A week ago I learned a new word – Bagamoyo. It means “where you leave your soul.” Yesterday I toured was in Bagamoyo and had the priviledge of touring the small town that served as a slave port for slaves rounded across the East Coast of Africa by slave traders and colonial powers. From Bagamoyo, these slaves were either shipped to Arabic countries, Persia, India, South Africa, Reunion, Mauritius to work on various plantations till the end of the 19th century. It is said that about 1.5 million slaves walked on the shores of Bagamoyo. Continue reading “From Bagamoyo, with so much soul”
Just like last year, Nyege Nyege started early and smooth, a beginning I was familiar with. I’m not going to compare the two editions – They are different in size, magnitude, performance levels, lineup, weather, duration… everything and not to mention the ending for me- a real BANG! But not the type of bang you would tell your friends who missed out, rather the type that takes to a hospital with a complete broken jaw and last thing the doctor tells you before you leave the hospital with both jaws stitched together is « Do not talk. Do not laugh. For six weeks! » Damn someone finally managed to shut my big mouth. And he did it smoothly in a space of two selfie clicks. Why? For a fuckin Tecno phone. What a world! Continue reading “My 2018 Nyege Nyege Experience”
À l’heure qu’il est, je devrais être à Goma. Mais je n’y suis pas. Enfin plus. Je suis rentré au Rwanda plus tôt que prévu. Je n’en pouvais plus.
En fait depuis que je suis parti de Goma en Août 1994 pendant la crise de réfugiés du génocide au Rwanda, des exilés, des milices interahamwe, des militaires du régime Habyarimana, je n’avais plus remis les pieds à Goma. Pour ceux qui ne savent pas, Goma partage la frontière avec le Rwanda. La frontière on ne la voit pas parce qu’elle n’existe que sur la carte de l’Afrique que nous ont dessiné “les propriétaires de la planète” en direct de Berlin en 1885. Continue reading “Retour à la terre natale, en force”
When I tell people that I spent about five months in a village called Buhanda in the Southern Province of Rwanda, their first reaction is “No freakin way!! You? What were you doing there?” Usually I would say research but that happened organically as I started my quest to find my roots by interviewing old people about their lives before 1959 in Rwanda. The quest led me to paths across the country. I’m currently writing a book in French about that experience but in the meantime you can read summaries some of the interviews here transcribed in their original language (Kinyarwanda.) Continue reading “Vis Large”