Sean Jacobs's Blog, page 416

The wisdom of Akon

The Senegalese-American singer Akon may be a very talented musician, but he has terrible politics. That doesn’t prevent him from acting statesman-like. Remember when George W Bush was still President in the United States and Akon opined to rap magazine, “The Source”: “… I really think that people in the States are spoiled. They can nag about the president all they want and how the system is against black people, but if they saw how other people lived [in Africa] they would see how blessed they really are. All the decisions they think the government has made against black people really are for black people here.” He later defended Barack Obama against Lupe Fiasco’s criticisms.  Then there was his association with the very unpopular Senegalese President, Abdoulaye Wade (who was eventually voted out) or the government of Gabon and that party anthem he wrote for Michael Bloomberg’s doomed presidential run. Now, this from a few weeks ago–on Larry King’s show on some obscure cable channel to promote Akon Lighting Africa Project–when Akon spoke from “an honest male’s perspective”:

He also had this to say about the use of the N-word in the NFL:

A couple of blogs broke it down (see here, here, here and here.) We just can’t with Akon.

Can documentary film as a genre do justice to the astounding life of Fela Kuti?

Documentary films truncate an entire life into fleeting bursts of exuberance and somber moments. Any moments that exist in between, however significant they are, are left out completely or brushed over. In making a documentary, on any subject, the director carves a narrative. And at times, the narrative carves itself. The decision then to make a documentary on the astounding life of Fela Kuti is a brave one. What do you exclude? What do you include? And most importantly, what informs these decisions?

The other question that is important to address is, who has the right to speak about Fela Kuti? And how is that right earned? On these questions, the documentary succeeds by rounding individuals that worked with Fela, friends, his kids, former lovers, his managers and other musicians.

“Finding Fela” attempts to marry two defined art forms: theatre and cinema. For the first half of the documentary (for which there is no trailer online), the Broadway play ‘Fela!’ forms the foundation of the narrative. And immediately, the classic peculiarity of stage plays, which is exaggeration, is evident. Stage plays are primarily concerned with entertaining. The stage play ‘Fela!’ when juxtaposed with archive footage of Fela Kuti is off in its depiction. It never quite convinces. Even at its best moments, that if they existed by themselves would have been incredible, it fails. Sahr Ngaujah, who plays Fela Kuti in the stage play, never dances, sings or speaks quite like Fela. It is burdened with the problem of depiction. The burden being that a depiction can never be adequate, especially when it tries to depict something perfectly. It is better when it falls short. When depiction does not fall short, when something is over depicted, it becomes obvious that it is being staged.

Though Alex Gibney, the director, uses the stage play to weave the story, he stuck to a prosaic documentary style. The result is a formulaic narrative. The documentary is not at all boring. It benefits greatly from Fela’s eventful life, and the rare archive footage of Fela and the great interviewees but it lacks treatment.

In using the stage play to tell the narrative, the documentary has two perspectives. Those of Bill T Lewis, the stage play director, who is concerned with omitting certain aspects of Fela’s life out of the stage play because he finds them troublesome. The other perspective is that of Alex Gibney who is uninterested in any of that but instead is infatuated with Fela’s philandering and polygamy. As a result Fela’s love for women dominates the narrative, unnecessarily so.

The documentary tells of Fela Kuti’s life, not only through other people but through his own words too, he is not merely a point of discussion. His music dominates. The music is dissected and the meaning of it made clear. The documentary aptly captures most of his songs and politics. Fela’s music however has always possessed more than a single layer. It is deep yet it can also be accessible in a form that makes it seem unimportant. His songs are not loyal to one emotion. They can instigate a riot and yet somewhere else, under a different time, they can start a party.

Lewis reveals that compressing Fela’s songs to fit into the length of the play, was an impossible task. This is true for the documentary as well. The two art forms, theatre and cinema, both operate within the confines of time. Fela’s music did not. His songs were as long as they needed to be. The rhythm of the songs was often repetitive, the same rhythm over and over again until the piece of rhythm justifies its own presence, both in the song and in life itself. Fela’s music embodied his feelings. This he says in the documentary. In the play the songs come in short bursts. Each time, the song is separated from the rest of itself, and often from a point that is vibrant enough to reel the audience in. But this works and the documentary will earn Fela’s music many new fans.

Halfway through the documentary, the stage play is subdued out of the narrative and the documentary is narrated by interviews and archive footage of Fela Kuti. And then Fela Kuti becomes alive and present. He sits there in his couch, often only in his underwear and spewing consciousness to the camera and a crowded room. He is at the Shrine, amidst thick political haze, telling the government where to fuck off. And then he is at a jazz festival gyrating his waist on stage to songs composed to play at the precise moment. The songs move with him and never in haste by themselves. It is 1978, he is there with twenty-seven women and he marries them at once. In those moments, Fela manages to escape the past and he is here today and not trapped in the film frame in some distant decade. He is among and within the audience.

The documentary premiered earlier this year at the Sundance Film Festival and has been screened only five times. I watched the film outside at the The Castle of Good Hope as part of the Design Indaba Film Festival. This was the film’s African premiere. (The Castle is a symbol of Dutch colonialism and slavery at the Cape, BTW.) People cuddled in blankets as the Cape Town wind was blowing. Above the crowd, the sky threatened to rain but it never did. Enclosing the crowd from all sides were concrete walls of the Castle in washed out hues of yellow. .

Femi Kute, Fela’s eldest son, says in the documentary “What trouble is he (Fela) going to cause next?” Not trouble, for the sake of it, the documentary also shows. Fela wanted change and through music, began to advocate for it. That is the trouble Femi speaks of.

In 1977, the police set Fela’s commune on fire and arrested him and his mother. His mother was to die a few months later and Fela’s life drastically changes. He becomes more militant in his music. He becomes aloof as a human being, both to friends and the rest of the universe. The archive to show this is feels real as if one is experiencing the story for the first time.

The documentary is not without its faults, both technically and on its gaze but it is a necessary visual document on one of Africa’s best musician and a politically conscious figure.

Can the documentary film genre do justice to the astounding life of Fela Kuti?

Documentary films truncate an entire life into fleeting bursts of exuberance and somber moments. Any moments that exist in between, however significant they are, are left out completely or brushed over. In making a documentary, on any subject, the director carves a narrative. And at times, the narrative carves itself. The decision then to make a documentary on the astounding life of Fela Kuti is a brave one. What do you exclude? What do you include? And most importantly, what informs these decisions?

The other question that is important to address is, who has the right to speak about Fela Kuti? And how is that right earned? On these questions, the documentary succeeds by rounding individuals that worked with Fela, friends, his kids, former lovers, his managers and other musicians.

“Finding Fela” attempts to marry two defined art forms: theatre and cinema. For the first half of the documentary (for which there is no trailer online), the Broadway play ‘Fela!’ forms the foundation of the narrative. And immediately, the classic peculiarity of stage plays, which is exaggeration, is evident. Stage plays are primarily concerned with entertaining. The stage play ‘Fela!’ when juxtaposed with archive footage of Fela Kuti is off in its depiction. It never quite convinces. Even at its best moments, that if they existed by themselves would have been incredible, it fails. Sahr Ngaujah, who plays Fela Kuti in the stage play, never dances, sings or speaks quite like Fela. It is burdened with the problem of depiction. The burden being that a depiction can never be adequate, especially when it tries to depict something perfectly. It is better when it falls short. When depiction does not fall short, when something is over depicted, it becomes obvious that it is being staged.

Though Alex Gibney, the director, uses the stage play to weave the story, he stuck to a prosaic documentary style. The result is a formulaic narrative. The documentary is not at all boring. It benefits greatly from Fela’s eventful life, and the rare archive footage of Fela and the great interviewees but it lacks treatment.

In using the stage play to tell the narrative, the documentary has two perspectives. Those of Bill T Lewis, the stage play director, who is concerned with omitting certain aspects of Fela’s life out of the stage play because he finds them troublesome. The other perspective is that of Alex Gibney who is uninterested in any of that but instead is infatuated with Fela’s philandering and polygamy. As a result Fela’s love for women dominates the narrative, unnecessarily so.

The documentary tells of Fela Kuti’s life, not only through other people but through his own words too, he is not merely a point of discussion. His music dominates. The music is dissected and the meaning of it made clear. The documentary aptly captures most of his songs and politics. Fela’s music however has always possessed more than a single layer. It is deep yet it can also be accessible in a form that makes it seem unimportant. His songs are not loyal to one emotion. They can instigate a riot and yet somewhere else, under a different time, they can start a party.

Lewis reveals that compressing Fela’s songs to fit into the length of the play, was an impossible task. This is true for the documentary as well. The two art forms, theatre and cinema, both operate within the confines of time. Fela’s music did not. His songs were as long as they needed to be. The rhythm of the songs was often repetitive, the same rhythm over and over again until the piece of rhythm justifies its own presence, both in the song and in life itself. Fela’s music embodied his feelings. This he says in the documentary. In the play the songs come in short bursts. Each time, the song is separated from the rest of itself, and often from a point that is vibrant enough to reel the audience in. But this works and the documentary will earn Fela’s music many new fans.

Halfway through the documentary, the stage play is subdued out of the narrative and the documentary is narrated by interviews and archive footage of Fela Kuti. And then Fela Kuti becomes alive and present. He sits there in his couch, often only in his underwear and spewing consciousness to the camera and a crowded room. He is at the Shrine, amidst thick political haze, telling the government where to fuck off. And then he is at a jazz festival gyrating his waist on stage to songs composed to play at the precise moment. The songs move with him and never in haste by themselves. It is 1978, he is there with twenty-seven women and he marries them at once. In those moments, Fela manages to escape the past and he is here today and not trapped in the film frame in some distant decade. He is among and within the audience.

The documentary premiered earlier this year at the Sundance Film Festival and has been screened only five times. I watched the film outside at the The Castle of Good Hope as part of the Design Indaba Film Festival. This was the film’s African premiere. (The Castle is a symbol of Dutch colonialism and slavery at the Cape, BTW.) People cuddled in blankets as the Cape Town wind was blowing. Above the crowd, the sky threatened to rain but it never did. Enclosing the crowd from all sides were concrete walls of the Castle in washed out hues of yellow. .

Femi Kute, Fela’s eldest son, says in the documentary “What trouble is he (Fela) going to cause next?” Not trouble, for the sake of it, the documentary also shows. Fela wanted change and through music, began to advocate for it. That is the trouble Femi speaks of.

In 1977, the police set Fela’s commune on fire and arrested him and his mother. His mother was to die a few months later and Fela’s life drastically changes. He becomes more militant in his music. He becomes aloof as a human being, both to friends and the rest of the universe. The archive to show this is feels real as if one is experiencing the story for the first time.

The documentary is not without its faults, both technically and on its gaze but it is a necessary visual document on one of Africa’s best musician and a politically conscious figure.

Belgium is an insular country. It lives like history happens outside of it

Years ago, Karel De Gucht, the present European Commissioner for Trade, referred to Kofi Annan, then Secretary General of the UN on TV as an “Évolué” which was the term colonial Belgians used to refer  to the Congolese who had “evolved” and become more westernized (i.e. “civilized”). “Évolués” had to do exams to show how “civilized” they had become and got certificates if they passed. De Gucht meant of course that Annan was not your “typical African.” Was there an outrage? No. “De Gucht was not being disparaging. He was praising Kofi Annan,” was the usual response.

In 2007, when Barack Obama was running for US president, there was a question about him on Canvascrack, a popular national TV quiz show. The question was the technical term for a child of mixed parentage. The phrasing was a lot more offensive than I have suggested (Obama is the son of a N**** from Kenya and a white mother, etcetera). The answer was “Mullato.” I expected someone in the audience to stand up and call the quiz master to order. No one did. The show went on as normal. I wrote a piece denouncing it. Not only was the question wrong, but of all things to ask on Obama, it had to be that? I got a few comments from well meaning Belgians who told me that “mullato” and the “N word” are not as historically charged in Belgium as in other parts of the world and are therefore not offensive terms. I was told not to be too quick in seeing offense. And a friend of the quizmaster told me what a lovely person he really was.

When I was a city councillor in Turnhout, Belgium, a colleague, upset at our Mayor’s expectation that we toe the line  said, “we are not all N****s that we just nod. We are thinking humans!” The colleague who said this, I must admit, is one of the nicest people I know. He always gave me rides to meetings and so on but once he said that, it became obvious to me that he did not think we were equals. I mentioned this in an article I wrote a while ago and again, I got mails from people telling me about how it wasn’t a racist thing to say, that it has been in use for a long time and that really there is a historical context for this. In the 60s, cars had bobbing black heads, and I shouldn’t be quick to take offense. And didn’t I say my colleague was a nice man?

When the leading Belgian newspaper De Morgen, which styles itself as progressive, published an image of Obama and his wife as chimps and passed it off as satire, they did not expect a backlash. They assumed that their readers would laugh and move on, and it would be business as usual. This assumption was rooted in two facts:

The first is that as a block, black people in Belgium have no political or economical voice and are therefore of very little consequence. They were not high on De Morgen’s consideration list when they published that article. There are no black newscasters (to my knowledge); very few black journalists (certain none in De Morgen as far as I know); my children were never taught by black teachers; I never saw a black bank clerk. There might be a black police man in Brussels, I have never seen any anywhere in Belgium. In fact, when Turnhout got its first black cab driver (about five years ago), we rejoiced.

The second fact is that there is a certain level of racial dementia in Belgium. There is an inability to judge what is racially offensive and what is not. Belgium has never confronted its colonial past and has therefore never moved on from it. There is a statue celebrating Leopold despite the atrocities he committed in the Congo. Zwarte Piet (with the black face, red lips and the kinky wig, reminiscent of the golliwog, so popular in neighboring Netherlands that even the Prime Minister gets into blackface) is considered a national treasure in Belgium.

Employers can say (and have said) “I do not want a black worker” without much fear of punishment. (Here’s a variation on that excuse.) The black immigrant is still expected to be grateful for the chance to live in Belgium and eat at the “Massa’s table” and not ruffle feathers.

Things will only change when Belgium realizes that no country is an island, that there are consequences for actions and that yes, the world has moved on. The media outcry outside Belgium at De Morgen’s misguided racist satire (and the apology from De Morgen) is already a start. The act of apologizing is a big step in the right direction (if only because as far as I know, this is the first time a Belgian media outlet has ever acknowledged, much less apologized for being offensive) even if the apology itself leaves a lot to be desired.

“An African City,” the web series about five single women in Accra, Ghana

For the last few weeks social media has been abuzz with comments about a new Youtube web series set in Accra called “An African City.” The series tells the story of the “Afropolitan Returnee” and as one viewer aptly put it, it is “Sex and the City meets Americanah where she [the book's protagonist] goes back to Lagos.” Though not as finely tuned.

Here’s the trailer:

You can watch the first four episodes here.

The five main characters are all well-off, well-connected or both.

From the chatter online, there appears to be no qualms about the demographic that is being portrayed. And thus far, it is unapologetic in doing so. So much so–as was pointed out to me–that the characters acting as waiting staff are reduced to shots of their backs or headless with an outstretched arm.

Having said that there were some cringeworthy moments in the first episode at comments like “Dad is now the minister of energy, so this is the time to be back” and “ I’m here for work… big government contracts.”

No doubt these conversations do happen in certain small circles but I couldn’t tell if these bold declarations were being mocked or glorified.

For years we have seen the rich and beautiful float across our television screens in flashy cars, shiny houses and glossy outfits. Why not Accra or any other African city?

The series represents moneyed Africa and those for whom the idea of spending US$5000 per month on rent for an apartment is feasible, as are dutiful drivers and rich daddies–real or otherwise. Just watch the opening moments of Episode 2.

It may not be the reality for the majority but it’s a reality that is valid. These people exist.

It should be noted too that because of the lack of diversity of the characters one would be forgiven for thinking that all ‘returnees’ are silver-spooned gentry. This is not the case.

I think the show is for lighthearted entertainment purposes, with conversations about careers, sex, loves lost and potentials that are much more relatable.

And some viewers think that the series does well in highlighting relevant issues such as high housing rents, problems clearing goods at the port and the erratic power supply in the city.

Others have written it off, classing it as skewed and over-exaggerated.

“An African City” serves as the alternative to the words and images of a war-torn, famine-ridden, economically-blighted “Dark Continent” that we’ve been assaulted with for decades. It comfortably falls into the high-end ankara/kente print-wearing, culturally-savvy, new middle-class ‘Africa Rising’ rhetoric.

So now we’ve had a fair share of the two narratives perhaps other African filmmakers, writers and speakers can pick up the baton and give the world balanced views of what it’s like to live in their African cities.

Image Credit: An African City’s Facebook Page.

“An African City,” the web series about four single women in Accra, Ghana

For the last few weeks social media has been abuzz with comments about a new Youtube web series set in Accra called “An African City.” The series tells the story of the “Afropolitan Returnee” and as one viewer quite poignantly put it, it is “Sex and the City meets Americanah where she [the book's protagonist] goes back to Lagos.” Though not as finely tuned.

Here’s the trailer:

You can watch the first four episodes here.

The five main characters are all well-off, well-connected or both.

From the chatter online, there appears to be no qualms about the demographic that is being portrayed. And thus far, it is unapologetic in doing so. So much so–as was pointed out to me–that the characters acting as waiting staff are reduced to shots of their backs or headless with an outstretched arm.

Having said that there were some cringeworthy moments in the first episode at comments like “Dad is now the minister of energy, so this is the time to be back” and “ I’m here for work… big government contracts.”

No doubt these conversations do happen in certain small circles but I couldn’t tell if these bold declarations were being mocked or glorified.

For years we have seen the rich and beautiful float across our television screens in flashy cars, shiny houses and glossy outfits. Why not Accra or any other African city?

The series represents moneyed Africa and those for whom the idea of spending US$5000 per month on rent for an apartment is feasible, as are dutiful drivers and rich daddies–real or otherwise. Just watch the opening moments of Episode 2.

It may not be the reality for the majority but it’s a reality that is valid. These people exist.

It should be noted too that because of the lack of diversity of the characters one would be forgiven for thinking that all ‘returnees’ are silver-spooned gentry. This is not the case.

I think the show is for lighthearted entertainment purposes, with conversations about careers, sex, loves lost and potentials that are much more relatable.

And some viewers think that the series does well in highlighting relevant issues such as high housing rents, problems clearing goods at the port and the erratic power supply in the city.

Others have written it off, classing it as skewed and over-exaggerated.

“An African City” serves as the alternative to the words and images of a war-torn, famine-ridden, economically-blighted “Dark Continent” that we’ve been assaulted with for decades. It comfortably falls into the high-end ankara/kente print-wearing, culturally-savvy, new middle-class ‘Africa Rising’ rhetoric.

So now we’ve had a fair share of the two narratives perhaps other African filmmakers, writers and speakers can pick up the baton and give the world balanced views of what it’s like to live in their African cities.

Image Credit: An African City’s Facebook Page.

Happy Africans

By 11am this morning Pharrell Williams’ pop friendly and infectious “Happy” had racked up 138,948,968 views on Youtube and obviously making him and his record company a lot of money. If it’s not enough that it is playing on every commercial radio station (or in every department) store and is “the world’s first 24 hour music video” (who watches a music video that long?), it is also now the subject of homage videos in which people lip-synch the lyrics to “Happy.” And, like everyone else, Africans want in on the game.  The videos are city-themed.  We can’t front: The videos are nice. Enjoy.

This has been a great opportunity to get to know global cities in a new way, especially those whose images are rarely shared.

First up was a video from Benin’s capital Cotonou (where the producers of the video prided themselves with being the first from West Africa):

Then it was Kinshasa’s turn:

Yesterday, a video surfaced for Cape Town:

And now this effort from Dakar, Senegal, this morning, which goes one better: A remix:

Is there anymore of these “Happy” videos out there featuring African cities out there?  Feel free to share in the comments section as they are produced. We’d be happy to update the post.

#UPDATE: Algiers has one too (HT Camelia on Twitter):

#UPDATE2:

Also from Niamey, Niger:

From Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso:

That’s not the only Ouagadougou video. Here‘s one more.

#UPDATE3:

Libreville (HT: Harsh Mall):

#UPDATE4:

Okay, it seems some genius also decided to make “a global aggregation site” for “Happy” videos, including many African ones (HT J Nathan Matias)

New Film Explores Homophobia and Hatred Towards LGBTI Community in Cameroon

The silhouettes of two women are concealed amongst the gradients of quivering candlelight. The interviewer asks, “Can you kiss each other in public?”, one women responds “We hug each other in public. Even the hugs are discreet. But kiss on the mouth? No.” The other adds: “People would yell at us ‘Ooh lesbians. You can’t do that in Cameroon! You’ve ruined the country!’” Due to the maintenance and amendment (1972) of Section 347 of the Penal Code of 1967, imposed during colonial times, Cameroon, according to a Human Rights Watch report ‘Guilty by Association’ of March 2013, is a country that “prosecutes people for consensual same-sex conduct more aggressively than almost any country in the world.” Adding, “Most cases are marked by grave human rights violations, including torture, forced confessions, denial of access to legal council, and discriminatory treatment by law enforcement and judicial officials.”

The debut feature length documentary “Born This Way”, co-directed and co-produced by long term friends and collaborators Shaun Kadlec and Deb Tullmann, has used Duoala, Cameroon to explore how this homophobia and hatred towards the LGBTI community manifests in the lives of its protagonists. Here’s a trailer:

The simple mode of filming unravels the multifaceted battleground that is being played out on the bodies and minds of its subjects without judgement or attack, but in an articulation of neutrality. The film’s two primary protagonists Cédric and Gertrude are filmed in a series of intimate portraits that capture the honesty of the everyday, with a transparency and realism that neither polishes or exaggerates, but a lens that bares quiet witness. The structure of the documentary is constructed and led by the willingness of its characters to reveal and tell their stories as it unfurls organically. After filing for a permit to shoot a documentary on HIV/AIDS prevention Kadlec and Tullmann were told to be granted this permit, they would have to have a government official with them at all times. Instead they filmed illegally on a tourist visa which has resulted in a synthesis of methodology and content by recreating the criminalisation, forced secrecy and alienation its subjects experience.

A longingly held shot filmed on the path that connects the outside world and the inside of the Duoala headquarters of Alternatives-Cameroun, a sanctuary for the LGBTI community, depicts the passage between safety and danger. The centre operates, as a member explains, a provision “for people with HIV and we do HIV prevention.” The Health Ministry recognises it as a treatment centre, its functioning guise, for the centres undercover gay rights work. “[They] let it exist, but we have to be discreet. […] This is my family. It is a community.” The centre provides psychological support as well as throwing “amateur runways, dance parties and soccer matches.” On June the 26th, 2013, unidentified assailants burned down the Douala headquarters of Alternatives-Cameroun.

The unfiltered, humanist gaze of the camera illustrates a series of profound vignettes that exposes the chain of oppression – used throughout human history – with an extreme economy of means. The complex reality that the LGBTI community face: identification, ostracism, confiscation of civil liberties, persecution and subjection to violence – are concentrated into miniatures that resonate beyond their bounds. We meet Alice Nkom, the first woman to be called to the bar in Cameroon, who recently received an award from Amnesty International to recognise the decade she has spent defending people accused of ‘practising homosexuality’, as she shows her case files. She flicks through and stops, holding a photograph of two men, “They were arrested because they were dressed like this. They were just in a car, police stopped the car […] the police took a look in the car and said ‘Oh, there are gays here’. Five years in prison.”

To reveal a microcosm of the judicial dichotomies that are present in the struggle to acquire LGBTI rights and equality in Cameroon, the directors smuggled a hidden camera into a courtroom where two women were being tried for same-sex conduct. From the claustrophobic and trembling camera we see Nkom stand in defence of the two women as she opens, “Your Honor, you cannot justify a prosecution much less a conviction, based upon illegal text which violates the constitution.” The prosecution responds, “Your Honor, this is just like a fifty year old man kidnapping a ten year old girl, rapes her in his bedroom all night and says this is his private life.”

In another passage the two protagonists come together as Cédric describes how he was held at knife point by four men and threatened: “Faggot, you’re going to infect the neighbourhood. Get out of here. You’re a dead man.” Gertrude responds with generosity but also the acute reality, “Next time they won’t just let you go. You’re not safe there anymore. […] We’ll keep moving from place to place and where will we end up? Maybe we’ll end up in the sea.” As was the case for Eric Ohena Lembembe when he was found brutally tortured and murdered in his home on July 15th, 2013. A prominent LGBTI activist who had closely collaborated with Human Rights Watch and two other Cameroonian organisations, Alternatives-Cameroun and the Association for the Defence of Homosexuality (ADEFHO), in researching and launching the ‘Guilty by Association’ report.

In a scene that sits in opposition to the propagation of politicised, homophobic and ‘anti-gay’ rhetoric, exported by American evangelists to Africa, Gertrude – a practising Christian – goes to visit a Mother Superior who brought her up, to disclose her sexual orientation:

Gertrude: “Well it’s kind of a coming-out. A confession. I’m telling you because you’re my mother. Even more than a mother. I’ve kind of… like, discovered my sexual orientation. At first I didn’t accept it but I’ve decided to come and share this with you.”

Mother Superior: “We have to respect people, right? And respect their identity. What else can we do? Ok it is a surprise, but like I said, we have to respect people as they are. There is a moral side to it, and as a nun I take that into account. But there’s also what the person really is, what she thinks she is deep inside. And that’s up to her.”

“Born This Way” joins the 2012 documentary “Call Me Kuchu” and 2013’s “God Loves Uganda” in the increasing volume of discourse on LGBTI communities in Africa. The visibility and narratives coming from the LGBTI communities in these documentaries have achieved a nonpartisan dismissal of the idea that homosexuality, or gender/sexual spectrums, are ‘unafrican’. Their simple presence illustrates these identities and orientations as borderless, unfixed from specific time or place and hence its ‘foreignness’, rendered meaningless. Without any semblance of hatred or reprisal Cédric finalises, “We want to fight for the cause in our country we love. Why not be pioneers in this country?”

“Born This Way” screens during the Human Rights Watch film festival London on the 25th of March at the Ritzy Brixton, and the 26th at the Curzon Soho. Both screenings are followed by a discussion with the filmmaker Shaun Kadlec.

Ghanaian preachers say the darndest things

Ghanaian preachers are attracting international press for peculiar reasons. It is not uncommon the world over for religious figures to wade in on political issues and find themselves considered as a respected authority on a given matter. The former Anglican Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, often gave his opinion on social and political affairs and his Cape Town counterpart Desmond Tutu‘s disdain for the current incarnation of South Africa’s ruling ANC party, is well known. Ghanaian preachers are no different. And now, after years of finding (read advertising) themselves in the pages of national newspapers they too have reached the global stage. Albeit for less noble reasons.

Some background. Ghana is somewhat in the midst of economic turmoil. The currency (the cedi) has depreciated rapidly over the last year, government has spent more than it can afford and limits have been placed foreign exchange transactions.

Following these events preacher Nicholas Duncan-Williams (the self-described “pioneer of the charismatic movement in Ghana” and known to his followers as “papa”) called on his congregation at his Action Chapel to pray for the country’s volatile currency thus landing himself a spot in the opener of a recent article by the Wall Street Journal on Ghana’s economy: “I command the resurrection of the cedi! In the name of Jesus! Take your hands off the central bank!”

There’s also audio of Duncan-Williams “commanding” the cedi to climb. Here.

Another influential (read celebrity) pastor, Mensa Otabil, then criticised Duncan-Williams and said that prayers were not the answer to Ghana’s problems. A week after his plea for divine intervention, Duncan-Williams lashed out at some of his followers during his Sunday service saying non-achievers have no right to criticise him.

Otabil too is known to conduct special prayers and last year he said that something bad was going to happen to the country in August if people didn’t pray.

In 2012 Reverend Isaac Owusu-Bempah predicted that President John Dramani Mahama would die (he didn’t die) after supposedly predicting the death of Mahama’s predecessor, John Atta Mills earlier that year. (BTW, Mahama himself called on Muslims and Christians alike to pray for a victory for the Black Stars against Egypt in the 2014 World Cup playoff in November.)

Sagas and revelations – newsworthy or otherwise – are regularly printed in the local daily papers but now the world is becoming increasingly privy to a snippet of Ghana’s wide-ranging religious rhetoric.

Luckily though it’s not only bizarre predictions and prayers by Ghanaian clerics that makes it into the international press and in March Cardinal Peter Turkson spoke out against Uganda’s anti-homosexual law. Though Turkson’s stance isn’t one taken by much of his fellow clergymen it nevertheless signals some rationale in a country where the lines between religion and politics, and fact and fiction are often blurred.

Image Credit: Wall Street Journal

Redefining Diaspora in Harlem

In ”Our Kind of People” (image above) the Harlem-based artist Bayeté Ross Smith examines how clothing, ethnicity and gender affect our ideas about identity, personality and character. Devoid of any context for assessing the personality of the individual in the photograph, each photograph forces the viewer to face his or her own cultural biases. Ross Smith was one of ten Harlem-based artists and ten Columbia University students working together across diverse mediums, interests and cultural backgrounds for the month-long exhibition, ”Bridging Boundaries: Redefining Diaspora” through much of February and early March.

The project was curated and organized collaboratively between the Columbia University African Students’ Association, the student-run Postcrypt Art Gallery and Art in FLUX, a community organization that regularly produces pop-up galleries throughout Harlem.

With pieces engaging with the African Diaspora, conceived both as the historic fragmentation and redistribution of individuals from the Continent as well as with respect to the more universally shared experience of dislocation, “Bridging Boundaries: Redefining Diaspora” fostered inclusive conversations about racial and cultural identity.

The whole idea was to begin a dialogue about breaking down self-imposed borders built around ideas of identity and community, between the artists and students.

A number of other events complemented the exhibition. Ranging from a discussion on Hip-Hop and Identity and a spoken word salon, to an interdisciplinary academic panel (where AIAC’s Sean Jacobs spoke) and performance arts showcase, these events also brought various groups into the gallery space, ultimately exposing various communities to different disciplines of artistic production.

>Ross Smith’s paired student artist Emma Sulkowicz similarly used the photographic medium in her artwork, “You Made Me This,” a series of photographs that captures two of Sulkowicz’s friends, each of mixed ethnic and cultural heritage, in unique urban settings. As an individual of Japanese, Chinese and Polish heritage herself, Sulkowicz’s work was a means of self-exploration in the meaning of being “half-this and half-that.”

A series of complex and highly detailed illustrations, student artist Marcus Hunter’s works are categorized under the title Negrotude, adopted from the early 1930s Francophone literary and intellectual movement Négritude. Hunter’s Negrotude borrows from this tradition by representing the dyadic opposition between blacks and white quite literally, emphasizing the stark contrast between black and white on the page and the subject’s fluid, and sometimes indistinguishable occupation of positive and negative space.

Though Hunter’s collaborative counterpart—Senegalese artist Ibou Ndoye, integrates much more color in his work, there is a similar use of distinct and defined lines in his featured piece. Entitled “Welcome Mat,” Ndoye’s installation consists of a painted carpet and painted shoes, directly referencing a scene ubiquitous to the lives of many individuals in the Diaspora that the artist has encountered. Specifically referencing Ndoye’s personal experiences with Senegalese immigrants settled in Harlem, this piece communicates the underlying notions of faith and goodwill integral to any undertaking of genuine community building—a sentiment that resonates with the “Bridging Boundaries: Redefining Diaspora” exhibition as a whole.