Returning Recently to Teach at My Alma Mater, The University of Cape Town, I Was Amazed to Find That the Undergraduate curriculum to which I had been exposed at the dawn of the post-apartheid era remained substantially unaltered. With the exception of an experimentally convened introductory year that reverses chronology with interesting effects, the English major continues to plot a literary history across four inherited periods: Shakespeare and Co., Romance to Realism, Modernism, and Contemporary Literature, which collapses a previous bifurcation of the capstone course into Postmodernism or Postcolonialism.

I Have Taught Literature at the University Of Nairobi Since 2009. Previously, I Taught at Masinde Muliro University and at Moi University. From my experience at the three universities, I can trace, in hindsight, two dominant influences on my knowledge of literature and expectations of how it ought to be conceived and taught. First is my graduate training at Moi University, in Kenya, and at the University of the Witwatersrand, in South Africa, where I was encouraged to see literature as a broad discipline that speaks to others in the humanities and in the social and natural sciences in terms of concerns, research methodology, and, especially, analytic tools. The second influence is the academic composition and orientation of the literature departments, as shaped by the politics of development. In the face of two competing forces—on the one hand, the Kenyan government and its preoccupation with development as an ideal and a pretext for de-emphasizing the teaching of some humanities disciplines and, on the other, the neoliberal political economy that gave rise to nongovernmental organizations' setting the scholarship research agenda in Kenya—literary academics seemed to be torn three ways: using the discipline and their knowledge of it to position themselves for government appointments, pursuing nongovernmental-organizations-funded research, or continuing to teach literature in the ways that they know. Those who chose the third option were also equipped with an institutional memory of the discipline as they were taught, the department, and its practices. Because, of these three groups, I have interacted the most with members of the third, my reflections here focus on them exclusively.

In 1995 I Taught a Course in New Zealand Literature at Tokyo University. The Students Were Attentive, and Curious About New Zealand, but they found my Kiwi English hard to follow, being accustomed to American or British varieties. I wondered about their seeming tolerance recently while teaching a similar course to undergraduates back home, at Victoria University, in Wellington, when one of the Maori students complimented a Pākehā (New Zealand European) colleague for her Maori pronunciation. Like most Pākehā, I have a rudimentary grasp of Māori, enough to be familiar with the words and phrases that have entered everyday speech and those in the poetry and fiction I teach. But I cannot conduct a conversation in Māori or read a Māori text, and I am as embarrassed by the irritation that my pronunciation of te reo (the Māori language) causes Māori speakers as I was by the difficulty my rising terminals and strange accent posed for competent English speakers in Japan.