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Reflections

The Danger of Kisumu’s Single Story

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Catholic Father, Evans Juma Oduor was the presiding priest of Nyabondo Parish in Nyakach.  At a funeral service, he called out president Uhuru Kenyatta and asked him to stop killing innocent Luo protestors. Following the disputed August 8 elections, that the Supreme Court of Kenya nullified on September 1st, Kisumu city has become the epic centre of a brutal police crackdown. It was these incidences that involved shooting of demonstrators and supporters of the NASA coalition led by Raila Odinga, that Father Oduor was referring to.  In a bold move, he dared those who might have any case against him, to seek him out at his home address in Kisumu county. It was a bitter lament from the Catholic father against the killing of demonstrators, who were dissenting within their constitutional rights.

On October 22, two weeks after that amateur video of Father Oduor’s damning sermon, the Catholic priest was discovered near a sugar plantation in the Chiga market centre, in Muhoroni area of Kisumu county, unconscious with deep cuts on his forehead and hands. He was rushed to the Jaramogi Oginga Odinga Teaching and Referral hospital in Kisumu by good Samaritans where he died a few hours later. The burnt shell of his car was discovered 5 kms away suggesting a kidnapping. The death occurred 30 kms from his Nyabondo Convent residence. Before his death, he was the Metropolitan of Kisumu chaplain and a prominent figure at the Kisumu Archdiocese.

A priest who had called for a stop to ethnic profiled killings had been murdered. Not even a man of God was untouchable. The news did not even trend for a day before it was overtaken by the latest casualties coming out of Kisumu, a few days to the 26th October repeat Presidential elections. I had prepped pyschologically for the election week in October. With news of increased police presence in Kisumu, I worked the lines, reaching my nephews and nieces to ensure that they stayed out of harms’ way. We could not afford any innocent bystanders taking a bullet. Young people who just innocently happened to be going to the shop to buy some ice cream like Michael Okoth, the form four student at Vihiga high school. In a TV interview, his mother said the people who shot him, retrieved the bullet from his neck.

In two WhatsApp groups monitoring the political crisis in Kisumu, medical emergency numbers, safety tips and real time situational analysis kept arriving as new notifications. Volunteers were determined this time around, that civilian deaths would be reduced and those in the ‘hotspots’ forewarned. That Luo lives would matter. The estates of Kisumu had become the new battle ground with door to door operations.

“They are now shooting people in the estates”, came in a new message and attached a picture of an unidentified wounded civilian. I no longer shared stuff I received from sources in Kisumu, certainly not before I verified and certainly not with those who could not empathise. It was too exhausting trying to explain to people living in comfort zones that Kisumu was not only composed of demonstrators that they saw agitating on TV. Innocent civilians had been attacked in their own homes. Doors broken. Forced entry. Young men dragged out from under beds they were hiding. Babies clobbered.  In my line of work, it was important to not let the emotion take precedence but it was always my duty to side with the oppressed. I knew these accounts were real but it was getting difficult for images of police brutality out of Kisumu to elicit the kind of public concern one would hope for. Somehow the narrative of ‘violent demonstrators, looters, criminals, stubborn Luos” had become ingrained in the public mind.

Indeed, stories shape perceptions.

That is the danger of the single story that gifted Nigerian writer, Chimamanda Adichie made famous in a powerful Ted Talk series. Kenya has a fair share of single stories but when it comes to political violence and hooliganism, Kisumu is second to none. The lakeside city, the capital of Luo Nyanza is a designated ‘hotspot’. It is almost matter of fact. An old college friend Paul Okong’o shared a newspaper clipping from the Sunday Nation from 26th October 1969. The headline was ominous “ I’ll crush you, a furious Mzee tells KPU”. Above it: Dusk-to-dawn Kisumu Curfew: Odinga apologises.

26th October 2017, was the date of the repeat presidential elections and incumbent President Uhuru Kenyatta’s birthday. His fierce rival was Raila Odinga who had called for an election boycott. The new generation in Kisumu would learn the country’s history by experience, a bitter one at that.

Ever since the tragic fall out between the founding fathers, Jomo Kenyatta and Jaramogi Odinga, Kisumu has hogged the headlines as the capital of violent demonstrations. History continues to repeat itself 48 years later in a political stalemate between the sons of Jomo and Jaramogi and Kisumu continues to be defined by its past.

On 25th October 1969, President Jomo Kenyatta had arrived in Kisumu to open the Russia hospital today known as the New Nyanza General hospital.  The construction of hospital was made possible by funds from Russia and had been spearheaded by Jomo’s former VP turned fiercest critic Jaramogi Oginga. 1969 was particular tense year for the Luo nation. In January 29th of that year, foreign Minister Argwings CMG Kodhek, a brilliant lawyer from Gem, Kenya’s first African barrister died. Kodhek made name in defence of Mau Mau freedom fighters in the colonial courts and died in a mysterious road accident on the road from Hurlingham in Nairobi that now bears his name. Echoes of a political assassination reverberated but the big one was yet to come.  In July 1969, Trade unionist, leading political light and one of the founding father’s of the republic Tom Mboya was assassinated on Government Road (now Moi Avenue) in Nairobi, adjacent to a street that now also bears his name and statue. Both murders remained unresolved and the seeds of mistrust between the Kikuyu and Luo matured into a tree of ethnic-based political contest that has been watered by the blood of innocents almost half a century on.

It was against this tense backdrop three months later in October 1969, that President Jomo Kenyatta would arrive in Kisumu to officially open “Russia’, and confrontations seemed inevitable between Kenyatta and Jaramogi who had formed the Kenya People’s Union (KPU) in opposition to the ruling party KANU. The crowds on the ground were hostile to the President’s presence as an unwanted guest as Kisumu had graduated into an opposition capital. Both men assumed uncompromising hardline positions and harsh words were exchanged (matter of historical public record) which only agitated a home crowd in Kisumu still in mourning. Tensions escalated as a section of the crowd engaged in stone throwing.  The presidential security guard reacted and made a serious error of judgement by firing directly into the crowds ostensibly for the President’s safety. The motorcade sped away from the grounds leaving a trail of dead bodies. 11 civilians reportedly died that morning of  October 25th 1969. Tens of others were injured in the ensuing crackdown.

Kenya People’s Union was banned three days later, its leaders arrested and detained and Kenya became a defacto one-party state. Jomo Kenyatta never returned to Kisumu for the rest of his reign. This tragic episode marked the beginning and since then Kisumu has experienced waves of brutal police crackdown and paid a heavy price for political dissent and protest.

In February 1990, after the brutal murder of popular foreign minister Robert Ouko, demonstrations in Kisumu were met with live fire. In March 1992, my friend the historian, Paul Okong’o would remind me of the Kisumu Boys incident, when police chased demonstrators into the Kisumu Boys high and opened fire despite the fact that the school was in session. This was at the height of the political struggle for multi party pluralism. In 2005, during the Banana campaign in the struggle for a new constitutional dispensation, demonstrating civilians were shot at by police. In 2007, after the disputed Presidential election, large number of civilian casualties in Kisumu experienced live fire during a police crackdown. In 2016, in a protest against the Independent Electoral Boundaries Commission deaths were reported.

Throughout the struggle for multiparty rule, the 2nd liberation, constitutionalism and cycles of election disputes, state-sanctioned violence has become the byword for dealing with the ‘Luo problem” in Kisumu and Nyanza by extension.

During the August 8th election, Kisumu once again bore the brunt of a disputed election contest. Police brutality was visited upon residents of the Kondele and Nyalenda neighbourhoods. This time though, the police operation had taken a new dimension. Particular neighbourhoods like Nyalenda, Obunga, Car Wash and Kondele were targeted and rogue police elements breached homes supposedly in a containment operation gone awry. The face of this tragic episode was a 6-month-old baby, Samantha Pendo who was critically injured and died after a door to door operation in Nyalenda that targeted her parents.

The residents of Kisumu have barely dried their tears and the violence appears to have returned to their streets and homes in October 2017. What has now become the norm is a criminalization of dissent in a country that has accepted shooting of demonstrators particularly of the Luo ethnic extraction in Western Kenya, endorsing a policing culture that rarely shows restraint.

The militarized police presence has become a constant feature of Kisumu recent election disputes and witness accounts continually talk of a rogue elements in uniform engaged in ethnic profiling. The simple story that has now played into the national psyche is that violence breeds violence and the blame resides on the lawless civilian who threw the first stone and provoked the wrath of the police. The pain of victims is ridiculed by a mocking public that has no context of the reality. What is happening in Kisumu is not a Luo issue. It is a human rights abuse issue.

The forgotten story in this no holds barred political contest is that a few hundred agitated demonstrators do not represent the whole of Kisumu.

The ghost of political contest that holds Kisumu hostage has to be exorcised. There are hundreds of thousands of ordinary Kisumu residents of all ethnic extractions who have nowhere to run, because the only the home, they know is Kisumo.

Whenever I talk to my young nephews and nieces, born and raised in Kisumu, I struggle to find the optimism in the midst of the doom and gloom forecast. But I am reminded by something my late father Henry Odhiambo said during a rare conversation about the history of Luo oppression, “ You cannot live in my past. That is not your story. Make your own story”. I surely hope the same for Kisumu’s young lives.

The stories we tell about our experiences matter. The stories we tell about Kisumu matter. The same stories that have been used to undermine, condemn and silence entire communities of people can also be used to empower, dignify existence and restore life. After all, we are the stories that we tell ourselves.

By Oyunga Pala
Oyunga Pala is a Kenyan Newspaper columnist.

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Oyunga Pala is a Kenyan newspaper columnist.

Reflections

THE COLONIAL STATE, AUSTERITY AND “MIDDLE CLASS” ANGST: An insiders perspective

This short film by Amina Bint Mohamed, and featuring activist Aimee Ongeso, explores the concerns and challenges of the so-called ‘middle class’, a demographic whose definition is contested and whose security is precarious. Unemployment, a high cost of living, and commercialized social services make it nearly impossible to ‘live one’s best life’. Though the blame is often put on poor financial literacy, Ongeso says the buck stops with the state – and she reflects on the strategies that families like hers are using to survive these hard times, and disappointments they navigate, while recognizing that the problems they face emanate from the exploitative colonial nature of the Kenyan state.

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THE COLONIAL STATE, AUSTERITY AND "MIDDLE CLASS" ANGST: An insiders perspective
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Reflections

NAIROBBERY: City of Injustice, City of Grief

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NAIROBBERY: City of Injustice, City of Grief
Photo: Kwayne Jnr on Unsplash

Prior to being let go from the most promising job I’d ever gotten, I’d entertained the idea that maybe I was somehow safe. But when the news was broken to me over a static-laced WhatsApp call from the mdosi, I barely reacted.

‘Do you have anything to say?’ he asked.

‘Is this decision final?’ I responded.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Then I have nothing more to say.’

An awkward silence reigned the conference room and eventually I left them to whatever else they needed to settle. I walked to my desk, broke the news to my family and started looking for a new job. It’s now been four months. I am yet to work in an office again.

I was almost 25 when I was technically fired. Each day that passed without a response to my job applications felt like a tightening noose.

Others who have been through the same – and it appears as though anyone with ambition has gone through this – told me, ‘Relax. These things happen. Enjoy this moment.’

That’s the problem. What’s to be enjoyed when there’s no money to leave the house? Eventually the stress of job seeking began to suffocate me, an unseen persisting pressure pushing my mind further and further to that inevitable pop. It once got so bad that a friend figured that the best way to comfort me was to show me how many other people had survived my situation.

‘Even Oprah was fired,’ she exclaimed. But that’s about the only thing some of us will ever have in common with Oprah.

Job seeking in Kenya right now seems to be an extreme sport. One where only the resilient or downright lucky get to win. For some, getting a job is a straightforward affair. Graduate, intern, employee, retire. For others it gets a bit more creative. One friend of mine said you only need three key things, ‘Looks, manners and connections.’

I thought it a bit shallow. She disagreed.

‘Looking good is one step in the right direction. When you’re presentable, the world is your canvas. That’s why the world’s best conmen are also the best dressed. The moment you look good, it gets easier to insert yourself in groups. Once you do that, you can get connections anywhere.’

The logic in it couldn’t be denied. Looking good is its own reward. Think about it. Everything we wear is indicative of adhering to an acceptable aesthetic. You have to look a certain way to be taken seriously. You can’t show up to a pitch meeting with unruly hair and mismatched sneakers. And you can’t just say that being sloppy is your preference. There is a standard to meet.

Structural Adjustment, Revisionist History and Revelations from a Forgotten Past

Read Also: Structural Adjustment, Revisionist History and Revelations from a Forgotten Past

You have to graduate from Charm School to be able to create a job opportunity out of a chance encounter. That’s half a foot in the door. Why our teachers couldn’t spare a moment out of the pointless curriculums to share this about adulting, we may never know.

But it can’t just be about looking good. It has to be about qualifications too. Perhaps the reason why I can’t get a job I would be perfect for is because I may not be as experienced as the recruiters want. Or because I don’t possess the requisite degree. However, Twitter is inundated with posts of highly qualified individuals looking for work, any work. Plenty of individuals with prestigious degrees in fields like Microbiology and Engineering are looking for any kind of job. A few have taken to the streets with banners showing their qualifications.

Unemployment rates in Kenya are at a crisis point. Recent reports from the Kenya National Bureau of Statistics show that seven million Kenyans are unemployed. Out of these, 1.4 million have been desperately looking for work. The rest have given up on job hunting, with some opting to go back for further studies.

The data suggests that rate of unemployment is at 7.4%. Other studies show the rate at 11.4%. I couldn’t care less about the numbers. So what if seven million other people are as jobless as I am? It doesn’t change my personal situation.

Sometimes these jobs are only available at entry level. And even then, they end up being frustratingly temporary. A friend who eventually opted to seek employment abroad had an interesting early experience before he left.

After being employed as an I.T. intern in a reputable firm, a workmate suggested that he seek a permanent position.

‘Just apply,’ he was told, ‘What could go wrong?’

After making the application, the senior manager called him aside and told him he needed to grease the wheels.

You need to buy the wazee a mbuzi.’

After months of arduous labour configuring laptops and providing tech support, this was the thanks he got. When he showed hesitation in providing the mbuzi, the manager refused to approve his pay for two and a half months. This forced my friend’s immediate supervisor to pay him out of pocket. Eventually he had to leave the job and figure out what else to do. He was lucky enough to get a better opportunity a few weeks later.

But his happy ending isn’t the norm for entry-level workers. In 2016, I left a job as a data entry clerk because the project got axed. Other companies hire interns and have a policy against retaining them. Some start-ups, though courageous enough to hire newbies in the work environment, end up sinking anyway because of finances.

While this is a ‘norm’, it spells a world of doom for young people in their early twenties. Most of us end up getting mjengo type jobs where they’re veritable casual labourers. The mjengo system is a daily struggle to earn an unsteady pay check. Contracts that are renewed monthly. No job security. Linear use of skills. Doubtful job roles. No benefits. No legal protections. And you have to struggle through them because you’re ‘paying your dues’. Desperately hoping that perhaps the universe sees it as a proof of workmanship. That it will in turn reward you.

Then this is where the Boomers and Gen Xers come in. Parents are mad at the ‘lack of initiative’. If you’re hard at work shouldn’t there be fruits to show of your labour?

My father had one such conversation with me when I was unemployed after my first internship.

He raised one hand above his head, ‘These are your expenses.’

Another hand hovered near the ground, ‘This is your income.’

He brought his palms to meet around his face, ‘This is where you should be. Why can’t you get a job?’

Because nobody would hire someone fresh out of college with only three months’ experience to their CV.

The murmur of frustrated parents echoes around homes in the city that still support their recent graduates.

‘Why don’t you start a business?’

‘Food always makes money.’

‘Even with the economy sinking, Kenyans won’t stop wearing clothes, go into the mtumba business.’

But to be honest, entrepreneurship isn’t for everyone. It’s suited only to a gifted few. And even so, entrepreneurs struggle to make it through in a crony capitalist state like Kenya.

Another friend who owns a wildly successful travel solutions company told me, ‘Not everyone is cut to do it.’

Sure. All you need is guts, guile and a never-ending thirst for glory, right? Wrong.

My friend went on to add, ‘Cash flow is a serious problem, at least for me. Business only booms when the economy is good.’

‘So how did you survive?’ I asked.

‘You have to stretch the shilling, make sure you have years of savings for utilities and expenses because profit will be erratic. Work from home, use business offices if you have to reduce rent expenses. Keep a routine. Prepare for bad times. The 2017 election period caught us off guard. Nairobi is no longer just about Kenya. Understand that you will be facing international competition.’

This sounds like a lot to think about. It’s also what affects one entrepreneur among millions of others. If you are unemployed with barely any savings to your name, do you jump into that pool?

Technically, starting a business in Nairobi is supposed to be easy. Running it and keeping it afloat isn’t. And with the rising costs of living in the country, starting a business seems like a bad idea.

Essentially, it brings you back to the job-seeking arena. Get a job, save some cash and start a business, yeah? However, getting that job still isn’t easy. Most job-seeking sites have sales jobs aplenty. Sales seem to be the most common job available in the country.

‘Sales jobs are numerous because no matter what is happening, you’ll always want someone out there touting your product,” a friend of mine who heads business development for a media company tells me. It’s basically free marketing. That way your company is always known and you always have a potential client to add to your portfolio.’

Sales job are also notoriously poorly paid. Some companies even pay only on commission with no retainers or benefits. You can operate at no cost to the company.

It’s not always what it seems though. A sales operator for a hardware company told me it was difficult for him to get there. After leaving a job at an insurance company to go back to school, things didn’t improve just because he had upgraded his papers.

Two years with casual jobs, he eventually gets an email inviting him to an interview. The fact that it was being held in the conference room of a church raised a few flags, none of them red. Upon showing up at the gate, a young well-dressed man asked for his name, phone number and a two-hundred-shilling registration fee for the meeting.

‘Meeting? I thought this was for interviews?’

‘No, this is a network marketing meeting.’

He looked around and saw the poster then. It was a gathering for a multilevel marketing training course organised by a well-known cosmetics company. Why did they have their meeting in a church? God knows. Perhaps church halls are cheaper? Maybe for credibility? Churches do have a reputation for getting people to make it rain so…

Months passed before he got a sales job that barely provides him with an income. But at least he gets that coveted job experience recruiters live for.

Nairobi ensnares dreamers, those who have the temerity to be ambitious, in its gaping maw, sucking them dry and then spitting them out. This phenomenon doesn’t spare any generation.

A lady who had left for red, white and blue pastures in the early 2000s returned to Kenya after two years of experiences worthy of a depressing Chimamanda immigrant epic. Upon her return, she expected to be reinstated at her civil service job.

‘It’s standard practice. As long as you asked for leave, you just go to HQ and they reinstate you,’ she told me.

Unfortunately, things didn’t go as planned.

‘When I left, I asked for the time off over my supervisor’s head. He threatened me, told me to return after a month or else. I didn’t return. And when I was back two years later I found out he’d written a bad recommendation to the seniors at headquarters.’

‘Did you give up?’ I asked her.

‘No, I talked to a former workmate. He organised a meeting with one of the men in charge and they told me to pay KSh20,000 if I want to be reinstated. I paid and they told me to wait for two weeks then I can get my old job back. I didn’t. They were reshuffled into other jobs and I never even got back the money I paid.’

‘What about your supervisor? Couldn’t you talk to him and get him to rescind his bad recommendation?’

‘No, he died shortly after I came back. I was on my own. Every time I paid off the officials, they would get reshuffled. Eventually I ran out of money and none of them were willing to help unless I paid them.’

‘What about family? Couldn’t any of them help?’

‘Nobody wants to help a 40-year-old woman who could afford to travel abroad. And everyone else said they didn’t have any money or connections.’

Years later, she finally got a job. But she moved as far away as possible from Nairobi and its burdensome toxicity.

Is there any hope for little old me? We of the woefully unprepared for jobless insecurity, do we stand a chance? After experiencing an unprecedented bout of brokeness I reached out to people who were going through the same. Spells of having no money, crises of faith and crippling self-doubt. I asked a friend who has been through some of the most Dickensian worst of times.

‘It gets better,’ my friend promised.

‘After clearing college, our school was changed which made my diplomas unusable. That was barely my first hurdle. After that I got a sales job but turned it down because I just can’t do sales. I have tremendous respect for the people who do. I ended up drifting.’

‘Drifting?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, I was sneaking into classes at a friend’s school. I worked as a cleaner in a computer stall, I worked in a movie shop, I learnt to talk to people, how to broker deals and whatnot. I lost friends. I moved to Zimmerman and got a great job doing IT security then I got fired after a month. Let me tell you, don’t believe your own hype. Don’t oversell yourself on your CV.’

‘I don’t even know how to do that in my CV,’ I quipped.

He laughed uneasily.

‘I got an internship along Mombasa road where I had to walk to town every day because they weren’t paying us. After, I went to a job in Karen where after two months, the money stopped coming in. The company was going under but the boss didn’t tell us until after five months. I didn’t leave until after seven months. The boss would give us handouts. But then I ended up not paying rent. Eventually my house was locked and my stuff auctioned except my laptop and the clothes on my back. I contemplated suicide so many times, I looked for ways I could leave all this from being shamed by my relatives, friends with the ‘alirudi ocha‘ vibe.’

‘But after this I got my ‘big break’ because of a blog I had been writing since 2013. A CEO from abroad emailed me about it. At first, I thought it was a con but I just responded and got an amazing opportunity consulting with them. It’s what I’m doing now. I’ve worked with celebrities, big tech and governments.’

I was so inspired by his story. Empowered too. Binging on prosperity porn is one of the survival mechanisms of dreamers who toil in dead-end jobs or are ‘in-between jobs’. Stories like my friend’s show that while Nairobi makes you struggle, it can breed greatness, right?

We soak in all the stories about people who were felled by circumstance or their own folly managed to claw their way back, and maybe even thrive.

You have to be lucky. You have to be timely. My peers call it ‘your moment will come’. My more religious peers say, ‘Wait for God’s time’. Because there is a heavenly itinerary for when watu ordinary like Mwende and Kimemia will finally get someone to notice their work. The sad truth is that for most, dreams come true through the ‘blessing’ of others. It is that successful people give you a chance to shine. It makes me realize that it’s not necessarily your fault if you miss out when you’ve been working so hard for ‘the moment’.

My former employer even reached out to me after I was let go, ‘It had nothing to do with you or your talent,’ she insisted.

Maybe there are forces at work that can swing either way. Beyond skills, qualifications, work ethic and experience, it seems like you have to have guardian angels, good luck charms and even the occasional visit to the mganga to get that dream job or set up that dream business. It seems like a whole lot of moving parts, and I can’t blame anyone who can’t keep up.

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Reflections

Structural Adjustment, Revisionist History and Revelations from a Forgotten Past

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Structural Adjustment, Revisionist History and Revelations from a Forgotten Past

1. “Sap? Ahh in full pls? Yohhh I’m legit outttttt.”— Sandra, 23.

I spent Mashujaa Day in a gallery in Kibera. Every Saturday, the gallery, Maasai Mbili, has poetry readings, and I, together with a friend, had gone for one of these. When we got there, we found one of the regulars talking about his shujaas. First, my mother, he said, because it wasn’t easy raising a person like me. We nodded, and someone in the room said that all mothers are heroes. He went on. Next, Moi, because he led the country well, and presided over the economy well, unlike other presidents.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this sentiment, this feeling that Moi was good for the economy, and that any disruptions to the economy were due to foreign malcontents. Rasna Warah has written about this, the sanitization of Daniel Moi into a kindly old man who held the country together. I’ve also been thinking about the whitewashing of history that led to information about Moi’s economic incompetencies being hidden away from generations of children who were not alive at the time, or too young to remember. I’m also thinking about SAPs, and how their knowledge is not part of the histories of a certain generation.

2. “So, I don’t really know what SAPs are, but I’ve heard them in conversation. They are important, they keep us in check. They are like a ‘learning point.’ They teach a man how to fish and he won’t ever grow hungry again. The fuel increase is one way SAPs have affected us. Don’t know any other…I don’t think it’s an everyday conversation, unless it’s something you are aware about/interested in and you have like minded people to discuss it with.” — Sabina, 26

I am unable to remember Moi as president. My memory of politics begins with Danson Mungatana telling Raila, “Kama yeye anakula samaki wa Lake Victoria, mwambie mimi nakula mamba za River Tana.” Moi, for me, exists as a distant event, like the Mau Mau and Patrice Lumumba and the extension of the Lunatic Express to Port Florence in 1901; events that happened, and were important to our histories, but which I never encountered directly.

A few years ago, when I was preparing to join campus, my parents and I had a conversation about their campus experiences. Back when my father had been doing his BSc and his subsequent MSc, he had been the recipient of a monthly government stipend. Every month, he told me, the government would deposit money into their accounts for their general upkeep. For my father, who was a child of the city, the child of middle class parents, this payout meant that he enjoyed a measure of independence from his parents. My mother, on the other hand, came for a large family whose patriarch had died early in her life, and whose matriarch was a single uneducated woman living in the village. For her, this payout meant that she could pay for her younger sisters’ school fees. A few years after they were done with campus, as part of the Structural Adjustment Programmes of the late 80s and early 90s, these stipends for campus students were halted. The wanton kleptocracy and naive economics of Moi’s government meant that decades later, we would have to go through campus by our own means, or face the weight of student loans.

3. “Yeah, I don’t know what SAPs are…No, why would I bother with them? All I know is we are being forced to celebrate a dictator who killed people.” — Nyasetia, 23.

As part of my thinking about Moi, I’ve been thinking about SAP’s, what they are, and what they represented. Ngala Chome writes about growing up in Kisauni in the 90s, and about how the implementation of the SAPs ravaged his community. For them, kids born at the turn of the Cold War years, “the tumultuous period of the 1990s reared its ugly head when the colour of ugali turned from white to yellow; when teachers stopped showing up for class; and when trips to the shop to get candles became more frequent.”

My parents got married during this period of the yellowing of ugali. We often rewatched the VHS tape of their wedding and, for years, it, together with Holes and The Gods Must Be Crazy were my favorite audio-visual experiences. That is, until I discovered Hillary Ng’weno’s The Making of a Nation. In a 2011 interview, Chacha Mwita, who was the managing editor of The Standard newspaper when government functionaries raided their offices, described Ng’weno as “one of those people without whom you cannot understand Kenyan journalism.”

4. “Bana, mimi nilimaliza tu shule…Ni kitu nishawaisoma mahali, though I don’t have much info about it.” — Nigel, 22.

How do you make a nation? How are the stories of a nation made? Who makes a nation? Do the stories of a nation make themselves? And after the stories of a stories are made, who makes them disappear? What are the stories of a nation? What came first, the stories or the nation?

5. “What I know about SAPs is that they were a program initiated by the World Bank in the 90s in Kenya, and I think some other African countries, when there was an economic crisis, to kind of ‘streamline’ spending in the country…I’ve tried asking my parents about this…but they give very avoidant answers that say a lot without explaining anything really.” — Hilda, 24.

Moi’s destruction of the Kenyan economy was not the dominant event in the global economy in the 1990s. Around the same time when ugali was turning yellow, the Russian economy was being gobbled up by a group of Russian robber barons. While Mikhail Gorbachev’s envisioning of the perestroika might have been altruistic, he was unable to understand what ‘opening up the economy’ would mean to the average Russian citizen who was either unable or unwilling to take part in the strongest-in-the-jungle catfight that would follow. Or, they had not read the History of Kenya and the 1970s opening up of the country’s economy recommended by the Ndegwa Commission on Public Structure and Remuneration that would lead to an oligarch class before the oligarchy.

In his book, Not Yet Uhuru, Oginga Odinga famously dismisses Daniel Moi, describing him as “…influenced by the missions, overawed by settler power, and making a slow adjustment to political trends and the need to make independent judgement.” It was this type of dismissive attitude that led cynics to dismiss Moi as a passing cloud when he ascended to the presidency, and later, to postulate to the argument that he had done his best with the little resources he had, mental or otherwise. I do not know how accurate Oginga’s assessment of Moi was. I’ll add it to the list of things I know not.

6. “I don’t know what these are…I have heard of it but I don’t know what they are.” — Anita, 19.

Things I know not: How it was to grow up in the SAP-afflicted economy of 90s Kenya; whether Danson Mungatana actually does eat mamba za River Tana or whether he was just beating stories; how the stories of a country are made, and who makes them; how J.M. Kariuki, one of the original robber barons, came to be described as a maker of a nation; what a nation is; whether they were on a break; whether the future history of Kenya will be written to say that the current robber barons in charge of Kenya did what they could with the economy, and that the economy collapsing the way it is was the fault of malicious foreign malcontents who were trying to spoil Kenya; and why Awilo Mike and Riziki split up.

7. “No idea.” — Paul, 22.

When I was in class eight, my school decided that, to motivate us, it would give class eight students milk. Everyday, at 3.10, on trays placed in the corridors outside our classes, we would each pick a glass of milk. We knew, of course, that the milk was useless with regards to our KCPE performance. After all, what was the use of milk if the school decided that we ought to stop attending classes? What was the use of milk if it was the only form of nutrition we got because our broke parents were unable to put food on the table because they had lost their jobs? Wasn’t the free milk just a vanity project if, because of programs brought on by kleptocracy and economic incompetence, healthcare and education were unreachable and expensive? Still, we drank our milk, because it was to keep us motivated enough to do well in our exams. However, a few days into the milk program, it was cancelled and we were switched to juice. Turns out the school had been buying expired milk.

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