White African

There is something about this continent. Every writer, published or not, ever to touch her soil knows what it means, but it will remain unspoken. Listen to this: He had disappeared into history as water in sand and she rediscovered him only now , when music was thrown over the sea. ( Marguerite Duras ) Yes, it is storytelling. The profound deepth of storyness, where cinematisation has given up a long time ago. More than just a storyboard. Here is only sea, water and the sky.

For a decade or so I have been coming and going to Kampala - a truly African City as close to the heart of Africa as you will ever get. That was probably what also the British were thinking when they build the railroad from the coast of Mombasa all the way to the border of Congo. During my time in Kampala (a place that I can sincerely say that I love) I have thought about being a white man among black men and women. Although I never seem to come up with good conclusions or answers, then it has given me ever lasting joy. I have always tried to be one of the crowd. Maybe not the most obvious ambition. My gratitude for the way I have been treated has always been tremendous. I have very rarely, if ever, been in a place, where people around me treated me with so much kindness, hospitality and respect as in Kampala. This is one of the many reasons why I call Uganda my African home. Recently I have come across Nada Andersen via Facebook. She is worried about the relationship between Ug...

I am constantly being asked - and more and more so - where I come from. This has happened increasingly since 2005. I am not sure what I am doing to deverve that question. Every time I answer by stating that I am Danish I see a disappointment - especially if the answer comes from a(nother) foreigner. I 2005 I returned from Uganda - for the first time. By that time I felt very strange and maybe for a while a little bit like a foreigner. I would not say that I feel like a foreigner now, but I feel alienated, whereever I am. Right now I am reading a book about two sisters, one white, or skin-coloured as she call herself. She is supposely Danish, another is Black American. Atlanterhavet vokser Can we talk about our cross-etnical heritage? I do not even know if it is about etnicity or culture, but what is culture anyway! I, myself do not have any colour, so after all I do not know anything about these issues - or do I? The words of the skin-coloured sister in the book does not ma...

As far as I can remember, I have been excluded. I never felt any sense of belonging. I was afraid of the crowd. So terrified that I had to place myself inside every crowd on my way in order to feel alive. I was looking for an entry point for existence - something I have never achieved. For decades I walked along walls to be invisible. Better not to be seen, than being victim of alienation. After years of sweeping floors I am convinced I do not belong. Then I began to travel the world. It did not give me belonging, but made me accept myself. Without the world I would have been nothing.

One evening he walks with his girlfriend by the hand. It is very late at night downtown Nairobi. They have been out all night dancing and drinking. Just as they turn around a corner near City Market a boy approach them from behind as if he comes from nowhere. He asks if they know each other. The boy wants him to pay for her - as if she is a prostitute. She tries to talk to the boy. The boy is aggressive and follows them. He tells his girlfriend not to talk, but walk fast. He wants them to get out of there as quickly as possible. He walks faster and tries to make her do the same. She is scared and looks back to keep an eye on the boy. The boy talks on the phone as if he is calling somebody for assistance. They walk straight. The boy seems to have given up, but he is still in the background. They turn around the corner of the street where their hotel are located and have escaped the danger. They are now safe. They enter the hotel room and are on the bed. She is shaking. He holds he...

I meet him in sleazy bars. We talk secretly and silent about our lives. Though I am not saying that the information we exchange has a very intimate relationship to the truth. But then again, the truth is an overrated commodity. He tells me about his life in Africa. At least this is what he calls the place he frequent goes to. Africa - a rather broad concept, I should think. Most of the time we talk about women; probable a very male and heterosexual topic. But I guess it is because this is what we are. Sometimes I wonder if he will ever settle down and enjoy only ONE woman. He will immediately respond that he has tried, but he failed to keep her or maintain her, as he choose to express it. For European ears it might sound very exploitative, but it is not. Only a form of expression. In his defense he concludes that it will be a very long time before he can imagine a women he dares to trust enough to rely on her completely. I find it a very cynical verdict. This time he ...

Geoffrey died last night. I remember him with great joy from Jekaki Band. When I was living in Kampala from 2003 to 2005 the 4 boys were everywhere. Always behind leading musicians and at National Theatre every Monday evening. I have always wanted to write stories about Jekaki Band and these 4 boys, which stopped being boys long time ago. Unfortunately Geoffrey will not be around to read my story. My mistake - an inexcusable hesitation. There were a special energy between them and in Jakaki Band, that we ought to remember and recapture, but such an energy will not last forever:-( But the band have had great influence for many musicians in Kampala. All 4 of them were and are great artist. Later on after I moved back to Denmark Jakaki Band traveled to Denmark and other European countries to perform. They also performed just around the corner from where I live in Copenhagen. It was a very nice experience to see them in this very different setting, though the venue was no...