Oral East Africa>The language of the Great Lake of East Africa At the hut of the story

Written by Otiato Guguyu

When on a trip to Sori we went to look for cheap omena by the shores of the World’s largest tropical lake, I saw a group of boats lined up like nail extensions.

I wanted to photograph the boats in case we needed shots for stories on the lake since finding local photos was proving daunting.

We have made the Lake, which the Luhya call Inyanja; the Luo, Nam Lolwe and the British after Queen Victoria; the home of our digital newsroom and are hoping to cover all the interesting things that happen in it, its shores and basin.

Public photography

The challenge with taking photos in public spaces in Kenya is the suspicion my countrymen have for a man with a camera.

There are always ulterior motives lurking from voodoo, selling to donors to possibly snitching for the government.

But I went nonetheless and met Janyakach. He was sitting at the stern of his wooden boat, flattening a strip of aluminum plate. He then lay them carefully on the injured lacerations of his boat, a life and death procedure that could mean a leak, even capsizing.

Beach boy

At first, he did not want me to take photos of him, his suspicious garb pique-red by the click of my lenses. A beach boy walked down intimidatingly towards me. I knew his friends were watching him, were watching me.

I was watching the boats, slide into the bay, trying to find some symmetry between them, going click and hoping the settings are right.

As a matter of fact, as the nature of studio photography changes, most clients tend to take their photos over digital channels like email, or via link on WhatsApp.

I ask him if he has a smartphone and he does, and there our language transcends geographical boundaries via computer code.

I step into the water, feel Inyanja’s coldness rise well above where the water touches me, and go clicking as he surgically sews his boat together.

I interrupt his studious work to show him the pictures, and he laughs with the face of my dead uncle who used to fish in these waters.

The language of water

‘An Nelson Janyakach’, he greets me, typical of Luo folk whose identities are tied to their village dhot’s that constitute an important part of greeting. I tell him ‘An Jamanyala’.

The creases of his wrinkled laughter carved out more unable to contain the excitement of his tongue as he tried to greet me in Kinyala and utter the lewd jokes he learned from one of my tribesmen in the islands.

I learned your tongue in the water he says to me, and in our firm gripping handshake, we talk the language of East Africa’s largest lake.