Whites Only

In my effort to document the British colonial experience in Kenya, most of my interviews have been with rural dwellers. Their interviews reveal the system of indirect rule that the British used. Policies- including some forms of forced labor- were carried out through local leaders, but direct contact with British settlers was limited (in the area of Kenya I am staying). Thus, I began to develop a picture of 20th century colonialism- at least before independence movements occurred- as a dehumanizing but often distant force.

And then I interviewed Mr. And Mrs. Menya.

I have known the Menyas for some time now. They live in one of the wealthier parts of Kisumu town, in contrast to the mud houses and village setting I have become used to. They are also one of the few interviews I don’t need a translator for; perfectly fluent in English, they have even traveld to the U.S to visit their children. Although Kisumu is their ancestral home, they spent many years in Mombasa- on the opposite side of the country, and culturally different. Mr. Menya worked for the Kenya pipeline, Mrs. Menya for Barclays Bank. Mrs. Menya grew up in Mombasa, while her husband spent his childhood between his village and Nairobi.

Nairobi, Mr. Menya tells me, Africans were not allowed to drink beer at local cafes. They were also not allowed to wear shoes with socks, and if you interacted with a white, you had to wear a tie. Buses were segregated. As a child, he once climbed a tree nursed by the colonial municipality- and once caught, he was caned; “I started hating trees.” During the time of the Mau Mau- or independence war, the white- only areas of Nairobi were surrounded in barbed wire. Mrs. Menya’s experience in Mombasa was similar. Africans had been brought to Mombasa to work on the railway or quarries. If an African entered the whites only area of Tudor, he or she would be caned, maybe even sent back home to the village. If they were caught eating mangos on white farms- also risked being “deported.”

And here we are, black and white, sitting together and talking, taking tea the Kenyan way- with milk and lots of sugar. We talk about Kenyan politics, about how Americans cheat you when naming their foods; there is no buffalo in buffalo wings, no dog meat in hot dogs. Mrs. Menya told me, at one point, that she was disappointed I had a boyfriend. She wanted me to marry her son.

I read somewhere that Kenyans have an enormous capacity to forgive. Given the brutal history of their occupation and all the grievances that could be brought to the table, it is something to admired