On Being African – American in Africa (Reflections on the American Part)

There are a few key experiences that have moved me to write this blog - specifically, the events that have occurred these first few days of March. The weather here in Botswana is very nice, as I have mentioned before. There is an unprecedented rainy season currently in progress. Botswana’s national colors are blue, black and white. The blue symbolizes water. Not water that is plentiful, but water that is much needed because Botswana is a semi – desert. God’s creation is so interesting. When we think of desert, we think of a cactus. There are some here. But there are also what I am going to call cactus trees. This is a tree that has a trunk, branches and green leaves. Only, the trunk has thorns and appears to be kind of like a cactus. This tree is a like hybrid cactus. Last year, I hear that there was a drought. Someone told me that people were driving for miles looking for water. Sometimes, water will be cut off in different neighborhoods. Sometimes it's the electricity. Imagine not being able to properly shower for weeks. (I am a woman who believes in baths. I cannot leave the house unless I do so. I would have made it work with bottled water!) 

There is no drought this year, however. There is rain aplenty. It cools the temperature down and makes everything fresh, green and alive. Rain is very important to Batswana. So much so that the expression of celebration and joy is pula, which means rain. When Batswana society was more agrarian, rain or pula meant food. President Khama just recently had a prayer meeting of thanks to celebrate that the Gaborone dam is full for the first time in sixteen years. Pula is also the name of the currency here in Botswana.

 The rain has a part to play in the shocking revelation (at least shocking to me) that although I am an African, I am also an American. The American part of my identity raises its prickly little head through my expectations on how day to day affairs should operate. It is best for me to explain this as one long story and reflect as I go along.

Story - I attended a wonderful cultural event called the Sons of the Soil Festival, which I will write about at another time.  It was a true celebration of Batswana culture. Along with the energetic traditional dance groups, attendees who were wearing highly styled garments made of Botswana’s brightly colored traditional cloth (it’s curiously called German print) and people drinking calabashes filled with traditional beer (made of sorghum), a major character of the day was the mud. The event was held at a place far outside of the city called Serokolwane Lawns, which is also sometimes called Serokolwana Farms. There were ducks, goats, traditional three - legged cooking pots for a cooking competition, traditional games, dance, music and yes, the mud. Nothing was done by the festival organizers about the ankle deep mud that one had to wade through to get to the seating, lunch tents and craft vendors. 

Reflection 1 – American Regulations and Public Safety Standards. As an American I expected for the festival organizers to remedy the mud situation, as they might have been required to do in the US. Put some hay down over it, or wooden boards over the deepest water puddles so people will not fall. Hang up signs cautioning attendees about slipping. Create roped walk ways with simple wooden posts leading the crowds through the least muddy areas. Something! Public accommodations, events and services in the US are highly regulated. Almost everything requires a license, an inspection, a certificate (as in Certificate of Occupancy), fire safety regulations, evacuation plans… all of that. Local municipalities enforce such regulations. If someone gets hurt, the city or county can be held legally liable.

Story - That’s the United States and those are my American expectations, which I decided to brush aside in order to enjoy the day. But there was a small cost. My feet were a filthy mess! I do not remember ever seeing any part of my body so dirty. However, when it came to the dancing and singing, I cast my cares away about the mud along with everyone else. My Nigerian – American friend, Funmi, came to join me later in the day. Funmi is a brilliant young attorney, who recently graduated from Howard Law School (My alma mater!) She is also a Fulbrighter researching family law related to domestic violence, which is very prevalent in Botswana and a very touchy subject. 

A Side Reflection – Americans often have open discourse about sensitive subjects and platforms on which to do so. Church pulpits, news exposés, talk shows, radio call – in programs, tell - all interviews, Oprah (smile), AA meetings, etc. Public service campaigns to stop domestic violence or bullying or drug abuse or drunk driving are common. Discussing and recognizing dysfunctional family issues is normal, especially once something happens to a celebrity or a national figure. Psychological terms like misogynist, bi-polar and ‘OCD’ are interlaced in daily conversations. We have a very open culture. I once taught at a school where family night was marked with round circle discussions about the students' mothers' sexual abuse stories, the school founder’s battle with alcoholism and other personal challenges. Anyone who did not bare their soul in those meetings was shunned for not going along with the school’s 'education model.' This is not the case in many cultures, and not the case in Botswana. There is a horrible HIV epidemic in progress. Botswana has the highest HIV infection rate in Africa. Almost 19 percent of all people are infected and 36 percent of adults from ages 15 to 29 are infected. It is estimated that half of women currently in their twenties will die of AIDS. I have not heard this discussed in news media or in daily conversation once during my time here. Domestic violence, specifically male violence against women, is a taboo subject, but occurs in 70 percent of the country's households. Alcoholism rates are rocket sky high. Public criticism of political leaders is viewed as improper. As an American, I find this to be very odd. When the AIDS epidemic hit the US, it was all over the news. It was a public health emergency. Here, mums the word. With this in mind, I am sure you can guess that there is a huge difference in the way Funmi's research project about domestic violence has been received verses mine about traditional music and culture.

Story - My American–ness became even more pronounced as soon as Funmi got hurt. She had injured her knee earlier playing rugby (she is very athletic). As we were trying to leave,  during the 30 minute trek through the mud to get to her car, Funmi’s limp got worse and worse until she could not walk. This was an emergency situation in the middle of a festival way out in the sticks just as the sun was going down. I put her in a random chair and went to get help. Who to ask? No one was wearing a badge or a neon yellow tee – shirt that identified them as festival staff. There was no cooling station with free water for the elderly or the infirm. There was a medical van, but they had already sent Funmi away earlier with two pain pills. I made my way to the table where they were taking tickets. I explained that my friend was having an emergency medical crisis. The two men shrugged and looked at me like they could offer no help. Another man happened to come along wearing a head set and ear buds. They gestured me towards him. I repeated – my friend is sick. She has a medical emergency and she cannot walk! He told me, in a gruff voice, that we would have to go the medical van. This was a 20 minute walk through the mud in the dark in the opposite direction. I asked, can’t you ask them to come to her on your walkie-talkie?

Reflection 3 – Emergency Response Part 1 Even the after school staff at the elementary school where I teach uses walkie-talkies to give the alert when parents come to pick up their children. How much more should the organizers of a large public event with thousands of attendees use them! But this is my American expectation.

Story - The gentlemen told me that he could not communicate with them using his walkie-talkie because they were on a different channel. So what would have happened if someone had a seizure or a heart attack that needed a response in two to three minutes, not the 20 minutes that it would have taken them to come through the mud! A nice women from the section where we were seated happened to be standing nearby and kindly volunteered to go and get the medical staff.

Reflection 4 – Emergency Response Part 2 As an American I have a certain expectation about what the proper response is to a medical emergency. Americans are used to seeing paramedics on hand at football games rushing injured players off of the field. At events, churches, on the subway or anywhere, medical or emergency personnel can be summoned with so much as a yell, a phone call or an order barked into walkie – talkie. 911 response is a required service for citizens. So, waiting with Funmi for 20 minutes while watching her wince in pain was frustrating. Needless to say, I was peeved.

Story - The paramedics came and put Funmi onto a narrow, hard plastic red stretcher and carried her to the medical van. Before going to the hospital we had to locate her car. We were told that it simply could not be left on the fairgrounds and fetched later because it would have been stolen – no question about it. A paramedic took her car keys and located it by walking through the parking lot (a hard dusty field) and setting the alarm off. I rode with the paramedic who was driving Funmi's car and following the ambulance. Once we arrived at the hospital’s emergency room my American-ness rose to its height. In the US, hospitals must take care of whomever comes through the door. Then a bill is mailed or insurance covers all expenses. Not so at Gaborone Private Hospital or facilities in other parts of Africa. At each stage of medical treatment, a patient is required to pay. Before the doctor orders x-rays, the patient must pay for them. Before medication is administered, the patient must pay for it. If a person cannot pay, then they will not be treated. They will stay sick. If there is a life threatening condition, and a person does not have money to pay, then they will die. Botswana is better than most because there are public health facilities. However, the standard of care is not as good as the private hospital. Once Funmi’s treatment was over, she was told to go to reception to get the phone number of the orthopedist. (She had to be wheel - chaired) Nothing was computerized. 

Reflection 5 – Health Care I had been thinking of applying for another, one year long fellowship to do my dissertation research in Ghana, perhaps. Just thinking…that’s all. I am not so sure, however, if I happen to have small children. And to be honest, it is my experience at the hospital that makes me have some serious second thoughts. I would actually describe it as a ‘hard reset.’ In my love for Africa and desire to connect with cultures here, I never once thought about needing good health care and not being able to receive it. My experience at this hospital taught me that I simply cannot have young children in Africa. What if they get sick? And children do get sick sometimes. How would I know my child was receiving the best standard of care? As an American, I have been taking for granted the availability of health care. Now I see it as a benefit of a wealthy country that my ancestors sacrificed and toiled to build. It was their inventions, creativity and ingenuity that made the country what it is. As their progeny I am entitled to reap the benefits. I believe that if citizens are paying taxes, a government should provide basic services: well - maintained roads, free public schools, libraries, programs for children and excellent healthcare! Or at least a government should supplement health care or create an affordable system that everyone pays into in order for all to be cared for. 

Story - After a long time at the hospital, they sent Funmi home - and with no crutches or cane. I went into the hospital for some muscular pain December of 2005 and again for a foot injury in 2012. After both visits I was sent home with crutches and a cane! After dropping Funmi off, her family friends dropped me off at the gate of my apartment at the time. It was late. I had just moved into this apartment three days before. I was warned by the owner that if I heard water come on in the back in the middle of the night, not to open the door to check on it. This is a technique that thieves use. Once someone opens the door, they force their way into the house. A US Embassy official had already warned me that the apartment was not secure enough. The locks were too flimsy. Two nights before the electricity shut off for almost two hours because the bill was not paid. Needless to say, I was not feeling very secure. And for good reason. I was in the kitchen for less than five minutes trying to make something to eat, when I heard the water come on outside of the kitchen door to the back area. I froze. I tried not to panic. I thought maybe I was mistaken and the noise would cease. It did not. It was like whoever turned on the water was trying to wait me out. I thought maybe I was hearing things so I called the owner. No answer. I tried to call the US embassy’s emergency number. The call would not go through. I called a friend. He told me to call the police. I realized that I had programmed the embassy’s emergency phone number incorrectly in my phone. I got through. The embassy sent the local police. They asked for my ‘plot number’ and I realized that I had no idea how to tell them where I was. Here in Gaborone, people do not use addresses. They use plot numbers and I did not know mine. There are few street signs and no one calls roads by name. People navigate by landmarks. There is no mail service for homes. One receives mail through a PO box or on their job. The police came one and a half hours later after I tried to give them directions on four different phone calls from the nearest landmark (Riverwalk mall.) They checked around, but by that time, they found no one. The next day I moved to a US embassy owned house.

Reflection 6 – Safety, Security and Stability. Here at the US embassy owned home, as I write, I am behind two gates. One is manned by a capable and alert security officer at all times. I have the only remote control that can open the second gate. I am sitting at this moment in an area of the house called the safe haven, which is dead bolted at night. There are three houses in this secure compound that is surrounded by walls that are topped with live electric wires. Each door to the house has a locked grill. There are decorative gates on the windows.  There is a pool and lovely garden. The neighbors next door have a lemon tree. After my experience at my previous apartment, I have never felt so safe. I mean, I feel safe. The house is also big, spacious, insect free and clean. My first ‘apartment’ here was nice enough. It was more like an apartment hotel. It had beautiful grounds, but I had to wash ants out of the tub each morning and watch out for spiders in the bathroom. The living room flooded when it rained. The staff also was not very nice. To be honest, when the electricity went out in the second apartment, I was ready to come home. Every time I turned on the air conditioning (a must in 90 degree weather) I was afraid the electricity would go out. When I shared about this, several people said to me "welcome to Africa!" Yikes! In a sense, even though I am still here in Botswana, living here in the US embassy home is very much like being in the US. There is safety, security and stability. As an American, I realize that these are the things that I have come to expect in my day to day life. I feel that safety, security and stability are a basic human right. I recently had a deep discussion with Funmi about the so-called privilege of being an American citizen. She argued for and I argued against, thinking about the forced migration of Africans to the Americas and their enslavement. Now I am sitting in a beautiful home in a wealthy and safe neighborhood in Botswana’s capitol city in part because I am an American citizen. If I am enjoying privilege, and I am, then so be it. My ancestors toiled and stayed alive so I could enjoy the wealth that they were creating for the country. There is no United States without the African – American contribution. There is no freedom and justice for all without the African - American civil rights movement. My great-aunts and grandmother desegregated restaurants. People died so that I could live. So that I can vote and enjoy the freedoms of the country i.e. the accoutrements of the taxes paid by the citizenry. My ancestors paid for my privilege to finish my time here in Botswana in this beautiful house.  

I was told that Africans in many countries, including the Batswana, have to endure much more than the tiny taste of instability that I have faced. No water for weeks. No electricity for days. No health care. No public schools. What kind of desperation and harmful attitude towards money does that produce in a person…in a culture? I cannot imagine.