in Ghana.

On cultural preservation and future plans:

Weaving is a dying art in Ghana unfortunately. It’s been relegated to a small scale industry with few communities in the south weaving Kente cloth and in the north weaving baskets and bags using straw. I hope that our brand acts as a catalyst and contributes to a revival and sustenance of weaving as a thriving art. By renewing and creating demand for some these endangered old skills and techniques in turn preserving them, by innovating and modernising them to meet today’s standard.

In the bigger picture I plan on having a permanent production base in northern Ghana, which will provide employment, promoting weaving to be seen as a source of livelihood, instilling pride in the technique whilst  ensuring continuity of weaving as an art and that can be passed unto the younger generation.

For more on A.A.K.S please visit her also beautiful website http://www.aaksonline.com

Ankara Press: A New Kind of Romance

Nigerian publisher Cassava Republic Press today launches a digital romance imprint, Ankara Press, with six brand-new titles. The aim of the series is to create ‘a new kind of romance’, which reflects the lives and aspirations of modern African women (and men) and challenges the stereotypical perceptions of the ‘romance’ genre, an ambitious undertaking in today’s difficult publishing environment.

Romance is of course not new to Africa. From imported romance such as Mills & Boon and Harlequin to the African-authored romances of the 1980s (Drumbeats, Pacesetters, Hints), African readers have been consuming romance novels for decades. The Littattafan Soyayya (“literature of love”) published out of Kano continues to sell tens of thousands of copies. Self-published authors such as Myne Whiteman and Lara Daniels have amassed large online followings. And indigenous publishing houses are now creating contemporary romance stories set in South Africa (Sapphire Books, Nollybooks), East Africa (Storymoja Drumbeats) and Francophone Africa (Adoras).

However, Ankara Press pushes the genre further, by developing a list of stories that specifically aims to present modern relationships in ways ‘that challenge boundaries and go beyond conventional expectations’, and by offering readers alternative models of behaviour from those to which traditional romances bound them. As publisher Bibi Bakare-Yusuf states: ‘Our sensuous books will challenge romance stereotypes and empower women to love themselves in their search for love, romance and wholesome sex’.

And of course this makes sense commercially. As Ankara Press’s submission guidelines make clear, ‘it is time that the continent’s rising consumer class gets romances that reflect the complexity of their modern lives’. There is a huge untapped audience of potential readers who already consume romance in the form of fashion, fragrances, films, music and glossy magazines. By marketing romance novels as entertainment rather than as literature (and thus avoiding the negative associations with educational reading materials), Ankara Press may well be on to something here. The majority of contemporary writing in Africa that has been feted in recent years has been literary fiction, which has produced some great writing but rather unremarkable sales. So this move into romance publishing is significant in terms of breaking new ground within the Nigeria from both a cultural and economic perspective. As Ankara Press’s guidelines state: ‘We believe that one way to get people reading is to introduce them to short, snazzy, fast-paced stories about the life they live or yearn to live’.

The mode of delivery is also significant. Ankara Press is publishing all six titles initially as e-books, downloadable to computers, e-readers and mobile devices – thus removing the reader still further from the traditional relationship with a print book. By launching as a digital imprint, issues of distribution and print piracy are obviated and a global audience becomes a reality, as the stories are available from the day of launch, across the globe, in multiple currencies. Whether the reality of sales can live up to the hype remains to be seen, but Ankara Press’s ambitious initiative may indeed introduce a new generation of African readers to a new kind of romance – and perhaps rekindle the love of romance writing for those who fell in love with Pacesetters and Hints all those years ago.

All six titles will be available to download from Monday 15th December 2014 at www.ankarapress.com at a special introductory offer price of N500.

Explaining Racism to a White South African Liberal

When I say, to a black person, “that place” or “that person” is racist, they know what I mean. The same statement to a white person requires qualification. It has to be quantified and placed in context. It has to “make sense”. I have to justify how I feel and convince them my feelings are valid. If I fail, well …

I have always struggled to explain to a white person how a particular place is racist – and these are liberal, well-meaning white people. The discussion over what I find racist about Cape Town or Durban in South Africa is always laced with hints of “but you did not live through the apartheid atrocities” or “but you do not live in the township.”

Once again, measurable evidence of this racism is required.

A few days ago, we commemorated the first anniversary of the passing of one the most noted revolutionaries in the world. He lived through the crucible of both the colonial and apartheid states. Racist laws and regulations in their full might. But when he gave his account of why he set about standing up to the racist state, what drove him to be whom and what he would become, he did not mention harsh laws or specific atrocities. In Nelson Mandela’s Long Walk To Freedom he states:

“I had no epiphany, no singular revelation, no moment of truth, but a steady accumulation of a thousand slights, a thousand indignities and a thousand unremembered moments produced in me an anger, a rebelliousness, a desire to fight the system that imprisoned my people” (p. 109).

I am challenged to state my case, otherwise there is no racism. It is not enough, and even when I try, I fail, to explain the “look” I have received four times today – and its associated memories; the way I was followed in each shop I entered – and the induced feelings of guilt; the elderly black woman who was being called by her first name and how I felt because I saw my own mother in her. I have to provide solid indisputable evidence of sufficiently racist acts.

Because of this expectation, it is easy to fall into the trap of citing popular incidences of racism e.g. the white bikers beating up a black petrol attendant earlier this month or the slew of violent and random attacks by whites on blacks mostly in Cape Town in recent months. These incidents feel more tangible than saying “white women shake their heads condescendingly.” It however reduces racism, in its complexity, to easily debatable, rare and isolated incidents by a few outlying individuals and ignores the lived subtle and insidious indignities – and their associated and accumulated ill-feeling.

The problem with highlighting these “popular” (or spectacular) incidents of racial violence is that they overshadow the thousands of daily less blatant and non-recorded anti-black racist acts that have never stopped since colonial and apartheid times. It leads people to set a mental benchmark, to think that if an incident is not recorded and as violent as these, then it doesn’t really count. South Africa as a state and economy was founded on anti-black racist principles and remains so. Period.

Explaining Racism to a White Liberal

When I say, to a black person, “that place” or “that person” is racist, they know what I mean. The same statement to a white person requires qualification. It has to be quantified and placed in context. It has to “make sense”. I have to justify how I feel and convince them my feelings are valid. If I fail, well …

I have always struggled to explain to a white person how a particular place is racist – and these are liberal, well-meaning white people. The discussion over what I find racist about Cape Town or Durban in South Africa is always laced with hints of “but you did not live through the apartheid atrocities” or “but you do not live in the township.”

Once again, measurable evidence of this racism is required.

A few days ago, we commemorated the first anniversary of the passing of one the most noted revolutionaries in the world. He lived through the crucible of both the colonial and apartheid states. Racist laws and regulations in their full might. But when he gave his account of why he set about standing up to the racist state, what drove him to be whom and what he would become, he did not mention harsh laws or specific atrocities. In Nelson Mandela’s Long Walk To Freedom he states:

“I had no epiphany, no singular revelation, no moment of truth, but a steady accumulation of a thousand slights, a thousand indignities and a thousand unremembered moments produced in me an anger, a rebelliousness, a desire to fight the system that imprisoned my people” (p. 109).

I am challenged to state my case, otherwise there is no racism. It is not enough, and even when I try, I fail, to explain the “look” I have received four times today – and its associated memories; the way I was followed in each shop I entered – and the induced feelings of guilt; the elderly black woman who was being called by her first name and how I felt because I saw my own mother in her. I have to provide solid indisputable evidence of sufficiently racist acts.

Because of this expectation, it is easy to fall into the trap of citing popular incidences of racism e.g. the white bikers beating up a black petrol attendant earlier this month or the slew of violent and random attacks by whites on blacks mostly in Cape Town in recent months. These incidents feel more tangible than saying “white women shake their heads condescendingly.” It however reduces racism, in its complexity, to easily debatable, rare and isolated incidents by a few outlying individuals and ignores the lived subtle and insidious indignities – and their associated and accumulated ill-feeling.

The problem with highlighting these “popular” (or spectacular) incidents of racial violence is that they overshadow the thousands of daily less blatant and non-recorded anti-black racist acts that have never stopped since colonial and apartheid times. It leads people to set a mental benchmark, to think that if an incident is not recorded and as violent as these, then it doesn’t really count. South Africa as a state and economy was founded on anti-black racist principles and remains so. Period.