Prime
Political ‘racism’ and the myth of regional integration
Author: Joseph Ochieno.
What you need to know:
- ‘‘Thirty-two years on, Tanzanian roads are perfect, electric-trains are on the way”
I had had one of the toughest – possibly the roughest ride – ever the previous week; on the rear of a night-Moshi-Dar-es-salaam bus. A rough road, bumpy and speedy journey. We arrived in Dar in the morning and all that was left of my grey-to-light- green suit was nothing but brown dust. The previous evening, a Moshi ticket vendor had noticed that I was ‘foreign’, didn’t speak Tanzanian-Swahili, possibly dressed strangely, was calmer-than-average but yet enquiring perhaps rather desperately, for a seat in the bus that was due to leave for Dar-es-salaam in a couple of hours, having missed the train by narrow-minutes.
The guy managed to convince me that the bus trip was better than a day’s wait and, that the ‘wrong’ remaining seat was the best! I took it. It was the ‘longest’, loneliest, roughest and certainly the most painful single journey I have ever taken.
After my rather successful trip to Dar and despite the fact that I had nearly sworn not to risk a return trip; I did not fly back to Nairobi as I had initially instructed myself. I booked and travelled with another bus company; a good seat, respectable (certainly legal speed) back to Moshi.
At the first and only roadblock immediately after Namanga border on the Kenyan side, our taxi-bus, a Peugeot-504 estate, was stopped for routine check. Everyone produced their identifications but none was asked to get out except me – seated behind with two others. I was sized up, my handbag checked and asked to get back in.
I immediately noticed something even more sick; why only me? One of the two passengers next to me was, without prejudice, of Asian descent. The privileged guy seated at the front with the driver was, without prejudice, a White man. Like Thabo Mbeki, I am an African, holding a valid Ugandan passport. “Why only me?” I asked the police officer. He was immediately taken aback, to my irritating-self, completely surprised that I asked. I insisted and, loud. The other passengers now seemed to pretend they were not looking or rather, they were not aware of what was going on.
“Why not the Mzungu or the M-Indi?” I insisted. Noticing that the driver was now covering his face and, the officer nearly disabled and mute, I offered a free lecture for a few minutes and boarded. The ride to Nairobi was as silent as a meditation-surround next to a monastery except for two miles into the city, came a gentle request for fairs.
That was in 1989. I had travelled from London via Nairobi into Dar-es-salaam via Moshi and return. I was young, smart, gentle, considered and, as handsome as I always was. Surely, I did not look like a ‘Luweero-bandit’, a ‘Migingo-invader’ or, some Gavi-money-launderer.
The issues were two; the police officer had to ‘appear’ to be doing his job and he thought some Ugandan ‘boy’ might release some change, but sparing the tycoons from Europe and Asia, who make it nearly-for-free free in town.
You guys, what kind of ‘shameless-inferiority-complex’ makes you pick on an innocent, vulnerable, young African boy in a field of such composition?
Anyhow, there was a third, minor possibility; Uganda (under NRA/M) has fought or, threatened war with each of her neighbours except Tanzania. Around that time, there was tension between Kampala and Nairobi and if the officer thought so, he had missed the fact that it was now two years since the Kampala regime had rejected me – its own – while servicing ‘others’.
Thirty-two years on, Tanzanian roads are perfect, electric-trains are on the way. Yet, some regional rulers sing ‘integration’ and I ask, ‘really’? Integration of what; land, waters, economies, or peoples-without-consultation and mindset-change. I mean, true pan-Africanist regional-integration? Keep off being taken-for-rides, bumpy-rides fellow citizens. You decide.
The writer is a pan-Africanist and former columnist with New African Magazine
