In a corner of the world most people are unaware exists, a young man dared to use his love of hip hop and talent for rapping to speak truth to power and raise awareness among the youth about the need for social change. The Mozambican rapper, social activist, and revolutionary known as Azagaia was found dead in his home in Mozambique on Thursday, March 9th, 2023. He was 38 years old.

Azagaia was born Edson da Luz in May 1984, in Namaacha, less than 80 kilometres from the capital city of Maputo. Namaacha is a border town, in the area where the three countries of Mozambique, South Africa, and Eswatini meet. The first President of independent Mozambique, Samora Machel, was killed in a plane crash that landed some 20 kms from Namaacha, across the border in South Africa, the cause of which continues to be a subject of debate and suspicion.

Edson da Luz adopted the stage name "Azagaia" after an African spear. In true form, Azagaia’s music 

 a weapon urging the people of his country to consider social, political, and economic inequalities and their disproportionate effects on poor and vulnerable. Azagaia believed that his music could shed light on the evils of society that he saw around him and catalyse positive action. His lyrics critiqued colonialism and slavery, but also held our current African leaders’ feet to the fire.

Azagaia’s raps were all in Portuguese, the colonial language of Mozambique. There is very little written about him in English. This is a loss for those who don’t understand Portuguese (the vast majority of the world of course), but who appreciate the progressive roots of hip hop, who love the music of Dead Prez, Tupac Shakur, Michael Franti and Spearhead, the Roots, the Fugees, Public Enemy, Talib Kwali, A Tribe Called Quest, and so many other visionary rappers with a systemic critique.

This invisibilization is not surprising. Between and even within countries, there are clear hierarchies of whose lives matter and whose stories are told. So many people within our countries, especially in Africa, are invisible, evoking pity when a deadly cyclone hits, but forgotten a week later. But these stories are important. Many of our obscure places are lightning rods, harbingers of what is to come, the canary in the coal mine, lessons for the rest of the world.

In Azagaia’s song "As Mentiras" (The Lies), he raps (translated to English):

It’s a lie that you’re independent
That you take your continent forward
You didn't break the chain
You're nothing but an unconscious slave
500 years of slavery
And the Europeans took 36 million slaves and only 16 survived
Now you call the European, the American or god knows who
To suck your oil and set up their homes here
But they don't set up factories here, they just buy the barrel
On the mainland or in the diaspora
Independent Africans who impoverish our Africa

Mozambique is one of the poorest countries in the world. The Portuguese colonial government held on to its colonies the longest. The country only gained its independence in 1975, the year that the Vietnam War ended. 

 shows that Mozambique’s Human Development Index ranks at 180 out of 189 countries and territories. Over 60% of the people of Mozambique live under the poverty line, and 80% of the people are food insecure. It is also one of the most vulnerable countries to the climate crisis.

Colonialism robbed and impoverished the country, like so many in Africa. The current ruling political party found its own way to enrich themselves and continue looting the land and peoples, but there are effectively only two political parties in the country to choose from. Azagaia once said in an 

“nao existe democracia com apenas dois partidos politicos”

 (there can be no democracy with just two political parties). Readers in the US might find this sentiment familiar.

In the same interview, he was asked if he feared for his life because of his progressive music. He replied that he is not interested in material possessions, he is not taking any of that with him. Instead, it is important to him to make his life count, to focus on safety for his family and to leave his ideas behind. How many rappers speak like this today?

His other songs include "Quem vendeu a minha patria?" (Who sold my homeland?), about the leaders selling off the country’s land and other resources; "Os Vampiros" (The Vampires), denouncing those who profit off of the labour of the people; "As Mentiras da Verdade" (The Lies from the Truth), about how the media and the powerful control the narratives of truth and lies; and "Povo no Poder" (Put the People in Power), a call to action for the people of his country to organize themselves.

Azagaia was a musician with a value system. His lyrics were harsh but his manner was soft. His mischievous eyes sparkled even as he spoke about the evils of colonialism and the need for revolution. Azagaia earned the wrath of the government, the wealthy and powerful few in Mozambique whose injustice and impunity he often critiqued. In 2008, he was ordered to appear before the Attorney-General’s office and was accused of inciting violence. He was boycotted by the government and companies who wouldn’t cover him on air and actively hindered his participation in big cultural events. But he kept producing the music he loved—and the youth of Mozambique loved it right back.

One of Azagaia’s last songs is called "Vender o Pais" (Sell the Country), where he sings (translated into English):

"Your people can't take it anymore, Lord
In exchange for oil and gas they sell our country."

It references one of the largest oil and natural gas fields in the world found off the coast of northern Mozambique which has 

Mozambican organization Justiça Ambiental (JA!), with whom I have worked since 2011, is fighting the gas rush in northern Mozambique. In end 2019, while the UN climate negotiations called COP 25 were taking place in Madrid, JA! organised a climate justice event in Maputo to raise awareness. The event was held in a park where local artisans sell their wares. Azagaia agreed to sing at the event and captivated the audience completely.

In "As Mentiras da Verdade" (The Lies from the Truth), he rapped (translated to English):

you can kill me
but you can’t kill the truth

, Azagaia was asked if he feels threatened by the government. He responded (translated to English):

My life as a Mozambican is itself a threatened life. Unreliable transport and healthcare—people go to the hospital but they don’t know if they will even get seen—this is a threat, we live under threat, we are used to living under threat, so when the politicians threaten me, it’s just another threat on top of all the others. Life is so difficult and precarious for so many on the planet.

The circumstances of his death are strange. The family has attributed his untimely demise to his epilepsy. Regardless, Azagaia already knew that those in power did not want him to stick around. He was a thorn in the side of the self-serving political and corporate elites of Mozambique. In 2014, he posted on his Facebook account (translated to English):

“Mozambican youngsters, if I lose my life, there will be many explanations that I died of epilepsy or something else, which might lead people to think that no one is to blame, that my death was an accident, natural and justified. This could happen within or outside Mozambique. If this happens, I only urge you one thing. Do not weep. JUST CONTINUE TO DO THE WORK WE TALKED ABOUT! Put the People in Power!”

His death may not be nefarious at all. But it is a reminder that, in one of the poorest countries in the world, where everyday life is already difficult and basic needs are unmet, exposing corruption and empowering the dispossessed attracts scrutiny and violence. In my experience as an activist for over two decades, those in power try to bribe you, to shut you up, to intimidate you. The day they realize you can’t be intimidated, they try to get rid of you. But killing a dissenter or social activist outright is now a dangerous game for African governments. It risks creating a martyr. It risks upsetting the Americans and Europeans who hold slightly higher pretenses about how they treat their own dissenters. So the new trick is to feign an accident. That may not be what happened with Azagaia but a disturbing trend none the less.

Nólia Macajo was a community leader whose village was being devastated by coal mining in central Mozambique. For many years, she organized her community to resist. Justiça Ambiental has worked to support Nólia and other coal mining affected communities for long over a decade. In their Annual Report of 2019, they wrote:

The coal companies built a road right thru Benga, cutting off the main part of the community to the river and once the main bridge linking Moatize got damaged by floods, this road became the main route for traffic. It caused major loss of livestock and numerous people from the community were victims of hit and run car accidents, especially children. On the morning of 26 September, 2019, Nólia was standing near the road when a truck veered off the road and crushed her. We don’t know if the driver fell asleep at the wheel, or got distracted, or whether it was intention, because he never stopped, he just turned back onto the road and continued driving, leaving her to die.

Many Azagaias, many Nólias are constantly lost to the struggle. Activists and their communities are worn down and constantly diminished by those in power.

Several thousands of people showed up for Azagaia’s funeral in Maputo on March 14th. In a country where street protests are highly controlled, it was a rare sight to see so many congregated in the streets. The police showed up in riot gear and made use of their tear gas bombs. “State linked media appear to have boycotted the event,” 

 Zenaida Machado, a Mozambican activist working with Human Rights Watch. On 18 March, protests were called for in major Mozambican cities in honour of Azagaia. As of this writing, the police is responding with scary and unnecessary brutality. As reported by 

, police stopped the march in the central city of Beira even though it had been authorized, while police in Maputo used tear gas to disperse protesters.

Speaking with my friend and colleague, the Mozambican artist, photographer, and Deputy Director of Justiça Ambiental, Mauro Pinto, I can hear his heartbreak. Artists of conscience in Mozambique are a rarity and rely on one another for support. A few months ago, Mauro’s photos of the human cost of coal mining, what Nólia Macajo’s community is fighting against, were displayed in Maputo. Azagaia was there to support.

I asked Mauro how it feels right now to have lost his friend and fellow artist and if he could talk to Azagaia, what would he say. Mauro responded:

“Great Azagaia, you leave us with a great responsibility that we always discussed when we were together. We're going to have to die so that our great-grandchildren can have a better future. Our country needs to change course and now is the time. We are in a bankrupt state and a fake society. But I don’t feel frustrated because I know that we leave behind our art, our work, our messages. The fight for justice is urgent. Power to the people!”

I remember the first time I met Azagaia, somewhere in 2011 at the Maputo airport, on the eve of my wedding. He was heading to Angola for a concert. I had just moved to Mozambique, to be with my partner. I didn’t speak Portuguese yet and I didn’t understand his lyrics. But having become part of a Mozambican activist family, I knew about the "rapper of the people." I was completely tongue-tied as I was confronted with his stature and the scale of his genius. I think I blabbed out some words in English, thanking him for his music. “We have a lot of work to do together, let’s keep fighting,” I remember him responding, his kind eyes sparkling with graciousness.

This is the rallying cry Azagaia left for every single one of us. POVO NO PODER! (Put the People in Power!)

Death of a Rap Revolutionary

"I really think it's time to go,” our guide says as he nervously glances at his phone that glows half past five. Around us, as if on an unspoken cue, the air of urgency and anxiety thickens, and it strikes us that we have lost track of time and urgently need to conclude our assignment.

As the dreaded 7pm curfew looms, Faith Atieno and her team of artists from Art360 wind down the mural they have been working on since morning. It looks exquisite in the fading light with glints of eye-catching detail. Although it looks complete, Bernard Mavyuva, an artist involved in the project, tells us that work on the mural is far from over. They still have to include more details that could take another eight hours. But due to the curfew, they have to stop, head back home and live to paint another day.

Dusk approaches and in about an hour and a half the dreaded government curfew will kick in. If we don’t start moving, we will be trapped deep in Kibera and likely become sitting ducks for the notorious police patrols who infiltrate the slum at nightfall to enforce curfew. In tense and unanimous agreement, we quickly start disassembling and packing our camera gear into our backpacks, making sure we have all the memory cards from the day's footage. "Let's walk up to the junction and get the Uber from there,” our cinematographer suggests. We say our goodbyes to Faith and her team, bumping elbows rather than shaking hands or sharing hugs, as is the agreed upon new norm amidst the pandemic. We promise to return the next day to witness the unveiling of the completed mural.

Kibera bound by Royal Nairobi Golf Club to the north and Nairobi National Park to south. Downtown and Upper Hill are visible in the background. (Schreibkraft courtesy of wiki commons)

On the following day, our journey to Kibera begins at Nairobi’s central business district. As we drive to the southwestern part of the city, the wall of downtown skyscrapers gives way to well-maintained tarmac roads lined with trees and lush green foliage, as we drive through the upmarket residential district and shopping areas of Kilimani. As we navigate Upper Hill, the most visible site of Nairobi's property boom, and merge onto Ngong Road, hints of the sharp contrast that lies ahead come into view. One side of Ngong Road is home to the affluent, previously whites-only, Kilimani Estate, where modern high-rise apartments have elbowed their way next to colonial-era bungalows and gated estates. On the other side of Ngong Road lies a warren of tiny shacks huddled together in a maze of dirt paths that mark the entrance to Kibera, one of the largest and most densely populated slums in the world.

The contrast between the leafy suburbs and the grim adjoining shantytown is jarring. The northern border of Kibera follows the contours of the fifth hole of Royal Nairobi Golf Club—an exclusive colonel-era club built in 1906 for the leisure of officers serving in the King's African Rifles. The southern boundary is demarcated by the thin, polluted Nairobi river and large concrete walls that form a perimeter around an upper middle-class gated neighborhood—a none-too-subtle reminder of the physical segregation between the 

. Kibera is known euphemistically as Lower Karen, a sardonic nod to its diminutive socio-economic stature and proximity to its wealthy suburban neighbor Karen, named after Karen Blixen, the Danish expatriate and author of 

Before Kibera became a sprawling slum, it was a forested pastureland used by the Maasai to graze cattle. Towards the end of the 19th century, British surveyors arrived at Enkare Nairobi (“Cold Water”), a small watering hole on the high plains above the Rift Valley where they set out to establish a railway settlement. Their first objective was to expropriate the land by 

pushing out the Maasai to make room for white settlers

. Using Nairobi as a base of operations, the British used the Uganda Railway to finally yoke the interior of Africa to the coastal port of Mombasa. The Uganda Railway not only facilitated exploitation and overseas trade, it allowed the British to expediently deploy troops to remote British East Africa military outposts in the case of “native” uprisings.

By 1904, just five years after the railway reached Nairobi, British colonial administrators had established army barracks and a training ground for regiments of the East African Army a few miles southwest of Nairobi’s central railway station. A large forested area next to the barracks was allocated for the living quarters of 300 retired Nubian (Sudanese) soldiers who had served in the King’s African Rifles. They named the settlement 

(now Kibera) after the Nubian term for “jungle,” and lived rent-free as a form of “unofficial pension” for their military service.

3rd Battalion of the King's African Rifles, Kenya, 1902. (Image: UK National Archives)

Meanwhile, a succession of colonial governors passed legislation aimed at restricting Kenyan natives and immigrants of African descent from settling near the administrative centre of Nairobi. An example of colonial redlining was the 1922 Vagrancy Act, which sanctioned the 

 and led to the arrest and forcible eviction of thousands of “unemployed” Africans from the city.

Systemic racial segregation dates back to Nairobi’s first European settlements: Muthaiga Township was designated solely for Europeans, while neighboring Eastleigh was populated predominantly by Indians and well-to-do Somalis. But in 1925, colonial administrators went further, 

blacklisting “vagrants,” “vagabonds,” “barbarians,” “savages” and “Asians”

 as a pretext to curtail freedom of movement and 

restrict non-Europeans from enjoying public spaces

. Africans working in low-level positions for the colonial administration could only apply for temporary permits to live in “native reserves” situated on the periphery of the city.

By the early 1930s, increasing numbers of “unauthorized” natives from rural Kenya were drawn to the growing metropolis in search of work. Some settled in unoccupied sections of the city, despite the ever-present threat of arrest and eviction hanging over their heads, while others made their way to Kibera with the hope of renting plots of land from aging former Nubian soldiers of the King’s African Rifles, who held the original permits. Undeveloped land was rented on the cheap and new residents gradually constructed a makeshift shantytown out of mud, sticks, scrap metal and iron sheets—anything to fashion roofs over their heads. To this day, discarded building materials, soil, and branches remain the standard construction materials for both the hopeful and desperate who converge in Kibera.

The population of Kibera exploded post-World War II, and the settlement grew increasingly heterogeneous. By 1948, the colonial census reported more than 3,085 people living in the unauthorized township, of which only 55 percent (1,696) were Nubian. The majority of the new residents were Kikuyu and Meru, who came from the nearby Mount Kenya region. Kibera's allure continued to gain steam, and smaller numbers of Luo and Luhya were also drawn to the city. As the population boom strained available resources of clean water and sanitation, Kibera began its transformation into a slum. After numerous failed attempts to dismantle it and relocate the population, “the [colonial] administration adopted a policy of what can only be considered 'malicious neglect' in an attempt to force the burgeoning population out by rendering Kibera unlivable.” But the plan backfired. Depriving residents of their most basic human need—water—failed to compel inhabitants to leave. In fact, more arrived.

Kenya’s independence in 1963 lifted restrictions on freedom of movement, and a second wave of rural migrants set their sights on Kibera, choking what little space was at the time still unclaimed. Nearly 60 years later, Kibera remains the chosen destination for many who can’t afford to live in formal settlements due to its proximity to the city center, the industrial core, and affluent neighborhoods, which offer the promise of employment as live-in help. It is not surprising, however, that many end up in modern-day servitude.

“Relax. You have arrived,” a jocular Aziricome Popo shouts at us reassuringly from a distance, as we gingerly step to the side to make way for an animated group of young boys dashing towards us in the narrow alleyway outside his house. Despite the several trips we have made to Kibera, we are still ill at ease and on high alert owing to the notoriety of parts of Kibera as hotspots for petty and sometimes violent crime. Our apprehension is a depressingly familiar and stereotypical metaphor for life in Kibera.

Aziricome’s parents were part of the influx of Kenyans who flocked to the sprawling Kibera slum in the early nineties in search of, paradoxically, greener pastures. “We moved from a small farming village in Vihiga, western Kenya to Kibera when I was about five years old. Back then, things were different. For as little as three hundred shillings, or around 4 US dollars, you could get a one-room house,” he reminisces.

Aziricome is a self-styled jack of all trades and a master of whatever-entertainment need-you-may-have. He describes himself as a dancer, events MC, comedian, community mobilizer, actor, scriptwriter, filmmaker and a dance choreographer all rolled into one. “I studied mass communication in school for four years but afterwards I could not find a job, so I decided to start performing since it comes most natural to me,” Aziricome says. “I started doing skits and dances in church and not long after, people started hiring me to perform at their events.”

The year 2020 seemed promising for Aziricome. He had a couple of gigs lined up: a wedding to MC, dances to choreograph for schools and a performance to give at a community event. By mid-March, the novel coronavirus reared its ugly head and brought things to a grinding halt. With all events cancelled, schools closed, and public gatherings prohibited, he lost his sources of income. “A lot of artists in Kibera are struggling," he says. "They don't have money for food or rent but they try not to show it or ask for help because they are trying to protect their image.”

In April, President Uhuru Kenyatta issued an executive order directing the Ministry of Sports, Culture and Heritage to disburse 100 million Kenyan Shillings (approximately $1,138,000 CAD) to cushion artists during the Covid-19 pandemic. With over 100,000 artists in Kenya lining up to get their share of the cash, Aziricome is skeptical that the money allocated will reach grassroots artists in Kibera like him. “That money will probably land on the hands of other privileged artists, not the artists in Kibera who need it the most,” Aziricome laments.

While life during the pandemic had slowed down, the resourceful Aziricome has found alternative ways of using his many talents to serve his community. With most of his gigs cancelled, he decided to turn to the internet and create satirical educational videos. In his videos, Aziricome infuses humor to address difficult subject matter such as domestic violence and crime. His motivation for wading into such issues stems from what he has witnessed in recent times around his community. “For the past weeks, we have witnessed more cases of people being mugged, violently attacked and killed. Most of these crimes are perpetrated by young teenagers who are supposed to be in school,” Aziricome says. His biggest fear is that many artists in Kibera will cave into the vicissitudes of economic hardship and resort to crime. By creating these videos, he hopes to reach the over 76,000 residents of Kibera that are part of a Facebook group dubbed 

 (Kibera is Our Home). All his videos are shot on location in Kibera, with a mobile phone and usually with a lively cast of young enthusiastic volunteers seemingly oblivious to the constricted “sets” of garbage-lined paths and overflowing sewage as they gleefully act out their scenes.

Aziricome has also created videos encouraging members of his community to take necessary precautions to avoid the spread of Covid-19. But he feels conflicted about the lack of situational nuance in some of the guidelines recommended by the government and the World Health Organization (WHO). For him, social distancing is an impractical demand in a claustrophobically congested area. “Our houses are very close to each other, our alleyways are very narrow. When you walk around, you easily bump into people,” says Aziricome gesturing towards the all-too obvious scene surrounding us. Kibera is one of the most densely populated places on earth with more than 200,000 people believed to be packed into a 2.5 square kilometer area. The colonial legacy of malicious neglect remains evident in the lack of quality of housing, accessibility to clean water and basic sanitation throughout Kibera.

Inside the one-room house that Aziricome shares with his wife and three children everything is crammed together. The kitchen, living room and bedrooms are partitioned from the same room and separated by long lace curtains. The room doubles as the family’s living quarters and Aziricome’s studio because dedicated space and “free" time to concentrate on his work are luxuries beyond reach. However, he seems oblivious to the cramped and often noisy working conditions. The bathroom and toilet his family shares with twenty-seven other households is 100 meters away. “The average house in Kibera has between seven and nine inhabitants cramped into a 10 x 10 foot space. There is no personal space, so if one person gets Corona, we all get it,” he explains.

Dozens of empty jerry cans are strewn around his house. “There is no water,” he says. “We have to go out there, queue for hours and buy water from vendors. When you’re standing in the queue, you come into contact with many people. You don’t know who has the virus and who doesn’t.”

At the time of this writing, there are 6,366 confirmed cases of Covid 19 in Kenya, including at least 200 cases from Kibera. The Ministry of Health has singled out Kibera as a Covid-19 hotspot and emphasized the need to strictly enforce the dusk to dawn curfew and encourage people to wear masks, social distance and practice regular hand-washing. But these measures, although essential, are virtually impossible to practice when faced with limited access to water, abysmal sanitation conditions, makeshift housing and suffocating human congestion.

Kibera has gained the ignominious reputation as the face of poverty in Kenya. Its confined, squalid conditions have made it a globally recognized case study and byword for urban slums that attracts "poverty tourists" from all around the world, much to the chagrin of its residents. Close to six decades after Kenya gained its independence from the British, the colonial legacy of neglect is still rife in Kibera in large part because residents of Kibera are perceived to be illegal squatters on government-owned land—an issue that has disincentivized authorities from providing basic social services.

Subsequent governments have made half-hearted overtures to attempt to rectify this insidious legacy. One such project was the Kenya Slum Upgrading Project (KENSUP) launched by the Kenyan Ministry of Housing in 2003 with the support of UN-Habitat and several other donor organizations. Dormant for years, the project was thrust to prominence in 2009 in an effort to replace Kibera's existing shacks with modern high-rise buildings and to give residents a chance to own an apartment in the new development. The flagship of the development was a cluster of concrete buildings called The Promised Land, which offered local residents heavily subsidized apartments at prices significantly below the market average and included all the services that were lacking in the slums—namely, water, sanitation, electricity, and security.

But no sooner had the project been launched than the stark reality of what it takes to dismantle a century of institutionalized and calcified neglect also emerged. A reverse exodus quickly took place, as residents who had been relocated to The Promised Landbegan moving back to their tiny shacks in the slum. Opportunistic investors from Nairobi’s middle class swooped in, finding the promise of investment in affordable housing through bribery and corruption too good to resist. It is also worth noting that investors were only able to secure the apartments intended for Kibera's residents because Kiberans themselves saw a business opportunity. They could rent out their flats at four-to-five times the subsidized rate and move back to the slums with money in their pockets. There were also allegations that certain officials had sabotaged the project and coerced Kiberans to move back by holding back services such as water. Ultimately, the well-intentioned but deficient logic of the multi-billion-shilling project was exposed due to its failure to address the root economic causes that drive people to slums.

Non-governmental organizations (NGOs) have attempted to fill the gaps left by the government over the years, but with little success. Still, Kibera remains an attractive draw for NGOs and every year millions of dollars from donors are invested in a wide range of poverty alleviation initiatives. In 2000, there were over 200 NGOs located in Kibera and the number is believed to have passed well over the 500 mark in the last two decades. Though well-intentioned these humanitarian interventions may be, NGOs have had little substantive impact on the quality of life in Kibera. There is growing skepticism that expat NGO workers become enamored with turning charity work into lifelong careers, which ultimately perpetuates dependency syndrome. The comedy series "The Samaritans" has even taken a swipe at NGOs, cleverly playing on the widely held sentiment that donor funds end up financing administrative costs and paying for consultants, lawyers, and experts lined up for "their turn at the trough of ‘sorrow dollars’.”

Nestled between Kibera Town Center and Kamukunji grounds, a dusty field known for its checkered history of political rallies, we find an art gallery constructed of corrugated iron sheets painted blue and marigold. The gallery stands out from a distance. Its presence is audacious and somewhat of an oddity in a place where art is a luxury—a form of self-indulgence that only few can afford. To step inside is to be enveloped by a colorful collection of paintings on canvas, cardboard, baskets, bottles, and pots lining every wall and shelf. Although spartan and unostentatious, Art360 gallery acts as an oasis for young artists in Kibera looking to grow their skills and make a living through art.

On arrival, we find Faith, the founder of the Art360 gallery, and four other artists in an animated brainstorm over a sketch for a mural. Any attempt to keep a six feet distance is immediately thwarted, due to the minuscule size of the gallery.

We first heard about Art360 Kibera in mid-March shortly after the first case of Covid-19 was reported in Kenya. Faith tells us, at that time, coronavirus was still a distant phenomenon that seldom featured in the lexicon of the residents in Kibera. But now there is a lot of talk and misinformation about the virus. “We decided to create murals in highly frequented streets in Kibera so as to reinforce the message that Covid 19 is here and people need to take necessary precautions to keep the virus from spreading,” she says.

The thirty-one-year-old has lived in Kibera almost all her life. From an early age, she had an eye for the arts, especially abstract painting, as it allows her to express herself more fully. But pursuing a career as a visual artist seemed out of reach. She had never met or heard of any female painters from Kibera until a fortuitous encounter with a group of young, talented local painters inspired her to create a space where artists could develop their skills and earn a living. “Starting an art gallery in Kibera with little resources is a bold move,” Faith admits. “We make art with anything we come across or find interesting. We don’t have to paint on canvas,” she says, gesturing toward a shelf with paintings on cardboard, flowerpots, used bottles, shoes, and paper bags.

Before the pandemic, people from other neighborhoods would navigate the winding, congested paths that lead away from the 

 termini and find their way through the shantytown to the tucked-away gallery to buy artwork. But with Kibera being classified as a Covid-19 hotspot, and the government task force issuing pedantic warnings about what a full-blown outbreak would portend, people from outside Kibera hardly visit the gallery anymore. The pandemic has hit the meager fortunes of the artists at Art360 hard and wrought unimaginable economic uncertainties. “Most people are worried about where their next meal will come from. Getting a cute painting is the last thing on their minds,” says Francis Omondi, an artist at Art360.

Despite calls to self-quarantine, the artists at Art360 have chosen to keep the doors to the gallery open. “We cannot sustain ourselves if we decide to quarantine. It’s not easy surviving on paint and brush. But we still have to paint,” Faith tells us. Since the pandemic, the artists at Art360 have shifted their focus from selling art to painting murals. Several local non-profit organizations have commissioned them to create murals around Kibera that will help sensitize the community to the best practices of preventing the spread of Covid-19.

Self-quarantine or working from home is a luxury that few residents in Kibera can afford. The Kenya Bureau of Statistics estimates that 83.6 percent of Kenyans work in the informal sector, where a majority earn a daily wage that is contingent upon their physical availability at work. The government opted not to enforce a total lockdown as it would have adversely affected people’s ability to survive and, instead, put in place a curfew from dusk to dawn. Since then, the police have heightened surveillance measures in Kibera and actively used intimidation and brute force against residents found outside at night. During the first week of the curfew, social media platforms were awash with videos of police violently assaulting and harassing residents in Kibera. While police brutality is a constant feature of public life, especially in slums such as Kibera, the new powers bestowed on the police to "enforce the curfew" have exacerbated the arbitrary use of excessive force with devastating results. A report by the Kenyan Independent Policing Oversight Authority (IPOA) indicates that police have killed at least 15 people and seriously injured scores of others while enforcing the curfew.

After several hours of brainstorming and sketching, Faith and her team pick up brushes, paint cans and sketches and head out to their worksite, an iron sheet structure directly opposite the gallery, visible to the numerous pedestrians who pass by everyday. We watch from a distance as they wipe off dust and prime the grubby iron sheet wall. Each artist takes turns sketching and painting as music blasts from a portable radio. As the mural comes to life, the quotidian bustle of Kibera is in full swing—throngs of people walking in different directions, vendors manning open-air stalls, women selling food and secondhand clothes by the roadside.

At around 4PM, the mural is finally complete. Faith and her team begin to gather their brushes and paint cans while one artist stubbornly lingers for a bit to add a small detail to the mural. A small crowd of curious onlookers gather around the artist on the side of the road, eyes agape at the vivid and colorful mural that depicts a female health worker wrapping a frightening red creature in chains to prevent it from attacking the world below a caption reads "CORONA IS REAL." 

With this mural, we want to give coronavirus a personality because a lot of people in Kibera seem oblivious to the danger of the virus as they deal with more pressing issues,” Faith says as she gazes at the mural.

A stroll through Karanja, a small neighborhood considered to be the swanky section of Kibera, shows not much has changed. The narrow alleyways are bustling with vendors and people going about their business. Motorbike riders wearing heavy jackets with reflective stripes stand shoulder to shoulder with men in hand carts waiting for customers at major intersections. The only reminder that we are living through a pandemic are the ubiquitous masks covering 

people’s faces. Not everyone is wearing a mask, despite the mandatory requirement that could land one in jail for up to six months. At several points on our way, prominent billboards that usually advertise beauty products, beer, or instant riches from latest betting odds on soccer games now share space with 

("Eradicate Corona” in Swahili) public service announcements advocating residents to wash their hands, social distance and wear face masks.

David Avido, a 25-year-old fashion designer based in Karanja, is hard at work cutting, sewing, fusing and pressing fabrics to create face masks when we arrive at his house. As soon as the first case of Covid-19 was confirmed in Kenya, he decided to start making face masks with leftover fabric from his previous designs and distribute them for free. “Most people in Kibera live hand-to-mouth and can’t afford face masks. Many have to choose between buying food or face masks,” Avido tells us. It is a tragic compromise that many have to contend with since the pandemic exacerbated food insecurity in the slums. On April 10, a stampede near the District Commissioner's office, where food aid was being distributed, left scores of people with serious injuries—an ominous warning of an impending food crisis.

“Things are not the same in other neighborhoods. There are those who can fill their fridges and cupboards with food and quarantine at home. Here in Kibera people don’t even have cupboards,” Avido says. According to a report by Oxfam International, Kenya suffers from extreme income inequality with less than 0.1 percent, roughly 8,300 of approximately 44 million people, owning more wealth than the bottom 99.9 percent.

The pandemic has significantly affected Avido’s work as a fashion designer. Meeting clients and taking measurements has become near impossible. Orders for designer clothing amidst the economic crunch have also dropped. Avido has suspended his usual work to make and distribute face masks. Since March, he has partnered with foundations in Kibera to distribute over 12,000 face masks for free. They stand out not only due to Avido’s striking, colorful African prints, but also because he adds pockets that allow users to replace filters, making the masks more effective and reusable.

For the soft-spoken Avido, the face masks are his way of giving back to the community. “Growing up in Kibera, we were extremely poor and would often go without food. Due to lack of school fees, I dropped out of school and began working at a construction site to support our family,” Avido reveals. He stumbled onto fashion serendipitously and for the past five years has worked tirelessly to build a successful fashion brand, 

 through which he designs and sells his trademark African-themed designer clothes across the world. He has dressed famous local and international celebrities and has been featured in 

 magazine and many other popular media outlets.

Avido describes his style as “street” and draws his inspiration from Kibera. “Fashion to me is not just about making clothes. I use it as a platform to express myself and inspire others,” he tells us. Fashion has opened doors for Avido, and he hopes to open more doors for his community Kibera. “People from Kibera work hard. They are talented but lack opportunities. My main goal is to expand my business so I can provide employment opportunities to the people in Kibera,” Avido says with a determined look.

As we leave Avido's home, which doubles as his workshop, it becomes apparent that his story of rags to modest riches is the exception rather than the norm. Journalist Abby Higgins notes that one can be forgiven for thinking that slums are "places of listless poverty filled with victims of circumstances waiting for outside intervention." Avido is evidence to the contrary; he’s proof that it’s harder 

 to notice that Kibera is teeming with thousands of small business ventures, both traditional and unconventional.

Many of those relegated to living in slums are entrepreneurs and innovators, constantly manipulating their surroundings to creatively address the problems they and their communities face while trying to escape the poverty trap. It is not uncommon to find many young entrepreneurs dabbling in several ventures simultaneously—running a video game arcade that doubles as a screening venue for football matches by night while selling boiled sausages called 

and operating second-handclothes and shoes stalls on the side.

Stories like Avido's lend themselves to survivorship bias, the logical fallacy that assumes one’s success tells the whole story. Thousands of entrepreneurs in Kibera are fighting a losing battle against an inhospitable and cutthroat business environment bereft of essential infrastructure and lacking access to clean water, sanitation, electricity, security, healthcare or credit needed for businesses to thrive. Unless the legacy of neglect is reversed at a systemic level, only a few will succeed in slipping through the cracks and escaping the poverty trap.

At the end of yet another day, we navigate the labyrinth of narrow, noisy alleyways towards the main road. Droves of people returning from the day's hustle hastily pass by heading in the opposite direction to get home on the safe side of the curfew. We locate our Uber with barely minutes to spare before the cutoff time for taxis picking up passengers, something the driver reminds us as we get in. He steers the grey Toyota Vitz onto Joseph Kangethe road, passing expensive residential homes lined with lush green bougainvillea hedges and interspersed with concrete walls and wrought-iron gates on both sides.

As we drive away from Kibera, I can’t help but think how Avido, Faith and Aziricome, all second-generation residents of Kibera, have inherited a legacy of neglect. While they strive to overcome a seemingly insurmountable challenge and lift themselves out of the poverty trap, the scale of their struggle grows, exacerbated by the Covid-19 pandemic, and becomes even more daunting. If governmental and “humanitarian” interventions are to do more than barely scratch the surface of systemic neglect in Kibera, they would do well to look to people like Avido, Aziricome and Faith for leadership and guidance.

Kenya’s Labor Market Wasn’t Made for a Pandemic

Law of the land: Ethnic patronage in Kenya’s slums.

Mukeku, J. (2018). Urban Slum Morphology and Socio-economic Analogies: A Case Study of Kibera Slum, Nairobi, Kenya. 

Oxfam International (2020). Kenya: extreme inequality in numbers.

Kibera

At the outskirts of the township of Lugela, the paved road ends abruptly at a narrow dirt path—one continuous pothole, just wide enough for our truck to wind its way through the rippling hills towards Limbuè. Women and young girls carrying buckets of water, cleanly washed dishes, bananas, maize, and other essentials perfectly balanced on their heads walk to the edge of the road and duck into bushes as we approach. Some villagers lay idly in the shade of thatched roof huts, chatting in subdued tones, avoiding the intense tropical heat. As we gradually ascend towards the “Google Forest,” the cloud density increases incrementally. The amount of rainfall will determine how far into the rainforest of Mount Mabu we will be able to hike. It is early in the rainy season and we’re hoping our luck will hold.

Prior to 2005, Mount Mabu had been all but forgotten, save for the Indigenous communities and extractive entities looking to cultivate exportable crops around the base of the massif. Around the same time, Dr. Julian Bayliss, a biologist and researcher with the Kew Royal Botanical Gardens, was scouring GoogleEarth when he noticed what appeared to be a mid-altitude, old-growth forest atop the mountain in northern Mozambique. In 2008, Bayliss and a team of researchers traveled to Mount Mabu to plant their flag and claim their “discovery” of the “lost forest of Mozambique.” Although his announcement was celebrated in a series of 

articles, the hubristic echo of Vasco da Gama's claim to have “discovered” the country itself over 400 years prior resonated.

Mount Mabu was protected from outside encroachment and industrial development by Mozambique's decade-long War of Independence from Portugal, the subsequent fifteen-year-long Mozambican Civil War, intertribal conflicts, geographic isolation, and harsh terrain. Proximity to the Malawian border meant that the region was used as for strategic munitions transportation for various revolutionary factions, as well as an escape route for combatants and communities under the gun. Mount Mabu was a transition zone between RENAMO (South Africa-aligned right wing paramilitaries) and FRELIMO (left wing Marxist revolutionaries) who were vying to govern Mozambique in the wake of independence from Portugal. Absolute devastation was wrought upon the land on the fringes of the rainforest during the armed conflict that lasted from 1977 to 1992.

Mount Mabu is the cultural and linguistic transition zone between the four primary Indigenous communities—Nangaze, Nvava, Namadoe, and Limbuè—that have been stewards of the rainforest since time immemorial. The vestiges of war are never far—scars in the earth overgrown and resigned to a quiet niche in history. There are residual traces of concealed clearings nestled between the crests of Mabu’s peaks and valleys, once gathering places for these neighbouring communities to hide in the shadows of the rainforest, evading opposition soldiers hunting them down in order to “liberate” them.

The Indigenous people of Mount Mabu have, over the course of generations, developed a knowledge system based on a peaceful co-existence with their natural environment. Their premise for navigating the forest is simple: dangerous, edible, medicinal, conspicuous, and common. Their hunting and trapping practices have been refined over time to have minimal impact on species populations and to reduce by-catch. Generation upon generation have compiled knowledge of the forest, and humans' place within it. This symbiosis is threatened by new waves of forced displacement by corporate agriculture.

Corollary to this knowledge system is a transportation and communications network that accounts for the vast distances hunters and foragers need to walk (sometimes up to 24-32 kilometers a day) to reach the remote corners of the forest, and to transport game, maize, sugar cane and other crops back to villages for consumption and sale. This requires extraordinary strength (porters can carry up to 35 kilograms of weight on their heads); agility (climbing steep inclines, and skipping boulders across rivulets and streams); stamina (sometimes hiking for four to eight hours nonstop under heavy sun, depending on the task at hand); and a familiarity with the almost non-existent forest paths—superhuman abilities to a city kid like me. Without the help of guides and porters, Bayliss and his team (like us) would never have found their way in or out and certainly would not have been able to transport their gear into the forest, so their claims to “discovery” are trifling at best.

The communities of Mount Mabu now find their land in the crosshairs of foreign and domestic extractive capitalist ventures, and themselves unwitting actors in an economic and socio-political imbroglio. In the now distant past, small Portuguese tea plantations spread out from the lower haunches of Mount Mabu. These days, local farmers have been pushed further up the mountain slope by the massive rubber plantations owned and operated by Mozambique Holdings Limited (MHL). Protected by private security and administered under the auspices of local government, the raw rubber is primarily for sale to the Asian market. It is common knowledge that MHL has indirect links to Mozambique's former two-term President Armando Guebuza, a central figure in the FRELIMO party and one the of richest people in Mozambique.

According to activists working with Justiça Ambiental (JA), a Mozambican environmental advocacy organization that has worked with the communities in and around Mount Mabu for the past 11 years, attempts at partnership with Bayliss have proven problematic over the years. The tendency toward strict environmental conservation ethics clashes with community needs and has resulted in contentious fall-out and a severed relationship. This shortsightedness has threatened to fracture the trust that JA had built with the communities over a decade and put them at odds with Bayliss and the scientific establishment.

On one visit to Mount Mabu, Bayliss and his team planted high-powered cameras to capture movements of new species in the forest over time. They did so without consulting or informing local hunters, community leaders, or chiefs who control tracts of the forest. Hunters discovered the cameras hidden in undergrowth and adorned with small skulls. The scientist had attempted to play off local superstitions, which he apparently hoped would prevent anyone from disturbing the skulls and removing the cameras. The hunters were not fooled, or amused; they were disrespected and insulted. The community informed JA that he was not welcome to return.

Most recently, the World Wildlife Fund (WWF) signed a four-year contract with the Mozambican government to “manage” the rainforest and integrate local communities into the conservation plan. The government they rely on for permission to do their conservation work is comprised of the politicians that are benefiting from the imposition of corporate agriculture. It stands to reason that with few other avenues to achieve their objectives, Bayliss and WWF will join forces in what feels to be a new wave of environmental colonization cloaked in scientific inquiry and biological conservation. Time will tell if their conservation efforts can be integrated into an agenda of socio-cultural preservation, or, if they offer a convenient salve for the brutality of extractive capitalism.

Without foreign funding, there would be no NGO sector in Mozambique, a country that has consistently been listed as one of the poorest in the world since its independence. However, by putting forward an agenda that prioritizes environmental conservation over local community stability and cultural preservation, the WWF and Bayliss may find their interests aligned with those of Mozambique Holdings and the cabal of Chinese-cash-infused corporations looking to extract all manner of resources—timber, coal, fisheries, gemstones, etc.—from Zambezia Province. Tactics have already been deployed to criminalize farmers with no remaining options but to “slash and burn” fields further up the mountain slopes and to intimidate community members who refuse bribes or stand up to the coercion of MHL. The communities that have occupied the land of Mount Mabu for longer than anyone remembers are well aware that they are engaged in a hostile takeover. Whether the WWF and Bayliss agree to participate in meaningful consultation with local communities and coalesce their efforts, or bulldoze a neocolonial agenda, remains to be seen.

During my brief time in Mount Mabu, I was unable to discern (or they were unwilling to disclose) any definitive written history or visual culture. No one made claim to having a unique textile, ceramic, or any other traditional artisanal practice. Still, one imagines that 

must have existed prior to Portuguese occupation and the wars that followed. There are some written records from the region, mostly documents from the tea planters whose estates laid to the north and south of the massif.

According to our guides Manuel and Ernesto, who have spent their lives farming and trapping in the far recesses of the forests of Mount Mabu, oral histories are passed down from one elder storyteller to a younger person from the community who exhibits a strong memory, as well as the capability and desire to carry on the tradition. These traditions are passed on through a process of selection rather than blood lineage. Much of this has to do with the transmutation of the tribal social structure into the cosmological system centred around Mount Mabu and its two younger siblings: Mount Muriba and the River Mugue.

At night, Mabu becomes a mesmerizing aural bounty: crickets, frogs, the slow crumpling of leaves by termites, their counterparts sliding down the smooth exterior of our tent, the sporadic barking and yelping of dogs, our guides snoring. The crescent moon glows blood orange like the embers that scar nearby mountain slopes, remnants of fields slashed and burned to plant anew. The same colour as the eyes of the “bush baby” peering out and cackling from up on high, chucking unripe mangos that plummet from a great height crashing into the brush nearby. The sun begins rising at 4:30 a.m., the roosters preempt their call and response an hour prior and carry on long after daylight has broken, the village comes alive, and work begins. Somehow all perfectly syncopated.

As a city-dwelling outsider, I caught myself romanticizing this seemingly peaceful, primordial existence. Notwithstanding the stunning natural beauty of Mount Mabu, these communities, like everywhere, have their complications and contradictions: polygamy, underage marriage of young girls, high infant mortality (often during low yield harvests), inter-communal fighting, and corruption vis à vis theft and betrayal. The sudden infusion of cash (the average monthly salary in the region being 80 USD) administered by an outside authority—through the WWF—will have a divisive effect on communities that are barely surviving while commuting to higher, more treacherous parts of the rainforest for their basic subsistence. A little bit of money goes a long way in Mount Mabu, and the effects of its allure—and influence—are potentially catastrophic.

Population displacement to make way for industrial agriculture is pushing the communities of Mount Mabu down a treacherous slope. The felling of trees to make way for expanding rubber plantations had already affected wind and rain patterns in the area, which normally receives the highest rainfall in Southern Africa. The compounded effect has expedited the process of erosion and led to recurrent mudslides and widespread destruction of property, particularly during storms at the peak of the rainy season.

During a meeting of village representatives, someone remarked that maybe things were better under colonial rule, back in the days of the tea plantations. The Portuguese had little interest in combatting their labour force and understood the value of a community that was able to feed itself, and thus cut overhead costs, unlike MHL and other multinationals, who place maximum profits over any form of even relatively peaceful co-existence. And FRELIMO, once a bastion of independence and a movement of the people, today, with its nepotistic political dominance and corporate deference, has lived long enough to see itself become the villain.

It is clear that the activists of JA feel the strain of an uphill battle with formidable and ruthless opponents, and the frustration with how financial desperation can turn valuable community leaders into corrupt politicians overnight. But this has not slowed their determination to withstand the hostile takeover. They hold steadfast in the belief that a deeper survival instinct, one that values Indigenous land sovereignty and political autonomy, will ultimately prevail over the allure of immediate and fleeting gains.

No perímetro da povoação de Lugela, a estrada pavimentada termina abruptamente num estreito caminho de terra – um buraco de terra contínuo, suficientemente largo para que a nossa carrinha percorra as colinas onduladas em direcção a Limbuè. Mulheres e jovens raparigas a carregar baldes de água, pratos lavados, bananas, milho e outros bens essenciais perfeitamente equilibrados nas suas cabeças caminham à beira da estrada e escondem-se nos arbustos assim que nos aproximamos. Algumas mulheres deitavam-se ociosamente à sombra das palhotas, conversando em tons suaves, evitando o intenso calor tropical. À medida que subimos gradualmente em direcção à “Floresta Google”, a densidade das nuvens aumenta incrementalmente. A quantidade de precipitação determinará o quão para o interior da floresta tropical do Monte Mabu seremos capazes de caminhar. É o início da estação das chuvas e esperamos que a nossa sorte se mantenha.

Antes de 2005, o Monte Mabu estava praticamente esquecido, excepto para as comunidades locais e entidades extractivas que procuravam cultivar culturas exportáveis em redor do sopé do maciço. Por volta da mesma altura, o Dr. Julian Bayliss, biólogo e pesquisador do Kew Royal Botanical Gardens, estava a vasculhar o GoogleEarth quando reparou no que parecia ser uma floresta antiga de altitude média no topo da montanha no norte de Moçambique. Em 2008, Bayliss e uma equipa de pesquisadores viajaram para o Monte Mabu para fincar a sua bandeira e reinvidicar a sua “descoberta” da “floresta perdida de Moçambique”. Embora o seu anúncio tenha sido celebrado numa série de artigos do 

, o eco hubrístico da afirmação de Vasco da Gama de ter “descoberto” o próprio país há mais de 400 anos ressoou.

O Monte Mabu foi protegido de invasões externas e do desenvolvimento industrial, devido a uma década de Guerra pela Independência de Moçambique, de uma década, de Portugal, a subsequente Guerra Civil Moçambicana de quinze anos, os conflitos intertribais, o isolamento geográfico e o terreno acidentado. A proximidade com a fronteira do Malawi fez com que a região fosse utilizada para o transporte estratégico de munições para várias facções revolucionárias, bem como uma rota de fuga para combatentes e comunidades sob fogo. O Monte Mabu era uma zona de transição entre a RENAMO (paramilitares de direita alinhados com a África do Sul) e a FRELIMO (revolucionários Marxistas de esquerda), que estavam a lutar para governar Moçambique após a independência de Portugal. Durante o conflito armado que durou de 1977 a 1992, as terras em redor da floresta sofreram uma devastação absoluta.

O Monte Mabu é a zona de transição cultural e linguística entre as quatro principais comunidades locais – Nangaze, Nvava, Namadoe e Limbuè – que têm sido guardiãs da floresta tropical desde tempos imemoriais. Os vestígios da guerra nunca estão longe – as cicatrizes na terra cobertas e resignadas a um nicho silencioso na história. Há vestígios residuais de clareiras escondidas entre as cristas dos picos e vales de Mabu, outrora locais de refúgio onde estas comunidades vizinhas se escondiam nas sombras da floresta tropical, fugindo dos soldados da oposição que as caçavam para “as libertar”.

Os povos do Monte Mabu desenvolveram, ao longo de gerações, um sistema de conhecimento baseado numa coexistência pacífica com o seu ambiente natural. A sua premissa para navegar na floresta é simples: perigosa, comestível, medicinal, conspícua e comum. As suas práticas de caça e captura têm sido aperfeiçoadas ao longo do tempo para terem um impacto mínimo nas populações de espécies e para reduzir as capturas acidentais. Geração após geração têm compilado conhecimentos sobre a floresta, e o lugar do homem dentro dela. Esta simbiose é ameaçada por novas ondas de deslocamento forçado pela agricultura corporativa.

Corolário a este sistema de conhecimento é uma rede de transporte e comunicações que responde pelas vastas distâncias que os caçadores e forrageiros precisam de percorrer a pé (por vezes até 24-32 quilómetros por dia) para alcançar os recantos remotos da floresta, e para transportar caça, milho, cana-de-açúcar e outras culturas de volta às aldeias para consumo e venda. Isto requer uma força extraordinária (os carregadores podem carregar até 35 quilos de peso na cabeça); agilidade (subir declives íngremes, e saltar pedras através de riachos e córregos); resistência (por vezes caminhadas de quatro a oito horas sem parar sob sol ardente, dependendo da tarefa em mãos); e uma familiaridade com os caminhos florestais quase inexistentes – capacidades sobre-humanas para um miúdo da cidade como eu. Sem a ajuda de guias e carregadores, Bayliss e a sua equipa (como nós) nunca teriam encontrado o seu caminho de entrada ou saída e certamente não teriam sido capazes de transportar o seu equipamento para a floresta, pelo que as suas pretensões de “descoberta” são, na melhor das hipóteses, triviais.

As comunidades do Monte Mabu encontram agora as suas terras sob a mira de empreendimentos capitalistas extractivos estrangeiros e nacionais, e eles próprios são actores involuntários num imbróglio económico e sociopolítico. Num passado agora distante, pequenas plantações de chá Portuguesas espalharam-se a partir dos pontos mais baixos do Monte Mabu. Hoje em dia, os camponeses locais têm sido empurrados mais acima na encosta da montanha pelas enormes plantações de borracha propriedade e operadas pela Mozambique Holdings Limited (MHL). Protegida pela segurança privada e administrada sob os auspícios do governo local, a borracha em bruto está principalmente à venda para o mercado Asiático. É do conhecimento geral que a MHL tem ligações indirectas com o antigo Presidente de Moçambique, Armando Guebuza, uma figura central do partido FRELIMO e uma das pessoas mais ricas de Moçambique.

Segundo activistas que trabalham com a Justiça Ambiental (JA!), uma organização Moçambicana de advocacia ambiental que tem trabalhado com as comunidades do Monte Mabu e ao seu redor nos últimos 11 anos, as tentativas de parceria com Bayliss provaram ser problemáticas ao longo dos anos. A tendência para uma ética rigorosa de conservação ambiental colide com as necessidades das comunidades e tem resultado em conflitos contenciosos e num relacionamento rompido. Esta miopia ameaçou quebrar a confiança que a JA! tinha construído com as comunidades ao longo de uma década e colocá-las em desacordo com Bayliss e o instituto científico.

Numa visita ao Monte Mabu, Bayliss e a sua equipa colocaram câmaras de alta potência para capturar movimentos de novas espécies na floresta ao longo do tempo. Fizeram-no sem consultar ou informar os caçadores locais, líderes comunitários ou chefes que controlam as áreas da floresta. Os caçadores descobriram as câmaras escondidas no mato e adornadas com pequenos crânios. O cientista tinha tentado jogar com as superstições locais, aparentemente na esperança de que os crânios iriam evitar que alguém removesse as câmaras. Os caçadores não se deixaram enganar, nem acharam engraçado; sentiram se desrespeitados e insultados. A comunidade informou à JA! que ele não era bem-vindo a regressar.

Mais recentemente, o World Wildlife Fund (WWF) assinou um contrato de quatro anos com o governo Moçambicano para “gerir” a floresta tropical e integrar as comunidades locais no plano de conservação. O governo de que dependem para obter permissão para fazer o seu trabalho de conservação é composto pelos políticos que estão a beneficiar da imposição da agricultura corporativa. É evidente que com poucas outras vias para alcançar os seus objectivos, Bayliss e a WWF irão unir forças no que parece ser uma nova onda de colonização ambiental camuflada em investigação científica e conservação biológica. O tempo dirá se os seus esforços de conservação podem ser integrados numa agenda de preservação sociocultural ou se oferecem uma solução conveniente para a brutalidade do capitalismo extractivo.

Sem financiamento estrangeiro, não haveria nenhum sector de ONGs em Moçambique, um país que tem sido constantemente listado como um dos mais pobres do mundo desde a sua independência. Contudo, ao apresentar uma agenda que prioriza a conservação ambiental sobre a estabilidade da comunidade local e a preservação cultural, a WWF e Bayliss podem encontrar os seus interesses alinhados com os da Mozambique Holdings e da cabala de corporações Chinesas de capital fundido que procuram extrair todo o tipo de recursos – madeira, carvão, pesca, pedras preciosas, etc. – da província da Zambézia. Já foram utilizadas tácticas para criminalizar os camponeses que sem outras opções veem se obrigados a abrir novas áreas através do “corte e queima” nas encostas das montanhas, e para intimidar os membros das comunidades que recusam subornos ou resistem à coerção da MHL. As comunidades que ocupam as terras do Monte Mabu há mais tempo do que alguém se lembra estão bem cientes de que estão engajadas num processo hostil de usurpação. Resta saber se a WWF e Bayliss estão dispostos em engajar num processo de consulta significativa com as comunidades locais e coalizam dos seus esforços, ou impor uma agenda neocolonial.

Durante o meu breve tempo no Monte Mabu, não consegui discernir (ou não quiseram divulgar) qualquer história escrita ou cultura visual definitiva. Ninguém referiu existir um tecido único, cerâmica ou qualquer outra prática artesanal tradicional. Ainda assim, imagina-se que algo deve ter existido antes da ocupação Portuguesa e das guerras que se lhe seguiram. Existem alguns registos escritos da região, na sua maioria documentos dos empresas de plantação de de chá cujas propriedades se estendiam a Norte e a Sul do maciço.

De acordo com os nossos guias Manuel e Ernesto, que passaram a vida a cultivar e a caçar nos locais mais remotos da floresta do Monte Mabu, as histórias orais são passadas de um contador de histórias mais velho a uma pessoa mais jovem da comunidade que exibe uma forte memória, bem como a capacidade e o desejo de continuar com a tradição. Estas tradições são transmitidas através de um processo de selecção e não através da linhagem de sangue. Muito disto tem a ver com a transmutação da estrutura social tribal no sistema cosmológico centrado em torno do Monte Mabu e dos seus dois irmãos mais novos: o Monte Muriba e o Rio Mugue.

À noite, Mabu transforma-se numa hipnotizante recompensa auditiva: grilos, sapos, o lento amassar das folhas pelas térmitas, os seus homólogos a deslizar pelo exterior liso da nossa tenda, o ladrar esporádico e o gemido dos cães, os nossos guias a roncar. A lua crescente brilha alaranjada como as brasas que marcam as encostas das montanhas próximas, restos de campos cortados e queimados para plantar de novo. A mesma cor que os olhos do “gálago” a espreitar e a cacarejar lá do alto, atirando mangas verdes que despencam de uma grande altura colidindo com o mato próximo. O sol começa a nascer às 4:30 da manhã, os galos antecipam a sua chamada e resposta uma hora antes e prosseguem muito depois do nascer do dia, a aldeia ganha vida e o trabalho começa. De alguma forma, tudo está perfeitamente sincopado.

Como forasteiro da cidade, apanhei-me a romantizar esta existência aparentemente pacífica e primordial. Apesar da beleza natural deslumbrante do Monte Mabu, estas comunidades, como em toda a parte, têm as suas complicações e contradições: poligamia, casamento de raparigas menores de idade, mortalidade infantil elevada (muitas vezes durante as colheitas de baixo rendimento), conflitos entre comunidades, e corrupção em relação ao roubo e traição. A súbita infusão de dinheiro (o salário médio mensal na região é de 80 dólares) administrado por uma autoridade externa – através da WWF – terá um efeito divisor nas comunidades que mal sobrevivem enquanto se deslocam para partes mais altas e traiçoeiras da floresta tropical para a sua subsistência básica. Um pouco de dinheiro vai muito longe no Monte Mabu, e os efeitos do seu fascínio – e influência – são potencialmente catastróficos.

O deslocamento da população para dar lugar à agricultura industrial está a empurrar as comunidades do Monte Mabu para uma encosta traiçoeira. O abate de árvores para dar lugar à expansão de plantações de borracha já está a afectar os padrões de vento e chuva na área, que normalmente recebem a maior precipitação da África Austral. O efeito combinado acelerou o processo de erosão e levou a deslizamentos de terra recorrentes e à destruição generalizada de propriedades, particularmente durante as tempestades no pico da estação chuvosa.

Durante uma reunião de representantes da aldeia, alguém comentou que talvez as coisas fossem melhores sob o domínio colonial, na época das plantações de chá. Os Portugueses tinham pouco interesse em combater a sua força de trabalho e compreendiam o valor de uma comunidade que fosse capaz de se alimentar, e assim reduzir os custos gerais, ao contrário da MHL e de outras multinacionais, que colocam o máximo lucro sobre qualquer forma de coexistência, mesmo relativamente pacífica. E a FRELIMO, outrora um bastião da independência e um movimento popular, hoje, com o seu domínio político nepotista e deferência corporativa, viveu o tempo suficiente para se ver a si própria como a vilã.

É evidente que os activistas da JA! sentem a tensão de uma batalha difícil com adversários formidáveis e implacáveis, e a frustração com a forma como o desespero financeiro pode transformar líderes comunitários valiosos em políticos corruptos da noite para o dia. Mas isto não abrandou a sua determinação em resistir à tomada hostil do poder. Eles mantêm-se firmes na crença de que um instinto de sobrevivência mais profundo, que valoriza a soberania da terra comunitária e a autonomia política, acabará por prevalecer sobre o fascínio de ganhos imediatos e fugazes.