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YOU HAVE NOT BEEN TO KISUMO, MY FRIEND!

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Kisumo! The place of sumo! The land of opportunity where, when in need, you go to seek for and collect food from friends and family. And traders.

Nestled at the ‘head of the lake’ (Wi-nam), Kisumo – corrupted to ‘Kisumu’ – today ignites directly opposing sentiments from Kenyans. To the mono-eyed and incorrigibly ignorant hater having his vision and thinking hazed by jingoist alignment to tribe or political nonsense, Kisumo is the place of destruction, synonymous with vain protest prolificacy.

Kisumo, in their eyes and minds is a barren, rowdy and unsafe spot in Nyanza otherwise synonymously called Kondele and is full of stones. What foolish cheek! For Kisumo is not K’Ondele, Luo for Ondele’s home. Yet, yet, the discerning, attentive, open-minded and liberal adventurer will quickly find that Kisumo is as the songstress Suzanna Owiyo and the crooner Daniel Owino Misiani articulately storied in their hits, Kisumu 100 and Bim En Bim 2 respectively –vast, productive, hopeful, fun, industrious, compassionate, peaceful and therapeutic.

Kenya has an unfortunate schizophrenic perception of Kisumo, with the political/tribal view always defensively reacting to Kisumo from a default violent containment mode, while the Kisumo insiders counteract, sometimes offensively and usually from an unequal position and thus leading to unhelpful destruction. This was well depicted by the unfortunate occurrences that transpired on the night of Friday, August11th and half day of Saturday August12th. On that dark Friday, the IEBC declared their election results, giving the incumbent president Uhuru, a suspiciously strange 54% win over his challenger at 44%. Within minutes of the ill-fated declaration, smoke and wails and gunshots engulfed Kisumo as police and ‘police’ battled protestors and ‘looters’ on the streets and estates and bedrooms.

20 hours later the fear-inducing drone of the police helicopter that had patrolled Kisumo’s skies day and night had died off. The rat-a-tat of a dreadful variety of guns had mowed the lives of several defenseless Kisumo dwellers, government-issue boots had finished with kicking doors open and kicking teeth in, reinforced truncheons and crude jembe handles had splattered streams of blood and smashed away skulls, and teargas aplenty had turned Kisumo into a gas chamber, chocking and itching babies to endless and sickening wails and repelling birds off the skies. It was terrible. Terrible. Terrible!

Presently, Kisumo residents had crawled from what remained of their desecrated homes and tiptoed into the gloomy open – hungry, angry, scared, numbed and in moaning. Kisumo’s trembling lips counted its lost lives, soiled dignity and abused possessions and, slowly at first, began to stammer to the rest of the country the shocking siege that it has suffered. Video evidence, survivor tales, government denials, images of destruction and dumbfounded disbelief articulated a weird story of a government that had staged a coup against its people. When much later they had finally found their tongues, some Kisumo residents joked that had the incorrigible Al-Shabaab experienced what Kisumo went through on these two black August days, terrorism would be a forgotten problem in Kenya.

What followed as reactions to this occurrence was of itself shocking. In short, the social media was awash with three narratives – those of the Kisumophobics who celebrated the ‘straightening out’ of the ‘loudmouthed and stupid’ Luos of Kisumo, those of a government and police respectively denying any knowledge and involvement in the Kisumo drama, and those of the Kisumomanics simultaneously pleading for and demanding justice. In the wake of all these was born the #LuoLivesMatter hashtag, that to this day continues to be propagated as a counter-narrative to the unjust‘straightening out’ narrative. The government denial particularly seemed to cement the now normalized perception of the officialmarginalization of Kisumo. And if the government is not for us, Kisumo seemed to say, then who other than us shall be for ourselves? Quickly following the #LuoLivesMatter campaign therefore was the kneejerk cobbling up of the Nyanza Professional and Business Forum, in the hope that Luos could somehow do for themselves what the government has abdicated.

But does Kisumo need straightening out? However much the regurgitation of this silly tale, Kisumo is infact‘straight’ already and is a lovelier and opportunity-filled place than most Kenyans refuse to imagine.

Sometimes in 2016, a huge national conference on reproductive health and maternal and newborn child health was held at the Acacia Hotel in Kisumo. It brought together over 2,000 health practitioners from all over the country. Sure enough, many of them, just like the hordes of Kisumophobics, had never been to Kisumo. (When you live in Kisumo and interact with many Kenyans, they always ‘regret’ that they have never ever gone past Nakuru or Kericho, and that they have this ‘unexplainable’ fear of landing in Kisumo lest ‘something bad’ happens to them.) Anyway, the participants did arrive in Kisumu, mostly by night bus and early morning flight. They all, in their Kisumophobic character, limited their movements to their rooms and hotel dining halls. On the first day of the conference, all participants were particularly punctual for the sessions.

During the first break however, they got their first shock. Standing at the 2nd floor terrace of Acacia Hotel, the participants got an amazing birds-eye view of parts of Kisumo, stretching to the big lake and Riat hills. The beauty of Kisumo wowed them of course, but strangely, they were surprised by the level of the development they saw. “Is this the Kisumo I always hear about,” they marveled! Whereas it was pleasant to watch their surprise, it was annoying to behold and listen to their expectation of ruin and wanton destruction of the place. But that was not all. In the evening, the participants got to see Kisumo, to walk Kisumo, to drink Kisumo and to dance Kisumo. Needless to say, for the next three days, organizers had to plead with participants to not only come to the sessions early, but to also stay awake and concentrate.

For these proud citizens of Kenya had never been to this our collective Kisumo and now had found it, discovered it. They had never interacted with the average Kisumo folk, dark skinned and mirthful, eager to welcome and please a visitor. They had not sat with Kisumo folk at Kakwacha or Lwang’ni hotels or at Kimani’s Juakali butchery to hog down platefuls of delectable Kisumo Fres Fis served with nyaluo vegetables and kuon bel and washed down with adila mayom! They had never visited the bubbling Chiro Mbero or Kibuye Market to haggle and purchase the freshest and plentiful offerings in the many mini-markets within it including Kisii corner and Nandi milk and green maize. They had never visited the breathtaking Kiboswa roadside market where the Rift Valley (Nandi), Western (Vihiga) and Nyanza (Kisumo) meet and exchange the sweetness of all. They had not gone up Riat hills and purchased and constructed on a ka-plot that gives –free of charge- the fulfilling and uninterrupted view of the lake all the way to Homa Bay and Kendu Bay. They had not trekked by K’Ondele and Nyalenda to engage the muscled and creative metal and woodcrafters who design and build the reliable Kisumo Windows and Frames, and regale you with stories of comedic pakruok and flatter. They have never taken time to roam with the multitude of people at the KisumoStage, where passion, compassion and business is conducted in the most primary and Kenyanlike entrepreneurial spirit.

No, they have not visited the MixaFarm by the banks of River Nyamasaria or the Peasant Shamba by the valleyed Nyahera to witness the prolific productivity of the land and the fruits of commendable hard work and labor of Kisumomanics, and eaten the most authentic organic products of Kisumo. They have not been to the rolling acres of Kibos and Miwani and Chemelil and Muhoroni to take in the busy and industrious production going on. The Kisumophobics have not been to the beaches of Kisumo, taken the boats rowed by clever locals who know the depths and pleasures of the lake as they know the backs of their hands.

They have not experienced the peaceful calm of Kisumo’s Milimani, or enjoyed the daily hustle and bustle of the estates. They have not witnessed and participated in the growing land and construction economy, the preparation and mustering of capital in anticipation of the development of the beachfront, the Kisumo Port and the coming, arrival and going of the SGR. They have not internalized the opportunities of watersports abounding here nor taken the opportunity to watch randy, burly hippos romantically kissing with their oversized lips, in and out of water. Have the Kisumophobics sat by the hills or shores or balconies and took in the breathtaking Kisumosunset, watched as Nam Lolwe and its silvery grey waters dance and become one with the fires and embers of the evening sun before they usher in a night so calm and warm and romantic?

The Kisumophobics have not taken a seat around the intellectual table of the hallowed Lakeview Bar and Hotel and sat in the company of true and pure Luo brains, of real and noble Professors and Doctors and Masters and Bachelors, and listened in awe as they contributed and applied their minds and genius to the philosophy, psychology, augmented reality, calculus, architecture, design, music, football, sex, agriculture, astronomy, dance and general knowledge of life!

No. They have not experienced a night out of imbibing in the triple distilled and hot liquids of Kisumo’s Beer Belt nor engaged Kisumo’s male and female comforters, merchants of exciting nocturnal delights! Have they danced to Luo Benga and Rhumba, let the music take over their bodies and the beats throb in their hearts and swell their souls? Have they ever surrendered to the Ohangla beats and felt their bodies seamlessly gel with the music and gyrate in uniform concomitance with their lovers on the dance floor, forget all the troubles in the world and get lifted far beyond the moon and stars by the sweet Johhny Junior, the legendary Okatch Biggy, the peerless Musa Juma, the scintillating Suzanna Owiyo? Have they found themselves singing along in tongues to Live-Band music at the inviting joints of Railways, Mamba, Kondele, Obunga, Nyalenda, Nyamasaria, Riat, Kisian and Ahero? Ahero Ka Dani where Aliya will liyo you?Have they been ‘sang’ in an impromptu praise song by Kisumo’s Nyatiti griots? Have they danced in nyadhi, that marker of ultimate pride and grace? Have they ever met, sat back and relaxed with Adhiambo Sianda? Has love ever been made to them: love so gentle and profound and unhurried and quixotic, love so divine and Luo in its execution, love so trusting and conjoining and accepting, love that transforms two bodies into one contented heart, mad love sourced from the purity and honesty and whiteness and genuineness of humanity, Kisumo love, love so explorative and adventurous that they finally knocked on heaven’s door and embraced and shed tears of ecstasy with God?

Nope.

On October 25th 1969 at the opening of the ‘Russia’ hospital in Kisumo, political disagreements led to painful loss of lives and aPresident washing his hands off Kisumo. Half a century on, many more such mini-events have continued to occur, denying Kisumo its worthwhile place in the development and happiness of Kenya. The national psyche keeps getting conditioned towards a negative perception of this beautiful place. Half a century on, Kisumophobics, by unquestioningly swallowing such negative vibe, are denying themselves the opportunity to come over to this place of sumo and collect riches and happiness and friendships and love and hope and peace and family. In all truth, those who choose to listen to our alternative stories of Kisumo will never regret their welcome to Kisumo. Ever.

By Oluoch-Madiang’

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Reflections

Surviving the Hood: A Walk Through Nairobi’s Iconic Neighbourhoods

For us hood folk – no matter where we land – especially if we survive the hood – then it is forever home

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Surviving the Hood: A Walk Through Nairobi’s Iconic Neighbourhoods
Photo: WikiCommons/tropenmuseum
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What you up to I asked.
I’m going back home to take some pictures for my foundation was the answer.

For us hood folk – no matter where we land – especially if we survive the hood – then it is forever home. Because we remember how far we have gone.
And no matter what trauma and hardships we suffered – we remember this time through rose tinted glasses.

What? Going back home, home I said
Yes, won’t be there for long but we can meet after. No way! I am coming with you. I am going home too. And so, we set off.

First stop Kaloleni – Ololo – for a walk and picture taking.
You see for them Americans to give their hard-earned cash – we have to reaffirm our poverty and massage their saviour ego.
But today I am not on that soapbox.

I am 7 years old, visiting a relative in Kaloleni – eating peanuts that Nyaredo (my uncle) has bought us.
I am 7 years old – waiting for the medicine man to bring a variety of roots that need to be boiled and me washed with it. You see at age 7 I have terrible eczema and the many trips to Aga Khan courtesy of the KQ medical cover has not helped.
Dana knows the cure – and so off we go to Kaloleni.

We say hi to Mama. She is shocked to see me. I am happy to see her.
And of course, I come bearing gifts. I know she loves flowers – and these are bright orange. My Mama loved orange.
Mothers are precious and I do miss my own Mama, so I channel that love to any mother I come across – especially my friends Mums.

These houses looked much bigger when I was 7. They seem shrunken – but we have grown. This takes me back to the sights and sounds of our homes growing up.
Wow – it must have been loud – with laughter, joy, tears and hopes.

We walk around the old neighbourhood.
There is a beautiful old building that was the maternity clinic back in the day. A safe place. Walking distance from any home for mothers to welcome new life.
The library is next – open – recently renovated.
The social hall still stands …and there is a handball pitch too.
Hmmm – handball I inquire – yes, it has been here since our childhood.

This estate was planned.
Every common space has a tree.
The wooden shutters – painted green and that city council sky blue are still present. I am 7 years old, eating peanuts as I wait for the medicine man.

Next stop is my hood. Jericho.

Jogoo Road has changed but it is still the same.
Barma market – where we bought live kukus for those special Sundays still stands. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

We exit Jogoo Road as we remember the number 7 and 8B bus routes. Long live Kenya Bus Service!

Bahati estate is still the same. Jennifer would get off here.
She was beautiful – Arab looking Kamba gal – Evelyn Tei’s cousin. Next
Evelyn and Davi would get off at Kimathi.
These were the it houses! 3-bedroom stand-alone homes – yo!

I was then in the bus by myself or with Agnes till Jeri.
Funny – no one lived in Jerusalem or Ofafa Jericho…maybe they did, and we just didn’t take the same bus…

Welcome to Trench Town

The sign greeted me as the bus turned into my road. Then I knew I was home safe!

Oduko so – the big shops – the main shopping centre – our Mall
I ate mtura there and ferried metal birikas of soup from there to neighbours’ homes. I got my shoes mended there at the cobbler outside the bar.
My feet grew like weeds – no new shoes, mended shoes for me.
My Mum’s local – drinking those small Tuskers with my Godmother and various aunties. Laughing.

The field next to the dukas was where the monthly open-air movies were screened. To this day I wonder who was behind that…
Bringing a screen and projector and showing a free movie to the masses.

Then the clinic…
The clinic where you had to buy an empty small bottle for your cough medicine. In the hood, Actifed came in 5 litre jerricans.
The clinic where Starehe Boys volunteered during the holidays.

Them in their very colourful uniforms – ever so smart. Patrick Shaw smart. The clinic that I ran to when I broke my toe…
Which was not set properly – and has given me wahala ever since.
I remember the day clearly because my uncle Cliff was there volunteering that day… The game was tapo…or blada…or cha mkebe
Anyway
I ended up with a broken toe that healed funny.

St. Joseph’s …my nursery and local catholic church. Weird place, looking back.
Lots of light skinned kids …pointies…running around. The only white jamaas were the…. yeap! ‘nuff said!
We drive to the parking lot and I am 12. I loved a boy from that house.

He smelled sooo good – Old Spice I remember.
First place I ever heard Tracy Chapman.
His brother was playing his guitar to ‘Fast car’. But alas, he was smelling good for someone else…

Celestine’s house.
Her mother told her not to talk to me because ‘I knew too much’. Celestine got pregnant in Standard 8…
Clearly, I knew nothing!

Wiki’s house – Wycliff – his full name was too long for us kids. First boy and last male who ever slapped me.
Heard my brother defended me by giving him a thorough beating! The joys of big bros in the hood.

Hilary’s house.
Now that was an anomaly…
Hilary lived there with his Mum. The end.
Just him and his Mum…in that huge 2 bedroomed house! My family of 5 kids was the smallest…the average was 8 kids We had a cousin and house help living with us…
We slept in one room.
So, you see the thought of just Hilary – alone – in the room – solo…that was mind boggling!

Owanjo so…the big field Looks so small now.

Walking to church along the bougainvillea fence…
Wondering why the boys are allowed to watch football whilst I have to go to church.

Oti Papa – towering tall. The coach. Superstar Someone scores, the crowd goes wild…
I walk to church…

I am 10.
Walking across the field after school to the far far corner to buy deep fried mhogo… Laughing with my two mates – Pauline and Mamie
Pure bliss
Them Mushrooms are having a jam/rehearsal session. The drums sound good, I fall in love with the guitar We eat and listen…

Thoma’s house.
First real rejection. I am 15 going on 16
Standing in the kitchen – the gally kitchens of Jeri… Gathered courage to go in for a kiss.
Dude jumped back as if I was about to stab him…
Note to self – do not make any sudden movements towards the male species. They are somewhat fragile when not in control.
Years later – we are back in the kitchen. Him from Sweden, me from my new hood. He has lost his Dad; I am saying pole.
And I remind him …ai ai ai…wacha hiyo story Posh (my hood nickname). We laugh and he goes – lakini you are free ku jaribu tena.

The car park.
With the Maasai watchie wrapped in his Raymond’s blanket, armed with his bow and arrow. It must have been a good year for Peugeot…everyone seemed to own one…or so it seemed. There was the occasional Datsun, Nissan and my Mama’s VW – KGG 908.

My street. Our house.
Laughter – it is a Saturday and Mama is having her bura – she is laughing, my aunties are laughing, gossiping, listening, helping, soothing, accounting for the monthly contributions. They are drinking and laughing, and Franco plays in the background.
Sisterhood – this is what it looks like.
Joy – Earth, Wind and Fire – blasts from the record player. I am mesmerised by the sparkly cover.
Fear – people running, horses…what? horses in Jericho? Screams… the 82 coup has arrived. Tears – loud wailing – my Uncle’s death – HIV – early days…he makes it into Newsweek… Violence mwizi comes the rallying call. We all pour out of our homes…
Nyerere with a panga, blood everywhere, leta mafuta…
Later on I wonder how witnessing that affected us kids…
Domes – the wall shook…my neighbour battering his wife. Her head made contact with the wall.
The late-night knocks, the crying, black eye, broken bone – letting in a weeping female who needs to make it to hospital…
Clear thought goes through my child mind – never marry a Kisii or a Luo for that matter…

The big easy – remembering the lazy Sunday afternoons, the footballers walking home, Leonard Mambo Mbotela asking us je, huu ni ungwana.
The only time I think Luo men my Dad’s age attempted to understand Swahili.

The Bus Stop
My stop – 3 steps and I am home.
The bus stop where Mwangi gathered courage and gave me a love letter via Freddie.
In their Martini uniform. Martini which I later realised was Martin Luther King Primary School. Go figure!
Mwangi from Ziwani.
As I got off the 8B – he got on. At times he didn’t.
He sat there with a clear view of our kitchen and veranda. Young love.
I turned him down gently…he swore to love me fore

The Obembo tree.
Weeping Willow – I discovered years later in my adulthood.
Dhi kel kedi – go bring a stick. God help you if you got a dry one!
It had to be flexible…so as it came down on you, you were dead just from the swishing sound it made.

I am 9.
In standard 3…
I have a toothache.
I take a nap after lunch and I miss my afternoon classes. The maid reports me to my Dad with glee!
Dhi om kedi. I die a thousand deaths. I am sick, in pain, my tooth!
All my Dad hears is that I skipped school…like that is my fucking nature!
I pick a nice flexible one because even in my misery, I want to be good and obedient and get a good kedi.
I have seen this guy cane my brother.
Watched my brother cry – my defender, my hero against the hood boys… I can’t imagine that wrath reigning down on me.
My Dad is speaking… I can’t hear him…
I am dying – can’t he see? I am crying – I am the good one. I am screaming – I am not lying! He raises his arm…
I pee…right there where I stand. He looks at me in shock…
I look at him in shock… He tells me to go shower.
He never raised his hands again…to me. But everyone else got it…sadly.
That is why only one boy has ever slapped me. One. Once. The end.

The hood.
We connected at a basic level
No pretence. No explaining. No pity. No judgement Just simple memories…
The medicine man The bus ride Sunday football Them Mushrooms
The Weeping Willow – which caused a lot of weeping Love – young unrequited love
Friends – rest in peace Mamie Tracy Chapman
Old Spice.

I am 45.
Standing in an empty car park Facing owanjo so
The bougainvillea is long gone
There is a stone wall instead – protecting the space from land grabbers…Kenya! The grass and red soil are now gone…
It is astro turf
Kids play in their bright yellow jerseys…dreaming… Oti Papa would be proud.
I wonder about Celestine, Wiki and Hillary…

Me at 45
Standing in the car park Old spice in my memory
But now not quite Old Spice but an expensive scent Tracy in my memory…
Nvirri the Storyteller on my mind
Football in the background
And in front of me… Home.

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Reflections

Die Kijana Die: The Crime of Being a Young Poor Man in Kenya

Growing up in Mathare, we all start out with beautiful dreams. A dream of becoming a doctor, police, engineer, professor, pilot, and so many more. Teachers used to tell us these dreams will only become true if you work hard. Maybe that’s why Motiso worked so hard to achieve his dream—to be a dancer.

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Die Kijana Die: The Crime of Being a Young Poor Man in Kenya
Photo: Julian Myles on Unsplash
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If you want to see colonialism alive and well in 2021, one of the first places you should look is Mathare, or any of Nairobi’s informal settlements. These are places where people are still not treated as full citizens, but rather, as sources of cheap labor. Citizens deserve publicly provided or accessible water, electricity, healthcare, education, roads, etc. But the people of Mathare are not treated as citizens. They are treated as disposable.

One of the ways that disposability is made most clear are police killings. In August, there was one week when police gunned down seven uncharged, unconvicted young men. But, while criminal suspects in other parts of the city are arrested and jailed, police kills the “disposable” young men of the ghetto because society, in its complicit silence, has agreed that it is more efficient this way.

We know that Kenyan civil society has long spoken up against police killings. The recent murders of Benson Njiru Ndwiga and Emmanuel Mutura Ndwiga while in police custody in Embu have rightfully incited public outrage. But what about the seven young men who were shot dead by police in Mathare within that one bloody week in August?

*****

On 9 August, 2021, a young man called Ian Motiso sat down to take a late lunch at a kibanda in Mlango Kubwa, Mathare when a killer cop called Blacky passed by. Blacky took out his gun and shot Motiso down then and there. Just like that, Motiso is no longer with us. He was 21 years old.

Another extrajudicial execution. Another life cut short.

Even though police killings continue throughout Kenya, people are speaking up about it now more than ever. A couple weeks ago, the Ndwiga brothers were detained in Embu by police. While in police custody, police beat them to death. The public responded with anger. National news covered it widely. Lawyers have taken up the brothers’ cases.

But what about Motiso? What about the other six young men killed in Mathare within that week? Almost silence.

People say that the young men police kill in the ghetto are “thugs.” People say that those who speak out against police killings simply do not understand what it is like to be a victim of crime in informal settlements. I was born and raised in Mathare. I have been a victim of crime. I know the pain of being robbed of valuable property. I know the pain of beatings from heartless young men. I know the pain of losing loved ones to “boys” who stab with knives.

Motiso committed crimes. Motiso personally attacked me. And Motiso did not deserve to be extrajudicially executed. I believe this, even though I still have a wound behind my right ear from when he bashed my head.

Two months ago, Smater Zagadat and I had just arrived at the Mathare Social Justice Centre (MSJC) to lead rehearsals for the MSJC Kids Club as usual. MSJC Kids Club is an initiative that uses dance and community theatre to advocate for social justice. Smater and I are the coordinators. That afternoon, I was wearing a black T-shirt with the logo “Dance with Zagadat”—Smater’s brand—so Smater took our her phone to take a picture of it. Within seconds, three teenagers swooped in and snatched the phone. We ran after them down towards the river and managed to catch the guy who grabbed the phone. Some kids from MSJC Kids Club followed behind.

We grabbed the thief and dragged him back up to the office so he could return Smater’s phone. But, suddenly, a group of young men came out of nowhere and attacked me. I only remember feeling their punches coming from all directions. Their fingers were covered with heavy coated rings. My teeth almost came out. I could not see what was happening, but I could see blood coming out of my mouth. All of this happened in the early evening on Mau Mau Road, between the bridge that connects Kambi Safi Road to Kosovo Hospital Ward, a very busy area—yet no one came to my rescue, except for the MSJC kids who shouted and cursed the attackers.

I recognized one of the attackers. Even though he recognized me back, he didn’t stop beating me. He felt no shame attacking someone he knew. He was Motiso.

Let me take you back, because I want you to understand something important. Motiso was born and raised in Mathare. He knew all six wards of Mathare very well, from the elderly to children. By the time he was 16 years old, he was already a very talented dancer and was a part of the Billian Music Family (BMF), together with Smater herself.  The community loved these dance groups, and in return, the groups inspired many kids in Mathare, including myself.

The first time I saw BMF’s Dance group, I was just out of primary school. The dancers were performing “Vigelegele” by Willy Paul along Mau Mau Road. That was the first time I heard the name Motiso. The kids, yelling above the booming speakers, cheered for him as he danced.

“Umecheki vile Motiso amedo hiyo Stingo?!”

“Atakua dancer mgori!”

He was just that good, and I guess that’s why he easily became famous.

Growing up in Mathare, we all start out with beautiful dreams. A dream of becoming a doctor, police, engineer, professor, pilot, and so many more. Teachers used to tell us these dreams will only become true if you work hard. Maybe that’s why Motiso worked so hard to achieve his dream—to be a dancer.

Maybe if he wasn’t born into a poor family, his hard work would have turned his dream true. But Motiso was born into a place that reeks of all sorts of human rights violations, of poverty, of ecological injustice. His dream was shut down because of the environment he was brought up in. So, did he give up? Yes, Motiso gave up.

Imagine the struggle he passed through. First, he was unemployed. Motiso, like many of us in Mathare, was trapped in a cycle of wage slavery. You wake up, go to job, get a salary, barely make food and rent, sleep, repeat until you die. But your work never turns into a dignified life. You’re just trapped.

Second, Motiso was in the danger zone of being a man in his twenties living in the ghetto. As young men in Mathare, when we reach this age, we automatically become an enemy of the state. The ghetto is a place where a child grows up innocent, then later on becomes a victim of predators who target, hunt, and prey on them.

So Motiso went ahead and jumped on a bad bandwagon. He left dancing and got involved in crime like petty theft. The reason why he chose crime over a path of straightness is simple: He needed to survive.

Some people criticize his decision, asking why he should commit crime when the government has offered plenty of job opportunities to the youth, like one program called Kazi Mtaani. But, if those people understood that Mutiso was a victim of structural violence created by the system that we are born into, they would understand that they are demanding a young man to make “good” decisions while he chokes inside a system that has never treated him as a human.

Mutiso did try to join Kazi Mtaani, actually. A few months ago in Mathare, a group of young men went to the administration to register for Kazi Mtaani. But they were surprised to find that, in order to participate, they would first have to bribe the Area Chief 1,000 KES ($10). How can you look a young unemployed man in the eye, when you know he has no job, and ask him for money? Maybe the thieves who snatched Smater’s phone wanted to sell it in order to bribe the Chief and get a job.

Motiso will always be remembered as a thief. He robbed many. Many are still crying because of what he did.

But remember—he was also a friend. He was a family member.

He never deserved to be born into a system that does not care for poor people.

He never deserved to live in a world that kept poor people powerless in order to exploit them and, when they did what they wanted to survive, killed them off.

He did not deserve to be killed by the people whom we expect to protect us.

He never deserved that.

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Reflections

This Season Is Heavy – Yaani, COVID Has Shown Us Things

Yet, even with this heaviness, the digital world has offered many families unable to mourn physically with their loved ones the opportunity to be inclusive.

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This Season Is Heavy – Yaani, COVID Has Shown Us Things
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This 2020.1 version is dealing a heavy hand. Heavy! That’s what it feels like. Heavy. I thought rough would be a better word, but in my head, that rough comes with some gruffiness. There is nothing gruff here. This season is heavy.

Heavy. Laden. It feels like we are riding a storm in the high seas being pounced upon from above and below. The port and starboard are defenceless. Yet, the periods of calm and when the sun does manage to break the clouds, the relief though appreciated, leave one edgy. That’s how I feel right now, and I know that I’m not alone.

Many of my friends have been telling me to write. Write what I’m feeling and share. But neither the soul nor the fingers have been willing. I have tried, but I don’t get beyond two paragraphs. This is more than I’ve done in a while and so maybe you might get to read a completed piece. So far, so good. I’ve shared my feelings with some folks. I know that if I keep on holding what I’ve been feeling, it will come out in the most unlikely way and probably be rather embarrassing. Like throwing a tantrum at a Naivas shop attendant and demanding to know why they don’t have whole-wheat-bread, yet they should know white bread bloats me. So, I need to speak. As they say, a burden shared…

Twenty-twenty plus one, up to now, has been one hell of a rollercoaster. I want to get off, but I’ve got the happy hour special, where I seem to have gotten a free ride that I had not paid for.

I lost my dear friend, correction, our dear friend, Lorna Irungu, aka Kui. This was in March, my birthday month. The same month I’d moved house and was yet again taught to appreciate Kilifi and the sea with new eyes. It was in March that I tested positive for COVID. That was scary, and I don’t want to wish the disease on my worst enemy. I mourned Lorna within the confines of my home, alone. Grief is even more painful when you are denied human touch. I wanted a hug and to be held. I wanted my tears to fall not just into my pillow or run down my cheeks but to be also comforted tactilely because I was in pain.

Many other friends who knew Lorna (Kui) were hurting. Still are. That was March. A birthday month that will not be forgotten. It was a month when I learnt yet again to surrender to the inevitable. Acceptance. I recognised my humanness, frailty and the fragility of life. COVID left me humble and terribly grateful, and I’ve shared that experience with friends and other COVID survivors.

Whenever I hear that someone has tested positive, I pray that the virus is kind to their body and, hopefully, they get well. Recovery, as we’re seeing, is not always guaranteed.

I’m learning to celebrate the victors and honour the fallen. This heavy season is, in essence, about the cycle of life. Only that the death aspect of it has been ratcheted up. A friend told me the other day, as we consoled one another over our respective losses, that the thing that makes this period heavy is that there is hardly any time to mourn or reflect. Because in almost rapid-fire speed, there have been several RIPs on Facebook or Instagram or staff emails with the words, ‘It is With Sadness…’ or getting invited to yet another Whatsapp group that is, ‘In Honour of…’

It’s heavy! We have been introduced to Zoom, Google Meets or Teams, and virtual memorials and burials. We not only work and socialise remotely but also mourn remotely! Yet, even with this heaviness, the digital world has offered many families unable to mourn physically with their loved ones the opportunity to be inclusive. Yaani, Covid has shown us things.

The month of April rolled in. I said farewell to Lynn, a former colleague turned friend. Then there was Frank, whom we joked about eating Kanyama (roast meat) together once we recovered from ‘The Vid’. One of my doctors fell ill at the same time as his elderly mother. He was recovering at home while she was recovering in the hospital where he worked. I said goodbye to a woman who took me into her bosom even though neither of us could speak either’s language. I had to trust that my virtual support and financial contributions meant more than just the obligatory expectation. Adieu, Adel.

And then, there was Baba. My dad. Who passed on, just like that. ‘The Vid’ didn’t get him, a stroke did. A reminder that there are still other things out there claiming lives. May was double the intensity of March. Within days of losing my dad, one of my close friends lost his dad too. I learnt how skin becomes thin, and I would become irritable at the slightest thing.

I learnt how loss also brings in a flood of care and love from unexpected corners. Even though the world felt rather shenzi, there was a battery of angels who just showed up. Kindness and comfort do balm pain. But my word doesn’t death sting! Others who’ve gone through similar loss were on hand with realness and not hollow words. Maybe my skin is still thin? During that period, there were phrases and words I never want to hear again. But I know, I will.

Anyway, who knows what to say during these times and who is consoling who? Sometimes just silence and presence are enough. And I learnt that even in the depths of grief, there is still space to laugh and smile. I remember telling one of my relatives that I didn’t know how to be strong. How could I be at that time? I was in pain. And grief brings along a pain that if you don’t let out, it will surely find its way out, where you like it or not. So, to those who encouraged me to cry and let me cry, thank you. I’m in a better place right now. My family and I, like many others, are navigating yet another new normal.

I’m in a place of more learning and unlearning. And trying to steady myself through this season of heaviness. I’ve also learnt that this is also a season of grace, and I’m dishing it out royally. We are still living in a pandemic. These are unheralded times, and people do and will continue to do shitty and baffling things. My life coach, Cece, keeps reminding me to think of the lessons I’m being taught — the takeaways.

I’ve gone back to embracing the moments so that I can get through the day. There’s a lot more gratitude within me, a lot more. On some mornings, I step into the day gingerly, and on others, I step into the day and let life happen, hoping I have the strength to deal with what life throws my way.

My word, what a season we are in! Yet, this is life. So, here’s wishing you grace for all sorts of days, be they sunny, blustery, or torrential. And, the strength to see you and me through this season.

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