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Reflections

The Telephone Conversation

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The Telephone Conversation

In the aftermath of the August 8, 2017 General Election, I received a telephone call from a friend two days after the peaceful elections.

“Hi K”

“Hi G”

“How are you feeling?”

“I am easy”

“Are you sure?… “Your person lost….yet again,” I could immediately follow her train of thought and already detected a sense of glee underneath her controlled tone of voice. It was the voice of a victor trampling, its authority over the vanquished.

Politics is like placing a bet. “I had placed my bet and I had lost.”

“We Christians believe it is God who gives people a leader,” she preached. My friend is a dyed-in-the wool Catholic. The Catholic God had spoken but not before the ethnic god had had his sway.

“We Gikuyus are a proud people, we do not pretend to be what we are not,” she averred. “And you know it. We do not vote for anybody else…it is not as if we are going to begin now.” In other words, the Gikuyu, were considered the sui generis of Kenya.

“I am a proper Gikuyu – born and bred, I cannot pretend to be otherwise. What else can I be? You must learn to be selfish. That is just how we Gikuyus are.”

The “royal we”, the “We” of a blessed people, the ‘we’ of a special type, a selfish type in large company, a people whose great, arable, fertile land “flowed with milk and honey” was alive in her voice. But I am jumping the gun.

SEE ALSO: The Ideology of Uthamaki

“Why does Raila want this thing so much?” The question was rhetorical and disapproving. Was she implicitly suggesting that it was not in Raila’s make-up and pedigree to pursue the presidency? Was she insinuating the presidency could be a preserve of a certain breed? The tacit tone in her voice implied Raila’s push to be the president of Kenya was tantamount to a power grab. He was an irritant whose push needed to be stopped, once and for all.

We Gikuyus are a proud people, we do not pretend to be what we are not……. We do not vote for anybody else

She reached for local idioms to explain the negative effects of deep craving and desire followed by a brief political history of Raila Amolo Odinga.

Yeenda muno ituaga rurira.”(If it is too eager, it will snap the umbilical cord)

“Weendi munene ndukinyaga.”(Great eagerness ends up in naught). Both were admonitions.

The first idiom has something to do with the birthing process. Rurira is the umbilical cord – of a cow. If the cow is too eager or impatient, to get through quickly with the birth process, it may end up dislocating the cord; in the process killing the youngling. Therefore, calmness and patience is demanded. The eagerly anticipated birth of a new life is a painful and slow process.

That Raila Odinga is impatient in his pursuit of the presidency is a sub-theme I had heard again and again, among the Gikuyu sub-nationalists. That he had exposed himself – possibly to the gods who dispense the presidency. That he has been unable to tame his unmitigated ambition. The total sum of all these “vices”, bordered on avarice. And therefore, ultimately, his pursuit of the presidency is ungodly.

“I will tell you why Raila never wins the presidency…will possibly never get to be the president,” she prophesised, “it is because he has been too eager – and this had ruined his chances.” She hastened to add: “I know (Mwai) Kibaki also longed for the presidency and tried three times, but he did not come off hungrily wanting to be the president.” I reminded her these were two different personalities with two distinct characteristics.

“Why does Raila want to be president so hard?” It was starting to sound like a soliloquy. “It cannot possibly be for a good reason. Let me tell you the (political) history I know of Raila. I was only two years old when I heard about Raila’s involvement in a coup d’état. Since then, he has always wanted to be the president. What does he want to do with the presidency?”

The stream of thoughts from the other end of the call sounded concerned and perplexed over this “vexing” issue of Raila’s presidency.

“Is this a person to entrust the future of the country?” I was not sure whether this was a question or statement. Or both.“I voted for Uhuru Kenyatta because I can entrust my children’s future with him,” she affirmed. “Corruption is bad – no doubt – but we (Gikuyus) must have a leader we can feel safe with.” I got the drift.

And this was the drift: Raila Odinga is not a Gikuyu. He cannot be trusted. He should not be allowed to be president. The future and security of our (read Gikuyu) children cannot be safe with Raila, the Luo. The qualification for becoming the president of Kenya to the Gikuyus was only one: the person’s ancestral origin must be from Gikuyuland. Full stop.

The presidential run was not a contest of ideas. It was not about re-evaluating the performance of the government against the promises it had said it would fulfil in its 2013 manifesto. It was not about wanton theft that had been perpetrated under its glaring watch. It was not about: four and half years later, what did the government of President Uhuru have to show to the people of Kenya. No. It was about – Uhuru is a mugikuyu – that really is all it boiled down to: to anyone who considered themselves a “true” mugikuyu– educated or illiterate, rich or poor, young or old, urban or rural.

Uthamaki nduneanagwo (leadership is not given away) has been a mantra that has been gaining currency among the ultra Gikuyu nationalists in the lead up to the August 8, 2017 general election. It is as if the presidential leadership of Kenya is a sacred right among the Gikuyu people.

Why does Raila want this thing so much?”

My friend who had plenty to say paused to ponder. “I would not say Uhuru is exactly young – but he has youthful ideas,” I gasped. Which of Uhuru’s ideas were young and which were old? How had his “youthful ideas” had any impact in his four years as president? I was not going to pursue a moot point. But the insinuation had been made, somewhat covertly: Raila is old, he has old fashioned ideas and therefore, should not be running for presidency.

Mwai Kibaki, the third president of Kenya assumed the reigns of presidential power at the age of 72-years-old. Mzee Jomo Kenyatta, the founding president of Kenya, the father to the fourth president of Kenya, Uhuru, become president at 73 years. Those facts were unnecessary here. So, I opted not to belabour the issue of presidential age dynamics.

“What we want is peace,” she cooed into the speaker. “The elections were peaceful and we need to go back to our normal lives. Raila has lost the election, let him not cause trouble.” The mantra “accept and move on” had since 2013, when it was coined by The National Alliance (TNA)/United Republican Party (URP) mandarins, after the coalition had won a Supreme Court case against Coalition for Reform and Democracy (CORD) achieved a definite political parlance. In not so many words, my friend was asking Raila to “accept and move on.” As indeed with the rest of his supporters.

History has a wicked sense of humour. My friend could remember Raila had ostensibly participated in the 1982 coup, but had conveniently forgotten to mention, that he had spent nearly a decade in detention? Fighting for the democratic space and a liberal political climate and culture that we all now enjoyed

How could she forget the role Raila played in Kenya’s second liberation that culminated in the return to the multiparty politics in 1991? In 2002, at Uhuru Park in Nairobi, in a historic moment, Raila swung the cavernous mood of Kenyans to vote for one Mwai Kibaki, resulting in a resounding ousting of Daniel arap Moi’s ancien regime that had tormented them for 24 very long years. How could she not remember this recent history?

The eminent historian E.H Carr in 1961 said: “History has been called an enormous jigsaw with a lot of missing parts.” There are a lot of missing parts in my friend’s political history, deliberately so, nevertheless. Of course, it is a revisionist history, which she is happy to carry along – in the full knowledge that any other history, would rock her worldview.

My friend had grown up in a village in Central Kenya. She was from Gatundu, President Uhuru’s ancestral home. From a young age, she was taught that she was born into a special lineage. That she came from an ethnic community that was God-fearing and abundantly blessed. She recited to me the first stanza of a poem, that she told me her mother used to recount to them growing up.

The poem went something like this:

Ngai niaheire Gikuyu bururi mwega,

Utagaga mai kana irio kana mbura, kana ithaka

Bururi uri irima, mikuru na ithima

Kuma Kirinyaga kinya Kirimbiruri

Uthereraga iria na uki.

(God endowed the Gikuyu people with a great nation

That neither lacks water, nor food, nor rain or land

A nation blessed with mountains, valleys and wellsprings

From Kirinyaga to Kirimbiruri

That flows in milk and honey)

“I have never forgotten that narration,” she proudly said. “I grew up knowing that I come from a privileged ethnic community and that we are a special breed.”Unapologetically, she announced: “That is my worldview, there is really little I can do about it.” In all of her 37 years, she said she was delighted to always carry that narrative with her. “I am a mugikuyu girl and that is how God willed me to be.”

The presidential run was not a contest of ideas…. No. It was about – Uhuru is a mugikuyu – that really is all it boiled down to: to anyone who considered themselves a “true” mugikuyu– educated or illiterate, rich or poor, young or old, urban or rural.

Today, my friend is a proud member of a wealthy upper class, living in the suburbs of Nairobi. “To be honest, I am not one to worry about the price of milk in the supermarket,” she said matter of fact. “It is not as if I plotted to be where I am. The Lord has been good. I thank him every day. What I want is peace and calm, so that I can go about my daily chores unhindered.”

Projecting an innate fear of the Luos and Raila, my friend had recently taken to totting the rosary. Appropriating the Christian God, the archetypal Gikuyu has conflated his ethnic beliefs with a Jewish God who must support his political cause: he scours the Old Testament to locate chapter and verse that vindicates his political maneuvering.

The Gikuyu language has an idiomatic expression which approximates the English language maxim: “Those who pay the cost are rarely those who reap the benefits.” That is a fact of life said my friend. “Some people are born to be leaders…others even struggle and suffer on behalf of other citizens, but if you are not lucky and, if God has not charted out a path for you, however hard you try, you will not make it.”

It was a long phone call that made me recall Apostle Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians, chapter 13:12 – “For now we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.” King James Version (KJV).

For now, we see a blurred image in the mirror. Then we will see very clearly. Now my knowledge is incomplete. Then I will have complete knowledge as God has complete knowledge over me.

By Dauti Kahura
Mr Kahura is a freelance journalist based in Nairobi, Kenya

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Mr Kahura is a freelance journalist based in Nairobi, Kenya.

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Hatred and Self Loathing: Naipaul’s colonial shame

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Hatred and Self Loathing: Naipaul’s colonial shame
Photo: Faizul Latif Chowdhury

In his memoir, A Writer’s People: Ways of Looking and Feeling, published in 2007, V.S. Naipaul, who died last month at the age of 85, described the suffocation of being born and raised on a small Caribbean island that was racially divided. He writes of living in a place where “the living half-cultures or quarter-cultures of colonial Europe and immigrant Asia knew almost nothing of one another” and where “a transported Africa was the presence all around us, like the sea”. This sense of being trapped on an island with other races with vastly different cultures partly explains what led the young Naipaul to leave Trinidad for good and make a home in another much bigger island nation, England.

But adopting England and Englishness did not obliterate the writer’s inner conflicts about his identity. Being a Trinidadian Indian had left the young writer with a deep sense of inferiority, a kind of “colonial shame” that would define much of his writing in later years. Naipaul, whose Indian grandparents came to the Caribbean as indentured plantation labourers in the late 1800s, was ambivalent both about his birthplace Trinidad and his Indian roots. Both identities were the source of a lot of pain and shame. His grandparents had been slaves; and while they were not chained or beaten or forced to work for free like African slaves, they were made to feel inferior.

Interestingly, unlike many post-colonial writers whose writing is informed by their traumatic colonial experiences, and who actively seek to distance themselves from stereotypical colonial narratives of colonised people, Naipaul reinforced the thoughts and perceptions of the British colonialist. You could say that he was the Charles Njonjo of post-colonial literature – deeply contemptuous of his own people and forever looking towards Britain.

There are two ways in which colonised people who have been transplanted – either forcibly or voluntarily – in foreign lands cope with their new surroundings. They either retreat into themselves by becoming inward-looking or clannish (thereby reasserting an identity that they feel has been damaged or diminished by colonialism) or by underplaying or obliterating their own identity and emulating the identity of the coloniser. Both coping mechanisms are symptoms of a deep inferiority complex that even post-colonial states have to this day been unable to erase. The Western world is only too happy to indulge both types of people – either by exocitising them or co-opting them.

In a post-colonial world, co-option becomes a necessary tool to silence the former colonisers’ most vocal critics. This explains why after rebuking the Western media for infantilising and stereotyping Africans, the Kenyan writer Binyavanga Wainaina, who wrote the satirical essay “How to Write About Africa” (which went viral), was courted by the same Western media and for a while became the darling of the English-speaking literary crowd. Many such authors end up living in the very West they so condemn in their writings, our very own Ngugi wa Thiong’o being among them. Writers, especially from Asia and Africa, in trying to be aggressively and consciously post-colonial – or deliberately anti-colonial, as Ngugi was – still yearn to be anointed by the very West they claim to resist. Being nominated for the Caine, Booker or Nobel Prize is considered to be ultimate recognition that one has indeed been accepted into the white literary world.

The novels of the extremely talented Nigerian author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, whose writing describes a middle class Nigeria where families throw garden parties and borrow books from public libraries, are also in a sense a call to the West to accept Africans as “normal” people with middle class desires and Western tastes. Both Adichie and Wainaina have gained acceptance in the white literary world that was used to reducing Africans to exotic savages or blood-thirsty guerrillas – “natives” who served as colourful backdrops to white “saviours”. But unlike Naipaul, whose contempt for his own people was apparent in much of his writing, these writers have no qualms about both accepting and celebrating their African identity and questioning white privilege.

Sir Vidiadhar Surajprasad Naipaul was, on the other hand, deeply conflicted about his Trinidadian and Indian identities. In An Area of Darkness (1964), he said this of his ancestral land: “India had not worked its magic on me. It remained the land of my childhood, an area of darkness…” Naipaul failed to connect the dots between colonialism and the state of former colonies like India, whose experiences of colonialism had stunted or distorted their development. In this sense, his books are apolitical. In most of his writings, he sought to distance himself from the so-called Third World. He was particularly contemptuous of India, which he described as having “no autonomous intellectual life”. In India: A Wounded Civilization (1977), he described the home of his ancestors as “a very strange land” with bizarre customs and rituals and where people were steeped in ignorance. Many Indians, he stated in his memoir, can’t wait to leave the subcontinent, “to shake India off, shake off what they see as the retarded native element in dhotis and caste-marks, temple-goers…bad at English”.

Needless to say, his books on India were not well received; Indian critics wondered how he could have traversed that huge and diverse country without once tasting or feeling its rich culture and ancient heritage. Naipaul, who was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2001, also looked down on Indian writers, who he claimed did not have a global vision and could only write about “their own families and their places of work”. He did not spare Indian readers either, who he called “hard and materialistic”, people who only discuss a writer when he or she has won a literary prize.

His books on the Muslim world were similarly criticised by Muslim authors who accused him of perpetuating stereotypes about their religion. Others accused him of being a racist. The late Chinua Achebe called Naipaul “a new purveyor of old comforting myths”. Which is not to say that Naipaul was not a prolific and talented writer. His huge body of work are a testament to his literary skills and relentless curiosity about the world. In a recent tribute to the author, Ngugi wa Thiong’o referred to Naipaul as a brilliant “writer’s writer”, one “who holds a mirror of imagination unto society to capture a certain view of reality”.

Naipaul was also deeply flawed as a human being. He had misogynistic tendencies. He viewed female writers as inferior. In a 2011 interview, he stated: “I read a piece of writing and within a paragraph or two I know whether it is by a woman or not. I think [it is] unequal to me because women have a narrow view of the world”. He once beat up a lover so badly that she was unable to appear in public for several days. He was also known to have constantly humiliated his first wife Patricia Hale. (Naipaul married three times; his third wife Nadira, who he stayed with him till his death, was raised in Mombasa.) Naipaul did not spare his friend the writer Paul Theroux either, with whom he fell out, and who ended up writing a diatribe against his mentor called Sir Vidia’s Shadow.

I first read V.S Naipaul when I was in my 20s. I remember being enthralled by A Bend in the River (1979) the story of an Indian trader who ends up in a remote African township in a region that has an eerie resemblance to Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Through this book I got a glimpse of what life might have been like for the early dukawallahs who set up shop in Africa’s interior as Europeans set out to colonise the land. How did they cope in such harsh and alien environments?

But I couldn’t help thinking that Naipaul had very little respect for the sad but comical characters he created in many of his books. The opening line in A Bend in the River reflects the contempt he held for his main character: “The world is what it is; men who are nothing, who allow themselves to become nothing, have no place in it.” He condemned many of his characters for being Indian, for continuing to live small lives in Trinidad, for being unworldly or unsophisticated. One rarely found him getting into the skin of his characters to learn more about what made them tick. Many appeared like caricatures of “natives” etched by some bored colonial administrator’s wife in a tea estate in Assam. As Manan Kapoor commented in an article in The Wire on 12 August 2018:

“Naipaul only observed his subjects from a distance and often lacked self-awareness. In reality, he never touched his subjects with his bare hands, only with a stick, as if he was trying to poke them to generate a reaction which he surprisingly did. James A. Michener wrote, ‘If you reject the food, ignore the customs, fear the religion and avoid the people, you might better stay home,’ and it stands true for Naipaul.”

Perhaps Naipaul will be remembered for having the courage to be politically incorrect at a time when it was politically incorrect to be so. But I am afraid this attitude was not the result of courage or conviction but a deep sense of self-loathing – a kind of “colonial shame” – that was evident in most of his writing.

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No Excuses, Women’s Lives Matter

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No Excuses, Women’s Lives Matter

This ‘Brazen: Reflections’ series was born out of a desire to continue the conversations springing out of the ‘Too Early For Birds: Brazen’ theatre performance in Nairobi in July 2018. TEFB-Brazen was a mix of straight-up scripted theatre, narration, poetry, music and dance that featured the little-known stories of six fearless women in Kenya’s history – freedom fighters like Field Marshall Muthoni wa Kirima, Mekatilili wa Menza and Wangu wa Makeri; democracy activists Philomena Chelagat Mutai and Zarina Patel and even one iconoclastic yet nameless woman warrior who brought down Lwanda Magere, the legendary ‘Man of Stone’ in Kenyan folklore. The story of each hero was narrated by a corresponding mirror character on stage. The ‘Brazen: Reflections’ series seeks to explore the idea of brazenness, what it means in our daily lives, whom the idea of brazenness privileges or erases, and the place that brazenness has in imagining freedom. 

 

On September 5th, 2018, Sharon Otieno’s body was found dumped in a thicket near Kodera forest, Homa Bay county a few days after her abduction. Sharon was a student of Rongo University and was seven months pregnant when she was killed. The autopsy report gave a gruesome and horrifying picture of what she went through before her death – eight stab wounds, one directly to her belly that pierced the baby too.

A few weeks later, on September 21st, the body of Monica Kimani was found in her house, tied up and with a slit on her throat. I read this story just before a suspect was arrested for this murder, when not many people were talking about it, until it was emerged that the suspect was the fiancé of local TV presenter Jacque Maribe. The media, upon realizing this murder was connected to a local prominent person, finally gave it attention, changing the focus of the lens and centering it on Jacque and her fiancé, Joseph “Jowie” Irungu. The case has since had many twists and turns, a major one being on Monday 9th October when Jowie Irungu, the initial suspect and Jacque Maribe were arraigned in court for the murder of Monica.

In the days following Sharon Otieno’s death, as the details started to unravel, as it emerged that she had been in a relationship with Okoth Obado, governor of Migori county where she lived and studied, and where her body was found. Sharon was engaged with the governor in what many immediately labeled as a ‘sugar daddy’ or ‘blesser’ relationship. Pictures of Sharon were published, presented as evidence of the flashy lifestyle she was enjoying from her affair with the married governor. From radio stations to social media platforms, Kenyans had varied opinions about these types of relationships. Many statements were started with “Murder is wrong, but…” as people went on to list the evils of having sugar daddies and enjoying their financial support because in the end you will pay for it with your life. For many, including these prominent women, this was a cautionary tale in which women were supposed to learn that it’s their responsibility to avoid murderous men with money. Whether by coincidence or by design, it was at this time that the BBC released their 3 part documentary on sugar baby/blesser culture in Kenya, telling the stories of 3 women who are engaged in various forms of it. The documentary added another layer in the conversation, with even Al Jazeera holding a panel to discuss this.

In Monica’s case, when it was discovered that the main suspect was engaged to Jacque Maribe, a TV presenter, the story which hadn’t received much airplay before suddenly took center stage with Jacque being the leading act, while the murder became secondary, its importance only that it is connected to high profile people.

Whenever any of these high profile murders happen, the conversation, often guided by mainstream media shapes in the most sensationalist way. If a woman was with a man, then their relationship is suspect and her presence is scrutinized, often with the aim of pathologizing her and giving an excuse of her murder.

Just before the General Elections in 2017, IEBC ICT Manager Chris Msando was found murdered. In the footnote of this story, there is mention of a lady companion who was found a few metres from him. Her name was Carol Ngumbu. On the night of 17th June, 2011, university student Mercy Keino’s body was found on a highway in Nairobi after attending a party in which a former Kiambu Governor William Kabogo was present. In an inquest of her death, he and others were cleared of any wrongdoing that led to her death despite CCTV footage showing her struggling against two men and witnesses claiming that Kabogo had been physically violent towards her that night.

Less than a year after this, 26 year old Careen Chepchumba was found strangled at her apartment in Kilimani, Nairobi on February 2012. She is reported to have had an intimate relationship with former TV personality Louis Otieno. In an inquest of her murder, it was ruled that police bungled the investigations leaving gaps that made it hard for the court to convict anyone.

These are just a few of cases of murdered women who are connected to prominent men. When Sharon was murdered the conversation about sugar daddies reached peak volume, prompting even women politicians to caution girls from the perils of “wanting the easy life” by taking money from men. With Monica’s case, as details emerge giving rise to speculations about what really was Jacque’s involvement in the murder, people are now talking about the lengths women go for men often to their own detriment.

It is enraging to see that in Kenya this violence is treated like the next sensational story, with clickbait headlines and dramatic speculations for the sake of giving media houses clicks so that they can continue selling advertising. In addition to continuing misogynistic representation of women, using their connection to men to shame them even after being murdered, it creates the perception that women are murdered because of their behaviour or their lifestyles, when in reality women are murdered everywhere and by every type of man in all manner of situations.

It is clear that this country still refuses to reckon with its violence against women. The prevalence of intimate partner violence against women in Kenya matches the global statistics, about 40% of women have experienced IPV – this includes sexual and non-fatal physical violence. And when women are murdered by men. Women are killed by their husbands, sometimes together with their children; they’re killed by men they meet online; they’re also killed after a night out; And sometimes women are killed “mistakenly” by the state. This and many, many, other cases of different types of violence that women go through, underscore the gravity of the situation, and build an alarming pattern that should be scrutinized and elicit urgent action. Instead, this kind of violence is still seen as isolated incidents every time they happen.

It is encouraging to see that the cases of Sharon Otieno and Monica Kimani were taken seriously, investigations were carried out quickly, and there have been arrests. This could be a sign that something has changed, but the speed with which Sharon and Monica’s murder has been investigated and suspects charged is the exception and not the rule in how seriously and urgently violence against women is taken in Kenya. This is evident in the way that despite the fact that murders of women continue unabated, as a Twitter user has tried to document in the last year, the media still steers the conversations on these murders with a focus on the famous people they’re attached to.

The safety of women has to be taken seriously and the media plays a crucial role in changing the way we trivialize violence against women. Murder is the escalated and final act of the various forms of violence women face in Kenya, around the country and through all socioeconomic classes. Many of the stories never make it to prime time news and end up being silent yet alarming statistics. Our focus should always and unrelentingly be rooted in the seriousness of the issue and in ways in which we can stop this. It is immoral to continue nurturing the environment that continues trivialize women’s lives, as if their existence is not valued or worth protecting.

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Homo Nairobi Mobilae: Walking in the city as a young man

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Homo Nairobi Mobilae: Walking in the city as a young man
Photo: Rodgers Otieno on Unsplash

“Jamaa, si hukubali vitu nyingi sana sababu yaani society inatuforce tukubali.” – Nonini

Once, not long ago, I was sitting on a bench in Central Park. It was the end of Ramadan and there was a certain feeling in the air; The weather was crisp, the grass was green, and the ice cream sellers were happy. The Park was full, crowds of Muslims breathing in the celebration of the end of the fast. A group of young Muslim men were sitting on the grass, drinking soda, talking to each other, being. Two men approached them, leaning down to talk to them. Friends of theirs, also revelling in the joy of Eid al-Fitr, I thought. The man seated on the bench next to me corrected me. Kanjo, he offered.

I looked at him.

He continued. “Ona wamekuja wawili. Mmoja wa kuongea, mwingine wa support. Watauilizia ID. Lakini si ID wanataka.”

My face was blank.

The man, my bench buddy, spoke again. “Watu huweka ID wapi? Kwa wallet.”

Shit.

At that point I realized what he was saying. Rule Number One of being a young man in Nairobi: Don’t keep your ID where your money is. Because you don’t want to ever lose both at the same time. Of course, the shadow rule is, Don’t question this colonial mentality of having to walk around with identification documents. Kipande.

Another time, a friend and I are talking about running. This particular friend is an athletic type, obsessed with split times and running regimens and Eliud Kipchoge. He says, “Do you ever, when you are in the CBD, wish that you could run? Just put your bag on the shoulder and pound the pavement up Kimathi Street?” He smiles at the excitement of this thought. I wonder how that would look like, a male six-footer with long shaggy hair, dressed in shorts and sneakers and a hoodie, running up, or down, any street in Nairobi, with a bag on his shoulder. All that needs to happen is for someone, one person, to shout, and that’s the last time one ever runs in the city.

Rule Number Two of being a young man in Nairobi: Never, ever, ever, run in the city. It doesn’t matter how late you are, how much you need to meet Mr or Ms. So-and-So at what time, whether your cardiologist told you running will be good for your heart. To run as a young man on the streets of Nairobi is to confess to a crime, and to be a running criminal on the streets of Nairobi is to run for your life. Caveat: Even brisk walks are suspicious, unless performed while wearing a suit.

Yet another time I am walking in town, heading to meet a friend. It is a Sunday morning, and the streets are void of the usual weekday foot traffic. Walking past Koja Mosque, I walk past a group of police officers and they call me back.

“Kijana, uko na nini kwa bag?”

This is not the first time I have been stopped by police officers on the streets asking about my bag. “Ni vitabu tu.” I open my bag, or they open my bag, and indeed niko na vitabu tu kwa bag. When I was new to the city, I used to walk around with a laptop, or an iPad, or something. This is a rookie mistake of course, because any veteran of the streets of Nairobi will know not to walk with a laptop or an iPad or something in their bag, because doing that leads to another conversation. Kijana uko na nini kwa bag becomes kijana hizi umetoa wapi which becomes tutembee tuongee kidogo.

Another rule of navigating the streets of Nairobi as a young man: Expect that police officers will randomly, or not-so-randomly request for you to open your bag, and you will, despite any inclination to point out that the Constitution does not allow for such impromptu searches of one’s person, open your bag to be searched. Unless you are in a suit. A caveat: Pointing out that such impromptu searches are illegal is a moot point because, “Ati una rights? Me naona una wrongs.”

And so walking the streets of Nairobi becomes an exercise in navigating unspoken rules and nuances that no one ever warned you about. You discover that, suddenly, when you read about two young men, University of Nairobi students on their way to the HELB offices, were shot by the police at Globe roundabout. You realize that on another day, walking down Globe from Ngara that could have been you.

When you hear about young men shot dead by state machinery in Mathare, young men who look like you, and probably dress like you and sound like you, who but for the fate of class could be you, you sit and wonder whether that could have been you. And you decide, because you have the choice, that you will not venture into Mathare. When, some time after the elections, the governor of Nairobi announces a plan to weed out muggers from the city, you realize that, because of how the profiling system of the security machinery of the country works, because of your height and your build and your hair and how you dress, you are seen as a mugger. And so, as long as the security operation to weed out muggers from the city is ongoing, you wear a tie and official shoes and limit the occasions when you walk in the city. You take cabs more than you usually do, because you can. Your friends will comment on the sudden change on your fashion style, and you will say, vaguely, “Ni manguo ndio chafu. So ilibidi.”

Being a young man in Nairobi is the realization that you now have stories you can beat with your young male friends about how people like you were profiled in the city. A friend tells you that, because of his dreadlocks, when he walks down Moi Avenue or Tom Mboya Street or Ronald Ngala or any of the other alleyways and vichochoro that litter the city, cops accuse him of being a Mungiki.

Another friend talks about how he has spent time in the back of Rashid’s Probox. Yule yule Rashid wa vigilante pale Eastleigh. Another friend tells you, how when he was arrested for walking home, a crime also known as loitering, he stayed in the cells for the entire weekend because he didn’t have money on him. You will laugh at this story, at the ridiculousness of it all, because that is the only way to make light of these situations. You laugh, and make memes and share funny tweets and tell yourself, bora uhai. But then what happens when this profiling threatens your uhai?

And so you walk the city. Dusman Gozanga walked the city in Meja Mwangi’s The Cockroach Dance and you wonder how different the city’s moods are from the city you walk in. Down Moi Avenue, up Muindu Mbingu, across Ronald Ngala. You experience Nairobbery in the ways everyone does. You learn not to carry heavy bags. You discover that, when, at midnight you are walking from one of the numerous chips dens that litter the city, a street boy will warn you not to venture down a particular street because kuna makarao huko, you will trust this stranger more than the police officers who are supposed to ensure your safety. Utumishi kwa wote is not utumishi to you.

It is important to note, however, that profiling is an important tool in police work. Whenever a crime is committed, police officers will actively take part in both Be On The Lookout (BOLO) profiling and psychological profiling. BOLO profiling is the act of providing a specific description of the suspect of a crime based on eyewitness accounts. For instance, after a robbery, police officers may review CCTV footage and release the following description:

Suspect, a young man, was last seen running away, with brown bag on his back. He was wearing a green hoodie, a black pair of shorts and white sneakers. He has an afro and walks with a slight limp.

Thus, from this description, the police officers will be on the lookout for people who fit this description and seek to bring them in for questioning. On the other hand, because the police officers lack eyewitness accounts and have no idea how the suspect looks like, they will try to construct an image of the suspect from their behaviour during when committing the crime. For instance, if the robbery took place in a store with female employees, and the female employees were sexually assaulted, the conclusion might be that the primary suspect of the robbery is male.

Still, police work is not merely considered with solving crime; it is also concerned with crime prevention. Ergo, predictive profiling. According to Chameleon Associates, a security firm which trains security personnel in various areas of police work, their course in predictive profiling “provides security and law enforcement officers with the tools and skills to effectively assess threats in their operational environments. Trainees come out with the ability to articulate “gut feeling” into clear definitions of Suspicion Indicators and Adversary’s Methods of Operations allowing the organization to avoid liability issues and increase overall threat mitigation capabilities.” For example, a police officer may be aware that drug peddlers in Nairobi are usually young men who dress in loose-fitting hoodies, jackets and jeans, who walk around with bags, have shaggy hair, and walk down Ronald Ngala Street at three in the afternoon. Thus, the police officer will position himself on one end of Ronald Ngala Street and watch out for a young man who fits this description. In most countries, predictive profiling is not frowned upon. Rather, it is considered excellent police work. At the same time, in most countries, such impromptu stop-searches are only legal if the police officer has a search warrant, or they can prove probable cause. Trying telling this to Nairobi security officers. Kijana unaniongelesha ni ka wewe ni nyanyangu, nitakuingisha kwa Mariamu.

When the British colonial government was in power, one of the things that were criminalized was the act of Africans being poor. Thus, loitering and vagrancy became punishable offences as they indicated that the person in question lacked a fixed abode and was therefore a nuisance to the peace. Successive national and local governments inherited these laws and people were profiled on the basis of their class, where indicators of upper classness (the right clothes, the right English, working in an office, etc etc) became the desired while indicators of poverty (loitering, the shabbiness of one’s dressing, the wrong language, etc etc) became the undesirables. Into this reality of their poverty being a crime, young men from Mathare and Kibera and Kawangware and Dandora enter, unaware that their very being, their youngman-ness is a second, bigger crime. You could be unaware of the rules of existing in Nairobi, and you go about your business, and in the evening we hear reports of a young man, a suspected gangster, shot while fleeing arrest.

Still, I walk the city. Homo Nairobi Mobilae. Route 11. I walk the city because I am aware of the biggest rule of being a young man in Nairobi: Thou shall know your Englishes. I walk because, after the initial search in my bag, my English projects that I am not a danger, that despite my bag and my hair and my age and my complexion and my height, my English communicates that I belong in this world, that while I am guilty of being a young man on the streets on Nairobi, at least I am not a poor young man. And I think of the fresh stories I will have to beat to my friends, all the while asking, when I will ever stand up for myself against endless waves of profiling and kijana, uko na nini kwa bag?, When I will ever kataa hiyo, and what does standing up for myself, kukataa hiyo, looks like.

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