Self Editor’s Note: American evangelical fanatics have succeded in rallying Africans to persecute gays because we beleive in white supremacy.
THERE IS a joke among Africans about how colonialism began. A Christian missionary came with a Bible in hand, told our ancestors to bow their heads for a prayer, and when they opened their eyes their land was gone. Today, the same can be said about African constitutions.
American religious right-wingers are flocking to Africa and are having more success in passing new legislation criminalizing homosexuality there than they are having in Alabama, Mississippi and Georgia.
The most vicious of those laws is in Uganda, where Parliament is now considering a bill that would make some homosexual acts punishable by death. Although they have denied it, evidence suggests that American right-wingers are in the forefront of this war on homosexuality.
Among them is the Fellowship Foundation, better known as the Family, a secretive but powerful evangelical club that includes U.S. senators and congressmen. Republican senators Jim Inhofe, Tom Coburn, John Ensign, Jim DeMint and Sam Brownback belong to the group. The group includes members like Mike McIntyre, a conservative Democratic congressman, who believes that the Ten Commandments are “the fundamental legal code for the laws of the United States.”
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Tags: David Bahati, kapya kaoma, reindard bonnke, religious fanatics, Scott Lively, senator brownback, senator inhofe, the family, the fellowship, ugandan anti-homosexuality bill 2009, US Evangelicals, white supremacy, Yoweri Museveni
Self Editor’s Note: In this tale from the back of the bus, Our Man in America begs Afrocentric parents to consult a Swahili-English dictionary before giving their children “Swahili” names.
MANY YEARS ago a friend invited me to her college graduation ceremony. There, she introduced me to a fine, young African-American woman.
“This is Maisha,” my friend said.
As soon as my friend left to attend to “bid day” business, I began to plot.
“Maisha,” I turned to the woman in the sexiest voice possible. “Do you know what your name means in Swahili?”
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Self Editor’s Note: Yay, ill wishers! It took him more than three days but Our Man in America has resurrected. He survived the crucifixions of Jay C’s holidays!!!!!!!!!
WHY GONE for so long? In the spirit of Christmas, I’ve been playing this game called “Spend All Your Money and See What Happens.” Don’t play this if you have a home, a wife and kids, albeit imaginary.
I’ve gotta tell you, when an American says he’s going to buy you a beer, please say no. They are not like “you people,” who when you say, “Let me buy you a drink” mean, “You are my brother. You won’t owe me shit.” <== I don’t usually talk like this. I’m in bar mode, pissed off and broke, but not drunk. Can you imagine how fucked up that is?
Anyways, so I’m sitting alone at a bar when one of “these people” approaches me, points to the stool next to me and asks, “Is anyone sitting here?”
“Yes,” I answer. “My wife is, but you can sit on her. That bitch is invisible and mean.”
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Self Editors Note: The holidays bring “friends” and “loved ones” you haven’t heard from since the same time last year. Don’t be afraid to tell them to go back to the caves.
CHANCES are, like me, you have people “in your life” who haven’t returned repeated calls or e-mails since the last holiday season. (The nightly calls from your relatives in Africa asking for dollars do not count. They never even say hello, or thank you for the millions of shillings — and I’m not talking Zimbabwean — you sent them last week. Do Asians, Latinos and other poverty-ridden people of color have this problem?).
Ma is sick. Yes, again. Our family witchdoctor says the ulcers come from too much stress. Ma says you getting married and giving her grandchildren will definitely solve the problem, but for now dollars seem to work just fine. We shopped on credit for Christmas, so please send the money. I’m already at Western Union and MoneyGram isn’t far.
Many of the creeps aren’t even on Facebook, so when you’re stressing about why they don’t return calls you can’t poke them — without a stick and still brag to the world that you have achieved the difficult task of poking a creep across the continent. (I love the Facebook tool, though. How else could I poke all the 47 the girls I have a crush on, plus the 32 virgins I fantasize about, in just over a minute?) Read more ›
Self Editor’s Note: A few days ago Our Man in America posted a Facebook status update saying he likes to walk into his empty apartment and announce, “Honey, I’m home.” What he didn’t tell you was that, indeed, Invisible Honey lives in the apartment.
I HAVE never met my wife in person, but this woman I live with is bitter. For the sake of political correctness, let me just tell you that I’m not even sure Invisible Honey is a woman. But because I love women (I neither love, nor hate men) I’m going to assume and wish that my invisible spouse is a woman.
She neither cooks, nor cleans.
Before you scream, “You African male chauvinistic pig!” let me tell you that some of my best friends are feminists. Berkeley types. I don’t mean that a wife has to do every chore in the house, but I go to work, goddamn it! My neighbors are my witnesses; I have told my wife loud and clear — usually in the late hours of the night when my poor neighbors are trying to sleep — to get her ass up and get a job. But evidently invisible wives have neither the ears, nor the desire to support the feminist agenda. Read more ›
Self Editor’s Note: Yeah, you heard him. Our Man in America is a freaking loser.
I’M A FREAKING LOSER. Really. Seriously. I am.
I’ll tell you why. Recently, a girl I have had a crush on for 107 years, but one that rejected me — “… best friends forever” — told me she wanted to hang out. What do you think I said? So we are in her crib watching movies and drinking vodka when she tells me that she had broken up with her boyfriend.
“Awwww. I’m sorry, honey,” I said in the most caring voice, like an American mother consoling little Timmy after a fall off his tricycle.
Do you think my empathic expression was genuine? (That’s a rhetorical question).
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Self Editor’s Note: A few weeks ago, Our Man in America got on stage to tell jokes to his fellow Kenyans. They booed him. A week later when he stood in front of Nigerians to tell the same jokes, they showered him with money. After weeks of gathering pieces of his broken heart, he understands that the rejection by Kenyans had nothing to do with the fact that a prophet is never accepted at home.
THE KENYAN audience was full of young people in their early 20s. To understand why they booed me, I had to look back at my first years in America. I was young, naive and full of misconceptions. At one, two, three, four, even five years I was at the stage in America when I thought that I had hit a jackpot — that I had escaped poverty. I was still converting my hourly wage into Kenyan shillings and — realizing that I earned more than my friends who were doctors in Africa — I thought I was up to bigger things.
At five years in the United States I have seen Africans still wearing a suit to every party — even to a BBQ on the beach — because they think it is the look of success.
My hypothesis was confirmed a few weeks after the performances when I met one of the Kenyans who booed me. I didn’t recognize her, but I knew she was Kenyan because she wore a jacket with the colors of the Kenyan flag. I greeted her in Sheng — the language of the youth — the Kenyan equivalent of Spanglish. Read more ›
Self Editor’s Note: Our Man in America might have survived the Swine Flu (H1N1) <== (Doesn’t that sound like something an immigrant needs to stay in America legally?) but he has been hit by a severe case of Writer’s Block (W1B1). Blame Thanksgiving goat-meat feasts and post-traumatic day job stress disorder. He will be back soon.
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Self Editor’s Note: Ekegusii, the language of Our Man in America’s ancestors.
WHEN three years ago, my hero, renowned Kenyan novelist, playwright and scholar, Prof. Ngugi wa Thiong’o, told me to think about writing in Ekegusii, I said, “Get out of here.” (Not to his face, of course). wa Thiong’o writes mostly in Gikuyu and has his work translated into English. (By the way, Mwalimu, if you are reading this, please know Wizard of the Crow is too big to read in bed. I suffered a broken nose when my hands gave up, but knowing the state of the Kenyan judicial system, I’m not going to sue your publisher. Just tell me “Weep not, Child” and I’ll be OK).
Last week I had my first-ever story written in the language of my ancestors published.
Yes, I know, but those Standard III (Third Grade) letters I wrote asking my classmate Nyaboke to sleep with me for a couple of passion fruits do not count as stories. In my days passion fruits grew wild in forests — we had forests back then — and I had to crawl through thorny trees and climb the tall trees the fruit vines wrapped themselves around, so don’t judge me.
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Self Editor’s Note: Oh, my (expletive) god! You have no idea what just happened to Our Man in America tonight!
I WAS taking the last sip of my bloody (literary) cocktail when I realized that the brim of the mug hits the top of my nose. Weird because I remember yesterday when the same brim hit my forehead.
I remember Mama giving me a mug of white maize meal porridge that young and greedy me insisted — usually by crying — that Ma fill it up to the brim. Gawd, I’ve used the word brim three times already. Or is it four times? My math sucks, Dad, despite all the belts and whips you spent on me. Read more ›
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