Observing the largest gathering of black people I had ever seen in Amsterdam, I realised that their pain was familiar, yet we knew so little of each other, separated not just by geography and language, but also by a suppression of our stories.
Students in Kenya have not been taught about how the social construction of race has affected them. They do not seem to connect the social construction of race to imperialism, colonialism, labour reserves, the colour bar, and passes in settler colonies in Kenya and throughout Africa.
Trusting one’s body, and one’s experience of the world is not celebrated or even tolerated in the formal education forced on Africa through missionary and colonial education. School and religion alienated me and us from ourselves, and from the Earth.
To be Kenyan is to be constantly re-traumatized by the institutions and structures that we inhabit, and having been dehumanized we proceed to unleash low-grade terrors on those close to us. In the end we’re becoming a pragmatic, soulless people who think our biggest problem is corruption while in truth it is the collapse of social order.
It is so absurd, to the extent that without an ID, one cannot legally die, which is what happened to my father. He does not have a death certificate because he did not have an ID. The state neither recognized his life nor his death – he never existed.
When I thought about it, it dawned on me, that everyone was guilty of some offence. If you were driving and in motion, a traffic violation. If stationary, a potential parking violation. If not driving, just walking was potentially loitering. If standing, you were possibly trespassing. If resisting arrest, well, drunk and disorderly. If in business, tax violation, tripwires criss-crossed everywhere around you.
Sometimes I imagine my lungs filling up with concrete dust. I imagine the strange taste in my water is concrete. I’m always trying to find my way to a forest.