Insomnia

I am currently going through a stretch of inconsistent and brief sleep that fear of senility is slowly bedding down in my mind. I will try to go to sleep, but I wanted to wish everyone a safe and happy weekend as we prepare for the Super Bowl between the New Orleans Saints and the Indianapolis Colts. May the best team win.
Sleep, come to me wrapped in the smoothest silks and adorned with the most soothing of voices coveted by the sirens, themselves. Here's to hoping you come soon and sprinkle the magic sleep dust upon my aching soul to rest until the sun is accustomed to tomorrow's sky. Good night, peaceful world, may all your dreams find you with an open heart to receive them in humility and appreciation.

Radio

Recently, I took a trip to a local park to shoot some photographs and I decided, for a change, to turn on my car stereo and listen to the radio. I'm a big fan of radio programs, but I find myself annoyed by the commercial advertisements which all seem to be done by the same three or four people with the most annoying voices you could find in any creation. On this particular day, I decided to turn to a Christian station and I am glad I did for the program transported me back to my young days in my native Central African country of Rwanda.

Rwanda, in the late eighties and early nineties, was a place lagging behind...okay, faaaar behind...technologically as we had one national radio station, which did not operate twenty-four hours a day. Later on, around nineteen-ninety-three, if I'm not mistaken, a second radio station was created. About a year or so earlier, a television station had been created also, but this was a luxury many people, including us, did not have the pleasure of indulging in. So, the radio - our dear radio - was the link that connected the whole country. News, music, death notices, soccer matches, all came to us through the radio and it was not unusual to find the whole household - and a few neighbors who were unable to afford one of their own - seated around a single, mono set cheering on their respective soccer teams or just listening to some program the way people in advanced countries gather around the television. For these people, imagination was the greatest gift bestowed upon them by a benevolent God...okay, maybe second greatest after the radio.
One of our favorite programs was broadcast theater. Every Tuesday night around nine o'clock, we would all be done with our chores and assembled in my grandfather's living room with our eyes fixated on the stereo perched on the fireplace mantle as the sounds emanated from it and gave us a high few addicts are able to top. For as long as the program ran, we sat there...hearts pounding, hands clasping armrests in anticipation, sweat dotting foreheads...captivated until it finished.
When we gather to reminisce about our childhoods, we never fail to finish without talking about "ikinamico," the Kinyarwanda name for theater, loosely translated into "cultural play." Sad to say, but I remember more of the occasions than what the plays themselves were about. What is mostly ingrained in my memory is the feeling...the ambiance...of  it all.
So, as I turned on the radio and listened to the program they had on, my memory took a few steps back in time and I was reminded of those times when we would gather around the radio and listen to stories not unlike the one I was now listening to. They both tackled issues of contemporary concern such as marriage, jobs, and, in the case of the one I was recently listening to, identity theft. It would be an understatement if I claimed to have enjoyed it.
Maybe we need more programs like that to counter the effects of television. Television rarely, if ever, excites one's imagination into compiling an entire set of scenes based on oral stimulation. Instead of us painting our sets, the director and the set designer set it up for us visually so that all we have to do is use our eyes and nothing else...okay, maybe hands and mouth to stuff ourselves with some unhealthy snacks. No name for a television set could be more appropriate than the oft-used "idiot box."
Listening to the radio program, I was transported with the subjects to the cafe where they worked, the used car lot where they hoped to find clues about the identity thief, and other locations that were often highlighted by simple sounds enough to evoke the image in my mind. More programs like these can benefit today's children who grow up accustomed to being shown everything they want to see in order for a scene to have complete meaning to them. For example, you see movies with elaborate special effects such as a car blowing up on the expressway, causing a pileup and the main character barely escaping - sometimes, barely scathed. They show you the minutest detail so you don't have to do any thinking, or wondering, on your own as to what else could have transpired.They give you no opportunity to work on your creativity, which might extend to other areas of life where creativity might aid you, such as career advancement.
I hope there are more theatrical programs on the radio and, if you know any, please bring them to my attention.

The Issue of Language

Much has been proposed about language by writers in exile and two classes, represented by two well-known writers, have formed around these propositions. On one hand, you have Ngugi wa Thiong'o who advocates writing in one's native language and having your work, then, translated to other language. On the other hand, you have Chinua Achebe who represents the class of writers who find it acceptable to write in the language of their former colonial masters even if they might harbor some misgivings about the colonists' deeds. Both of these stalwarts of African literature have valid points and comparing their views is like the proverbial apples and oranges comparison.
Starting with Ngugi, it is imperative to provide literary works to your own people who cannot read colonial languages such as French, English, Spanish, or Portuguese. To him, this was as important as writing and he started writing in his native Kikuyu. This did not stop his work from being translated, but looking at him and trying to emulate him might be dangerous for an aspiring writer.
Ngugi, when he decided to make the radical move, was already a well-respected writer who made a name for himself as a writer, editor, and professor in his native Kenya. He already had a following and a relationship with a publisher who was willing to promote his personal stance as a publicity and marketing ploy. To a new writer, especially one in exile, you might find that your traditional language market is insignificant and repelling to the publisher.
This is something a writer can do after he/she has tackled the larger market and wants to build a fan base among the smaller market of just his/her own people.
Chinua argues that a writer is to find a middle ground in his use of language as a medium for his story-telling. Not only is this more viable to an unestablished writer, but it is also easier for the readers as they don't have to scramble or wait for a translated work.
I would love to be able to put to use the vast vocabulary and wealth of my native Kinyarwanda, but I'm unable to write much in it. I used to enjoy reading Kinyarwanda newspapers and books, but now I only become frustrated as that ability has slowly eroded with the passing years in exile. Writing in it is out of the question for me, but I hope to be able to have some of my work translated into it in the future. For now, I hope to reach more people through English, which is not the language of Rwanda's colonizers, and show them an opening into my people's lives, customs, and traditions.
However, I know that if I was to be be fluent in Kinyarwanda there is absolutely no doubt that I would write in it. I have a memory of its beauty as I read it growing up, and until I can replicate that feeling, I will wait to put my work in it, hoping to safeguard its integrity from a butchery I would subject it to in my current state.