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For the people of Northern Kenya, the center-periphery dichotomy and its attendant consequences is not a mere framework but rather a lived reality that is burned into their collective consciousness. Their othering and un-belonging continue to animate and mediate their negotiation with the rest of Kenya. It is not uncommon for someone from Northern Kenya to say he is traveling to Kenya when visiting other parts of Kenya, or inquiring when someone visits from other parts of Kenya, “How is Kenya?”

Their sense of un-belonging is magnified by the hierarchy of citizenship imposed on them, by both policy and entrenched official attitude; where they are citizens, but terms and conditions apply. As “Contingency Citizens”, the terms and conditions are always mediated by the disproportionate power asymmetry in relation to the state, which inevitably induces precarity. The state is not, however, the only institution that sees them as contingent citizens; even other Kenyans see them in a similar way.

This state of affairs has a rich historical antecedent beginning from the colonial era but has been deepened by the post-independence administrations. The colonial government saw little economic utility of investing in the region, a trend post-independence governments followed. But that is changing and with it the social-economic reality of communities.

Development and its discontents

One of the central milestones to that change is the completion of the Isiolo-Marsabit-Moyale road, which until now had been a sore reference point for the intergenerational sense of marginalisation the community harbours. The road has made it easier for people and goods from Marsabit to reach the rest of Kenya, and for other Kenyans to also easily get to Marsabit. But with it comes inevitable friction.

The decades-long failure to tarmac the Moyale-Marsabit-Isiolo road was seen as the irreducible sum total of the country’s imagination of Marsabit and the policies that flowed from it. Conversely, the now tarmacked road is seen as a symbol of development. At the immediate level, the road has made travel to and from southern Kenya practically much easier and faster. But at a deeper level, it has also induced a sense of belonging – a sense of Kenyan-ness, of “We are all Kenyans and deserving of the development opportunities that accrue from being Kenyan.”

At face value, development is concrete and an unambiguously positive thing. In fact, when the people of Northern Kenya complain about marginalisation, they say the state has ignored their development needs. However, development is not a straightforward process; it is complicated and at times a source of contention.

The decades-long failure to tarmac the Moyale-Marsabit-Isiolo road was seen as the irreducible sum total of the country’s imagination of Marsabit and the policies that flowed from it.

One such moment came in 2014 when a group of greengrocers and market traders, most of them women, protested in Marsabit over what they termed the “unfair invasion” of Marsabit market by vegetable farmers from the neighbouring areas of Meru and Timau. According to the market traders, most of them women “mama mboga” farmers who supplied them with vegetables at wholesale prices in Meru were now selling the same supplies to Marsabit customers from the backs of their lorries at retail prices. The local branch of the Chamber of Commerce also raised alarm over what they termed an unfair competition from hawkers.

The women wanted the Marsabit County Government to regulate the “outsiders” doing business in Marsabit County. Unbeknownst to them, they were reproducing the same Us vs Them pathologies they had decried in the past. Ideally, development represented by the tarmacking of the road was meant to allow free movement of goods and eventually bring people together.

Paradoxically, in this case, these market women felt that development was disrupting the status quo. Before this incident, the people of Marsabit had enjoyed a symbiotic trading relationship with the people from Meru. Meru has supplied Marsabit with vegetables for decades, and Marsabit has bought the mild-stimulant miraa leaf from Meru for decades.

The mama mboga incident is not an isolated situation but part of an emerging paradox of development versus social harmony in Marsabit following the tarmacking of the Marsabit-Isiolo road.The movement of people and goods is at the centre of this paradox.

A second incidence was witnessed in 2019 when the newly established transport Sacco “MEISO” (Meru and Isiolo transporters) engaged in a physical altercation with Nanyuki Cabs, which was a more experienced transport Sacco with more employees and 14-seater Nissan vans. The local grievance was that Nanyuki Cabs had a wider reach and had denied MEISO space in Nanyuki. The fear that such players had a competitive advantage over local, inexperienced transport service providers has led to control over who does what and how. The same is witnessed in how Crown Bus, which has a countrywide reach, was limited by the local bus companies to operate only two of its buses on the Nairobi-Moyale route.

Lorries, cows and miraa

The distance between Marsabit and Isiolo is 258 kilometers (160 miles). The dry, hot and endlessly picturesque landscape is dominated by acacia trees, acres and acres of land and livestock grazing in the savannah.

Until the Marsabit-Isiolo road was tarmacked, the only means of travel from Marsabit to Nairobi was to, on occasion, catch a lift with Government of Kenya (GK) 110 Land Rovers or lorries transporting livestock to Nairobi and bringing back consumer goods to Marsabit. The Land Rovers’ departure times from Marsabit were kept top secret; drivers kept the dates and times like state secrets as there were few of them and many customers. Unless you worked for the government or knew someone who did, chances are you would not find out.

There were no designated public transport vehicles. The few companies that tried their luck at operating public transport buses eventually gave up because of the inordinate running costs involved due in part to the unforgiving terrain.

Lorries were the other option. They had no designated departure time and embarkation point – they departed from anywhere if they had enough livestock, their primary “passengers”. This left travelers at the mercy of the lorry drivers, turning them and their turnboys into arguably some of the most powerful people in the area. They determined the return to school days, which day people could travel to attend interviews, graduations etc. They wielded this power with elaborate abandon.  It was not uncommon for the lorries to leave passengers by the wayside when they would disembark for bathroom breaks or to buy something to eat. They went about their business with a degree of gleeful terror, simply because they could.

Until the Marsabit-Isiolo road was tarmacked, the only means of travel from Marsabit to Nairobi was to, on occasion, catch a lift with Government of Kenya (GK) 110 Land Rovers or lorries transporting livestock to Nairobi and bringing back consumer goods to Marsabit.

It is not as if traveling on top of a lorry was some luxurious treat; it was, in fact, an extreme sport. Perched on top, one was exposed to the elements – heat, cold or rain – and had to be aware of acacia thorns pricking their faces, or falling off as the lorries were jolted by the potholes, or in certain cases losing a hat due to the strong winds. That lorry ride demanded one to be tough because of what we used to call korogeshen, a corruption of corrugation, or in some cases, or fall onto the livestock.

On the return trip, lorries would bring miraa, the mild stimulant plant grown in the Nyambene Hills by the Tigania and Igembe sub-groups of the Meru, and chewed mostly by men from Northern and coastal Kenya.

Unlike cows, miraa (also known as khat) is perishable, and therefore it has to be transported when the temperature is low, which means mostly at night. This remains the case to date. To be able to stay up late and drive, lorry drivers and the turnboys would something to keep them up at night. This made the drivers and the miraa traders, mostly women, strike a mutual alliance, and a powerful one at that. There was a period in Marsabit and Moyale when the miraa traders and lorry drivers were considered the trendiest people. Miraa traders got the best seats in the lorry. (Back then, riding with a shotgun was considered classy.) The drivers and the turnboys got the best miraa cut, of course for free. If you ever wanted to invite the wrath of the driver, you’d mess around with the miraa.

Nothing exemplifies people of means even in the middle of nowhere than the two small towns between Marsabit and Isiolo – Merile and Laisamis. Because of the time the lorries would leave Marsabit, one had to get lunch or supper either in Laisamis or Merille. The food here primarily involved chapo-karanga (chapati and fried meat). The best bit of chapo-karaga was mainly reserved for the drivers and mama miraa. Before mobile phones came, hotel owners would rely on instinct to keep food for the drivers and mama miraa. (Now they call ahead to place their orders.)

Before social media and mobile phones, miraa journeys from Meru were tracked with an obsessive keenness in Marsabit. Although the lorries did not keep to specific schedules, people in Marsabit waiting for them would get the signal passed by word of mouth when a lorry left Isiolo and when it was about to arrive in Marsabit. When miraa would arrive in Marsabit, most often in the evening, certain parts of the town came to a standstill. But the tarmacking of the road has made the lorry drivers jobless and with this, small towns like Merille and Laisamis are collapsing due to lack of trade.

Miraa and Marsabit

To trace the history of the transport of a single commodity like miraa into Marsabit is to watch a slow and organic change in the market, in social and economic dynamics, and in the culture of the people.

In the 1960s, when colonial policy still regarded the region as a closed district, miraa used to arrive in Marsabit by plane. Local lore mentions Alex, a Caucasian pilot, who used to land twice or thrice a week with the town’s miraa supply before proceeding to neighboring towns, such as Moyale.

At the time, one required a permit from the colonial administration to chew miraa, but even with a permit, men went out of town in their different age groups to chew together. Later, women had to give convincing reasons why they should be allowed to sell miraa. This restriction lasted into the early years of the post-independence era, but was lifted in what a historian sees as a politically convenient move by the Jomo Kenyatta government: miraa was a diversionary tool to “relax” “shifta” fighters and the pro-secessionist agitators.

By the 1970s, miraa had enough consumers to allow a few businessmen to invest in its transport via “short chassis” Land Cruisers and lorries doing regular trips to the town. However, such transport was still quite slow for a perishable commodity.

Inadvertently, new players were emerging. Women were becoming key players, and with their involvement new needs were emerging. The transport of miraa, which was primarily through lorries and Land Cruisers, remained the preserve of local businessmen who owned lorries and Land Cruisers. The lorry owners, lorry drivers’ popularity and their dominance in the transport scene persisted through the 1980s, 1990s and 2000s. If transport and sourcing was men’s preserve, women emerged as principal players in the miraa supply and distribution scene.

While miraa in Marsabit was predominantly from Meru, a new dynamic emerged in 2000. Local Marsabit farmers started growing miraa in the place of maize and beans due to shifts in rainfall patterns. But this local supply hardly satisfied the demands that had expanded from the town centre to the lowlands of North Horr and the Rendile lands.

Some of the large-scale infrastructure projects launched courtesy of President Mwai Kibaki’s Vision 2030 programme, including Isiolo International Airport, were designed with the aim of transforming the meat and miraa market. The 3-billion-shilling airport at Isiolo is principally aimed to transport miraa from neighbouring Meru County to the Horn of Africa and meat exports from the Northern lands.

But it’s not the airport but rather the Marsabit-Isiolo road that is upending the miraa ecosystem. The tarmacking of Isiolo-Moyale Road in the 2010s heralded a new market supply dynamics: regular buses supplanted lorries, which significantly reduced the time spent on the road. The ripple effect from this came with dire impacts on many established businesses.

While miraa in Marsabit was predominantly from Meru, a new dynamic emerged in 2000. Local Marsabit farmers started growing miraa in the place of maize and beans due to shifts in rainfall patterns.

When the new road was completed, an earlier surprise was the infamous miraa transporting Toyota Hilux from Meru loaded to the hilt with miraa en route through Nairobi to Wajir and Mandera that changed its route and passed through Marsabit to Wajir. Even though this heralded a new era for miraa distribution for other regions, it was the first sign that there were changes coming to the miraa market in Marsabit.

The region’s miraa market dynamic was intractably altered; bigger political changes in the Horn of Africa countries started manifesting around this commodity. Whereas the type of miraa that used to arrive in Marsabit in the 60s on the plane piloted by Alex was Alelee, or Kangeta (expensive and slow withering) lucrative markets were opening up, with Alelee being entirely a reserve of a new wealthy market in Nairobi and in Somalia and Kenyan exports to the neighboring state constituting numerous daily flights from Wilson Airport in Nairobi.

The type of miraa that used to arrive in Marsabit in those earlier years now found a new market elsewhere and is currently sold in Nairobi for upwards of 3,000 shillings.

The road which links Kenya to Ethiopia has also meant that produce and products from Ethiopia easily find their way to the market in Marsabit. Miraa (Gafurr) from Ethiopia also supplements the local produce to meet the demands within the town, especially during the dry season.

With each change discernible in a decade, another equal change was becoming manifest in the region. A more sedentary population came into existence, and pastoral nomadism was ditched as schools, churches, hospitals, government services were concentrated around the newly emerging towns.

Jirma, women and cultural shifts 

By its very nature, of course, a great deal of it is a function of making a virtue out of necessity. Pastoralism as a lifestyle tends to be austere. Chewing miraa is almost a luxury undertaking, although even within it, there are degrees. The shift in the political economy of the region has seen the pastoralist community’s shift from pastoralism to sedentary lifestyles.

This has been accompanied by women breaking barriers, with some becoming miraa vendors. The miraa- chewing culture has evolved quite dramatically, from the consumption of miraa at the vendor’s house in the 1960s through to the 1990s, to women selling miraa from an upturned carton at various spots in the town in the late 1990s to early 2000s, to the emergence of popular farms that provide fresh miraa to new chewing shops and bases where mostly single women sell tea, coffee, peanuts, Big Gs and miraa and provide the right atmosphere that fuels “handass” – the miraa high.

The road which links Kenya to Ethiopia has also meant that produce and products from Ethiopia easily find their way to the market in Marsabit. Miraa (Gafurr) from Ethiopia also supplements the local produce to meet the demands within the town, especially during the dry season.

In 2019, miraa supply and even retail had shifted from women to become a man’s industry. Cartons of a cheap miraa, Mogoka, now started arriving in the town by 11am. Portioned in small combinations of 100 shillings, Mogoka has found a younger, poorer and restless consumer base among the unemployed youth. About 200kgs of Mogoka arrives in the town every day in perforated cartons.

No one captures their trials and tribulations better than Abdullahi Jirma, the “Elvis Presley” of Borana Music. Mirga bitaa lalaann/Wann benni khess jiru/tahn irra namm gaha yathi namm huqissu/ fin akan akan ta ilme tenna thinnu. “If one looks to the east and to the west/ and regards people’s existence/ from this comes thoughts that waste one away/this kind of existence should not be for our children.

Jirma’s effortless lyricism shines through all his works and he has also become a cultural touchstone, especially in miraa “bases”, with his songs becoming the soundtrack during chewing sessions. While some marvel at the depth of his storytelling, unbeknownst to them they are the target of his incisive commentary. Despite being far removed in age from this generation, Jirma’s songs still capture the present cultural zeitgeist; the promise and peril of the rural-urban cultural shift, especially of youngsters who move to major cities to be club-wielding night guards, locally known as Kenya Rungu.

Jirma also speaks about the perishing of livestock, the allure of city freedom, new expenses in the form of school fees for children and spousal neglect that has come with this as women took to the towns to venture into small trade.

The grooves of the old lifestyle were completely worn out in those six decades between the 1960s and 2019, which for most Northern Kenya towns is the average lifespan. Cultural demands, changing sources of livelihoods and the tone of the muezzin’s adhan tossed women between them and they adapted accordingly because these demands were slower and discernible and in the longer arc of history a knowable thing.

Wherever transport and supply change direction so do the players. The new social trajectories are also forged as the new replaces the old.

In Kenya, the framing of transition in the development arena has changed from the ubiquitous “maendeleo” to acquire more sophistry, a transition from an “analogue” state to a “digital” status. In Marsabit, the consuming of Mogoka from Embu is the new digital, with a certain type of Mogoka even branded as Mogoka Digital. With this change, development isn’t the desirable concept of Moi’s famous rhetoric, “na hiyo ni maendeleo”, but a more sophisticated system.