It sounds like a lot of words, black African intersectional feminist, but all these words, in this order are necessary. And, yes, I fully recognise how problematic and limiting labels can be, but this is one label I wear with pride. It lets others know that my every day a feminist life recognises that our social, biological, economic and geographical categorisations, such as race, gender, class, ability, and sexual orientation interact on multiple and simultaneous levels and contribute to systematic injustice and social inequality (Side note 3: Here I am relying on definitions provided by a long line of black intersectional feminists but mainly Kimberlé Crenshaw and Patricia Hill Collins). This label is a warning sign to others that my every day a feminist life resists any and all forms of social justice work that seeks only to address a single form of discrimination or oppression. (Side note 4: This is one example of how I would answer, “what does my every day a feminist life mean for others?”) Most importantly, because this is often overlooked, the label black African intersectional feminist is in direct response to all those who seek to label feminism as un-African. As my mother said, feminism “was not imposed on us [Africans] by the United Nations or by Western feminists, but has an independent history.” That is why this label is necessary – long as it is – it is an abbreviation for the theoretical underpinnings of my feminism and if black African intersectional feminist is the theory then every day a feminist is the practice.

I use the term “every day a feminist” to convey the unbroken and consistent existence of my feminism. (Side note 5: I purposely use “every day” as opposed to “everyday” because there is nothing commonplace or normal about the feminism I practice. Its very existence is to challenge the norm.) It is who I am, it is who I have always been, it is what I do, it is what I have always done, it is what I believe, it is what I have always believed. As Lola Okolosie says of her own identity as a black feminist, the naming happened after the fact. Perhaps this is why my initial reaction was to describe it as exhausting, because 30 something years, every day a feminist can get tiring but it is also something I enjoy. I particularly enjoy the interaction, love and support present within intersectional feminists spaces so yes maybe it is nice too. Both of these words, I guess are ok when it comes to describing this every day a feminist life, but I still think they are not enough. Between nice and exhausting (if this was a spectrum – which I don’t think it is) there is a whole lot more. “Nice” and “exhausting” speak to moments, instances that occur as part of my every day a feminist journey. In thinking of every day a feminist as a lived experience, that has a past, present and future I much prefer Nyaboe Makiya’s conceptualization of feminism as survival. The label is black African intersectional feminist, every day a feminist is how I live this label and I live every day a feminist as an act of survival.

I first came to live in England in 1982 and as a young child the racism I experienced was so unbearable that I would tell my parents I wanted to go back to Kenya because England didn’t like me. Then finally returning to Kenya in 1986 only for my father to be detained without trial by the Kenyan Government. Four years later being back in the UK, this time as asylum seekers/refugees because clearly Kenya didn’t like me either. And we all know how the UK feels about immigrants. This time we lived in a council estate and I attended a failing inner city London school. It was the early 1990s, surrounded by people who looked like me, but just like when I was in Kenya I learned that this was not enough. Other black students would “joke” that I came from Africa on an elephant. A careers advisor, a black woman, told me instead of working towards law school I should, at the end of my GCSEs, consider employment at a supermarket. My good grades be damned because apparently something about me rendered a university education unattainable. Finally attending university and realising that race was not a part of the law curriculum; gender however, was and I was encouraged to think about how the law (according to white feminists) affected me as a woman, because this was apparently the only identity that mattered. Later in life, working in development with white men who insist they cannot be racist because they are helping poor people in Africa. While out at a bar in Lancaster with my siblings a random white woman approaches us and without invitation, conversation or approval on our part takes out her camera and starts to take pictures of us. I confronted her, her response “I thought you were famous”. The list goes on. Initially I couldn’t articulate how I felt about these instances because I was too young. Later on, while at university I would stumble on the works of Collins, Crenshaw, Audre Lorde, bell hooks, Angela P. Harris (to name a few) and it all made sense. I understood now why my parents had insisted I only play with black dolls and why my at home reading consisted of nothing but writers of colour. I thought that every time they had stood in and stood up for me was simply because they were my parents. I understood now that while it was of course motivated by parental love, it was a love rooted in black African intersectional feminism. How could I as an adult reject the practice that had helped me survive? I didn’t know any other way to navigate this world, I still don’t know any other way to do so and even if I did I wouldn’t choose any other way.

I am an every day a feminist because that is how I am able to survive, but black African intersectional feminism reminds me that it is not enough for me to survive; others have to survive too and my every day a feminist life calls on me to  (1) support others so that they can survive and (2) make sure that I am not complicit in the un-survivability of others. This is perhaps the most important answer to the question “what does my every day a feminist life mean for others?” In recognizing the intersectionality of identities and systems of oppressions, I am also acknowledging that I can be both a victim and beneficiary of these power structures. Being an every day feminist means that I too, as a western living/educated, middle class heterosexual cis-gendered and able-bodied person, must check my privilege. My every day a feminist approach makes me suspicious of forms of feminism that are not intersectional. My every day feminist stance is unforgiving of human rights artivism that relies on misogyny. My every day feminist life has no patience for “wait your turn” anti-oppression work that deems the struggles of LGTBQI people as not important right now.  White tears will never dampen my every day a feminist life. For those that come at me with “not all white people” and/or “not all men” my every day a feminist voice will yell back “Shut up your face!” And by now, people really should know the answer to the question “why is everything about patriarchy?” but for those who wonder, every day a feminist means every thing through feminism. Honestly though, I am too busy living this every day a feminist life to educate those who continually un-hear the voices of other intersectional feminists.

I was before; I am now and always will be a black African intersectional feminist. I live every day a feminist because the alternatives make my life and the lives of so many other people un-liveable. Every day a feminist, unapologetically.

I do try and be critical when I read yet another story by Western media that attempts to barbarise African behaviour but upon reading about South African thieves forcefully cutting off people’s dreadlocks I must confess that my critical analysis took a back seat to my more basic instinct of mild outrage.

As someone who has been locked since 2000, this violent violation struck me on a personal level.  Lest, this mild outrage be misconstrued as vanity (“It is only hair”; “It will grow back” etc) I feel the need to point out why cutting of someone’s locks constitutes such a personal violation.  Of course there is the most obvious reason – an individual (or individuals) performing an action on your person without your consent; but there are other reasons and these may apply to theft of hair in general but at this point in time I speak specifically from a black female locked person perspective.

Anyone with locks will understand, if only at the subconscious level, how much of a commitment it is.  Locks on one level may just be a hairstyle but on another they are constructed as a political statement. Lock nomenclature is problematic; with some preferring to refer to them as locks over what they perceive as the negative term “dreadlocks”. I interchangeably refer to my hair as locks, dreads, dreadlocks with no particular preference for any and for this post I’m using locks out of convenience – I am not taking stand either way in relation to labelling my (or anyone else’s) hair.

The process of locking hair is equally divisive. Differing views on  how one starts their locks; the method of maintaining locks or non maintenance; who can lock their hair  creates all manner of tensions.  There is of course the wider politics of “black hair”.  When we commit to locking our hair we acknowledge we are (often unwillingly) being thrown into and judged by the standards of a highly politicised, gendered and racialised space.

In some spheres, so great is the misunderstanding of locks that a number of stereotypes and misconceptions have emerged; resulting in people with locks facing some odd questions and statements.  Linked to this is the fetishisation of locks which can lead to some very uncomfortable situations for those with locks.  Perhaps the biggest commitment is giving in to the unknown.  Beyond the general styling and maintenance you commit to just letting your hair grow; however it chooses to.  It is a gamble and for some people it pays off and their locks grow without problems; for others it may take years of trial and error (including starting over a few times) before they get the locks they want.  What makes this even more of a risk is that there is no end point.  Of course there are stages to the lock growth process; but your locks keep growing and changing and the problem locks can start at any time in process – you just never know.

This is what we commit to.  So to have that ripped off you in what is being termed as a ‘cut and run’ can cause distress on so many levels.

I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about the issues I have just mentioned.  In fact my day-to-day lock concerns sit in the first world problems domain (“will the hot water run out mid shampoo?” do I have to sit through hours of Top Gun as my husband retwists my hair?”).   That is of course until I’m confronted with these issues that I just mentioned; which is exactly what these crimes and more specifically the recent reporting does.

Apparently, “Johannesberg police said they had only one case of dreadlock theft officially reported last year, but anecdotal evidence indicates the crime is on the rise. Women are said to be the most vulnerable“.  That not withstanding the news has been reported by quite a few outlets of varying size, reach and credibility and nearly all give the impression that this some sort epidemic. So now not only do people with locks have to deal with the tension, politics, stereotypes and just general drama; they have to contend with feelings of fear and panic possibly brought on by sensationalised reporting of an already misunderstood hairstyle.

The hair thieves are supposedly responding to more people wanting dreadlocks and wanting them now; and salons are being said to pay a lot for locks that they can then weave into their clients’ hair.  The images of, dodgy salons and their supposedly desperate clientele  add to existing stereotypes of deviant black behaviour and all of it is enough to leave a locked sister mildly outraged.

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?.

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!
—
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!

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’

———–
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.

In the wake of what can only be described as one of my country’s darkest moments I have found that being a Kenyan abroad has generated a series of deeply troubling questions from non-Kenyans such as:

Oh you are Kenyan? So what tribe are you/What ethnic group do you belong to?

Or

You are from Kenya? So are you Kikuyu or Luo?

On the surface it is easy to view these questions as innocent enquiries from a non-Kenyan who wants to know more about where I am from. Given the manner in which ethnic differences crept into the dispute over the government’s claim to power I know all to well that these questions are anything but innocent.

The first question, in my view is a personal question and should have no place in a discussion between people who barely know each other. Furthermore it rests on the assumption that there is a simple response. For instance, there are many Kenyans who do not belong to one ethnic group or tribe and the question suggests that a single tribe response is the desired answer.

In the case of the second question, it is equally personal but it is more offensive than the first because it reduces my country to a two-tribe nation. It ignores the existence of every other Kenyan who does not fall into either the Kikuyu or Luo ethnic group. It also assumes that one can not fit neatly into both ethnic groups.

That said, what really angers me about both questions is that most people who ask will then use whatever response I give as a basis to project their own limited knowledge of the political and ethnic situation in Kenya.

When I opt to answer these sorts of questions I simply state ‘Kikuyu.’ Each time I have done so my response has been met with statements like:

You must be happy with the result then

or

Ah! It is your man/brother who is in power

even this:

You guys really rigged this election

In single sentence a person has taken my cultural/ethnic identity and formed an opinion about my political allegiance, placed blame upon me for the outcome of the election and worst of all suggested that despite the fact that my country is in turmoil…I am pleased.

The most frustrating part for me is, I am still not sure who/what I should be angry at:

Should I be angry at those individuals who believe that I, who can not speak a word of Kikuyu, would place such importance on my ethnic identity to the extent that I would not only stake my right to vote upon it but forsake my national identity because of it?

Is it fair to direct my anger at the Western media who oftentimes spoke of and wrote about Kenya and Rwanda in one breath/sentence thereby blurring the distinction between a nation disappointed in the outcome of a flawed election and a group of people who value ethnicity more than nationality?

What about those who willingly took part in the destruction of our people, our country, our lives and our homes, maybe I should be angry at them?

Perhaps those who made a mockery of our democratic right to be governed by the leaders we elect, who betrayed the trust we placed in our electoral system…maybe this should be the root of my anger?

I am not content with directing my anger, in equal measure, at all of the above because it is not that simple. I am not content with being angry because it is not productive.

I will have to work something out because when people who can not find Kenya on a map, who do not know the difference and distance between Ghana and Kenya, who can’t accept that we too can fly from our country to over 40 destinations worldwide on Kenya Airways…. when these people start telling me about my ethnic identity and what it means…I get really angry…

Introduction

On June 1st 2007, Kenyans everywhere will be celebrating Madaraka Day. Madaraka Day commemorates the day that Kenya attained internal self-rule following an important milestone on the road to independence. To mark this event, we would like to invite members of the Kenyan Bloggers Webring to blog in unison under the banner ‘Kenyan Bloggers’ Day’.

Why?

This day is opportunity for members of the Kenyan Bloggers Webring to share their thoughts on the topics below. Last year’s Kenyan Bloggers’ Day featured a wide range of inspired posts. The level of support and interaction shown by our members in response was outstanding. See how members celebrated last year

How to Get Involved

On or on the weekend of June 1st 2007, we are proposing that we all create a post on any or all of the following suggested topics:

* Kenya
* Being Kenyan
* Being a Kenyan blogger
* Being a member of KBW

The post can be a piece of prose – 2 lines, an essay, a poem, a podcast, a photograph, your favourite quote. It is entirely up to you how you chose to celebrate this day. You don’t have to be Kenyan, just a member of KBW.

On this day we wish to use collective blogging as means of celebrating the nation that unites us as bloggers of KBW.

Getting the laptop to Nigeria was not easy. I was due to fly immediately after the UK terror alert that had resulted in many travellers being issued transparent plastic bags to carry their hand luggage, so in preparation I went and bought a laptop rucksack which was apparently the right “carry-on” size. I say apparently because the woman working at the British Airways check-in desk the day I was due to fly was of the opinion that my rucksack was way too big. Unfortunately for me, those metal tray things by the check-in desk that let you determine if one’s bag is the right size supported her opinion. I was not keen to check-in the old laptop so I decided to buy one of those pull-trolley things that one often sees cabin crew dragging along. Still the item was too big. The BA woman, sensing my determination to carry the laptop on board informed me that BA did have bags available.

I wish I had taken a photograph of the bag, which is no longer in my possession. It was one of those of raffia/plastic-chequered bags that many African/Caribbean families in the UK use as laundry bags. My brother told me that these bags are called “Ghana-must-go” bags and that certainly appears to be what everyone in here calls them. Sokari has a photograph of similar bags on her blog. I say similar because the one I was given was incredibly tiny; like a medium to small handbag. I am actually tempted to call it cute had it not clashed, both in colour and in style, with what I was wearing.

The bag was blue, red and white. I was wearing black trousers, a white top, brown shoes and should have been carrying a matching brown hand bag (which was now emptied of all its contents and squashed into one of my suitcases – the very same suitcase that arrived in a Abuja more than a week after I did!) The extent of my higgledy-piggledy look was brought to the fore when the man at the Duty Free counter took one look at my bag, pulled out an extra-large duty free bag and dumped my ‘Ghana-must-go’, laptop and all inside. As he handed the bag back he gave me a look that said ‘it’s ok…your secret is safe with me!’

Upon reaching Naijaland I discovered that my work computer was not where I expected it to be i.e. on my desk in my office. Neither was my desk for that matter, which at the time made perfect sense because I hadn’t been assigned an office. The old laptop which no doubt was sulking after suffering the indignity of being carried in a bag that lacked the necessary cushioning and support that it was accustomed to became both my work and home computer. I reassured both the laptop and myself that this was only a temporary measure but by January 2007, despite getting an office and desk, I still didn’t have a computer.

By this time the laptop had gone from old to ‘one foot in the grave’. It could no longer serve as a ‘portable computer’ because one slight move would result in the machine turning itself off. It would then take a further five minutes of twiddling with the power cord and coaxing it to stay attached to the computer. As the battery never seemed to charge, I did consider taping the power cord to the laptop but then I remembered that the power cord was a replacement of the previous one that had caught fire around the part that connects it to the computer. Aside from the laptop’s in ability to stay on for more than 30 minutes at time, there was the start-up issue (it took 20 minutes to start-up) the lack of multi-tasking capability (the machine could run no more than one application at time), failing USB ports, broken DVD drive … basically the machine was barely functioning.

In mid-February, the Dr and I decided that it was time to get a new machine, which he would bring to Abuja when he came to visit in March. I knew what I wanted; a black MacBook and by the end of February the BlackBook was sitting in a box in Lancaster awaiting its trip to Naija.

There is common saying about buses – you wait for hours and then two arrive at once. Well the same can be said about computers (in this case at least) because two days before the Dr was due to arrive my desktop; complete with printer and a back-up power supply unit was delivered to my desk!

So here I am six months into my stay – I finally have a machine in the office and a machine that I can use at home for blogging, Skype, playing games, listening to music…all at the same time. All I need to do now is get accustomed to using a Mac, which I recently discovered does not have a delete key.

Well Done: Nearly every morning I would exit the lift at work and the security guard on duty would say what I thought was “Welcome Ma’” to which I would respond with, “Thank you, how are you?” Soon after I worked out that he in fact was saying, “ Well done Ma’!’” and though I would often wonder what he was congratulating me for, I would still thank him and ask how he was.

A colleague later explained that in as much as it appears to be a greeting, the context of the phrase that I was already familiar with (i.e. well done as a congratulatory remark) remained the same. In essence the security guard was applauding me for turning up for work and encouraging me to have a good day.

How you body de? Pidgin English; often used when addressing someone who has been unwell. The first time I heard it was during my first week in Abuja. I was staying in a hotel and had just developed a cold. The guest relations manager knowing that my Pidgin English was not my strong point, opted to greet me in what can only be termed as the literal translation of the phrase. I can not even begin to describe my shock when I heard her utter the words “How is your body?”

Compliments: This word is a contraction of the phrase “Compliments of the festive season to you” of which the UK equivalent is either/both Merry Christmas and/or Happy New Year. Given that the December holiday period not just about Christmas and that Nigeria is a religiously (culturally) diverse nation; it is the perfect way to greet your workmates. It is just a little confusing hearing it in the short form for the very first time.

How far? Similar to “How is it going?” though the first time I heard it I didn’t have time to think of it in those terms. All I could think of was “How far with what?” I still am not sure of the appropriate response.

How you dey? This one I got first time around even though I wasn’t quite sure what the ‘dey’ bit meant, the ‘How you’ does indicate that it is some sort of enquiry into how one is doing. What I didn’t grasp until fairly recently was that while saying ‘I’m fine’ is ok; there is a proper Pidgin English response; two in fact. These being either ‘I dey’ or ‘I dey kampe’; the latter used when one is doing really well.

Attached to these greetings are a string of questions that a greeter usually attaches such as How was your night?, How work? and How your people? I am sure there are many more but now I am better prepared. Throw any greeting at me and I will respond confidently with the “catch all” response; I thank God o! (The ‘O’ at the end of the sentence is optional, but I like it)

* The title of this post has its origins in a conversation I had with one of my regular taxi guys. Two days had elapsed since I had ridden in his taxi so I was surprised to see him flashing my phone. (To flash in the context of mobile phones is to ring someone’s phone and hang up before they respond as means of getting that person to call you back) Thinking I had forgotten something in his car, I broke my ‘ignore all flashers’ rule and called him back. Upon picking up his phone he happily informed me “Auntie O! I just de greet you!” Still couldn’t work out whether it was just a sweet gesture or a smart business move or a bit of both; but it made me happy.

Nyanya is the Kiswahili word for grandmother and tomato ( I have never known why the two share the same word in Kiswahili – any takers?)

Kubwa in Kiswahili means big.