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. Names have been changed to protect the innocent (and those less so).

Right off the plane, Mason (not his real name) and I went into a car, immediately blowing by individuals walking along the road, trees and winding hills.  Straight we went to what would be my first of perhaps 110 cups of tea that I would have.  The reason is clear: 1) its water – which was needed to check hydration, 2) it was boiled – made it relatively more safe.  After this I slept for a day or so.  When I woke up, I walked around a little; not too much at first. 

I had been in Rwanda for about a week before anybody mentioned it.  Up to that point I had just been drinking tea (did I mention that), getting used to the climate and meeting individuals from different organizations (the U.S. embassy, Human Rights NGOs and diverse government personnel).  We then went to meet our partner institution – the National University of Rwanda in Butare.  On the long drive we each just looked out the window on our respective sides of the car, watching the centuries roll back.  Upon arriving, we went to our rooms, got unpacked, drank some tea, met some university professors and the Rector – the university president. 

That night it came up as four of us sat at the bar: Candace (a white woman that had been in Rwanda for about a year), Mason (my potentially Asian colleague from the university of Maryland) and Frank (a potential white guy who was managing a U.S. AID project) and myself. 

Leaning in and lowering his voice, Mason mentioned it first.  “Of course, no one talks about it. It’s illegal for goodness sake. When I first came here and asked about it, they just kind of looked at me – offended.  There are no differences between us, they told me.  We are all Rwandans.”

“Yeah,” Candace jumped in.  “Actually, it gets so frustrating.  You can see it everywhere. The person you met today was one of them.  Actually, there is no one affiliated with our project that isn’t.”

Reluctantly Mason chimed in, “This is particularly annoying because our effort is supposed to help resolve conflict.  All we have done is re-establish the same differences that we were attempting to challenge. “

“Um,” I began, “what the hell are you talking about?”

Mason responded, again in a whisper, “ethnicity.”

“Oh,” I continued, “really?  But, if no one talks about it, then what do you do?   How are you supposed to reference the unreferenceable?”

“Well,” Candace whispered, leaning in, “I have a code that I use.”  She leaned closer and halted as the waitress showed up to give us more tea. 

As she left, Mason went to the bathroom and Candace continued: “I use Handbags and Teabags.”

“For what?” I asked.

“To discuss the situation… Hutus and Tutsi… the identities of the people we are observing.”

“You’re kidding, right?”  I said.

“Nope.  For example," Mason continued, "I would say to you that I think the waitress is a handbag or needs to get one.  Then you would know what I was saying without them getting upset or knowing what we were talking about.  It’ll all come in handy later – believe me.  The people I know use it all the time.  Things just keep happening here and unless you talk about it, you would just go crazy.”

Handbags and Teabags. What the heck... Ever creative are the outsiders (Mizungus) or, referencing an earlier story - Oh, those crazy mizungus.

Now, while it sounded strange, it pailed in comparison to the Rwandan oddities that I observed.  For example, people would mention “the genocide” all the time; given that I was there to study this, it was one of my areas of expertise and people knew these things, it came up all the time.  People would not talk about Hutus and Tutsis, Handbags and Teabags, however, nor when the political system would open up.  At the time, one could not go for 10-15 minutes without seeing a roadblock, machine guns were everywhere, there were dozens of different uniforms – representing distinct military organizations (some in green, some in dark blue, some with guns, some with sticks). 

The Handbag and Teabag thing came up frequently as you needed confirmation of the ethical political dynamics.  Bank teller? Handbag or Teabag?  Farmer? Handbag or Teabag?  Military officer, foot soldier, Bank President, craftsman, university administrator?  The question is everywhere.  It was like navigating the deep south but you could not readily tell who was black or white (except by the position held in society) because everyone looked alike. 

For a while, I thought it was like a fairytale thing.  For example, if you stuck me in a room with a bunch of African Americans, I could tell who was from the north and south, who had a white relative and perhaps who was confident or insecure as well as their political orientation, hair style, clothes and jewelry.  If you stuck the average American in the same room, however, they would not be able to detect any difference; indeed, they might just appear to be a bunch of black folk.

In some contexts, I can even tell when a white person has spent time around blacks and how familiar/intimate that context was – it is all in the body language.  Now, the Handbag/Teabag thing was somewhat similar to this because blacks had invented their own language to talk about this stuff and it was not discussed in front of someone else – unless similarly coded.

I thought that maybe I just couldn’t see the difference because I was not from there.  I’ll be damned if I didn’t try.  Candace couldn’t tell any difference and she had been there for a year.  Others confounded this: those there for 5, 10, or 30 years; those that had lived in Rwanda their whole lives; and, those that just came from abroad recently.  All saw it but none could name it.  This was important not only for understanding who you were talking with and what kind of take they might have on the political violence that took place as well as their opinions about the post-conflict situation.  It was also important for understanding the conflict itself.  A major part of the conflict involved ethnic tension.  If everyone looked the same, however, then how could that be part of the explanation? 

As commonly discussed, it is believed that a group of extremist Hutu (members of the Rwandan Armed Forces [FAR], Presidential Guard, national police, the “Zero Network death squads”[i] as well as affiliated militias: the Interahamwe[ii] and Impuzamugambi,[iii]) targeted their ethnic rivals – the Tutsi, and systematically engaged in their abuse and killing. This readily and appropriately led to claims of genocide – the systematic attempt of political authorities in Rwanda to eliminate, in whole or in part, members of an ethnic group and, indeed, some observers referred to the events in question as the clearest example of the concept since the Holocaust. Indeed, the only variation in these discussions was exactly how many people were involved in the bloodshe: some highlighted a small clique whereas others highlighted a large proportion of the Hutu population.  But if ethnic identification was so difficult, then how could this explanation be correct?  This is especially the case when most of the population was running as refugees/internally displaced.  Local knowledge (what many relied upon to identify folks) ain't valid when the whole country is on blast/speed/fast fo(ward).

Other questions abounded as well.  For example, if one cannot really tell who somebody is, then are Teabags running things, if no one calls them Teabags?  I think so but there is something in not naming a thing.  It creates a reality of its own – the nothingness of it all. 

In line with this development, we acknowledge that we had no Handbags on the project but knew at some level that without them our work would likely fail.  The gaze from our teabag kept us on something of a tight leash.  We were led everywhere, introduced to everyone and the only time that I think I saw a handbag in a bookstore, I was watched by our teabag like a child in kindergarten – something that immediately made the unconfirmed handbag uncomfortable and further increased my desire to understand what was going on.  In fact, when I asked the guy for some reading material about what happened during the period of violence beyond the “usual stuff,” he took me around the corner and told me I should try to come back to see some readings that he would pull out special for me.  Concerned with being watched, he peered around the corner upon spotting my Teabag looking for me, my unconfirmed Handbag shut up and walked back to the front of the store, behind the counter. 

I never could get back there without an escort.

The shepherded feeling was immense.  It was like: “here is the reality of the situation, don’t bothering looking to the left for there is nothing of importance there.  They are there.  Looking.  Carefully.” 

But what kind of reality is it when you are guided through it as in a tower?  One might personalize the trip like Philip Gourevitch (the New Yorker author who wrote a highly readable but largely misguided as well as one-sided story about Rwanda) that made it seem like they traveled around the country unescorted, interacting with Handbags and Teabags wherever, whenever and however they wished but this was not the case.  The Handbags and Teabags that one saw when they went through Rwanda were perfectly laid out – organized, consistent and symbolic.  Prices were clear as were the brands.  Locals were all over the store but they weren’t buying it.  Their interest lay elsewhere.



[i]  This was noted by the study undertaken by the International Panel of Eminent Personalities (57).
[ii] This is the name of the military wing of the National Republican Movement for Democracy and Development.
[iii] This is the name of the military wing of the Coalition for the Defence of the Republic.

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.


The following were the notes that I took regarding a conversation that took place between myself, Prof. Allan Stam (Political Science, University of Michigan) and Gerard Gehima (then Minister of Justice, Rwandan Government).  We had convened this meeting to discuss access to a database that the Ministry had been collecting so that we could assist them with analyzing. What it became was something quite different:

Al                                                      Gehima                                              and me

 

Ann Arbor                                          Oxford                                                Binghamton

Special Forces                                   Prosecutor General                             Associate Professor

Tutsi complicity?                                International debacle!                          Immediate horror.

Fore-knowledge?                                U.S. ineffectiveness                            Redirection.

Silence                                              Data outline                                        Data availability?

Legal comment?                                 Legal objectives!                                 Offer of assistance.

Political objectives?                            Quick obfuscation!                              Silence.

Sneer                                                 Growl!                                                Stomach ache.

Derisive remark                                   Moral high ground!                              Middle ground.

International Law?                                Domestic necessity!                           Beverage?

Viciousness!                                       Righteousness!                                   Helplessness

Discussion?                                        Conclusion                                         Confusion 

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.

We wound through Rwanda like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now (cue the appropriate Doors song), but overground in an SUV and not a boat.  We had traversed most of the country on the way to lake Kivu – a huge mass of water at the westernmost part of Rwanda. To get there we drove seemingly forever.  The actual distance itself wasn’t that long.  Rwanda is actually pretty small.  The distance is magnified however by the amount of back and forth that one has to do in order to go a little way forward.  Rwanda is definitely the land of a thousand hills – small ones.  Rwanda is also the land of 500 turns and a million shadows. 

As you pass one locale (a hill or one person), you are seemingly held in place as your path winds around them.  Imagine sitting in a swivel chair as your landscape changes.  There, see the partially covered hut on the left, then a door and a banana tree, then quickly you see someone carrying a bucket, some movement in the bush and a cow, then behind the hut are 15 people carrying boxes up another winding path. 

Rwandan travel is almost like telling someone to observe what you can as best you can.  Fathom it, you will not.  What is contained here had defied all others. 

Clearly, I did not expect to go there, see things and understand.  I was skeptical of this political ethnographic approach.  New York had taught me that people were duplicitous, self-serving, lying fuckers as did the time I spent with my father after I was sent to get an idea of life from a man's perspective (another story).  I was well aware of the many tales spun by African Americans when academicians showed up to comprehend the negro like in “All Our Kin” (the problematic book by Carol Stack).  It is quite different to see it though; to look at something that you know you will not fathom – in the flesh.

We paused on the roadside at one point, exhausted and sore. We had just passed the part of the “road” where the Italians had stopped and the Chinese began.  This was one of those stories of development, high politics and intrigue where one international developer was brought in to do a job at the same time some other international developer was brought in to do another, each completed their roads up until a certain point.  Between the two stretches, was an earthern, rocky section that lay prepped for someone to finish but no one was coming.  Around you, you saw Rwanda in its splendor: hills, ridiculous vegetation (anything seemed like it could grow there).

At some point, we began a descent; like in a plane you could feel the pull of the decline.  You knew that the earth had selected a direction and you were following it.  Through the hills, down the roads, past the people, past the cows and past the trees. 

Then, just as quick, we passed a military base.  The hardened faces of hundreds rolled past us on the side of the road; hungry, angry, dirty, exhausted and armed to the teeth.  We were looked over thoroughly.  I was shocked at the sight – both theirs and mine, but it all happened so fast.

Moreover, any thoughts I had about who and what we had just seen were soon overwhelmed by the sight of lake Kivu.  It was immense, quiet and set against a large hill/mountain.  Imagine some Lord of the Rings like shire with a lake and that should do it.  Don’t forget the base of Orks nearby.

At the lake’s edge, before the pier, was a front office of sorts and to the side one could see a disparate collection of small buildings. Once we got to the front desk, we had the usual greetings.  Keys were distributed from a jar – seemingly random but after everyone had grabbed one it was clear there was nothing random about it.  We found ourselves all over the compound/resort, seeing each other walk off in different directions.  One there, one there, another there, one all the way over there and one there.  We were either being given space or being spaced.  These were matters to be pondered later.  It was midday and hot as hell.

In ten minutes, we were at the lake, ready to jump in.  I hesitated for a moment, looking at currents, floating stuff and huge insects.  If there were ever a place where great man-eating turtles from the 8th century or prehistoric times existed, this would be it.  Why are there no guests here?  Where are the Rwandans?  Additionally, if there were a group of people who seemed like they would let you swim in a radioactive or prehistoric playground, to be riddled with cancer or eaten, I would put the guy in reception at the top of the list. 

Now, truth be told, I was very sympathetic to the foreign sacrificial lamb idea; "get the freak out of my country with all your wealth, attitude and strange ways", kind of made sense to me.  It reminded me of the time when I was in Bimini and wanted the residents to burn down the local Playboy hotel and casino in disgust after I saw how the people working there were treated.  At the same time, I was not up for being sacrificed.  I was the sympathetic accidental tourist scholar activist outcast representative of the Western world.

As I stood there in my shorts, baking in the afternoon sun, Mason, Jenni and Candace (not their real names) jumped in.  They had been there before and had evidently overcome any fears.  After I saw that they did not get eaten and two Rwandans went for a dip, I felt that it was alright and jumped in.  The water was beautiful, warm and soothing.  At one point, I thought I felt something rub against me but I was just getting out anyway, so it was cool.  Looking back, I did not see anything.

Later, we had some local fish and then went to our rooms.  It was late, I was exhausted and somehow unsettled.  The room was boxlike with a small window in the bathroom; enough for my head to stick out but nothing more.  To get in and out of the room, you had to use your key. You could not open the door even from the inside without it.  I found this odd because it meant you needed to know where your key was at all times.

Now, I have stayed in some pretty messed up rooms in my day.  There was the red roof hotel in Atlanta with Darren Davis back in the day before we got tenure complete with bullet holes, stained bed-covers and thieving porters who waited for you to go to dinner so that they could rifle through your luggage.  Never, however, did I feel like the structure of the building and the physical landscape was constructed to get you.

With these thoughts weighing on me, I managed somehow to get to sleep (holding the key in my hand).

At about 2:30am, the key fell from my hand and bounced on the floor – waking me.  Chest heaving, I moved my legs over the side of the bed and in the distance, I heard something. 

There were drums, singing and occasionally screams or was that a yelp.

My heart raced as I rose to put on my clothes (in the dark, not wanting to signal my location).  I felt that I had to get out.  I looked for the key in a frantic 45-second interval. 

The sounds coming from the distance continued to grow.

I ran into the bathroom, remembering there was a window but forgetting the size.  Realizing that I could not get out that way, I returned to the front room. 

The drumming grew louder. 

I fumbled around, trying to find the door and then the keyhole.  After a few minutes, I opened the lock, pushed open the door and ran into the woods – directly next to my cabin.  Once there I knelt, feeling around for a stick or anything I could use to protect myself and listened for the attackers.  If they came, from which direction would it be?  Where is the parking lot?  Where is the water? 

A scream in the distance – gutteral, pained. 

I couldn’t believe I was going to go out like this.  There is no phone.  I couldn’t remember the way back to Butare, so even if I got off this compound, I had no idea how to get back.  There is no swimming across the lake.  It is absolutely huge.  I am completely screwed.  Man, I thought, there is so much that I wanted to do but I had to be all let me help humanity like and go to Africa, to get killed in some backwater, lakeside cabin.  Never go to the empty lakeside resort, never go to the empty lakeside resort – I chastised myself.

More drums.

Then after what seemed like hours of reflecting on my life and the paths chosen/not taken, I wondered: what’s the difference if I get out of here?  I am on the other side of the country. 

More drums, more screams. 

What the hell is that?  I have no Kinyarwandan and if I did know any my accent would give me away.  I have little money and a big Mizungu tattoo on my forehead.  Mosquitoes started in on me.

Wow, I thought, no one will find my body out here.  How will they recognize me?  With that thought, I went back into the room for my passport – for identification purposes and perhaps to escape to another country.  Stealthily, I ran, leaned up against the wall and snuck into the room, felt around for what I needed and slipped back out to the woods.  I repeated this again for my money – for bribes and a new identity to escape the dragnet.  And, I returned to the room a final time for my jacket – it was actually cold (surprising to me because I was in Africa after all). 

Damn, I thought, which way do I go?  At that point, I really wished that the boyscouts in Manhattan had taught me something other than how not to get beat up in Central Park.  I started out to go find the others, but realized that for me to save them, I would have to go from room to room.  On top of that, all the buildings looked alike.  I could be looking for quite some time.  Oh, they are also likely locked in.  They would all have to find their keys to let themselves out. 

A gun shot. Then laughter.  I pushed back further into the bush, squeezing my little stick and what was left of my dignity.

I turned further on myself even more. Why was I there?  Why did I come to such a place?  My heart continued to race.  Should I try to swim?  Where does the bush lead to – along the mountainside?  Are there lights anywhere?  It was pitch black.

Trucks were moving toward the compound.  Another shot and some screaming.

I took a deep breath, swatted a mosquito that hit the motherload of blood circulation.  I then got really quiet and wondered if this was how it had been back in 1994 when individuals heard people coming for them.  I had considered every possible way out of the compound and took none for I was paralyzed with fear.  Individuals back then would have known more about the local terrain but they were also cut off and isolated. 

The trucks continued to get closer and then they seemed to pass by, without incident.

Listening, I could hear talking now, music (other than drums) and I saw the distant glow of lights.  The soldiers were just letting off some steam and partying.  It must have been horrible back then, I thought, standing upright for the first time in hours. 

After some deep breaths, the coolness of the breeze and the passage of time, I returned to my room.  It was 6:48 – damn.  I closed the door, locked myself in, splashed some water on my face and settled back into bed – fully clothed.  I had made a mess and things were all over the place in the room but I figure I would just deal with it later. 

When I woke up, the second time, at about 8:30, I was exhausted from my early morning activities.  I then realized the source of my rambling thoughts and delusions.  There sat my malaria medicine and very clearly I remember someone saying that it gave them vivid dreams.  At the realization, all I could do was laugh, unzip my combat gear and prepare to go for a dip in the lake.  Damn the creatures below.

Top 6 thoughts:

1) Notice how django only kills white people who deserve it (i.e., that have either wronged him personally in some way or have engaged in heinous violence). The rage of black folk that results in retribution is viewed as discriminate and selective not indiscriminate. 

2) The sheer list of anti-black violence in the film far exceeds anything that i have seen in any other film: e.g., rape; torture via castration, beating, being placed in enclosed space (the hole) and branding; forced prostitution; an untold number of insults and other verbal humiliations; violent brutality (e.g., when the dog ripped apart the one-eyed, runaway from the tree); and the use of a variety of metal restraints (e.g., chains and that crazy neck thing with wires sticking up).

3) The question posed by dicaprio's character regarding the response of blacks to whites in a situation of slavery: "why don't they just kill us?" dicaprio's answer is that blacks have the subservient gene but tarantino seems to pose this question more broadly given the ridiculous theory put forward by dicaprio's character. indeed, thinking of the kaiser soze like character played by samuel l. jackson as well as the others on the different plantations, the answer seems to simply be opportunity to train and be armed. not just by a sympathetic white person (from germany) but, at the end, presumably by django himself. django, freedom fighter. django on the loose. django x. hmmmmmmmmm. 

4) Django unchained seems to = roots + Sankofa + Gladiator + Ip Man +Eréndira +Dave Chappelle + Unforgiven + Amistad + Blazing Saddles +Jeremiah Johnson (film) + The Believer

5) I will be thinking about the film and the issues raised by it for quite some time. it's like the wire, rashomon and maus in that respect. 

6) How many blacks do you believe have been killed in film by whites relative to the number of whites killed by blacks (outside of war films)? How many whites have been killed by whites relative to the number of blacks killed by blacks? Someone has to have figure this out.

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.

I was exhausted as I felt my feet throbbing from all the walking that we had done that day.  Five of us from the University of Maryland (where I was working at the time) and US-Aid in Development sat at a little Mizungu (see story for definition) hideaway, tucked in the middle of Butare - the college town and second largest city in the jungle that is Rwanda.  The restaurant and bar was something of a café, brothel, five star motel, lottery spot, cell phone distribution point, major dining establishment and meeting place for the powerful, aspiring, traveled and the lost.



We sat outside, ordered some beer and appetizers, relaxing into the twilight.  The scene was the same as always: scattered individuals walked by, guards stood in between the roadside and the entrance to the restaurant, buses stopped next door every hour or so and taxis waited for the lazy, scared and/or drunk Mizungus trying to get home.



As one of the people at the table began to discuss the latest insight into Rwandan politics, I was completely distracted by a sign across the street.  Now, Rwandan advertising is a bit odd: most people cannot read and thus many if not all the adds are for Mizungus or elites, the images are boldly colored – frequently they are drawn with cartoons – and the phrases/jingles are quite funny - normally.  This time I was not amused.  As I sat there, basking in my mixed feelings about being in the motherland, sitting at a café in Africa with four white people, protected/guarded by black soldiers with machine guns at the premier establishment in the city which was run by a white Belgian guy, I was shocked to see a store called the “Made Niggaz Hair Saloon.”  Yeah, you heard me.  Ok, truth be told, I had seen some other saloons or salons: “The Nigga Boyz Hair Saloon,” “Niggaz on the cut”, “Head Niggaz” (not to be confused with the Head Nigga in charge), “Niggaz 'R US”, “Jungle Niggaz” and “Niggaz on the Prowl” but these observations were always made at about 60-70 miles an hour - screaming down the road from one place to another.  This one, however, was upfront and personal.  



Seemingly none of my associates noticed or cared to notice - likely dismissing it with the thought that “Niggaz here too.”  I was struck though to realize that Niggaz were in rural East Africa.  I felt betrayed, somehow embarrassed, curious and a little outraged.  One second I was sitting there, visiting Rwanda trying to represent - my family, my people, DC and then I had to see this thing.  No matter how far you go, it comes with you - “world Nigga law” as Mos Def would say.  I immediately thought of a line from the film Malcolm X that appeared to capture the moment pretty well, appropriately modified to fit the context: “we had a perfect trip until some Niggaz showed up and destroyed the whole thing.”  



No longer interested in my spaghetti bolognaise and banana beer, I excused myself, walked across the street between machine guns, 14 children calling out “my friend”, one cow, one jeep, 10 baskets, a bus and a man with no legs dragging himself across the street.  What the hell were these brothaz thinking?  What the hell were these brothaz doing?  I just had to check it out.  



As I walked up to the store, I saw the sign in greater detail.  It was straight old school ghetto, like the cover of some bad rap album or fake velvet poster.  Under the title, two brothaz kneeled down with parts in their fades, fat laces and a little gold chair in between them that they pointed to.  The message was clear.  If one wanted to get "made", then they would go in, sit down and be "brothered" or "brothad" (to be consistent with the phrase above).



Stepping up, two B-boys on either side stood up with Zig-Zag patterns shaved into their headz, fat laces and matching kangaroo jackets.  They appeared to be surprised at my presence - looking at me from the side, trying to figure out who I was.  I smiled, pushed open the door and stepped in like a Clint Eastwood film.  As the doors swung back and forth behind me with a screeching noise, all activity stopped like when Eddie Murphy walked into the Western bar in 48 hours.  There we were: me, five people getting shaved/cut/shaped, five barbers, eight people waiting, one cassette DJ and 11 Hip-Hop posters from the '80s (Tupac, Public Enemy, Run DMC and Kwame - the polka dot rapper).  I stood there in my B-boy stance, trying to take it all in and what was at first an awkward moment of silence and posturing, dissolved after I identified myself with “I am Chris from New York, what's up with you Niggaz?”  Actually, I was serious about the question.  There was no pause in between “what's up” and the rest of the sentence.  Nevertheless, they all laughed, the music started and we greeted each other in the middle of the dance floor (I mean shop).  



As DJ Innocent put on “I know you got soul” (by Eric B. and Rakim) two brothers brought me a chair, one brought me a coke and three brought a series of questions: “how big is New York compared to Butare”, “why are you here” and “do you have any music with you”?  I told them that there are probably 1000 Butares that could fit into “the City.”  I was there to study Rwanda and learn about its wonderful history. Note to efolks: never admit ones true purpose to someone who calls themselves a Niggaz with sharp objects all over the place.  And, finally, no I did not bring any music; something that I would never do again.



The next 30 minutes was a blur as they showed me haircuts they had, haircuts they were getting, haircuts they saw in old rap magazines from France and Belgium.  They had a copy of the Source - the black Hip-Hop magazine, which they treated like the Holy Grail.  DJ Innocent had to put on “Rappers Delight” to signify the occasion.  Several of the brothers started busting moves - old ones.  The head Niggaz walked me around the store to show me posters as well as other artifacts: afro picks, laces and hoodies.  



Near faint, I sat down in an empty chair on the left side of the store.  One of the barbers stepped beside me.  Someone brought me another coke.  Another pulled up a chair and several others sat around me on the floor.  It was like the “Chronicles of Riddick” and I had fallen into the chair of the king, holding court.  The faces of the brothers combined with those on the wall: Tupac, Biggy, Kwame (yeah, the polka dot guy), Rakim, Too Short and Fat Joe who stood out because it would have taken about five of the Rwandans to equal one of him.



Getting somewhat overwhelmed by the African time warp, it then hit me why it all seemed so familiar: this was no hair salon.  This was my room from 1985 - somehow migrated to Rwanda and spread out over the space.  I felt Sankofa-ed with a twist.  All that was missing was the Prince “Controversy” album cover on the wall; this is the subject of another story however.



At some point, the growing entourage stopped to ask if they were saying things by their right names.  At that moment, I became the “ghetto authenticator” - a Hip-Hop aficionado, come to their salon to give them the boogie down stamp of approval.  They brought out object after object, to hear the American label.  It kept coming as there was seemingly an endless stream of gear emerging from the back room.  For a second, I slowly came out of my fog, remembering where I was.  Under a Shante Moore mix, I heard some radio station with someone talking angrily.  Not Hip-Hop.  Real stuff.  Realer than real.  This only lasted for a second because seeing me, the back door was closed and I was back to authenticating.



All the buzzing and movement stopped, however, when I remembered why I had come into the store.  “I had a problem,” I said.  They all stopped mid-pop to hear me.  It was a KRS edutainment moment as I felt Malcolm, the Furious 5, Busy Bee, Cold Crush and SPoony-G course through me.  “You know that the word Niggaz is derived from Niggaz which is an insult from whites?  They did not.  “The “a” replacing the “er” was an attempt to shift the emphasis and actually empower the user but I think that the experiment failed.  Niggaz are now distortions, creations, parodies of the true state of Africans in America.  There might have been some true gangstas at some point and the hostility, the anger, the frustration in the music taps a certain aspect of the reality that blacks are subject to but what Hip-Hop has become, what you have on -the wall, what you look at, listen to and take in here is what a warped version of Hip-Hop has created.”  



They didn't hear me.  They couldn't.  I could not get across to them how one-dimensional the music they had was, how they missed Hip-Hop and how Hip-Hop missed them, needed them (desperately).  I couldn't tell them that they didn't need Niggaz over here - at least not the Niggaz they thought they needed. I couldn't tell them that there were really no Niggaz at all, just niggers and those that tried to survive.  I was saddened that all that made it over there was haircuts, some pictures, some really, really small medallions and corny rap songs - not even whole tapes but mixes at that.  They had no graffiti (no readily available spray paint and machine gun totting, fit police not donut-totting, slightly overweight ones), no break dancing (head spinning on rocks?), no Malcolm, no Baraka, no red, no black but plenty of green.



They looked at me, perplexed. A few started to whisper and look at each other.  DJ Innocent, who had stopped playing music, frantically searched for something to change the mood.  One brother walked up, B-Boy stride and said, “You don't like our shop?”  Trying to be honest but sensing the tension, “I said no, I love what you have here.  In fact, you have brought me a strange ray of hope.  Mos Def said once that “the Invisible Man got the whole world watching” and you all have shown that.  The reference was lost.  They were still in the 80's maybe the late 70's and barely.  “I just don't like what you have named your store.”  “But, we are Niggaz,” they replied.  “The Made Niggaz,” several chimed in with pride (some B-Boy stances returning).  



As if on cue, one of my colleagues from across the street walked in and in a second, the place transitioned into something else, somewhere else.  The Niggaz went back to their corners, the eyes glazed over.  Hair cutting resumed, the dancing was replaced with sitting, and DJ Innocent turned his back and put up his hoodie.  The openness, excitement and smiles that I saw just seconds ago turned to the then standard Rwandan scowl.  We wear the mask that grins and lies in Rwanda too.



My associates told me that they had finished and were about to walk back to the hotel - something that you did not want to do alone.  We were also leaving the next morning and I had to pack.  I tried to say goodbye to the brothas in the saloon but once again I could see that I was Mizungued - pulled away by otherness.  On the way out, DJ Innocent had evidently found what he was looking for.  As I pushed the swinging doors to exit and step through, I heard Run DMC saying, “It's like that and that's the way it is.”  Ain't it the truth, I thought.  Ain't it the truth?  



I left thinking that I needed to construct a Hip-Hop educational packet with some African American history to help.  Forget bandaids and old laptops.  These brothers needed some Kool Herc and Funk Master Flex - STAT!  They needed the Klan (the X variety not the Ku Klux one).  The repackaged Zulus.  



Of course, just as I thought of it, driving by a few dozen kids sifting through trash, the stupidity of the whole thing came back to me.  What these brothers and sisters really needed was something more basic: some food, a place to live, some regular education with readin', ritin' and rithmetic’ - The same stuff that all brothas and sistas need (just realized that I saw no women in the shop/saloon).  



As we pulled away, I realized that no matter how far you go, you always home - kinda.  Keep your heads up brothas. Let some sistas in.  

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 part of my deal for going to Rwanda, I was supposed to teach some students at the National University of Rwanda at Butare about research methods. It was not exactly clear what I was supposed to do – like everything else.  That was cool though – I was getting a trip to Africa and I would be the first in the family to go there. 

Now, I have a love-hate relationship with teaching.  I love the engagement, the pursuit, watching young minds come alive – preparing to struggle, challenge, overthrow and prosper.  I hate the machine that education has become however: most of my colleagues lectured and did not interact much in the classroom, students want an A and most acquired them (the essence of my teaching method was Socratic with a healthy line of Dewey), most didn’t want to read and most couldn’t write – I’ll just stop there.

The situation had started to slowly kill me.  Every now and then I would come across a jewel of a student: engaged but reflective, hardworking but carefree, troubled but helpful, young but old.  These had become fewer and far between.

In response, I had started to pull back – moving to the dark side: research (or, was it the other way around?).  Regardless, I felt it creep in: fewer written assignments (a pain to grade), fewer books assigned (a pain to pull out of them), fewer questions (more talking to as opposed to talking with for the students weren’t interested). 

Being asked to teach in Rwanda was thus a mixed blessing.  I figured I would give it a shot.

Once in the classroom, it was a different story.  The classroom existed in what looked like a military bunker made of brick and wire fences.  There was a basketball court in front of the Rector’s office (the American equivalent of the University President), a field for “experimentation,” dormitories and other classrooms – all surrounded by jungle and barbed wire. 

The students ranged from ages 18 to 40.  They had very different backgrounds: some had fought in the civil war (not a handbag in sight), some had been abroad the whole time and had just returned and some had been in Rwanda hiding.  Some spoke English, most spoke French and all spoke Kinyarwandan. All the students were neatly dressed and were respectful to a fault.  All had cell phones and grumbled when they were asked to turn them off.  This was somewhat similar to the states until I realized that cell phones here were a life-line in the literal sense.  How could you ask a student to stay off their cell in Rwanda when the next revolution could be coming over the airwaves?  The immediacy simply trumped the courtesy.  We settled on them applying a higher criteria for accepting a call: it had to be “important.”  Over time, they got the point.

All the students were surprised to find out that their instructor was an African American.  They had never seen one and thus whenever they had a chance, they would ask questions about my life and my take on America.  This came later though. At first, they just sat there quizzically.

Socrates did not come to Rwanda with me nor did he already reside there for me to run across.  The Rwandese were used to lecturing.  They were used to being told what to do and how to do it.  Unlike the deferent to authority machines discussed in the Western media, however, once the students were given a chance, prompted and made to feel comfortable, they were full of questions and challenges. 

Interestingly, there was a certain degree of skepticism about statistics and numerical representation –the “you can say anything with numbers” variety. Walking by a chart plotting nose size against ethnic identity that I saw on a wall in a nearby library (provided by the Belgians but replicated elsewhere), I understood how they could come to be this way.  Nevertheless, we pushed on.

What struck me most about the students was that the “children are the future” stuff we always hear in the states is a genuine reality in Rwanda.  These kids literally are the future and much of the present.  These kids are not going to be the farmers who made up the majority of society.  They were going to be the lawyers, entrepeneurs, generals and Rectors who ran it.  They know it and you can see it in their faces, which leads to a certain degree of snootiness.  Now, it is not like interacting with kids from the uppercrust American institutions (Yale, Harvard, Stanford, etc.) but it is in the same ballpark; or, neighborhood of the ballpark. 

These kids had to get it right and so did everyone around them.  Some of this was interest driven but some of it was external.  They were handpicked the way athletes had been in the former Soviet Union, given everything to become the very best that they could be so that they could later serve the state who would continue to allow them to be the very best. Kinda like “Be all that you Can be – or else.”

But, this was not necessarily good for education and knowledge building.  Could you learn something which you thought was used to hold you back?  Could you take it in but not be taken over?  The students evaluated everything that came out of my mouth by some metric of state and nation-building.  Will this help Rwanda?  How?  Can we extract something that is useful from this America?  And, so it went for weeks.

The student’s intensity, the little state and nation-building exercise, the weight of their expectations were energizing.  It was not like interacting with the kids back home at the University of Maryland (where I taught at the time) who were only excited when class was over, moving on to the next mediocre experience.  These kids were hungry.  It was not like interacting with the kids from Ivy League schools either, who now walked around Rwanda as consultants, humanitarian aid workers, bankers and cultural attaches with a combination of derision, awe and compassion on a stick.  Rwanda was off.  Rwanda was raw.  The students followed suit.  Some eye of the tiger like stuff. 

But, if they were the tiger, then who was I: the meat, the zoo keeper, the visitor getting too close to the cage or was I just another animal in the cage daydreaming while someone slipped a needle under my fur to keep me calm and unpredatory?  The students seem to have the same quizzical look directed at me as well, trying to figure me out.  Who was I to them (cue the music)?  Was I the oppressor in a new package?  Was I some ally who recently found his way to their school in the jungle?  Was I one of the thousands of individuals who came to Rwanda after the violence to pay pennance, soon to leave after I felt my soul had been cleansed?  Or, would I return to keep putting up my strange words and equations on the blackboard, year after year?  On opposite sides of the cage, we looked at each other, wondering who was on which side.