Hearts of darkness and light: ode to an African city
Amid the disorder, from Durban to Mombasa, an indomitable spirit is bare among the people; a resilient heartbeat in the chaotic arteries of the postcolony, writes Busani Ngcaweni
Oh Durban! My eThekwini, you are not alone in perpetual regression. Like your sister cities Jozi, Freetown, Bangui, Luanda and many more, you are joining many other stepchildren of the empire. You have your Riviera and Butterworth dungeons, Jozi has the Summit and Little Roseneath, Mombasa has the Sheratton (with a double t); a deceitful misrepresentation of Trumpian proportions. Finally, my ’hood is wearing the crown of decadence bequeathed to the African city by misuse of statecraft.
Yet, with the subjectivity of coloniality suspended in the midst of the chaos of the African city, one feels a sense of perverse allure. It is the tempestuous dance, where the rhythm of disorder orchestrates a symphony of anger and disappointment that subsequently morphs into contentment and sudden excitement.
Without the burden of looking at the African city through the spectacles of empire, one is aroused by the raw sensuality of the turmoil, finds odd comfort in the mishmash of disarray. That is part of growing up — or a slide into a remorseful sense of helplessness; a kind of kulungile baba (all is well) attitude, as we endeavour to make peace with the status quo.
Amid the disorder, from Durban to Mombasa, an indomitable spirit is bare among the people; a resilient heartbeat in the chaotic arteries of the postcolony. In the street cafés, pavement markets and random shebeens where the aroma of ambition mates with the bitter aftertaste of uncertainty one comes to terms with the essence of stubborn African urbanity.
Here, amid the tired tables, screeching airconditioners and water-shy floors, lies a microcosm of defiance, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. The will to live outlives the reality of the contemporary moment of morass and deferred futures. After all, which pandemic and endemic has the African city not outlived (apart from religion)? Waking up the following day is the only effective morning-after pill in these labyrinthine streets, and an antidote to colonial designs and neocolonial entanglements.
However, this defiance of the nervous conditions of poverty and despair is not merely a reaction to external forces. It is a sign of triumph over democratic indifference where the elite exclusively enjoys the dividends of “independence”. For many denizens of the African city, authorities are emperors whose promises ring as hollow as the decaying infrastructure. Instead of being hailed as agents of modernisation, they are caricatured, often correctly so, as architects of stagnation. Not even the most grotesque of memes shake them.
As bitter as it may be, the truth is that the streets of the African city bear witness to bureaucratic impotence, as potholes and cracked pavements represent conceited electoral promises of prosperity. Like half-baked vetkoeks and abandoned jigsaw puzzles, the cityscape is a patchwork of neglect, where dysfunctional street lights serve as signifiers of foregone virility and pride.
Alas, not even the Butterworth, Hilton Abuja (there is a nightclub there where all manner of innocence is cremated) and the Sheratton can cure that. Perhaps Mai Mai in downtown Jozi might have potent handmade remedies from my Zululand folks, if you can make it there and back without falling victim to the crime and grime of nearby Doornfontein and Jeppestown.
In this urban theatre of absurd people, traffic is a metaphor for societal gridlock and stagnation, and every war zone-like intersection is a testament to the state of the nation. The streets, once transmitters of lifeblood even to the most vulnerable and concealed parts of the anatomy of the polity, now resemble tangled veins choked by the cholesterol of inaction and complacency. Alisebenzi (it is not working) is the infamous outcry of despondency at precipitous levels of dysfunction and incompetence. From Harare to Djibouti City, our cities are a wasteland of Asian jalopies, a boon for second-hand clothes traders, ready for a cholera outbreak at the slightest provocation.
Like a parasite feasting on the marrow of ambition, unemployment undermines the vitality of the African city, leaving a desolate wasteland of shattered aspirations, yet making no dent in urban migration in search of the elusive “better opportunities”. Nonetheless, as pandemonium breaks loose, the irony of perverse beauty emerges in the salmagundi of insanity, confusion and despair. It is street vendors who defy economic despair with every sale, while swindling visitors and rural folks in the process, and the makeshift schools that compensate for low investment in quality education, and in the bodaboda (bicycle and motorcycle taxi) riders that rays of hope emerge.
For the elite, this menace is tantamount to jolly children barging into the parental bedroom at night without knocking, rudely disrupting an intimate moment. For many people, these are unsung heroes and heroines of the African city, and the silent revolutionaries who wage the war of survival armed with an unwavering sense of hope.
My people of eThekwini, do not think this is a romanticisation of what you have been experiencing lately or a glorification of the slide into a Marabastad-like state of dishevelment. To understand the disorder of the African city, we must open our eyes wide enough to be able to double-check the difference between the Sheratton and Sheraton, as they lead to different bodily temptations of cash and flesh.
The former, with an extra “t”, is a brothel that deceived my travel agent to subject my body to sleepless nights as its nightclub DJs only abandon the decks at 4am, leaving hotel guests with only a few hours to revitalise under the intermittent overhead sprinkler. At least you can risk a stroll outside in Mombasa at night, as you can in Addis Ababa and Kigali without much apprehension. However, you dare not stray from the Butterworth in Durban or in Mogadishu, unless you are in a hurry for a spontaneous encounter with your ancestors.
Of course, the multitudes who travelled to Ivory Coast for the football might have a different story to tell. From the television screens, Abidjan has a grandeur that struggles against the stillness of the postcolonial African city. Behold, all stepchildren of the empire are collectively identified by their decadence and indifference towards sustained development. Alas, let progress and success prevail on the continent.
Postscript: I live in the future, not the past. Therefore I am not nostalgic about any glorious past I was not party to, and which, in all likelihood, was unkind to my ancestors.