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The Making of a Kenyan Cynic

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The Making of a Kenyan Cynic
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“Every ounce of my cynicism is supported by historical precedent” ~ Glen Cook

Before the Friday, March 9, 2018 famous handshake between President Uhuru Kenyatta and NASA presidential candidate Raila Odinga, Kenyans in opposition were swimming in schadenfreude as the government declared that it was broke.

Prior to the nearly comical announcement, the Auditor General declared that the government could not account for Ksh 40 billion, for the financial year 2015/16.

Most of the monies that could not be accounted for belonged to the most critical ministries: Devolution and Agriculture. The person in charge of the Department of Devolution under whose tenure we witnessed the most insulting heist is now a Governor that a leading woman magazine called her a trailblazer and a survivor in the month we celebrate women.

The headlines since President Kenyatta resumed his second and last term (hopefully) have been depressing. The unaccounted for monies, the unemployment rates at a stratospheric high, the collapse of the ecological towers (made the worse over the denial of the obvious by the Deputy President less than a decade ago), the looming drought and famine, the appointments by the president public service that are not representative of the country’s diversity, the ballooning debt (Sh 4.58 trillion as of November 2017) are some of the headlines Kenyans have woken up the first 100 days of the second term. We will not mention the inflation and the runaway fuel prices and the scandalous cost of electricity.

Euphoric Nasa Supporters

Gore Vidal, that finest American essayist once said, “The four most beautiful words in our common language are: I told you so.”

NASA supporters have been reminding those who voted for the government that the party has just begun.

Nobody captured the NASA zeitgeist than Gabriel Oguda on a February 26, Facebook post,

“Check on your friends. Check on your friends who were noisily vocal on their support for this government before the elections, but are now tone-quiet and suffering in silence after realizing the stinking mess they put us in. Let them know that we are suffering because of their collective herd mentality, but we are philanthropic enough to ask God to let them continue breathing the same air we breathe hoping they learn a thing or two about eating humble pies…”

The post garnered over 1,000 reactions, 300 shares and several comments. The mirth in the comments, as those in opposition chided their friends is understandable.

One can surmise the reaction of those who voted for Jubilee as:

“The opposition is not any better, as they have served in the government before, and we know their record. Everything you can accuse the government off, you can accuse the opposition of presiding over the same or complicit.”

They admit that voting for Jubilee was a mistake, but the opposition was not an alternative.

Benumbed

Have Kenyans become devoid of any physical or emotions feelings because of politics?

Dr Sam Kamau, lecturer at the Aga Khan University Graduate School of Media and Communication, says that Kenyans have been fed so much negative news by the media, they are so desensitized.

“People have seen everything. Like the corruption scandals in the news, nothing shocks them anymore.”

Politicians too have taken us in circles for far too long.

“We always have so much promise, fresh starts, but somehow everything tends to collapse, sooner or later, people have learnt to manage their expectations,” he says.

Back in 2002, after President Daniel Arap Moi was voted out, there was so much promise, and the first two years of Mwai Kibaki’s presidency, Kenyans overly optimistic. But the fresh start was curtailed, when Kibaki famously failed to honour the Memorandum of Understanding with other members of the Rainbow Alliance.

This was a catalyst for the events that will shape the destiny of Kenya for the next 20 years.

A constitution plebiscite in 2005 and the ensuing fall-out was a perfect primer for the 2007 election that ended up badly, with over 1,200 people dead and more than 600,000 displaced. Then there was the National Accord, a coalition government that delivered the new constitution that we all hoped would be a panacea for the problems that have bedeviled the country since its inception.

It proved a dumb expectation, despite how progressive the constitution turned out. The 2007 Post-Election Violence did not occur in a vacuum. It was more than 40 years in the making. Forty years of sweeping our dirt under the carpet of forgetfulness.

On February 1, 2008 till the National Dialogue and Recompilation Agreement was signed in Nairobi creating a coalition government. The Agreement ensured that violence stopped, fundamental rights and liberties were restored, and the escalating humanitarian crisis was restored and some semblance of reconciliation took place.

But importantly, the Accord’s Agenda 4 wanted long term measures and solutions: a new constitution to engineer institutional and legal reforms (Which we achieved in 2010), land reforms (still a thorny issue that no one can touch), addressing poverty and inequity (never a priority for the ruling elite), unemployment particularly among the youth (latest figure indicate more than 40 percent of the youth are unemployed), consolidating national cohesion and unity (as of 2017, talk about secession was rife among the disgruntled members of opposition), accountability and addressing impunity (the first term of Uhuru Kenyatta’s regime saw him throw the towel in on corruption, nobody expects much on the second term, despite tough talk.

Despite the slight progress, institutional reforms have stagnated. Some institutions like the police force, sections of our judiciary and the executive (read Matiang’i) are reminiscent of the darkest days of the Moi and Kenyatta regime.

The more things change…

With Jubilee adamantly rebuffing any attempts at national dialogue and denying and divisions in the country, those in opposition have been banking on the Opposition to push for change through the People’s Assembly and even calling for cessation, if the push comes to shove. Even a gesture like the mock swearing of Raila Odinga raised hopes, however forlorn, that he can push for real change and at best achieve the quest for electoral justice.

Then a handshake throws a spanner in the works

It is safe to say that those in Jubilee would have wished to see Uhuru Kenyatta steer his last term on his own terms and secure his legacy without the involving opposition leaders.

It is also safe to assume that those in opposition would have wished those who supported the government to be let to fry in their own fat.

But nobody saw the handshake coming and indeed the Friday presser which seemed contrived in every way and certainly influenced by the soon to be sacked American Secretary of State Rex Tillerson who was on his way to the country.

Raila Odinga’s supporters were angry.

Kalonzo Musyoka’s supporters and other neutral and moderate NASA supporters wondered loudly the kind of vitriol Kalonzo Musyoka would have received, had he been the one who made the move.

“Goes to show how shaky Kenyan political marriages can be. NASA as a marriage is shaky and one move by Raila can destabilize it. There is no guarantee similarly that his truce with Uhuru can last,” says Dr Kamau.

Other Kenyans opted for comic relief bemoaning the predictable nature of our politics.

Kumbe Caanan was right around Harambee House, na nimekuwa nikipita hapo kila siku (So Caanan was right here at Harambee House, and I have been passing there every day).” Someone wrote on Facebook.

Another one “You can all unblock each other…” was the other typical joke since the two political sides argued ad nauseam ahead of the election to a point of blocking each other.

In a sense, the handshake was a mockery on the feelings of Kenyans who felt that they had been taken for granted, for far too long.

“What of Baby Pendo, those who died for the cause!” many in the ODM party wondered, especially, given the Raila Odinga did not mention them in his rather long but superfluous speech.

“What was so difficult to have this dialogue before the election and save the many lives we lost to police brutality?” was a collective gasp.

54 years after independence…

“Fifty-five years into independence, we are challenged to audit our progress towards the ideals for which our fathers fought to establish a free and independent country and for which many of our compatriots died,” Raila Odinga said to a stupefied country, after a meeting with President Kenyatta at Harambee House.

Many Kenyans felt that they had heard that line before. In fact, in 2013, many people gave President Kenyatta a benefit of doubt, that being young and rich, he will be more liberal and more progressive, and will not tolerate corruption.

Another dumb, if misplaced expectation.

In five years he gave up on the fight against corruption, we saw school children being teargassed as they defended their school playground from being grabbed by a developer who serves the top echelons of his government. He not only attacked the media, but withdrew the government support in terms of advertising, after dangling it as a carrot failed to work. He went ahead and cracked on the media, twice suspending TV stations and cracking down on independent-minded journalists. Extra-judicial killings and gangland assassinations were witnessed as a member of parliament was ganged down in a busy avenue, a businessman cruelly executed and an IEBC official brutally murdered. Nobody was brought to account. Needless to mention the state-sponsored terror in the between August 2017 to January 2018 when the temperatures started to cool down.

That does not sound like someone the opposition voters would love to work with. Yet, here we are.

The journey to skepticism

Dr Sam Kamau, says that the politicians must take the biggest portion of the blame in the malaise we are in,

“They overpromise and underdeliver. Look at Raila, with the promise of Canaan, and the outcome, you can understand the frustration. Because he packaged his campaign in such way that his victory was going to correct every historical wrong.”

On the other hand, the Jubilee politicians used Raila Odinga as a bait to charge their voters,

“Jubilee voters were shown a doomsday scenario, a Raila Odinga’s victory mean the end of everything they have ever known and stood for,” hence the voting pattern.

Therefore, those in opposition are justifiably skeptical about the promised cooperation to end the bad blood between the two political sides, considering they believe their victory was stolen, some say, for the third time.

Desperation is the obvious outcome. Ditto Jubilee supporters who are presently suffering from an acute bout of buyer’s remorse. To them, Raila working with Uhuru is a bad move because it can get acrimonious if the there is anything we learnt from the coalition government.

When you combine the desperation on both sides of the political divide, you get a deeply cynical crowd.

“No two Kenyans agree on the origins of the differences and what they portend…” read part of Raila Odinga’s speech. I find this part to be rather hollow, for a man who presided over the signing of the national accord and who has told us continuously that we must implement the Truth Justice and Reconciliation Commission Report. He knows that President Kenyatta has not been keen on implementing the report and there are no awards for guessing why he lacks the urgency.

For failing to address the deeper issues, in 2017, we nearly returned to where we were in 2007/08. And now few people expect much from the Uhuru-Raila truce.

Yet, confronting the TJRC can be a useful step. MukurimaMuriuki, a Conflict and Resolution expert based in Los Angeles avers,

“Raila ought to push for a resolution. Then we move to conflict transformation. This is where many do not go. A no-man’s land, because it involves some tough decisions like implementing the TJRC.

In the absence of that, politicians have the same fodder for campaign come 2022. Jackson Omondi, the Atlanta based political commentator blames the Kenyans for being too gullible:

Dies the institutions, dies the hope

Dr Godwin Murunga, the Executive Secretary of the Council for the Development of Social Science Research in Africa (CODESRIA) fears for the rollback of the progress the 2010 constitution heralded.

“All independent constitutional offices are either under attack or have been taken over by conservative people whose interest is job security rather than advancing the mandate of the institutions,” he says, adding, “The CIC’s term came to an end. The Ombudsman Office is quite ineffective. EACC is silenced. JSC is under venomous attack. IEBC is useless. Parliament is now overwhelmingly Jubilee. Parliamentary committees are therefore controlled by Jubilee.”

He advises the country should retrace backwards in order to go forward.

“The silver lining in all these is that the agenda for change is not with Raila or Uhuru, it has begun to slip away from them and into a more radicalized masses of people supporting the People’s Assembly process.”

He suggests the People’s Assembly is a good idea; it was only unpalatable because Odinga led it. It should be enlarged beyond opposition areas and make it larger, stronger and more encompassing, and it can spur renewal that can go beyond the Raila-Uhuru truce.

And the ‘new’ truce, which is similar to the Koffi Annan Accord, can be the core of the next level of struggle. And the People’s Assembly is the first line of defense.

“But it can only be useful if we shift the goal from achieving electoral justice to that of securing the survival of institutions that are relevant to the sustaining of our constitutionalism.”

Way forward

Dr Murunga, also a historian, suggests three options of leadership for greater freedom with the possible exit of Raila Odinga as the doyen of opposition politics: The Civil Society Organizations, the Opposition and the autonomous institutions of the government that safeguard freedom.

But the political opposition normally has a short-term goal of winning and taking power, but Civil Society Organisations can have a longer-term agenda.

However, both rely on independent government institutions like courts to win and advance the struggle. But courts are now being assailed and other institutions are rudderless.

“Therefore, new leadership should be birthed as a deliberate process. It does not have to be one single individual. It could be a set of institutions with a common agenda of addressing Annan’s agenda,” Dr Murunga explains.

He further suggests that one of the ways is to engineer a new cohort within the Civil Society.

“But they are under the overwhelming control of traditional CSO’s with its luminaries who still control and determine the agenda:”

He opines that serious work has to be done to ‘radicalise’ young pastors as the engine of the People’s Assembly idea. Additionally, we need to reinvent the role of professional associations like the media, lawyers, doctors and nurses, lecturers, and the rest. While the situation with the group looks bad, they are easier to organize.

Finally, we can support and safeguard courts by reinforcing the role of the JSC.

The new truce must not be treated as a short-term solution. If we do that, we would have lost the struggle, and many will wish for Raila Odinga to stay around long enough.

It is not his battle alone. All must fight. And skepticism is not an option.

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Silas Nyanchwani is a writer and journalist based in Nairobi, Kenya.

Reflections

I Shall Plead for Breath No More

Enough is enough I shall bow down no more.

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I Shall Plead for Breath No More
Photo: George Floyd
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I can’t breath

In this system of breathlessness

Which deprives me of air

Dignity and humanity.

That scorches me in the fire of hell on earth

Of their ghettos and gallows

Which alternate as my home year in year out

For decades and centuries

Since they robbed me from my land

Packing me like sardine

In boxes called boats.

My anscestors died of breathlessness on high seas

I die of breathlessness on highways

Under the knee of white brute

Pretending to police the route

To heavenly palaces

Of his kith and kin.

Who enslaved me in their homes and plantations

Ensnared me in their factories and industries

Breathing smoke and carbon from its chimneys

Blackening my lungs

Thickening my arteries

Leaving me vulnerable to be killed in tens and thousands

From coronas and sars of this world.

Enough is enough

I shall bow down no more

I shall worship at the altar of white god no more

I shall be cheated by dollar bills no more

I shall kneel down in churches no more.

I shall plead for breath no more

And there shall be fire next time no more

Fire is now and here

To stay for ever

Till I can breath again

Breath again and again

Without shiver or fear.

Issa Bin Mariam (Issa Shivji)
Dar es salaam
31/05/2020

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Reflections

A Tale of Two Lockdowns, 33 Years Apart

The lockdown in Entebbe brings back memories of another lockdown in a boarding school in Teso, where, in the midst of a raging war and looming starvation, a young boy lost his childhood and learned the true meaning of loneliness and abandonment.

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A Tale of Two Lockdowns, 33 Years Apart
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I did not return to the scene until 15 years had passed, by which time I was already more than twice as old as I had been when the events of 1987 abruptly ended my childhood.

In early February 2002, I was in the press pack that accompanied the inaugural East African Legislative Assembly on the inspection of the Soroti Flying School, once the property of the East African Community. I found time and nipped off to St Andrews Madera Boys School, where I had studied from 1985 to 1987.

Even then, in my mid-20s, the paradox was unavoidable: Had I truly left St Andrews the day that the Red Cross evacuated scores of us school children trapped behind the front lines in Soroti?

Can a psychology shaped by the tragic knowledge of impermanence and strife learn to trust and easily move on? How could I say I had put the months of 1987 behind me when the first thing I did upon return to the school was to make way straight for the Stretcher House dormitory?

Standing there with my face pressed against the window, looking inside, it was the events of early August 1987 that came to mind, to that early morning when a teacher sent me and two friends to buy soap in the town with the absurd, early colonial name, Camp Swahili. And there, as we ask about, comes the single gunshot, the high whine of a military truck racing back to town, and then the preternatural sight of the men, the fighters of the rebel prophetess, Alice Lakwena, shirtless, in their black shorts, their torsos glistening in the sun from shea butter, which we later learned had been smeared to bounce off bullets.

The key event shaping a personal future starts at that moment. Explanations are not needed. You have learned a lesson; when the time has come, you must run, do not hesitate. We are going very fast. We cut through the Madera Seminary, which in ordinary times had been forbidden. We are reaching the school compound when the bombardment begins, and all over the town, when the shock of the explosion draws our attention, we see a pillar of black smoke, as if to announce the beginning of hell, habemus bellum.

We make it to the Stretcher House dormitory and dive under the beds. And there, for the next two hours, we track the movement of the front line by how close the sounds of battle are. We hear it recede from the town, come past the flying school, which is a mile from our complex of missionary schools. (Madera was set up in 1914 by the Mill Hill fathers and came to include a school for the blind, a girls’ school, a boys’ school, a technical college and a seminary.)

Shortly, the front envelopes us. Its progress is majestic, slow, following the sloping ground from Soroti town, going down a slight incline to dip into a swamp. This swamp halts the battle, as the army decides against pursuing the attackers beyond the Arapai ridge.

There is, intermixed with the terror, a character to war you read about but is the privilege of an accursed few who get to know it intimately. It is the macabre nature of war that men find irresistible, the grisly truth that a war in motion can also be attractive.

Yes, the sounds of war can be a terrifying, seductive symphony. The sharp mosquito-like buzzing sound of a bullet flying mere feet from your ears, the tearing, rocketing then shuttering register of mortar shells, the ear-splitting rending, as if a giant were holding a sheet of metal as one holds a piece of paper then rips it to pieces as missiles tear overhead. The inscrutable lopping repetitiveness of a machine gun that sounds like someone drumming on a home-made drum fashioned from an old aluminium saucepan. But everyone looks forward to the artillery, the big boy stuff, with dread fascination; the imperious rapid impatience of Katyusha rockets which come as if the earth were being cut up by a high-velocity grinder tool, and, target found, the centre of the world collapses.

In a lockdown, life loses meaning

But as I drew away from the window, my memory drained, I remembered that I had to leave to rejoin the delegation of East African MPs at the Flying School. Then a shot of the feeling I once lived with daily attacked me

How can one explain such a feeling? There’s the febrile malarial listlessness to it, a dry-throated longing, like having a nightmare whilst fully awake. That day in early 2002, I felt as I had for much of 1987 – that there was no point to life, that going on with it would only lead to a future of dystopian mediocrity.

But if the 2002 reunion did not answer the question, then March 2020, when news came of the world locked down in fear, left little doubt. There, across the valley from my apartment in Entebbe, the planes stopped landing and taking off. The grass around the runway was starting to grow wild. Amidst the dead silence all around, I could sense the collective fear of humanity that was awaiting the calamity.

It reminded me of 1987. I heard once more the silence of the skies when the flying school Piper and Cessna planes stopped flying. I saw the spot of greenery on the runway. The school lawns, once meticulous, had become wilderness. And in the night, there were blood-curdling cries that registered in the morning as another funeral in the villages beyond the Catholic missionary complex of Madera.

This was the second time in my life that I was going into a lockdown. The first one lasted nearly a year and it was devastating. It was only in March 2020, 33 years later, that I began to learn that a certain part of me never made it past August 1987.

My mind went back to that day when I saw the fighters of the Holy Spirit Movement of Alice Lakwena. It was the first time I saw them; I never saw them again; I have never managed to unsee them since.

By August of 1987, northern Uganda had already been in a lockdown for many months. The savage war in Luwero, southern Uganda, had migrated to the north. And there, with changed fortunes, yesterday’s rebels becoming government and yesterday’s government forces the new rebels, the texture of the violence acquired a new complexion. And yet 1987 was early days in what would be a savage two-decade-long war that has not yet ended. But how could an 11-year-old boy whose chief interest in life was to see mummy know that?

The manner of the war meant we were liable to get trapped easily. Hitherto, northern Uganda had had a string of nationally enviable schools. The shutdown of the schools began in Gulu, and made its way east, as did the fighting. The result was that we who came from Lango and Acholi were at the initial stages, in the safety of Teso, by which calculation our parents thought it best we stay there. But no one had anticipated the rapidity with which the war would move. Within weeks, in late July 1987, the Holy Spirit Movement of Alice Lakwena had crossed over to Teso. That morning, we saw the rebels running down from the Arapai Railway station to Soroti town, where they aimed to take over the airfield of the flying school.

The lagging progression of the war had allowed parents from the east and south to pick their children via the road to Mbale in the east. We would have needed the road to the west, which was shut off. Hence, the first term break had come and we had stayed in school. The second term had started and it was thought best we simply continue with our studies.

But there was to be no second term. Barely had it begun than the parents returned, this time with the vigilance of birds not taking a chance with their nest again. Then the road to the east was cut. We were doomed.

We, the seven students who had spent the last six months at the school, felt the loneliness instantly. In a lockdown, the early days are the most lonely. You feel the prickliness of abandonment. After the warm companionship of crowds is gone, you become aware of your status. There is a grim numbness from which you emerge drained of everything, even fear.

Your concern is for it to end, for you to get your old life back. But that life is gone. Sterner times await you. You learn new ways, new languages, believe in new gods and causes. It is likely that you or the people you love or know will die. You will learn fear.

When the school was empty, we, the stranded, knew we were preparing for something darker. The first month was the worst; we had hope. We spent hours watching the drive into the school, hoping to catch the familiar frame of a parent, the sound of the diesel 504 Peugeot from Aboke that would collect us.

One teacher, Miss Ekit, kept watch over us, like an aunt, but she had nothing to feed her relatives taking refuge in her house, let alone us.

For the next four months, the 400 by 300 metres of Madera Boys marked the confines of our world. We dared not, and were warned against, going into Soroti town. There was a railway station over the ridge of Arapai. There was no train. There was a flying school close by. Only the most connected parents airlifted their children away.

To stay locked down, to know that darkness is enveloping the world around you, is a terrifying reality whose greatest damage is not what happens or what does not happen to you in the months you spend alone. You go into isolation expecting the big moments, the war, the calamity, to come confronting you personally. More often than not, the extremes do not happen. But that is also a revelation; because the big things have not come to you, you grow to learn that you are but one insignificant soul. When the extremes do come to you, as they do to a few unfortunate ones, then that too is another revelation; you were but a mere speck of dirt in the great maw of history. You are personally ground into the dirt but war, or peace, plough on regardless.

A Do Me Good hangs us out like tethered goats

As the shutting down of the north began, hidden impulses and prejudices started to surface. The deputy head teacher of Madera Boys, a prickly little man we called A Do Me Good (which was what he called the cane he never walked without) separated all the Luo speakers from the rest. Our beddings and suitcases were taken out of the dormitory. We stayed under the trees during the day and slept in the classrooms at night. We were the dangerous breed. The Nilotics had been overthrown by their arch enemies. Now a punitive raid by the southerners in power against the Nilotes was feared. And in Teso, it was thought, associating with Luo speakers would draw the ire of the new rulers.

In the initial stages of the war, this fear was an extreme event. An attack did come, but it was from further north, and they came, not for us, but for the cattle of the Teso. The Karamojong cattle raids intensified, and we watched as Teso, once a rich, well-fed and proud region, lost its collective wealth.

Before we had even left, skin diseases of indescribable virulence had spread throughout the land. That had been during that ill-fated second term when we had remained uncollected in the school. And although the Ministry of Education had been informed of A Do Me Good’s doing, and we had been reinstated in the dormitories, what was coming for the north was bigger than the calculations of an obscure deputy headmaster in an obscure school.

Everyone one else left and so there were hundreds of beds left for us. As my childhood friend John liked to joke, there was now a bed for each of his fingers, toes, ears and teeth.

But something else stuck. To be foreign in a time of strife is to attract fear and suspicion. In our case, we had spoken the same language as the last regime’s, and the fear of association – for the Teso were as Nilotic as we were – stayed throughout the time we lived alone in the school.

The second month arrived. The delivery of maize meal and beans from the Ministry of Education ceased. The school store was broken into and the last morsels of food were taken. First we ran to the teachers. We returned with sticks of cassava. Some called us “Elangoit” (Teso for Lango) to our faces and chased us away. For me personally, it was a frightening time. (My name, Kaiza, is from my great grandfather three generations past who was Bunyoro, a culture and language my own grandfather barely remembered, but it meant I would be regarded as enemy by all sides). It did not take long for us to realise that it had been the same ministry delivery that had kept them fed.

There unwalked paths to the roads disappeared and the lawns had a return-to-the wild look. Unswept, the leaves played in the wind. There was a high season of large, egg-yolk orange sunsets. The dusks descended as harbingers of doom. We feared the nights for the dreams that awaited darkness. We feared the nights because children fear darkness. There was a cemetery close by and in the evenings, we thought we caught willow-the-wisps skirting the perimeters. (As I write this from Entebbe, power is gone, dogs are barking wildly and two days ago, a neighbour who returned from Europe with all his family, workers and dogs, was taken into quarantine.)

In the desultory daytime air, we kept to the shade. Towards the end (which you never see coming), we switched from fearing the nights to fearing the daylight. We started to long for the night. We knew the school very well and could stow away in safer corners at night, even inside the heavy branches of the mango trees, till morning.

In a last twist of the knife, one day, Okello, my second cousin, came running to Teacher Ekit’s house where we had taken water, and informed us that a military truck had come and taken two of the boys, the Ejuras, away. They were flown home in a helicopter. We came from the same town. Their father knew people. They left us behind. Now there were just five of us left – me, John, Okello, the portly Akona, and Ocen, a quiet little boy I never heard from since.

The going of the Ejura boys marked a turn for the worse. Corrosive silence took over. We played football less. Looking back, this was preparation for the next phase, and when it came, our own childhood deserted us. We aged prematurely.

Learning to live without food 

Starvation is an event of immense clarifying power. It seems there are two types of human beings: those who have never faced starvation and so do not know many things; and those who have faced starvation and can see through the veneer of most things.

Whilst we had had the supply of maize and beans, we led sad lives, longing for home and fearing for our safety.

But when one day, Okwana, the school cook, did not show up, something switched. Three days went by with barely anything to eat. There was the shame we individually shared, when one by one, we disappeared – to forage in dumps, to gouge the backs of kitchens.

The suggestion might have come from John. He was the strongest-willed of our lot. His father was the doctor of Aboke, an imperious old man. John had the family haughtiness in him. It had come as a chance discovery one morning when while collecting fruits from the borassus palm trees fringing the school, I stumbled upon a root. John came to pull me up. But I had heard a snap in the soil. I went down and dug hands in. I came out with a large tube of cassava. Disbelief. Joy. The surreal moment.

But we had become wise to something by then. John bade me be quiet. We poked around and discovered that this garden, belonging to one of the teachers that had fled the war, had been badly harvested. We took what tubers we thought we could conceal. We ate some raw, but decided that it was best we steal over to the Madera Technical College, over the fence, to cook it, to avoid attracting attention.

Along with some sweet potatoes we dug out of poorly harvested fields, we settled upon cooking in the soil. We dug up the ground, and lighting switches, waited for the bigger sticks to catch fire. We collected rocks and placed these in the fire, and placing the cassava and potatoes in with the rocks, we covered the lot and left. We returned and dug out baked cassava and potatoes.

We fed off the gardens around the school for about a month when the tubers stopped coming out. We collected tins, including paint tins, to cook with. But by then we had discovered the “carelessness” of the Teso farmer. That was our actual word. We set out to “correct them”. Hence the word “correction” was what we called our forage.

The word would have been from Okello, my second cousin. Okello was the genius. His marks for all four primary school subjects lingered in the 80s range.

The story from there took on its own character. It was what we became. The fear we had had of ranging out the school perimeter vanished. Hunger gave us courage we were unprepared for. We made our way past the school for the blind, correcting, gathering. We found groundnuts. We found patches of vegetables we recognised. We gathered tamarind fruits. We walked boldly past military roadblocks.

The groundnuts were a boon. We gathered skills we did not know we had. To turn the nuts into butter, we roasted the seeds in hot soil, taking the moisture out. We pounded the lot and ground them. With the vegetables we had sun-dried, the groundnut butter made for a delectable sauce, a far cry from the cassava.

We went past the flying school, going south of the prisons farm.

This manner of feeding became routine. And we used the correction walks to beg for salt from families we knew in Soroti town. The shutting down of the region was having a terrible effect as essentials and incomes ran out. By comparison, we in the school had space, the “correction” to live by.

But the town had its complexities, of course. There were the Asian families in Soroti town who never seemed to run out of things, whose shops remained well-stocked. There were the high civil servants in the senior quarters. There were the bars and restaurants that lined Jumbhai Road that our steps slowed down going past. The piles of chapati, samosas and roast chicken were set there as if to remind us of our status.

And so the discovery of a further truth in the life of decline.

In town, we got looks. We were shouted away from certain places.

It was John who understood this instantly. The state of us had deteriorated. We had no soap. We were malnourished, unwashed, and walking in town. We were a threat. Who knows, a piece of soap, a soda, precious things, might be snatched.

It was a long walk back to Madera. The looks we got began to register. Our hands were covered in scurvy. We had seen town children our own age playing with samosas and chapati and ice cream.

It was not the war that was damaging; it was what the war turned you into that did the harm.

Ice cream had become too good for us.

Till today, I do not understand by what miracle none of us came down with malaria or typhoid. In the state we were in, it would have taken but a little nudge for the ultimate to come.

By late 1987, banditry had taken hold. Internecine conflict had broken out between the Teso that supported the new Museveni regime and those that did not. Class differences turned Teso against Teso. We watched as even some of our own teachers put on military uniforms and joined either the rebels or the new regime and an intra-ethnic war raged. Each morning brought news of someone who had disappeared the night before.

There was a teacher, Mr Odongo, who had kept a distant, avuncular eye on us. He never approached us but hung about where we understood he was overseeing us. One evening, there was a gunshot, so close that the shock of its explosion silenced our little group. Later in the night, we heard a knock on the classroom door. Mr. Odongo may have studied our peregrinations and knew we no longer slept in the dorms. When we opened the door, there he stood, cradling his arm. He had been shot.

We did not know that the bullet had to be taken out. We did not know why he was running a temperature. But John, from watching his father, understood a few things. It was he who ran out for help. Mr. Odongo was taken by adults to hospital and we never heard of him again.

Another teacher, whose brother had joined the government militia, was not so lucky. The bullet got him square in the chest.

A bridge, a land mine

We became inured to life, which is a dangerous stage. One day, a skirmish broke out in Arapai but we just sat by the window, watching, wondering if they were killing many, in between talking about what they were eating back home.

Another afternoon, over at the girls’ school, where my sister was, but which was better provisioned because the nuns ran a tight ship, we heard screaming. In no time, we heard the gunshots and saw scores of men running with the mattresses they had stolen from the girls.

Shortly, we watched as, first, a helicopter sounded off overhead. Then, there was the piercing roar of what may have been a Mig15 fighter jet. John and I were sitting under the tall jacaranda trees by the football field. The Mig heeled up, then, in a terrifying moment, it pitched down, splitting the air, screaming and then it dipped below the tree line. Then it was coming up.

The explosion tore the air apart. We did not run. We had been told to stay put if soldiers or planes appeared. The fighter jet tumbled overhead, we saw it turn upside down, the head of the pilot showing.

In the commotion of jet roar, we had not noticed them. But a single shout drew our attention swiftly. The army had amassed by the football field. And in a straight line, shoulder to shoulder rather than single file, they started to march, sweeping into the bush.

We heard our names. It was Miss Ekit. We got up and ran to the dormitory. She pulled us in and shut the door. We all went under the beds.

There was something about that second battle, coming sometime in November, that was different. It did not sound as dramatic. In fact, it was dull. And it cleared off into the distance. But after that, masses of people disgorged from the countryside and Soroti town became a refugee camp. A Do Me Good disappeared.

We discovered that there had been far more people in the vicinity of Madera than we had known. All had been in hiding, but were now outed by a turn in the war that we did not understand.

People were listless. A faraway look diverted their attention from the immediate. A look like hunger, but deeper, more spiritual. Mute, dull, zombies. We had stopped noticing ourselves, but there we were. Our clothes were too big for us. We had taken to stripping bark off trees to tie our shorts in place. Our shirts were in tatters.

The next week, Miss Ekit told us to pack. She had heard me narrate my stories of travel, for before 1985, my father took me around the country on his business trips. I understood a bit about Kampala, as I knew Mbale very well. Ekit asked me about a friend of our family who was a high-level civil servant in Mbale. She had me repeat his name and the street on which he lived. I did not understand why.

The next day, a long truck drew up outside the technical school. Again, the amazement came. There were scores of schoolchildren hidden in many places whom we did not know about. We were packed into the truck. It drove out of Soroti. We did not speak. If we crossed Bukedea, the border between Teso and Bugisu, we would be safe.

But there was one last throw of fate before we left. We had not yet crossed Aoja Bridge when an explosion whipped our heads to the back. A van had driven over a land mine and lay on the roadside, burning.

The truck had missed it. We the Aboke group were left in Mbale. I took the group to the home of my father’s friend. My father came shortly afterwards and took us all back to the north, via Kampala. But not to our town. In my absence, my family had fled to a place near the Nile, where we still live.

In the coming months, Teso turned into hell, culminating in the notorious Mukura massacre, some of whose perpetrators were the first to die in the Rwanda war five years later.

I did not see John, Akona or Okello again till the late 1990s, and have not seen them since.

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Reflections

Education in a Time of Coronavirus: How e-Learning is Impacting Poor Rural Students

Unable to exploit the internet like their more fortunate peers, poor students in Kenya’s rural areas are losing more of what little chance they have to succeed in an education system that already does not favour them.

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Education in a Time of Coronavirus: How e-Learning is Impacting Poor Rural Students
Photo: Unsplash/Roman Mager
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“[T]he Government of the Republic of Kenya at this time (. . .) is not going to consider stopping e-learning. Well, I keep saying that (. . .) all our children are equal. Those who can access content, they will get access of the content (. . .) I think it is better to allow the ones to get, and hope that the period is as short as possible, and when the time comes we shall empower the others.” – Education C.S. George Magoha

Solomon sent me a message to say that he wouldn’t be coming in the following day; he wanted to finish some tests he had started the night before on Tusome and send them in for marking. Solomon is a student in a boys’ boarding school in chilly Kinangop, high up in the Aberdares, but he’s been back home since the coronavirus came to play havoc with the school calendar.

The message was sent from a cheap smartphone with a cracked screen. Solomon didn’t always have a phone; I used to have to call his granny, an irascible old woman with a harsh tone of voice and an abrupt telephone manner, if I needed to talk to him. “Uga!” (Say!), she would bark, leaving me momentarily confused about why I had called.

Left to fend for three orphaned grandchildren at an old age and with no income other than the money she could make as a casual labourer, Cũcũ wa Solomon had no choice but to send the children out to look for work during the school holidays, and that is how I first met Solomon, a pimply lad in an oversized hoodie and a tattered pair of sneakers. Since then Solomon has come to me during the school holidays, helping with the weeding and trimming the hedge, making a man’s daily wage to supplement the family’s income, and recently buying himself a second-hand cell phone.

Solomon is in Form Four now and will sit for his Kenya Certificate of Secondary Education this year; he tells me that he has received a message from his school confirming that the exams will start on the 4th of November. He has his smartphone and the wages with which to buy himself internet bundles, but without the textbooks and his teachers’ help, I do not know what Solomon’s chances are.

Mose’s situation is quite different. His mum has a kabambe of a phone, with a long-lasting battery and a bright torch that takes over when the electricity tokens run out in the two-room rented home she shares with her two boys. It is not of much use to Mose, who is in his last year at our local primary school, and who would need a smartphone to register on the Tusome platform in order to access revision notes and mock tests.

The closure of all schools was announced very abruptly on a Sunday by the government, leaving the teaching staff at our local primary school with very little time to prepare homework for the pupils while they waited for schools to reopen. And so, the head teacher, a deeply committed educationist who accomplishes very much with very little, has resorted to sending links to downloadable learning materials to the parents of Class Eight pupils even while acknowledging that, for a great many, access is impossible. Registration on the Tusome platform is free but it still costs 50 shillings a day to use, 300 shillings a week and 1,000 shillings monthly (contrary to the misleading information on the site).

Wa Mose works as a casual labourer on the surrounding farms and on building sites, earning 250 shillings from eight in the morning to one in the afternoon. She’s an industrious woman; she knits school jumpers to order in the evenings and does other people’s laundry in the afternoons. Still, her earnings have not stretched to the acquisition of a smartphone and now she is fretting over Mose’s prospects come the exams.

But even if Wa Mose did own a smartphone, her son would have to spend hours squinting at the small screen, scrolling through all the 141 pages of mathematics before taking the online tests and moving on to the next subject. The pages are not printable, and even if they were, they would cost 1,410 shillings to print. Wa Mose would have to find money for that one subject alone (and there are five in total), not to mention the cost of the internet bundles it would take.

One might be led to believe that the Tusome platform is an initiative of the Ministry of Education since it borrows its name from a programme run by the ministry, but it is in reality a private money-making initiative that is merely providing access to PDFs of scanned copies of existing learning materials.

Over at Teachers Arena, a website that started out as a WhatsApp group where teachers shared resources and information, there is no need for registration; access to the content is free and the material is downloadable and printable. However, the mathematics section alone runs to 54 pages. At our local cybercafé, Wa Nancy charges 10 shillings per printed page, so it would cost 2,700 shillings—at the very least— to print the revision notes and mock tests for all the subjects.

To avoid leaving her children at home unsupervised and getting up to no good, Wa Mose has sent the boys to their grandmother where, fortunately, there is a radio on which they can listen to the educational programmes that are broadcast by the Kenya Institute for Curriculum Development.

However, even this choice is not open to all. When I asked Kahiga’s mother if at least the family had a radio, her answer was simple and stark: “We have nothing.”

Wa Kahiga lives with her children in a rented room on the edge of our township, selling her labour to others for 50 shillings an hour. Work is not always easy to find and hunger is familiar in her home. And although quiet and soft-spoken, she is forthright and brutally honest if the choice is between the PTA contribution and keeping the family fed. Nevertheless, the head teacher keeps Kahiga in school and waits patiently for the money to be found. Now Kahiga is at home, waiting, and lacking the means to improve his chances of escaping the grinding poverty that is his lot.

Mose’s head teacher is not sure how the school will make up for the lost time. Although the majority of the school’s pupils are day scholars, the school does offer boarding facilities for pupils coming from further afield, as well as those from our locality whose parents wish them to board. He had contemplated proposing that all the 176 KCPE candidates become boarders for the rest of the year once schools reopen in June (if they do), with the staff teaching from early in the morning till late in the evening after supper, as well as on Saturdays, so that the syllabus can be covered before the exams. But space in the dormitories is limited and squeezing in more beds would compromise the social distancing necessary to stop the spread of the coronavirus. And so the head teacher has had to give up that idea; as it is, he is not even sure how the school will practise social distancing in the classrooms.

Still, it is unlikely that many parents of day scholars would have taken the head teacher up on that suggestion, even were it workable. The extra money to cover the boarding fees and the necessary supplies would have to be found, yet many of the parents have not paid last term’s boarding fees in full, which has in turn had a knock-on effect on salaries. The school relies on the fees to pay the ten support staff who include the workers employed to cook and clean after the pupils and the groundsman who also doubles up as the school’s baker. The head teacher has had to call upon the goodwill of the school’s banker to pay their April salaries but he has forewarned them that May salaries may not be paid on time.

The rains have been abundant, though, and there is plenty of work available weeding on the farms around us. All hands are on deck now, with parents and their children going out to sell their labour and earn as much as they can before the rainy season ends, so the wherewithal to settle last term’s balances and cover next term’s costs might yet be found.

Even though mobile telephones have become ubiquitous in much of the country, the digital divide remains firmly in place, a vast chasm that keeps children from rural areas and disadvantaged backgrounds separate, unable to exploit the internet like their more fortunate peers, and, in this time of coronavirus, losing more of what little chance they have to succeed in an education system that, from every fathomable point of view, does not favour them.

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