I'm not so sure, and I actually work for a place called the Centre for Stories. And my job is to help to tell stories that challenge mainstream narratives about what it means to be black or a Muslim or a refugee or any of those other categories that we talk about all the time. But I come to this work after a long history as a social justice activist, and so I'm really interested in the ways that people talk about nonfiction storytelling as though it's about more than entertainment, as though it's about being a catalyst for social action. It's not uncommon to hear people say that stories make the world a better place. Increasingly, though, I worry that even the most poignant stories, particularly the stories about people who no one seems to care about, can often get in the way of action towards social justice. Now, this is not because storytellers mean any harm. Quite the contrary. Storytellers are often do-gooders like me and, I suspect, yourselves. And the audiences of storytellers are often deeply compassionate and empathetic people. Still, good intentions can have unintended consequences, and so I want to propose that stories are not as magical as they seem. So three — because it's always got to be three — three reasons why I think that stories don't necessarily make the world a better place.
Firstly, stories can create an illusion of solidarity. There is nothing like that feel-good factor you get from listening to a fantastic story where you feel like you climbed that mountain, right, or that you befriended that death row inmate. But you didn't. You haven't done anything. Listening is an important but insufficient step towards social action.
Secondly, I think often we are drawn towards characters and protagonists who are likable and human. And this makes sense, of course, right? Because if you like someone, then you care about them. But the inverse is also true. If you don't like someone, then you don't care about them. And if you don't care about them, you don't have to see yourself as having a moral obligation to think about the circumstances that shaped their lives.
I learned this lesson when I was 14 years old. I learned that actually, you don't have to like someone to recognize their wisdom, and you certainly don't have to like someone to take a stand by their side. So my bike was stolen while I was riding it —
which is possible if you're riding slowly enough, which I was.
So one minute I'm cutting across this field in the Nairobi neighborhood where I grew up, and it's like a very bumpy path, and so when you're riding a bike, you don't want to be like, you know —
And so I'm going like this, slowly pedaling, and all of a sudden, I'm on the floor. I'm on the ground, and I look up, and there's this kid peddling away in the getaway vehicle, which is my bike, and he's about 11 or 12 years old, and I'm on the floor, and I'm crying because I saved a lot of money for that bike, and I'm crying and I stand up and I start screaming. Instinct steps in, and I start screaming, "Mwizi, mwizi!" which means "thief" in Swahili. And out of the woodworks, all of these people come out and they start to give chase. This is Africa, so mob justice in action. Right? And I round the corner, and they've captured him, they've caught him. The suspect has been apprehended, and they make him give me my bike back, and they also make him apologize. Again, you know, typical African justice, right? And so they make him say sorry. And so we stand there facing each other, and he looks at me, and he says sorry, but he looks at me with this unbridled fury. He is very, very angry. And it is the first time that I have been confronted with someone who doesn't like me simply because of what I represent. He looks at me with this look as if to say, "You, with your shiny skin and your bike, you're angry at me?"