On March 20, 1961, a young Yusuf Kodwavwala Dawood, accompanied by his wife, landed at Embakasi Airport, now Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, Nairobi, for a three-year contract in colonial Kenya, albeit one that had begun to show all indications of independence round the corner.
Welcomed by a mild drizzle, which he soon learnt meant showers of blessing in African thought, Dawood has stuck around long enough to benefit from the blessings at a very personal level, blessings that turned his three-year contract into a 55-year experience, with Kenyan citizenship to boot.
At one of the country clubs that Nairobi is known for, I had a two-hour chat with the surgeon-writer whose sharpness, both ways, is known to many Kenyans. Dawood recalls his first day in Kenya 55 years ago with vividness that scorns his now advancing years.
They were met at the airport by a hospital administrator and driven on a murram road towards the city centre. By then, giraffes and zebras had yet to be confined to the national park – “animals have right of way in Kenya,” the administrator told them as he stopped to give way to the animals, much to the excitement of his visitors.
So, what else does Dawood remember of those days? “The Union Jack was still flying over the land and the demographics were totally different. The locals were the invisible men, and Nairobi was full of expatriates occupying all the top positions in banks, the civil service, and even hospitals,” he says. “I wrote in my autobiography that the sons of the soil were the beasts of burden then, like the biblical hewers of wood and drawers of water.”
In the racially three-tiered society then, “the base was made up of the Africans, the middle layer of marzipan and nuts was Asian, and the top layer of cream and icing was European,” he says, invoking a metaphor that is a tad disturbing for its class and other suggestions.
On his experiences then, he says there was always subtle and occasional overt racism, which Dawood encountered as he fraternised in some of the members-only clubs. And he recalls a few, including one in which, when he was the resident surgeon on-call at the Aga Khan Hospital, he was barred from going to give instructions to the receptionist on where he, Dawood, could be found in case of an emergency.
“You might be a surgeon, but you are not white” – the doorman firmly told him, and with that, Dawood was reminded of his standing in a world that was racially framed.
But was it all gloom? Certainly not, as Dawood easily mentions numerous bright aspects of life in Kenya then – “cheerful, friendly, helpful, courteous, and constantly smiling people who made us extend our three-year contract to a lifetime of commitment to and love for Kenya.” In his writings, Dawood has described Kenya as a smiling nation. In my conversation with him, he adds “beautiful beaches, lakes, mountains and many other things that made the country very attractive”.
And in what may be seen as a nostalgic reflection, he adds that, on account of a small population, “there were no grills, no walls around houses, no traffic jam and no traffic lights, everything worked! There was no corruption” and – in what I saw as a deeply etched belief – Kenya “had European efficiency with African politeness, friendliness and weather” giving it all the aura of ‘a perfect paradise.’
To see through four different regimes, including the late colonial one, is a big feat for any one, let alone a writer who, on part-time basis, has penned 12 successful literary works while still rising to the peak of a medical career. Thinking about this I posed, “So what has changed over time?”
“Now we have a black capitalist class. The middle class is growing, which is a good thing because we now know that the local people are reaping something from their country. The locals dominate all positions in the government and civil service. This may be a good thing, but it leaves out other Kenyans of European and Asian ancestry. I hope that once the balance is restored, we shall go back to equal representation regardless of skin colour. Something else, our freedom of expression has expanded drastically since our arrival. The new Constitution and devolution are also very significant developments that we have seen.”
On literary matters, Dawood recalls that soon after they came to Kenya, “Ngugi was the rage. He was the blue-eyed boy of Heinemann East Africa, now EAEP. And (Henry) Chakava was the first African managing director of EAEP. I pay tribute to Chakava because were it not for his intervention, I wouldn’t be on the Kenyan literary scene.
When I finished my first manuscript of what later became No Strings Attached, a friend told me: ‘Go to Chakava, if it is publishable, he will tell you.’ So I went to see him, by then his office was at the International Life House, and mine was at the Industrial Promotion Services Building, opposite Old Mutual on Kimathi Street.
“I just walked across, met him and, three months later, I was pleasantly surprised to receive a letter from Laban Erapu, who was then an editor at EAEP. He asked me to see him so we could make the book publishable. I did. And over many meetings of mutual patience, we had it published under the title that Erapu suggested, and I accepted. I also had meetings with Chakava and, when the book was published around 1978, they arranged a launching ceremony at Serena Hotel, with Charles Njonjo — the then Attorney-General — as the chief guest. Two years later, The Surgeon’s Diary was born, this time with the help of Joe Rodrigues, a fellow Rotarian, who was then the editor-in-chief of Nation newspapers.”
We have been chatting for close to two hours now and it is about time. “Do you have any regrets regarding your writing?” I ask. He hesitates and, in a lowered voice, says: “Godwin, our writers cannot survive on royalties because our publishers don’t market our books beyond Kenya. Even the little that I get in terms of royalties, I have to keep reminding them. All our publishers now concentrate on educational books, and only publish creative works for their prestige. Think of MG Vassanji, he has become a full time writer because he can live on the royalties from his works. I doubt if he would have given up his professional career and ventured into full-time writing had he remained in Tanzania or Kenya.
“And I wonder, if one cannot make a living on writing, how can we ever promote literature or great writing? Then again, writers are not honoured by the political class. When Margaret Ogola died, I wrote to say she should be honoured by possibly naming a road after her. Nothing has happened. The government should honour writers; they are our heroes. The fact that good writers like Ngugi went to the US is a reflection of our attitudes to writers.”
