Recently, I boarded a Nissan matatu on my way to Sigona Golf Club, off Nairobi-Nakuru Highway, 17km from the city centre. Once we hit the highway, the conductor started collecting his dues. Soon an argument arose between the conductor and five of the 14 passengers: was the fare Sh50 or Sh70? The conductor insisted the fare was KSh70, the five passengers said they had been told by the freelance touts at the terminus the fare was KSh50, and therefore, they were paying not a penny more.
The back and forth shouting match went on until we reached the Shell Petrol Station, one kilometre up from Gitaru bus stop. At the petrol station, that argument continued for 20 minutes – the five passengers were adamant that they were being ripped off, the conductor retorted he was not in the business of philanthropy: The conductor gave them an ultimatum: They either pay him the full amount or the driver reports them to the police at Kikuyu Police Station.
They dared him to do so whereupon the driver took us straight to the police station. Had I alighted at the petrol station, I could have walked to the 500m to Club. At the police station, the cops were gleeful they would have some “culprits” to manhandle and extort from. The five passengers were bundled out and locked in the cells. As the matatu turned to take us to our respective destinations – the end destination was Kiambaa another four kilometres from Sigona Club – a more sober debate among the remaining nine passengers dominated the talk. Was it really fair to have let the five be locked up at the police station for lacking a mere Sh20 each? The passengers were unanimous it is highly unlikely they were bluffing: nobody in his right senses would want to spend time in a Kenyan police cell, just because a matatu guy was cheating them off such a small sum.
Because I was seated in front with the driver, I asked him why they had taken the drastic step,. “Boss, business has been very bad, very bad,” he said solemnly. “The matatu owner has been breathing on our neck because we have not been meeting his targets. Because matatu crews already have a bad name, the proprietor doesn’t believe us when we tell him business is bad: he thinks we are stealing from him. There are days we have not paid ourselves, just to make sure we deposit his full day’s collection.” This was one of those days that if they did not do their math wisely, they would go home without pay. “It is those pennies collectively that take care of the larger currency notes. Can you for a moment ponder, how much money we would be losing if every trip we forewent Sh100, just because some people cannot pay the full amount?”
Discussion in the matatu turned to how life had become harder: “It is very possible the five passengers did not have the extra Sh20 and, if they did, it had been pre-budgeted,” said one passenger. “Following the recent heavy rains, sukuma wiki (kale) has become very cheap. With Sh20, you could buy enough for supper to be eaten with ugali and live for another day. Today, there is no such thing as little money. Every coin counts,” he summed the discussion. The passengers all agreed that money had taken to hiding and murmured to themselves in Kikuyu about the irony of how, even after voting for Uhuru Kenyatta twice, life had become twice as hard. “No tukeyumeria kweli na mathina niguo maingehire?” (Will we ever make it and the way our problems seem to multiply?).
Today, there is no such thing as little money. Every coin counts
The passengers talked off how people had become more and more uncaring and wicked and moaned loudly that if only Kenyans were a little more mindful of each other, life would be a lot better. I suspected they were shying away from candidly and publicly discussing the elephant in the matatu, which if they did, would lead them to pinpointing why they truly were facing economic hard times: bad political choices, propelled by a vicious ethnic entrapment that they had over time been politically socialized to believe was their fate.
The trip back after my meeting was even more revealing. I crossed the highway to catch a matatu back to the city centre. The Nissan matatu I took had two other passengers. It had come from Kiambaa. Between Kiambaa and Sigona, there is one major terminus – Zambezi. It was edging towards 2.00pm and if the matatu did not secure enough passengers at Zambezi, it would not augur well. From Kiambaa to the city centre, there are 11 major stops along the highway: Kiambaa, Zambezi, Gitaru, Muthiga, Kinoo, 87, Uthiru, Kangemi, Agriculture (adjacent to the Kenya Agricultural & Livestock Research Organization), Safaricom and Westlands. By the time we reached Agriculture stop, the matatu had not added a single passenger.
The driver was clearly agitated: “Oo niguo tukuruta wira?” he groaned. “Is this how we are going to get the job done?” The driver said the whole of this year, his matatu business had been hard hit by a lack of travellers. “Why weren’t people travelling? It is not as if they had relocated,” he mused aloud. At the Agriculture stop, a few passengers boarded, paying Sh20 to the city centre. “These people cannot even afford to pay Sh30?” lamented the driver. Usually the fare, especially at the onset of the rush hour, would be up to Sh40.
After alighting at the terminus on Kilome Road in downtown Nairobi, I looked for a freelance tout to explain to me the oscillating dynamics of matatu fares for people going to Kiambaa and Limuru. “During off-peak hours, it is normal practice for matatus, big or small, to charge Sh50,” said Davy. It is understood that off-peak hours are from 9.30 am–3.00pm and from 8.30pm–10.00pm. “The fare for peak hours ranges from Sh70 to even Sh100 when there is a downpour.” At the moment, the matatus were asking for Sh80. Davy told me an interesting story: “The passengers have learnt how to play the waiting game with matatus. Most of the menfolk would rather go home after 8.30pm, when the fares have substantially dropped, even if it’s by Sh10.”
Davy said the matatu owners have been itching to increase the fares since the beginning of the year, but they sense rebellion from the passengers. “Already they have surreptitiously increased the Kiambaa fare by KSh10 to KSh80 and the people have been grumbling quietly about the increase, which they have been made to believe is temporarily.” According to Davy, the matatu owners really want to hike the fares, but they do not know how to without raising a commotion among the people. When I asked what was necessitating this urge, he blamed operating costs and low business trends over the previous last eight months. “The business class had hoped that the [9 March] handshake between President Uhuru Kenyatta and Raila Odinga, would work magic, return the business climate back to normal, but business had stagnated,” said Davy. A freelance tout for close to 10 years, Davy told me he had worked in the matatu industry long enough to know when people had surplus money in their pockets. “People are broke, their disposable income has dwindled, so they are not travelling as frequently. The cost of living has also certainly gone up,” he said.” People today are budgeting to the last shilling.”
“The business class had hoped that the [9 March] handshake between President Uhuru Kenyatta and Raila Odinga, would work magic, return the business climate back to normal, but business had stagnated.”
I had gone to Sigona to meet a petroleum products’ magnate who asked not to be named. “Business is tough my friend,” said the tycoon. “The first half of this year, we’ve have not done any meaningful business and so, the profit margins have been dwindling. The increase in the fuel levy in the budget was not helpful: Business has become even harder – and the profit margins have become slimmer. This is a volume business; if you don’t move volumes, you’re not doing any good business.” He said that bureaucrats at the Ministry of Energy were not making life for oil businessmen any easier when they went to renew their import licenses, among other things. “They’ve been unrelenting and squeezing us for even heftier bribes which, as you know, run into in the millions.” Life for the ordinary mwananchi was about to get even tougher as they passed on the costs, he hinted.
Already, he could tell the people were experiencing hard economic times. “The vehicular movement in Nairobi has certainly reduced. There are less traffic jams, because many people are leaving their vehicles behind, parked in their compounds, only using them when it is very necessary. I have been long enough in this oil business and understand the patterns of fuel consumption vis-à-vis motor vehicle movements.” The businessman, apart from distributing petroleum products in bulk across the East and Central African region, also owns, in partnership with others, several petrol stations across the country and in neighboring Uganda. “Fuel usage in Kenya is at its lowest. People are facing economic hard times.”
To fully comprehend the impact of what the oil tycoon was saying, I looked for my matatu crew friends to explain how the fuel increase would affect their businesses and customers. “Diesel was increased by six shillings per litre, from Sh98 to Sh104,” said my tout friend. “For sure, as night follows day, we will increase the fares – all the matatus Saccos in Nairobi have met and agreed. It is just a matter of time. We’ve have no choice but to do that. Whether people resist or not, will they walk to work?”
The matatu crew friends said, business had become tougher: “It is as if people have migrated. Since the beginning of the year, people have not been moving around as much, so we had to find a way of increasing the fares, but quietly. If, say, we used to charge Sh30 off peak hours, we increased it to Sh50. Likewise, if during peak hours the fare was Sh70, we increased it to Sh80. We knew people would be up in arms, if we just raised the fares formally and directly and publicly.” The clarification somehow explained the tiff between the conductor and the unrelenting passengers, who could not part with their Sh20.
“For sure, as night follows day, we will increase the fares – all the matatus Saccos in Nairobi have met and agreed. It is just a matter of time. We’ve have no choice but to do that. Whether people resist or not, will they walk to work?”
Budgeting to the shilling, as Davy the tout told me, were the key words. Because it is not only the folks who use matatus and live in less privileged neighbourhoods that are currently feeling the pinch, in money matters. A Runda housewife who buys all her green groceries at City Park Market, opposite the Aga Khan Hospital in Parklands area, told me how for the first time she had to write down her shopping list of all the vegetables she needed. “When I unleashed list the next time I went to the market, carefully picking what I wanted and not just throwing things in the basket, my fruits and vegetables vendors asked me: “Nikii thiku ici mutaragura indo? Mwaga kugura, murenda tucitware ku?” (Why are you people not spending as much? If you don’t buy these goods, where do you expect us to take them?)
Her husband, a real estate magnate, had told her she needed to curb her free spending mania. “So, I have also taken to writing a list when I’m shopping at my favourite supermarket; Chandarana. Do you remember how I used to just shop, throwing anything and everything in the trolley? My budget has now been drastically trimmed and I must account for every penny spent. Kweli (truly) times are hard, that it is me, daughter of Mwaniki, who has taken to writing a shopping list.” She said her hubby had told her, money had become scarce and the country had yet to achieve political equilibrium. “I think he has decided to hoard the money, until such a time, there will be money in the economy.”
“Nikii thiku ici mutaragura indo? Mwaga kugura, murenda tucitware ku?” (Why are you people not spending as much? If you don’t buy these goods, where do you expect us to take them?)
If the posh people, like my friend from Runda estate, were scaling down on their spending, what about the rank and file? I decided to pay a visit to Githurai Market, one of the busiest markets in Nairobi. Githurai Market is 10km from Nairobi’s central business district, off the Thika Superhighway. It has one of the widest catchment areas that goes all the way to Thika town (30km from Githurai) and its environs, apart from its Nairobi area shoppers.
The market, which is completely controlled by the Githurai chapter of the Nairobi Business community aka Mungiki, receives truckloads of fresh produce from as far as Tanzania and eastern Uganda. I was going to meet Susan Mweru, a fruit seller, who has been transporting oranges and tangerines from Michugwani and Mwanza in Tanzania to Githurai Market for the last five years. “We are reeling from very tough economic hard times, there is no business…‘aahh wira we thi muno’ (business is really low),” she moaned.
“In the best of times, I would offload a 12-ton truck of top-class oranges from Tanga, home of sweetest oranges in East Africa, in two days flat and I would be on my way back to Tanga to bring more oranges.” She told me the oranges would be snapped up by retail fruit sellers from as far as Makongeni in Thika town, and as near as Kasarani, Mwiki, Roysambu, and Ngara market, which is just 7km from Githurai, in Nairobi.
She would alternative her travels between Tanga and Ukerewe, the largest island on Lake Victoria, where the juicy fruits much loved by Nairobi’s well-to-do are grown.“Itonga cia Garden Estate, Kahawa Sukari, Kahawa Wendani na Juja mokaga kugura matunda na waru guku Githurai thoko.” (The rich people of Garden Estate, Roysambu, Kahawa Sukari, Kahawa Wendani and Juja, come to buy their fruits and potatoes at Githurai Market.)
However, when I went to see her, she had not travelled for the third consecutive week. “Even these rich people, they are not spending: The consignment I brought in three weeks ago is still with me – the fruits have been moving at a snail’s pace. Nikii kiuru? Ndiramenya kurathie atia.” (What’s wrong? I don’t understand what’s going on.)
Mweru introduced me to her colleague, Muthoni, in the market, who majorly deals in potatoes, some of which come from as far as Moshi, whose rich and fertile red soil is akin to that of Kiambu County. She is one of the biggest potatoes sellers in the market. “Before things become bad, I’d move up to six sacks of potatoes daily, and you know how they pack those sacks – nearly half of the potatoes are packed outside the sack itself,” said Muthoni, sitting on one the potato sacks. “Today if I sell two sacks in a day, I count myself lucky…nikuru muno” (the situation is very bad).
The women told me they had hoped the national budget read in June would somehow alleviate the situation – it was hard for me to understand their ubiquitous optimism – but said their hopes had been dampened by the tax increases on petroleum and paraffin products. “You know if the government increases fuel, it negatively affects everything else.”
“Life is about to become even harder for the ordinary folk,” says Joy Ndubai, a tax expert with Oxfam. “The Finance Bill 2018, which proposes to hike fuel and kerosene will impact on other mwananchi necessities such as electricity, food and transport. The Bill intends to do away with indirect taxes, that is zero-rated and excise duty taxes. Take it from me, if that happens, the price of unga Kenyan (staple food), will shoot up and matatu fares will increase manifold and life will become really hard for Kenyans. Perhaps the Unga Revolution squad should start regrouping for foodstuff protests in the coming days,” said Ndubai tongue-in-cheek. The Unga Revolution was a civil society initiative basically driven by Bunge la Mwananchi (People’s Parliament) members, who, in 2017, loudly agitated for reduction of price of maize flour, which had skyrocketed and was out of reach of the ordinary Kenyan.
Ndubai says the government wants to get rid of Value Added Tax (VAT) rebates or refunds that it gives manufacturers. Indirect taxes such as VAT on consumable goods such as, bread, milk and sugar, are hidden in the prices and in order for the government to cushion manufacturers, it encouraged them to reclaim the 16 per cent tax rebates from its exchequer. This is what is referred to as zero-rating. “What it will mean now is that the government will remove the zero-rating and the manufacturers will be exempt from claiming any tax relief. Sounds good on paper? What this means is that the consumer will have to bear the burden of increased taxes on everyday commodities.”
One of the most common expenditure by wananchi that will be hard hit is electric power. “The cost of electricity is certain to go up, because of the intended increase of fuel levy. This is because we still rely on diesel engines,” said Ndubai. “Manufacturers had been given a 30 per cent allowance on electricity. Electricity was among the expenditures that manufacturers count, at 100 per cent, when deducting their profits [for tax purposes]. So now, what this means is that the manufacturers will add 30 per cent over and above, to their respective expenditures. Guess who the added 30 per cent will be pushed to? The mwananchi.” It was as if the national budget was written by the Kenya Association of Manufacturers mandarins, observed Ndubai. “There isn’t anything pro-poor in that budget, the budget favours the manufacturers and the big boys all the way. Majority of Kenyans are too bamboozled by real big, impossible numbers, trillions of shillings, to really take time to understand” the implications of the budget.
“What it will mean now is that the government will remove the zero-rating and the manufacturers will be exempt from claiming any tax relief. Sounds good on paper? What this means is that the consumer will have to bear the burden of increased taxes on everyday commodities.”
The tax expert said the Kenyan people need to wake up to the realization that their lives will soon be very difficult to manage and they should come out to protest to safeguard their social interests because that is the only way they will be heard. She gave me the example of Jordan and how Jordanians had forced their Prime Minister out of his office, through mass street protests and camping out at his office.
A conservative society, Jordanians rocked the capital, Amman, with a wave of mass protests, culminating in the resignation of Prime Minister Hani Mulki. They were protesting austerity measures imposed by the International Monetary Fund on the Kingdom. Unemployment and stiff price hikes occasioned by high inflation had become unbearable and on June 3, 2018, 5,000 Jordanians camped at Mulki’s office. Perhaps, unsurprisingly, the critical price hikes were in electricity and fuel. In 2012, the same Jordanians had also gone onto the streets to protest against increasing economic hard times, after the government bowed to IMF’s stiff conditions by cutting off fuel subsidies, all in an attempt to secure an IMF loan to lower the public debt. Jordan’s national debt, which runs into hundreds of billions of shillings, just like Kenya, is equivalent to 95 percent of the country’s Gross Domestic Product.
The mere mention of IMF for some Kenyans old enough to remember the 1980s, sends cold shivers down their spine. The Washington-based financial institution, once described by Mwalimu Julius Nyerere as The International Ministry of Finance, introduced what came to be known as Structural Adjustment Programmes (SAPs) in many of the Africa countries heavily indebted to western nations, beginning 1980. Prof Said Adejumobi, a political economist who has written numerously on SAP wrote in his paper in 1997; The Structural Adjustment Programme and Democratic Transition in Africa: “For Africa, the 1980s could be better described as the ‘adjustment decade’ as most African countries, in response to their ailing economic conditions, introduced one form of adjustment reform or the other.” Other political scientists, such as Adebayo Olukoshi, called the 1980s the “lost decade” for Africa.
Kenya first became an IMF patient in 1980; that is when the first SAP was introduced in the country. To fully comprehend what SAP meant and did to Kenyans, I will quote Adejumobi: “But what is the political import of SAP? SAP is a class project which seeks to create a ‘stable’ economic environment for the accumulation of capital by local and foreign bourgeoisie, while suppressing labour through wage freeze, insistence on strict work sector, reduction in workforce, (retrenchment), especially in the public sector. It also seeks to contract the provision of social services and infrastructure, like health, education and transportation.”
During the just ended G7 meeting in Quebec, Canada, President Uhuru Kenyatta was spotted engaging Christian Lagard, the IMF’s Managing Director, on the sidelines. In his article – One Week in March: Was the Handshake Triggered by the IMF? for the E-Review – John Githongo, wrote: “On the 6th of March, the Minister of Finance, Henry Rotich, made the surprise announcement that the government was ‘broke’. He would deny this a day later in rather incongruous fashion. On the same day he and the Central Bank Governor Patrick Njoroge essentially signed on to an IMF austerity programme. It wasn’t the traditional IMF programme circa 1980/90s, but it nevertheless was an acknowledgment that we were complying with a range of ‘confidence building’ measures ‘agreed’ with the IMF as we renegotiated our expired precautionary facility with them.” David Ndii, reiterated in another E-Review article, A Quest of Power – Why Ethiopia’s Economic Transformation is a Cautionary African Tale, the fact that “Kenya is surviving on speculative capital inflows and juggling debt as it negotiates an IMF bailout.”
To add salt to injury, Ndubai told me that the cost of M-Pesa transactions had gone up as a result of a 2 per cent increase in excise duty imposed by the government. M-Pesa is today the most transacted money transfer channel in the country. “The biggest population that uses M-Pesa is the ordinary man and woman, especially the rural folk and urban poor, because these people do not have bank accounts. When M-Pesa came, it was relief, but now it may end up being a burden. Think of the rural elderly who receive pensions. With the increased tariff, which Safaricom is going to push to the consumer, it is going to be difficult for the poor people of Kenya to effectively use mobile transfer platforms.”
“Kenya is surviving on speculative capital inflows and juggling debt as it negotiates an IMF bailout.”
I found out this to be true, when I went to meet Mweru at Githurai Market. She asked me whether M-Pesa charges had been increased. “I do all my payment through M-Pesa and I have noticed these people are taking a lot more of my money. This is very unfair,” she lamented. Going to Githurai Market had also revealed something else: during off-peak hours, Githurai residents pay Sh20 as matatu fare to the city centre and vice versa. “But some matatus were being adventurous by charging Sh30,” said Mweru. “If they push the fares further up, they are going to annoy the people. I think they are testing the waters to see how the people are going to react.”
I now understood what Sh20 meant to the five matatu travellers on their way to Kiambaa: in Githurai, it covers your entire fare back home. When I returned to Kiambaa stage at Kilome Road terminus after talking to Ndubai, the fares had been pegged at KSh100, irrespective of the weather. Hard times indeed.
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The Evolving Language of Corruption in Kenya
A cabal of politicos has appropriated the everyday language of hardworking Kenyans to camouflage their intentions to perpetuate corruption and state capture.
Andrew Ngumba had a curious way of explaining away institutionalized corruption every time he was accused of engaging in it. “In the days gone by, before the village elders arbitrated any pressing or thorny issue, they would be offered libation just before the deliberations and then thanked with a goat thereafter, as an appreciation for a job well done.”
Those who are old enough will remember Ngumba, who died in 1997, as the mayor of Nairobi from 1977–1980. He later became the MP for Mathare constituency, renamed Kasarani, from 1983–1986. Ngumba estate, off Thika highway, next to East African Breweries, is named after the canny entrepreneur-politician, who founded Rural Urban Credit Finance Limited, dubbed the “ghetto bank”. The finance house collapsed in 1984 and Ngumba sought political refuge in Sweden.
Just like your archetypal politician, the wily Ngumba would with characteristic panache then ask, “Was the libation and the goat a form of saying ‘thank you for your time’ to the elders, or was it just plain corruption?” His cheekiness aside, which Kenyan society was Ngumba describing? Pre-colonial, before the advent of British settlers and missionaries? Or was he referring to a pre-urban, rural-setting Kenya, before it was contaminated by colonialism, modern capitalism and corruption?
We can imagine what his answer to his own rhetorical question was. Of greater interest, is the way he chose to re-tell the socio-cultural anecdote, with the obvious intention of exonerating himself and like-minded politicians, when caught engaging in bribery and institutional corruption: he implicitly gave a nod to the nefarious activity by normalizing bribery, a vice previously unknown and unexperienced in the very society he was describing.
“Political elites [also] appropriate moral language and social norms to ‘conventionalise’ corruption, fashioning a vocabulary that takes the moral sting from opprobrium, corruption and its various forms,” says Wachira Maina in his report, State Capture – Inside Kenya’s Inability to Fight Corruption. “Corruption is ‘traditionalised’ and reframed as gift-giving or as a form of socially recognizable reciprocity. Corrupt practices are then expressed in the language of moral obligation. No moral wrong is involved when an official or politician from one’s village violates conflict of interest rules or other laws to provide some ‘token benefit’.”
But when is a gift a bribe and a bribe a gift? Let us take the example of the chief – village or otherwise. Until very recently, up to the late 1990s, the chief was a powerful creature bestowed with the powers of “life and death” over his subjects. Until just before the December 1997 general elections, the statutory powers of the chief were many times greater than those of any elected official that you can think of. With the Inter-Parties Parliamentary Group (IPPG) reforms, some of their powers were supposedly clipped.
Picture this: Two parties are squabbling over a land boundary. They must go to the chief for arbitration. On the eve of the arbitration, one of the parties, most probably the one who has encroached on his neighbour’s land, gets a brainwave and pays the chief a visit in advance, ostensibly to remind him of their big day. Because of the unwritten law that it is “culturally rude” to visit a chief “empty-handed”, the visiting party decides to “gift” the chief with whatever, as has happened from time immemorial. One can, without too much effort, imagine the possible outcome of the land tussle the following day.
Chiefs were not only very powerful, they happened to be some of the richest people wherever they reigned. Should we wonder why chiefs as public officials, for example, own some of the biggest chunks of land in their area of jurisdiction? At the grassroots level, a socio-cultural norm was deliberately subverted to allow open bribery and the establishment of institutionalized corruption.
As currently constituted in the country, chiefs are an invention of British colonial rule. They are part of the indirect rule that the colonial government imposed on Kenyans. When Kenya gained independence from the British in 1963, the post-independent government inherited the colonial indirect system of government — the whole kit and caboodle. With their “illegitimacy” and corruption networks carried over and sanctioned by the new African government, chiefs entrenched themselves even further by extending their corrupt patronage networks within the government bureaucratic structures.
During their “reign of terror”, which continues today, chiefs interpreted bribes as “gifts” that had to be given by “force of law”; any person with matters arising at the chief’s court knew that a “gift” had to be carried along. So, even though this form of corruption was covert and not dangerous to the existence of the state, it impoverished and terrorized the poor peasants.
Chiefs were not only very powerful, they happened to be some of the richest people wherever they reigned.
Corruption, as an evolving concept, was introduced into Kenya society by the British colonial government and, the civil service has been known to be the home of institutionalized state corruption since pre-independence Kenya. Think about it, the word corruption does not exist in the lexicons of Kenya’s ethnic communities. In the Kikuyu community, for instance, there is a specific lexicon that describes a thief and theft, but there is no word for corruption per se, because in African societies, corruption, a Western concept (and as defined today), was unknown in many African traditional societies.
Indeed, as Wachira observes in his report released in 2019, “corruption has been a persistent problem in Kenya since before independence, but it has flourished and put down robust roots since the country’s return to multiparty politics in 1992.”
What is corruption? For the longest time, corruption has been defined in the binary fashion of either petty or grand corruption. Political scientists have variously described corruption as an act in which the power of public office is used for personal gain. In other words, the misuse of public resources by state officials for private gain. Corruption has also been described as behaviour that deviates from the formal rules of conduct governing the actions of someone in a position of public authority or trust.
The benefits of corruption are either economic — when an exchange of cash occurs — or social, in the case of favouritism or nepotism. Hence, grand corruption, sometimes referred to as political corruption, involves top government officials and political decision makers who engage in exchanges of large sums of illegally acquired money. Petty corruption involves mid- or low-level state officials, who are often underpaid and who interact with the public on a daily basis.
In his concise report, Wachira notes that “a generation of reforms has not dented the corruption edifice or undone its rhizome-like penetration into the body politic of Kenya.” Why? “Part of the problem is conceptual: How we name corruption and how we understand its character,” points out the constitutional lawyer.
These simple but loaded terms of “petty” and “grand” corruption present a false dichotomy, says Wachira. “Petty” suggests that the corruption is merely an irritant, something people do to speed up things or evade a long queue — a way of “lubricating the system. “The term suggests an expedient with trivial effect, considered case by case. In fact, that characterization is deeply mistaken. . . . Most important, it becomes a fee, because it guarantees that what was initially a free service is no longer so. From a macro-economic perspective, its distortionary effect could be as at least as impactful as grand corruption,” writes Wachira.
That is why petty corruption in Kenya has long been baptized chai, meaning tea, or kitu kidogo, which means something small. It is daily language that is used to camouflage an illegal act by likening it to one of Kenya’s best-known pastimes — drinking tea. Civil servants demand chai from the public in order, they argue, to grease the bureaucratic wheel, which oftentimes revolves very, very slowly and needs to be lubricated for it to move. Chai and Kitu Kidogo have become interchangeable, because “something small” also connotes a kind of “lubricant” that “hastens” service delivery.
The police, especially traffic cops, who are synonymous with petty corruption, have perfected the language of chai-taking more than any other state official such that when Kenyans conjure bribe giving, the first person who immediately comes to mind is the policeman.
The State Capture report says, “Indeed language is in a parlous condition when the bribe a judge takes to free a dangerous criminal is named chai, like a nice ‘cuppa’ tea between intimates.”
During their “reign of terror”, which continues today, chiefs interpreted bribes as “gifts” that had to be given by “force of law”.
The report further states that, “the term ‘grand’ on the other hand can also be misleading if grand suggests debilitating to the state. Implicit in the term is the notion of a corrupt deal of significant size, involving senior officials and high-ranking politicians. Such corruption involves large-scale stealing of state resources and, the theory goes, it erodes confidence in government, undermines the rule of law and spawns economic instability.”
In Kenya, grand corruption has involved such mindboggling money schemes as the Goldenberg and Anglo-Leasing scandals and more recently, the Eurobond scandal. These mega-scams are a result of collusion between state officials and politicians, who over time have formed powerful corruption cartels that have proved inextinguishable.
Why does this corruption on a massive scale not cause moral outrage or shock in the public? Why is it not obvious to all? “There are cases in which the term ‘grand’ corruption fails to communicate the moral shock and magnitude that seems implicit. ‘Grand’ then becomes merely an audit term that simply describes financial scale,” says Wachira. “If that conclusion is right, it would then explain the frequent lack of moral outrage about widespread theft in government, with the result that there will be cases in which characterising corruption as petty or grand implies nothing about its impact or the social and political levers one can push to eliminate it.”
“Grand corruption” in Kenya today has evidently surpassed the current nomenclature; the staggering sums of money stolen have numbed the people’s sensibilities to shock and have refused to register in their psyche. How, for example, can the president have the audacity of treating Kenyans to shock therapy by telling them that KSh2 billion is stolen from the state coffers every 24 hours? That kind of pillage can no longer be termed as corruption, let alone grand corruption. A more appropriate language has to be found; and there can be no other word for it other than theft.
The State Capture report problematizes the matter of the naming of state plunder and discusses at length what could be the problem with language that seeks to explain the massive haemorrhage of state resources orchestrated by unscrupulous individuals. The report notes that corruption in Kenya has been described as a malignant tumour that hampers the government from governing properly “The problem of naming [corruption] is then compounded by medical or sociological language that pathologises corruption. . . . Therein lies the problem: Anti-corruption programmes ‘pathologise’ the relationship between corruption and the state, deploying medical terms like ‘cancer on the body politic,’ ‘a disease that we must cure’ or ‘a pervasive ill’ potentially responsive to curative interventions.
Even when the language used is sociological rather medical, the pathological dimension stays. Corruption is ‘a perverse culture’ or ‘negative norm’. Both the medical and the sociological language mobilise a deep-seated ‘conviction that there is something pathological – an illness – within [Kenya] politics and culture’. This suggests that what the reformers must do is ‘to identify this pathology’ and formulate a diagnosis that examines the Kenyan society and brings to the surface the ‘fissures and contradictions’ that explain the graft.
In his report, Wachira goes on to say, “The medical perspective that implies that the state has gone awry and can be put to rights with an appropriate intervention is pervasive. Implicit in the diagnosis and the proposed cure is the thought that the state is constructed for some legitimate — or benign — purpose that has been perverted by corruption.”
Joseph G. Kibe, a Permanent Secretary in six different ministries in the 1970s, was once interviewed about his experience working as a top government bureaucrat, many years after his retirement in 1979. Said Kibe, “In those days, I could see some kind of low-level corruption starting to creep in, especially involving clerks. For instance, in the Lands Office, they would remove one file and hide it away from where the index shows it is and wait until the owners of the land wanted to conduct a transaction at which point they would ask for a bribe.”
The same low-level corruption has been rampant in the corridors of justice. The low-paid court clerk in the magistrate’s court “disappears” a case file so that he can solicit a bribe to enable the miraculous re-appearance of the “lost” file.
“A generation of reforms has not dented the corruption edifice or undone its rhizome-like penetration into the body politic of Kenya.”
The former PS, who went on to work for Transparency International (TI) Kenya Chapter, said in 2004, “Corruption had crept into ministries, departments and government corporations and was likely to entrench itself unless it was stopped. With corruption you give up development because all resources you have, only a little will do good. A lot will be taken away for personal use.”
Because the patronage networks created by the civil service and the political class have ensured that corruption is profitable and has high returns, it has become extremely difficult to fight the vice. “The difficulties of fighting corruption lie in the union of corruption and politics; a union in which, at least since Goldenberg scandal, a power elite has captured the state, especially the Presidency and the Treasury and repurposed the machinery of the government into a ‘temporary zone for personalised appropriation’” says Wachira.
State capture is a term that was popularized in South Africa, a country that since its independence 27 years ago, has witnessed some of the biggest state scandals since the end of Apartheid. “What is at play in Kenya [today] is ‘state capture’ defined as a political project in which a well-organised elite network constructs a symbiotic relationship between the constitutional state and a parallel shadow state for its own benefit”, explains the State Capture report.
The success of the state capture rests on the ability of a small group of powerful and rich operatives to take over and pervert the institutions of democracy, while keeping the façade of a functioning democracy. Thus, oversight institutions are weakened; law enforcement is partisan and in the pockets of the politicians; civic space is asphyxiated; free elections are frustrated and are typically won by the most violent or the most corrupt, or those who are both violent and corrupt. Arrest and indictments are often the precursor of inaction, not proof of official will to fight corruption.
“Corruption eats at the moral fabric of the nation,” once said Harris Mule, one of the finest PSs to have served at Kenya’s Ministry of Finance. “Positive norms and traditions, once appropriated by the corrupt, instantly transform themselves into curses. Take the uniquely Kenyan institution of Harambee, as an example. It has been changed from what was once a positive manifestation of the culture of philanthropy and community service, into a political tool that fails to deliver what it promises.”
Mule further said, “Corruption causes poverty by promoting unfair distribution of [the] national income and inefficient use of resources. Poverty and inequality in turn breed discontent and can cause national instability. The political implications of sharp economic inequalities are potent.” The former PS was clear in his mind that corruption was the art of “transferring state assets into private hands at the expense of the public interest and purse.”
Harambee, which means, “pulling together”, was a noble idea that tapped into the egalitarian and altruistic nature of African society, that of pooling their meagre resources together for the public good. It was very popular throughout the 1970s and 1980s and to a lesser extent in the 1990s. When Mwai Kibaki came to power in 2003, his government instituted a probe into the now much-maligned popular group effort. Wachira explains that,
As the report of the Task Force on Public Collections or Harambees showed clearly, politicians are the largest donors to ‘charitable’ causes — churches, schools, higher education and funerals are firm favourites — to which they give fortunes that are many times more that their own legitimate incomes. Such charity is, in truth, a bait and switch ploy: once moral institutions buckle to the lure of corruption money, the corrupt buy absolution and are free to dip deeper into the public coffers.
Both the Jomo Kenyatta and Daniel arap Moi regimes misused the Harambee spirit for self-aggrandizement. Mzee Kenyatta, who hardly gave any money towards any Harambee effort and if he did, it was a symbolic sum, expected Kenyans to contribute to his Harambee causes, which were baptized all manner of noteworthy names. The monies were not accounted for and nobody would dare ask how the funds raised were spent, whether they were spent on the causes for which they had been contributed. In many instances, the money collected went to line the pockets of Mzee’s friends.
During Moi’s time, Harambee was used by civil servants, especially chiefs, to solicit bribes and favours from people calling into government offices for services that are meant to be free. A citizen visiting a chief’s office to obtain a personal identification document would be presented with a card for a Harambee by the chief and his subordinates. If you wanted to be served at the Ministry of Lands for example, you would be presented with a Harambee card by a junior officer acting on behalf of his boss. Yours was not to question the authenticity of the card, why a public office was presenting a Harambee card to and all sundry, or why it was “mandatory” to contribute before being served in a public office. If you did, you would be called an “enemy of development” and labelled anti-Nyayo.
Why does this corruption on a massive scale not cause moral outrage or shock in the public?
Just after the Narc party was swept into power in 2003, the country witnessed a “citizen’s jury” at work: it exposed and sometimes went as far as making citizens’ arrests of errant police officers caught engaging in bribery. But what happened to citizens’ arrests? It was just a matter of time before the citizens themselves caved in and returned to offering the same bribes to the very same police officers. Why? Because they realized belatedly that to fight institutionalized corruption in Kenya, there must be goodwill and concerted effort from the government: the fish rots from the head and the fight against corruption must begin at the top.
Since 2013, corruption seems to have acquired a new word to camouflage it – hustler. Under the Jubilee government, “hustler” has come to describe tenderpreneurs masquerading as the toiling masses. It is the new lexicon that has been adopted by a cabal of people intent on raiding government coffers, a cabal that has appropriated the everyday language of Kenyans who eke out a living the hard way. It is the latest socio-cultural jargon that has been unleashed on the political landscape by a network of politicos intent on acquiring state power so that, in their turn, they can perpetuate state capture.
Pan-Africanism in a Time of Pandemic
Solidarity conferences have been replaced by aid conferences called by “donors”. What we need is a Pan-African conference organised by movements and individuals committed to human development.
There was a time, in the last century, when the under-privileged of the world shared a common understanding of the causes of their condition. Today the causes manifest in vaccine Apartheid. That the COVID-19 pandemic should find most African countries with less than one doctor and less than ten beds per a thousand of their population shows the failure of the development efforts of the past 60 or so years. The same countries all struggle with unsustainable debt, which is still being paid during the pandemic and has been increased by the COVID debt. When the global emergency was declared in January 2021, development partners began to hoard personal protective equipment. When vaccines became available a year later, there was insufficient production capacity to meet world needs. The same development partners rejected the option of allowing African countries to manufacture the vaccines on the continent. They hoarded their supplies until they were nearly expired before donating them to African countries.
In the 1950s, there would have been a different reaction. By then, African and Asian countries were moving inexorably towards independence. Organised by Indonesia, Myanmar (now Burma), Ceylon (now Sri Lanka), India, and Pakistan, African countries attended the Bandung Conference of 1955 with economic and social development in mind. Then as now, China and the United States were on opposite sides of the Cold War and each sought to influence Africa while Africa sought non-alignment in order to freely pursue her development goals.
For one week in Bandung, Indonesia, twenty-nine African and Asian heads of state and other leaders discussed the formation of an alliance based on five principles: political self-determination, mutual respect for sovereignty, non-aggression, non-interference in internal affairs, and equality. The ten-points in the communiqué released after the conference became the governing principles of the non-aligned movement and they included self-determination, protection of human rights, the promotion of economic and cultural cooperation, and a call for an end to racial discrimination wherever it occurred. The alliance began to disintegrate when India and Yugoslavia shunned the radical stand against Western imperialism, leading to the organisation of a rival non-aligned conference in 1965. The 1965 conference was postponed.
While there was no follow-up to Bandung, the ideals it stood for were being espoused by other formations. On the African continent, the Casablanca Group—the precursor to the Organisation of African Unity (OAU)—had a membership of five African states: Egypt, Ghana, Guinea, Mali, Libya, and Morocco. The All-African Peoples’ Conference (AAPC) took place in Cairo in 1958 after the founder, Uganda’s John Kale, was inspired by his attendance at the Afro-Asian Peoples’ Solidarity Conference the previous year. It was a meeting representing peoples and movements and not just states. The conference demanded the immediate and unconditional independence of all the African peoples, and the total evacuation of the foreign forces of aggression and oppression stationed in Africa.
The All-African People’s Conference recommended African co-operation in the interest of all the Africans, denounced racial discrimination in South, East and Central Africa, and demanded the abolition of apartheid in South Africa, the suppression of the Federation of Nyasaland (Malawi) and Rhodesia (Zimbabwe), and independence for the two countries.
The Afro-Asian People’s Solidarity Organisation (AAPSO) organised a conference in Cuba in 1957. The 500 delegates to the AAPSO conference represented national liberation movements as well as states and after a number of such gatherings, AAPSO resolved to include Cuba and Latin America in its membership. Thus was the organisation of Solidarity with the People of Asia, Europe, Africa and Latin America (OSPAAAL) born.
The activities of OSPAAAL included financial support for the anti-colonial struggle in Palestine and for South Africa’s Africa National Congress (ANC). American aggression towards Cuba and its blockade of Vietnam were denounced and global solidarity was shown to political activists under threat of arrest. The movement solidified in the 1966 Tricontinental Conference in Havana, Cuba. The Solidarity movement established a think tank, the Tricontinental Institute for Social Research which produced educational materials in the form of newsletters, articles and the now iconic revolutionary art. This work continues to this day.
For the next decade, Cuba provided support to the armed struggle for independence in Angola, Mozambique, Guinea Bissau and Equatorial Guinea, and to South Africa’s ANC. Fidel Castro was a familiar face on the diplomatic circuit and received Julius Nyerere of Tanzania, and other leaders, in Havana.
The United States government was caught between the expectations of its allies, the former colonial powers and those of the soon-to-be independent countries whose alliance it sought. The civil rights movement in the United States was a thorn in its side as it appealed to Africans in the Independence movement. America chose her traditional allies and neo-colonialism put down roots.
Regardless of that, leaders of African and American movements interacted, learning from each other; Julius Nyerere, Kenneth Kaunda, and a number of other leaders of the day met Kwame Nkrumah at Ghana’s independence celebrations in 1957. Martin Luther King was also there. Reflecting on the cost of freedom and mentioning Egypt, Ethiopia, South Africa, Uganda, Nigeria, Liberia and Kenya, King later wrote, “Ghana reminds us that freedom never comes on a silver platter. It’s never easy. . . . Ghana reminds us of that. You better get ready to go to prison.” Following a visit to Nigeria in 1960, King reported,
I just returned from Africa a little more than a month ago and I had the opportunity to talk to most of the major leaders of the new independent countries of Africa and also leaders of countries that are moving toward independence [. . .] they are saying in no uncertain terms that racism and colonialism must go for they see the two are as based on the same principle, a sort of contempt for life, and a contempt for human personality.
Today Dr King would probably have added predatory debt to that list.
Malcolm X visited Egypt and Ghana in 1959 and met Gamal Abdel Nasser and Kwame Nkrumah. In 1964, he spoke at the OAU conference in Egypt. He went to Tanzania and to Kenya where he met Oginga Odinga and Jomo Kenyatta. Back in New York Malcolm X related his experience: “As long as we think—as one of my good brothers mentioned out of the side of his mouth here a couple of Sundays ago—that we should get Mississippi straightened out before we worry about the Congo, you’ll never get Mississippi straightened out.” Prophetic words. Just this month the President of the United States warned against a “Jim Crow assault” on the voting rights of people of colour and the under-privileged that were won in 1965 after a long and hard civil rights struggle.
By the time the Bandung Conference was taking place, Frantz Fanon had already published Black Skin, White Masks and was to follow it up with A Dying Colonialism and The Wretched of the Earth. Walter Rodney’s How Europe Underdeveloped Africa would appear in 1972. There was an explosion of global awareness of Africa. Musicians like Miriam Makeba, Hugh Masekela, Letta Mbulu, and Caiphus Semenya and others became known in Europe and America as they raised awareness about apartheid. African fashion became the signature of the civil rights movement. On the African continent, the Second World Black and African Festival of Arts and Culture (Festac77) was held in Lagos, attracting 59 countries. Exhibits ranged from David Aradeon’s African architectural technology to work by the Chicago Africobra arts collective. The welcome given to the American diaspora contingent at the venue is testament to the sense of oneness that prevailed at the time.
Yet here we are in the new millennium facing identical existential crises. Palestine has lost over half the territory it had in 1966. The televised ethnic cleansing taking place in the country is openly supported by American aid. The Republic of South Africa has found that the end of apartheid may only have been the beginning of the struggle for human development. The country is just emerging from three days of looting and burning by impoverished citizens. Cuba is still under a US embargo and there was even an attempt to blockade medical supplies being shipped to Cuba for the fight against COVID.
Cold War tensions between China and the West have been revived with the United State’s growing opposition to China’s Belt and Road Initiative. China has remained faithful to the non-interference principle, to the extent of transacting business with African leaders without regard to that other principle, the observance of human rights.
While most African countries are nominally independent, this has not brought development as they had envisaged it. Now, as in 1966, the main economic activity is the export of raw commodities. Africa’s Asian partners in the Bandung Communiqué have long since moved out of the realm of what used to be called “The Third World”. Malaysia, at number 62 out of 189 countries listed on the Human Development Index, is ranked as a Very High Human Development Country. Indonesia, the host of the Bandung Conference, is in the High Human Development category, with a ranking of 107. India, which abandoned the spirit of Bandung, is a medium human development country (ranked 131) while Yugoslavia ceased to exist. Only eight African countries are highly developed, while 30 fall in the Low Human Development category. Within that category, Uganda slipped down one place in 1997 and is ranked 159.
Solidarity conferences have been replaced by aid conferences called by “donors”. They are no longer organised by activists like the Moroccan Mehdi Ben Barka who, together with Chu Tzu-chi of the People’s Republic of China, organized the Tricontinental Conference (Ben Barka was abducted and “disappeared” in 1965 before the conference took place.) or John Kale. Recent conferences have been organised by European heads of state or United Nations bodies. India and China organise their own conferences for Africa, having transitioned to the ranks of developed countries. Attending delegates are the residual wretched.
The India–Africa Forum Summit (IAFS) inaugurated in 2008 is scheduled to be held once every three years. The France-Africa Finance Summit is an initiative of French President Emmanuel Macron whose various remarks about Africa on his tour of the continent were perceived as racist and disparaging.
At the Forum on China-African Cooperation (FOCAC) in Johannesburg in 2015, China offered US$60 billion in development assistance, US$5 billion in the form of grants and the rest in loans. Attendance by African heads of state was higher than for the most recent African Union Conference; only six did not turn up (but were represented).
Attending delegates are the residual wretched.
The following year FOCAC was held in Beijing. On the first day, members of the American Congress issued a statement condemning China’s predatory lending to African and Asian countries. They argued that the recipient countries eventually wound up needing to be bailed out by the IMF, mostly with American money, thereby transferring American capital to China. For his part, the beleaguered president of economically battered Zimbabwe received the offer of another US$60 billion with fulsome gratitude, saying President Xi Jinping was doing what “we expected those who colonised us yesterday to do.”
The International Development Association for Africa: Heads of State Summit held on 15 July 2021 was a World Bank exercise. The agenda, according to their website, was “to highlight the importance of an ambitious and robust 20th replenishment of the International Development Association.” In other words, it was about increasing members’ debt. These days “cooperation” means aid – with strings attached – not solidarity. This year there will also be a virtual African Economic Conference (AEC) to discuss “Financing Africa’s post COVID-19 Development”. It is organised by the United Nations Development Programme, the African Development Bank and the Economic Commission for Africa.
Of the original anti-colonial activist countries of the 1960s, most Asian countries are in a position to offer solutions to economic questions; they compete in the global arena manufacturing pharmaceuticals and agricultural technology. China has mastered all of the foregoing as well as dominating foreign infrastructural development investment. The African bloc stands alone in not being organised enough to participate in the global discourse except as receivers of aid.
It is true that together with Latin American countries, resource-wealthy African countries have endured Western-engineered coups d’état and other debilitating interference but the dynamism of Gamal Abdel Nasser, Patrice Lumumba, Kwame Nkrumah and Amilcar Cabral is missing. In its place is the renewed use of the once hated colonial public order laws to quell dissent against corruption and repression.
These days “cooperation” means aid – with strings attached – not solidarity.
Two decades after Lumumba’s assassination, the less wealthy Burkina Faso lit the path to self-sufficiency before the country’s radical president, Captain Thomas Sankara, was assassinated with French connivance. Three months earlier, Sankara had called for the repudiation of debt at an Organisation of African Unity Conference. The delegates were stunned as can be seen from the expression on the late Kenneth Kaunda’s face.
The last African-Asian Conference organised by Africa may or may not be more of a memorial than the birth (re-birth?) of the solidarity movement. On the 50th anniversary of the original Bandung Conference, in 2005, Asian and African leaders met in Jakarta and Bandung to launch the New Asian-African Strategic Partnership (NAASP). They pledged to promote political, economic, and cultural cooperation between the two continents. An interesting outcome was their communiqué to the United Nations General Assembly and the Security Council concerning the development of Palestine. On the cultural front, there is talk of a third Festac.
Then there is Cuba, host of the 1966 Tricontinental Conference. Cuba ranks as a high human development country and has the highest doctor-patient ratio in the world—more than double the concentration in the US—and the most hospital beds per 10,000, nearly double what is available in the US. Cuba also has the highest pupil-teacher ratio in the world. Out of necessity due to the economic embargo imposed on it, and being unable to import fertilisers, Cuba pioneered vermiculture, a technique now in use globally. The country manufactures 80 per cent of its vaccines and has five COVID-19 vaccine candidates (two are being used under emergency licence like AstraZeneca, J&J and the other Western products). While Western pharmaceutical manufacturers took an early decision to bar Africa from manufacturing its vaccines on intellectual property grounds, Cuba is willing to transfer its technology to countries that need it. Funds should have been no object as the African continent is awash with COVID Emergency Response funds borrowed from the World Bank and the IMF. This is the kind of development that has been sought for the last sixty-plus years.
The dynamism of Gamal Abdel Nasser, Patrice Lumumba, Kwame Nkrumah and Amilcar Cabral is missing.
But Africa is not talking to Cuba about developing vaccine capacity. African leaders are waiting for UNICEF, appointed by the World Bank, to procure Western-made vaccines for them with funds they shall have to repay. In Uganda, delivery is expected in six months. Meanwhile, Norway and others are donating small amounts of vaccine, hardly enough to cover the twenty-nine million Ugandans that will give us immunity. The Indian-manufactured brand, AstraZeneca, is not recognised in Europe and will prevent recipients travelling there.
The Conscious Era began to wind down with the accession of leaders of independent African states more interested in the instant gratification of cash inflows than in the principles of the past. Yoweri Museveni had the opportunity to learn from the Cuban model when he met Castro in the early months of his rule. As it turned out, he was only wasting El Comandante’s time. Despite condemning his predecessors’ SDR177,500,000 debt to the IMF during the Bush War, Museveni’s SDR49,800,000 structural adjustment facility was signed on 15 Jun 1987—he had been in power for just eighteen months. Since then he has extended his credit to SDR1,606,275 (US$2,285,199.26) from the IMF alone. New debt to the World Bank (contracted since 2020) amounts to US$468,360,000.00. A separate COVID Debt owed to the World Bank amounts to US$300 million so far while over US$31 million is owed to the African Development Bank. These funds have not been used to purchase vaccines.
The Black Lives Matter movement has echoes of the Black Power movement of the 1960s. The movement is strong on showing solidarity with persecuted activists and victims of racism through online campaigns. BLM chapters are in solidarity with Ghanaian activists. Like the Tricontinental Institute, BLM has made attempts to educate, for example via the Pan-African Activist Sunday School. What is needed is another Pan-African conference organised by movements and individuals committed to human development.
Protests, Chaos and Uprisings: Lessons from South Africa’s Past
The recent riots are an attempt to force change after years of neglect by a state that has remained aloof and uninterested in the economic and social dispossession of the African majority.
The current upheavals across South Africa are ostensibly in response to former President Jacob Zuma’s arrest (or surrender) on 8 July 2021. But contrary to the misinformation in circulation, Zuma was not arrested on charges of corruption, racketeering and for diverting state assets and resources to a circle of cronies including the Gupta family. His reluctance to appear before the Zondo Commission led Deputy Chief Justice Raymond Zondo, the Chair, to issue a warrant for Zuma’s arrest for contempt of court.
Protest politics in South Africa have a long history and protests have been deployed differently at different historical moments. Whereas protests were an important vehicle during the fight against apartheid, their resurgence and propulsion to the centre of the struggles in post-apartheid South Africa has come as a surprise to many. These so-called “service delivery protests” are said to be caused by community dissatisfaction with municipal service delivery and to lack of communication between councils and councillors on the one hand, and citizens on the other.
The African National Congress-led (ANC) government has been facing growing protests associated with economic contraction, and the dual pressures of a recessionary environment and rising unemployment. But while their grievances may be valid, citizens’ protests have been perceived as having a negative impact on government programmes, businesses, investor confidence and jobs. Indeed, the ongoing service delivery protests could be regarded as a self-defeating strategy in those areas that are more susceptible to them, mostly the municipalities located in the peri-urban areas.
Historians and experts argue that these types of riots are not merely random acts of violence or people taking advantage of dire circumstances to steal and destroy property. They are, instead, a serious attempt to force change after years of neglect by politicians, media, and the general public.
This article takes a historical view of South Africa’s current upheaval and suggests that this moment has been a long time coming.
Service delivery in historical context
The pre-1994 era was prone to mass protests and defiance campaigns, some sporadic but most coordinated by social movements. They include the two defiance campaigns of 1952 and 1989, in Gauteng, the PAC (Pan Africanist Congress) defiance campaigns that led to the Sharpeville and Langa massacres in 1960 and, of course, the 1976 Soweto student uprisings. These coordinated mass protests had a clear aim — the abolition of the apartheid laws which were central to racial segregation, white supremacy and the oppression of the majority black population.
The violent service delivery protests, which are mostly prevalent at the local government level, have been associated with the results of apartheid: marginalisation of the majority black population with regard to basic needs, including housing, clean drinking water, proper sanitation, electricity, and access to healthcare and to infrastructure. After the end of apartheid, the new democratic government led by the ANC inherited an unequal society and was confronted with protests against lack of basic services and systemic corruption at local government level. Some scholars and analysts have suggested that such unrest epitomises the dispossession of African people, precluding them from complete liberation in their own land and subjecting them to continued subjugation by their white counterparts.
The ongoing service delivery protests could be regarded as a self-defeating strategy in those areas that are more susceptible to them.
Various communities throughout the country have resorted to violent riots, destroying schools, libraries and the houses of underperforming local government councillors. One opinion is that service delivery protests are exacerbated in the informal settlements where poverty and unemployment are high, and where there is a lack of technical and managerial skills within municipalities beset by corruption, poor financial management, and a lack of accountability on the part of local councillors and municipal officials.
Public protests did not feature as prominently during the initial part of the Mandela administration (1994–1999). The relative lull in public protests following the inauguration of the Mandela presidency in 1994 might have been a result of three key factors. One aspect is the negotiated settlement that gave rise to what is often characterised as a democratic dispensation, popularly and quite falsely described as a new era for South African people but which rapidly descended into mass frustration. In the neo-liberal euphoria of the “new democratic South Africa”, the strategic power of mass protest action that had helped to remove the apartheid regime struggled to find a new footing. Protests were suddenly viewed as acts against the state and were vigorously discouraged by an ANC government that was increasingly detached from the broader population. The ANC-led administration preferred to mobilise mass movements as cheerleaders of government programmes and as a result, when protests did take place, they were often state-managed to be peaceful, media-friendly events.
Another factor is that militant apartheid-era civic society formations were demobilised, which effectively weakened opposition to unpopular government policies and even brought newer NGOS into sharp disagreement with the government. Finally, the adoption of the pro-poor Reconstruction and Development Programme (RDP), which was aimed at redistributing wealth, was well received as a pacifying measure. However, in 1996, less than 24 months after the introduction of the RDP, the Growth, Employment and Redistribution (GEAR) macro-economic policy was adopted, signalling a shift to neoliberalism that prioritised the interests of big business over those of poor citizens. The adoption of GEAR led to the immediate loss of the few economic benefits citizens had received under the apartheid system.
Various social formations including the labour movement and civil society organisations accused the government of “selling out the people’s mandate”. Cost recovery was an essential part of GEAR, and this soon pitted indigent citizens against the government. While the shift to GEAR marked a radical change in how the government approached delivery of services and generated criticism from various quarters, it did not immediately trigger mass protest action mainly because the organisations championing workers’ and ordinary citizens’ rights were in alliance with the ANC. But the grounds were laid for future public protests.
In the neo-liberal euphoria of the “new democratic South Africa”, the strategic power of mass protest action that had helped to remove the apartheid regime struggled to find a new footing.
Some point to the FIFA World Cup (June–July 2010) as a tipping point. The country’s working poor came out in protest, angered by the commercialisation of municipal services and escalating poverty. Other factors that have been the cause of the so-called service delivery protests include the rising costs of basic services (clean drinking water, sanitation and electricity) as a result of the implementation of orthodox market policies, forced demolitions of informal settlements, disparities between luxury stadia and impoverished neighbourhoods and the gentrification brought on by the World Cup which has made inner-cities inaccessible to low-income informal traders.
This contradictory socio-economic policy framework has produced a highly fragmented regulatory structure, which has further compounded the socio-spatial unevenness of contemporary South Africa. The protracted low growth after the 2014 crash of commodity prices and various political scandals undermined the credibility of the ANC leadership. The national difficulties reverberated at the local level; after ruling Johannesburg for over two decades, the ANC lost the city to a coalition of opposition parties in 2016. The new mayor, Herman Mashaba, a self-styled libertarian entrepreneur, announced his commitment to “pro-poor” investments and to ending the arm’s length approach of municipal service providers.
Analysing the rationale behind the provision of basic services may help to clarify the uneasy categorisation of South African social policies and political discourse with respect to the neoliberal paradigm.
The current situation
In the first quarter of 2021, amidst the social and economic devastation wrought by the COVID-19 pandemic, the South African Treasury announced, and subsequently defended, its decision not to increase the country’s extensive social grant payments — that now reach 18 million impoverished citizens — above inflation. Treasury officials have argued that a bigger increase in social welfare protection is simply not currently feasible given the country’s rapidly rising public debt — which has now breached the 80 per cent of debt-to-GDP ratio threshold — and investor demands for fiscal consolidation. This type of fiscal restraint is unfolding in a context of heightened wealth inequality and an official unemployment rate now above 30 per cent.
And, as is often the case — whether they have been peaceful, organised, or not — protesters have been largely viewed as looters, rioters and thugs. Feelings of righteous anger following a year of lockdown, precarious livelihoods, escalating state aggression, and hostile and often deadly policing are bound to have been co-opted by thuggish elements. But the dangerous shades of ethno-nationalism that originally seemed to fuel the riots cannot be left unexamined as they have an impact on how we think about the protests, just as terms like “uprising” and “upheaval” offer ways to think about the unrest as indications of a far deeper social, economic and political rupture.
The adoption of GEAR led to the immediate loss of the few economic benefits citizens had received under the apartheid system.
Reducing the unrest to a “looting spree” also averts attention from a state that has for 27 years been aloof and not interested in recalibrating the economic and social dispossession of the African majority. While President Ramaphosa seems lethargic and tone-deaf, he is no different from his predecessors in insisting on market-led policies, foreign-investor largesse and failed non-distributive economic policies. Add to this the small matter of the “missing” R500 billion. In April 2020, a stimulus package of 500 billion rand was announced. The money was meant to augment the existing social safety net that provides 11.3 million South Africans with monthly assistance for food and other social services. The Auditor-General has described the expenditure as irregular, noting the wrongful diversion of some of the funds to state employees through contracts. To date, the hectoring tone adopted by most public officials regarding this matter shows no sense of irony or self-awareness that their own hands are dirty.
Many analysts and observers inside and outside South Africa have predicted this moment for over fifteen years, evoking the Arab Spring as a cautionary tale. South Africa is not the only country going through a seismic shift. Haiti, Cuba, Swaziland, Zimbabwe, Myanmar, Mozambique and Hong Kong are all facing profound upheavals. But while South Africa elicits deep sentiments across the world, it is not immune to the complexities of state formation, fractured class interests and a leadership vested in maintaining the status quo.
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