His name was Kalema
Diary, Letters to Juba
An encounter
“I
tried to live and work there,” he said, shaking his head, adding, “but it’s too
expensive.”
Kalema,
I was reading on the little sign, sticking on his chest. His name was Kalema
Wangusa.
“My
two younger brothers are there. One is in business, the other is working with
the government but I can’t live there,“ he reassured, shaking his head.
For
a second I felt his eyes wander.
He
sat in front of me. Close enough to feel his warmth, to recognize his scent.
Attentive,
interested he was looking at me now, friendly, ready to ask the next question
or to answer mine.
An
easy exchange sprouted, playful the general polite questions dropped in front
of each other.
Then,
after not too long, in little gaps occurring in our conversation, I felt him
talking to me, even without saying a word.
He
was causing curiosity in me about his life, the place in his world.
He
sat relaxed, leaning against the wooden bar table, an air of self-confidence
around, creating a spacious atmosphere. I felt as his guest.
Smiles,
he was able to perform with natural modesty, were brightening the darkening
room around us.
He
was sending messages, he wasn’t aware of.
I,
the recipient, wanted to stay, to listen, to observe.
A handsome young man he was, with beautiful black skin-color.
I
tried to read in his eyes and admired secretively his body. Well fed, a strong
body.
Astonishing,
this aura, his shining being, darker than the night around.
I
felt like wanting to write a poem on a wall, to stop time.
We
talked, started to feel confidence, sliding into a more even position.
We
haven’t had knotted our hearts, nor tongues.
I
had arrived uninvited. He welcomed me into his life.
His experiences designed into clear and descriptive words, offered
pure insights of places and circumstances, I too long only had heard about by
people of my own race.
By him I felt inaugurated, into a fresh, disconnecting
sensation from distorted way of thinking.
It felt like during my travelling on the vast river Nile the day before,
through an almost undisturbed nature.
I had drifted, felt at ease, like now, in the amazement of
understanding through his effortlessness.
“The
river”’ I heard him say, “the river is connecting our countries. The river is
travelling with our different languages. Its rapids and turbulences are going
to fall silent again. Its waters are relying trustfully on flowing through this
bed.”
He
made a movement with his graceful hand, which seemed to follow the river
thousands of miles.
I
had felt that trust while floating with a tiny boat the day before, on those
vast waters, got that glimpse of how intact creatures were still able of living
together. Or should I say, again were able of living together, not too far away
of places, where fierce fighting had chased them away, had brought imbalance to
their habitat?
Those
insights, could offer hope, all about wanting to create peace and dialogue
amidst doubt and bitterness, I thought. With time.
Kalema,
who had fallen silent for a while, bewilderingly to me murmured now: ”What is
needed is time, time the good old wise woman. She nurtures her children,
wherever they would need her, with all her giving, patient generosity.”
I
looked up, felt he could read my mind.
It’s
the evening, I thought, the velvety African nights, after the sun powerfully
had been setting into oceans, grasslands, rolling hills and faces, shedding the
warm red light over now relaxed breezing skin.
It’s
that ever repeating sensation, playing with your senses, reaching to your
heart.
That
drama had happened already a while ago.
Now,
in the beginning of the next overwhelming central African night, everything
came so close. Noises I could read and understand, others not knowing at all.
Too
close for me first. But soon I felt safe. There was no fear at all.
I
started to see that symbiosis between nature and people. Congeniality of souls,
being exposed in a most vulnerable way, by night, sitting very close to Kalema,
the young man from the different world.
We
were breezing the same fragranced air, soaked by the scent of tranquil flowers,
cooled by the vast streaming river, flowing silently not far away.
I
slept through a dreamless night.
Woke
early to a still fresh morning.
Discovered
the curiosity asking myself, for how long his voice and thoughts would travel
with me, would vibrate in my still astonished calmness.
I
had to leave him.
His
name was Kalema.
Astrid,2.August 2012, Juba, S.Sudan
A poem to the people of South Sudan
Rediscovering the Magic
"The arc of the universe is a long one,
But it bows towards justice."
Theodore Parker, fighter against slavery
The way of life, it leads through rough times.
There is not always harmony, balance which would show hope.
Two steps back and only one ahead.
This pattern is hard to be stopped, tiring...
Disturbing the slow pace of moving forward.
It takes generations until new, eventually beneficial custums will sink into cultural structures.
Being exposed to turbulence and poverty,
Makes it hard to see the big picture, one should try to never forget.
Everyhing moves...
In different speed, into different directions.
Some seeds do never grow.
Others only then, when one almost has forgotten about their planting.
When expectations had been locked into a box.
A safety box, where dreams do sleep.
Sometimes patiently, until time is ripe, sometimes suffering the dark moments.
If we would unlock our hearts full of dreams,
If we would give room to our cravings,
We might water those forgotten seeds.
They might then not be run over by heavy, destroying boots again.
They could cause curiosity, those new growing ideas.
They must dance a careful dance then.
Gentle should be the word, gentle as a Maasai hand's touch.
A wrong placed word can be bitter like the taste of too strong coffee,
Causing new burning, new wrinkles on hearts.
Words must come along soothing, soft as trickling rain.
Convincing
Reaching the core...steadily.
Now, how can something be consistent that is exposed to all the turbulences?
In time, in place, in light and darkness?
Where even truth is shedding the old skin, you thought you just had understood?
Maybe, if we try to be able to rediscover the magic,
Of the place we are born into,
To just be a guest for sometime,
In order to pass on justice.
Astrid, Juba, 1st of August 2012
Indian
Food in Juba
Diary,
Letters to Juba
Observations
A
very hot day….I order mild spiced Indian food.
The
dripping aircon tries to cool the room.
Cream
colored curtains fairly retain the phosphor white daylight from flooding into
this refuge.
My
arms come to rest on the table, sticking to greasy, transparent plastic
protection.
I
slip some of those flimsy white paper napkins under my elbows, sit rather stiff,
feel my body still steaming with heat.
An
elevated television, montaged against the dirty yellow wall is catching my
eyes. It stands out in strong contrast to everything else in this room, melting
into the dim light, loosing shapes.
Al
Jazeera’s ticker reels up the news.
I’m
reading about the upcoming oil prize agreements between the northern and
southern part of Sudan. That could have a massive impact on the stability of a
country, struggling to find peace, struggling to build its identity, I think.
The
South, independent since a year now, is calling for a multi tribal acceptance,
with one heart beating. A country, still bigger than France and Spain together,
well centered into this forever misunderstood continent, behaves like a giant
toddler trying to get on his feet.
So
it’s true, I think. This kind of news, do spread out like bushfires amongst the
international crowd working here in Juba.
It
was the talk of the day.
With
that thought and the hope of food approaching soon, my mood rises.
How
important everybody behaves, when supposedly knowing that bit more than the
other. Everybody wants to have heard the breaking news first. Even though I
understand how important it is, I can’t stop thinking about housewives talking
at the hairdresser or elderly people at the doctor’s cabinet, just on a
different level eventually.
Imagining
this comparison I must smile.
Sitting
alone as a woman causes some curiosity from the other guests around. I feel
heads turning but do not respond to their questioning looks.
Sinking
into myself and into the hard wooden chair, I just feel hungry now.
My
eyes start searching for the servant, hoping those feet would find the way to
my table soon.
The
unrest of a hungry person, whose body is used to the luxury, to receive
immediate response to its request I think, is quiet obscene in the context of
living amongst this poverty.
The
TV reports about more misery in this world.
How
many children, mothers, human beings, have changed that expectation into a kind
of accepted privation, enduring that weakening, tiring fact of their life,
suffering from hunger.
‘To
be’, the word with the existential touch, comes into my mind. What does
existence mean without food, or just enough to survive not enough to die?
Here
we live in one of the humanitarian very sensitive situations. One even can’t
ask the question: What can I really do out of that, what one did to me?
Does
that mean a loss of fate, destiny?
But
every human being is a longing one. Longing usually is pulsating in every
humans muscle…
My
food arrives.
I
immediately forget about the misery out there, about the claustrophobia of the
wasteland of human soles.
Maybe
I thought, felt and concluded completely wrong.
The
mocking bird which had talked to me just before has left.
The
wish of leaving this country immediately and forever has changed again.
A
fantastic mix of flavors is filling my senses.
The
sensation of hot spices, is finding the
way up into my cheeks and temples. I close my eyes. This irritating tickling
attack causes a short, sharp laughter and I feel again eyes resting on my back.
I
start sweating, wiping my face with the now half dissolved paper napkins.
Here
he comes, the always smiling owner of the restaurant.
“Good
to see you again”, I hear him say, while I’m just wishing him only away.
This
is the ultimate moment of privacy to me. How can one disturb that…?
But
I hear myself telling him how much I loved his food.
It
is the summer of 2012 and I ask him if it would be alright to change the
program for some Olympics.
He’s
gone. My hands are shaking.
My
respiration is going staccato and I’m angry now of being still curiously
observed.
I
need to reorganize my temper I think.
There
is Yoga class tonight.
I
ask for the bill.
I’m
leaving the place what was meant to be my refuge from heat, dust and reality.
But
reality is everywhere here I guess.
With
the coming darkness also different sorrows appear.
The
sawing sound of the crickets becomes louder and louder.
