In his book “The Materiality of Architecture” (2020), Antoine Picon goes on a similar journey. A journey that explores architecture’s role as a discipline longing for expression. But Picon (2020), who intends to change the way how architecture and urbanism are being thought and thought of, is not just concerned with architecture’s expressive nature. Throughout different chapters on the discipline’s intersection with language, history, and technology, the author goes beyond its understanding as either enabling political change or preventing it. Sharply and suggestively, he introduces a political framework, arguably also a paradigm, that he calls “regimes of materiality” or “strachitecture” (Picon 2020: 142). The use of materials would not just reveal the possible intentions of the person using them, making them object to their proportional and technical know-how as creators. Materials, and thereby architecture as a discipline, “provide an overall atmosphere and give some scenic realisation, but the plot remains undecided. At is best, when it creates the proper atmosphere, the discipline appears as an ennobler of human relationship” (Picon 2020: 147).  Human relationships, on the other hand, reveal the deep dynamics within society, dominant ideas, and power imbalances between humans of every kind.

Over the past 6 years, I have lived in different places for my studies and work. In all these places, human relationships have naturally been subject to my mind’s thoughts. Today, I find myself in Nairobi, Kenya. Confronted with new and not-so-new experiences, such as colonial continuations and social injustices, my wanderings through the cities narrate the layers of this regime of materiality. The layers do not only express themselves in the obvious truth that people are experiencing Nairobi according to their socio-economic situation, but the inconsistencies that I find within and around myself. I may be the daughter of Kurdish refugees; I may have grown up in poor circumstances in Germany and so on. In Nairobi, however, I am considered a white person, a stranger, a person of certain socio-economic status. It would be wrong to get upset about how these internal contradictions are not seen - because the fact that I am in Nairobi and working for the UN is evidence of privilege. The money I spend may be Kenyan Shillings, and yet the currency that allows me to spend the Shillings is the Euro. In consideration of all these circumstances, it would be more appropriate and sincere on my part to address whom certain materials in Nairobi serve, what structures define the city and what (human) relationships dominate. Hence, the real question is: what materials do I encounter and what do they say about my position and my relations with others in Nairobi?

In answering this question, it must be pointed out that "wandering" is the wrong term to describe the regime of materiality from my point of view in Nairobi. I often move purposefully through the city, sitting in the car, always knowing where my path begins and leads me. What is more, anyone who has been to Nairobi knows how different the infrastructure and urban areas are in each neighbourhood. With the onset of European settlement and colonisation policies, Europeans, especially the British, began to take over the infrastructure and positions in administration and politics. To consolidate their own position and create a "middle class" that dominated Kenyans, meaning blacks, many people from the British Raj were brought to Kenya. Although this colonisation of Kenya did not begin with the British Empire, it is fair to say that it was most conspicuous and probably still is. This is not least because the city - as it lives, is lived, and stands today - has certain colonial continuities. Just think of the vast tracts of land, the houses in Nairobi's Karen and Westlands neighbourhoods, the many temples and owners of shopping malls held mainly by Indians and Europeans. At the same time, Nairobi is a city that attracts an incredible number of foreigners because of the UN headquarters and the country's beautiful landscapes.

So even if my day does not begin and end in some "expat community" - I reject this term and such types of segregation -, I cannot separate myself from the socio-economic system that sustains these communities. For example, my main means of transport is the boda taxi. I live in a building with a gate. Both are made of steel, asphalt, and cement. On the other hand, the roads that lead to my work are the result of public-private partnerships between the Kenyan government and foreign investors. The Highway Express in Nairobi is one of these projects and even has its own Twitter account. Accordingly, when one examines what certain materials reveal about the ruling political regime, it also becomes clear how all these materials represent a regime that is geared towards growth, modernism, and industrialisation - and where I, as part of an "imported" class, belong. The cityscape is not surprisingly characterised by vast expanses of motor roads. The steel industry in Kenya accounts for 13% of the total GDP (Government of Kenya 2022), and raw materials must be imported for this industry. At the same time, TotalEnergies is the largest and most important oil distributor in East Africa, including Kenya. Whoever is on this road, driving to work and elsewhere in a car, not only sees a chaos of cars, motorbikes, and public buses. The person looks at high-rise buildings covered with writings like "Luxury Housing" to attract people like me and other privileged ones. If you look around the edges, on the other hand, you will be able find plants, lots of plants. You will also find small, red trails whose colour comes from the earth's iron minerals and the woodwork for which the various tribes of Kenya are so well known. All these material conditions reveal a regime of materiality that is not only marked by a geographical separation of white/upper class and black/lower class, with the first two settling around international organisations and cafés where money accumulates and multiplies. This regime enforces a socio-economic and political order that centres imported materials in the public sphere and marginalises local materials like plants or encloses them in sturdy walls, like my building’s gate. Clearly, the materials steel, cement and asphalt create a clear and robust structure.

Touching materials has helped me adapt to the forced displacement of my family, to unfamiliar places. It has helped me get to know and understand these unfamiliar places to survive. In Nairobi, I certainly don't have to feel endangered, as driving in a car and living in walls of cement essentially maintain a given order and safety. And yet, I must say that these material conditions make it difficult for me to feel the places with its people. I do understand that wanting to capture everything can be a very violent and imperial thought. After all, it is what gave rise to Kenya's colonialism. In this sense, I never intended to feel “everything” but “something” that grasps life here and makes me understand what this land is about. I would like to see the local materials, such as wood, plants, and the red earth be the city’s centre instead of being placed at the periphery of big streets. Sometimes I have the urge to force the driver to stop on the highway with all the cars, to get out of the car, to turn to the side and to touch all these materials.