The Real Africa(ns)

We have, most of us at least–while involved in an obscure argument about our continent with outsiders or friends–produced a self-righteous retort such as:
“But Africa is more than starving children in Somalia and child soldiers in the North, why don’t they ever show the world the other side, the good side?”
Two questions come to mind:
“What is this good side?”
“Who represents this nefarious they?”
People will come up with pleasing answers (to their ears) to the first question: ah, we have schools and roads and (teetering) skyscrapers, we speak good English, we follow all those American programs on TV, also us we have iPhone, and the rich ones have Mac, we have Nakumatt, we drive big cars etc.
The other side to the “good side” is this growing class of Uga-elite who speak English with no accent, have fairly well-paying jobs and say smart (not clever) things. They criticize the government for inopportune decisions, they spend their “chill time” in bars and the popular hang-outs, they have “coffee” dates, 5-days-a-week access to the internet at work and a 24/7 access on their phones. They make subtle jokes about our cultural influences and they know–everything.
Let us now consider the second question. The they, of course, refers to the Western media powerhouses, or perhaps to be more precise THE WEST–which we are at once most terrified and in awe of.
To put it succinctly, these two answers tell us this: “We despise the West, but we must somehow become more like them in order to move forward.”
This is the real Africa then–contemporary Africa, if you will–full of Africans struggling every day (and succeeding?) in adapting to Western standards. It follows immediately that those parts of Africa which the West uses regularly for “disaster porn” are the surreal parts, yes?
And yet the West also considers their image of Africa to be that of the “Real Africa.” Who is right?
Until today, I considered the “contemporary Africa” argument to be the solid one. After-all, ensconced in our town homes, far away from all those disasters, the West’s “Real Africa” became a fake reality, one which we could own out loud (yes, there is a lot of suffering in Africa) but never really relate completely to.
Perhaps I stretch my “we” too far. I will qualify it from here on out. I refer to that generation of Ugandans who, like me, can claim English as a first language and observe traditions and odd riddles/ proverbs in conversation as though we were outsiders looking in. The class of Ugandans who “see but do not see.” We who try, but never quite fit into the age-old way of doing things–nor do we necessarily want to.

I/ we know “those things” but are separate from them because they are for “local people,” and housemaids and such.

“Oh, I’ve seen people do that before. I may have done that too, in the village, once. Those jerricans and basins, the folded piece of cloth on her head–distinctly Ugandan.”
I was looking at Scarlett Lion’s pictures here yesterday, and because they are taken from her viewpoint, I fancied that I began to see as she sees–standing separate and outside, knocking on the door of an alien culture and asking to be invited in. But as I continued to look through the pictures, especially those depicting life in Karamoja, I became aware of a separateness that was my own. I tried to picture myself in the hospitals with those people, talking to them and trying to get them to tell me about their lives, and realised–as needs be–that I would have to conjure up a translator in that picture as well, if I were anywhere at all in the country that did not speak English (broken or otherwise). I tried to speak the questions I would ask them out loud and unfortunately, this new accent I barely recognise came flooding out. What the hell–black mzungu? Am I alien now too?
A friend of mine, who I’ll fondly refer to as Ninja is an Indian who spent 18 years of his life in Zimbabwe. I have called him a “fake African” before on countless occasions. He lost on two points in my mind: he was not black and he did not speak any of the local languages. Well, yesterday I realised that the two of us are really not that much different. It was a disturbing thought.
Which is the authentic Africa? Who are the “Real Africans”? I am willing to concede that an authentic Africa encompasses both the “surreal” and “real” parts of Africa. Together, they form a jagged whole. But “Real Africans” present another conundrum altogether. Are we African because of our language, culture and way of life? Are we African because we grew up (oblivious or no) in Africa and picked up certain mannerisms? Are we African because we have known at least one day of hard labour in our lives? If you take an African who barely speaks the local language and pays no attention to the “old ways” and transplant him/ her in a radically different environment, does (s)he still remain a “Real African” discontinued as (s)he is from all hints of “home”?
I am a “fake” African. Fake in as much as I have no uniquely identifying factor left to properly sync me with my people. Fake in as much as I am now separate, with one foot hovering uncertainly over Uganda, and the other planted relatively firmly in New York City. Where is home? Where do I “fit in”?
Signed,
Disturbed.