My identity straddles African borders.
I was born in Zambia to a Zimbabwean mother and a South Africa father.
Of the three countries, I carry South African citizenship.
On social occasions I have often been at loggerheads with my compatriots who self-identify as pan-African. There are, you see, African politicians they will not brook criticism of. And one of them is one Robert Gabriel Mugabe: truth-speaker to the West, the man who had enough gumption to take land back from the whites and whose truth-telling videos, in this age of social media, they shared every year after the United Nations General Assembly. Any attempts at telling these, my fellow ‘woke’ South Africans how rhetoric did not match action and how the man, his family and his political party had often treated Zimbabwe and its citizens with contempt was always met with disbelief and what my friend and writer Petina Gappah calls Zimsplaining from my fellow South Africans. Why, they would ask, was I taking aspirin for someone else’s headache? Obviously Zimbabweans are fine with Mugabe. If they weren’t, surely they would object, toyi-toyi and overthrow him? This was the criticism that brooked no comeback as it was something that I wondered secretly sometimes. I had grown up in a Zimbabwe that protested: not just university students full of pent-up early adult hormones but notably, the teachers’ strike of 1990. What had happened to that fire? And then last year I decided to have my 40th birthday party in my mother’s country en route to South Africa by road from the country I now call home, Kenya.
In Zimbabwe in the days after my birthday, I found out that the two currencies which had created some sort of stability, the US dollar and the South African rand, were now going to be scrapped. In their place would be bond notes which, on being brought in, would be valued one to one with the US dollar. The Minister of Finance, Patrick Chinamasa and John Mangudya, Governor of the Reserve Bank of Zimbabwe had decided that the bond notes would be back in circulation in October 2016.
Already, while I was there, people had started hoarding their dollars and some shops were refusing to accept South African rands.
It was in this context that on the evening of August 2, 2016 I got a poster via WhatsApp from a friend reading:
‘Do you want to destroy your business that you have worked for all these years? SAY NO TO BOND NOTES. Join hands and march against Bond Notes.
Date: 03 August 2016
From: Cnr Julius Nyerere/Jason Moyo
To: Ministry of Finance
#pullingtogether #notobondnote #Tajamuka/Sesjikile‘
I had already dealt with a cash crisis in the week that I had been there. My cash crisis meant I could not go and see a lot of aunts and uncles as one cannot use a Visa or Mastercard on public transport. But my inability to visit relatives seemed minor when I heard some heartbreaking stories from people who live in Zimbabwe. I was, after all, just a guest in Zimbabwe and had other places to go. What of those who stayed there on a regular basis?
I thought of the unemployed university graduates working as vendors because of unavailability of jobs. I was thinking of a conversation with my friend Tapiwa who told me he interviewed five graduates, one of whom had twenty years teaching experience and another who had a degree in Architecture – married with children – to tutor his nine-year old twins for $200 a month. What would happen to the prospective tutor in a city where a reasonably neat two bedroom flat in the low density areas cost $500 a month? What would happen to the cab driver I met who had a car and wanted to survive with his four children but could only charge three dollars because no-one was willing to pay more than that for a five kilometer trip, essentially making his cab rides cheaper than Uber in Nairobi, Lagos or Johannesburg without cheaper foodstuffs? I was thinking too of my cousin Abisai telling me that because of a lack of cash, if business people needed a thousand dollars to do transactions, they had to do a transfer to illegal cash traders by the bus station for $1,200 so that they could get the $1,000 they wanted. And this was when the dollar was still circulating in the Zimbabwean economy but people were hogging it because of fear of the threatened bond notes.
This was a protest I would sign up toyi-toyi for.
With the Zimbabwean courts having ruled against the police and the government in their quest to ban people from marching against the return of the painful notes into the economy, taking part in the protest was the right thing to do. Half of my family is, after all, Zimbabwean and the bond notes would impact them.
I had no idea who was organizing the event but whoever they were, I agreed with the reason for their demonstration and I wanted to do more than verbally support it.
On August 3rd 2016 as my fellow South Africans went to the ballot box to vote in the municipal elections. I was north of the border at a march against bond notes.
I arrived at the march just before it began. After a prayer and the singing of the old Zimbabwean anthem Ishe Komborera Africa whose lyrics and tune were taken from the late South African Enoch Sontonga, the organisers informed us of the route we would be taking. I asked one of the fellow marchers why we were not singing the current Zimbabwean national anthem and the wit responded, “it would be like listening to a speech by Grace after reading one by Sallie Mugabe.”
Until he was forced to resign on 21st of November 2017, when talking to many Zimbabweans, it was never quite clear who they resented more: their then senior citizen President, Robert Mugabe who stubbornly held on to power way past his sell-by date or his flamboyant and vituperative wife, Grace. Further, I sometimes wonder whether the affection that is given to the late Sallie by Zimbabweans who talk of her fondly would still be there if she were still alive. I also wonder whether Mugabe would have retired gracefully if she were alive. Random musings.
But back to the protest.
The organisers informed us of the route we would be using and we proceeded to march.
I noted that the face of protests had changed drastically. Prior to 2016, most protests consisted of either members of the opposition party or employees of non-governmental organizations who sometimes were both. While many people my age felt the pinch, they were members of what I dub The Sandwich Parents. When asked to boycott bread because it had become overpriced, for instance, their response would be something akin to, “Ah manje, my children need sandwiches. If I boycott bread for a week, what will my children take to school?”
But now, knowing how this may hurt them, they were among those who were taking part in the protest. A friend in the banking industry called in sick so she could take part in the protest. I encountered some high school friends during the march, among them a former classmate who, not only had actively spoken of the abuse of power by the Mugabe administration but who got thrown in jail together with her partner and others for daring to screen the Arab Spring when they took place. For her actions, Tafadzwa and her comrades were charged with attempts to overthrow the government. They received a suspended sentence “if they do not repeat it” by a court system that was largely state-captured.
Another high school friend was at the march because her brother-in-law, a former Zimbabwean liberation war veteran, was arrested and charged for speaking out against abuse of power by the political leadership of the governing party. Saner minds in Zimbabwe’s High Court, which now seemed keen to no longer be puppets to the puppet-masters that are ZANU government, prevailed and the case was struck off the roll. I saw friends who had returned from the diaspora with their savings hoping to invest in the country. Among those in the crowd too were unemployed university graduates in their gowns and grandmothers. There was something about this particular demographic that I had not seen in previous marches in Zimbabwe. There was a certain unity of purpose across age, gender and class that seemed to highlight that people were fed up. I did not know it then but I had just witnessed the beginning of the end for the Mugabe leadership which would topple a little over a year later.
The government had attempted to ban the march. The organisers went to court and the courts allowed it. Knowing that despite the court ruling, the law will not always act lawfully towards protestors, flyers were handed to the police reading:
OPEN LETTER TO THE POLICE
We are not your enemies, but we are your brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers. All we want from life is to be able to feed our families and to be able to send our children to school so that they can get jobs and do the same for their children. We want them to work in Zimbabwe, not outside the country as it is now. We want doctors and medicines in our hospitals. When we stand up to ask our government for these basic human rights, do not beat us, rather stand with us as we want the same basic human rights. Above all, we are all Zimbabwean, let us unite in demanding these rights from our government.
It was doubtful that the police would really care. They were there to do the bidding of their masters but it was good to see an attempt by the organisers to wake them up.
In Zimbabwe, there seemed to be questions about the government’s relationship with China as heard from the popular song on the march:
Bobo, watengesa nyika kumaChina
Tisu takakuisa, tichakubvisa
A song that accused Bob, the President of having sold the country to the Chinese and reminding him that they were the ones who put him in power and had the power to remove him. It was an entertaining song but I wondered just how much power these people with their energy had, to remove Uncle Bob from power.
By the time we got to Treasury, many had joined and there were now thousands in a march that began with a few hundreds. It was then that I realized that perhaps something had changed. Zimbabweans were not only talking in private about being fed up with Mugabe, they were coming out in the street and publicly declaring it.
And so, on 18 November this year, although I was at a literary festival in Nigeria, I locked myself up in my room for a major part of the day to root for and follow the #MugabeMustGo protest through updates on social media. Zimbabweans were showing, this time in the glare of international media, that they were done with their geriatric leader.
Mugabe is now gone. I heard this announcement in an anti-climactic moment while in Nairobi making dinner.
Mnangagwa is in the driver’s seat.
I am cautiously optimistic for my mother’s country as I reflect on the coup that was not a coup from my father’s country. I like to think that Zimbabweans have realized the power they have and will not surrender it easily now to any politician.
MATHARE FUTURISM: From Beggars to Masters of Our Own Fate
Allow me the joy of teaching you a new word today. The word is ‘duru’. Most of my millennial peers, where I come from, have an extensive grasp of what it means. It is simply the art of approaching a stranger, after careful analysis, wearing a sunken face then stretching your hand to them the same way a customer does when asking for their change. I am emphatic about calling it an art, since it is a skill that requires a lot of practice and experience. Mothers and aunts are the best teachers for this skill set. At least that is how it was set up for my family and many other families within my community as I grew up. Every morning, my cousins and I would be woken up very early to go and beg in the streets of Pangani shopping center and around the Pangani mosque, in the company of our unemployed aunts. They would carefully discern potential targets from afar then tell us to wear ‘the face’ as we made our approach. Stretching of the hands was supposed to be followed closely by the words:
“Anko saidiaa, saidiaa anko …!”
“Help me uncle, uncle please help …!”
It was the surest way to solicit for a few much-needed coins out of a random stranger’s pocket.
For some reason, these tactics had a fair success rate in that we would go back home with quite some cash for food and a few other amenities. Even so, the kid who would manage to bring home the biggest share was rewarded with little favours here and there. Naturally, as naive as we were, we would get jealous and try ‘working’ to earn the extra perks of our labour. This was way before most of us even got an opportunity to join school. At the time, I was a mere 3-year-old boy with the whole world before me. So yes, I was learning how to be a professional beggar before I studied ABC!
You do not have much of a choice when you are under the care of a young single mother in Mathare, who works as a casual labourer at City Park market in Parklands. What mum and her cronies would do was get hired to wash sack after sack of muddy potatoes, upon arrival in lorries from the farm. However, the job was barely assured so she preferred not to put all her eggs in a single basket. Begging was the most plausible alternative then. At the end of the day, all that mattered was some food on the table.
The bulk of the population consisting my age-mates in Mathare can be distinguished by this common denominator. A history of begging and absolute dependency. As a matter of fact, thousands of us only made it to school when Missions Of Hope International (MOHI), a charity NGO, moved in to our community, offering free education, a feeding program and, get this, spiritual nourishment. Parents could not afford the thought of missing a spot for their children. That is how most of us were lucky to leave the streets. It became a major relief to our mothers and fathers across the village.
I was four-years-old when I joined nursery school at MOHI. Now more kids were accessing primary and secondary education with much ease and this brought about a different wave of energy that was unheard of. Before that, the number of people I knew who had made it beyond primary school was countable! With time, however, more and more organizations were set up around us, attempting to address various issues from HIV/AIDS awareness to women empowerment, to food insecurity and so on, a good number of which were briefcase outfits obviously erected to siphon off grant money or as vehicles to dodge tax. This is the thing about the dark side of charity; It offers as much instant gratification to the giver as it does the receiver, but its implications can be grisly. What this missionary zeal was doing therefore, was give the impression of filling up the vacuum created by a retreating state. And they were. Clearly, the state had completely abdicated its traditional duty and continues to neglect these marginalized urban areas.
Now from the inside looking out, I cannot help but feel like these NGOs have over the years crippled my generation and community at large in materially consequential ways. Their real contribution has been to defuse political anger and dole out as aid or benevolence what people ought to have by right. In the process, they have cushioned the people’s angst and altered public psyche, blunting the edges of political consciousness and resistance. We have been moulded into a voiceless generation of dependent victims, constantly awaiting outward help to change our circumstances. We have ended up becoming an NGO-ized generation who society prefers to label as lazy and entitled.
In view of the current economic order and political landscape, it has been hypernormalised for young people to be educated yet unemployed, violated and silenced. It even gets worse in Mathare where young people are profiled and victimized every other day without their voices being heard. It is a war that the state seems hell bent on waging against this generation. The very state that has neglected us and hushed our attempts at speaking up. In his article, “Extra Judicial Killings in Nairobi and Community Based Response”, Brice Jacquemin (a Belgian masters research student I met in January 2018) argues that the police do not perform police work, rather are a force of social control. They play out the role of the ‘reasonable’ man in an unfair, unreasonable war. I realize that it is easy to twist that statement into an indictment of all the police. That would be a falsehood. In the murky waters of brutal corrupt urban policing, of course there are a few of those doing some valuable work. I mean, the police force is also an institution faced with a myriad of issues such as inadequate funding, repression and so forth. But it is necessary to shift our attention slightly further away from positive work done by a few individual policemen, and examine the policing culture from a much broader political context.
Mathare is surrounded and socially controlled by an unmitigated force, the legacy of colonial institutional omnipresence – You find police stations at every entrance into Mathare Valley; Pangani Police Station to the west, Muthaiga Police Station to the north, Huruma Police Station to the east and the Moi Airbase military barracks to the south. According to a participatory action report documented and launched by the Mathare Social Justice Centre (MSJC), between 2013 and 2016, the police killed 800 young people in Mathare.
To survive our existential realities as the youth of Mathare, we have been forced to employ clever tactics on how to avoid any sort of foul encounter with the police. You are supposed to carry your national ID card every time you leave the house. Failure to provide the document when asked would mean sour negotiations that may lead to aimless harassment or even apprehension for apprehension’s sake! Strangely enough, the most notorious killer cop is largely known here both by face and name yet no one dares say his name out in public without feeling of paranoia coursing through their body. It is as though he sees and hears everything. Most people believe he does. Imagine. No one man should have all that power – having an entire community on their knees.
In order to look out for each other therefore, we have had to invent a nickname for him. ‘Mjamaa’. That way, everybody can say the name without raising tension, including women who are generally the first informers whenever he is around appearing in a nondescript Probox car. Mjamaa is notorious for causing mayhem in youth bases. One time he aimed his gun and shot at a sound system that was playing music during a funeral fundraising ceremony for a young man he had recently executed, disrupting it immediately and hurling countless insults, saying:
‘thugs’ deserve to die and to bury themselves after!
Movement is also limited in our very own neighbourhood. You cannot walk around freely at night: if you go out partying in the wee hours, you can only come back home at your own peril. In fact, for a young man in dreadlocks like myself, the risk is enormous! It is one of the main features used to profile us, among many other codes of dressing. According to the police, dressing a certain way only puts you in the guilty-until-proven-innocent category. Like there is a signature look for criminals. This includes wearing of shiny chains, certain shoes and caps. The reasoning behind it is alarmingly disturbing; the police are actually convinced that unemployed youth cannot afford to wear decent chains and shoes without committing some kind of crime. Why a simple hairstyle or stylish dress code is frequently used to profile ‘suspected thugs’ is way beyond me.
The police are predatory to us over here. All the incidents of abuse and immense brutality are devoid of any no trace of humanity whatsoever. They are the symbol of a society that thrives off victimizing an entire generation. A society that taught us how to beg, handing us scraps with zero opportunities, yet does not condemn injustice and their abject failure at governance.
Someone said to me that these social problems, the unending bureaucratic capitalism, neo-feudalism and imperialism will not be changed by reforms alone. Nor elections. That should social movements lack the dynamic of the youth, they are sure to die. I could not agree more. Part of how Mathare is treated is because of its disheveled environment. Because of this, a team of fellow young people I work with in the community came together and coined the term ‘Mathare Futurism’ which is basically imagining possible realities then ultimately working to design a new future for Mathare. Our approach is planting trees to not only green our environment, but also feed the community through fruit trees, provide natural sources of medicine through medicinal trees, make the community beautiful through ornamental flowers and commemorate the lives of those we have lost to extra judicial executions in Mathare by planting trees in their memory. This offers healing to a wounded people, family and friends of the victims.
We are the Mathare Green Movement (MGM) and what we are doing is applying different forms of advocacy to build consciousness in society. We use art, music, words and trees as our symbols of power. Trees are a symbol of regeneration and we intend to nurture our lives together with the community. A tree is the totem of resilience and its survival amidst forces working against its growth is illustrative of how we shall rise, eventually, and choose to cease being beggars but the masters of our own fate!
To be a Millennial is to Believe in Freedom
“We must begin to tell our young
There’s a world waiting for you
This is a quest that’s just begun”
~ Nina Simone, Young, Gifted and Black
By the age of nineteen, I had worked three jobs: the first, as a “fetch boy” in a cramped room at CMC Motors in Kisumu where all I had to do was wait for an order to be processed, and then run around looking for the spare parts required using the reference number; the second, was as a salesperson for Britannia which involved standing in a supermarket all day and trying to push their digestive biscuits to unwilling buyers; the third, general trade merchandiser for Unilever Kenya where I had to get into people’s shops and put up a display for the Unilever products.
I hated all three.
The first, I hated because I was seventeen and fresh out of school, having only finished my KCSE. I wanted to do other things that kids my age were doing – having fun, playing defiant and being reckless – but my strict, authoritarian mother would have none of that. The second, because they never paid me, not even to date. The third, well, I hated it because the supervisors and the management barked down at us and we all ran with our tail between our legs.
Then I joined the University of Nairobi to pursue a degree in law. For a moment, as a fresher trying to figure out stuff, my parents tried to make me study something else. My mother, who was more convinced that either I would make a good doctor or a better nurse than I would a lawyer, tried to persuade me to switch lanes. I was adamant. I wanted to fight for human rights, be the defender of social justice and, well, become rich. And for the next two or three years, I stuck to it and made strides; I volunteered for legal aid, I tried – albeit briefly – to participate in the moot court, I ran for office and won once, lost once.
Then during the end of my third year, I struggled with depression and anxiety. I folded into myself and became more of a recluse, missing classes and barely talking to anyone outside my small circle of friends. I listened to Suicide Silence, Dimmu Borgir, Cannibal Corpse, Children of Bodom and all the bands that either told me I deserved to die or I had nothing worth living for. And for a while, I believed them. I hated myself, I hated my family, I hated my friends and I hated, basically, everything.
My existence was characterised by the absence of colour.
I was in an abyss, surrounded by total darkness and there was nothing to hold on to even if I tried. The voices around me mocked me and however much I wanted to shut them out, I could not.
A friend, one of the few who understood what I was going through, told me to see a therapist. He would foot the bill and take care of anything else that was required. He had been there before, he told me. Another, one who I was closer with than the first, told me,
“You are not depressed. You just like whining like the rest of your generation. You are so entitled and when you are not given what you want, you act out.”
Like the rest of your generation.
Those words, I must admit, still ring in my head each time I think about that period. Those words – and the fact that I hated being on Xanax and Prozac – made me doubt if therapy really worked. I went in for two sessions and left. I never told anyone about it.
I told myself that I would not be like the rest of my generation. I would not whine, I would not tell anyone my problems, I would not say I needed help. I closed myself off even more, making sure to lock out everyone. I became irrational, erratic, angry and impatient. I fought and argued with everyone around me. I blocked close friends who tried to reach out. The world had wounded me and I did not want it coming to tell me that it wouldn’t do it again.
No one should live that way. No one should be made to.
Sometimes, the only way to confront pain is by interpreting the world differently. By looking at the world – people, events, ideas, et al – in a way that only you can comprehend. At that time, I found other escapes. The only one that makes sense to mention now is reading and writing. I read Virginia Woolf, Edgar Allan Poe, Sylvia Plath, Toni Morrison, James Baldwin. And I wrote letters to the world; ones they would never see. I wrote stories that made no sense to no one else but me. That was my way of interpreting the world. Of taking it all in. Of processing the events around me. Of living.
It was in that period of a low-high when I found my third job. An administrative assistant position in an organisation that dealt with human rights and international humanitarian law. The position, if I am to say now, required barely nothing from me. I was never assigned anything in the way of work and the stipend I got was actually decent. I moved out of campus and got my own place.
Freedom, one thinks.
Loneliness, like the low wind at the foot of the mountains that carries with it cold that finds its way into the bones, crept in. Whereas in campus, even if I did not associate with many people towards the end of my stay, the mere thought that they were available to observe, kept me afloat. The fact that I could be my weird self and knock on someone’s door and talk to them for a few minutes then go back to my room, was a reality that no longer existed. That option was gone.
I folded into myself more, barely meeting or talking to people.
Then, slowly, I came out of that slump and started talking to and meeting new people. But almost everyone I knew was battling some form of depression, some ‘demon’ that they were struggling with, or some stagnation that caused them stress.
Is it just our generation?
I have heard it in person so many times. Seen it on social media. Read it in books. Heard it in music. Watched it on TV. People who occupy certain positions of power or influence saying how this generation – the millennials – are just a bunch of lazy, entitled, whiny, spoilt brats. I have seen them attack us for our political views, for our forms of expression, our existence, our taste and preference, our freedoms.
I am a millennial, I am aware, but I have never thought of myself in the lens described by these people. I would never regard myself as lazy or whiny. Just because I do not believe in the ideologies propagated by an individual loved and adored by people in my father’s generation, does not mean I am not appreciative of their contributions to the freedoms I enjoy now. Or, more harshly, know nothing about politics, an assertion that I have heard so many times when I, as a young Luo man, state openly that I do not believe in Raila Odinga’s candidacy in the presidential elections. In such moments, I have been accused of ‘selling out’ or being ‘ignorant of what he (Raila) has done for the Luo community.’
I am not.
I simply recognise that despite his contributions and service to the Kenyan society, I do not share in the belief that he has to occupy the office of the presidency to be the statesman that he already is. Unlike my father who believes that he is entitled to the presidency more than anyone else in this country, I simply think that we exist in a system that blurs the reality and makes us believe that those two (the Kenyatta-Odinga dynasties) are our only options. I believe that the options are numerous and we exist in a flawed society that eliminates anyone who threatens to tinker with the pseudo-balance created by these two, pivoted by the irrational belief in tribe that we have. And who suffers? US. WE. YOU AND ME.
“You are just a child, you know nothing about politics.” He tells me.
And, just because I believe that people should be allowed autonomy and free will, does not mean I do not understand how religion and morality work. The fact that I believe people should be allowed to express themselves in the way they feel brings out the best in them. I do not believe in the unnecessary sanctioning of forms of expression that people like Ezekiel Mutua are so eager to commit. People whose deliberate intentions are to deny and erase narratives of minority groups like the LGBTQ. People who would rather police freedoms than find ways to create a world where coexistence is a reality and mutual respect is achieved.
That does not mean I am clueless about the limits to certain forms of expression. Furthermore, if we had an efficient system of governance, we would be able to discern and distinguish the unruly, uncivilised and ungovernable from people who are genuine in their pursuit for freedom to exist in the way they truly know best. To people whose expressions do not interfere with other people’s existence. An unjustified limit to an expression, I believe, alienates and frustrates the members of society for whom that expression is vital.
The conclusion, mostly by members of the Generation X or the Baby Boomers, that millennials are lazy and entitled is an unfair generalisation that seeks to vilify a generation struggles to keep up and stay afloat in a world that moves so fast. There is an information overload from all the technology that we interact with. And in the age of social media that relies on us keeping up with – sometimes – faux lifestyles of celebrities and friends who, by virtue of their access to certain spaces, make others feel as if they are not doing enough. Not living enough. Not good enough.
And yet, and yet.
Amidst all this, there is the pressure from our parents (Gen Xers, Baby Boomers) to achieve, to be better than the rest of your generation. To stand out. To compete. The whole idea of being the best even if nothing else remains afterwards, to fight even when you are left with nothing at the end of the fight, is a scourge planted amidst us by the same parents who would rather call our generation lazy, entitled and whiny.
No, we are not any or all of that.
We are the children of the brave new world.
To be a millennial is to believe in freedom. To acknowledge that the ideals that make up the society should not erase or ignore certain people whose existence are in/within/revolve around the same society. It does not mean I am ignorant of the moral fabric of the society, but it allows me to believe in recalibration or readjustments of the society and to re-evaluate what works to include the largest number – as many as everyone – into this society. To ignore binaries. To constantly avoid a monochromatic, single-lensed view of life. To me, as a millennial, the hope is to exist in a kaleidoscopic society where each and every one of us is represented on the canvas of life. Not to be erased. None of that. Instead, to be acknowledged, to be respected and valued, to be – alive.
IN THE PURSUIT OF MEANING: The Millennial Calling
Generational conflict is perennial. Everywhere, young people shoulder the blame of everything wrong with the world. In recent years, the world has been moaning over the millennial generation what Kenyans have dubbed the ‘xaxaxema’ generation. This is in reference to the swagariffic (a millennial ‘thing’) spelling that they have adapted for use on text messaging and social media platforms, worlds they were born into. Most recently, the entire country was apoplectic over a series of highly sexualized photographs of young people, making the rounds on Twitter under the hashtag #IfikieWazazi.
Born in 1983, I fall somewhere at the borderline of the millennials (said to have been born between 1982 and 2004) and the older generations. This affords me the advantage of being able to bad mouth my generation-mates when in the mood for it, and also identify completely with them on matters the older and stodgy folk do not understand. In truth, if I examine my life honestly, I am more a child of the millennial age than I would like to admit; I swing between the extremities of its bad and good sides.
I am 34 and not married. I have quit good jobs because they completely lacked in meaningfulness and fulfillment. I do not subscribe to a prescribed God figure and organized religion. My views and practices on femininity are drastically different from views held by my mothers and aunts. I am open to and accept different orientations of family and sexuality. I have no children. I am enthralled by the philosophy of disruption, the tearing apart of a system to put together a much better one. I do not police anyone or waste my time judging them. Yes, in a way I am all about Me, Me, Me (as the 2013 Time magazine cover story put it). My friends are for the most part similar. Some take it a step further and still live with their parents yet are in their mid-thirties.
Perhaps the two major areas that I have seen myself differ from my own parents is in the orientation and understanding of relationships and work. My mother married straight out of college, with no dithering about who or what or where. I think they were open to marrying the first person that turned up, because marriage as an end to itself was the goal. My friends and I on the other hand, have gone to the other extreme, we theorize marriage, we examine it, we seek to understand its essence, and we do this while kissing all the frogs in the pond. But we have been doing it so long that we have ended up where we started! We have observed bad, violent and ugly marriages and probably unconsciously vowed to wait until we find partners that we have genuine resonance and purpose with.
The word purpose comes up again in the pursuit of our careers. My father worked all his life as a civil servant, starting from a junior ranking administrator to a top civil servant, a span of time that took more than 30 years with the same employer. He observes me jumping from project to project, doing my consultancies and chasing my seemingly outlandish pursuits and wonders what gene pool I emerged from. But it is the search for purpose that really explains millennials, more than accusations of indiscipline, laziness or entitlement. Our search for purpose and reaching for the mundane goes hand in hand with the refusal to settle for the first thing that comes our way, simply because mummy or daddy or pastor or teacher said so.
We are not shallow or vapid, we are immensely smart and inquisitive and given to higher musings and goals. We want things that make sense and matter strongly to us, even if they do not matter to the majority of the population. We are as idealistic as fu*k and we make no apologies for it. To the older generation that elevates family life and financial stability as ends to themselves, our ventures easily come across as whimsical. They are not traditionally ‘sensible’ and ‘stable’.
Our parents, directly in the frontlines of Westernization during colonialism and in the new independent state (my parents were taught by the white missionaries) never had the luxury of looking for this thing called purpose. They were the first generation to partake of the new social, political and economic system. Because their lives depended on how well they mastered it, they took it up with reverence and earnest. Everything the missionaries told them was packaged as truth, they were not encouraged to question a thing. Western religion and culture were deemed the only options to save them from their innate African savagery and it makes sense that they would cling on with such fervor and not have any doubts about the rich traditional world view they were throwing away.
And then we came along. While our parents attempted to force on us these same ‘truths’ and view of life and reality as fixed and sacrosanct, we were lucky to have some distance from the original purveyors of this foreign culture. This, the passing of time, and the opportunity to travel to other lands, enabled us to see the contradictions within it. We were able to heed the advice of the forgotten prophets who told us that our traditional ways were rich and meaningful. We were able to understand that the brainwashing and mental colonization was not conducive to us. We were able to see the cracks in the perfection of Western religion, education, lifestyle, economics, democracy and marriage that was handed down to us. And so as children of this generation, we have had the opportunity to critique and examine what was passed down to us as we sought out new models for how to live our own lives.
And so, we have become the generation that has been taking up the cultural decolonizing mission with zeal. We are the generation swagging up our vitenge’s into cool and funky styles; we are the generation that realized that making music in sheng was cooler than solemn English. We are the generation for whom natural hair is everything; that is dropping its English names; that is teaching our children (when we design to have them) vernacular languages; that will only eat traditional African foods (sausages and refined cereal cause cancer). We will even grow these traditional foods in our back yard. The generation that steals inspiration from every and all sources, cobbles together the incongruous and puts it forward as works of art and styles of living; post-modernism par excellence.
While our parents hungrily chugged down Westernization, we have been gleefully putting our fingers down our throats and throwing it up. And so we are less shocked or astounded by what Christian morality would call deviance, we seem to celebrate it and even like it more. We are decolonizing the material culture and some of its values and will soon be a force to reckon with in the political realm. Time and chance, grows all movements.
The ‘problem’ of the millennial in Kenya, therefore, is not really the problem of the millennial. The millennial is more of a solution to a problem they inherited. If the older generation accepted a dehumanizing cultural system, the millennial is on a quest to rework it and make it something healthier for the Kenyan body, mind and spirit. Colonialism and Christianity told us that everything about us was bad, and we have been on a lifelong mission to reclaim ourselves as a people. In this way therefore, millennials are the unwitting foot soldiers marching the country out of its crisis. What we call the xaxaxema problem in Kenya is the journey of a generation on a quest to actualization. The things that naturally thrilled our parents (status, wealth as an end to itself, class stratification, authority, moral order) are not the things that make our souls sing.
And this is why we should desist from dismissing millennials as disobedient, rule breakers, but as the country’s first mass-movement of philosophers. They question everything. They ponder and muse over and critique everything given to them, weighing and evaluating its weight and worth, something their parents’ generation never did. Their parents simply swallowed all that was force fed to them as truth.
We must keep in mind that even while we talk about millennials, not everyone, even if of this age, has had the opportunity (or lack of) to occupy such a headspace. Much as it is a title of disparagement and disrepute, it is also a space of privilege. Many in this mental space are children of fairly affluent or at least comfortable economic backgrounds, where with basic and social needs met, they can cast their minds to the higher (or frivolous) things of life. The question of purpose is a question of self-actualization, the top category outlined by Abraham Maslow in his Hierarchy of Needs.
But this is where the other side of the coin of the term millennial rears its head. Being a millennial is not just about a way of being but about the world we find ourselves in. For many, the delay in committing to the markers of adult life (family, career, investing) are caused by socio-economic conditions such as lack of jobs. We as a generation are different, the world itself is different, opportunities have shrunk, survival is a much more vicious task. This is especially the case in Africa where formal safety-nets for those at the bottom of the ladder do not exist.
While my mother had three jobs lined up waiting for her after university, now getting a job even for a person with a master’s degree is the equivalent of getting a chance to participate in the Olympics. In my parent’s time, university was not just free, their allowances ‘boom’ enabled them to take care of their relatives in the village. And then living expenses have risen, the landlord awaits at the end of the month, taxation is at an all time high, not to mention the public debt that every child born finds themselves rudely welcomed into. Without a job or favorable economic prospects, how can you invest, let alone get married? In a sense this can explain a large amount of the epidemic of single-motherhood today. Young men so disempowered that they flee from the very families they should be caring for and protecting.
The Gikuyu community has something called itwika where the young generation overthrow the old and take over as the community leaders when things get untenable. For millennials who have been pushed to the corner, unable to marry (or even have sex), killed by the police in slums where youth has become criminalized, lacking jobs or worthwhile futures, mothering babies alone in the absence of their fathers, living in precarious economic conditions with no social safety nets, this is what they should be organizing on and rebelling against.
Time is ripe for a new itwika.
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