Long Distance Call

I think Africa is calling me. I've never had a calling before. Well, if I have I've never listened. I have a raison d'être, but I believe there is a distinction between the two. To me, a calling concerns an aspect of life, it doesn't have a permanence, whereas a raison d'être is more of an over-arching theme of one's existence. Africa seems to be telling me something at the moment. It has developed an omnipresence in my life the past few days. This fascinating and mysterious continent will not let me be. I think it is taunting me, or possibly just beaconing me. Either way, whether its intentions are sinister or not, Africa wants me. It wants me bad.

Last night after somehow being compelled to spend a considerable amount of time researching the history of Dutch settlement in southern Africa, I retired to my bed in hope of some much needed sleep. However, this hope was fairly optimistic of me. You see, as I was devouring various related pages of the Wikipeida from Voortrekkers to Basters, I was also illegally downloading the debut album from New York's Afrobeat-Post-Punk-Popsters, Vampire Weekend. Whilst I was suspicious of both the hype and especially the premise of the band, I was persuaded by the positive review in Pitchfork to at least investigate them. Being someone of an inquisitive nature I decided that it was necessary for me to at the very least spend some time attempting to understand their art. What I wasn't expecting from this investigation was it to morph into adoration. However that is exactly what happened. I put the album on to listen to as I fell asleep, however after the first couple of songs any tiredness that I may have felt had been dispersed. The music was fantastic and left me feeling quite excited. I decided I needed to listen to the rest of the album with headphones on. What makes Vampire Weekend's style acceptable is that the music is just as much Glasgow as it is Ghana. This and the fact that their lyrics make no reference to Africa whatsoever makes you realise that these are indie-kids who have happened to stumble across a few West African and South African pop records, and not some arsehole hippies trying to connect themselves spiritually to the mystique of the continent. The band makes one concede that it is possible to appreciate African music as a westerner without being either patronising or a fucking wanker.

Realising that I wasn't going to be sleeping for a while I decided that I required something to eat. I ventured to the kitchen to reheat a bowl of my own secret recipe special fried rice that I had made earlier in the evening. After microwaving the contents of the bowl to a sufficient temperature for consumption I sat myself down on the couch and activated the television with its remote controlling device. As the pixels formed a coherent picture my eyes saw before them the unmistakable savanna of an African nation. I quickly flicked through the television guide to the appropriate page and discovered that the film being broadcast was titled I Dreamed Of Africa. The story was based on the autobiography of an Italian writer who had moved to Kenya. Kim Basinger, with her unmistakable Mediterranean complexion, was the obvious choice for the lead role. In the film she sends her son to a school for the remnants of Britain's colonial exploits in East Africa. As I had been researching Dutch settlement in southern Africa earlier in the evening, the portrayal of lesser known Caucasian communities in Africa fascinated me. Immediately my mind drifted back to the December of 2006. I had found myself at a party in the Winsor Hotel on Spring Street. It's not usually the sort of establishment that I would find myself in, however, I was there regardless. At the party I met a white girl from Zambia. I had no idea that there was a white population of any significance in Zambia but she informed me that there was. I was more than a little intrigued. I began to bombard her with questions related to her lifestyle. After I no doubt said something she found offensive, she insisted to me that white Zambians were nothing like the stereotypes of whites in South Africa and Zimbabwe. Of course I was well aware that not all of those descendant from European settlement in Africa were similar to how they are portrayed in cheap characterisations. In fact one of my very good friends is a Namibian of German ancestry and both he and his South African wife are delightful people. That said, I am nothing if not a trouble maker, and as a result the protests of my new Zambian acquaintance were met with mocking suspicion.

As I returned to my bed to once again attempt to sleep, my mind began racing with thoughts of some the things I find inticing about Africa: Ethiopian food, Somaliland's declaration of independence from Somalia, Hashim Amla's beard, Jan-Berrie Burger's 85 against England in the 2003 cricket World Cup, Harkeem Olajuwon, Henry Olonga's singing career, the Republic of Congo and the Democratic Republic of Congo, N!xau and 11 year-old Moroccan boys. If I was being led to Africa there was always going to be ample points of interest for me, but what plan the continent had for me I was still unsure. Am I destined to write about Kenyan cricket? Or the return of the Indian community to Uganda after their expulsion by Idi Amin? Am I meant to become an aid worker in the Sudan, or sew my wild oats on a two month drug-fueled sex tour from Cairo to Johannesburg? As much as I have pondered these questions the answers still avoid me. So I have decided to wait. I'll sit in my room and wait for Africa to send me an unambiguous sign. A letter in the post with a detailed point-form outline would be the most preferable form for this communication, but failing this I will also consider dreams, visions and cloud formations.