Thirsty Thursday?

People forget that the celebrated serial killers of the 90’s are reincarnated, and now frolick amongst us in the bodies of jailbait and barely legal hipsters wearing tightness and skimpiness. So have fun tonight Nairobi, who knows what wickedness this Thursday night holds for you.

Who’s Your Daddy?

When I get older, I will be stronger
They’ll call me freedom, just like a wavin’ flag
~K’Naan

Before the above words were watered down to ‘a Coke-flavoured aural addiction‘ and official song for the World Cup, the essence of the track of then little known rap artist K’Naan was about growing up in a poverty-stricken, war-torn society still holding onto the hope of actually being free. Free from the threat of violence, from the burdens of poverty, the hurt of betrayal. Granted K’Naan was more than likely referring to his Somalia but does anyone else notice the parallels between Somalia and Kenya in the context of what the song is about? The threat of violence, the burdens of poverty, the hurt of betrayal? Yes, I acknowledge there are obvious differences when it comes to degrees of severity but the principal remains the same: violence, impoverishment, betrayal.

Did You Hear About The Morgans?

“I promise never to take you for granted or utter a word unkind. Never allow my affections to be recanted or stop marvelling at your behind. To also marvel at your warmth, your wit, your refusal to condone animal slaughter, your wisdom, your laugh, your inability to boil water. To be your best friend for the rest of my life and to thank the God you’re not sure about for fooling you into being my wife.” Oh, Hugh Grant you utterly British man, you make me wet in my mind and make me want to write something. I was watching Did You Hear About The Morgans at home when I first began this note and didn’t quite know how to round it off and so I saved it as a draft, telling myself I’d finish it one day soon and fearing my writer bloc may strike at any literal sec……just kidding 

Being in love is not easy. For starters all these rules about dating and being all official, having to ask someone out verbally to start things off, marking that day by a celebration at first weekly, then as weeks fly past monthly and finally yearly (if you make it that long that is) and then all the talk and gossip on social sites and amongst your peers and if that’s not enough pressure there’s this expectation that is forever looming over your head about how you are supposed to act, date, breathe around each other to the point the spark goes and you end up hating and blaming each other or the world and all it’s ineffable rules…even though at the end of the day, it was all on you.

Speaking from a guy’s point of view and a unique one (the point of view that is) that is mine, I’m a rom com kinda guy but I am not. I do drink wine sometimes but other times I love scotch. That’s the kinda man I am. I give myself fully at first, expecting nothing, knowing it’s a blessing that whoever it is my affections are with at that moment is even talking to me. Thence commences several weeks of flighty ‘adolescent’ love in all it’s immense promise, whirlwind romance and no end imaginable…up until you realise (it’s easier if I did not acknowledge myself as the subject) this shit just could be it, and you’ll never get a chance to chat up that mami who keeps giving you the eye and that thou shalt have no money for every cent gained is an opportunity to show off how financially set you are, no matter how untrue that scenario is, and you allow all those societal pressures drown out the budding love (for in essence love is forever growing until the moment it is betrayed, though at this stage it is still in it’s infancy) and you end up alone…and so very cold.

Two weeks later and you’ve analysed every scene and you make her out as the badguy even though it honestly might have been noone’s fault…

Nowadays, what’s the difference between relations and relationships?

We the Kikuyu – by Potash

February 16, 2008 — tc

Focus: Kenya view.

When I was young, I wanted it all: the pick-up, the farm, the Godfather hat and the pointed shoes. I wanted the beer, the goat ribs and what in those days was called a Public Opinion- a beer belly. For God’s sake I even wanted gout, because it bespoke, eating well, conspicuous consumption. Gout was to me the disease of those who had arrived.

When I was young, all I wanted to be, when I grew up, was a Kikuyu.

I was born in Kiambu. That was just after Jommo Kenyatta died but just before the first coup in Kenya’s history. When I became of a school going age, I was sent off to school in the Rift Valley. In my school were many Kikuyus: Kikuyus from Rware and Kikuyus from Kabete; Kikuyus from Muranga and Kikuyus from the Diaspora. Those were days when Kikuyu regional rivalries and one-up-manship had been lost in the passage from one generation to the next and all that was left for us were the witticisms, hackneyed stereotypes and jocose contestations. Nobody cared where the next person was from- unless it was Dundori- and yet I made a point of reminding everyone that I was from Kiambu. I was Kiambu Mafia.

Then I grew up.

When I grew up, I realised that there were People from Kiambu and then there was the Kiambu Mafia. I was of the People- Kiambu had its owners. Indeed there was a Kiambu Mafia, with its GEMA conspiracies and massive loans to buy off every Mzungu settler from Kabete to Warubaga; loans that would later find their way into that classified document called the Debt Register which states how much you and your descendants, for ever and ever, amen, owe a Shylock in the Isle of Man that you never met. And then there were The People From Kiambu, a significant majority, who scrimped and saved to buy land- through, often fictitious or fly-by-night, land buying companies formed by the Kiambu Mafia to dispose off the parcels of land that they had acquired through the previously mentioned loans.

In retrospect, I was blessed; my family was privileged- my grandfather had land in Kiambu. He had a parcel of land in what was formerly known as the Native Reserve and a plot in the Gicagi. (My grandfather inherited those from his father who had acquired them in the Demarcation – colonial land allotments – and split it out between all his sons from a stable of wives. The Gicagi became the dice throw of Kikuyu-land – in some places, Gicagis became shopping centres and the land appreciated while in others they became a Kibera in microcosm.)

Then the Mau Mau war happened. Everyone was shipped into the Emergency villages. When the war ended, many returned to nothing. Some men returned from the bush and found that the only thing that their, now homeless, wives had acquired was a son or two that looked like the Chief and that one of the many things that the Chief had acquired was their land.

Is it not that all is fair in love and war?

When I was young, I was taught that the Mau Mau war was a struggle for independence. Then I grew up. When I grew up, I realised that the Mau Mau war was a dud; Kenya’s independence was negotiated. Long before the Mau Mau declared war against the white man, Jommo Kenyatta had been sleeping with a white woman. Jommo Kenyatta knew- because he had known books that one- that the problem was the top; the system, and not the colour of the man at the top. The British knew that he knew. And he knew that they knew that he knew. So the British called Kenyatta to England and negotiated a deal with him that would allow them to change the colour of the man at the top without changing the system.

And that is the way Kenyatta and his ilk; their kinsmen and descendants, from 1963 to perpetuity, won their Independence.

The Mau Mau war didn’t win anyone their independence, it won them dependence on a black man rather than a white one.

It thus came to pass, that one day in December of 1963 the Governor of Kenya, on behalf of Her Majesty the Tyrant of Empire, ceremoniously handed over power to Mzee Jommo Kenyatta. A celebratory mood rose all over Kenya; this was one nation under God, and no blessings from the Queen needed. The Union Jack was lowered. The Kenyan flag was hoisted.

Ee mungu nguvu yetu.
Ilete baraka kwetu…

Red, White, Black and Green

They told me that Red was for the blood that was shed and green was for the land that was won. I grew up and then I realised: red was for those who died fighting and green was for those who lived- to reap matunda ya uhuru. My ancestor inherited the red, your ancestor inherited the red; so why do we have to die that those that inherited the land may stay ever green?

I Blame Kibaki – by Potash

February 15, 2008 — tc

Focus: Kenya view. 

On Thursday December 28^th, 2007, I voted. I could have been somewhere having a beer, but no, I went out to a polling station and stood in a line waiting to cast my vote.

Yes I voted in Kenya’s last General Election. I didn’t vote because I believe in democracy; I didn’t vote because I wanted to make a difference in my country, I voted because it is both my right and civic duty. I voted because, even though I believe democracy is a sham, it is a nice ritual every couple of years that creates the impression that the power to govern – to lord it over the masses – is derived from the masses.

But I was worried that this time round, after several years of doing it right, we would get it wrong. And when nations get it wrong; when the mandate is questioned or appropriated by individuals or a group of them who have no ability to beguile the masses, anarchy takes over. And Kenya was headed that way.

The incumbent president, Kibaki had lost control over Kenya. No, Kibaki had never had control of Kenya. Kibaki was president because Raila had said: Kibaki Tosha! (Translation: Let there be President Kibaki). And there was President Kibaki. 

Granted President Kibaki had the Economy- which is something you could take to Equity, er, I mean, the bank- Raila had the masses. And in these Third World, emerging (pseudo) Democracies, the masses is what you need. Raila was the new religion.

Kibaki’s mistake wasn’t because he was corrupt. Corruption, after all, is the smallest, big issue in Kenya. And you would have expected Kibaki to know that. Having served in both the Kenyatta and the Moi governments, he must have learnt from the best that Kenyan know that the President is never corrupt, it is the President’s men who are.

Kibaki’s mistake was in the things he didn’t learn from his predecessors: have pictures of you doing manual labour like building gabions placed in text books; rename streets and roads after yourself (Mombasa Road by any other name will still congest the same); hire and fire people at random so that all of Kenya stays tuned to the same radio station only to hear that today you went to church or that you bought bananas by the roadside in Kangemi; meet the people because unlike you, they do not live in State House. But most important of all, detain an Odinga.

Because he never did these things, Kibaki lost control of this country. In the meantime, his Roads Minister, an Odinga was out there building roads, by-passes and such other fancy things that only Kenyans in the diaspora with their, “you know in America… (or wherever else Kenya’s economic exiles congregate) …” could fathom. Playing to the gallery. Raila Odinga, then Roads Minister, was working while Kibaki was nowhere that Kenyans could tell you of. That while Kibaki, from his experience in two regimes, should have known that Kenyan ministers do not work, the President works through them. 

Every day, Kenyans heard: Raila was here, Raila was there, but the only time the Kibaki name was mentioned, it was Lucy Kibaki behaving badly, again.

Then Kibaki called a Referendum on a new constitution. Kibaki lost. That was November 2005 and I knew that this country had gone to dogs.

What followed was two years of political bickering. For the first time in the history of this country, every fool with a mouth could say that President Kibaki was a *$%& so and so and live to vote again. Na hiyo ni upubaff!

Suddenly, to me, the terms President Kibaki and the Kibaki Government became an oxymoron in the league of Nairobi Water and Kenya Power. For the first time in Kenya’s post-independent history, the office of the president, that of the Head of State and Government and the man occupying them were separated; there was now the State, the Government and Kibaki . Too many centres of power.

Kibaki, in a country that was used to Rais ndio baba na mama, mwalimu namba moja… hizi mbuzi zote ni yeye na tuko nyuma ya matako yake, reduced himself to: the man who sleeps at State House; a mere mortal; fallible.

The myth of Government was shattered; the siri was yanked out of Sirikali.

What followed was Kenya’s most politically unstable reign. What was seditious and treasonable in past regimes now wore the veil of democracy and freedom of expression. The Press declared itself free and was generally seen to be so- at least on those nights when the First Lady wasn’t insomniac.

Democracy had found Kenya but a Social Contract that would have bound the Kenyan People and their leaders to it was still not there. The President, it would have been expected, would have filled this vacuum; steered Kenyans towards the enjoyment of new freedoms responsibly. But he did not. The People, ever dependent, or at least used to, strongmen cried out for leadership.

While Kibaki retired to State House, with his Old Money peers, the new faces in his government took control of the public coffers. They threw the safe doors open. They had inherited massive corrupt deals, they signed them over to themselves. This was the Government of the Noveaus Riche. The public returned to its disgruntled mumblings.

New heroes rose. Unlikely heroes. The political thieves of yesteryear, finding themselves wearing the  strange new mask of The Opposition, took it all in stride. They reinvented themselves as the new voices of probity. Our version of democracy was defined: the tyrants and the corrupt are only  found in the government in power, they become Democrats and progressives when they cross the floor and vice versa. 

In the meantime, Raila Odinga was still reading from Machiavelli. He had found himself ousted of government for revealing to Kenyans the real reason he had said Kibaki Tosha, in that October 2002, at the twilight of the Daniel Moi rule. He had signed a Memorandum of Understanding with Kibaki, it was said, that would see the Kibaki presidency promulgate Raila’s preferred constitution for Kenya. Somewhere along the way, having emerged president and yet again achieving political glory without breaking a sweat, Kibaki had either suffered a massive concussion and forgotten the MOU or realised how powerful the current constitution made him to be bothered with changing it.

Raila protested. Kibaki stayed put.

Raila began to fight against Kibaki’s. Kibaki continued to ignore him. Raila was on TV every day. Nobody knew where Kibaki was. Raila began to galvanise the masses; sell himself as the real and only hero of the liberation from the tyranny of Nyayo while Kibaki was a pretender to the throne. Kibaki continued to sit on his throne- the throne Raila made him- nonplussed.

Then 2007 came. The year of the General Election. Raila had been campaigning, politicking, since 2003; Kibaki had been sitting and watching the economy grow. Raila had been all over the country and all over the media talking to people. Kibaki had been sitting at State House- a gated community of one.

2007 was the year of the Opinion Polls. Kalonzo was leading at first, but Raila worked hard to prove that Kalonzo’s appeal lay merely in looks and not substance. Sooner than later, Raila took the lead in all the polls. Kibaki did nothing. The campaign period hasn’t begun yet, Kibaki’s men said while continuing to cast aspersions at the accuracy and neutrality of the polls. The point they missed though was that this was about politics, and the one thing that matters most is not truth but perceptions; and the public perception was that Raila was in the lead. That Raila would be the next president.

As the election approached, Kibaki hit the campaign trail. He had the benefit of incumbency- which in Kenya means that he had an arsenal of political goodies to bribe the voters with: Districts were dished out, hawkers were allowed to take over the CBD and the police were warned against harassing the youth. A week to the election date, the final polls came in and Kibaki continued to trail Raila.

At this point I became immensely worried. People asked me: “do you think Kibaki will win?”

I responded, emphatically, No!

“What do you think Kibaki’s strategy is?”

None!

“So will he hand over power?”

“Kibaki cannot hand over power… the power he has is not his to hand over, Kibaki is holding power in trust for the Kikuyu people.”

Of course by the Kikuyu people I meant, the Kikuyu elite. Those Kikuyus who amassed wealth under Kenyatta; Kikuyus who kept their wealth under Moi even as Agriculture, the lifeline of the Kikuyu, found itself crippled. Kikuyus who purport to speak for other Kikuyus even when their, economic and political realities are worlds apart.

Then came December 27^th. It was clear that Kibaki had no winning plan. As the poll results came in it became increasingly obvious that Kibaki was loosing. I began to worry. Then a series of sad and dubious events transpired and Kibaki was declared the winner in the presidential election. I was angry but not because Kibaki had won. I felt that the election had been rigged, but it is not for that that I was angry. I was angry because I felt that the election had been rigged after the fact. I was mad because, for the first time in Kenya’s multi-party era, the charade of democratic elections hadn’t been well executed- the majority felt cheated and those on the winning side felt they cheated foolishly.

On Sunday 30^th, December, Kibaki was sworn in as the President of the Republic of Kenya. He was sworn in a few hours before the expiry of his previous term. A term he had taken over at a glorious public ceremony was being extended behind closed gates. Kibaki came out of the bowels of State House, took his oath in the gardens, and went back in.

Outside of State House, the country exploded.

Many Kenyans, have died since then. Many more will continue to die, especially poor ones who happen to be Kikuyus living without high walls and armed guards, until Kibaki steps out of State House and speaks to Kenya. 

Potash

Potash authors the blog A Kenyan Urban Narrative. His blog has suffered the bane of lesser writers: Demise in the face of critical acclaim. Having lost his street credibility to the embrace of Nairobi’s Literati, Potash’s blog is no longer the gritty voice of Nairobi’s underground. His old friends from his street days have taken to whispering, with mounting anger and loathing, that Potash has gone out and got himself a regular job and a pinstriped suit. The bigger question is: Who reads him any more?

Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

There’s a grief that can’t be spoken.
There’s a pain goes on and on.
Empty chairs at empty tables
Now my friends are dead and gone.

Here they talked of revolution.
Here it was they lit the flame.
Here they sang about `tomorrow’
And tomorrow never came.

From the table in the corner
They could see a world reborn
And they rose with voices ringing
I can hear them now!
The very words that they had sung
Became their last communion
On the lonely barricade at dawn.

Oh my friends, my friends forgive me
That I live and you are gone.
There’s a grief that can’t be spoken.
There’s a pain goes on and on.

Phantom faces at the windows.
Phantom shadows on the floor.
Empty chairs at empty tables
Where my friends will meet no more.

Oh my friends, my friends, don’t ask me
What your sacrifice was for
Empty chairs at empty tables
Where my friends will sing no more…

RadiKenyalization

Maybe I’m a pessimist.

The 2002 elections in Kenya changed everything for its forgetful citizens. The tyrant Moi was deposed by the anarchy and delirium of a people united against an oppressive rule. Kenyans jeered openly the once deeply feared two-time Chairperson of the now re-branded Organisation of African Unity, mocking his statement “They say ‘Moi must go! Moi must go!’ but soon they shall say ‘Moi must come back.'” Luhya and Nandi, Mijikenda and Kamba, Luo and Borana, Kikuyu and Mbeere, we all sat at the table, equal spoons in hand and waited for the Kenyan cake that we shed sweat and blood for over 24 years and more, to be shared.