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Reading Our Ruins: Post-colonial stories that float from afar

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READING OUR RUINS: Post-colonial stories that float from afar
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Mea maxima culpa. I have not engaged with the idea of the post-colonial before. Not overtly. I didn’t notice it, you see. And that is the politest way of putting it. But I have heard about it in dribs and drabs, as one hears about people from a distant and fascinating culture that point at the moon before they start a meal. I wondered if I should amplify the retelling of the big stories you know so well: the 1884-5 Berlin Conference, a euphemism for a cynical collusion by the then-powerful nations to launch wars under banners to justify a violent land grab of a continent from its nations and people, the causal reality and root of an epoch that would eventually settle under the label of “post-colonial”. I wanted to understand how to tell post-colonial in a reality where narratives to explain the use of extreme and murderous violence on nations, cultures and peoples are still written without consequences by the same forces responsible for the long war and occupation season now known as the colonial period.

Yet for the most part, today we assert our “post-coloniality” and frolic in its imagined sounds, lyrics and images to the rhythm of assorted independence anthems. But independence from what precisely? What distinguishes colonialities when the existential violence visited on entire peoples and nations remain unexorcised, unquestioned, unnamed? The infrastructure and systems of the aberration in human relationships that is the accepted “colonial experience” have mostly remained intact. For the most part, in African countries, amidst the debris of the uneasy post-coloniality, the ancient and unassailable structures are those that channel Africa’s raw material (not its human) resources to leave nations; the diamonds and dying miners are African, the profits are unquestionably European and American to this day.

What distinguishes colonialities when the existential violence visited on entire peoples and nations remain unexorcised, unquestioned, unnamed?

This is a survey of ruins. It co-opts the ruin (paraphrasing Christopher Woodward) as a realm of “dialogue between an incomplete reality and the imagination of the spectator/observer”. Ruins, created by acts of time and/or violence are, also, arguably, the material equivalent of that most compelling and equalising of human presences, a corpse. There is an oft-quoted sign in Latin installed in the doorway of many morgues: “Here is the place that death rejoices to teach the living.” The forensic pathology processes and options that invite such lessons begin with a word that I have become excessively fond of, and feel should have wider and wilder use: autopsy. Autopsy, means to see for oneself. It invites the human being to a humble inhabiting of a situation in order to speak from a place of experience, observation and encounter. Within “autopsy” are notions of a naked, visceral going deep to witness and access unseen perspectives that reveal another facet of the truth about the human condition.

There. That is my excuse for poking into intangible holes, including the holes of and in memory – to see for myself the unseen “post-colonial” story. To speak post-coloniality is to seek to address a corpse that has somehow managed to perpetuate its existence through an unending drawing out of its juices by assorted and mostly external parties. Those who have to inhabit its being are like those numerous creatures that make a corpse a thriving Cosmopolis. The ruins I explore with you include the embodied ones that pass down generations and cultures looking for a reckoning and acknowledgment—a witnessing. I scour these ruins in the hope of a more complete vocabulary of past, future, present, of me, of us, of other, of Kenya, of Africa, of the Commonwealth, of the world.

We children were privy to our parents’ private conversations of denial and heartbreak; we glimpsed the public happy face, the stiff upper lips, the wounded collective body, the private griefs of so many denials of excellence because someone in authority objected to their creed, their race, their tribe, their way of speaking, their history or their leader.

The prevailing world lexicon is incapable of naming and bearing all our immense nows. We circle each other with old, small and weary words to speak to and about our realities, words that fall short of all our experiencing, our feeling, our hurting, and our hoping. The prevailing lexicon is also subject to ruin- making forces and is incapable of diagnosing its own inadequacies.

Fortunately, there are poets like Warsan Shire among us who point a way:

later that night
i held an atlas in my lap
ran my fingers across the whole world and whispered
where does it hurt?
it answered
everywhere everywhere everywhere.”

And now an examination of a sliver from the results of an informal post-colonial autopsy session: I was born in post-independence Kenya. I was mostly formed by the season of the phase that Achille Mbembe, in his paper “Decolonizing Knowledge and the Question of the Archive” refers to as the post-colonial “negative moment”. My Kenya story (apart from a bleep of luminosity in the asylum in 2002) is that of an unending cycle of hoping for a glimpse of the proverbial Canaan followed by crushing disillusionment.

In 1969, I was a few months old when my parents had to flee at night from their first post-independence home in Limuru, in what is called the Central Province of Kenya, after all our lives were threatened by a state-sanctioned neo-Mau Mau gang who objected to our family’s ethnic origins following the state-anointed murder of the Minister of Economic Planning, Tom Mboya. My late father would only say very many years later that we were the lucky ones. He did not qualify his statement; it was sufficient to read the terrible bleakness in his eyes.

A baby probably holds the sensations and effects of a dangerous season. The story of my unease with Kenya’s post-colonial experiment started then, with an undercurrent of consciousness that the state could eradicate your family and culture and guarantee your non-belonging for spurious and intangible reasons that play out to this day. I grew up surrounded by the suppressed and whispered disappointments of my parents’ generation; they were the witnesses of the escalating betrayals of independence dreams, the refusal by leaders to lead new citizens to the promised land. Instead these leaders moved in to occupy the deserted palaces, acres, factories and farms that the colonial governorship had held, seizing for themselves mines and beach fronts and using the same forces of violence and alienation to achieve their purpose.

We children were privy to our parents’ private conversations of denial and heartbreak; we glimpsed the public happy face, the stiff upper lips, the wounded collective body, the private griefs of so many denials of excellence because someone in authority objected to their creed, their race, their tribe, their way of speaking, their history or their leader.

Our morally wounded post-colonial elders gingerly tread the silences of the ruins of so many nation-building dreams. There is no space within the fractures to whisper the names of their failures, the shame of betrayals, the rejection by one’s own people, the horrible realisation that the face of the demon that kills, maims, destroys and consumes is ours.

My most abiding experience of the meaning of independence was when as a child, our house help, my sisters and I hid in fear, trembling under the living room sofas as outside, above the skies, Kenya Air Force planes screeched past and army tankers rolled by on roads, the independent state displaying its power and threatening its own citizens after the tortured and brutalised body of yet another luminous minister, J.M. Kariuki, had been found. This home-grown brutalisation of inconvenient bodies and behaviour continues to this day. It now targets the ordinary citizen. A lawyer named Willy Kimani, his taxi driver and his bicycle taxi-owning client walk out of court and turn up bound, gagged and drowned. In the post-colony it is an offence to dare to seek truth, justice and hope. You do not call the overlord’s exposed bum “nakedness”.

So where and when does colonial becomes post-colonial when the inheritors of a state who perform independence are of your race? When those who perpetuate offensive systems and refuse to unmake the violence are of your culture? When the ones who rob other peoples of their land and resources are of your creed? And when those who oppress, marginalise and socially and economically exclude amplify their monopoly of violence to legitimise control, and evolve ethno-chauvinistic supremacy narratives to excuse their plunder are your compatriots? What is the resolution of the story offered to the post-colonial citizen when those who offend and afflict are of her earth and hearth? Is it to make excuses for the disordered state of the nation because the chaos makers are our own?

We, the children of the immediate “post-colonial” have inherited our parents’ delusions and the ceaseless circling of the scene of the crime—this is not a metaphor; this is a metonym for “nation”. The Hobbesian mindscapes post-colonial frontline elders imagined they could conceal from us are ours now.

True, there are those among us who have been invested in to perpetuate the illusions, and are groomed to take over the seats at the lever of the ghastly “ancien régime”. Meanwhile, many more wrestle with and are bruised by the phantoms of our relationships with the imagination of sovereignty, nation, citizen and state. We are called to scream our defence of something that has no faith in us, no loyalty, no interest, and quite frankly, outside of the tourist brochure, no meaning. Our morally wounded post-colonial elders gingerly tread the silences of the ruins of so many nation-building dreams. There is no space within the fractures to whisper the names of their failures, the shame of betrayals, the rejection by one’s own people, the horrible realisation that the face of the demon that kills, maims, destroys and consumes is ours.

Meanwhile, the post-post-colonial, mostly technologically savvy generation – those post-independence parents’ grandchildren – have, for the most part, opted out and stopped believing in God or nation. Weary of waiting for nirvana, many post-post-colonials have fled the crime scene to restart lives elsewhere; and without a sense of irony, that elsewhere is more likely than not the country of the architects and designers of the-colony-that-became-a-nation – Great Britain, France, Belgium, or Canada, Australia, the United States, the lands of eternal alienation and occupation. Many post-post-colonials take steps to obtain a second passport. They know that when anthems have quieted, and fireworks fade, and patriotic noises accompanied by the prerequisite outrage at the numerous badness and madness of “former colonial masters” have been exhausted, more often than not, to be left to confront the reality of what is imagined as home is also to contend with compromise, disappointment and decay, a stasis of order, dreams, ambitions, imagination, future and community.

Many post-colonials leave “home” to seek and find the unrealised ideal of belonging. The home left behind can then becomes rosier, better, softer and prettier the further one is from it. You see, away, there are no genocidal bogeymen. Leaving is liberation from unrequited yearning for a country called home. Those of us who still stay do so with the knowledge that we breathe uneasy in the national wounds daily anaesthetised by a debilitating hope for a nation. Yet in our lunatic faith, we are made co-conspirators in a collective existential traumatic drama. We listen, paralysed, to puerile and stupid conversations that are painted with a nationalistic hue.

An example. A few months ago, in a narrative that was amplified during the last election season, this lot now entrusted with keeping Kenya’s national dreams alive occupied their private-school educated minds with contemplating how much more a man was rendered more male and more virile – and, therefore, properly anointed by God – for leadership by virtue of the existence or lack thereof of a foreskin. This mulling was done in a public arena and explored with immense emotion in both traditional and social media across generations. Is it a wonder that post-colonial women such as I must now wonder how and where to situate ourselves in a realm of such erudite musings? Moreover, who knew that when the Union Jack was lowered in Nairobi in 1963, almost sixty years later, the great post-independence Kenyan imagination would be exercised by a public contemplation of the state of men’s willies?

How many of our post-independence belongings here are forged by similar roilings?

I have no memory of halcyon days. Halcyon moments, yes: like reading Anne of Green Gables or reciting Wole Soyinka’s Telephone Conversation in Nairobi’s July cold. But I do not recall halcyon days. The undercurrent of unease and barely suppressed impending violence is the theme song of my post-colonial being. So where exactly is the line of delineation between colonial and post-colonial? It was certainly not drawn at that midnight point when the Union Jack was lowered and another flag was hoisted under fire-lit skies.

In Kenya, I suspect that our post-colonial discomforts are caused not only by unresolved antagonisms and competing myths about who has the right to rule a horribly incompetent but brutal deep state that evolved out of the cynical manipulation of post-independence hopes, but also by a most uninspiring emotion: ennui.

In Kenya recently, the post-colonial project was placed under a microscope. On Saturday, March 26, 2016, a columnist’s heading pronounced: “Kenya is a Cruel Marriage; It’s Time We Talk Divorce.” Public intellectual and economist Dr. David Ndii’s type of questioning is taking place elsewhere in so many forms. The post-colonial hot soup in a world wounded by the omnipotence of global corporations and the rise of demagogues like Le Pen and Donald Trump, where the very odd Nigel Farage proclaims Brexit Day as Britain’s Independence Day. As an aside, it was in England that I was informed that to say “post-colonial” was to refer to the rest of us, not to Britain. It was in 2000 that I suggested, a bit mischievously, that Britain was a post-colonial state suffering from the pangs of having had, loved and lost its colonies/conquered states.

In Kenya, I suspect that our post-colonial discomforts are caused not only by unresolved antagonisms and competing myths about who has the right to rule a horribly incompetent but brutal deep state that evolved out of the cynical manipulation of post-independence hopes, but also by a most uninspiring emotion: ennui. The citizens’ riot for rights thing? Storming the Bastille? Done. Devolving power? Done. Democracy through ballot magic? Done. With new technology, the process is so hackable that the winner of the next election can be programmed in the year of a present election cycle. A revised, celestial constitution to save us from ourselves? Enshrined. Yet the threat of extreme violence and election-related deaths, like unholy ritual sacrifices, persists. The idea of nation and state in Kenya has turned into an albatross. And this, the previously unimaginable idea, has emerged. Ndii’s article offers us a consideration of the end of Project Kenya, as the historian Professor Ogot had previously suggested. Ndii uses this Gikuyu phrase: Reke tumwano: Let us divorce. In other words: let us unplug ourselves from this thing already.

The public reaction has been mostly that of catatonic shock, screeching, but also a sort of resignation. Ndii’s article is still being referenced in so many forums— including this one. Yet in that proposition, there is a hint of grief, the reality of having to abort the stillborn dreams of a nation. To be invited to contemplate the loss of the national project is terrifying. We have grown accustomed to the fiction of its life and prefer to confuse the frenzy of movement within it with progress.

Visiting Britain does not necessarily clarify post-coloniality: in its dazzling capacity for amnesia or re-patterning of memory, the mnemonics of the histories of our encounters and attempt to dialogue with it must fall away. The preferred conversations, if they happen, tend to be from within the lexicon of the fig leaf of “development”, “Third World” and “participatory paradigms” on the one hand, and the character of corruption or AIDS in “Africa”, on the other. For the ex-premier David Cameron, to be able to ingenuously tut-tut about Afghanistan’s and Nigeria’s corruption is case enough for a desperate requirement for the UK to undertake what Catholics would call “an examination of conscience”.

Few blink at the fact of a world that has turned human suffering into a complex economy. Instead we accept euphemisms: “Guantanamo Bay”, not American concentration camp crafted to incorporate elements from Auschwitz, including medical experiments on humans; “collateral damage”, not the wholesale slaughter of innocent people; “military contractors”, not predatory war scavengers.

Serendipitously, I came across a short article that is worth reading in full, in which Neil MacGregor, the former head of the British Museum now helping to create a German equivalent in Berlin, interviewed by the Guardian’s Tim Adams, spoke of memory, atrocity, history and remembering. He noted other important things, and I quote:

“The thing I find striking is that in the centre of Berlin you keep coming across monuments to national shame. I think that is unique in the world. … There is still no appetite to look hard at British behaviour in Ireland. What I find so painfully admirable about the German experience is that they are determined to find the historical truth and acknowledge it, however painful it is. You can’t be an informed adult – or an artist – in Germany without doing that.”

On drawing our attention to the deeds of Islamic State today and its connection with the habits of nations, he observes: “At one level, the IS destruction has been about just shocking the world and terror. But part of it has been the deliberate reordering of history that is common to all wars.”

I suggest that the real First World War did not occur in 1914, but in 1884-5 after the so-called Berlin Conference whose amphitheatres were the countries and peoples of the world upon whom war was declared under the guise of the export of civilisation and values — I think it is called the export of democracy these days— to independent peoples, the majority of whom fought back hard and were then defeated, occupied, and restructured. The lexicon of the reasons the National Socialists used to wage war on and conquer Europe is not dissimilar to that used to justify the war on nations facilitated by the Berlin conference; and is not dissimilar to the phrases and words that are used today to justify invasions of sovereign states: regime change, democracy, collateral damage, sharing our values, removal of dictators, saving the people, mission accomplished.

Given the blood and shadows among our nations that remain unacknowledged, the clattering of the bones of shared ghosts, it remains a puzzle how the architects of the trials in Nuremberg that put Germany and its World War II conscience on trial, are still unable to delve within and memorialise the horrid dimensions of their own engagement with the world.

The post-colonial state, for the most part, has merely systematised and perpetuated the long arc of violence on peoples, resources and nations. The habit of hagiography and whitewashing of grubby deeds by the state is entrenched in many of the nations represented here: concentration camps, detaining opponents, extra-judicial murders, arbitrary slaughters, mass displacement of peoples, cultural and religious impositions, disappearances. Does the post-colonial creature admit to being infused by a specific wounding linked to the character of the nation? Would the post-colonial confess to inheriting relationships with absences, loss, the missing, the unspoken, the defeated, and the dead? Given this, is to be post-colonial to live the fall-outs from century-old wars that have never really been acknowledged or called off?

Today, we humans are living in a season of frenzy for the control of diminishing resources in a progressively overheating world; we are witnessing the rise and rise of opaque and abhorrent transnationals who roam the world unfettered, like Satans looking for anything to devour. We are in a world that demands the diminution and commodification of humanity. We know the games of bloodthirsty gods of war turning our landscapes into infernos, all offered in slick messaging that shows how cool it is that humanity can destroy itself. We tolerate asymmetric wars and war-vulture enterprises — the idea that one set of humans justify the destruction of civilisations for the purposes of growing their home economies by, among other things, securing reconstruction contracts, is a scene that comes straight out of hell.

To misquote my new compatriots, “We live in interesting times.” But think about it; maybe in most of Africa, to be post-colonial is to be Chinese.

Few blink at the fact of a world that has turned human suffering into a complex economy. Instead we accept euphemisms: “Guantanamo Bay”, not American concentration camp crafted to incorporate elements from Auschwitz, including medical experiments on humans; “collateral damage”, not the wholesale slaughter of innocent people; “military contractors”, not predatory war scavengers. We are co-opted by media outlets who frame narratives to excuse intentional evil, like the invasions of Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria and Libya, and then squirm in silence at the abhorrent murders of Saddam Hussein and Muammar Gaddafi under the banners of justice and democracy.

Regime Change is good, we tell ourselves and comfort ourselves with the assurance that the International Criminal Court is reserved for only brown, black and Eastern European villains. Even after the Chilcot report, it is unlikely that Tony Blair will be tried for extreme crimes against humanity. From there it is a small step to demonising migrants escaping wars created to feed flailing world economies. We now outsource murder to machines to appease putrid conscience. No one is responsible for the desecrated corpses of a hundred million nameless, mostly black- and brown-hued peoples stranded on far-away beaches. Our oppression of nature persists; the weather has changed and the large tuskers are facing extinction. We know that our human moral infrastructure is gutted, but treat those who demand a new ethical imagination as fruitcake heretics. As old certainties die, nobody seems to know what to say or do. Our lexicon is shattered by the weight of what we have become. But frankly, before the terrible witness of this epoch, silence is probably the most informed position.

A secondary character has now entered our post-colonial fray. The “Better Africa Future” set pieces are now being constructed in or by China. Given this reality, and I suspect the situation is not too dissimilar in other places of the world, the more accepted greeting is “Ni hao.” Please do not read me the wrong way; I am an awestruck admirer of China and the vision it has realised for itself. My concern is that a manual for becoming Sino-African has not yet been developed. Should we form a club where we can exchange confidences in Mandarin? Despite the reality of 1.5 million new influential African citizens of Chinese origin, which we are all still rather shy to talk about, if the future of Africa is written in Beijing skies what does this mean for the life of the Commonwealth in Africa? There is no point protesting: the bastion has been breached. No shots were fired.

China built the African Union headquarters. All they did was hand over the keys to our erstwhile kings. It is impressive, this Chinese phallic symbol piercing African skies. To misquote my new compatriots, “We live in interesting times.” But think about it; maybe in most of Africa, to be post-colonial is to be Chinese.

Unacknowledged evil perpetuates itself and extends its diabolic presence, sometimes in seemingly innocuous ways; ways that are not and would never have been accommodated if the desecrated, wounded and broken bodies had not been black.

A brief ode to Commonwealth-ness, especially after Brexit: I am from Nairobi. We do clubs. I am not an uninfluenced observer. We love clubs. The more Great Britain-connected, the better. Clubs are a community-creating process for us. We understand the indispensability of 10 a.m. and 4 p.m. tea. Being Commonwealth is a secure space to soothe the occasional sweet anguish of nostalgia for might-have-been pasts and could-have-been futures. With the Commonwealth we can pretend that we are important to the world and our admonitions cause a pause in the flow of world history. We even observe other people’s elections draped in our Commonwealth mantles of dignified neutrality. To be Commonwealth is to set apart our Englishes from those of the United States of America. There we adjust to the how-now-brown-cow English variety in order to bewilder them. It amuses us when they ask us to translate “dustbin” or “pavement”. When they ask, as they invariably will, why you speak English as you do, it is the single time one admits with a touch of vanity that “we were colonised by the English”.

I know Boris Johnson had some illusion that by leaving the European Union, the Commonwealth glory may reassert itself, and those nations who call themselves Commonwealth shall bask in its restored gaze. Even though the old house is hollow and decaying, it is, however, a remarkable wreck. Old and new skeletons clutter its numerous sealed vaults, rusted pipes leak, some not-of-English-imperial-origin nations have been allowed in, the Booker Prize has been pawned to the rest of the world, the velvet is thin and frayed, and some members would like their crown jewels back, cobwebs gather amidst the bat dung and the butlers have not been paid their wages. Visits to the mother country are no longer free, and few in the world know why we exist.

I spoke earlier of crime scenes; our Commonwealth has not yet conversed with its ghosts, has it? At some point we will have to stand face to face and inhale each others’ fetid breaths and tolerate the stench and not flinch at our mutual suffering. At some point we will try again to hold each others’ gaze and struggle together to retrieve the human being from the debris of wars fought and lost, of unsigned armistices. We need to talk, really talk, about the things we need to talk about in a world failing with such violence to make sense of itself.

Here are the ruins of the post-colonial states scattered abroad – so many unwanted and destitute bodies, exports of the pathology of nations exposed for all to see. They are not far from the Mediterranean gravesite of many freely offered dark-skinned bodies that neither the Commonwealth nor the post-colonial African Union have bothered to mention, mourn or note, as if relieved that at least these have done themselves in.

Perhaps, then, to be post-colonial is also to adhere to the notion of “place as palimpsest”, we are occupants of “multiple realities in one moment”. Ruins. These are palimpsests, matrices for imagining and re-imagining realities, I think.

I will start easy. From Kinshasa, DRC. Two people meet. Heads touch.

“Mbote,” They might say.

The history of this gesture comes from a legacy of ruins by the world’s most foremost genocidaire and architect of atrocities, with his sidekick Henry Morton Stanley, whose atrocities have not been recorded in our world. No memorials to a catastrophe. No literature by and of doomed descendants. No descriptions of how a great and beloved kingdom was turned into a demonic abyss by a man and his nation who went on to industrialise human exploitation, murder, horror, anguish and suffering in the quest for matter.

The German scholar Patrick Hoenig noted, in a conversation I shared with him, how the abiding monument to the apocalypse that became the Congo are systems built to lead outward; everything of the infinitely wealthy Congo is up for grabs and the infrastructure to send these out, come war or high water, remain intact. I suggested to a journalist in a fit of pique that the refusal of the world to respond with abhorrence and outrage to the witness of human evil that was Leopold’s and Belgium’s Congo, despite photographic evidence of such abhorrent and unrepeated evil, helped sow the seeds of Auschwitz and Birkenau. Unacknowledged evil perpetuates itself and extends its diabolic presence, sometimes in seemingly innocuous ways; ways that are not and would never have been accommodated if the desecrated, wounded and broken bodies had not been black.

The Antwerpse handjes (biscuits or chocolates made in the shape of a hand) are the only un-ironic memorials to thirty million still-nameless citizens of the Kongo Kingdom who were murdered, chopped, incinerated, petrified. Only these chocolate frivolities speak to what evil befell our humanity through them. Otherwise there is nothing else. Not even a placard in the DRC. I am not an academic, so forgive my question if it is foolish, but what is the point of knowledge sought and acquired if it cannot infuse transformation at the site of its engagement? The so-called plantation concessions from Leopold’s era are in the hands of multinationals like Canada’s Feronia. The attitudes and behaviour of the new landowners, we are informed, are a continuation of the past and remain, again, uninterrogated. I ask: Is this where one will find the line that demarcates the colonial from the post-colonial?

A final ruin. On March 2015, I was part of a group of residents of the Rockerfeller Centre in Bellagio, Northern Italy, who had taken a day out in the very wealthy city of Como. In the piazza, amidst the contented citizens and goggly-eyed tourists, were post-colonials from Pakistan selling shirts, post-colonials from India selling selfie sticks, post-colonials from Nigeria being pimped by UNICEF to hawk images of African children with flies in their eyes, and post-colonials from Senegal offering Hare Krishna pamphlets on one side and Jehovah Witness materials on another. There was a post-colonial from Ghana selling food in a stall and five other post-colonial brothers from West Africa begging—the only beggars in Como. As a fishmonger muttered to one in our group: “Before the Africans, no beggars.”

Here are the ruins of the post-colonial states scattered abroad – so many unwanted and destitute bodies, exports of the pathology of nations exposed for all to see. They are not far from the Mediterranean gravesite of many freely offered dark-skinned bodies that neither the Commonwealth nor the post-colonial African Union have bothered to mention, mourn or note, as if relieved that at least these have done themselves in. Or maybe it is far too soul-shattering to have to confront the question of why the liberated African citizens would rather endure the seventy per cent chance of death than go through another day living under the glow of an enlightened post-colonial leadership. It would lead to far too many uncomfortable acknowledgments, wouldn’t it? To be post-colonial is to fake it, no?

There are scattered pieces of a story that beg to be seen and gathered in order to offer us a word that can shelter our unseen, unstated, unnamed experiences. There are stories beneath the stories we have heard and assumed to be true even though they sit oddly with reality and truth. There are stories in and of the in-between.

Anyway, as we traversed the cobbled streets of Como, my armpits were wet, my head lowered as if at any point I might be asked to explain Africa, our people, or why our most beautiful men were crouched in European corners playing the monkey to get a few coins. I wanted to assert, I am Kenyan. We don’t leave home. We don’t do exile. As I crossed the city in my special little group made up of an Indian artist, four white American professionals, a South Africa-based German scholar, also white, I happened upon another able-bodied African male – dark, tall, dreadlocked and with the face and large, dark eyes of a tragic Bob Marley, accosting people on the street, begging with aggression. I hastened my feet to speed away faster than the others, my eyes averted. Until from behind me he howled: “Sister from Africa, look at me. Please. Sister, look at me. Sister from Africa, see me!”

What do you want me to say? That I stopped?

That I looked back and saw a man? I didn’t.

I hurried on.

I did glance at shop displays, the back of my neck burning. He annoyed me. I needed his cry to be for someone else, not me.

None of our group mentioned that moment or man again. Yet, as you can see now, the man and his voice remain unforgotten.

The ghosts pursued me back to the continent where his voice was born. His words remain fresh, a public witness-bearing, in spite of my refusal to acknowledge the vision of my post-colonial woundedness revealed in a European public square. In his cry is a harsh invitation to dare to see for oneself, to look beyond the surface performance, name the unnameable, find the human being. So here is a slide without words for him. It is in the colour (brown, I think), that dreams choose when they fall apart.

There are still far too many fragments in the telling of our being, gaps in the soul and in the reading of our lives. There is an excess of ideas received without re-interrogations. There are scattered pieces of a story that beg to be seen and gathered in order to offer us a word that can shelter our unseen, unstated, unnamed experiences. There are stories beneath the stories we have heard and assumed to be true even though they sit oddly with reality and truth. There are stories in and of the in-between.

In reading ruins in imitation of those who look into stars and entrails for prognostications, I strain to see these for myself — these small autopsies — so that I might hear the memory of a past releasing its real name to the present and in the sound, the echo that speaks forth a future that suggests the best of us.

Amidst these figurative ruins, “there be corpses that rejoice to teach the living”. “See me!” – that invitation from a man, a body, on a far-off street – is a good enough place for me to look in a way that I could not before.

This essay is adapted from a speech by the author at the 17th Triennial Association for Commonwealth Literature and Language Studies (ACLALS) Conference held in Stollenbosch, South Africa, in July 2016.  

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Yvonne Adhiambo Owuor is a Kenyan writer and the author of the much-acclaimed novel Dust.

Politics

South Sudan: Rebels Seek to Remove President Kiir From Power as Country Marks 10 Years of Self-Rule

Even as South Sudan marks 10 years since it attained its independence from Sudan, the fragile peace is at risk of collapsing.

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South Sudan: Rebels Seek to Remove President Kiir From Power as Country Marks 10 Years of Self-Rule
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In an interview with this writer in a Nairobi hotel on July 10, former SPLA chief of staff Gen Oyay Deng Ajak declared they are planning to oust President Salva Kiir this year.

Ajak, who is also a former minister of Investment and National Security, accuses President Salva Kiir of tribalism, destroying the ruling party SPLM, the SPLA army, the police and running down the country.

He also says that President Kiir does not want to leave power, and it is not possible for the youngest African country to go to 2023 General Election with him in power. Gen Ajak says he want to die on the seat.

Ajak is among the 11 political detainees accused of plotting a coup in December 2013 against President Kiir. The others were Deng Alor Kuol, Geir Chuang, Cirino Hiten, Kosti Manibe, John Luk, Gen Madut Biar Yel, Chol Tong Mayay. former SPLM secretary general Pagan Amum Ajak, former Defence minister Majak D’Agoot and former Ambassador to the US Ezekiel Lol Gatkouth.

They were released to Kenya in a deal between President Kiir and Uhuru Kenyatta under the auspices of Igad.

Only recently, before this interview, did President Kiir tell Citizen TV that he felt let down by Igad and particularly President Kenyatta.

“You know for Kenya, I am not happy because after the coup of 2013, President Uhuru took the lead that he was coming to take the leaders that I had apprehended during the coup. I told him, my brother, I cannot give you these people because they have to answer the charges on the role they played in the coup.”

“But President Uhuru put himself in front of me that he will not allow them to talk a single political sentence, that he would keep them safe in his house until I am convinced that they did not do anything. And so we released them to you [Kenya],” Kiir told Citizen TV in the interview aired on July 7.

The 11 detainees had become a sticking point at peace talks.

In his speech on the 10th Anniversary, Kiir vowed not to allow South Sudan to slide back to war. But he identified the National Salvation Front led by Gen Thomas Cirilo as a group that has refused to be part of the peace process and still contributes to instability in some parts of South Sudan.

General Ajak speaks about what happened in the 2013 alleged coup and the new plans to remove President Salva Kiir from power this year.

***

Eliud Kibii: What happened on that night before President Salva Kiir accused you of trying to overthrow the government?

Gen Oyay Deng Ajak: A week earlier, we had a serious discussion with Salva, me, Taban Deng, who is now a vice president, Paul Malong, now a minister and a former minister of Finance at the palace in J1 about the problems we were facing as a movement and party.

We advised that given the situation, it was better to delay the meeting of the National Liberation Council and meet with Riek Machar – First Vice President – and discuss the internal problems because people were talking about the SPLM convention, which was going to take place in May 2014.

We met with him and told him to talk to Riek, meet with Mama Rebecca [Garang], talk to [SPLM secretary general Amum] Pagan, all these people who want to contest the election next year. And these are your friends, your brothers, your comrades, you have been together – here to discuss with them. And after you meet and discuss with them, you call for a meeting of the Political Bureau, which is the most senior, and the Political Bureau will decide what action to take and how people are going to work and move ahead together.

Salva agreed and we had a good evening, had dinner, drunk and had a good time to relax up to very late hours.

At midnight, we went to our houses confident that Salva would agree to the proposal and would not call the meeting. But two days later, he called the meeting, The National Liberation Council is a big body.

Most of them [members] are very young, thus emotional. Salva raised many issues about people who want to challenge his position.

Riek said he would not attend another meeting because he was personally attacked in the way some people made their comments. Mama Rebecca also refused to go for another meeting.

Pagan was told not to attend the meeting and instead to stay in his house. Look, he is the Secretary General of the party. There is no meeting of the party without the Secretary General.

I was not a member of the National Liberation Council. I was a member during the struggle but when the army was separated from the party, I was relieved.

Now on the day the shooting took place.  I was doing a distance learning programme and there was no WiFi in my house for one week. So, I went to a hotel near the airport.

Two of my colleagues came to my house on that Sunday at around 10:30am and when they could not get me, they called and I told them I’m in the hotel and I will be coming home.

But instead waiting, they came to the hotel.

The message was that lets go meet Salva Kiir. It is Malong who was talking.

“We want you personally to go and sit and discuss with Salva,” Malong said.

I refused and said if there is a meeting with Salva, it can’t be me alone. It has to be all of us.  Malong was very disappointed with me.

We had lunch with them up to 1:32pm and they left.

Then Taban Deng called and asked me where we were having lunch. I told him we had lunch with Cirilo and General Malong, who have since left so let’s go home. General Gier also called and we went to the house.

One of the officers from the barracks called Taban and this officer used a local dialect. The officer and Taban are Nuer. The officer told Taban, “These Dinka boys have come to disarm us”.

This was the beginning of the problem.

Taban put the phone on speaker and I talked to the officer.

I said, “What is the problem?”

He said they there are Dinka boys who have come to disarm us.

And so, I asked him, how many boys have come?

He said a one company. One company is 120 SPLA officers.

But then the Nuer boys who are at the presidential guard unit are more than 1,000. They are 1,500. They cannot be disarmed by one company. Please don’t create problem, I said.

This officer told me big man, the way these people are behaving, we will not accept it. We are going to fight now.

I told them, please don’t. Let me call the SPLA headquarters and this problem will be solved.

I tried to call the Chief of General Staff then, he is a Nuer, but he was in Australia, and he was coming back by that evening.

Taban said the way this thing is, it will not reach evening. There will be a serious fight.

So, he said instead of waiting for lunch, let him go and brief Riek Machar about what was happening.

I was left with Gier.

Pagan’s sister came from church and passed by the house, Majak was coming from Nairobi, he passed by, Thomas Duoth, who was the Director General of External Security Service also came. I told him thank God you are here; you are the right man to take this message now to the President.

I tried to talk to the Acting Chief of Staff, he was not picking up the phone and I called the then Defence Minister Majak, who was also not picking up

I called the director of military intelligence who was in Uganda, the phone was ringing but nobody was picking up.

I told Luoth there is a problem in the barracks and it is you people who can solve this problem.

Unfortunately, he, with the director of internal security, decided to keep quiet. Nobody went to the president who was closing the meeting I talked about of the National Liberation Council.

Since nobody called me, I thought everything was okay and so I went out for the normal logistics.

The shooting took place at 7:30 at the barracks and Taban called me immediately.

If I take you back to the part where I said the Neur said the Dinka boys were disarming them, it was not really a disarmament.

The Nuer boys had put their weapons in an armory and the Dinka boys had surrounded it. Not that they were carrying the arms with them.

Up to now, nobody knows who sent these boys.

So, when Riek boys came under intense pressure, he gave the order that they take their arms and to do that, they had to break in the store and that’s when the shooting happened around 7:30 in the evening.

I was away at the hotel, Lumulul Logistics, and when coming back at around 9pm I passed by Jimmy’s house, the Chief of General Staff and told him there is an ongoing shooting, which is getting very serious.  Let’s go to the barracks. He said no, there are officers controlling the situation and they’re not in dire need. These are the presidential guys fighting themselves. So, you go to your house and relax you just rest, he said.

There was a lot of movement of forces on the road and my house is not very far from that of Salva Kiir.

I told Jimmy, as you see I do not have bodyguards, give me some of your bodyguards for escort to my house. He agreed.

Some of Salva’s soldiers asked me why I was still moving at this time when there is a shooting and I am a General. I told them where I was coming from and that I was going to my house.

When I got to the house, I told the kids to sleep down stairs as there was shooting all over Juba.

I stayed in the sitting room until morning.

Salva’s bodyguards were deployed and that’s when they came and put me under arrest with the others in the morning.

We really don’t know, and this is something that has not been investigated, who gave the order for part of the presidential guard unit, mostly Nuer, for their arms to be taken.

Eliud Kibii: Why do you think you were fingered as one of the suspects? Could these meetings have been the reason? 

Gen Oyay Deng Ajak: Possibly. Or maybe Salva did not expect me to be part of this Malong group that came to signal me to meet with Salva. But all of us are friends of Salva.  When I was relieved from SPLA, most of these soldiers who are mostly were Nuer from Bentiu they were the bodyguards of the former general Paulino Matip, who was a militia commander working with Bashir and we were fighting them. So even one time these same forces, they tried to attack me in my office when I was Chief of General Staff. And my argument was Salva was over this force that there is no way you can have a unit, which is mostly from one particular tribe and staying in one place.

As the Chief of General Staff, I wanted these forces to be disarmed, sent to the unit, and then mixed with the other forces so that they are part of the rest SPLA. It was Salva himself who refused this.

Salva was then thinking that he would use this force from Nuer to intimidate Riek, who is also Nuer, who was also having problems with Paulino Matip, who was also Nuer.

This force was not trained in SPLA, they were former militia and then the Dinka boys, who were also brought to Juba after I was released, were locally recruited and armed from the Office of the President, not through the Minister of Defense, not even the Chief of General Staff knew anything about them.

So, this special force, which was locally recruited and privately armed were brought to Juba by Salva himself.

When we go back to that day of the shooting, it is not SPLA soldiers and officers who fought in Juba. It is this private militia group. The militia of Omar Bashir, mostly Nuer from Bentiu, and the privately recruited militia from Dinka who fought. And this is the crisis of leadership, which has affected that country up to today. As we talk now, we the SPLA has fought and split up.

Up to today, you do not have a national army in South Sudan. SPLA has been destroyed by Salva Kiir.

Eliud Kibii: So how many of your comrades who were victimized during that alleged coup are outside the country right now?

Gen Oyay Deng Ajak:  Cirilo, myself, Pagan, Kosti, the former Minister of Finance. We are still out up to now. And there are so many others.

Eliud Kibii: Didn’t the last agreement have a provision for your safe return?

Gen Oyay Deng Ajak: The last one? We call it Khartoum agreement and we don’t see this as an agreement because the deal that we discussed was signed in Addis.

Salva refused to sign in Addis Ababa but due to regional and international pressure, he agreed to sign the agreement in Juba. But he said to everybody in Juba that this agreement is neither the Quran nor the Holy Bible.

Precisely, after few months, he broke the agreement and shooting took place in J1, in Juba because Salva was not convinced of the agreement he signed. The fighting continued until 2018.

In 2018, when these talks took place, we were in Khartoum and recommended that we go back to the previous agreement. But Khartoum, the likes of Bashir, said no and the whole thing ended up being shuttling between Khartoum and Entebbe.

So, we as the South Sudanese did not sit down to discuss and agree on something in Khartoum. It was just Khartoum telling us accept this one, don’t accept this, you have to agree to this and that through a lot of intimidation to Riek Machar.

And of course, we said no, we are not going to sit and agree on something we did not discuss. We left Khartoum some of us came to Nairobi, Kampala others went to Addis.

Those of us in Nairobi went to a meeting at Mama Rebecca’s house after the signing of the Khartoum agreement. We signed a document delinking ourselves from Khartoum peace talks. We said they were not genuine peace and its implementation would be difficult.

We rejected the Khartoum agreement because there was a lot of mess. It was not practical and that’s why we remain outside.

But again, after the signing of that agreement, Salva sent for our colleagues and said he has a special request for us. He wanted us to go to Juba.

I was in Addis and Mama Rebecca called saying we had to send a team to meet Salva. I and Cirilo refused to go.

The team went to Juba and came back but here was practically nothing.

What was the special offer? Some ministerial positions? That’s not enough. There are real problems that need to be solved in that country.

Cirilo, Pagan and myself refused to go and went back to Addis.

We remain outside and believe the Khartoum agreement was not really an agreement. It is like Salva telling us come to Juba and keep quiet.

Eliud Kibii: The Economist says it is Unhappy Birthday to South Sudan. From where you stand, how do you think the problem in South Sudan should be resolved? 

Gen Oyay Deng Ajak: The problem in South Sudan is the problem of leadership. You solve the problem of leadership; you solve all the problems in South Sudan.

But there is every reason for the people of South Sudan to celebrate the 10th year of the Independence Day because our people started fighting the colonial government in 1955.

In Anyanya 1, they didn’t gain much they agreed on regional autonomy. That agreement was not respected and the South Sudanese again started fighting in the 1980s. We achieved the Independence of South Sudan and the people voted on vote given to them after many years of fighting and sacrifice. They voted 97 [er cent for the Independence of South Sudan. We lost so many people and comrades to achieve this independence.

There are some issues we did not solve and which should have been part of the discussion between Juba and Khartoum. The issue if Abyei, Nuba Mountains and the border demarcation between the north and the south are still pending.

The fact that South Sudanese attained their independence is something we continue to celebrate.

One day, were sitting with an old man discussing the problem of South Sudan and he said, “Look, if God wants to punish you, He will give you a bad leader”.

Sometimes I want to believe in what the old man said. But still ask myself, what did we do as the people of South Sudan for God to give us a bad leader?

Because during our struggle, on so many years of this struggle, we had the best leader.

John Garang was an excellent and exceptional leader.

Garang was just a normal South Sudanese, or Sudanese and he did not consider himself as coming from this particular tribe or this particular community. He treated people equally.

So when John Garang died, we found ourselves in a serious problem.

Can we give the leadership to Salva?  We knew his weakness!

Or do we say no? And if we say no, Salva would create problems and Khartoum could use those differences amongst ourselves against us.

So, we said okay, knowing the weakness of Salva Kiir, we gave him the open support and unshakeable solidarity given his seniority.

The crisis in South Sudan can be solved in a day, if you have the right and strong leader.

But you cannot solve it with Salva Kiir because he destroyed the SPLM, the party we created in 1983.

And you know what Salva did? He organized tribal leaders called the Dinka Council of Elders, who now the one who are taking over the role of the party, the SPLM. They destroyed it.

You have the Dinka Council of Elders from their own communities, and they came to the capital Juba, and they are sitting in Juba running the party running the SPLM. Where in the world can you get such as thing?

I give an example of myself. I come from the community of the Shilluk, from the Kingdom of the Shilluk. The current king was a banker, university graduate. And when the community called him, he removed his suit and tie and put on the Shilluk traditional dress and went to the Shilluk land where he stays. He does not stay in Juba or Marakal.

If the Dinka want to have a Dinka king, we don’t have a problem with that. Let them go to the Dinka land. But there is no way that they can come take over the party and assume the role of advising Salva.

So Salva destroyed the party, created these tribal differences and now the Dinka are taking land from other communities. So, you are creating problems in the future even for the Dinka themselves.

It’s not a good thing to do. You cannot expect Salva will unite the people of South Sudan and we will not have a country called South Sudan under Salva Kiir. Not until he is gone.

He has destroyed the national army the SPLA, the national security, the national police and the national party, which was the biggest party in South Sudan, the SPLM.

Eliud Kibii: How entrenched is ethnicity in South Sudan? 

Gen Oyay Deng Ajak: Salva Kiir entrenched it. During all these years of the struggle, the people of South Sudan were united.

By then, you could move from the Ethiopian border to the border of Central Africa Republic and every village you go to, the people would serve you.

When Garang was the leader, there were many commanders from various tribes and could go everywhere to fight. There was nothing called tribalism. But now, it is Salve Kiir who created this [tribalism] in a very serious way.

So now, the people of South Sudan are fighting e.g in the greater Upper Nile, tribes are fighting. Every tribe in South Sudan now has its private army and commanders in chief. So in general, it is Salva Kiir who created this.

Eliud Kibii: Do you think Riek Machar is a better leader than President Kiir? 

Gen Oyay Deng Ajak:  He has never been a leader and I don’t want to assume he would be better, unless the people of South Sudan elect him. But there are many people in South Sudan who can be leaders.

However, in comparison with Salva, I think Riek would be better but I don’t think he would be better than Garang because he demonstrated his leadership and up to today, people cry, even in the Sudan.

The people will in future decide if they want to work with Riek, but I don’t think anybody will vote for Salva again. But there are many people who can lead that country in a better way.

Eliud Kibii: What do you think about the upcoming election in 2023?

Gen Oyay Deng Ajak: I don’t think there will be an election under Salva Kiir.

What created this problem in 2013 was because Salva was afraid of going for election. The agreement they signed talks of an election but I don’t think it will happen.

How do you conduct an election when you do not have national security? When you do not have national army?

Look, we are the only country in the world, if we can call ourselves so, where you have, take an example, Uhuru Park in Nairobi where you have Kenyans running away from President Uhuru Kenyatta and they are being protected by Somalis and Rwandese in the park and Uhuru is sitting at State House. Would Kenyans agree to do this?

This is what is happening in South Sudan. In Juba, you have 200,000 South Sudanese who are running away from Salva Kiir and are being protected by Rwandese, Ethiopian and Kenyan armies in Marakal, in Bentiu. These are our citizens being protected by regional troops in the capital city.

You have more than two million refugees in Uganda alone, half a million in Kenya, another half a million in Ethiopia and more than three million in Sudan. So, how can you talk about an election. How are you going to organize it? So, these refugees in Uganda, will they vote there for the President who chased them from Juba? This election talk is at best a joke. Nothing will take place. It will not work.

Eliud Kibii: If there are no foreseeable credible elections and you say there can’t be peace under Salva Kiir, so what is the way out?

Gen Oyay Deng Ajak:  There are two options. The first is concerns the region – and I know they have their own problems. But if South Sudan is a member of Igad, EAC and the African Union, the only solution is for the regional bloc and the international community to pressure Salva Kiir to step down. To resign. And he can stay peacefully anywhere in the region or we in South Sudan can forgive him and let him stay in Juba but let the current regime resign and form the government of technocrats that will restructure and lead the country for three to four years or whatever to a credible election. This cannot happen under Salva Kiir.

If that doesn’t work for Salva, the only other option if for us the South Sudanese to fight and chase him away from that chair. Otherwise, there will be no election and there will be no peace under Salva. And Salva wants to die on that chair.

So, there is always time for everything but time will come very soon for Salva to go. Either he goes by resigning as I said or we are going to fight him.

Eliud Kibii: You speak like there is already a plan?

Gen Oyay Deng Ajak: Yes, it is there. Look, when we went for these peace talks in Rome I told them that if there are any mistakes that I have done in my life, it is to refuse to take up arms from 2014 when we were released from jail. I could have joined Riek or I could have formed a separate front to fight Salva. And there are so many of my colleagues who are calling. So, it is a mistake which I have done almost eight years now. We have been made refugees from the country we liberated, we have been chased from but we will not continue staying in Kenya, Ethiopia or Uganda. This year, we are going to put on our uniform and go back and fight Salva Kiir. And he must go. That country belongs to all of us not to a particular group or leader to destroy. So definitely, we are going to fight him.

Eliud Kibii: You are confirming there are plans underway?

Gen Oyay Deng Ajak: Yes, we are working on it and this is what I am saying. We are talking to various SPLA officers from all communities and Salva is going to be shocked very soon. And there are no peace talks that will work with Salva Kiir again and so the only option left to us is to fight him. We are planning, we are organizing and we are ready.

Eliud Kibii: Could President Salva Kiir be reacting to such plans when he says Uhuru betrayed him when he released you, then detainees, to Kenya only for him to issue you with passports?

Gen Oyay Deng Ajak:  He is always blaming other people. If President Kenyatta were to help us, even with weapons, we would have marched to Juba a long time ago. But Kenyatta said he wants peace in South Sudan and wants a peaceful solution. What did Kenyatta do? Nothing.

Salva is unable to unite his own people and now wants to blame leaders in the region. The region has told us they can only help us by facilitating talks. No country has given us weapons to fight him.

So, if he is complaining about a passport, that’s an assistance he can blame the region for it. Of course, I need a Kenyan passport to go for treatment in South Africa. Is it a crime for Kenya to give me this? You don’t go and fight with a passport. So he has failed and just wants to blame other people.

Eliud Kibii: Do you feel there are people in his government who like you feel he needs to go?

Gen Oyay Deng Ajak: They are many but there are very few in government who are revolutionaries. But the government in Juba has been taken over by former Khartoum people, the National Congress Party. Those we were fighting. They are the ones who have taken over in Juba, traitor who have blood of the South Sudanese in their hands. We will get them soon. This year, the time of Salva is coming. And it has happened all over the world.

Eliud Kibii: What message would want to send to the people of South Sudan?

Gen Oyay Deng Ajak:  They should celebrate this Independence Day. From every family, we have lost a child during the struggle. They must always remember they fought and attained their independence. They should be proud of themselves.

And the tragedy we are going through is man-made and Salva will go. And when he goes this year, we will have a strong government of South Sudan.

My message is those who are being misled by Salva Kiir, don’t join them We are going to look for them. It happened in Rwanda, Liberia, Sudan and it is now going to happen in South Sudan. Those responsible for the atrocities will he held to account, we are going to arrest them, including Salva Kiir. Either he goes to court at The Hague or arrest him as the Sudanese have arrested Bashir and try him. I would not want to kill him, he must be arrested and taken to court. This is what I have to say.

Eliud Kibii: And how are the five vice-presidents working with all the divisions?

Gen Oyay Deng Ajak:  There is no government in South Sudan. It is gang of criminals and the five vice presidents, we as the South Sudanese did not discuss and agree on them. Riek was just pushed.

It was Bashir or Museveni who came up with the idea. They are not working; they are not even functioning. One of them asked the President to relive him of his duties. It is only Salva who is running government alone.

For instance, what is the function of Riek in Juba? His army, which he has been commanding for six, seven years is still out there. How can you be proud of yourself and you sit in the chair as vice president when you leave your own people who have been fighting for you all these years outside and you run to Juba to get money or positions. That is rubbish.

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Wolf in Shepherd’s Garb: Bishop Gakuyo and Stolen Middle Class Dreams

Unless more interventionist regulation is put in place, Kenya’s elites will continue to use Saccos as vehicles for predatory accumulation and Kenyans will continue to see their dreams deferred.

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Wolf in Shepherd’s Garb: Bishop Gakuyo and Stolen Middle Class Dreams
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When Michael Kariuki* first heard about Ekeza Sacco in 2016, he was quietly excited. He was listening to Kameme FM, the popular Gikuyu language radio station, when host Njogu wa Njoroge began talking about a new savings opportunity live on air. What wa Njoroge described was intriguing. Ekeza’s promise was of a middle-class lifestyle embodied in homeownership, entrepreneurship and family success. Through such radio broadcasts, television adverts and even its own campaign bus, Ekeza exhorted Kenyans to join the Sacco in order to pursue their dreams and aspirations, to use loans for “putting up a residential house, buying a dream car, purchasing a plot/piece of land, start a business or any other venture.” Like other Savings and Credit Cooperatives in Kenya (Saccos for short), Njoroge explained how Ekeza was offering its members the opportunity to withdraw three times the amount of their savings in the form of a loan.

But there was an important twist to Ekeza’s offer, one that gave members a distinct advantage. Unlike other Saccos, Ekeza was offering loans without the need for guarantors – other Sacco members who personally put up their savings as a guarantee for another member’s loan. Instead, at Ekeza, the title deeds and logbooks of the properties and vehicles that members would eventually purchase with their loans would act as loan securities. In other words, Ekeza was offering easy access to capital that is hard to come by in contemporary Kenya where banks charge high interest rates and Saccos require social membership. For Kariuki, that a guarantor was not required made saving with Ekeza an attractive opportunity – the chance to obtain capital that would allow him to purchase a car and become a taxi driver without having to undertake the difficult task of finding other Sacco members to stand in as his guarantors. Along with thousands of other Kenyans, Kariuki soon joined the Sacco.

A construction worker who worked long, hard days in the heat of Mombasa, Kariuki went on to save KSh180,000 with Ekeza over the next two years, sending money to his Sacco savings account directly from his MPesa account on his mobile phone. It was the first time in his life that Kariuki had ever saved such a large amount of money. He told me of the sacrifices he and his family made so that he could put more of his earnings into his savings, that there were “some things” — basic necessities and even food — they had to forego in the hope that his savings, and the taxi business that he would start with the loan, would allow him to build them a better future.

But in December 2017, Kariuki started to realise something was wrong. He had gone to withdraw a loan of KSh25,000 from the Sacco’s office in Thika. After filling out the paperwork, he was asked by Ekeza staff to wait the normal 60 days that it would take for the loan to be cleared and arrive in his account. Kariuki went back to Mombasa and waited, but his loan never arrived.

In January 2018, he returned to the office to find out what had happened with his loan. Ekeza staff assured him that his loan was on its way and he was asked to wait again but this time Kariuki refused. Suspecting something was wrong with the Sacco itself, he asked to withdraw all his savings at a fee of KSh1000. Kariuki filled out the paperwork and was once again asked to wait for 60 working days for his savings to reach his bank account.

In March 2018, four days before he was due to receive his savings, Kariuki’s wife called him. She had seen on the news that Ekeza had been officially deregistered by the Kenyan government pending investigations into its accounts. With the SACCO’s accounts frozen, Kariuki could do nothing but wait; he returned to the Ekeza office three times in 2018 and 2019 asking about the status of his savings, to no avail. Like tens of thousands of other Ekeza members, he has been stuck in limbo ever since.

The Ekeza Sacco story

Michael Kariuki’s story is a fairly common one for members of Ekeza Sacco – that after carefully building their savings for around two years, they were finally on the brink of receiving a loan, only to find it constantly delayed before eventually discovering that the SACCO had been deregistered by the government. But even Kariuki’s story is just one aspect of the Ekeza debacle. Other Sacco members reported how Gakuyo “bought” land from them without ever paying them in full. Others had their land and vehicles seized even after repaying their loans in full. All told, members lost around KSh2.6 billion in savings.

In March 2018, Commissioner of Co-operatives Mary Mungai formally closed Ekeza pending an investigation and an audit of the Sacco’s accounts. Suddenly, the Sacco’s 53,000 members were plunged into confusion and concern about the fate of their savings. The Sacco’s chairman, David Ngari Kariuki, an evangelical church pastor known as Gakuyo, assured members that their savings were safe. However, an audit of Ekeza’s accounts revealed around KSh1.5 billion of irregular transfers to bank accounts of persons and businesses associated with the chairman.

The audit report revealed fraud on an enormous scale but little has been done to address the plight of the members who have lost their savings. Over the last two years, Ekeza has maintained that its liquidity was damaged by rumours rather than Gakuyo’s expropriation of funds. In the aftermath of the Commissioner’s audit, Ngari moved to sell several of his assets and has repeatedly assured members that their deposits will be refunded, announcing a new 5-tier schedule for doing so in January 2020. Audaciously, Ekeza offered its members plots of land in what were seen as sub-par locations, their monetary worth far below what members had invested. Whilst Ekeza insists that it has refunded thousands of its members, particularly those with savings worth less than KSh50,000, reports from Ekeza victims suggest that there are many more thousands who are yet to receive their money. On social media, victims’ groups continue to organise, but with waning hope that they will ever see their money returned.

The audit report revealed fraud on an enormous scale but little has been done to address the plight of the members who have lost their savings.

Over the past three years, I have been exploring the effect the fallout of Ekeza’s deregistration and the subsequent uncertainty faced by its members. The majority live in muted hope, actively choosing not to think about the money because of the stress the loss of their savings has caused them. Marriages have been ruined. Some Ekeza members have committed suicide after losing their savings. The overwhelming story is one of bitterness and anger towards Ngari. The words of the man I have anonymised in this article as Kariuki give some sense of that bitterness:

If I could be like a soldier holding a gun, I could be searching for that man just to kill him and leave everything. If I die, I die. Because that money, it was my first time to enter into a SACCO, save things. I have never saved an amount like that.

This article aims to recap the story of Ekeza Sacco – how it came to prominence, how its deregistration has shaped the lives of its members, and how its collapse reveals the illusory promises of the “working class” dream in contemporary Kenya, how aspirations of leading better material lives are undermined by political authority. The story of Ekeza Sacco is not merely one of fraud, but also one of frustration and anguish with a contemporary Kenya that works for the powerful few, depriving ordinary citizens of the material basis on which they might build their dreams.

The rise, the fall, and the resistance

Ekeza Sacco was established in 2013 and formally registered in 2014, but it rose to prominence in the run-up to Kenya’s 2017 elections. Throughout the first half of the year, the Sacco was regularly advertised on Gikuyu language radio stations like Kameme FM alongside its partner firm, Gakuyo Real Estate. During the same period, Ngari attempted to vie for governorship of Kiambu, but eventually joined Ferdinand Waititu’s “United 4 Kiambu” team, an alliance of Kiambu politicians (including current governor James Nyoro) through which Waititu contested and ultimately won the gubernatorial seat. Through his association with Waititu, Ngari appeared at rallies across the county throughout 2017. At the time, friends and acquaintances of mine in Kiambu were optimistic of the impact Ngari would have on the county through his association with the prospective new governor. “He will be the one bringing development, I am sure”, one Kiambu farmer told me.

At the same time, an Ekeza Sacco-branded mobile truck was travelling around Kiambu exhorting people to “Invest to nurture your dreams”. “His adverts were so convincing,” one member told me. Another told me how Ekeza’s near-ubiquitous presence made him believe in its legitimacy. “It was everywhere during the elections.” Whilst the new Sacco gained prominence and legitimacy through its relentless advertising campaign, for many of those who joined the Sacco in 2016 and 2017, it was Ngari’s status as a pastor that helped earn their trust. “Because he’s a bishop. He has a good reputation. So I thought my money was safe”, one member reflected. Others found out about the Sacco through family members. Ann Njeri, a 30-year-old woman from Githurai, found out about the Sacco through her mother-in-law, and soon encouraged her husband to invest in the Sacco to save for a plot of land. For Njeri, “It was a normal Sacco just like others but at least this particular one had been started by a bishop so it had more credibility.” She convinced her husband that they should invest in Ekeza in order to buy a plot of land in Nairobi’s outskirts on which to build a home. The couple went on to save KSh500,000 with the Sacco.

Ngari attempted to vie for governorship of Kiambu, but eventually joined Ferdinand Waititu’s “United 4 Kiambu” team, an alliance of Kiambu politicians.

For many of the people who joined, Ekeza offered easier access to capital than some of its competitors. As mentioned above, one of the main advantages of saving with Ekeza was that it did not require members to have guarantors for their loans. “They weren’t even asking for security in the case you were taking a loan to buy land from the sister company, Gakuyo,” one member explained. “They would just wait until you pay the full amount before giving you the title deed, and that was my strategy then.” Members contrasted the ease of entry into Ekeza with the difficulty of becoming a member of what are viewed as more successful and legitimate Saccos such as Mwalimu Sacco. Another member reflected how difficult he thought it would be to join Mwalimu Sacco compared to Ekeza. “I have to have some friends there.”

Ekeza Sacco promised ordinary Kenyans the chance to live their dream as members of Kenya’s fledgling middle-class. “Invest to nature [sic] your dreams”, read one of the Sacco’s slogans. Many Ekeza members were attracted by the prospect of acquiring land – either to build a home to live in, or to rent out in order to supplement their incomes. In this regard, Ekeza’s popularity ought to be viewed in the light of Kenya’s current “gold rush” on land — the idea that land in Kenya is “getting finished”, ever increasing in value because of its growing scarcity. It is precisely the same scarcity-speculation combination that fuels elite land grabs.

But it was partly through the purchase of Gakuyo Real Estate plots that members began to discover that their investments were flawed. Gakuyo Real Estate’s practice was to buy large plots of land and sub-divide them into individual plots for the construction of stone houses. But in some cases, members would arrive at their new, loan-purchased plots, only to find that the original owners still held the title deed. It was also revealed that Gakuyo Real Estate was in the practice of purchasing land via instalments and allowing members to access their land before completing the payment to the original owners. Some Ekeza members were denied ownership of plots that they had paid for because the Sacco had not paid for the plots in the first place.

Ekeza Sacco promised ordinary Kenyans the chance of living their dreams as members of Kenya’s fledgling middle-class.

For others, it was in far more mundane circumstances that they began to realise something was amiss. One member, Andrew Mwangi, arrived at the Ekeza office in Thika one afternoon in early 2018 to find a commotion at the front desk. Another member was complaining that they had filed for complete withdrawal of their savings and had waited months but received nothing. Mwangi was alarmed. “I immediately filled the withdrawal form.”

The deregistration of the Sacco by Mary Mungai in March 2018 opened a new phase in the Sacco’s lifespan – a political struggle for its control. Not prepared to wait, Ekeza members quickly organised themselves into victims’ groups. Under the leadership of Charles Mage, one group of Ekeza Sacco members stormed the Sacco’s office in Thika. Soon enough, the police took note and in March 2019, Ekeza victims were invited to the Directorate of Criminal Investigations on Kiambu Road to record statements.

For its part, Ekeza maintained that its collapse had been caused by “panic withdrawals’ – that the Sacco’s reputation had become a “political tool” in the 2017 elections, a target for opponents who had raised doubts amongst the membership, causing a raft of withdrawals and a liquidity crisis. The Sacco described the situation as a “mishap”. No mention was made of the immense suffering caused to members through the loss of their savings. The message to members was: “bear with us”. In 2018, Sacco members with smaller amounts of savings — KSh5,000 and below — were refunded, but it left around 53,000 members with substantial savings still waiting.

More significant shifts were to come. At an AGM in February 2019, overseen by the Commissioner Mary Mungai, Sacco members voted to remove Gakuyo and put a temporary board of five people in charge, including Charles Mage as acting Chairman. At the same time, the Commissioner reinstated the Sacco, with the intention that the new interim board would begin refunding members’ deposits.

This moment of optimism quickly passed as Ngari’s lawyers moved rapidly to challenge the new board’s appointment in the courts, citing the possibility of members’ savings being plundered by the new committee. The court issued an injunction, and its effect was to return power to Ngari, locking out members who thought they were on the cusp of regaining control of their savings through access to the Sacco’s bank accounts. At several meetings in 2019, Ekeza Sacco members debated their predicament; the interim committee now had no control over the Sacco’s accounts, the offices were closed and no form of redress was available. The atmosphere at these meetings was combative.

The Ekeza debacle is characteristic of a contemporary Kenya defined by an unequal capacity to secure a place in the future.

But by 2020, the resistance of Ekeza Sacco victims’ groups had begun to weaken. The death of Charles Mage in a road accident in March 2020, an event that went unreported in national media outlets, further weakened the leadership of members who want to see their savings returned. Whilst some members are preparing court cases against the Sacco in 2021, arrangements are increasingly being made in private rather than through collective action, with Ekeza victims wary of being spied upon by members of “Gakuyo’s team”. Meanwhile, Ngari has re-emerged as a figure close to James Nyoro, promising a bigger, better Ekeza, assuring members that refunds are on the way. Ekeza victims have found their plight politicised, used as a football in Kiambu’s politics. Ngari has blamed the failure of his Sacco on Ferdinand Waititu, the now disgraced former governor of Kiambu, claiming that Waititu used Ekeza funds in his campaign.

Lives in limbo 

The Ekeza debacle is characteristic of a contemporary Kenya defined by an “unequal capacity to secure a future”. It is emblematic of how those in political authority cannibalise the aspirational projects of ordinary Kenyans, “eating their sweat”. “We are ready to prosper here in Kenya, bwana Peter,” one Ekeza member told me at a victims’ group meeting on Thika Road. “It is our leaders who cut us. These people who lead us are not honest, they just deceive us.”

For Ekeza members, the immense difficulty in generating savings and capital for aspirational projects compounds the sense of loss. Most Ekeza members I spoke to described themselves as “hustlers”, working long hours for uncertain wages in the informal economy. Their struggle is evoked here by Andrew Mwangi:

You know I lost a lot of money. And you know, I was thinking about that thing each and every day. And I was thinking, maybe we will get our money back. Finally, I came to find out we are not being paid at all. So I told myself I will never think about it again. I agree, the money is lost. And up to now, I don’t engage in any way [with the Sacco]. I just left it like that. I’m sick and tired, I’m tired. I don’t think about that any more. Every time I talk about it, my heart bleeds. That was my money. That was my sweat. I worked so hard for it. My goal was to own a property. That was my dream. My dream was broken by this guy. . . . I even hate mentioning the name. So what I can say is that I do not even follow the money anymore.

Michael Kariuki’s words strike a similar tone:

My faith is still there. But I can’t put all my faith in there. I have to work, feed my family, do everything. I can’t put all my mind there, thinking about all that money I saved and it went. If it got lost, it got lost. So, I’ll never get it back. But, for the rest of the victims are just struggling if the money will come. If I stay thinking about the money, I’ll just get sick.

Whilst their words belie a remarkable capacity to move on, for most members the fallout from their loss has been blame within their families. Ann Njoki told me how her husband was understanding, but how other Ekeza members she knew had ended up divorced as a result of losing savings, facing the blame from their partners for the loss of family money.

Meanwhile Ngari continues to walk free, having faced no charges from the DCI, working now as advisor to James Nyoro in the Kiambu County government, a state of affairs that some Ekeza victims find not only frustrating but also insulting — indicative of a Kenya that works for the privileged few, rather than the common mwananchi.

Up to now, he’s in this government, of which even Kenyan government is not bothering about these people who saved their money in that account. It is not bothering with. The chairman now is just talking and talking nonsense of which the government is not bothering anything.

These frustrations extend beyond Ekeza itself to perceptions that Kenya has failed as a place in which one can live and better oneself. A 24-year-old friend of mine from Ruaka who lost KSh64,000, his entire savings, was despondent. “This is Kenya, man”, he told me. “Most likely the politicians have been given something to make sure nothing happens. If I had a choice of leaving this place, I would definitely do that.”

Warnings for the Sacco sector

“Limited liquidity is holding SACCOs back from becoming specialised housing finance providers — or mortgage SACCOs (SAMCOs) — like the saving and loans and building societies in industrialised markets,” remarks a recent academic paper on housing finance in emerging markets. “It is therefore critical for SACCOs to deepen deposit-taking activities.” Ekeza Sacco might be an outlier case — an instance where a particular “fraudster” has deprived members of their savings. As a recent report by FSD-Kenya reiterated, a single case of fraud need not lead to fears that the Sacco sector is fundamentally flawed.

But there are important lessons to learn from the Ekeza Sacco story. As the FSD report noted, the increased size of Saccos “comes at the cost of it becoming increasingly difficult for members to look after their own interests directly; to ensure that the management and boards of the SACCO are not taking undue risks or worse.” In order to increase that membership, Saccos like Ekeza begin to look ever more like Ponzi schemes, their business models based on the recruitment of new members and the sale of a dream, rather than community banking. This was a point not lost on the late Charles Mage.

“The SACCO is not meant to be managed by one person,” he remarked to me when we first discussed the Sacco in August 2019. “This guy [Gakuyo] was making all the decisions as if it’s his own company”. As Mage put it, Gakuyo was withdrawing funds from Ekeza “any time he wanted”, buying plots and buildings, building hotels. As he found out in the Commissioner’s audit, “there was a time the SACCO’s account went down to 0.”

Meanwhile Ngari continues to walk free, having faced no charges from the DCI, working now as advisor to James Nyoro in the Kiambu County government.

If Saccos can enter the market already in the hands of wealthy and politically connected individuals, and members can be recruited ad infinitum, the scene is set for Kenya’s elites to use them as vehicles for predatory accumulation. Stronger and more interventionist regulation is required to ensure internal transparency — that there are proper lines of communication between members and boards. If Saccos chase greater liquidity through ever-increasing membership, further regulation and oversight from members will be imperative. Recent research suggests that Ekeza evaded regulation through setting up in different counties.

But despite the early action of Sacco Commissioner Mary Mungai, the eventual lack of government action has already damaged the trust that regulators are up to the task. Many Ekeza members say that they have lost trust in the Sacco sector, vowing never to save with one again.

Fault lines and futures

More than a story of individual fraud, the Ekeza debacle reveals the fault lines in the false promises of contemporary Kenya. Whilst politicians and business leaders promise Kenyans wealth and prosperity, they are able to manipulate institutions to their liking, consuming the sweat of those who work while avoiding sanction. Ordinary Kenyans find themselves struggling for better lives without any such advantage. When one looks at the Ekeza case, fears and suspicions of theft seem justified, anti-elite sentiment vindicated. The cynicism and hopelessness, depression and suicide that have followed in the wake of the Ekeza collapse are hardly surprising. When one struggles in the informal economy, only for one’s savings to be “eaten” by a self-proclaimed pastor, when national and county governments practically ignore your plight, what can you do? It is little wonder that William Ruto’s “hustler” narrative is gaining traction when frustration is brewing over the way things work in “hii Kenya”. If the Ekeza collapse has provoked immense anguish, it has also fuelled Kenyans’ desire for a different Kenya — one where institutions work in the interests of the citizen, of the “hustlers”. Regardless of its as yet unknown trajectory, Ruto’s “hustler” narrative promises Kenyans that a new Kenya is at hand. Without understanding injustices like Ekeza, palpably and materially felt, we cannot appreciate the new calls for justice and an end to the “dynasties” that Ruto’s campaign now promulgates.

* All names have been anonymised to protect identities.

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The Politics of Violence in Marsabit County

A weak state, corruption, political entrepreneurship and improper creation of administrative units fuel deep conflict and hatred between the communities.

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The Politics of Violence in Marsabit County
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 “. . . one half of Kenya about which the other half knows nothing about and seems to even care less.” 1950s American writer Negley Farson describing the Northern Frontier Districts.

Ethnic rivalries are a global phenomenon that has spared neither the most established economies nor the developing nations. Kenya is no exception, most notably Northern Kenya which has been haunted by ethnic conflict since time immemorial. The conflicts in Marsabit, in particular, date back to the establishment of the postcolonial African state.  Prior to colonisation by the British, pastoralist communities in the region were grazing on the slopes of the Ethiopian highlands and in the Kenyan lowlands. The establishment of the Kenyan-Ethiopian border by the British colonialist disrupted traditional grazing patterns and resource sharing, and affected how communities relate to each other. The creation of artificial boundaries by the colonialist without the involvement of the local populations created hatred among the pastoralists, distorted grazing patterns and led to competition for natural resources.

The treatment of northern Kenya as a separate region within Kenya and the marginalization of its communities led to demands for secession at Kenya’s independence. When these were not met, the NFD exploded in rebellion in late 1963. Known as the Shifta War, the guerrilla insurgency lasted four years and resulted in massive loss of human life. The war of secession ended when Kenya and Somalia agreed to put their differences aside and signed an agreement in September 1967 that did not involve the insurgents. The agreement left some communities feeling betrayed by others, in particular the Somali whose relations with the Borana were left in tatters.

Conflicts and violence among the pastoralist communities living on the periphery of Kenya take different forms, including cattle rustling, clan and ethnic violence, and the displacement of people. The proliferation of Small Arms and Light Weapons (SALWs), climate change, land and water scarcity, the collapse of inter-communal social contracts, and bad politics have exacerbated this already tenuous situation.

The vast arid and semi-arid upper eastern region of northern Kenya experiences intermittent communal conflict because it shares a porous border with the Republic of Ethiopia to the north and has routes into Somalia which feed the illegal gun market. According to a 2017 small arms survey, the number of illegal arms in civil possession in Kenya is estimated at 750,000; the country has the highest number of unregistered firearms compared to other East African countries. The illegal arms economy is driven by supply from Ethiopia, most notably through the rebel fighters within the country. It is also fed by the al–Shabaab militia group through the Somalia corridor to neighbouring Wajir County. The supply of illicit arms also flows from South Sudan through the Lake Turkana route where unpaid soldiers and rebel fighters are still at large. Easy access to arms and light weapons has increased the severity of armed conflict undermining peaceful co-existence.

The Ethiopian government has little or no control over its porous border with Kenya through which illegal arms are trafficked. This contributed to the Turbi massacre which was linked to conflicts over water points and grazing land between the Gabra and Borana communities.  Despite the formation of peace committees representing both sides, and numerous initiatives by different groups and peace declarations, the conflict has not subsided.

The question of land 

Land remains central to the conflict in Marsabit County, most notably in the Saku Constituency which borders Isiolo and Garissa counties. Unlike other parts of Marsabit County, Saku enjoys a moderate climate and has plenty of green pasture and ample boreholes (mainly within the grazing zones).

Saku shares similar geographic characteristics with the neighbouring Isiolo County, which has experienced conflict with Garissa County. Every pastoral community would like to have access to the green pastures and water points at Saku but the politicisation of access has worsened this conflict.

Skewed policy responses to conflicts over land by government authorities have worsened the situation. Dialogue to address land conflict and establish administrative units has degenerated into ethnic conflict due to failure to ensure proper public participation as enshrined in Constitution of Kenya 2010. There is an “implementation gap” between theory and practice when it comes to land policy that is often sacrificed at the altar of short-term political gain.  The failure by the government to include women, the youth, and the elders of the affected communities in discussions on how to close the implementation gap in order to minimize conflict and achieve durable peace has created an unsustainable environment in Marsabit County.

The state’s failure to determine land boundaries has also exacerbated the situation and the vague demarcation of community land boundaries and the politics of land expansion have further aggravated the problem and intensified ethnic conflict.

The Borana and Gabra

In explaining ethnic conflicts like the Moyale and Marsabit clashes, and the Turbi and Forolle massacres , the standard argument advanced by many interlocutors is that conflicts occur due to competition over pasture and water sources. This reasoning does not really explain the trade in arms and the “political entrepreneurs”. The whole conflict revolves around the battle for votes and wealth as well as the expansion of administrative boundaries. To gain more recognition and support from the electorate, politicians act both within and outside the law to maintain their status, for instance by establishing new administrations units, awarding tenders to those of their tribe and offering lucrative jobs to their families and those from their own tribe. This breeds hatred and conflict as other tribes are left out.

The arms economy is another aspect that is left unexplained. The gun trade is massive business in the vast north and it is mostly the community that does not take part in the conflicts that does the trading. The trade in small arms is carried out with the full knowledge of the security apparatus. Money for the purchase of guns is raised by the community through collections from households and from those in employment. Failure to pay the set amount for gun purchases attracts heavy sanctions and penalties. Once the money is raised, the supplier is provided with the specifications of the arms and ammunition to be delivered at a specific location. Members of the security administration sometimes sell bullets to the communities in conflict at exorbitant prices. All these demonstrates how a weak state, corruption, political entrepreneurship and improper creation of administrative units fuel deep conflict and hatred between the communities.

There is an “implementation gap” between theory and practice when it comes to land policy which is often sacrificed at the altar of short-term political gain.

Conflict in Marsabit is predominantly between the Borana and the Gabra communities. These two warring communities previously lived harmoniously together, sharing compounds and household necessities. They intermarried and agreed on mechanisms to manage shared pasture and water points during periods of drought and in the rainy season. However, the situation has changed over the past decades and people have fled their homes and settled elsewhere.

The Gabra displaced the Borana from Hurri Hills and they resettled in Elle Borr near Sololo town. In their turn, the Gabra were evicted from the Gadamoji region of Saku Constituency during the 2005 Turbi massacre and they resettled in Jirime location in central Marsabit. These incidents point to an increasing rift between the two ethnic groups, which primarily revolves around land politics.

Attempts by the political elite to bring zones with plenty of pasture within “their” tribal boundaries have inflamed the situation. The Shurr region had been in Saku Constituency when former Member of Parliament for Saku, Jarso Jillo Falana, took office. Shurr came under North Horr Constituency in suspicious circumstances during his term.

Similarly, Horronderr and Shegel are in Saku Constituency but there are plans to move them to North Horr Constituency, which will shrink grazing zones for the pastoralists living in the Saku region. This is being done without public participation. Furthermore, Gabra encroachment into regions like Horronderr, which are Borana grazing zones, has led to loss of lives and livestock.

Traditional methods of resolving land issues have failed because of the breakdown of the social compact between these ethnic groups and the deep political divide. The communities have left it to politicians to find solutions but corruption within the local government has led to partial implementation of land policies.

Assigning districts and regions inappropriately to one ethnic group to the detriment of others living in the same area is a major cause of alarm and concern. For instance, two new sub-counties – Turbi and Dukana – were created in North Horr Constituency and gazetted on 7 October 2020. The change brought additional benefits like recruitment into the military and other special services from the national government. With the gazettement of these two sub-counties, other ethnic communities with larger populations felt left out, the skewed land boundary changes and the selective allocation of benefits from the national coffers resulting in more profound division and hatred.

The creation of the two sub-counties has pitted the Borana against the Gabra because it was seen as politically driven process. The land and boundary disputes are made worse by the fact that there are no clear land boundaries between the Borana and Gabra communities who coexist in the same  settlements and share the same grazing lands. The boundary disputes are likely to escalate if the process of demarcation of boundaries by the Independent Electoral and Boundaries Commission (IEBC) ahead of the 2022 general elections proceeds without proper public participation and sensitivity to the conflict.

The Dedha system

The communities of northern Kenya have established traditional methods of managing water resources and pasture. In the Borana community, a management council called the Dedha manages these resources.

The Dedha system breaks down pasture into grazing units (artha) which in turn are divided into several small grazing camps (fora). The existence of Dedha natural resource policies, some of which are incompatible, has resulted in complex rangeland management regimes and given rise to fragmented interventions and inadequate natural resource policies in relation to pastoralism. The majority of pastoral land resources are held by the national government under a controlled access system that regulates the management and utilization of resources.

The Dedha manager (jars dedha) controls access to the resource, with the control being intensified during periods of drought. The management of shallow wells falls under the owner of the well (aba ella) and the person who decides the watering rotation for each water point (aba erega).

Conflict in Marsabit is predominantly between the Borana and the Gabra communities.

Aba ella assigns first rights based on a clan’s membership and affiliation (sunsuma), and ownership. In case the well has extra capacity, the aba erga decides second rights, which are assigned to other clans whilst third rights are accorded to pastoralists from other ethnic groups.

In extreme cases, those moving with livestock (qunn) are granted temporary first rights to water use just like the sunsuma and the owner.

This well-crafted sustainable natural resource management system is challenged by the modern rules where people and livestock can move anywhere across the country. This throws the traditional mechanisms into disarray and makes resource management difficult.

What future for Marsabit?

Marsabit County has in the past experienced intense tribal conflict over the control of natural resources, land boundaries, and more recently, political power.

Devolved governance was meant to guarantee the equitable distribution of national resources. However, in Marsabit County it has ushered in a new era of power struggles, deep hatred and division among the ethnic communities. The divisions between the communities are so deeply entrenched that ethnicity is a common factor in how the county government undertakes development projects and programmes and offers jobs.

There is no one-size-fits-all approach for handling the multifaceted land problems in Marsabit County. The top-down peace-making process spearheaded by the NGOs in collaboration with the state agencies has failed due to lack of well-defined community boundary policies from the state, politicisation of the security apparatus and war as political business.

The United Nations Development Programme (UNDP), in collaboration with the Kenya government and Intergovernmental Authority on Development (IGAD), have spent US$200 million on a five-year integrated peace programme to engage both sides in peace-building. However, to date, the spending of this colossal amount of money has not yielded any remarkable results. The current peace-building process needs to take into account the developing dynamics of conflict in Marsabit.

The county government needs a conflict-sensitive service delivery and development plan instead of playing the tribal card in developing infrastructure, providing job opportunities and services to its community, which is against the principles enshrined in the Constitution of Kenya 2010.

Although there is no all-encompassing approach to diminish the frequency and intensity of land-related conflict in Marsabit County, there are vital considerations that development practitioners, policymakers, national and local administration need to take into account concerning resource management and governance.

The first step is to establish the political will to solve land problems. Securing land and resource governance entails engaging political processes as well as consolidating land social movements. Political will is pivotal as it plays an essential role in how boundaries are mapped and administrative units are established.

The communities of northern Kenya have established traditional methods of managing water resources and pasture.

The second is mainstreaming conflict and conflict mitigation into the planning and implementation process across all sectors and stakeholders and subsequently establishing district peace committees. This structure should be constituted with the help of all local communities and should encourage the collection of vital data relating to conflict in order to forestall outbreaks of conflict.

The interests of the citizens should be prioritized and public participation in land and water resource governance and management should be strengthened, just like in the case of the Dedha system established by the Borana community. Failure to include the views and opinions of the locals, in creating new administrative units and boundaries, for instance, has led to bloodshed in many of the ASAL regions. Government policy responses should be also be void of political interest.

The illegal flows of guns and ammunition must be stemmed and the local populations disarmed. This will help to reduce hostilities among the existing communities. The state security machinery needs to be committed to this duty in order to regain the public’s confidence.

Finally, policy interventions to the build capacities of local customary institutions to undertake water and land governance and management should be the preferred option as, with the support of the state in terms of coordination and resources, these informal institutions are best suited to resolve local conflicts.

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