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'Natives' Is A Startling Novel About Sex, Migration And Stereotypes Of African Virility

Equatoguinean author Inongo vi Makomè's 'Natives' is the raw story of an immigrant sex-worker in Barcelona.

Inongo vi Makomè, author of Natives


Published last year without a lot of publicity, Inongo vi Makomè’s Natives is one of the very few African novels that have been translated into English from Spanish. It’s an entertaining and very explicit story about an African gigolo and a pair of under-sexed bourgeois ladies; it’s about refugees in Europe, Barcelona, and what it means to be African in the West. There are also some passages that made me uncomfortable and I’ll get to that in a moment.

But first we need to pause and reflect on the fact that it was written in Spanish, and how that could happen. After all, there isn’t that much African literature in Spanish. Equatorial Guinea is the only country on the African continent with a sizable Spanish-speaking population—with the exception of Morocco, whose writers are much more likely to use Arabic, French, or even English—and it’s not a big country, about the size of Massachusetts (with a tenth the population). But the real problem is political. Along with the linguistic barriers imposed by its quirk of colonial history, decades of dictatorial (mis)government—both before and after oil was discovered in 1990—have tended to cut the artists and writers of Equatorial Guinea off from the rest of the continent, and even from each other. As for the rest of the world, well… so long as the oil keeps flowing, the rest of the world is content to forget that Equatorial Guinea exists.

In the last few years, a few translators and publishers have managed to bring a handful of Equatoguinean works into English, but you quickly start seeing the same names over and over again. Before Michael Ugarte translated Natives, his 2008 translation of Donato Ndongo’s Shadows of Your Black Memory had been the first Equatoguinean novel in English, followed by Justo Bolekia Bolekå’s book of poetry, Löbëla, and by Jethro Soutar’s 2014 translation of Juan Tomás Ávila Laurel’s By Night The Mountain Burns. They’re remarkable books, but after that, our pickings become extremely thin: World Literature Today put together a mini-section on Equatorial Guinea, including an excerpt from a play by Recaredo Silebo Boturu (who was also anthologized in Africa39); You can find a short story called “Government Property” by Trifonia Melibea Obono Ntutumu, also translated by Souter, and there’s a graphic novel by Ramón Esono Ebolé, called Obi’s Nightmare, which was translated by David Shook and should come out sometime in 2016.

You can get a sense for what it’s like to be a writer in Shook’s marvelous mini-documentary about going to Equatorial Guinea to find the poet Marcelo Ensema Nsang:

There is a lot that we are missing, of course. The first Equatoguinean novel was published in 1953—five years before the “father of African literature” published his first novel, Things Fall Apart—but Leoncio Evita Enoy’s Cuando los combes luchaban has not been translated, and I can’t imagine how you’d find a copy. The same is true for the next Equatoguinean novel—Una lanza por el Boabí (1962), by Daniel Jones Mathama—and most of the others that follow. If you’re interested, the Wikipedia entry for Equatoguinean literature in Spanish is actually very nicely put together (most of it’s cribbed from an essay by Mbaré Ngom, called “La literatura africana de expresión castellana: La creación literaria en Guinea Ecuatorial”) but it’s a depressing testament to the ordeal of the Equatoguinean writer that the literature can be so easily enumerated and summarized.

The other depressing thing about Equatoguinean literature is that so much of what writing there is was written from exile, or is focused on the diasporic experience. This is not because Equatorial Guineans are “Afropolitans”; it is because so many Equatoguineans do not or cannot live in Equatorial Guinea. In the first decades of independence, state repression was so brutal that by the time the first dictator was overthrown by his nephew—who would become the second of two presidents-for-life—nearly a third of the country’s population had fled the country. Conditions briefly improved after the 1979 coup, but though some of the writers from this lost generation—like Donato Ndongo and the poet Juan Balboa Boneke—returned from exile, the “boom” in Equatoguinean literature didn’t last. Few of even those writers stayed: Boneke passed away last year after many years in Spain and Ndongo has been a voice of dissent from abroad for nearly a decade. María Nsué Angüe was the first Equatoguinean woman to write a novel—Ekomo (1985)—but, today, she lives in Spain. Of the younger generation, virtually all of them live north of the Mediterranean: Guillermina Mekuy has spent most of her life in Spain; Victoria Evita (the daughter of Leoncio Evita, Equatorial Guinea’s first novelist) lives in Madrid. Juan Tomás Ávila Laurel fled to Spain until his request for asylum was denied; now, though he has returned to Equatorial Guinea, he lives in hiding.

***

Inongo vi Makomè’s Natives is “African Immigrant Literature,” if we must classify it; it’s probably the sort of thing that Okayafrica columnist Siyanda Mohutsiwa declared, on Monday, that she was “done with.” Inongo vi Makomè was partially educated in Equatorial Guinea—he was born just across the border in Cameroon—but today, like the characters in his novel, he lives in Barcelona. Like so many of the Equatoguinean literary diaspora, he lives in Spain, and writes about it. And diaspora has a tendency to blur details of origin: in Barcelona, Africa is Africa and an African is an African.

The story begins when two upper-class, middle-aged career women decide they want to purchase an African to service them sexually. Because of what they are—and what they think Africans are—the plan makes a lot of sense to them. They are busy women, either too busy to find love or too successful to attract any Spanish men (they suspect that the men in Barcelona are all “blind or impotent or gay”). And so, a practical solution presents itself in the person of a hired African lover. They will pay him well and keep it a secret, but there is nothing illegal about the arrangement. They have money, which he will need; he has a penis, which they want. It makes good sense to them: money for sex is the sort of thing, they reason, that an African in Spain would be glad to exchange.

One of the surprising thing about Natives is that they seem to be correct. A blurb on the back cover describes the book as a “scathing satire [that] takes the objectification of the poor immigrant to shocking extremes, laying bare the dehumanizing effects of immigration today.” But I’m not sure. Can it be a satire when Bambara Keita—a young immigrant without papers, sleeping rough in a park—finds the arrangement to be a godsend, and a practical solution to his very real problems? He has a few reservations, of course; sex with middle-aged white ladies might not be precisely what he came to Europe for. But given the practical realities of his life, he is up for it, without hesitation. Sex work is a good deal better than no work and, as he rationalizes, a man with two wives is not so unusual where he comes from.

Sex-work cannot dehumanize him, in other words; as an immigrant without papers, he is already dehumanized.

It would also be hard to call this novel “scathing.” However cold and mercenary the arrangement may seem in the abstract, it works in practice because of the characters’ very human needs, and because their lives really do fit together nicely. The two women have everything—except for the one gaping hole in their lives—and the one thing he has, basically the only thing he has, completes them quite nicely. It works. And work is constructive, after all, the labor that brings the world into existence, weaving human relationships and even community out of what begins as rough economics and need. At its best, then, the novel is curiously warm and awkward and complicated. Characters that began as clichés and fantasy caricatures—after all, the adventures of these wealthy but sex-starved Europeans and their hot-blooded and virile African gigolo seem straight out of a romance novel—evolves into a story about human beings living in a world where an arrangement like this one is anything but unrealistic.

In fact, “satire” might be exactly what this novel isn’t. Satire tends to be unstable, volatile, and unrealistic; too much realism will kill the joke, so satire is usually hit-and-run. Take Jonathan Swift’s A Modest Proposal: there are actually excellent reasons why Irish babies couldn’t be used as meat-cattle; your average 18th-century English gentleman would be horrified at the prospect of “giving ten shillings for the carcass of a good fat child [for] four dishes of excellent nutritive meat.” This is the joke: Swift mocks the utilitarian rationality that reduces human beings to economics, by suggesting that, if the rich metaphorically eat the babies of the poor, why shouldn’t they literally turn them into dishes of excellent nutritive meat? It’s funny because this could never literally happen: it’s easy to make money from child labor—or to maintain London’s commercial supremacy by immiserating Ireland or India—because economics obscures the dismal connection between exploiter and exploited. But you can’t enjoy the meat if you know how the sausage is made. And in showing how the sausage is made, Natives describes an arrangement that’s too viable, practical, and satisfactory to become anything but realistic.

Of course, there are some startlingly lengthy passages of lurid sexual detail, and since our hero turns out to be endowed with a startlingly lengthy narrative device, he wreaks orgasm after orgasm on the bodies of his employers, living up to all their fantasies about African virility. This dip into stereotypes might have been worrying if the sex weren’t also described with such a casual frankness that becomes almost ordinary, even workmanlike. The multiple-page sex scenes are explicit, but they’re not quite pornographic: for every “heights of ecstasy” that our protagonists reach—and there are a few very purple and veiny passages—we get a correspondingly wide range of bodily messiness, from bad breath to awkward silences to blood on the condom. Even the (relatively) happy ending is messy and awkward; as with sex, climaxes need to be cleaned up.

It’s hard to imagine this book having a happy ending if its hero wasn’t male. Bambara Keita’s work is physically taxing, but the dangers and demands of the job are very different than for a woman in the same position. When his employers require him to be sexually aggressive, he obediently (but carefully) “savages” their welcoming bodies; in return, they nurture him with a kind of care and attention that verges on racist, infantilizing condescension, but which is also very maternal (and not dissimilar to what the young Bambara Keita seems to imagine a “normal” polygamous relationship to be). He enjoys a very patriarchal marriage arrangement, in fact: at night, he works for their play; during the day, he plays while they work.

The contrast between Natives and a novel like Chika Unigwe’s On Black Sisters Street (2009) couldn’t be sharper. Sex work is not illegal in Barcelona, but there’s a reason why female sex-workers are lobbying for official government regulation: without protection, the work is very dangerous. Men are dangerous, as is a capitalized but unregulated sex industry for which women are simply bodies to be sold. If patriarchy puts Bambara Keita in a sustainable position, humanizing him from a position of undocumented official non-existence, Unigwe’s novel tells a very different story about African immigrant sex-workers in Europe: in her book, the central character ends up dead. Piling gendered violence on top of global economic inequality is a much less sustainable situation for the sex-workers in question. Purchasing immigrant bodies is an industry when they’re female; Natives shows us something more like artisanal sex-work, sustainably produced and free-trade.

In the end, the best thing about Natives is that it never becomes predictable. It would have been easy to write a romance novel about a hunky immigrant and his harem of rich ladies, or to satirize these ugly old hags and their dumb African stud. But perhaps because these kinds of arrangements are neither titillating fantasy nor scandalous hyperbole—because these sorts of arrangements exist—Natives eventually becomes a story of people in a world that’s as messy and as weighed down by the awkwardness of bodily needs—to eat, to be warm, and to be comforted—as sex itself. And if you’re looking for work, it helps to be a man with a good tool.

Aaron Bady is a writer and recovering academic in Oakland, CA. Check out aaronbady.com and follow him on Twitter @zunguzungu.

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Photo courtesy of Sam Soko.

Interview: Sam Soko is the Kenyan Director Behind Sundance Hit, 'Softie'

We meet filmmaker Sam Soko who has made a stirring documentary about the Kenyan protest leader Boniface Mwangi

Filmmaker Sam Soko didn't intend on making a documentary about Kenyan photojournalist-turned-politician Boniface Mwangi.

The original idea he had was to make a manual of sorts, a short video guide, on how to protest, the do's and don't's. Soko, himself an activist artist who cut his teeth convincing friends to let him create political music videos for their apolitical songs, knew Mwangi's experience on the streets both photographing protests and staging them meant he had a lot to share with others.

But then came the blood. A thousand litres of it, to be precise. And the pigs. Dozens of them, with words like MPigs written on them. Like the graphic photos Mwangi had become known for taking—it was a sight you couldn't look away from. It was a protest Mwangi organized, in 2013, to decry corrupt members of the Kenyan parliament who had decided to increase their salaries, 2 months after taking office. And at his side, through the thick red liquid of it all, was Mwangi's wife, Njeri, ready to be arrested with him.

"Once I was witness to his relationship, I started seeing him as a family man," Soko tells OkayAfrica. "Because he's planning a protest and all, but when you look at the footage, you start seeing the kids and you start seeing Njeri. That's when it started hitting me, in the sense, that she was with him in such a crazy space."

Soko formed a creative and activist hub, called PAWA 254, with Mwangi, as they became part of the groundswell demanding democratic reforms in a country still left scarred from the division sewed between Kikuyu and Luo people by British colonizers. "We had a new Constitution at the time, and there was this hope that we finally could picket without being tear-gassed or being beaten, Like, our civil liberties could be held up." Instead, the government strengthened its police force into a notorious organization condemned by human rights activists. "That's very salient in the film," says Soko. "If you see how the police dress, for instance, at the beginning, it's very different; they become more militant towards the end."

Soko's debut feature-length documentary, Softie, which became the first Kenyan film to ever premiere at the Sundance Film Festival, earlier this year, is at once a love story between Mwangi and his wife and their three children, but also between Mwangi and his beloved Kenya, under president Uhuru Kenyatta. Central to the film is the tussle between how these different loves bump up against each other: what comes first — love of country or love of family?

We spoke to the Nairobi-based director about making the film, which opens in virtual cinemas, starting this Friday, September 18th.

Boniface Mwangi with his wife Photo courtesy of Sam Soko


OA: Early on in the film, we learn how steadfast Boniface Mwangi is — he talks about being willing to die for the ideals he believes in, which made me think of Nelson Mandela and his Rivonia Treason Trial speech. Boniface is someone in the present day who still shares this belief?

When we were working on the edit, and kind of crafting and thinking about what the story was going to be, something that we found that was really, really interesting is, with a lot of the stories, like the story of Nelson Mandela, you'd never see the other side. That's something we see later, up ahead, as a retrospective. We'd hear about Martin Luther King and then we'd read about Coretta Scott in, I think, 1990, like, 'Oh, this his was her struggle.' That sort of thing. But for me, Boniface and Njeri represented a present day reality struggle that showcases what Mandela was going through, what Martin Luther was going through. That was kind of like unravelling the curtain; when you see Martin Luther marching, Coretta's at home, trying to help their kids do their homework. And this is the reality.

OA: And the film poses that question of love for your country versus love for your family, and which one should come first?

Exactly. They see it in different ways. Boniface sees it that if you improve the country, you improve the lives of those who you love. Njeri's like, you have to have your family's back first. And that means everything else comes second. And she's right; she's not wrong. And he's not wrong.

OA: The film really is privy to some really private moments in Mwangi's life — how did you gain his trust?

When we started filming the short video, he was really involved with the protests, and we started doing the protests with him. So we were—quote, unquote—in the trenches with him in the protests, and somehow that's how he kind of welcomed us to his home. When you've been with someone in the streets, and you're tear-gassed together more than once, you already have a common bond. But then I started developing a relationship with him that was beyond the streets. Just checking up on him and asking, what's going on, what's taking place? That sort of thing. I think it took a while. And I think even from Njeri, we kind of developed a kind of camaraderie that was separate from my relationship with Boniface, because I would actually be like, 'Hey, he said that, how does that make you feel?' And not necessarily on camera. But over time, he kind of accepted us to be there with a camera. At some point, I kind of felt like they were talking to me, and not necessarily the camera; like, the camera is kind of this thing that's there, but not there. That kind of trust, again, was built on a respect that I have for them and their values and what they're doing. I think that's something they saw. It made them trust me with their story and trust me with their family.

You're the director of the film, but you're also producer, writer and cinematographer. Did Boniface's own style as a photojournalist influence you in any way?

The film has more than one cinematographer, and a lot of my cinematography is within the intimate moments, because that's when they would only engage with someone they trust. But him being a photographer actually, to a point, made the work a bit hard because he's constantly looking at how you're doing it. He's in your face about the angle. He's like, 'Hey, why are you standing there, you should be there.' But in some places he did help 'cause he's been filming in the streets and filming protests for a very long time. So when you're there filming, he'll easily tell you, 'Dude, don't stand there. They're about to start tear-gassing. Go to the other side.' And it's weird, when you're on the other side and you're filming, and all of a sudden you see tear gas, you wonder, 'How the hell did he know?' You do that 234 times and you start knowing yourself, 'Oh, this is how,' and he was really helpful in that sense.

I can imagine that filming during the protests must have been one of the big challenges of making this film but what else did you struggle with? There were death threats for Mwangi, did that happen to you as well?

It's so funny, when you're filming and when you're in the protests, it's adrenaline talking. So you're not really thinking about whether you're going to be okay. This one time, I got arrested because the cop said I was a spy for the protesters. [We had everything] from cameras breaking to sound equipment messing up, but when it became a more political story, with death threats, it became scary even for editing the film. Because you don't know who's watching you. This one time, I was with him in the car, filming, and we were being followed. So we kind of had to be very careful who we are telling about the story. It was a very deep secret that we were making this film and there are people who are watching it now asking, 'How could you keep this from us from all these years?' Because we had to do that. Especially when the family was in the US. We had to do that for the sake of safety for him, Boniface, for his family but also the film team. I remember doing the pitches with different names. But then we were also lucky that we had our co-producing partner in Canada, Eye Steel Film, so they were able to house the edit there. I went to Canada to edit and that kind of also gives you a kind of freedom to think and work and create. That was the reality, and now I think we have PTSD from the film. I can't film another protest. I'm sorry. I'm out. Like, it tapped me out.

There are similarities to the Black Lives Matter protests here in the US, against police brutality and violence but the slogan takes on a different resonance in places like Kenya, where the police force is particularly heavy-handed. How do you see these protests as being similar but also different?

There are two things that you learn with the film. One, our voices can never be silenced. They will try, but I think humanity is like a pressure cooker. The more you boil us, the more you put that heat, the more explosive we become. And through people like Boniface's life, you see that there are human beings who exist, who do extraordinary things.

The other thing is the idea of activism doesn't necessarily just speak to the person who's on the street. It doesn't necessarily speak to the person who's holding the placard. An activist is someone like Njeri and her life, and her family. And Khadija [Mohamed, Mwangi's campaign manager]. She's such a strong and powerful activist in her own right. She was Boniface's campaign manager for free. The work they did was so powerful. And you have these other people in the background who are doing such incredible things. The sum total of what they've done is [to] instigate… We have an election next year, but I am so sure that we are going to have so many candidates who are going to be like, 'We want you to donate to our campaign. We have these values and beliefs; this is what we want to do.' That is how we need to go about change or add on to the conversations of change.

The same thing that's happening with the Black Lives Matters movement. Yes, there are people going to the street and we should keep going to the street. But we need to push people to engage in policy and make sure these policy changes are made.

We need to stand for what we believe in, as filmmakers in spaces where we feel oppression exists. Like the rules that have come out with the Academy Awards, these are rules that should be celebrated because they add on to that conversation of diversity and representation. All these things—that sum total—is what makes the difference. It's going beyond the streets and going beyond our Tweets, going beyond our Facebook messages, making films and sharing films. We just need to keep pumping up the volume, keeping the heat up, keep pushing. It's gonna take a while, but we'll get there.


Photojournalist-turned-politician Boniface Mwangi during a protest in Nairobi, Kenya Photo courtesy of Sam Soko


That's where you as a filmmaker come in—this film was the first Kenyan film to get into Sundance, where it won a special editing prize.

There's another film I'm producing and, and, yes, I had my film at Sundance, that's great. But there's this other filmmaker who's making another film, and it's so cool, and this is the thing—we need to keep bouncing off this energy and this light and this vibe, and just keep pushing and making sure that the wheels keep turning. That's what we're all about.

How do you renew your strength, as a filmmaker but also as a Kenyan and as an African?

Being a Kenyan is hard. I think being an African is hard. Like, it's hard. There's a line I heard Boniface say once: 'I love my country, but I am afraid of my government.' But the way in which, personally, I find energy is when I meet new filmmakers, or you know, people who are like starting out and they want to make films that sound totally crazy. And they believe that they can do it. And I'm like, 'yes, yes, keep going!' We are planning to do a premiere. We have not confirmed the date yet but we're thinking it's around going to be early October in Kenya, because Kenyans haven't watched it. The government gave us an adult rating.

This is the same government that banned Wanuri Kahiu's Rafiki because of its homosexual theme…

Exactly, that's what we're getting but the lemonade that we've made out of all this is, 'Guess what? This is cinema!' We're going to take it to a cinema. People are going to come to watch it in a cinema or watch it at home or watch it in the best way possible. And the people who've watched it have appreciated it as a film and a story, and their story. They've seen a reflection of themselves. That gives me so much joy because the Kenyans who've watched it, when they give you feedback, they say, this is truth; this is our truth. And they don't see just an activist. They see a couple struggling with love. They see our history in the last 10 years. And they're like, 'What the hell, we lived this?' and they see the things that are unresolved — and many things are unresolved. Seeing that reaction gives me so much strength and hope. But it's hard. It's very hard. Because, you know, you have to wake up and see the policeman getting a bribe. And you're like, 'Homie??'


"SOFTIE" Movie Poster



Watch the trailer for Softie here.

Softie | Official Trailer | A film by Sam Soko www.youtube.com

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