Mama JunkYard’s

The Young Foundation is inviting people to share their first political memory. The First Political Memory Project aims to:

reconnect people’s everyday lives with politics through collecting and sharing stories of when people first became aware of the bigger world around them.

I grew up in a very political household so trying to identify my first memory is complicated. When I look back to my “politically formative years”, which I place somewhere between the ages of 4 and 7 all I see is a kaleidoscope of memories.

Is my first political memory to be found in the pages of my book collection that included titles such as “Nelson Mandela for Kids”, “Harriet Tubman for Kids”?

Or did it start with the curtain call that preceeded my role in the Wazelendo Players’ production of Ngugi Wa Thiongo’s The Trial of Dedan Kimathi?

Perhaps it is in the tune of Bandiera Rossa; a song I learned to sing without so much as knowing what language it was in!

Maybe it lies within the pixels that made up the was the framed poster of Malcolm X in our living room?.

In many ways it is a lot easier for me to single out those political memories that have shaped my views on inequality, discrimination and race. The memory I have submitted to the First Political Memory Project took place in 1984, during P. W Botha’s visit to the United Kingdom. My parents and I joined the protesters who marched to Downing Street.

I was about six years old at the time and I was used to going on both leisure and protest walks with my parents, which often ended with me eating an Orange ice lolly (if the weather was nice) or a pack of Opal Fruits and/or Jaffa Cakes. For the most part there was nothing special about this particular walk until we got to Number 10. The crowed stopped and in unison began a call and response chant that went like this:

Caller: Maggie, Maggie, Maggie!!
Crowd: Out, out, out!
Caller: Botha, Botha, Botha!!
Crowd: Out, out, out!!

At the age of six, to be part of the 15,000 people who chanted in unison was an amazing experience. At the time I must admit that I thought we were calling for them to open the door and step outside. It was only as I grew older, as I started to learn more about Apartheid and Thatcherism, that I was able to connect the dots. It was this demonstration that helped me understand that Apartheid as an ideology and as a regime did not exist in isolation. In 2010, as the Conservative Party rolls out its “I’ve never voted Tory before” campaign, I can respond and say,

I’ve never voted Tory because they supported Apartheid

What is your first political memory? Get sharing!
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With thanks Mark Pack for his LDV post – ‘cos that’s how I learned about this!

Sometimes, you can just hop in the back of someone’s cab and tell them what they’re supposed to do. Other times, you have to let him look out at the ocean for a while.

- Jacob, Lost Season 6

Zuqka’s feature on MamaJunkYard is the literal equivalent of hopping into my cab and telling me I need to get back to blogging. This is what Kamau Mutunga wrote:

Her relationship status is “not on the market.” Unless you’re Thierry Henry. She likes Tia Maria, coffee, purple, travel, family and God, though not necessarily in that order. She hates balloons, pumpkins and prejudices. Her interests are race, gender, sexuality and critical legal theories. Her first pets were rabbits, and she has two tattoos and six body piercings. Bloggers rarely describe themselves with much detail, but there you have a bio peek at Kui, Mrs Cooper or to her blog fans, Mama Junk Yard.

Indeed, Mama Junk Yard’s rants about anything under and over the sun. Kui has lived abroad, but works in Nigeria. From how foreigners talk and silly questions about one’s country. So, her entries are observations of a footloose, uprooted Kenyan. You will learn that “Kubwa” might be Kiswahili for “big” and “Nyanya” is grandmother, but why does it also mean tomato? Well those two are names of places in Naija too. And “well done” doesn’t connote congratulations. It is a greeting. When feeling unwell don’t be shocked when asked “how you body de?” “How far” is not about distance, but “how is it going.” And when someone flashes your phone, don’t call back. They were “just de greet you O!” Mrs Cooper hasn’t been blogging actively, and her archives might give a better impression of Mama JunkYard.

There are few things there that need updating, e.g. I am no longer in Nigeria….but that’s even more reason for me to get back to blogging!

I really want to celebrate the fact that I was among the voters in the UK’s North West region who re-elected Chris Davies of the Liberal Democrats as a Member of the European Parliament (MEP). At some point, later in the day, I am sure I will. Right now however I am angry that Nick Griffin, leader of the British National Party (BNP) is one of our eight MEPs.

The North West win has not come as a surprise. In the run up to the election nearly every other party tried to convince the electorate that a vote for them would count as an anti-BNP vote. The threat of a BNP win was real. What is unreal is this seeming unwillingness to accept that there are racist people in the UK (at least 132,094 live in the North West) and that on June 4th these racist people exercised their democratic right and duly sent not one but two -Nazis to represent the rest of us in Brussels.

Apparently all this is the fault of the mainstream political parties. It was they who alienated and excluded “regular voters” from the political and democratic process. That the BNP win is a direct result of the frustration that “regular voters” feel and have felt for a long time – they have expressed this frustration by way of a protest vote.

Rubbish. Utter rubbish.

Firstly, if Labour, Conservatives and Liberal Democrats are deemed mainstream political parties, the remaining eight options on the North West ballot paper should have provided sufficient choice for those seeking an alternative view. Failing that, the right to invalidate one’s ballot paper is the ultimate protest vote but it comes as no surprise that BNP voters did not take this course of action. Those who voted in favour of Griffin’s party were not protesting; they were endorsing a hate group that has unfortunately been allowed to masquerade as a political party.

Secondly, to assume that a sense of disillusionment and disenfranchisement is reason enough for a “regular voter” to lend his or her support to a hate group is a leap in a logic that I am unwilling to take. Unless of course regular voters” is code name for “racist, homophobic and xenophobic white voters.”

If the BNP’s relative success in the European Parliamentary Election shall be discussed along the lines of finding fault and apportioning blame then I have no problem in placing all the blame on the BNP voters around the UK but in particular those in the North West and York and Humber region.

Whatever forms the discussion will take; there is no room for those who argue that the BNP supporters are unaware of the party’s racist, homophobic and xenophobic beliefs, or that BNP voter is well meaning but ill educated person who has been duped. If condemnation for the BNP party is (almost) universal then the same should be true of its supporters.

We certainly should not attempt to portray them as victims; they seem to be doing a good job of it themselves. Listening to Nick Griffin citing the Race Relations Act as the basis of potential law suits against employers who sack BNP supporters is reason enough for us to raise the level of the debate surrounding the BNP and its existence as a political party.

One reason why I detest the BNP so much is because I, like so many others, can see through the name change that transformed the National Front into its present form. Comparisons have been made between the BNP and the Ku Klux Klan and I could not agree more with these comparisons. Yet unlike the KKK, the BNP has been granted political party status, which has resulted in what Mshairi describes as a schizophrenic relationship between the rest of the nation and the party and its supporters.

That is why on the one hand the BNP can appear on a ballot paper yet its members are denied the right to openly associate with their party of choice. It is the same flawed logic that saw the other North West MEPs refuse to share a stage with Nick Griffin as he gave his victory speech despite the fact that they will be sharing a forum in Brussels.

I think our leaders and law makers need to decide where they stand on the issue of the BNP and should that day ever come, I hope they are bold enough to place BNP in the same category as all other hate groups and revoke their political party status. Until that time our discussion of the BNP and its increasing support be limited by this rather bizarre cycle of misplaced blame and unwarranted empathy.

I love to talk. I talk a lot. I have been called a chatter-box by more than one family member. Anyone who went to school in Kenya is familiar with the noisemakers list; a list of the names of any student who dared to speak in class while the teacher was out of the room. The classroom prefects and/or monitors were in charge of updating this list, which they would submit to the teacher upon his or her return. The teacher would call out the names, and one by one the noisemakers would make their way to the front of the classroom for a good ass-whooping. (I use this phrase both figuratively and literally because there were one or two male teachers who seemed to take great pleasure using the canes on our behinds as opposed to our hands) My fondness for talking was such that one teacher in particular threatened to punish any monitor or prefect who submitted a noisemakers list that did not include my name. As a result of this, my name would oftentimes be the only name on the noisemakers list. For all the beatings in the world, for all the having to kneel down on cold concrete floors with hands suspended above my head…I still love to talk.

As someone who loves to talk it is only natural that I find myself engaged in the all sorts of conversations. This in turn has exposed me to weird questions, annoying phrases, and strange words most of which I let slip by. There are however a few things that people have said/asked that have had me vowing never to speak again. These are my top three.

1. ‘So, how do you know so-and-so?’
This question can be heard at parties, especially birthday/house parties with the host’s name replacing ‘so-and-so’. The guest who asks this question is usually one who feels that they have known the host that much longer than you and by extension have more right to be there than you have. In the same way one will observe a dog lifting up its leg at every other lamppost as it goes about its daily walk on a familiar route; the guest who asks this question can be seen moving from person to person marking out those faces he or she does not recognise. If this guest stops at you and this is the first question they ask; you are the lamppost.

2. Use of terms of endearments by total strangers
I miss the days when Routemasters filled the streets of London and bus -conductors would struggle to keep their balance as they churned out tickets from what looked like a rather old cash register dangling from their necks. What I don’t miss is how every conductor would conclude their sentence with the words such as ‘love’, ‘sweetheart’ or ‘darling’. I could never understand what it was about asking for a single to Covent Garden that would inspire such affection from someone I did not know. This behaviour is not just limited to bus conductors. I had a Design and Technology teacher who would say things like ‘Alright sweet-pea?’ or ‘How are you doing my sweet and sour?’

As if this is not enough, the use of these phrases is not standardised. So for instance in Yorkshire one can be called ‘love’ by a stranger, in the West Country do not be surprised if someone refers to you as ‘my lover’. Here in Nigeria it is ‘baby’ or ‘babygirl’

What I dislike most about this sort of talk is that it is contagious. I have noticed that I now refer to anyone and everyone as ‘my dear’. Why I do it, I do not know. What I do know is that 99% of the people I use it on are not dear to me. It disturbs me greatly to know that I am part of the problem.

3. Archaic words/Big grammar* used in everyday conversation
I know exactly when my hatred for this behaviour began. It was when a security guard at work said to me;

‘Kui, are you ok? You look ee-MASH-EE-ated’

After he wrote it down for me I discovered the word was emaciated, which according to Mshairi is pronounced ee-may-see-ated. Whatever! The guard meant to that I had lost weight yet what he said to me was that I looked “thin or haggard, especially from hunger or disease.” Was there ever a greater conversation killer?

Since I have been in Nigeria I have heard people speak of ‘paucity of funds’ when what they mean is that they are broke, or ‘my peculiarities’ when everyone knows that is a nice way of saying ‘ I have issues’

While these sorts of words may have a place in written texts or even speeches delivered to a particular audience, in everyday conversation I find it breaks the flow. I end up focusing on the word itself and not what the person is saying. Lord help both of us if t is a word I have never heard of before because whatever story was being told shall have to be interrupted while I ask endless questions about the words meaning and origin.

*Baba Willy’s Pidgin dictionary defines big grammar as ‘long and difficult English words’

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Thanks to the Dr for his input on regional variations of the use of the word ‘love’.
Thanks to JKE too for helping me organise my thoughts.