As my mom will attest, I have not been a fan of President Obama.  On his watch, people have been killed and tortured, a beheaded behavioral challenger's body was virtually paraded around the minds of millions, civil liberties restrictions have continued, the poor have been kind of skirted and the difficulties with the criminal justice system have been short-changed.  I have also noticed that he has kept his distance from black folk.  Now, I did not expect him to embrace Jesse Jackson, Kanye West or Chokwe Lumumba (the last is a recently deceased black nationalist by the way), bring Kwanza to the Senate (blackening it up for a day) or put up a 24-hour basketball court on the front lawn (not desired) but I did not expect him to roll the way he did.  

Different discussion though (I can feel my mom scowling).  Today is a good day because of a photo - perhaps THE photo of his presidency as far as I am concerned.  Actually, the article is ok as well. By the way, the picture is on page one, right in the middle of the page. This is one reason for getting actual hard copies and not the online version.

Look at the picture.  He is surrounded by young black men (almost completely).  He is partially embracing one as if to say, I got you brother.  He is leaning in and having heard the man speak hundreds of times, you know he is saying something inspirational. The others look on and in this photo I am calmed and made a little hopeful (a bit, for a second). There just have not been (m)any photos like this over the course of the presidency.

Now, I'm not calmed or made hopeful by what the Prez actually said per se, which is something that should be discussed widely.  Indeed, the caption for the article is kind of intriguing, noting that Obama speaks uncharacteristically about his missteps as a youth as if to suggest that all black men have missteps being the problems that they are.  Reading between the lines you could think that if you follow what the Prez has to say (ummmmm growing up in Hawaii and going to Harvard), then things will all work out fine and you could become president.  Ok.  

Regardless, I am alright with this because there is now a photo that can be decontextualized and used to uplift individuals so that they can feel incorporated in some way. Yes, the context does not matter.  The photo is now part of the public record.  It will be used, downloaded, tweeted, reimaged, cropped and photo chopped thousands of times  And, that is perfectly fine.  People can do whatever they want to their images.  I'm going to leave mine just like this.  

Note: Between 1999-2004 I traveled around Rwanda during research. Many things happened on my trips and it is only now that I start to share them.


Karinne (as usual not her real name) appeared to be into everything.  She was in three educational programs in five different countries.  She was co-Director of two centers.  She was writing several articles for journals and generals alike on women, democracy, civil society, new media, public spheres, genocide, women and genocide, democracy and women, civil society and genocide, truth and reconciliation, reconciliation and genocide – you get the point.  Unfortunately for Karinne, she did all this poorly.  Stretched too thin, all efforts seemed to be half-hearted. 

Now, this is not to say that Karinne was incapable of learning or alternatively teaching.  Rather, she had no interest in learning how to do anything correctly because that would just slow her down and cut into her profit margin.  All Karinne had to do was a little of everything regardless of quality because in Rwanda at the time there was a lot of nothing - not nothing nothing for there were a great number of initiatives underway; just nothing completed or completely working.  In addition to this, there was a lot of people, sympathy as well as money coming to the country in order to help get something, anything started.  And it came from all corners of the globe, it came – almost daily via envelopes, packages, Western Union, UPS, Fedex, Horses and Buggies. 

The desire to send was clear.  Individuals felt guilty about not doing anything. Collectively we had failed to do anything about the violence. We could not sit back and not do anything about the aftermath. Individuals also wanted to be part of the redevelopment.  But where should their support go - I mean where exactly do you send the check?  Rwanda was still a mystery to most of the world.  They knew killing fields but nothing about survivors and their institutions.  As a result, two areas became focal points of attention: governments and universities.  The reason was simple: both had webpages and could easily be found.  In a vacuum of misunderstanding, guilt and ignorance, those with these resources COULD clean up.  Karinne was one of them.  

Hers was a no limited enterprise.  Indeed, her reach was global.  She pimped all masterfully and in the most fabulously adorned outfits imaginable – day in and day out.  “Need an interpreter for your survey?”  “No problem,” in Yellow.  “Need some researchers to do some archival work?”  “No problem,” in Green.  “Need a little essay on women?”  “No Problem,” in Purple and Red.  “Need a little lecture to be given in Norway or Belgium or Toronto?”  “No Problem,” in Pink.  It just kept coming. I have seen some deep closets in my day.  My childhood friend Kadeem Hardison's mom ran a modeling agency so you got to see all types of clothes - on models, in designer's studios, in draft form, on the floor - everywhere.

Now, this all stood out prominently for slowly emerging from the ravages of civil war, genocide, regime change and chronic underdevelopment, Rwandans were generally broke.  Actually "dead broke" would be the more appropriate but less sensitive phrase.  The average Rwandan was partially clothed, shoeless and struggling to survive.  If they did not have clothes, they were either obtained from the local market which carried a limited assortment of designs, materials and colors or from a group swap-meet which offered a slightly greater variety.  In context, the clothing and general attitude made sense and it was also quite reasonable that folks kinda did what they had to do in order to do what they had to do.  Much respect.

Karinne was one of the better-off returnees however – representing a completely different Rwandan entirely.  She had some education, some life experience outside the country, some travel, some languages (more than the two or three that indigenous Rwandans had).  She also came with a West African sensibility: loud, colorful, boisterous, energetic and busy.  In contrast, indigenous Rwandans were generally mellow, subdued, noble, quiet – traumatized a little or just shy (not many have come this far into the continent).  It was almost my sixth trip to Rwanda before I heard a loud noise (that is the source of another story).  

Now the disjuncture between Rwandans did not go unnoticed. Because of the obvious gaming (playing all against all) and general inefficiency of Karinne, she developed quite an international reputation.  In airports in Amsterdam, cafes in Belgium and conferences in Maryland, stories abound about the colorful woman running the center and a private fiefdom at the University.  To the new and the men, she was inept but charming.  To the women, she was aggressive, dismissive but with flawless skin.  I heard of grant projects that were simultaneously being submitted to and funded by different organizations.  The same work with different funds.  We all just shook it off, acknowledging our naiveté, the price of doing business and figuring that sooner or later she would get hers.  She did this, consistently however – that is get hers.  There were no come-uppins though just go-downins to the endless pit that was her perfectly matching purse.  

In post-genocide Rwanda, there was always another NGO, another aid agency, another academic ready to pay for some information, another journalist wanting to do an expose on the striving Rwandan, another student, another intrepid soul seeking forgiveness for having stood by when the horror struck this little country. Karinne was able to suck all of them up like some empathetic vortex.  Out of the other end, we came out simultaneously warmed that we had attempted something, pissed that we did not achieve what we wanted, confused at where all the money went, relaxed that more time, resources as well as energy was not spent and frustrated that we were not able to complain to any one – accept those at the bar in Kenya who recently escaped Karinne’s grasp. 

All this for me was very familiar.  Karinne reminded me of every kid back on the block in New York city in the 1980s.  Afrika Bambatta said it best: 

• Looking for the perfect beat (Searching for the perfect beat)
  
• Looking for the perfect beat (Seeking for the perfect beat)
  
• I must get mine (I'm out to get it)
  
• I must get mine (I'm out to get it)
  

Or, you could go the New Jack City route.  Same vibe.  Different medium.

It was all home to me though.  As one looked out into the city - a fierce creature that waited either to reveal some wondrous vision and/or to rob you blind, one got very adept at looking for the vulnerable, the confused, the lost.  This made "transactions" a little easier.  I recalled one of my cousins rolling up on me at one point in the Bowery where I was not used to hanging out (I went for a pair of jeans around Canal Street but ventured to far in).  He stepped in front of me while two of his "associates" pulled up on the side and back of me. Given my height, I was completely hidden.  He looked me up and down and asked me for my watch.  I thought that I would get my ass handed to me by my father if I gave it up, as it had just been given to me and although scared to death, I would rather take the ass whipping from them. While they searched for their next move, I looked up and thought that the person looked familiar.  I then said his name and the two associates immediately walked away.  I was like, it's me, your cousin - your mom's sister's son.  

After that, it was as if the weather changed.  His face turned into a bright smile of acknowledgment and then he told me to watch out because there were folks who would take advantage.  He then pulled me over to the side of the street just in time to observe his associates helping a lost soul return their wallet to the "rightful owner".  For the next few hours, he schooled me on why he chose me and how I was walking through the street.

Karinne must have had the same sensibility of my cousin.  She smelled us coming off the plane, walking into the cafe and popping up at the University.  Fresh meat.  Mark.  You had to admire her though.  Game respects game as it were and she had plenty.  Of course after a long day of coding something or having an interview with someone that massacred their family, I wondered who would have come out victorious if Karinne were to meet my cousin, kind of like some non-celebrity death match show.  An international Hustlers ball.  I think she would take him.  H-U-S-T-L-E-R…..

Note: Between 1999-2004 I traveled around Rwanda during research. Many things happened on my trips and it is only now that I start to share them.

As one leaves an establishment in Rwanda (a restaurant or a hotel) one must invariably prepare themselves for the onslaught of thin, hungry, dirty, scantily dressed but completely adorable children who ask for food or a few francs.  The culture at that time was still essentially Francophone – this would change quickly as the Rwanda Patriotic Front presence increased.  There is little variation however: there are no fat children, none who look healthy, none who appear clean and none of them is fully dressed.  Now, being from New York, I have been approached a million different ways by people in the street: “hey buddy, got a quarter,” “got a light,” “got busfare,” “got my rent in yo pocket,” or “blow for a meal”?  You hear everything.  I have even been approached by kids who just pull your heart strings.  Literally.  They just open you up, pull out veins and start playing.

The situation here is compounded by the sheer volume of the issue.  There is no isolated child like in New York but rather there is a veritable sea of youth.  The onslaught is held back by armed guards, making the place safe for foreigners and those with resources, but once you leave the safety of the establishment – unless you have guards with you or manage to sneak to your vehicle – you have to deal with the kids.

After a while, I could take it, which I was both grateful for and troubled by.  After the umteenth child solicitation, a certain degree of callousness overcomes you in Rwanda.  I really could not function in any other way because there were simply too many children.  The problem was too daunting to contemplate.  My colleague Candace could not take it either but she decided that she was going to cave in completely – albeit reacting to only one at a time. 

Something that became obvious upon closer observation was that there was a system to the solicitation.  While you were approached by a barrage of individuals, if you interacted with one or gave something to one of the children, you were thereafter “owned” by them.  If after marking, another kid interacted with the marked outsider, then it appeared that you could be sanctioned by some regulator with a stone, stick or some harsh words.

Candace was marked by a spry little kid with eyes like midnight, a smile like sunlight and a face like the sky (vast, full of potential and haunting).  He was named Innocent like many people in Rwanda.  You could not help but want to help him.

It was absolutely amazing to see.  Upon coming out of any store on the Butare strip, @’s Innocent would find her.  “Madaam…  Madaam…”  He would start, tilt his head to the side and smile – hand out.  Initially, Candace would give him a franc or two but then she came up with a mini-development strategy.  First, she would work on his nutrition: a sandwich instead of a franc, a power bar or a vitamin or two.  Second, she would take him for a visit to a doctor – after the buy in purchased with a meal.  Then she would talk about school, over a bottle of water or coke. 

Candace was all into his life and he lapped it up.  How could he not?   They both seemed to need each other and you were warmed by the connection. Amidst all the horrible things one saw in Rwanda, if just one life could be improved, things would be just a little more tolerable.  That was the idea at least.  The reality was more complex. 

You see, the children were also marked.  They did not run amok as we thought.  Over a few weeks, I managed to sneak in the back of the Made Niggaz Hair Saloon and sat in the front with some people I had met before.  This allowed me to watch where the kids were hanging out as well as where Candace was coming from.

Watching the street, I could see that there were clics/groups of youth – a gaggle of little capitalistic entrepreneurs.  There were older kids as well – between 15 and 20 who seemed to run the pack.  The leader would gather the youth at the beginning of the day and pass out assignments.  Innocent’s job was seemingly Candace.  He would trail her everywhere – walking, running, hiding, waiting – always placing himself where he could be seen (which after you have been marked becomes easy somehow – it’s like there are no longer a hundred kids in a crowd, just yours). 

At the end of the day, the kids met again to hand over their goodies to their handlers, from the days catch.  There is no joyful enjoyment of the goodies.  There is no gracious handover of the piece of bread to grandma back at the old house in the bush.  Rather, grandma is dead and there is no house but there is a somber handover and reallocation.  After Candace’s giving, all Innocent does is cross the street, turn the corner into an alley and hand over everything he got.  On the way back to the street, he might take a nibble but not too much or else he might get caught.

Why give up the goodies?  Protection.  Fear.  Survival.  Numbers are the only thing that seem to keep you alive on the streets of Rwanda.  You give up to get set up and you get set up to live (not die). 

Seeing this whole process once, by mistake, Candace later mentioned to me that “oh, that’s so cute.  He’s sharing.”  I just looked at her.  She missed his submissive demeanor (it looked like someone waiting to get punished), the look on the older kid’s face of anticipation (it looked like some drug addicted fiend waiting for their fix), the eight or so kids that stood around waiting their turn (reminiscent of the first).  She even missed Innocent’s look on his face after he gave over this prize (like his lunch money was taken that day, like everyone before it – this was actually pretty accurate but the money was not just for lunch). 

At that moment, I realized that we were and were not from the same place.  Later, I realized that she needed to see Innocent share.  To see anything else would be too hard.  I, on the other hand, didn’t need anything but to see what was in front of me.  Both of us were likely wrong.  I needed more of a filter for all this stuff lest I be overcome by it and Candace needed less of one lest she be underwhelmed.