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OL’ MAN RIVER AND THE DAM STATE: Why the High Grand Falls Dam project is a bad idea

14 min read.

In this second part of a three-part series, PAUL GOLDSMITH explains why, instead of being a solution to the problem of food insecurity, big dam projects and large-scale irrigation schemes in Kenya end up causing more problems than they solve due to a combination of mismanagement, corruption and a top-down approach that fails to take into consideration the environment and the livelihoods of local populations.

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OL’ MAN RIVER AND THE DAM STATE: Kenya’s misguided Big Water policy
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The various feasibility studies and state policy documents supporting the revival of the High Grand Falls Dam project on the Tana River conform to what economists refer to as path dependency – or how a set of decisions for any given circumstance is limited by the decisions made in the past, even though past circumstances may no longer be relevant.

The QWERTY keyboard is the classic example of this pathway effect. It was designed to prevent typewriter keys from striking each other and sticking. A clever solution at the time, the un-ergonomic keyboard survives as the default for our computers and phone keypads decades after the demise of the typewriter because changing it would create greater problems.

Conceptually, path dependence interfaces with other properties of systems such as convergence, probabilities, and the jargonistic but useful property termed ergodicity. Economists define ergodicity as the ability to eventually shake free from the influence of a past state. Non-ergodic practices, in contrast, risk the problem of becoming locked in, as demonstrated by the rapid fall of Nokia when it dismissed touchscreens as a “gimmick” and lost out on the growing smartphone market.

The path dependency Illuminated by this particular case highlights a wide set of institutional practices and incentives that contribute to many of Kenya’s latest large infrastructure projects. The empirical evidence demonstrating that large infrastructure projects do not benefit the poor is not a concern in President Uhuru Kenyatta’s Big 4 policy environment. Rather, it’s a case of “the bigger the better” when it comes to Kenya’s administrative gatekeepers, tenderpreneurs, and decision makers. Endemic corruption and the ballooning national debt are consequences of this non-ergodic mindset.

Feasibility studies and invisible stakeholders

The upper Tana became the main provider of Kenya’s electricity after independence, a role that began with the construction of Sagana in 1956 and expanded by the commissioning of the Kindaruma (1968), Kamburu (1974), Masinga (1981), Kiambere (1988), and completion of the original Gitaru (1999) dams. None of these projects generated significant controversy at the time. Adding another electricity-generating station to the chain would appear to be a straightforward proposition, but it is not.

The 2016 Environmental and Social Impact Assessment of the High Grand Falls Dam project commissioned by the National Environment Management Authority (NEMA) confirms that the majority of people that will be negatively affected by the project live in areas historically neglected by the government. The report’s two-page summary of the project area’s socio-economic characteristics observes that the corresponding “low level engagement has left the communities to develop at their own pace. Some of the communities in the region are very conservative and continue with retrogressive practices that are inimical to development”.

The upper Tana became the main provider of Kenya’s electricity after independence, a role that began with the construction of Sagana in 1956 and expanded by the commissioning of the Kindaruma (1968), Kamburu (1974), Masinga (1981), Kiambere (1988), and completion of the original Gitaru (1999) dams. None of these projects generated significant controversy at the time. Adding another electricity-generating station to the chain would appear to be a straightforward proposition, but it is not.

The assessment document is rich in technical details but bypasses critical socio-economic and cultural issues. For the inhabitants of Kenya’s remote margins, it is the latest example of the dirigisme underpinning Kenya’s post-independence tradition of social exclusion.

Whether by design or omission, the negation of local histories and indigenous knowledge traditions effectively functions to render excluded minority communities invisible when it comes to development planning. Once an area is targeted for an external investment or development project, the commissioning of the feasibility study reinforces the established trajectory without exploring the negative social implications of the environmental impacts and other related factors.

The various feasibility studies commissioned in support of the Magogoni port and the Lamu Port South Sudan-Ethiopia Transport (LAPSSET) corridor, the Roola Project Memorandum of Understanding with Kuwait that preceded it, and the study supporting the allocation of the Tana Delta land for sugar production all conformed to this model. The original Mutonga-Grand Falls feasibility study, to its credit, documented the negative environmental impacts downstream, but otherwise skirted the social and economic consequences for the local stakeholders.

OL’ MAN RIVER AND THE DAM STATE: Kenya’s misguided Big Water policy

Read also: OL’ MAN RIVER AND THE DAM STATE: Kenya’s misguided Big Water policy

There is much to be said for sticking to what works, but the opposite principle applies in the case of the government’s Expanded National Irrigation Programme (ENIP) goal of expanding the 165,833 hectares under irrigation in 2011 to 1.2 million hectares by the year 2030. Most of the land to be developed in order to meet this 600 per cent increase is located in the country’s Arid and Semi Arid Lands (ASAL) zones. The performance of Kenya’s large irrigation projects has not been impressive and several of them are very expensive white elephants.

The ENIP contribution to the proposed strategy is based on an in-depth study of the water resources available in the Tana and Athi river basins. A Food and Agricultural Organisation (FAO) overview of the strategy outlines the formidable technical challenges involved, such as the high level of water losses due to evapotranspiration in the reservoirs and in the channels proposed to convey water to other sites. Kenya currently uses over 69 per cent of its limited developed water resources on irrigation. The share of Kenya’s water diverted to irrigation will rise to 89 per cent with implementation of the ENIP-driven food security strategy, which does not factor in growing industrial and urban demand.

The High Grand Falls Dam project is the main engine of this plan that, among other things, aims to redirect water to the Galana River to ensure sufficient water for the dysfunctional Galana-Kulalu scheme that is scheduled to eventually cover a colossal 1.7 million acres. The NEMA assessment document also mentions the construction of another channel transferring water to the Waso Nyiro, but does not explain why.

The water problem is emblematic of the formidable challenges facing society across system scales. The high stakes posed by the global population-natural resource equation explain why the private sector and governments alike are extolling the virtues of innovation, disruption, and creative problem solving. The dam is, in contrast, a Red Ocean project predicated on the giganticism embraced by the Vision 2030 and LAPSSET agendas.

The larger problem with the High Grand Falls Dam Assessment Study is what is not reported, like the cutting-off of the Tana for 32 months and the consequences for the ecology and downstream communities. The study does refer to the increased incidence of human-crocodile conflict (their words, not mine) and includes a list of preventative measures that can be taken to reduce it, but otherwise lacks mention of any planned mitigations downstream, or the prospects for the intensifying resource conflicts that John Allen Namu documented in The End of the River series screened on NTV.

The study does, however, pay lip service to the impact on the residents of Tharaka, who were the only grassroots stakeholders consulted. The study team convened five meetings in Tharaka attended by 857 local participants. According to the document, “there is a general acceptance of the project by the majority of the communities living in the area”.

The larger problem with the High Grand Falls Dam Assessment Study is what is not reported, like the cutting-off of the Tana for 32 months and the consequences for the ecology and downstream communities. The study…lacks mention of any planned mitigations downstream, or the prospects for the intensifying resource conflicts…

One can question the extent of the information communicated in these briefings; summaries of the discussion include miscellaneous details, like an announcement that title deeds are ready for Kamanyaki, an area that will be under water if the project goes forward. There is also no reference in the document to consultation with other communities; it renders the stakeholders in Garissa, Tana River, and Lamu counties invisible. My contacts downstream, including a local MP, verify the lack of consultation and report a general perception of confusion over the dam project.

Spatially, Tharaka is one of the most remote areas of Kenya. Its remoteness is not a function of distance, but of the area’s isolation. The roads are challenging and it is not on the way to anywhere else. So the only reason you will find yourself in towns like Marimanti, Chiakariga, or Gatunga is because you have an important reason for visiting. As the Assessment Study observes, the locals have been developing at their own pace; what it does not say is that the residents of Tharaka seem to be okay with this, and are keen on finding their own solutions, like the modified female rites of passage based on piercing the ears of young girls in place of the “retrogressive” tradition of female circumcision.

Once upon a time I conducted a survey on the state of education, health, and access to water that took me to every sub-location of Tharaka. The residents at that time were highly independent and probably the most land-paranoid community in the country. The area can prosper with greater exploitation of the local rivers for irrigation, but this has been slow coming due to internal social factors linked to the use of communal resources. The High Grand Falls Dam blueprint, in contrast, requires the relocation of 4,500-plus displaced households to a large-scale irrigation scheme outside their home county.

I find it very difficult to see the residents assenting to the planned mitigations, especially without monetary compensation, which according to recent reports in the press has been scrapped due to inflated claims and other problems common to projects that require resettlement and compensation.

Maybe the lack of attention to these issues does not matter. In a study entitled Watered Down? A review of social and environmental safeguards for large dam projects, the authors of one of the studies report that “the implementation of systematic procedures to reveal social priorities is still very unusual in developing countries” and that “it has been estimated that environmental and social safeguard processes derived from public consultations have been implemented in only 10–15% of new hydropower projects around the world”.

A case of too much electricity?

This brings us to the objectives justifying the displacement of Tharaka households and the other social and ecological negatives that will be caused by the 32-month hiatus in the river’s flow. The benefits covered in the Assessment Study are the generation of 700 megawatts of electricity, the creation of a large 5.6 billion cubic metre reservoir that the project’s designers claim will be used to irrigate 200,000 hectares of cropland, and enhanced management of the river’s flow to control flooding. These plans represent the culmination of the pathway beginning with the development of the Tana’s hydroelectricity capacity that projected 11 dams in total. But things have changed since the project was first proposed in the mid-1990s.

Kenya’s national electricity strategy seeks to diversify the nation’s power sources. But hydroelectric generation already provides the greater portion of Kenya’s electricity, and is subject to increased uncertainty over the long run due to factors of climate change and degradation of the country’s water catchment areas.

Moreover, like the controversial coal-generated electricity plant proposed in Lamu, this latest energy investment comes at a time when the region’s electricity supply is outstripping demand. Several new power sources, such as the Lake Turkana Wind Farm, the three Gibe dams on the lower Omo River, and the Bujagali, Isimba, and Karuma dams in Uganda, will add to the region’s growing electricity surplus.

Kenya is blessed with an abundant but largely untapped capacity for wind and solar power, and costs have come down. The wind and solar projects now being planned or under construction at this early point in the sector’s development will add another 1,000 megawatts to the grid. In addition, Kenya is contracted to buy 400 megawatts of power from Ethiopia, but the government appears to be delaying the connection, ostensibly due to the problems of marketing the existing supply, even though in 2015 a contract to build supply lines was signed with a Chinese contractor.

The numerous problems of mismanagement and consumer exploitation that are endemic in Kenya’s state-controlled electricity sector highlight the real priority, which is the need to extend connections to the large numbers of Kenyan households that do not have access. This is being addressed through a mix of off-grid, mini-grids, and connections to conventional sources.

A history of failed irrigation projects

No one contests the need to enhance Kenya’s national food security. However, the prioritisation of large-scale irrigation schemes in order to justify the High Grand Falls Dam is considerably more problematic than the power generation that was the original Mutonga-High Falls project’s primary driver.

The record of Kenya’s large irrigation schemes ranges from poor to disastrous, sprinkled with a few qualified successes. The Perkerra, Kanu plains, Mwea-Tebere, Hola, Bura, and Galana schemes have all experienced serious problems. Even the one success story, the Mwea scheme, was on the brink of collapse by the early 1990s when it was managed by the National Irrigation Board. Militant protests by the scheme’s residents who fought and defeated the police trying to block a demonstration led to the liberalisation of the Board’s marketing monopsony. This was followed by the still ongoing and controversial privatisation of the scheme’s land holdings.

The record for sustained mismanagement belongs to the ill-fated Bura irrigation scheme. The world’s most expensive irrigation project at the time it was christened in 1977, it quickly turned into a black hole for the World Bank, the Government of Kenya, and the pastoralists-turned-farmers who settled there. Writing in 2008, three decades after its inception, one researcher described the conditions on the scheme as:

The area is now reminiscent of a ghost town. Huge water towers stand abandoned in the scrubby landscape; irrigation canals stretch across tens of miles, overgrown with thorny vegetation; and a fenced-in vehicle parking lot contains dozens of rusting Land Rovers and large farm machinery. Housing units built for mid-level project staff as well as the villas for the resident managers stand abandoned, dilapidated, and looted. Only people with nowhere left to go remain on the project site.

The former pastoralists who settled on the Bura scheme have survived as subsistence farmers assisted by famine relief provided by the World Food Programme. They draw their water from a murky irrigation pond they share with livestock. The award for the ultimate cosmic insult, however, goes to the nearby Hola Irrigation Scheme. During the mid-1990s the Tana changed course, leaving expensive industrial pumps beached next to the old riverbed.

The record of Kenya’s large irrigation schemes ranges from poor to disastrous, sprinkled with a few qualified successes. The Perkerra, Kanu plains, Mwea-Tebere, Hola, Bura, and Galana schemes have all experienced serious problems. Even the one success story, the Mwea scheme, was on the brink of collapse by the early 1990s.

Indigenous production systems developed important social risk-spreading strategies and cultural resilience for coping with climatic uncertainty and periodic but unpredictable extreme environmental events – an orientation that most developmental interventions lack. The Japan-supported Tana Delta Rice Production scheme, for example, started well but went belly up after the 1998 El Nino rains destroyed the main canals. Power surges disabled the large German-built milling complex. Rice production continued on a reduced scale and the problems could have been fixed, but the government withdrew its funding in 2001 due to massive corruption.

The last time I visited the scheme, monkeys were roaming the impressive but incapacitated processing plant while an old smoke-belching mill next to it laboured to turn the small harvest of mpunga into mchele. A number of local and international agribusiness organisations stepped into the gap by lobbying the government in order to establish sugar and jatropha plantations. A large area was allocated to a British firm to implement a biofuel scheme, but like the plans for sugar, it failed to take off due to widespread local opposition.

As one report declared, “The Tana Delta could house a museum featuring failed projects”. The report traced the poor record of top-down projects in the Tana Delta to the failure to take the local people and the environment into account. Research undertaken by Nature Kenya established that the value generated by local agricultural and livestock producers considerably exceeds projected returns to sugar monoculture and the other capital-intensive ventures.

Environmental impact on the Tana Delta

In 2012 the Tana Delta became a Ramsar site, which recognised its status as one of the world’s important wetlands. A case study by the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) reports that the dam’s impact on the Delta will result in the reduction in the area and composition of floodplain grasslands, lowered surface and groundwater sources, loss of fertile riverbank sediment depositions, reduction in swamps, ox-bow lakes and seasonal water bodies, the deterioration of riverine forest areas due to senescence, and the degradation of the mangroves that include two species unique to the Tana Delta environment. The ecosystem hosts many other rare and endangered species, but the main casualty may be the over one million people who depend on the river’s flooding regime for their livelihoods and the 2.5 million head of livestock who depend on the water and pasture. The project will also jeopardise the growing number of riverside farms in Garissa that use the river for irrigation, who will lose out when the project redirects Tana River water to the Athi-Galana in order to support the government’s latest water grabbing experiment – the US$3 billion Galana-Kulalu project.

A case study by the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) reports that the dam’s impact on the Delta will result in the reduction in the area and composition of floodplain grasslands, lowered surface and groundwater sources, loss of fertile riverbank sediment depositions, reduction in swamps, ox-bow lakes and seasonal water bodies, the deterioration of riverine forest areas due to senescence, and the degradation of the mangroves that include two species unique to the Tana Delta environment.

The Tana Delta and riverine zones are crucial dry season reserves that attract other herders from as far as Wajir and southern Somalia during drought years. Over 100,000 Pokomo depend on recession agriculture, and there are 50,000 freshwater fishermen working in the Delta. However, none of these facts have stopped the authors of the High Grand Falls Dam Assessment Study from claiming that the project is necessary for securing the productivity of land in the Tana Delta.

The record of flawed interventions on the coast, including the nearby Magarini settlement scheme, did not augur well for the government’s one-million-acre Galana-Kulalu irrigation scheme. Observers questioned the prospects for the proposed public-private partnership when it was launched in 2014. The scheme did not disappoint. Production has been dismal, funds have vanished, and in 2016 a group of parliamentarians called for the suspension of the scheme, citing mismanagement and inflated costs. In September of 2018, the press reported that the National Cereals and Produce Board received maize valued at Sh35 million from the scheme, a paltry return to an enterprise that four years after its launch has spent Sh7.3 billion to bring only 5,000 acres under cultivation.

Analysis of the technical, administrative, and tenure-related issues besetting Magarini and other schemes in Kwale and Lamu show that they have neither alleviated the coast’s land problems nor have they advanced Kenya’s agricultural development. The Galana-Kulalu scheme is the latest contribution to a policy pathway littered with numerous such developmental disasters. Massive amounts of funds have evaporated under the hot African sun; and in an area inhabited by minority communities, these disasters have been a recipe for political tensions, conflict, and corruption.

Irrigation launched Kenya’s lucrative horticultural export industry. Private farms are perhaps the best example of irrigation’s commercial potential, but most of the produce is exported. Irrigation will also have to make a growing contribution to food security over time and prospects for expanded medium- and small-scale irrigation based on water user associations are positive. But at this point, farmers using the common jua kali overhead sprinklers and appropriate technologies like the ApproTec treadle-pedal pump have probably made a greater contribution to domestic food security.

Irrigation presently consumes 69 per cent of Kenya’s water. An analysis of scale, control and success in Kenyan irrigation attributes the problems of schemes to bureaucratic control, and found that state mismanagement is a more important factor than scale. Expanding the unexploited potential for land under irrigation will depend upon sorting out a matrix of technological, social, and environmental issues influencing agricultural output and efficiency. The High Grand Falls project and documents supporting it do not provide answers.

The elephants in the room

There are two elephants in this room. The first is the nexus between climate change and the availability of water. A hydrological analysis of the impact of climate change on the Tana Basin indicates that levels of rainfall across the basin will increase, but so will the variation and episodes of extreme precipitation and drought. Its impact will also vary across the region’s ecological zones, increasing the problematic consequences for ASAL areas. Despite the overall increase in rainfall, the authors underscore that the real challenge will be the need for those managing water resources to adapt to the new climate regime with its extremes of drought and flooding. This is a serious game changer.

The other elephant is the state. The record of mismanagement, graft, and poorly designed interventions make it easy to critique the Kenya state’s record of bungling and impunity in this sector. But the fact remains, for the bureaucrats who harvest the extra allowances and other perks these projects generate, Big Water is a magic bullet that will resolve Kenya’s food security equation. For the political decision makers at the top of the food chain, it is a convenient source of patronage and rents.

Although the case for expanded water storage requires a sustained long-term strategy, it is hard to take projects like the High Grand Falls Dam seriously when a Permanent Secretary goes on record to justify the project by stating the dam will form ”a small lake, introducing fishing to the communities around it, and tourism”. He clearly did not read the reviews on TripAdvisor about the state of the Masinga dam resort. A fraction of the dam’s price tag would go a long way towards improving water security across Kenya’s water-stressed regions by creating many “small lakes” where rainfall collects.

There are many other alternatives to centralised water storage. According to the author of an Oxford University Business School study of large dam projects, “Many smaller, more flexible projects that can be built and go online quicker, and are more easily adapted to social and environmental concerns, are preferable to high-risk dinosaur projects like conventional mega-dams.”

Big Water is just another variation on Big Infrastructure, but with much greater potential for blowback in this case due to the number of Kenyans facing lost livelihoods and displacement. The cash-strapped Jubilee government is clearly locked into a dead-end developmental pathway that is damming up its citizens’ problem-solving energies and capacity for developing social and technological solutions.

An analysis of pathway dependency offers two pieces of advice about escaping the “entrapment basin” like the one luring state policymakers and planners into the cul- de-sac reviewed here. The first is that those managing the system require external agency to change. The second is that instead of making choices that often turn out to be wrong, policy makers should improve the informational basis for choices that can be made by private parties and government agencies.

Big Water is just another variation on Big Infrastructure, but with much greater potential for blowback in this case due to the number of Kenyans facing lost livelihoods and displacement.

Unlike the case in the 1990s, there is now a large base of information and analysis on the issues interfacing with the High Grand Falls project, but the dam state will need a push if it is to play a role in rationalising the process.

In 1988, opposition to Hungary’s Nagyramos Dam provoked citizens to defy their Communist government for the first time, triggering the succession of events leading to the collapse of the Eastern Block governments in 1989. Maybe the High Grand Falls project will be the tipping point catalysing a coalition of local and external forces, like India’s Save Narmada Movement, that will lead to a more viable policy framework for managing the Tana Basin’s waters and the larger region they support.

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Dr. Goldsmith is an American researcher and writer who has lived in Kenya for over 40 years.

Politics

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.

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The Evolving Language of Corruption in Kenya
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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.

Wachira says,

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.

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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.

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Pan-Africanism in a Time of Pandemic
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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.

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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.

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Protests, Chaos and Uprisings: Lessons from South Africa’s Past
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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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