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LOSING MY RELIGION: The cross, the lynching tree and Kenya’s post-colonial enterprise

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LOSING MY RELIGION: The cross, the lynching tree and Kenya’s post-colonial enterprise

“My kingdom is not of this world…” John 18:36

When we were children, our mother took us to St. Andrews Church in Nairobi every Sunday. A grand, cavernous cathedral-style building on the right side of Uhuru Highway, it was there that she and my father had had their wedding ceremony in 1983.

The Presbyterian Church of East Africa (PCEA) was founded by Scottish missionaries but would soon be known for what the Kikuyu called mutaratara – a liturgical style of worship that is composed, outwardly decorous and predictable. That was how my mother, Rose Wanjiku, had always done church. She was in charge of our spiritual formation; my father was largely irreligious – I now realise that this is not unusual, and perhaps the norm, in most Kenyan families.

In my teenage years, I met some cool kids who went to Nairobi Pentecostal Church, and I followed them there. The youth fellowship there was nicknamed Fortress, and for a 13-year-old raised to be a dignified mini-adult in church, the unbridled energy and chaotic emotionality of a Pentecostal service was enchanting. I loved Fortress. We had day (and night) concerts, youth camps, picnics and movies. I led praise and worship and preached on occasion. We went on “missions” where we proselytised to strangers, prayed in tongues and we baptised in the Holy Ghost.

My mother was not entirely pleased with my new spiritual commitments. I suspect that they seemed a little too ecstatic to her. She resisted my formation of a whole lifestyle that was outside her supervision or control. I would argue that at least I was spending my time in church, not “out there” like other girls. This would usually placate her.

I spent the rest of my teenage years being highly active “in the ministry” as we called it, both at my boarding school and at Fortress when I was home on vacation. And far from being a drag on my social life, church was actually fun. It was not only a sanctuary but also the place where I grew up, developed my own personality, and made deep and meaningful friendships, some of which remain to this day.

***

The tension between my mother and I was fuelled by teenage resentment and maternal anxieties, but – like our domestic strife – was located in the context of a country whose religious life had always been animated by its relationship with power.

The 1980s and 1990s were a time when Kenya’s Christian institutions were undergoing a profound change, whose effects remain with us today. Purportedly, Kenya is a Christian nation; census data indicates that nearly four in five Kenyans self-identify as Christian.

The tension between my mother and I was fuelled by teenage resentment and maternal anxieties, but – like our domestic strife – was located in the context of a country whose religious life had always been animated by its relationship with power.

The Catholic, Anglican and Presbyterian churches accounted for 70 per cent of Christian congregations in Kenya by the time Daniel arap Moi became Kenya’s second president in 1978. Christianity was a colonial project in most of Africa. The missionaries may have been welcomed in individual communities, but the machinery of the colonial state followed very soon after, enforcing and accelerating the winning of (bodies and) souls.

In England, Lambeth Palace on the south bank of the River Thames is the official London residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury. The Houses of Parliament are less than 400 metres away, on the opposite bank. The British colonisers diligently replicated this spatial intimacy of church and state. In the capital cities of most former British colonies in Africa, the official residence of the Anglican archbishop was next to, or across the street from, the Governor’s Mansion.

In Nairobi, the Anglican archbishop’s residence, even today, is at the T-junction of State House Avenue and State House Road, right across the road from the official residence of the Head of State and Commander-in-Chief.

Because of their colonial roots, the mainstream churches had an uncritical relationship with the government, even after independence when both institutions were “Africanised”. The churches were firmly pro-establishment, preferring to “keep out of politics” and focusing on providing social services.

The Anglican and Presbyterian churches were formally organised under the National Council of Churches of Kenya (NCCK). Formed in 1966, NCCK was an umbrella of 37 church organisations affiliated to the Anglican and Presbyterian churches. In 1978 (the year that Moi became president) NCCK was commissioned to undertake a theological study of three words: “peace, love and unity”. Peace, Love and Unity was the slogan underlying President Moi’s new political philosophy of Nyayo, as he called it. But Moi’s regime would end up being anything but peaceful, loving or uniting.

***

Moi was vice president when Kenya’s first president, Jomo Kenyatta, died in 1978. The constitution directed that the vice president take office upon the death of the president, but in the years that Kenyatta’s health began to fail, politicians close to Mzee had tried to sideline Moi – ostensibly because he lacked the political clout of Kenyatta, and was ethnically Kalenjin, whereas those establishment politicians were mostly Kikuyu.

In fact, that group had tried to change the constitution to block the automatic succession of a president by his deputy. Though they failed in that regard, Moi nevertheless began his tenure with a deep sense of political insecurity.

By 1982 that insecurity had turned into a fully-fledged political crisis. In the early hours of August 1st of that year, a group of Air Force officers commandeered state radio and declared a coup. Within hours, forces loyal to the incumbent president had crushed the coup attempt, but it would be the pivotal point in the downward repressive spiral of the Moi regime, with increasing surveillance, detentions, arbitrary arrests and imprisonment intensifying in the mid- to late 1980s.

The “Peace Love and Unity” study coordinated by David Gitari (who decades later became Kenya’s Anglican archbishop) was intended to provide a theological interpretation of the Nyayo philosophy. The ultimate goal was to get the Nyayo philosophy incorporated in religious education in schools and also among church congregations. The study was published in 1983 as a book called A Christian View of Politics in Kenya: Love, Peace and Unity.

But as the political space became more constricted in the mid-80s, the NCCK became more vocal against the Moi regime. It must be said here that NCCK and the Catholic churches were ethnically disproportionately Kikuyu and Luo. This was possibly for historical reasons, as the early Christian missionaries were most active in areas dominated by Kikuyus and Luos.

The “Peace Love and Unity” study coordinated by David Gitari (who decades later became Kenya’s Anglican archbishop) was intended to provide a theological interpretation of the Nyayo philosophy. The ultimate goal was to get the Nyayo philosophy incorporated in religious education in schools and also among church congregations.

Possibly to counter the rising malcontent, Moi created an alliance with a number of Pentecostal and evangelical congregations who would come together under the Evangelical Fellowship of Kenya (EFK) – and whose ethnic composition happened to be closer to that of Moi and his allies. Congregations, such as the African Inland Church (AIC), the Reformed Church of East Africa, Kenya Assemblies of God and the African Gospel Church were part of this evangelical fellowship; Moi himself was said to be a very religious man, an AIC faithful, whose habit was to wake up at 5am for prayer and reading the Bible.

Because of their closeness to the seat of power, the evangelical churches now came to occupy a privileged place in 1980s and 1990s Kenya.

The position taken by the EFK during that time was one of consoling the State rather than confronting it; the image of the President as “God’s anointed” became a frequent one.

Meanwhile, NCCK and Catholic leaders continued to speak out against government excesses. The most vocal of these leaders were Rev. Timothy Njoya of PCEA (who for a time headed my mother’s congregation at St. Andrews), as well as Bishops Alexander Muge, David Gitari and Henry Okullu, all Anglican. Among the Catholics, the most outspoken was Bishop Ndingi Mwana a’Nzeki of the Nakuru Catholic diocese.

As the university community was harassed and diminished, especially after state repression, detentions and surveillance were ramped up in the 1980s, the NCCK became the major institutional challenge to Moi’s regime. The churches had the organisational network and national infrastructure to mount and sustain a form of protest politics in what was then a one-party state.

In turn, government politicians adopted a defensive stance and challenged the legitimacy of the church in discussing matters of politics. The evangelical fellowship, for its part, led by Bishop Ezekiel Birech of the AIC and Bishop Arthur Kitonga of Redeemed Gospel Church, often denounced NCCK in vehement Sunday sermons that were then printed in state-leaning newspapers. Kenyan churchgoers saw the acrimonous split along denominational lines, but few saw its ethnic and political dimension.

Moi won the 1992 election against a badly fractured opposition and on the back of state-sponsored gangs that suppressed the vote in much of the country. But by this time Kenya was in dire economic straits, with decay everywhere you looked – uncollected garbage, spiraling inflation and crumbling public services.

I was just a child at this time, but I remember the panic that seemed to seep into my parents’ conversations when they talked about money; the faint disgust with which my father handled the newly minted Ksh500 note (previously, Ksh200 was the biggest denomination). He said that this new note was a sure sign that Kenya was going to the dogs.

This was also the time that the “prosperity gospel” began to explode in Kenya. With a roughly evangelical stance, the prosperity gospel churches offered a version of Christianity that was both appealing and logically consistent with the political mood of the day, one that presented spiritual practice as a site for claiming back some power in a country where things were falling apart. Like the Pentecostal congregation that I was a part of, they were radical, emotionally speaking, in terms of an ecstatic worship experience. But politically, they were solidly conservative – they offered a privatisation of solutions in the face of public dilapidation that seemed beyond hope. Claim your miracle. Reap your blessing. Accept Jesus as your personal saviour.

***

As I grew older and became more politically conscious and intellectually mature, my faith began to be a source of deep internal strife. I was increasingly uncomfortable with interpretations of Scripture that seemed to be obsessed with meticulous sexual policing, which of course was always directed at the girls (“be careful not to cause a brother to stumble!”) but made almost no demands on the boys.

This was also the time that the “prosperity gospel” began to explode in Kenya. With a roughly evangelical stance, the prosperity gospel churches offered a version of Christianity that was both appealing and logically consistent with the political mood of the day, one that presented spiritual practice as a site for claiming back some power in a country where things were falling apart.

Perhaps it wasn’t incidental that many of our fathers were disinterested in the church – except when they were looking for a good woman to marry. Church was a place women learned, practised and refined their marriageability. Men didn’t need to. We were discouraged from dating casually, unless the relationship was headed towards marriage. That produced an incentive to declare things more serious than they actually were, or needed to be. And then the power play began – it fell upon the boys to proclaim whether that relationship was indeed headed towards marriage and upon the girls to demonstrate how wifeable they were.

One of the major traits of wifeability was the maintainance of the “purity” in the relationship. So we (the girls, mostly) expended enormous amounts of energy discussing “how far is too far” in relating to the opposite sex (Holding hands? Kissing? Petting? Actually, what exactly is petting?). And then, it seemed the boys would adjudicate whether the girl had adequately maintained the collective purity of the relationship or had fallen short of the glory of God. It was a bizarre dance that rested upon the presumption that a woman’s body was a kind of blank slate with no innate desires of its own.

This was during Mwai Kibaki’s first term as president. In the course of just five years, Kenya’s political mood made a full about-turn – from the joy and optimism of the 2002 election in which democracy had triumphed to the violent aftermath of the 2007 election.

Kibaki’s first swearing-in ceremony was the first, and I believe the last, political meeting my mother attended in her life; she walked from our home in South B to Uhuru Park to join the celebratory throng and watch a new democratic government take power. (Throng is a word I like. It is dense and heaving, as though people’s bodies were compressing and purging themselves, and each other, of the weight of dictatorship and failed dreams.) By then I was in my early twenties, and the friction between my mother and I would increasingly shift from being a dispute over denomination into one over politics.

Kibaki quickly consolidated power around his own Kikuyu elite, which seemed to me an obvious betrayal of the multi-ethnic and popular mandate that had brought him to power. But at family meetings, funerals and weddings, I would hear my relatives proclaim quite categorically that Kenya was much better off under a Kikuyu president. In fact, Kibaki was God’s anointed. At home I would constantly challenge my mother on those kinds of declarations, my voice shrill and my manner emphatic. How do we know that whoever is in power is God’s anointed? What is godly about chauvinism? Are we now saying that Anglo Leasing is the will of God? She would only wearily listen to me and wave me off.

Just five years later, in the aftermath of a disputed 2007 election, I watched in horror the smouldering remains of a church in Kiambaa, where a mob shut dozens of people in a church, blocked the door with a mattress and set the sanctuary on fire. As the smoke billowed on the television screen, my mother turned to me and calmly said the most cutting words she had ever said to me. “Do you think that when they come for you they will ask you who you voted for?”

It was clear what she meant. Kenya was a country where your ethnicity was everything. It could be the difference between life and death. And I hated to admit it, but she was right.

That day I was unconvinced that the personal holiness that we were taught to aspire to as a mark of the Kingdom would save me from a political system that was so depraved and unjust that I could be summarily executed for having the wrong last name. My piety would not save my body. Thirty people died that day, and so did most of my faith.

I spent the next eight years of my life vaguely describing myself as an agnostic, “spiritual but not religious”, or generally avoiding matters of faith. It increasingly seemed absurd to me that one could be an African and a Christian, and even less a self-respecting, or at least politically conscious African, with any kind of serious commitment to social justice. Christianity is a white man’s religion, I thought. I don’t really know any African religions, so I will have none.

That day I was unconvinced that the personal holiness that we were taught to aspire to as a mark of the Kingdom would save me from a political system that was so depraved and unjust that I could be summarily executed for having the wrong last name. My piety would not save my body. Thirty people died that day, and so did most of my faith.

***

First-century Judea was a colonial project. The land itself brought in little revenue to the Roman treasury, but by controlling it, Rome could control the land and sea routes to Egypt, which was the breadbasket of the empire.

Judea was also a border province against the Parthian Empire (in modern day Iraq and Iran), a rival of Rome in the east. The Bible records that the Jews had been taken into exile in Babylon some centuries before, and though they had returned to their homeland, the Jews were viewed as suspicious and potential fifth columnists by Rome, because of that lengthy exile to the east.

It was here that the New Testament records than God became incarnate into man. Jesus, as described in the Bible, was not only from Judea, but from a town in Galilee called Nazareth. Jesus of Nazareth. The Christian faith now reflexively associates Nazareth with the power, awe and authority of the Divine, but in the first century Nazareth was nowhere to be bragged about.

The historic Nazareth was an area of entrenched poverty in the ancient world. The people of Nazareth were on the bottom of society. When Herod the Great – the Jewish king who was little more than a Roman colonial administrator – died in 4 BC, the Roman armoury in Sepphoris, just outside Nazareth, was robbed. The Romans retaliated by crucifying 2,000 Jews as a public warning against such revolts. Sepphoris was burned to the ground, and its inhabitants were sold into slavery.

Less than a decade later, there was another revolt, this time against paying taxes. Another Roman crackdown followed, with many more crucified. The place earned a reputation for being a hotbed of unrest; young Nazarenes were labelled gangsters and thugs.

The elite one percent in Jerusalem – the priests, teachers of the law and Sadducees – looked upon those from Nazareth as uneducated and uncultured; Nazarenes were subjected to slurs on their purported lax morals and were policed for their lack of manners. The people of Nazareth were considered a Problem People.

One can thus understand the disciple Nathaniel’s jaded statement when Philip excitedly tells him that he has met the Messiah: “Can anything good come from Nazareth?” In fact, we ought to consider “Jesus of Nazareth” a politically loaded statement, akin to Jaymo kutoka ghetto. In the gospel of Luke, the birth of Jesus is spoken about in this metaphor of Empire.

The Mediterranean world called Caesar sôtêr (saviour of the world). Caesar was the one who brought Peace, Love and Unity, Pax Romana, to the ancient world. So when the gospel writers used the word sôtêr to announce the birth of Jesus: “To you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is the Messiah, the Lord,” (Luke 2:11) they were essentially undermining the authority of the empire.

Crucifixion was a public execution that was carried out as a warning for those who rose up against the state, for those who refused to know their place. Jesus was executed for sedition, a political offence, and not blasphemy, a religious one – the inscription on the cross mockingly said “This Is The King Of The Jews”.

The way the Roman State tortured and executed Jesus and his early followers was not incidental. It tells us who Jesus was in relation to the state – crucifixion was done publicly, as a warning, in response to a perceived offence against the authority of Caesar.

Crucifixion was a public execution that was carried out as a warning for those who rose up against the state, for those who refused to know their place. Jesus was executed for sedition, a political offence, and not blasphemy, a religious one – the inscription on the cross mockingly said “This Is The King Of The Jews”.

More than 4,000 black men, women and children were lynched in the American South between 1900 and 1950. Lynchings were public events, sometimes announced in advance. Photographs were taken and used as postcards. Bodies were dismembered and parts handed out as souvenirs.

Both the cross and the lynching tree were symbols of terror, instruments of torture and execution, reserved primarily for slaves, criminals and insurrectionists, writes American theologian James Cone, who passed away this April. According to Cone, Jesus and blacks in America suffered a similar fate: both were publicly humiliated, subjected to the utmost indignity, unfairly tried and quickly condemned, tortured and left to die as a public warning.

During colonialism, several Kenyans experienced similar indignities. Otenyo Nyamaterere was killed by a British firing squad in Kisii in western Kenya for resisting the advance of the colonial state in the early 20th century. He was beheaded and his headless body left on a bridge. Waiyaki wa Hinga, the Kikuyu chieftain who resisted harassment and forced taxation, was buried alive at a prison camp in 1890. Koitalel arap Samoei, the Nandi chief who fought British occupation for eleven years, mounting guerrilla attacks on the railway and colonial forts, was shot at point blank range by a colonial official who had asked him to meet and discuss peace; Koitalel’s skull was then carried off to Britain.

Then there was General Baimungi Marete of the Mau Mau, a leader of the armed rebellion of the 1950s that fought for Kenya’s self-rule. General Baimungi and his lieutenants held out in forest camps as Jomo Kenyatta, who would become Kenya’s first president, negotiated an independence treaty with the British. The colonial structures were left intact; Kenyatta would now head this new expropriating state.

After independence, Kenyatta sent word to the Mau Mau fighters that they would receive land and compensation if they surrendered their weapons. They emerged from the forest and waited for their promised land, only to be killed by government agents. The bodies of Baimungi and two lieutenants were displayed publicly in Chuka for three days by an independent Kenyan government, and the Mau Mau was declared a banned organisation.

Kenyatta went on to publicly declare: “Mau Mau was a disease which was eradicated, and must never be remembered again.” The Mau Mau remained a banned organisation in Kenya until 2003. The colour of the administrators had changed, but the colonial logic remained intact.

After independence, Kenyatta sent word to the Mau Mau fighters that they would receive land and compensation if they surrendered their weapons. They emerged from the forest and waited for their promised land, only to be killed by government agents. The bodies of Baimungi and two lieutenants were displayed publicly in Chuka for three days by an independent Kenyan government, and the Mau Mau was declared a banned organisation.

The fact that white colonisers would use the symbol of a Nazarene anti-colonialist to enforce and entrench the very project of colonisation is a testament to the twisted genius of white supremacy. But Jesus of Nazareth was no coloniser.

***

There’s a difference between priests and prophets, as religious scholar Jonathan Walton describes in his book Watch This! The Ethics and Aesthetics of Black Televangelism. Priestly leaders believe that the structures of society are fundamentally good and that any political or social problems are the result of a few bad apples or degraded moral standards, as opposed to inherent flaws in the structures of society. Priests seek to nurture humility, patience and goodwill in their congregations in order to integrate them into the culture as productive and loyal citizens. By doing this, priests accommodate themselves and their parishioners to injustice without necessarily affirming it – at most, they encourage the congregation to endure those things that cannot be readily changed.

Priests generally seek to “stay out of politics”; whenever they do get involved in politics, it is usually to use their respectable social standing to have access to the ear of the powerful. Priests believe they can be a “good influence” to the ruling class, appealing to their moral goodwill to try and obtain justice. Pray for your leaders, they say. Touch not God’s anointed.

Priests are uncomfortable with social protest or real reform because it might lead to a loss of their social capital.

But the prophet is different. “The prophet views society as neither fundamentally good nor bad, but as fundamentally flawed,” Walton writes. Prophets have a clear theological and political conception of what those flaws are and an uncompromising declaration that if the injustice is not uprooted, the society will be destroyed.

The prophet is social reformer with no moral middle ground. No form of oppression is consistent with God’s will, the prophetic witness declares, and is actually in opposition to the very physical form that God chose to be incarnated in first-century Judea. Turn around! the prophet declares. You’re going the wrong way! It seems to me that Christianity’s prophetic roots were never fully formed; they were prematurely twisted into an entwining conformity with colonial and neo-colonial states – Rome, Britain, America, Kenya.

“The prophet views society as neither fundamentally good nor bad, but as fundamentally flawed,” Walton writes. Prophets have a clear theological and political conception of what those flaws are and an uncompromising declaration that if the injustice is not uprooted, the society will be destroyed.

I now see that the focus on personal piety and private redemption that energised my formative years ended up obscuring calls for social justice. The uncritical embrace of society’s unjust structures – especially the capitalist economy that has its colonial logic intact and the obsession with morals and manners – reflects the non-confrontational stance of the priest rather than the radical reform of the prophet.

The prophet is never neutral in the face of oppression. The prophet doesn’t want to “hear both sides”, doesn’t want to be “fair and balanced”, cannot be “objective”. The prophet is on the side of justice.

It is time for Kenyan Christians to live out their ministry for those caught on the underside of power today, for the “least of these”. In the words of James Cone, we cannot find liberating joy in the cross by spiritualising it, by taking away its message of justice in the midst of powerlessness, suffering and death.

The cross, as a locus of divine revelation, is not good news for the powerful, for those who are comfortable with the way things are, or for anyone whose understanding of religion is aligned with power.

Author’s note:
Many thanks to Jeremy L. Williams for the many conversations that helped clarify my thinking for this article, and to Jonathan Walton for his ministry, and insightful books Watch This! and the forthcoming A Lens of Love.

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Christine Mungai is a Kenyan writer, journalist and Nieman Fellow at Harvard University.

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NO LONGER AT EASE: Uthamaki, Uhuru and a Dream Deferred

In moments when an ethnic community finds itself in a crisis, its spontaneous response is to blame everyone but itself: introspection becomes anathema – it searches for scapegoats and scarecrows to explain away its internal contradictions and confusion. By DAUTI KAHURA

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NO LONGER AT EASE: Uthamaki, Uhuru and a Dream Deferred

I returned to Kirimukuyu village, in Tumu Tumu sub-location, which is seven kilometres from Karatina town in Mathira constituency, Nyeri County, exactly twelve months after I had first travelled there to see an old lady by the name of Felistus Waguthi.

In the twelve months that had passed, Waguthi, who will be 76 years old this year, had lost her only brother, and in the last three months, she had been marooned in her house after breaking her leg. “I tripped on a slippery slope one morning as I went to the shamba, fracturing my leg bone and twisting my ankle,” she said to me, her left leg heavily bandaged and in a cast lifted up to rest on the bed. She was also hard of hearing, but “everything else considered, I have been okay, you’ve found me alive.”

When I met Waguthi in January 2018, President Uhuru Kenyatta and former Prime Minister Raila Odinga, political rivals in the controversial 2017 general elections, had not “greeted” each other. The “handshake” between them that took place on 9 March, 2018, gave birth to the Building Bridges Initiative (BBI), which is supposed to unite the country and ease political tensions.

Waguthi is not so convinced that BBI will work. “The fate of the country as currently constituted does not augur well for the future,” surmised the old lady, pointing out that the only thing the “greeting” had succeeded in doing was to forestall the mounting tension that cast a cloud of political uncertainty soon after the controversial 8 August presidential elections of and the repeat elections on 26 October.

“The political trajectory the country is taking is perilous and doubly uncertain because not only have things gone from bad to worse economically, but politically, the country’s leadership is groping around as President Uhuru and his cohorts seem clueless and rudderless as they steer the ship in the yet unsettled stormy waters, apparently from day to day.”

I had gone back to see Waguthi to help me reflect on the leadership of the Jubilee Party, a leadership that after retaking presidential powers in 2017 had left its base – the Kikuyu voter – seemingly confused and discombobulated. At 76 and having lived in a rural area for the better part of her adult life, Waguthi’s contemporary political analysis and sensibilities were sophisticated and on point.

“Uhuru has mortgaged the country to the Chinese…the debt now is in trillions, isn’t it?” mused the old lady, waving her fingers at me. “How much money is that? Those are mindboggling figures, yet all that money has been stolen by his friends and relatives. His government has been the most corrupt to date since I came of age and got to know what politics was all about. It is riddled with thieves and robbers and all he does is curse, threaten and talk big. I’ve never seen a president with no backbone like Uhuru. The current Kenyan leadership is in a crisis and this greeting between Uhuru and Raila, whose agenda is neither known nor understood by Kenyans, is just a gimmick to confuse the people even further,” analysed the old lady. “This is Uhuru’s last term, it is incumbent he vacates power and lets the constitution guide the next elections. Any attempt to tamper with the constitution so that he and Raila can create new centres of powers can only plunge this country into turmoil,” said Waguthi.

“Uhuru has mortgaged the country to the Chinese…the debt now is in trillions, isn’t it?” mused the old lady, waving her fingers at me. “How much money is that? Those are mindboggling figures, yet all that money has been stolen by his friends and relatives. His government has been the most corrupt to date since I came of age and got to know what politics was all about. It is riddled with thieves and robbers and all he does is curse, threaten and talk big…”

Waguthi told me that Uthamaki – the notion that only Kikuyus are entitled to political leadership in the country – had become a mirage, a dream deferred, a paradise lost that had left a bitter taste in the mouths of the Kikuyu people. “President Uhuru seems still hell bent in his political schemes to misuse the Kikuyus in abusing state power…That’s why there is this talk of changing the constitution…this will be disastrous, and if this is a harbinger of things to come, woe unto Kenyans. Don’t these African leaders ever learn?” Africa, she said, had been plagued with bad leadership, with leaders never wanting to leave office, which had led to many deaths and wanton destruction. Kenya, she added, was on its way to joining the league of failed state nations.

The old lady said that the move to change the 2010 constitution so that President Uhuru and Raila can presumably upstage Deputy President William Ruto in his bid to succeed Uhuru was devious and would jeopardise the security of Kikuyus in the greater Rift Valley diaspora and elsewhere in Kenya. “There has never been a time when the security of the Kikuyu people in the country has been as precarious and threatened as now…there is seemingly a truce in the country today, no doubt, brought about by the ten-month-old greeting, but one stupid move by the Uhuru leadership could see the Kikuyu peoples’ lives wrought in mortal danger.

“If it were not for the young Kalenjin man [Ruto], Uhuru would not be president, and our people would probably not live comfortably in the Rift Valley. That is a disturbing fact and, however much a section of the Kikuyu people and their political leaders will now pretend that this is not so, they owe it to Ruto,” said Waguthi matter-of-factly. “Many Kikuyus are now remembering to say many things about Ruto…that’s very interesting and those things could as well be true…but be knowing this, if you choose to welcome an ogre into your house, don’t complain afterwards that it is overfeeding and has taken over the whole house.”

“Uhuru was never a man worth being a president,” observed Waguthi. “The presidency was forced on him and six years later, he has made a total mess of it. He has never been in control, much less concerned with the destiny and plight of the people. Now that he has realised that he will be leaving the powerful position, fear and despondency have gripped his presidency – he’s been creating commotions and distractions to appear like he’s on top of things.”

Dusk was setting in and the lady who had been taking care of her was on her way back from Tumu Tumu trading centre where she had gone to recharge Waguthi’s mobile phone. Waguthi summed up her prognosis: “The president led a life of privilege. He has never done anything for himself. He is laid back. Everything has always been done for him, and even in politics that has been the case. That’s how a prince behaves…it isn’t his fault, because that’s how he was socialised. The fault has been the people who entrusted their political fortunes to a man, not because he was fit for the job, but because he came from a big political family, and therefore presumed that political power was his right.” The old lady said Uhuru pales in comparison to Ruto, who is tough, hardworking and does not come off as having been pampered in his early life.

Waguthi had given me some political food for thought, surprising and unpalatable as it may have been, coming especially from an old lady. But her analysis had been echoed by a much- travelled man, who was as educated and professional as they come. Three weeks before going to meet Waguthi, I had spent some time with a former World Bank financial consultant in Ngegu on the outskirts of Kiambu town in Kiambu County.

A teetotaler and staunch Protestant Christian, the soft-spoken 68-year-old Gikandi strikes you as a man of really few words – until he is provoked to give his prevailing political views. “The handshake had calmed down the palpable tension that had been building up in the country soon after the two elections…the county is much less tense now, but that was not a license for Uhuru and Raila to introduce a hideous agenda through the formation of the Building the Bridges Initiative,” posited Gikandi. “Let us be clear about one thing: were it not for William Ruto, Uhuru would not be president of Kenya. Have you forgotten how the two campaigned together in folded white shirts? We’ll not be drawn into distractions. The prevailing talk about political debts or the lack thereof, state corruption, revived past sins are all unhelpful and unnecessary.”

“I have lived long enough to know who has been stealing money from state coffers,” said Gikandi. “Kikuyus have stolen more money from successive governments than anybody cares to know or investigate. That I can tell you for a fact: Money was stolen in Kenyatta (I), during Daniel arap Moi’s tenure, during Mwai Kibaki’s rule and now, more than ever before, in Kenyatta (II).”

Jomo Kenyatta, father to Uhuru, was the founding president who ruled as an imperial president for 15 years, from 1963 to 1978. His Vice President, Moi, took over from 1978 till 2003, when his second term ended and his “project” Uhuru Kenyatta, the Kanu flagbearer who he had primed and propped up to take over from him, was defeated by Kibaki on a National Rainbow Coalition (Narc) party ticket.

“What we want post-2022 is security and stability for all,” said the former World Bank auditor. “President Uhuru must be very careful how he fashions his politics now as we head to 2022. It would be extremely devious of him to not think of the security of our people in the Rift Valley. I do not want to belabour that fact, but you and I know that a political misstep or mishap could easily trigger mayhem in that part of the country. We do not want a repeat of 2008. Some Kikuyus are now remembering Ruto’s past sins. They should have remembered them in 2012, not now.”

“I believe Ruto will get things done,” said Gikandi, “because he is focused, hardworking and he is always on top of things. All the President’s men, past and present, have stolen. I am not persuaded that it is the DP and his men that have allegedly siphoned all the money from the state. We cannot have double standards if we want to curb corruption and, by the way, why has President Uhuru chosen to ‘fight’ corruption now?”

“What we want post-2022 is security and stability for all,” said the former World Bank auditor. “President Uhuru must be very careful how he fashions his politics now as we head to 2022. It would be extremely devious of him to not think of the security of our people in the Rift Valley. I do not want to belabour that fact, but you and I know that a political misstep or mishap could easily trigger mayhem in that part of the country. We do not want a repeat of 2008…”

The financial risk management consultant, who is also a revered church elder of a big Anglican church in Mt Kenya South diocese, said that if BBI lives up to its demand of holding a referendum so that the constitution is changed, he will robustly oppose it. “Uhuru should just honour the constitution and peacefully leave office. More importantly, he should honour the promise to his deputy. We can still remember it very well, made in the lead-up to 2013 general election.”

While in Nyeri County, I also spoke to millennials. Their political views were equally surprising. I met Mureithi from Skuta, a trading town six kilometres from Nyeri town. Mureithi, who is in his mid-30s, runs an electronics shop at Thunguma centre, which is separated from Skuta by two kilometres.

“We do not want to hear anything about President Uhuru,” said an embittered Mureithi. “He has wasted us, he fought so hard to reclaim the presidency only to plunge us further into deep poverty and political uncertainty. I am struggling to stay afloat. In the past one year, Uthamaki rulership has turned into ultimatums and angry outbursts from the president when confronted with issues of Central Kenya development issues. We, the young people of Nyeri County, have made up our minds. We have nothing to do with Uhuru, his projects, or his political schemes.”

In retrospect, Mureithi told me, President Uhuru’s six years at the helm was for self-aggrandisement and enriching his friends and relatives. “Tell me what one thing the Kikuyu youth anywhere can be proud of after his unswerving support for Uthamaki? Nothing. Instead, we have been served with disappointment, disillusionment and dispossession. And these 3Ds have given way to a great sense of betrayal. I made a mistake in voting for him twice last year. I will never do that mistake again,” said Mureithi.

Nigute. This Kikuyu word has in the last year become the political catchword for the disaffected Kikuyus whose views of Uthamaki presidential rule in the run-up to the first presidential elections was clouded by a vista of imagined economic Shangri-La and paradise revisited. Literally, the word means to throw away. Figuratively, it means to be wasted, to be misused, to be of no value after use, to be dumped.

“I threw my vote away,” said Mureithi, “So is the feeling of many Kikuyus. They are stuck in a rut, angry, bamboozled and embittered. They were deceived…the truth is, they have always been cheated, but this particular deceit could not have come at a worse time: Uhuru’s government has plundered the economy and destroyed Kikuyu businesses. The people have no money and they have no one and nowhere to turn to.”

Mureithi told me that BBI will come a cropper, spearheaded as it is by political dynastic powers that believe it is they who must always rule Kenya and nobody else. “It is headed for defeat because we shall fight it. We know what they are up to. Here in Nyeri, the youth have decreed that they will not support the referendum that is being pushed by Building the Bridges Initiative. We shall vigorously oppose it. We are tired of Uthamaki and its appendages.”

“There are some Central Kenya leaders who have been moving around the region telling us it is Ruto who is the source of all corruption and theft in government and that corruption must be fought by all means,” said Mureithi. “Those leaders include our own MP here for Nyeri town constituency, Ngunjiri Wambugu. We’ve already warned Ngunjiri that, like Uhuru, it was a mistake to have voted for him. We should not have abandoned Esther Murugi, [the former MP].” Ngunjiri is looking at his only one term in parliament, Mureithi promised me.

“The greatest theft in government has been orchestrated by President Uhuru’s close friends, who have stashed away billions of shillings,” observed Mureithi. “How is it that now it is Ruto who has stolen all the money and that it is he who is the source of all our economic and political problems? By allegedly trying to antagonise the deputy president, President Uhuru and BBI are stoking future political violence and insecurity for Kikuyus resident outside Central Kenya. I have relatives in Rift Valley. I know how nervous the Kikuyus of that region are with all this careless talk about rethinking Ruto’s Kikuyu support in 2022.”

“Corrupt or not corrupt, I will be supporting William Ruto,” said Mureithi. “What has our own Uhuru done for us? Born in riches, Uhuru has been overindulged throughout his life. That’s why he couldn’t care less whether the Kikuyus eat grass or sleep hungry, as long as he can get them to die for his dangerous political ventures. President Uhuru has been saying this is his legacy term for Kenya. We know what that means: ‘This is my legacy for the Kenyatta Family, not Kenya, the country.’”

I wound up my Nyeri County visit by engaging Lilian Wambui from Gikondi village in Mukurwe-ini. Barely a year ago, Wambui would have killed for President Uhuru Kenyatta. “I was so indoctrinated by the Uthamaki logic and the person of Uhuru Muigai Kenyatta that I’d brazenly taunt my Luo friends to go fishing in Lake Victoria and catch thamaki (fish) because we the Kikuyus had Uthamaki.”

Wambui is a businesswoman: she once rented a quarry in Njiru that borders Mwiki to the north and Ruai to the southeast in Nairobi County, where her employees were all Luo men who broke and carved stones that would be picked in truckloads at the site. Wambui has also engaged in the mitumba business, where she specialised in camera (as-good-as-new) children’s designer clothes. Lately, she has been dealing in wholesale fruits and vegetables. In three and half years, all the three businesses have collapsed. In December last year, she escaped to her rural home to run away from the hustle and bustle of Nairobi and to rethink her future.

“Corrupt or not corrupt, I will be supporting William Ruto,” said Mureithi. “What has our own Uhuru done for us? Born in riches, Uhuru has been overindulged throughout his life. That’s why he couldn’t care less whether the Kikuyus eat grass or sleep hungry, as long as he can get them to die for his dangerous political ventures. President Uhuru has been saying this is his legacy term for Kenya. We know what he means: ‘This is my legacy for the Kenyatta Family, not Kenya, the country.’”

“President Uhuru is a total failure: all the money from the government has been stolen while he stood by and watched. Now he is fighting Ruto, pretending to combat corruption. He should give us a break. I never believed he would waste us [Kikuyus] after all the support we lent him. I think we Kikuyus have been bewitched. It is not possible for one family to bestrode an entire community so easily and take advantage of their political foolishness for so long,” she commented.

Wambui told me that she vividly remembers President Uhuru specifically campaigning among the Kikuyus in downtown Nairobi in 2017. “On 9 February, 2017, taking time off from his State House duties, the president joined the Jubilee Party’s Nairobi governorship aspirants to galvanise the people into registering as voters. The then contestants were Peter Kenneth and the ‘Gang of Four’ – Mike Sonko, Denis Waweru, Margaret Wanjiru and Johnstone Sakaja.”

The businesswoman recalled that everyone, including the president, congregated at Wakulima Market on Haile Selassie Avenue, famously known as Marigiti. “It is not for want of a better place to mobilise the Nairobi voter that the Jubilee Party cabal chose the marketplace. Because when the president spoke, it become rather obvious why Marigiti was a good starting point. “Wooooi andu aitu muiga nyinuke….wooooi mutikandekererie…..mutikareke nyinuke,” (Oh my people, are you sending me home….please don’t abandon me…don’t let me go home) urged the President.

“Two months earlier, campaigning in Ruaka and its environs which are in his home county Kiambu, President Uhuru at one stop addressed the people thus: ‘I have information that some people are saying they will not vote on the 8th of August. I appeal to you, particularly the youth, not to let me down. I know what we are defending. What did President Kenyatta mean by I know what we are defending?’” posed Wambui. “The Kenyatta Family legacy. Period. President Uhuru has let down every Kikuyu voter, other than his tenderpreneur friends and relatives, who came out to vote for him. And the Kikuyu youth, abused during the campaigns and ignored after power had been recaptured, have received the short end of the stick. They are now called thieves. Nigute.”

I spent half of 2017 and the better part of 2018 talking and oftentimes animatedly holding court with Uthamaki ardent followers who, just before the August 8 general elections, had immersed themselves in Uthamaki’s noxious rhetoric of political perpetuity. All of them – from market women to matatu drivers, conductors, freelance touts, hawkers, street vendors, street prowlers, petty traders, seasoned businessmen and women, college students, university dons, professionals and state bureaucrats – were seemingly hypnotised by the Uthamaki political conquest: “Seek ye first the political kingdom and all the rest shall be added unto you,” one born-again lawyer had reminded me, “but we are still humble about it.” (It was Kwame Nkrumah, the first president of independent Ghana, who famously coined the maxim, which would soon become a clarion call for many an African country seeking political independence in the 1960s.)

I spent half of 2017 and the better part of 2018 talking and oftentimes animatedly holding court with Uthamaki ardent followers who, just before the August 8 general elections, had immersed themselves in Uthamaki’s noxious rhetoric of political perpetuity. All of them…were seemingly hypnotised by the Uthamaki political conquest: “Seek ye first the political kingdom and all the rest shall be added unto you,” one born-again lawyer had reminded me…”

Yet, nothing has captured for me the hypnotic, trance-like behaviour of an Uthamaki fundamentalist who revels in sporadic moments of lunacy than the story as told to me by my friend Baba Otis.

On 1 June, 2018, Madaraka Day, Baba Otis was drying obamboo (dissected tilapia fish that is smoked and oftentimes dried for storage and which is eaten over a long period). Known by its variant name, obambla, its tasty soup is very delicious and nutritious, especially for children. In the evening, On that day, Baba Otis heard a knock on his door in the estate plot where he lives with other tenants in Nairobi. It was Mama Shiru. “Sasa Baba Otis, aki watoto wangu hawajakula siku tatu, nisaidia tu na piece moja ya samaki niwatengenezee.” (Hi Otis’s father, I swear my children have not eaten for three days. Please just give me one piece of the smoked fish. I will prepare it for my children.)

The evening visit by Mama Shiru was interesting, given that on 29 October, 2017, a Sunday and three days after the repeat presidential elections in which the Jubilee Party largely competed against itself, Mama Shiru, a mother of two, had broken into a frenzied dance of jubilation and had yelled for all to hear: “Uthamaki ni witu….thamaki ni ciao….mekuigwa uguo”. (The rulership is ours (Kikuyus)….fish is theirs (Luos)…they can go hang.)

Baba Otis was there to witness the hippy dance of a woman who, for all intents and purposes, behaved as if she had been possessed by Lucifer himself. She was sporting a wristband and bandana fashioned along the colours of the Kenyan flag that have come to be associated with chauvinistic Kikuyu men and women. That night, Mama Shiru must have slept like a king in the knowledge that her tribesman had once again settled in the hallowed sanctuary of the mighty State House. Uthamaki ni witu…thamaki ni ciao.

Barely seven months later, when Mama Shiru stood outside Baba Otis’s door, she had discarded her wristband and tossed away her bandanna. The uthamaki ni witu, thamaki ni ciao alliterative singsong had long been expunged from her now pursed lips. The bravado that had accompanied the wearing of the Jubilee Party paraphernalia and totems had gone. Crude reality had by then sunk in…perhaps…perhaps not.

One fact was clear though from Mama Shiru’s predicament – you cannot feed your children on a tribal ideology, much less if your tribesman is the country’s president. “But Kikuyus can also be impervious and shameless,” commented Baba Otis.

In moments when an ethnic community finds itself in a crisis, its spontaneous response is to blame everyone but itself: introspection becomes anathema – it searches for scapegoats and scarecrows to explain away its internal contradictions and confusion. “It is the handshake.” “This problem we are in now is one for all of us.” “It is William Ruto who is engaged in all these state thefts”. “Ni mang’auro marea marigiciiria munene.” (It is the scoundrels that encircle (our) leader.) “Muthamaki ndakararagio na ti wa garari,” (The tribal chieftain should not be criticized or contradicted.)

John Njoroge Michuki is on record after Narc came to power in 2003 for proclaiming that Kenyans (read: Kikuyus) had been agitating for constitutional reforms to remove Daniel T. arap Moi: Moi was the problem – not the almighty powerful presidency that the 1960, 1962 and 1963 Lancaster House constitution conferences had bestowed on Kenyans. But hey, as long as that individual was a Kikuyu, it was business as usual. Many Kikuyus conflate Kikuyu nationalism with Kenyan statehood. And they care less for this contradiction.

The grandstanding of kumira kumira (a clarion call that means to get out in large numbers), thuraku (safari ants) and all that toxic talk about Uthamaki and “ni ithui twathanaga guku,” (it is we (Kikuyus) who call the political shots) has melted away barely a year into the Jubilee Party’s second term.

After my interviews and interactions with Uthamaki believers, I could not help but ponder over what could be a priority in their minds as they struggle to contextualise their economic hardships and situate their political path come 2022.

Post-2022, the Kikuyus are thinking very hard about their security and survival in ways that they have never thought before. The presidency has become a burden to them: Like a millstone around their necks, it is weighing them down. But they made their bed and must lie on it. In a real sense, the president has stopped being a factor in their yet undecided political trajectory.

For the very first time, Kikuyus do not have a bankable political leader. Ten months into BBI, not all Kikuyus are persuaded that it augurs well for their political insurance. So far, they do not know what to make of it. Suspicion abounds.

Painfully, the Kikuyus are learning to internalise their political suffering, trapped as they are like a caged bird, its only freedom being to pitter-patter around the cage. Hence, their desire to extricate themselves from the clutches of political serfdom, and hopefully, from the pain of the (late) realisation that they have been duped and dumped.

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ALWAYS BEHIND: Kenya’s Languishing Creative Industry

Recent case studies have revealed that the creative industry can be a significant earner to an economy. However, as ALEX ROBERTS argues, Kenya’s languishing creative industry can be attributed to lack of support from the Government.

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ALWAYS BEHIND: Kenya’s Languishing Creative Industry

What was South Korea in the late 1970s? Say around 1979, during the first year of Daniel arap Moi’s presidency? It was a military state, run by a soon-to-be-assassinated autocratic leader, General Park Chung-hee, and still eight years away from becoming a presidential republic. It was a state in flux: the killing of Gen Chung-hee left a power vacuum, with political factions vying for superiority amongst the ruins of his toppled dictatorship. By any stretch of the word, South Korea entering the 1980s, and for much of that decade, could be described as a nation in turmoil, politically, economically and developmentally. It was a state at risk of falling back into chaos and becoming a cautionary tale.

Kenya, on the other hand, had new leadership. At the beginning of the 1980s, it was viewed by the international community as a shining example of a post-independence African state that looked set to be an economic powerhouse of the future. At that time, Nigeria was still under a military junta and South Africa was regressing into the bloodiest period of anti-apartheid action.

Yet, by the tail end of the decade, Seoul was hosting the 1988 Olympics, and less than four decades on, in 2016, South Korea had the 11th highest GDP on earth, behind Canada and ahead of Australia. According to the United Nations, in the same year Kenya was ranked 75th, just behind Uzbekistan and ahead of Guatemala.

What happened? A major factor is South Korea’s investment in the creative economy versus the Kenyan government’s approach of letting the entire sector be deprioritised and left to flounder alone.

In the case of South Korea’s film industry, one major shift occurred in 1994. At the time Hollywood films controlled most of the market while locally produced films controlled less than one-fifth. The government took a decision to invest in and emphasise locally-made films. Since then, the South Korean film industry, when coupled with K-Pop, has seen the rise of the “Korean wave”, a globally influential and massively profitable enterprise. It remains the modern model of the need for government support for the local creative industries.

With regards to K-pop (the Korean brand of bubble gum-style pop songs), the Government of South Korea played a direct hand in sustaining the momentum of this global musical force. A Ministry of Culture was formed in 1998, including a specified department exclusively overseeing the development of the nation’s music, with millions of dollars pouring in. Where the difference is further highlighted was the government’s targeting of music as a potential cash cow for the languishing economy. Much of Asia had been sucked into a whirlwind of economic turmoil in the late 90s, and the government needed alternatives for employment, taxable revenue and global influence. The government also ensured protection through effective policies and engaging with music industry members. Fast-forward two decades, and K-Pop is a US$ 5 billion industry.

In the case of South Korea’s film industry, one major shift occurred in 1994. At the time Hollywood films controlled most of the market while locally produced films controlled less than one-fifth. The government took a decision to invest in and emphasise locally-made films. Since then, the South Korean film industry, when coupled with K-Pop, has seen the rise of the “Korean wave”, a globally influential and massively profitable enterprise.

The creative economy has been defined as the ultimate economic resource within a nation. It’s the umbrella under which art, architecture, film, television, music, poetry, sculpture and writing exist. Kenya’s creative sector is a vibrant one, brimming with talent and possibility, especially when looked at through the opportunities it affords to the youth of the country.

Such opportunities are not exclusive to the Kenyan economy as the world is becoming modernised, and the creative sector is often an accompanying industry to modernity. In fact, the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) has stated that the economic potential of the global creative sector was worth more than US$ 2.2 trillion in 2015. The creative industry has undeniably massive impact upon a nation’s potential GDP and can offer a built-in solution to lingering questions of “development”. A 2013 report from UNESCO outlines that the cultural sector is a vital aspect of the sustainable development of a nation, as the creative sector is not only one of the fastest growing sectors in the world, but also can be highly transformative in terms of income generation, job creation and a nation’s earnings through export. A 2010 policy statement released by the United Cities and Local Governments (UCLG) further reflects this, stating that culture is the fourth pillar of sustainable development for any nation.

So with all of this potential, why does the creative sector in Kenya languish? Why has Kenya not taken the leap into the void of the sector, that same leap that has produced billions for other nations, including within Africa?

The state of Kenya’s creative industry

An all too common complaint among artists within Kenya is that the creative industry is simply not a “serious” entity to be pursued as a path to a successful and lucrative career. This “lack of seriousness” has resulted in one of the worst policy frameworks for the arts in the developing world. Concerts go unattended, books are not bought (if they can be published at all), grants are not delivered, artistic facilities remain unfinished and draconian regulations are imposed on the content that can be produced. Radio stations play music from abroad and theatres show foreign films. As Nairobi-based singer-songwriter, Tetu Shani says of the current situation, “The day that Kenyan artists start living like politicians is the day you’ll see a shift in public perception and consumption.”

This issue is exemplified by the lack of policy and effective implementation of regulations surrounding the creative industry. When examining the music industry, the crux of the issue comes down to copyright. Most casual fans of Kenyan music are familiar with the story of the band Elani, which had a smash album and multiple hits in 2013 and 2014 after the release of their record Barua ya Dunia. The airplay was steady and the singles very successful. In 2016, Elani criticised the Music Copyright Society of Kenya (MCSK), stating that the organisation had only paid them royalties totaling Sh31,000. MCSK has been embroiled in constant legal and legislative turmoils, and had its capacity to collect, track and distribute royalties to Kenyan artists revoked due to a court order in 2018. MCSK has since been replaced by the Music Publishers Association of Kenya (MPAKE) in the role, yet the headlines and legal issues remain.

The ones who seem to get lost in the shuffle are the artists. The example of Elani is at the core of the problems that face the creative industries in Kenya; while there might be growth of the sector on paper, the artists or creators themselves don’t see the benefits materialising within their wallets. At an even more micro level, take the example of the National Environment Management Authority of Kenya (NEMA) enforcing noise pollution regulations against DJs in Kenya; security forces routinely go into clubs, arrest DJs for exceeding “noise restrictions”, even as they spin on the decks, and haul them off to jail. Such enforcements were not communicated effectively to the members of the music industry.

Again, the issues surrounding the enforcement of regulations continue when examining the burgeoning film industry in Kenya. Some estimates contend that over 90 per cent of films in Kenya are pirated, with the heavy-handed punishments outlined by legislation being rarely enforced.

On top of this, the head of the Kenya Film Classification Board (KFCB), Dr. Ezekiel Mutua, has made free expression through film and television markedly more difficult. Beyond his public criticisms of “gay lions” and cutting the release timeframe of Rafiki, the highest profile Kenyan film since 2011’s Nairobi Half-Life, down to less than a week (just enough time to qualify for the Academy Awards), Dr. Mutua has enacted steep license fees that have reduced the industry’s ability to operate independently, including the hoop-like requirement of filmmakers needing multiple licenses to film in multiple counties. It has become common for Kenya-based films and content to be filmed in South Africa. Indeed, Mutua’s attempts to enforce his dictates on theatre as well as the film industry have led content creators to further eschew any connection with the government.

On top of this, the head of the Kenya Film Classification Board (KFCB), Dr. Ezekiel Mutua, has made free expression through film and television markedly more difficult. Beyond his public criticisms of “gay lions” and cutting the release timeframe of Rafiki, the highest profile Kenyan film since 2011’s Nairobi Half-Life, down to less than a week…Dr. Mutua has enacted steep license fees that have reduced the industry’s ability to operate independently, including the hoop-like requirement of filmmakers needing multiple licenses to film in multiple counties.

Kenya had a booming fashion industry in the 1980s, which contributed 30 per cent to the manufacturing sector. Since the 1980s, the continual influx of mitumba (second-hand clothes) has cut this employment severely. The change was brought about by the government cutting regulations and import tariffs in the late 1980s, cutting down on the cotton and garment sectors. This led to an increase in the jua kali nature of the sector, with members of the garment industry having to find their own work after the majority of the cotton production mills shut down. In turn, this contributed to much of the textile industry being a separate entity from that of the clothing production industry – an issue exacerbated by the lack of a unified industry body to advocate for the fashion sector.

This last point regarding the fashion industry of Kenya is truly a key issue that swirls around the creative sector in Kenya. Much of the industry remains fragmented, splintered and run by independent individuals and micro-organisations operating unofficially outside of government taxation or influence. The lack of a structured unified body is reflected in other creative industries, which lessens the sector’s ability to engage in any sort of meaningful dialogue with the government. These issues of associational divide were echoed by HIVOS in 2016, which stated that “the current state of associations in East Africa is that they are fragmented, disunited and lack a consistent agenda on how to engage the government and different industries to ensure the standards of the industry consistently improve”.

So what does all of this amount to? There is one commonality: the utter lack of possible taxable revenue as a result of obtuse and inadequate policy. According to PricewaterhouseCoopers, the entertainment industries are growing across the board; revenues are up, as is Internet access and the number of viewers within the Kenyan market. However, Kenya is trailing far behind other nations that have capitalised on the bolstering of income from the creative sector.

Kenya vs other major African markets

The stagnant creative sector in Kenyan becomes apparent when examining the state of other African creative sectors. When looking through the lens of the two other leading sub-Saharan African markets (Nigeria and South Africa) the differences and gaps becomes stark.

Both South Africa and Nigeria have music industry infrastructure that focuses on the regulations of the industy. This includes promoting local artists while protecting their ability to garner revenue from their work and punishing those who take advantage. Within Nigeria, artists are promoted, DJs play the latest local tracks and help to encourage grassroots growth of new musical artists.

The most glaring example of a creative economy’s potential is the constant streaming of Nollywood movies on Kenyan televisions. How exactly did the Nigerian film industry become so massive in recent decades, dominating the African market and influencing global media beyond the continent? It is a remarkable story of growth, with Nollywood’s early roots tracing back to the colonial era of the early 20th century.

The independence of Nigeria from British rule in 1960 resulted in further expansion of the film industry. The key moment came in 1972, when the Indigenization Decree was issued by Yakubu Gowon, the Head of the Federal Military Government. The original intent of the decree was to reduce foreign influence and pour wealth back into the hands of Nigerian citizens. The international business community publicly complained, threatened to pull out, and in some cases reduced their investment. The Indigenization Decree led to hundreds of theatres having ownership transferred from foreign hands to Nigerian ownership.

In the years that followed, widespread graft was discovered in multiple industries (much due to foreigners paying for corporate “fronts” while secretly maintaining control). Gowon was deposed while abroad in 1975 and the film industry continued to grow. New theatre owners started to show more and more local productions, with the result being Nollywood experiencing a further expansion across the next decade as Nigerian citizens were suddenly directly involved in not only the control of the theatres, but also in what Nigerian audiences were more likely to buy a ticket to see, buy a VHS of, and later buy a DVD or stream: local content. Out of the ashes of colonialism, a bloody civil war and a military junta rule, Nollywood grew organically, hand over fist, year after year.

By the mid-1980s, Nigeria was producing massively profitable blockbusters and revenues grew to over US$11 billion (Sh1.1 trillion) by 2013. The industry also employs an eye-popping one million people, estimated to be second only to agriculture in terms of number of employees within Nigeria.

In the 21st century, the Government of Nigeria has taken further notice, mostly through the recognition of the massive benefits to the nation that the local film industry provides. Currently the government is working in conjunction with the National Television Authority of Nigeria to expand the industry, offering grants, expanding infrastructure and constructing a production facility. Perhaps most notable was the 2010 signing by former President Goodluck Jonathan of a US$200 millionCreative and Entertainment Industry Intervention Fund” in order to encourage the growth of Nollywood and other creative industries. Put another way, Kenya’s GDP is approximately one-fifth that of Nigeria’s, but there has been no US$40 million fund signed by the government towards the nation’s creative sector.

By the mid-1980s, Nigeria was producing massively profitable blockbusters and revenues grew to over US$11 billion (Sh1.1 trillion) by 2013. The industry also employs an eye-popping one million people, estimated to be second only to agriculture in terms of number of employees within Nigeria.

This is the point where naysayers to the potential of the creative economy will argue that corruption is endemic in Kenya, and therefore, reaching the heights of Nollywood is inherently impossible. This is a fallacy: Transparency International in 2017 ranked Kenya 143 out of 180 in terms of corruption and Nigeria came in at 148. Despite obvious governmental and corruption shortcomings in Nigeria, when it comes to the film industry, one thing has certainly been recognised: that money talks.

South Africa took a different route towards becoming a creative sector powerhouse on an international scale. This is best exemplified when examining the music industry of the country. Once again, the roots of the explosion of South African musical influence can be traced back to a government development programme – the Bantu Radio initiative, which, it must be stated, was put into place in 1960 by the apartheid government in what can best be described as a campaign to further segregate the country. The aim of the programme was to promote tribal music in the hopes that it would reinforce pre-colonial cultural barriers between different communities. It also had the not-so-subtle goal of establishing what black South Africans enjoyed in order to aid the apartheid government in further profiting off of them. The regime believed that the radio stations would play exclusively folk music, but the result was somewhat different. Bantu Radio began broadcasting more than a dozen different genres of music, among them Afro-jazz, kwela and isicathamiya. These genres exploded in popularity, bringing fame, recognition and influence to many South African music industry figures.

The South African Broadcasting Corporation was soon brought in to monitor and regulate the music being produced to ensure that the messages of the music didn’t criticise the apartheid regime or its policies of systemic racism. Further regulatory bodies were established to control the music being played. They did so effectively on the Bantu Radio network, but had also inadvertently “let the cat out of the bag”. There had been a long history of rebellious action through music in South Africa, but now there was an audience of millions who had several genres in mind on what to pursue. Popular artists who were censored on the radio took their messages directly to their audiences. There was an exodus of musicians who left South Africa in order to make music against the apartheid regime without censorship or reprisal. In 1982, the Botswana Festival of Culture and Resistance was held with much of the attendance made up of South African exiled musicians. At the conference, it was decided that the primary weapon of the struggle against apartheid would be culture.

Accidentally, through an attempt to further exploit and divide, the regime had laid the groundwork for both widely popular musical genres with a captive local audience. By 1994, when the last remnants of apartheid were finally thrown aside, the music industry grew massively and continues to be a dominant presence into the 21st century.

Anti-apartheid films, rising from South African independent cinema experiencing a boom in the early-80s – the same period when there was a proliferation of video cassette recorders – allowed the viewing of “subversive” productions. Some of these same anti-apartheid films (banned by the regime), such as 1984’s Place for Weeping, gained international traction and helped to establish South Africa’s film industries as influential outside of the borders of the apartheid regime.

What the creative industry has done for other nations

A UNESCO convention in 2005 stated that there is still a need for governmental frameworks that focus on “emphasizing the need to incorporate culture as a strategic element in national and international development policies, as well as in international development cooperation”. By this standard, the example of South Korea once again stands out. Just how did South Korea springboard its culture into a massive entertainment and creative sector in such a short period of time? The answer is fairly straightforward: the progress of South Korea’s entertainment sectors centres around heavy governmental support, funding and infrastructural management. The government designed and implemented a multi-stage plan towards increasing the profile, impact and economic viability of its entertainment industries.

With the example set, it becomes all the more glaring that the Government of Kenya has turned its back on its own creative industry. The Korean problem of foreign influence is a Kenyan one; foreign acts are flown in and given top billing, foreign media houses dominate the telling of Kenyan stories, and the latest Marvel films always find themselves on movie-house posters. Ask yourself, when is the last time you saw a Kenyan-made film on an IMAX screen playing to a packed audience? The lines are there, but who are there to see?

The state of regulation and progress within the creative sector in Kenya reflects an acute failure of the state to implement the very policies it has outlined. One needs to look no further than the Kenyan Constitution of 2010 and the Vision 2030 Development Goals to find evidence of this.

With the example set, it becomes all the more glaring that the Government of Kenya has turned its back on its own creative industry. The Korean problem of foreign influence is a Kenyan one; foreign acts are flown in and given top billing, foreign media houses dominate the telling of Kenyan stories, and the latest Marvel films always find themselves on movie-house posters.

In Kenya, a nation that jailed poets and playwrights only two decades ago, the promotion of the creative arts is evolving too slowly. While the Constitution included the mandatory promotion of the arts and cultural sectors, it has taken close to a decade to pass legislation regarding these industries. The government itself has acknowledged these disconnects: the National Music Policy of 2015 states that the Government of Kenya has not adequately enacted policy relating to the creative sector, which in turn has promoted a disconnect in communication and stymied the potential for growth within the industry.

Addressing the state of the creative industries in Kenya, UNESCO contends that there is no facilitative policy framework regarding the creative sector. Or, more bluntly: talk is cheap. The Government of Kenya is definitely aware of the potential impact of growing these specialised industries; it just avoids enacting any meaningful regulation surrounding them. Take the film industry for example. While the talk has been big, there has been no sign of the promised public investment.

The creative sector has long been associated been with the employment of youth. The United Nations has released a series of reports contending that a key path towards combating youth unemployment is through the promotion of the creative industries. Unfortunately, it seems that the Government of Kenya is yet to take heed of creative-driven solutions. The country is currently mired with massive youth unemployment, with rates of over 20 per cent, dwarfing the levels of unemployed young people elsewhere in the East African region. It is clear that from an economic standpoint, the policies of industrialisation have long since proven themselves to be insufficient in terms of impacting the youth of Kenya in any sort of meaningful way.

One reason why the government is reluctant to promote the arts is because of its delicate sensibilities: it fears supporting creative minds that may turn out to be critical of it. This is evident across the archaic policies of the KFCB, the exodus of locally produced textiles for fashion, the lack of funding for the National Theatre, the government stake in Safaricom, which is currently facing a backlash for the low rates of compensation given to musicians streamed on its ring-back tunes application, Skiza.

On the basis of the examples given, the lessons to be learned from South Africa can only be to lean harder into criticism of the government. While this seems to be an oft-visited theme throughout the creative sectors in Kenya, the apartheid era of South Africa’s music industry remains a solid reminder: that there’s no point backing off if the government refuses to change.

This rings doubly true in cases such as that of Ezekiel Mutua, who seems hell-bent on smothering the Kenyan film, theatre and television industries to death through self-claimed piety. His crusade against homosexuality and what he describes as “immorality” must be viewed as a neocolonial one; its aim is to kill off grassroots Kenyan enterprising creative expression. The efforts against him should focus on his willful draining of the Kenyan economy’s untold economic and cultural potential.

The best long-term solution in Kenya’s case is a sort of middle-ground between the policies of localised emphasis of the 1970s and the government of South Korea in the 1980s and 1990s. Ideally, the Ministry of Sports, Culture and the Arts would be divided towards being specialized; the government would either put in or find real public and private funding for the arts and then actually implement and regulate the policies, such as the National Music Policy of 2015, which outlines a mandated quota for Kenyan-made content to make up 60 per cent of the music aired by the media within the country. They would enforce the regulations but let artists do their own thing as a private enterprise, as they know the ins and outs of the industry. When grievances arise, representatives from the creative sector would have a meaningful seat at the table to dialogue with the government. Unfortunately, none of these solutions are being sought.

This rings doubly true in cases such as that of Ezekiel Mutua, who seems hell-bent on smothering the Kenyan film, theatre and television industries to death through self-claimed piety. His crusade against homosexuality and what he describes as “immorality” must be viewed as a neocolonial one; its aim is to kill off grassroots Kenyan enterprising creative expression. The efforts against him should focus on his willful draining of the Kenyan economy’s untold economic and cultural potential.

The issue remains that while Kenya’s creative industry is at par with nearly any other in the region, the continent or the developing world in terms of potential, it is being systemically held back from reaching the heights of its peers. Both South Africa and Nigeria’s situations can be viewed as the regimes having stumbled into a goldmine of creative industry potential during brutal regimes, but in both cases there was at least an initial search for the vein (racist though South Africa’s was). In the case of South Korea, there was almost a resolute desperation to never return from whence they came. They were willing to try outside-the-box solutions to get there and to put their money where their mouth was. All three situations in 1979 stood on a precipice, and all three could have easily changed course into further crackdown or lack of interest and being left devoid of a cultural sector. Kenya’s creative sector situation is dire. This constraining of creativity must be viewed in the light that it is impeding Kenya’s progress in the opening decades of the new millennium.

The artistic industries in Kenya are currently at a crossroads. Though ideas, products and creativity coming from the country are only growing in terms of influence and quality, without support, all potential is destined to languish in obscurity. Seventeen years since the transition out of the Moi regime, there has been no golden age of the arts, no explosion of international influence and possibility. The talent is there; the infrastructure of community radio, self-starter production houses and subversive literary talent is pervasive in Kenya. However, the government is simply too afraid or too obtuse to put anything behind these efforts.

What will the economy of Kenya 40 years on into the future look like? As things stand, without the government at least trying something different, South Africa, Nigeria and South Korea will continue to lap Kenya, toasting to their home-grown billions of dollars and expanded economic influence. Will Kenya’s government officials continue to pretend to scratch their heads in search of “new solutions” when the answer is literally painting the picture before them?

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AFRICA’S YOUTH RISING: Inspirational stories from Ghana, South Africa and Uganda

At no point in its history did Africa have a more educated youth population than today. But at no point in its history did so many young people compete for so few formal jobs. Some seek greener pastures in Europe; others build a future at home. ANJA BENGELSTORFF talked to young people in South Africa, Ghana and Uganda who create opportunities for themselves – and to the benefit of others. Their lesson: Think outside the box.

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AFRICA’S YOUTH RISING: Inspirational stories from Ghana, South Africa and Uganda

There is neither a tarmac road nor an electricity wire leading to the village of Boti in Southern Ghana. But Google found the village anyway. The search machine located a waterfall that gives the village its name. Apart from that, the area is a blank spot in the digital world.

We don’t know how Google found Boti, which is four bumpy bus ride-hours away from the capital Accra. The fact that Boti is on Google or Youtube, or any other site on the Internet, must be attributed to Josephine Godwyll, a 29-year-old geomatic engineer. Her organisation, “Young at Heart”, teaches primary school pupils in rural areas of Ghana holistic digital literacy that goes beyond just how to operate a computer. “We guide them to discover how they can use the skills they’ve acquired to solve problems in their community through design thinking,” Josephine says. “It translates to improving households and improving livelihoods.”

Josephine Godwyll’s father, who is computer illiterate, took her to her first computer class when she was seven. Computers have been practical tools for her ever since. “I don’t think people should be left at a disadvantage just because of where they are born. They should be able to choose from a wide spectrum of opportunities, and this, I believe, is made possible through tech.”

The fact is that the continent continues to gets younger: In 2015, 226 million Africans were between the ages of 15 and 24. By 2050, this number could more than double. Africans’ average age is 19; that of Europeans is 42.6. Is the continent’s youth bulge a blessing or a curse? As it is, millions of young Africans struggle to make a living, their level of education notwithstanding. Solid empirical data on youth unemployment in African countries are hard to come by and difficult to compare as the criteria used to generate data are not harmonised (different countries define the age bracket for youth differently) or are not transparent. Hence statistics given by different sources vary significantly.

The fact is that the continent continues to gets younger: In 2015, 226 million Africans were between the ages of 15 and 24. By 2050, this number could more than double. Africans’ average age is 19; that of Europeans is 42.6.

Josephine Godwyll, like many young people in Ghana, believes in the opportunities technology presents. “I dream of a Ghana in which digital tools make our lives easier“, she says, surrounded by Boti’s primary school students who push each other for a better look at Josephine’s computer screen. “A digital revolution, this is what I am fighting for.” Statistically, every third person in Ghana has access to the Internet, but in reality, this access is mostly limited to urban areas.

In the past four years, Josephine Godwyll and her 30 volunteers have coached more than 200 children. As a result, one graduate of their programme designed a website for his mother’s hair salon, alongside a flyer advertising its services. “The students touch a computer, and a new world opens its door to them,” Godwyll observed.

She strongly believes that there is one huge challenge young people face today: To connect the skills and knowledge they acquire with their daily lives, and to translate them directly into job opportunities. Oftentimes they don’t learn what they need to secure a livelihood.

William Senyo agrees. “The ones in charge of educating people must bring an open mind to what it takes in this kind of global economic dynamics and then the young people must also be willing to do extra,” the 31-year-old Ghanaian says. In his opinion, the parents raising the young generation are fairly conservative. Thirty years ago, a university degree almost guaranteed a job for life. Today, many parents don’t even understand how their children make an income as they sit at home all day, laptops on their knees. “The state has a contract with these young people,” Senyo says. “But there is a disconnect and it almost feels like a lie: Why did the government make me go through [formal education] just so in the end you tell me you don’t have the resources to put my skill set to use?“

In Ghana, 90 per cent of its 30 million citizens can read and write. About a third of Ghanaians are between the ages of 15 and 35. Ghana’s government defines this age bracket as youth, though it does not provide statistics on employment for this group. While the Ghanaian economy has grown on average by an impressive 8.1 per cent annually between 2007 and 2013, this growth did not translate into increased employment opportunities for an ever-growing labour force, which has impacted the youth in particular who, given their age, have less or no work experience in comparison to other workers. Therefore, they tend to engage in informal or underpaid jobs.

The lanky agribusiness graduate digs a mine of ideas in Accra. Five years ago, he founded Impact Hub, a social experiment that gathers restless, inquisitive young people with alternative ideas. The “innovation cluster“, as Senyo likes to call it, supports starting businesses with a social approach. Currently, the team focuses on health, education, agriculture, sustainable energy and financial inclusion. They invented and produced drain covers: “We take all the plastic waste we generate at the Hub to a recycling plant. They recycle it into 3D thread for us and we print out the 3D drain covers. People don’t see it’s possible until you show them,” he grins.

With his Impact Hub, William Senyo does not focus on job seekers but job creators. “Those with initiative that are the rare ones you have to work with and grow and slowly hope that their work will translate into jobs for the mass of unemployed people. They cannot all be entrepreneurs.”

Senyo has given up on the Government of Ghana to solve the country’s youth unemployment crisis. He believes in the effects of a political consciousness: “Exposed, socially aware individuals are always a win compared to people who just walk around like robots and do the work. An empowered group of young people is a threat to any government if they don’t have opportunities.”

For the time being, his best bets are on African entrepreneurs. “Political leadership has failed us consistently. The entrepreneurs have actually shown more capacity to lift us up than our political leaders. They have created opportunities.” Senyo does not question how these entrepreneurs made their fortunes, whether they pay their workers fairly or what motivates them to support creative young people. Not yet. For now, they are useful.

Senyo has given up on the Government of Ghana to solve the country’s youth unemployment crisis. He believes in the effects of a political consciousness: “Exposed, socially aware individuals are always a win compared to people who just walk around like robots and do the work. An empowered group of young people is a threat to any government if they don’t have opportunities.”

Zest for action and the energy of his generation are what tax expert Mabutho Mthembo from South Africa’s metropolis Johannesburg counts on. His country’s population is almost twice the size of Ghana’s, but with 36 per cent of the total population, the proportion of South Africa’s youth is similar to that of the West African nation.

Alarming though is the fact that 53 per cent of young South Africans are jobless, as the International Labour Organisation (ILO) estimates. This is despite the fact that the literacy rate in South Africa is at 99 per cent, and almost 70 per cent of South Africans attend or have attended a secondary school. “In a society where jobs are rare, it takes young people with courage and a sense of innovation,” the 32-year old Mthembo says.

His statement can be read as criticism of South Africa’s education system: Mthembu grew up with his grandmother in rural Kwazulu Natal where primary school students were taught in Zulu, the local language. “Nothing much happens in the countryside,” he remembers. “Nobody ever told us what opportunities are available in South Africa in regard to education and jobs. Learning English was neglected. So getting to university was a shocker as English was the language of instruction. It was very trying at that time.”

Based on his experience that a lack of information, education and social networks prevent young people from seizing opportunities, Mabutho Mthembo started the Youth Managers Foundation about ten years ago. About 2,000 students between the ages of 14 and 18 from 37 high schools in townships and rural areas of South Africa have since received career guidance, have been mentored by professionals from the industry and were introduced to managerial and leadership functions. “The energy that exists in these young people, it’s massive,” exclaims Mthembo. “We try to channel this energy in the right direction: We need leaders who are responsible, generative and constructive.” He believes that the only way South Africa and Africa can thrive is by developing their own visions for the future.

Mabutho Mthembo’s struggle for education and eventually better job opportunities is typical for many young black South Africans. In fact, had it happened years earlier, he might have been among them when in October 2015, students at the University of Witwatersrand in Johannesburg started what would eventually turn into a country-wide political protest: The university management had announced it would raise tuition fees by 10.5 per cent the following year. Before long, the students’ demonstrations had spread to other institutions of higher learning throughout South Africa, famously known under the hashtag #FeesMustFall.

The raising of fees at one university was just the spark that lit the fire that had been nurtured for years by wider and deeper issues that the Rainbow Nation had been struggling with: the inaccessibility of higher education for poor black South Africans due to high costs; inadequate government funding for public universities; rampant corruption within the government administration that was channelling urgently- needed funds away from the public service; and the inability of the government to provide opportunities for its young black citizens to make a decent living and to have a promising future.

The same year, after increasing protests that followed decade-long calls to do so, the University of Cape Town removed a statue commemorating Cecil Rhodes from its campus: For the protestors, the late politician and colonialist symbolised white supremacy and suppression of the black population. The protests, which quickly spread to other universities under the hashtag #RhodesMustFall, called for action against institutionalised racism, for better chances for black academics to become faculty members, but most importantly, for the decolonisation of the education system in South Africa that still had not addressed policies in which racism and inequality were deeply entrenched. Since then, the South African government has come up with a bursary scheme to fund free higher education for poor and working-class students. And the wider calls by South African students for inclusion, anti-colonialism and equality have resonated with students all over the world.

The raising of fees at one university was just the spark that lit the fire that had been nurtured for years by wider and deeper issues that the Rainbow Nation had been struggling with: the inaccessibility of higher education for poor black South Africans due to high costs; inadequate government funding for public universities; rampant corruption within the government administration; and the inability of the government to provide opportunities for its young black citizens to make a decent living and to have a promising future.

Wartson Atukwatse, a Ugandan, studied Environmental Science at Kyambogo University, but getting a job was never on his agenda. During his studies, he quickly discovered that reading was meant only for passing exams. “But I would read a lot of different books for my own benefit, something that was not even taught in class,” the 26-year-old remembers. “I was reading a lot of historical books, about social and artistic work.” He became an activist, a member of several book clubs and was the chairman of the university environmental association. “At that point I was looking at finishing my education and then a job would come. It’s all about getting the necessary skills and then strategising how you can create your future.”

Necessary skills and knowledge, to Wartson, come with reading widely and engaging oneself with matters that develop society. “A job would come but it would find me when I would be doing my own activities,” he remembers. Today, Wartson runs the library at the Uganda Museum in Kampala that he revived a few years ago, and is a sought-after research assistant for academics from abroad coming to Uganda.

He is passionate about creating a reading culture in Uganda. “If we have a population that is literate, that is exposed, that is empowered to create and innovate, then all the problems we have on the continent can be solved. It pains me that most of our governments don’t see that and don’t invest in the creative industry.”

Maybe the government doesn’t, but singer-turned-social-activist-turned-member-of parliament Bobi Wine certainly uses his skills and popularity he had garnered as an artist to challenge Ugandan president Yoweri Museveni and the system he represents: that of a “Big Man” who concentrates most state power in his hands.

Bobi Wine’s appeal as a young person from a poor Kampala neighbourhood and his calls for “people power” resonate particularly with Uganda’s overwhelmingly youthful population, the fastest growing and among the most youthful populations in the world. About 77 per cent of Ugandans are younger than 30 years and 52 per cent are under the age of 15. The majority of them were not born when President Museveni became the head of state in 1986 and do not feel represented by his government.

He is passionate about creating a reading culture in Uganda. “If we have a population that is literate, that is exposed, that is empowered to create and innovate, then all the problems we have on the continent can be solved. It pains me that most of our governments don’t see that and don’t invest in the creative industry.”

Despite remaining rather elusive about his concrete political plans for Uganda’s future, Bobi Wine is emerging as a long-awaited beacon of hope for those who were looking for a leader representing the majority of the Ugandan population who are looking for solutions to corruption and injustice. As he expresses in his song “Situka“ from 2016: When our leaders have become misleaders and mentors have become tormentors. When freedom of expression becomes the target of oppression, opposition becomes our position.”

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