Karaoke and Gay Marriage

Wednesday evening at the Bella Vista is Karaoke Night. A two-story sports bar with flat screen TV’s and speakers pulsing American Top 40 tunes, the Bella Vista could be anywhere. I find Mary and Jerusa, my FSD program coordinators and karoake partners for the night, sitting on the deck overlooking Moi Avenue. The street is uncomfortably calm, restless and exposed without the intimate chaos of the day. I grab a seat, order a beer, and decide that this evening, I will sing Gladys Knight.

This past week, it was reported that two Kenyan men were married. The story itself was a relatively fair account--the men were married in UK, the first Kenyan couple to take advantage of the Civil Partnership Act. Yet, the piece carried a self-conscious, almost eager tone, unapologetically aware of potency of its words. The national press ran it as the front-page feature, and it rang through the streets like a siren.

When my name is called, I bound to the tail end of the bar and grab the microphone. As the first notes of ‘Midnight Train to Georgia’ fill the space between awkward lovers, I close my eyes, crick my neck, and slide into the first ooooh LA with the necessary swagger to counter my questionable voice. I nail the first verse. Yet, as I move to Gladys’ refrain, I would rather live in his world/then live without him in mine, I become acutely aware of my surroundings--the whispers of Swahili, questioning eyes passing across tables, and my sudden isolation, as I sing a love song to a man.

In a land that values the family unit above all else--the right of a man to work and then rest, and the responsibility of a woman to honor through servitude--homosexuality is the worst kind of other. It is a non-starter, existing only in hushed whispers or child-like cruelty. An unnatural phenomenon, homosexuality is derided with a fervor that can only be cultivated by the fear of something that one cannot understand. There are only so many things that make a mother abandon her son. Of course there is a vibrant gay scene, yet it is one that must grow, like root vegetables, beneath the surface to survive. Parties are planned in secrecy. The location is never publicly disclosed; individuals in the know are told where to be and whom to be with. Shepherded, like illegal immigrants, just to dance, and flirt, and fuck.

In that moment, I could not have been more ashamed. I have always taken pride, and often great pleasure, in subverting normative gender roles. I have worn a dress, kissed a man, and in general, never much cared how others perceived my sexuality. With that spirit in mind, I gently chided myself and continued to belt the greatest love song ever written.

That morning, my host mom asked me if I had seen the article. I answered that I had. She asked me if I had any gay friends at home. I told her that I did. Then she asked me, with a tone more curious than accusatory, what they were like? I told her that, like my straight acquaintances, there was an equal distribution of wonderful and unbearable individuals. She looked down, scanning the paper with puzzled eyes, looking for something that would explain what she herself could not reconcile. “Its not that I hate them, I just don’t think it is natural.” There have been many moments in these first few weeks when I have felt the need to bite my tongue. Like when my host father discounts the content of an entire newspaper based on its popular Kikuyu following. Or when my host mom espouses the intellectual benefits of eating a certain type of fish. Yet, never before had my cultural reticence collided with such a sense of disgust. I wanted to tell her about those who walk to work with the fear that the sway of their hips will expose their deepest secrets. I wanted to tell her that I was not going to church on Sunday. I wanted to tell her about violence, and fear, and the people I love. I wanted to tell her so much, but feeling powerless to put those words into a language she would understand, I dropped my head down and let the hot tea extinguish the fire inside.

After my song ended, I bounded back to our table, welcomed with the obligatory nods of support. I leaned over to Mary and, seeking some sort of western world solidarity, forced a joke about my song choice and the state of gender politics in Kenya. She gave a quick chuckle and whispered back, “yeah, but you are a mazungu, you can do whatever you want.” I leaned back in my chair and took a sip of beer, feeling safe and uncomfortable in my privilege. Staring out into the vacant street, I thought about how shadows move, and about how, while Gladys may rather live in someone else’s world, too many people don’t have the benefit of a choice.

Mzungu in Mombasa

I am walking through the oldest neighborhood in Mombasa and everyone knows it. The alleys of Old Town, still pulsing with the memories of the Arabic spice trade, bend and tangle like reeds against the Indian Ocean breeze. Old men with sad eyes prop themselves against the curb, chewing Swahili candies and chasing the fleeting shade. Muslim girls return from the market with a dinner’s worth of rice. And young boys wrestle in the street, raising clouds of dust off the swollen cobblestone. They all stare, herding me along. The arches of my feet are sore, and I have been lost for some time.

My name in Kenya is mazungu. To a tribal people, racial identity occupies a space of lesser concern. It carries neither the brutal history, nor the hegemonic social conventions that it does in the States. It is a descriptor, somehow detached from the discursive weight a colonial legacy would suggest. Yet, a closer look reveals something different. Engage a Kenyan about the growing Indian immigrant population, the roots of Swahili peoples, or the culture of European tourism, and you learn about a complex set of histories that are constantly overlapping and fighting for air. You see the tension between the peoples of the coast and the inland, underscored by their divergent claims to property ownership. You see the strange blend of resentment and emulation, cultivated through years of colonial subjugation, and now, economic dependence, that Kenyans harbor towards the Western world. You see a society equally engaged in a dialogue about race, yet one using a different set of phonetic roots. These are roots that, as a white man, garner a specific set of social responses from the people of Mombasa, and fundamentally structure almost every interaction I have.

My favorite spot in this city is a concrete terrace that overlooks the Indian Ocean. There is an old Muslim man, skin leathered by the equatorial sun, selling tea and spicy Arabic coffee. I smile and ask for Chai, he offers back a mouthful of yellow teeth and a ceramic cup filled to the brim. I take a seat next to a young African couple. Their hearts are beating fast, I can tell from the pace of their voices. On the far side of the channel, a group of naked children play in a small beach hidden beneath a ridge of cliffs. This is just one of the many beaches that line the North Coast, a stretch of land running from Mombasa up to the Lamu archipelago. Luxury resorts, serving a primarily wealthy European clientele, dot the Kenyan coastline and provide the backbone of the national economy. The tourists lounge by the pool. Or travel to Tsavo East to see the elephants. Or watch young actors, with cheap face paint, dance like "Kenyans". I finish my tea and trudge back up the concrete steps toward the road. I hand my cup to the leathery man. He tells me 40 shillings. The price, I know, is 20.

Kenyans are far more hospitable than Americans. In Swahili culture it is customary to welcome someone with multiple greetings before beginning a conversation. It is impossible to enter a Kenyan home without being given tea, or cookies, or new shirt. As a guest from a foreign land, these advances are particularly inescapable. I return home every day with new invitations for family dinners and city tours. And while I am always grateful for a home-cooked meal or a new friend, the line between hospitality and manipulation sometimes feels murky. I have met some wonderful people. People like my host family, who genuinely want to know about me. Who want to know about my culture and make me feel comfortable and empowered in their own. Other times, I am approached by jovial streetwalkers selling necklaces or safaris. Shown off, like a new puppy, to friends of friends. These people know nothing about me besides the color of my skin. Their interest and overtures, while benevolent, often seem rooted in something less sincere--if I befriend a mazungu, good things will happen.

I peer into a corner market to check the price of shampoo. With my head turned away from the road, I feel a quick prick in the back of my head. I turn to see a young boy bolting down the street, straw and spitball in hand. After twenty yards he wheels around with a look of curiosity and fear. I shoot him a soft smile, recognition that his assault was taken in good taste and will go without retribution. He bursts into laughter. Scurrying towards his group of friends, he returns triumphant—he has hit the mazungu! I have long since given up hope of being inconspicuous in this strange place. I will excavate this old city, but it will be with one million eyes following me as I go.