The biggest frustration for a rational thinking Kenyan, is the flimsy justification of extra-judicial killings by the police.
Whether it is the Wagalla Massacre (they provoked the government), displacement and killing of Kikuyus during our tumultuous electoral cycles in the 1990s (they should know how to vote), or the state-sanctioned shoot-to-kill of the Mungiki (they are a menace), it always escapes me why we bother having a functional government, with a well-paid judiciary where showing up for work on the most important day is not necessary.
Or think about the use of excessive force and inexcusably, using live bullets on demonstrators who are not satisfied with the outcome of an election annulled by the Supreme Court.
To a section of Kenyans, the demonstrators in Nairobi, Kisumu and Migori, should be deterred using force because they destroy property. When we have people, who value property more than human life, we have a problem.
We sunk Sh 216 billion to the security docket last year. We invested in police trucks, water canon trucks, tons of teargas and rubber bullets, presumably. The various policing units, we hope are trained well in armed combat and handling riots. Why is the use of live bullets still an option?
Few people ask that. To many, if a live bullet can end a demonstration, and we go back to “our normal lives”, the better, because “business is suffering, and we can’t politick all year around”.
Yet politics determines our lives. The best question we can ask, is why are Luos ready to demonstrate, what justifies their anger that even a live bullet cannot stop them.
Unless you sufficiently understand the history of Kenya and how marginalization works, you will not understand why some communities are bandits, some sympathise with terrorists, and why the Northern Frontier will always be a hotbed of violence that our police and military will never adequately contain. And yes, you will never understand what makes the Luos angry, constantly agitating.
The 2017 elections have claimed more than 60 lives according to the Human Rights Watch report on the elections. Those killed include a 6-month toddler, a 10-year old girl playing in their apartment balcony, and several young men, some pulled from their homes at night, and killed and blanketly condemned as destructive protesters.
The Luo body is denigrated by the state, stripped of its life, and has been at the receiving end of state brutality, time and time again.
To the State, and its apologists, the Luo are a handful lot. We know the stereotypes: they are anti-business, violent, and difficult to appease. The Jubilee Party Vice-Chair David Murathe told KTN news network,
“The opposition (read Luos) have nothing to protect. They have no stakes in the economy.”
How come in Kenya, some people have a stake and others, don’t.
Murathe was trying to justify the use of excessive force, because where he comes from, property ranks higher than the sanctity of human life. To Murathe and his ilk, connecting poverty to protest is intellectually taxing.
It is an erroneous assertion that the opposition is anti-business and pro-Jubilee people are pro-business and prosperous.
Nigerian writer, Chimamanda’s Adichie’s said in the much-publicized TED Talk, The Danger of a Single Story, “Stereotypes are not necessarily untrue, as they are incomplete.”
The single story of the disorderly nature of the Luos, with a penchant for destruction, enabled by the cheap soundbites that our aptly labeled ‘Githeri Media’ goes after when tracking protesters, has made it possible to justify police brutality and violence.
When police talk of forestalling violence during elections, sadly it means sending police trucks to NASA strongholds mostly occupied by the Luos, whether in Nairobi (Kibera and Mathare) or Kisumu, Siaya and Migori.
We were here in 2007. We saw on live TV as an unarmed young man was shot dead as he protested a dubious election outcome. In 2013, the police did everything in their power to ensure that violence did not breakout, but it was more muted and creatively contained. But we never solved the problem of conducting credible elections, neither did we learn to have a more inclusive government.
And in 2017, inevitably we were going to end up where it all begun: in 2007 with a disputed presidential election.
But this did not begin in 2007. The two politically dominant communities, Kikuyus and Luos, did not begin their political competition today. It started long before the pre-Independence days, even as the colonialist tried to drive a wedge between them. But they buried their difference for the good of Kenya.
A history of marginalization
What makes the Luo constantly agitate for their rights stems from the diseased body politic of Kenya. If we learn to see it as a quest for equality, not just for the Luos, but for every Kenyan who suffers from the silly government policies, corruption and nepotism, it will bring us closer to relating to the humanity of the Luos.
The Kikuyus and Luos came together and their unity was instrumental in kicking out the British colonialist. But we got our independence at the height of the cold war, like some countries in the world, the president and vice-president would ideologically drift apart, and the seeds of marginalizing the Luos were planted, and so was the seed of agitating for their rights.
After independence, 40-odd tribes found themselves lumped together in an experiment called Kenya. Some of the communities had a head start. Walter Rodney, in ‘How Europe Underdeveloped Africa’, outlined how the colonialists annexed productive parts of the country, developing them, and by the time they left, the places had schools, churches, hospitals and basic infrastructure. And to date, such places are still far advantaged, no amount of denial can erase the fact.
In 1965, Tom Mboya and Mwai Kibaki, then in charge of the Ministry of Economic Planning and Development wrote a simplistic paper, Session Paper No. 10 that will guide Kenya’s faulty development agenda for the next 45 years.
The paper simply adopted the colonial system where areas with the most abundant natural resources, good land and rainfall, transport and power facilities and where people were receptive to and active in development would receive more government funding in the hope that profits from such areas can be offered as loans to less productive areas.
This was obviously a primer for regional development disparities that will haunt the country for decades to follow. This was made the worse by the nepotism that governed the conscience of the founding father. Areas that were resource poor, or in opposition were doubly sidelined.
That precondition of developing areas that were ‘receptive’ to development was to be used to politically control areas that were amenable to the whims of the ruling elite. Former president, Daniel Arap Moi, famously said, “Siasa Mbaya, Maisha mbaya.” And this was a justification of sidelining the Luos and other communities that were either in opposition or didn’t have arable land or any resource the state could extract.
At the very heart of politics, as Harold Laswell aptly defined it, is who gets what, when and how. With a firm grip on power by the Kikuyu elite and Jaramogi Oginga Odinga leaning left, the marginalization of the Luo started shortly after independence. Luos with potential to take power and change the course of the Luo trajectory were assassinated; Argwings Kodhek and Tom Mboya died in that troubled decade of the 1960s.
Luos generally settled in opposition, especially after the brutal assassination of Mboya and events surrounding the shooting a dozen protesters in Kisumu on October 1969, when President Kenyatta went to open the Russian Hospital. So ironic that 48 years later, police were breaking into people’s homes in Kisumu, shooting and killing Luos, unsparingly. What is vexing is that the Luos who are usually killed are unarmed, and when armed it is the crude stuff like a stone, an odd metal, yet police are trained in armed combat and can easily disarm and violent protesters with an array of options. Use of live bullets is positively revulsive.
Then came the 1982 coup, where Luos were part of the top ranks, behind the short-lived and misguided coup. Many were jailed and executed after the coup. And the second president found yet another justification to sideline Luos.
By 1990, another Luo, one of the few serving the government at the top, was brutally assassinated. Even though Robert Ouko was in the government, and not much of a popular figure among the Luos he was still their illustrious son and his death was definitely a reminder of government hostility towards their community.
Ouko’s death happened towards the end of the Cold War.. The West changed tune and started advocating for multiparty democracy in Africa.
With both Luos and Kikuyus in opposition after President Moi’s twelve years in power, their collaboration given their population would have effectively ended Moi’s regime. The initial dalliance of Jaramogi and Matiba and other Second Liberation leaders, was a good move, but selfish interests overrode the common agenda, and the three major opposition forces participated in the elections separately, efficiently giving Moi another 10 years, until the opposition came to its senses in 2002, where again, Kikuyus and Luos would collaborate to save Kenya from a dictatorship.
By then, the Luos had been marginalized for more than three decades. Raila Odinga’s brief cooperation with President Moi in the late 1990s and early 2000s did bring a few goodies to the people of Nyanza, with the Kisii-Kisumu Highway getting a much-needed facelift. Kisumu was made a city, with too much fanfare and, cosmetic as these changes were, Luos did taste, what being in government felt like.
Then 2002 came, and Kibaki got to power and disregarded the MoU that brought him to power and effectively ended the Kenyan dream. And in its place, he entrenched a terrible ethnic cronyism that restored the old GEMA elite network that Moi’s 24 years of presidency scuttled. In record time, we would see banks, universities, and businesses owned by the GEMA community start to flourish, even as Luos, and other marginalized communities were kept at bay from key state jobs. Instead marginalized communities were asked to be content with tokenisms, like the Constituency Development Fund (CDF). Most communities were kept from the center of action, until the 2010 promulgation of the New Constitution entrenched devolution, did many communities start to feel as part of Kenya, since they could get a slice of the national cake.
Legally, devolution only guarantees counties 15 per cent of the action. The remaining 85 per cent is still up for grabs and cause for clamor for presidency.
When we read that the president has cancelled Sh 2 billion coffee debts in Kirinyaga, or Sh 1 billion to Miraa farmers, or the government spent Sh 61 million to build a State-of-the-Art fishing factory in Nyeri, people will agitate for similar opportunities. Other parts of Kenya rarely get the same treatment.
When the president gets to bail other communities’ dead industries, it is for political expediency. But even so, what is the point of reviving Mumias, when cheap sugar is imported or smuggled, rendering the efforts of farmers futile.
The carnage of dead sugar industries in the country’s sugar belt, has robbed many people in Western Kenya their wherewithal. The killing and privatization of industries such as KICOMI by the Structural Adjustments Programs and other economic programs that favour cheap imports at the cost of our industrial economy have played a big role in rendering the Luo poor.
And it is poverty that makes them agitate for a piece of Kenya. It is easy to say, if it is not only the Luos who are poor, how come other tribes are not as violent?
For one, it is the Luos who have the critical mass to agitate, and that is why other communities that feel marginalized too, usually rally behind them. Besides marginalization in each community manifests itself differently. In pastoralists communities, banditry thrives, early marriages are common and there is high levels of illiteracy. In the Coast, secession calls by outfits such as MRCs (Mombasa Republican Council), the drug abuse scourge, child prostitution, are red flags of what marginalization can do.
Culturally, the Luos are outspoken and have always been an open society, where anyone can speak truth to power. Everywhere I have been, I meet Luos who cannot keep quiet in the face of injustice. Like the one-time honorary member of Black Panthers Movement, Stokely Carmichael said, “the secret of life is to have no fear, it is the only way to function.”
Luos have been so marginalized that fear is no longer an option, that is why no amount of gun-toting, trigger-happy policemen will silence them. They have infected other Kenyans to fight for their rights, and on Friday after the October 26 presidential rerun, we saw the same brutality being extended to Bungoma residents.
Luos Lives Matter
Regardless of how you relate with Luos, whether you found them repulsive, loud, or annoying, their lives matters. Each community will have certain traits, some likable, some disagreeable, but it is this diversity that makes our lives richer.
A people’s collective behaviour is a product of long-held customs, filtered through history, nurtured by their environment. Since we don’t share similar environments, we are likely to be different in our outlook of life. But these differences are smaller compared to similarities.
Luo parents want their children to succeed as much as Kikuyu parents want their children to succeed. No parent wishes to see their son killed by the very person they expect to protect their child.
If their way of life is at variance with how you lead your life, the least you can do, is not to wish them harm, or cheer the police in their murderous spree. Police brutality in a country like ours spares no one.
Like Chinua Achebe said of Igbo, in tackling the Igbo persistent Igbo problem in his evergreen collection of essays The Trouble with Nigeria, “The Igbo are a necessary ingredient to the modernization and development of Nigerian society. It is neither necessary or possible to suppress them. Nigeria without the inventiveness and dynamism of the Igbo would be a less hopeful place than it is.”
The same can be said of the Luos. Overt and covert exclusion of the Luos, and other communities from key government posts and resources will always make them agitate and will never give a government peace until they are made to feel part of the country.
It is really that simple.
By Silas Nyanchwani
Silas Nyanchwani is a Kenyan writer and social commentator.
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.
NAIROBBERY: City of Injustice, City of Grief
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.
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.
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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