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When elephants fight, the grass suffers.

This episode contains strong language and graphic imagery. Sensitive listeners, please be advised.

STORIES
“Disappeared”: Being the child of a changemaker can be an isolating experience. For Lupita and her family, it feels like everything is at stake all the time.

Original score by Khari Lucas.

“The Lions’ Den”: Portia is the daughter of a household name in Rwandan politics who’s larger than life. He keeps his family safe and their spirits high with his irreverent sense of humor. Then the unthinkable happens.
Portia Karegeya, thank you for telling your story.

Produced by Zahra Noorbakhsh and David Exumé. Original score by Lauryn Newson. Edited by John Fecile and Anna Sussman.

Original Mind Your Own theme song by Sandra Lawson-Ndu AKA Sandu Ndu x Peachcurls ft. Ehiorobo. This episode also featured the song Built For You by Wanja Wohoro.

Executive Producers: Glynn Washington and Mark RistichManaging Editor: Regina Bediako
Director of Production: Marisa Dodge
Series Producers: David Exumé and Priscilla Alabi
Music Supervisor: Sandra Lawson-Ndu
Story Scouts: Ashley Okwuosa, Fiona Nyong’o, Jessica Kariisa, Lesedi Oluko Moche
Editors: Nancy López and Anna Sussman
Engineering: Miles Lassi
Operations Manager: Florene Wiley
Story Consultant: John Fecile

Graphic Design: Jemimah Ekeh
Original Artwork: Mateus Sithole
Special Thanks: Allan Coye, Jake Kleinberg, Samara Still, Sarah Yoo, Warner Music Group, and Afripods
Episode transcripts can be found here.
Mind Your Own is a production of KQED’s Snap Studios, with sales and distribution by Lemonada Media. Hosted and produced by Lupita Nyong’o.
Snap Studios is home to the Snap Judgment and Spooked podcasts.

Thank you to our sponsor Magic Mind. You have a limited offer you can use now, that gets you up to 48% off your first subscription or 20% off one time purchases with code MINDYOUROWN at checkout. You can claim it at: https://www.magicmind.com/mindyourown

See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Transcript

MIND YOUR OWN TRANSCRIPT

EP 5: FREEDOM FATHERS

 

Lupita: This episode contains strong language and graphic imagery. Sensitive listeners, please be advised.

Lupita: I created this show because I believe that Africans are prismatic. We are full of unique life experiences. We are made up of stories that we have yet to hear. And while my aim was to cover those peculiar, unique, quirky, singular stories, I also wanted to have the freedom to explore the hard stuff, the stuff that is more stereotypically heard of Africa, like the wars and the political violence. But I wanted to tackle that stuff on our own terms, in our own way, from our own angles, and that is what we’re going to do today. 

I’m Lupita Nyong’o, and this is Mind Your Own. 

[Mind Your Own theme song]

Lupita: My father is one of 11. And before I was born, he was a professor at the University of Nairobi. At the time, we were an autocratic regime under our second President, Daniel arap Moi. He was part of the thinkers trying to strategize for a multi-party system in Kenya. He looked quite a lot like my dad, and he lived in Mombasa. So, around this time of all this unrest, my uncle Anam, went missing in the coast. My grandmother looked for him. They sent investigators to look for him. There was just no trace of him except for a pair of shoes that were found with his car on the ferry. As a result of his disappearance, my dad decided to go into self-exile, and that’s what led him to Mexico, because nobody’s looking for a Kenyan in Mexico. And I was born in his third year there. 

When he came back, still, there was no sign of his brother. And so, I grew up never hearing about my uncle Anam. He was shrouded in mystery. I heard his name. I had to have known his name, but I knew this was a name that you never utter. 

My dad was often busy, often didn’t come home because he traveled a lot. But when I was around five, he didn’t come home for a long time. We were not allowed to go to school. The curtains were not allowed to be opened. We were burning the papers of all the things he’s written. He’s a prolific writer. Like, how they talk in “Hamilton,” why do you write like you’re running out of time. That is my father. He’s always writing something. 

So, he had been writing all these ideas of his or whatever, just – our job, we were tasked by my mom to just burn, burn, burn, burn, burn all day, burning them in the fireplace. I was very excited about the fire. It was fun. I don’t think I had ever been allowed to chill by a fire for that long [laughs] and actually interact with it. So, in the beginning, it was fun, it was engaging. And then like, oh my God, to do this all day, all day. Like, all day, every day. 

My mother’s whole demeanor shifted. Sometimes, she would weep and we didn’t know what was happening. It was very hush-hush. Cops outside, and I could tell, even if nobody’s saying anything, you know something’s wrong. We would pray for him every day that he’d come back, that he’d be okay. I was actually very afraid that I would never see my father again. He was gone for over a month. 

Then one day, my dad showed up in the night. He just walked through the door and he was wafer thin. And, of course, I did not care about that. I jumped on him, and I just hugged him and I held him. I don’t even know how he kept me up because he was thin. My mother is crying. It’s this big reunion, but no real understanding of what had happened. We just knew, daddy had been taken for democracy, he’s back, he’s okay, and life goes on. You go back to school. You just keep at it. 

I was 11, actually. And my dad’s youngest sister had her first son and named him after my uncle. 

“What? The boy’s name is Anam? Like, uncle Anam?” 

I asked my mom, I was like, “Mommy, he’s named after uncle Anam.” And she was like, “Yeah.” 

“If he’s named Anam, that means we have to say his name. We have to say his name.” And that name comes with a story. 

“Can we talk about him now?” 

How old was I? 18 years old. We had our first new president in 23 years, and those torture chambers were finally opened. And I accompanied my dad and the press to tour them. The torture chambers were in the same building as immigration, where you go to get your passport, which is really ironic that the place you go to exercise your freedom is where they were holding people against their will. 

We went in there, and there were these cells that had these iron gates, temperature control, the ability to flood the room, no furniture. My father is taking us through this with camera crew and public in tow and recounting his stories telling of who was there with him, and what happened to him, and how he was tortured, and how he kept track of the days, and the meals that he ate. I mean – and I had heard none of it. I’m hearing these harrowing stories from my father in public. I mean, it is hard when there’s cameras on you for you to — you’re not having a pure experience. You’re having the experience as it is being mirrored to the rest of the world. I guess, it’s my instinct, like my survival instinct, I just neutralize, naturally, [chuckles] as proven recently at a certain Academy Award show. So, I remember just like being stunned and I had no place to put my shock. 

Interviewer: There is your brother. Many Kenyans, especially who are young, don’t really understand what really happened back in 1980s. Did you lose a brother? And up to now, you have not actually found where he is or where he’s buried as we speak right today? 

Prof. Nyong’o: It was in July 1980, actually. 

Interviewer: 1980.

Prof. Nyong’o: July 1980. We were having problems at the University of Nairobi. 

Interviewer: Yes.

Prof. Nyong’o: We had a demonstration against British sale of arms. 

Lupita: It’s easier for him to open up in an interview than with his family. I don’t know why. 

Producer: When you were older, did you try to talk to your dad about that month that he went missing? 

Lupita: I don’t recall ever asking my father about what happened to him. The political environment that I grew up in did not allow for my inquisitiveness. I also did a lot of just blocking things out. Don’t know where they took you, don’t know why, don’t want to know. Now I do. Obviously, now I do. 

Producer: Okay. You could always ask him. 

Lupita: I could. I could. Jesus Christ. Help me, Lord. I don’t know, I would like to talk to him about it. Actually, you know what? I’d really like to ask him? I’d like to ask him, why is it easier for you to tell these stories to KTN and KBC than it is to tell it to us? 

And I wonder what he would say. 

[tense music] 

Don’t go anywhere, more Mind Your Own, after this quick break. 

Welcome back. You’re listening to Mind Your Own. 

There is a cost to being the child of a change maker. It’s a very isolating experience when everything is at stake almost all the time. 

Now, you’re going to hear from Portia, who can truly relate to that sentiment. I hope you’re listening. 

[upbeat music] 

Patrick Karegeya was once a household name in Rwandan politics. His daughter, Portia, says he was almost larger than life. 

Portia: My dad, he was the head of external intelligence, which is like the CIA, but of a small African country. 

Lupita: But being larger than life meant attracting a lot of attention, not all of it good. So, Portia’s parents made the decision to send her to boarding school in South Africa. 

Portia: My parents thought that it would be safest for us to be as far away from my dad as possible. 

Lupita: And so, he kept fighting for what he thought was right, even speaking out against the Rwandan president. Afterwards, he was arrested for indiscipline and detained for a year in jail. He did get out, but the clear message was, it was no longer safe for him to stay in Rwanda. 

Portia: He was like on the run through East Africa for a little bit and landed in South Africa. So, he was in Johannesburg. And then I was in Cape Town until I finished uni in 2011. 

Lupita: They were finally living in the same country, but Portia still had to limit her visits to her dad, lest she become a target too. 

Portia: After there was an attempted assassination of my dad’s colleague, my dad, he was in a kind of a safe house. 

Lupita: The South African government had given him protection. But the safe house, a log cabin, was kind of a lonely place. He needed pre-approval to be driven off and onto the property. Meaning, he couldn’t see people very often. Portia did get a chance to visit him, but she wasn’t sure what state her father would be in. 

Portia: And for whatever reason, there was a chicken coop. And so, they were like just chickens on the property. He had done an entire anthropological study with the chickens. He was like, “That guy is very selfish. He has two girlfriends. He won’t let the other one even touch one.” [laughs] I would just laugh along with him. Then I would join in. I’d be like, “What else? Tell me more information about [laughs] these chickens.” Mostly, he was delighting to himself, which was always enjoyable. 

When I came back the next time, they were just running around the yard and I was like, “Dad, what’s this about?” And he was like, “I liberated them.” [laughs] I was like, “I think you’ve been inside too long, dad.”

Lupita: Patrick’s circumstances would have been a lot for anyone to have to deal with. It was important to him though to find the light within the dark. 

Portia: He used humor to put people at ease, to relax, to get them talking about difficult things, to have the atmosphere be a little lighter than it needs to. He wasn’t like a super serious guy, if he didn’t need to be in the moment. 

Lupita: But as much as they would joke around at the end of their visits, he would always warn her, “Portia, be careful.”

Portia: There are people who are actively after him. He was like, “If they’re coming after me like this, we don’t want you all to be collateral damage as well.”

Lupita: So, she went to grad school in Montreal, and would reach out to him from campus. 

Portia: We used to Skype. That was the primary content of our text was “Skype?” and then we would have conversations. I was always trying to cheer him up with my achievements, and my jokes. We were like, “Okay, you know what? We can’t stay down in the dumps like this.” We were sort of like, “Yes, 2014, the Karegeyas [laughs] are going to get their shit together.”

Lupita: But on New Year’s Day that year, she texted her dad and he didn’t respond. 

Portia: I tell myself he’s busy, but my dad always had his phone in his hand. Quick, quick, quick with the replies. My dad wasn’t picking up in the night. When I woke up in the morning, I still hadn’t received anything from him, and that’s when the real panic set in. I was checking with my mom and my brother like, “Did you hear from dad?” Just calling. I managed to get hold of my cousin, and he told me. He’s dead. 

And I said, “Wait, like, dead-dead?” And he was like, “Yeah, I don’t know what else to say.” And I was like, “Okay.” And I hung up. I felt very tingly. My breath felt prickly, and I was sort of feeling like, okay, I feel like I’m melting into the ground, but then my phone rang and it was my mom. She said, “Okay, have you heard?” And I said, “Yes.” And she said, “Okay, so now you have to be strong, okay?” “Okay.” And we both just said, “Okay” for a while. 

I hung up, I sat on my bed, and I couldn’t even feel like emotion, I didn’t feel like I was about to cry. I kept thinking, “What am I supposed to do next?” It was two weeks fully in a fog, and then I was on a plane to Johannesburg. 

Because it was this high-profile assassination, this can’t be a casual funeral. The day of the funeral itself, we had to have a police escort. Driving to there, I do remember looking outside and seeing police on their motorbikes, and joking with my best friend and my brother like, “Are we in a movie?” This just felt so intense. 

[sirens wailing in the background] 

There’s like all sorts of support groups, but there’s no Children of Assassinees Anonymous or something. It was like a small hall and there’s press, a bunch of people with cameras at the back, like when you see on television in a courtroom or at a congressional hearing. We also suspected that there were like spies in the crowd, like people who go and report back to give details of how it went or who was spotted there. In my mum’s speech, she was like, “If there is a spy among you. Go back and tell them they should be ashamed.” 

Lupita: Don’t go anywhere. More after this quick break. 

You’re listening to Mind Your Own. Let’s jump back into that story. 

Portia: I felt so many feelings. He was strangled to death by the hotel room curtain tie. I was fixated on, “Why did he have to die like that?” As if that could make it any less awful. 

I felt that it was important that I be defiant. I think in my family, we all have the same sense of humor. We say in Kinyarwanda like [Kinyarwanda language] which is like, “They’ll never catch us looking raggedy,” [laughs] basically. No matter what, we’re going to look good, we’re going to speak well, we’re going to keep it together. 

And then I had to get up and give my eulogy. 

[Eulogy tape] “Very rarely in this world is that spirit of generosity found and found so abundantly in one person.” 

My eulogy was actually a letter I wrote the night of his death to him. 

[Eulogy tape] “You were generous to the world, dad. And you stood tall and you looked your enemies straight in the eye and you said, ‘Try me.'”

The last thing I said was, “To those of you who had the audacity to take a life, look at me. I stand here in the full knowledge that I am the house that Patrick Karegeya built, this is where you lose.” 

After the funeral service, we were headed to the internment where they put him in the ground at Fourways Memorial Park. It was outdoors. It looked like it was going to be sunny very briefly, but it remained mostly overcast. They pitch a tent around the grave. But what I remember the most is just like a sea of bodies in black walking, dabbing away at tears, gathering around this hole in the ground where they’re suspending his casket, waiting for ceremony to begin. 

There was this priest who had been provided by the Memorial Park, because one of the services they provided was somebody to do the last rites. This priest, he’s a white guy in a sea of East Africans. He was like a medium sized guy. He’s got his collar, he’s holding his Bible, had a very round, kind face, and he is very, very Afrikaans. The main thing that gave away that he was – he’s very Afrikaans is just his accent. He begins, and he’s like, “You know, I didn’t know Patrick, but he reminded me of someone I thought. This man is brave, Patrick.” Whatever. It’s how he speaks, it’s okay. 

And then he’s like, “Patrick is definitely comparable to Daniel in the den of lions.” He’s telling the story of Daniel. Daniel’s boss is telling him like, “You have to pray to no one but me,” but Daniel’s like, “No, I only pray to the one true God.” They put him in the den with the lions, and God protects him because he’s faithful. The lions don’t even begin to attack him. 

Cynically, I’m thinking, I don’t know if this Daniel analogy is going to work because the lions prospered in my story. Then we’re all listening along and he’s like, “And guess what?” And then we’re like, “Okay.” And he’s like, “He had such a strong faith, and he knew that he needed to remain steady.” And then we’re like, “Okay.” And then he’s like, “And guess what?” 

So, now we’re like, “Are you going to make us guess the whole way through this very short, well-known story?” 

He keeps on saying this. He keeps on asking us, “And guess what?” And I remember like my – the sort of crying, grief-y part like start to stop and be like, “What’s going on here?” And I look up, and you can see him. He’s really getting into the spirit of his sermon. And as he’s getting more enthusiastic, and then he keeps asking us. He keeps saying, “And guess what?” So, by now, I’m feeling the giggles coming on. Also I kind of want to laugh, but I’m not allowed to laugh because it’s my dad’s [laughs] funeral. 

I was standing next to my mom. She was holding me quite tightly, and she’s really listening fully in the narrative like, “Yes, Patrick was just like Daniel.” I feel my brother come up behind me and hold my shoulder. So, I hold his hand on my shoulder, thinking he’s just coming to be next to me. And then [laughs] in unison with the priest the next time it inevitably comes around, he whispers in my ear, “And guess what?” 

“I hate you.” And I immediately had to turn around and put my head right in my mother’s armpit, and I just basically pretended I was crying. She just holds me real close. She’s like, “I know, sweetheart. I know, sweetheart,” and she’s crying. And I’m like, “Oh, my God, I can’t believe. I’m bursting into laughter in front of my dad’s casket [laughs] just before it’s lowered to the ground.”

But then I also had a moment of thinking like, “I’m 100% sure dad orchestrated this for his own entertainment.” He would have enjoyed it if people were laughing at his funeral. 

Especially like after my brother came up behind me. It did feel like, “Okay, we’re still doing this thing together as best we can.” But also the laugh had to leave, and the grief did remain. You watched them lower him to the ground, and then I did enough crying for a lifetime. 

The whole thing shouldn’t have been happening. I looked around. I was like, “Wow, I’m really at dad’s funeral. This is the end of the story.” 

Everything that had carried us through to that moment, or at least carried me through was this dream of like, one day we’ll be just all sitting in the house, the way families do, doing whatever it is, and we’ll be like, “Phew, we got through that. Wasn’t that a wild time?” I always had that dream of vindication and peace, and a kind of happily ever after. And I felt like this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

After the internment, at the wake, we had sat on the ground outside. A few of my friends from uni had come to the funeral, and so I was catching up with them, and somebody tapped me on the shoulder and said, “There’s somebody here from the radio who wants to talk to you.” I wasn’t super eager, but I was like, “Yeah, okay.” The other end of the line sounded a little bit crackly, but I could hear the host quite clearly. He had his questions ready to go. I remember the first question was like, “So, what’s happening? Where are you?” So, now I’m switching into my Kinyarwanda head to try to reply and he says [overlapping voices] “What’s the day been like? Can you believe this has happened? Do you believe that they did? Do you have a message for the people? What do you think about the situation? What do you think could be done?” 

Like – I’m being asked for too much. My dad just got murdered. I’m at a loss. And so, I just thought, “Guess what? Bye.” 

And just handed the phone back and walked away. And then I went back to whoever I had been having a conversation with. I think my dad would have laughed at me, as he often did. Probably also made fun of my Kinyarwanda, and then given me a high five. I do think he would say, “Enjoy what you can enjoy when you can enjoy it, because you never know when it’s going to be over.” 

He certainly lived his life that way. 

[music]

Lupita: I really appreciate Portia for being so open with us about her experience. 

The idea of losing my father because of his political efforts, it has always been a nightmare of mine. I’m so grateful that he’s still here with us today, and I do not take that for granted. But I’ve been wanting to talk to my father for a long time about that period of his life. Like, I was saying at the end of my story, we’ve never had that conversation directly. But a few months ago, we were finally all in the same place. And so, I spoke with my father and my mother too, and they let me record the conversation. 

I finally got to ask my father the question I’ve been holding on to. 

Lupita: Do you find it easier to talk about these tough things in public settings than with us, your family? 

Prof. Nyong’o: Not really. Not really. It just never – It’s unfortunate that we never spend time talking about them. But you see, in public settings, people are asking questions. 

Lupita: So, you’re saying if I had asked questions, you would have responded.

Prof. Nyong’o: Yeah, but not in public. 

[laughter] 

Prof. Nyong’o: Now you’re asking, I respond. 

Lupita: I didn’t know that I could ask. I think that’s the thing, like, growing up with the whole uncle Anam thing, and so much was hush-hush. Things are happening and not being–

Prof. Nyong’o: Talked about.

Lupita: –explained. I think that grownups are talking, and that people are meeting and whispering and all. I learned inadvertently, not to ask questions because I didn’t want to –

Dorothy Nyong’o: Provoke.

Lupita: –provoke or step on toes. 

Dorothy Nyong’o: But it was not even deliberate. 

Prof. Nyong’o: That’s right.

Dorothy Nyong’o: It was just to protect you guys. The less you know–

Lupita: –the safer you are. 

[music swell]

Lupita: I could have asked sooner than I did. Like, maybe I could have asked in my early 20s, but I certainly don’t think I would have gotten an answer when I was younger. I just don’t believe it. 

The overwhelming feeling I left that conversation with was that my parents gave me all they could in that conversation. There were moments when I felt dissatisfied with the answers, but I also felt compassion. As Africans, the difference between our parents’ generation and ours is so stark. The concussion of colonialism lives so viscerally in our parents’ generation. We still very much exist in it, but ours is like secondhand smoke. 

There’s so many differences, and one of the biggest differences is self-expression. There’s ways in which I may never know my father. I get frustrated and I want something that I will never really get. But then when all is said and done, I’m like, ultimately, even in my dissatisfaction, I never doubt his love. 

[music fades]

Thank you, mommy and daddy for allowing me to share us. And Portia Karegeya, thank you for telling your story. Portia currently lives in Montreal. When she’s not at her day job in the legal field, she’s most likely fostering her other passion: standup comedy. 

Thanks for listening. It’s been really good to have you. I enjoyed going with you to Johannesburg. Our whole family was gathered around the casket and the priest kept saying that same thing over and over again.

“And guess what?” 

We’ll see you the next time you Mind Your Own. 

Until then, here’s a song from the continent: Built For You by Wanja Wohoro.

[Built For You by Wanja Wohoro playing] 

Lupita: Mind Your Own is hosted and produced by me, Lupita Nyong’o. This is a production of Snap Studios at KQED, with sales and distribution by Lemonada Media.

The executive producers are Glynn Washington and Mark Ristich. Our managing editor is Regina Bediako. Our director of production is Marisa Dodge. 

Original music in my story, “Disappeared,” was by Khari Lucas. The story “The Lions’ Den” was produced by Zahra Noorbakhsh and David Exumé. Original music by Lauryn Newson. Edited by John Fecile and Anna Sussman. 

Our Mind Your Own producers are David Exumé and Priscilla Alabi. Our story scouts are Ashley Okwuosa, Fiona Nyong’o, Jessica Kariisa, and Lesedi Oluko Moche. Our editors are Nancy Lopez and Anna Sussman. Our story consultant is John Fecile. Engineering by Miles Lassi. Our music supervisor is Sandra Lawson-Ndu, also known as Sandu Ndu. She also created the Mind Your Own theme song with Peachcurls, featuring vocals from Ehiorobo. 

Graphic design by Jemimah Ekeh. Original artwork by Mateus Sithole.

Special thanks to Allan Coye, Jake Kleinberg, Samara Still, Sarah Yoo, Warner Music Group, and Afripods.

Make sure to follow Mind Your Own and listen on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music, or wherever you get your podcasts.

There’s even more to love with Lemonada Premium. Subscribers get exclusive access to bonus content from across the network for only $4.99 a month. Subscribe now on Apple Podcasts.

Now go out, get together, and mind your own… legacies.

[Transcript provided by SpeechDocs Podcast Transcription]