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Reflections

The Pain of Losing an Election

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The Pain of Losing an Election
Photo: Ayo Ogunseinde on Unsplash
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The 2017 elections remain one of the most contested, memorable and divisive elections in the history of Kenya. The second elections under the 2010 constitution, it witnessed staggering 15,082 aspirants for just 1,882 elective positions. These were just the ones who actually barely survived the revolving knives of the shambolic party primaries. From the very start, it seemed that the sheer interest was already going to be a recipe for high stakes cut throat mud fight politics of winner takes all, losers accept and move on; or maybe not. Whereas there has been focus on the presidential race, rightfully so, the lower cadres explored the finer isms as well; nepotism, clannism, tribalism, classism, among others.

When Raila Odinga and Uhuru Kenyatta recently appeared jointly to address the nation, it appeared as if the beginning of the end of one of the longest electioneering periods. It seems the Lord of Accept and Move On, had once again visited Kenya. Well, not for most. For starters, the 13,200. The 13,200 looks like the title of a classical movie produced by Marvel about the fight for freedom and self-determination. It would probably have a main character called John Duke who would be fearless, determined and have unwavering belief in their course. This 13,200, however, is the story of those who did not make it. Those Kenyans who offered themselves for election and did not get the seat. I deliberately did not use the word lost. There is a Kenyan proverb that says nobody loses the elections fairly, they were rigged out.

Two of my favourite billboards used to be on Ngong Road near Junction Mall, on your way to town. They were on either side of the road, staring at each other as if waiting to see which will blink fast. One was for Johnson Sakaja and the other one for omwami Edwin Sifuna, both accomplished young men in their own right, both far from ‘home’, and both vying to be the Senator of the Green City in the Sun on the tickets of Kenya’s largest political parties. I liked the billboards, not just for their visual appeals and the messages and slogans they displayed, but for their deeper meaning. They say meaning is derived majorly from the audience. For me, what excited my brains the most was the realization that after all the staring, one would eventually, succumb, literally. A few days after the August elections, I passed by the billboards again, before they were brought down. Edwin Sifuna was still smiling in that billboard, but it was as if something had changed in that smile, like it had lost its warmth, like he was using every ounce of effort to hold the smile in place. That kind of smile made famous by the Kenyan phrase “Hata sija skia vibaya”. Of course, the billboard hadn’t changed, it had always been like that. Maybe I was empathizing with the young lawyer because I could relate to his loss. I could see my father in him.

Have you ever wondered what happened to the Kenyans who lost seats that they had vigorously campaigned for? Have you ever wondered what happens to those who resign their plum positions to serve their country on a different basis? More importantly, how does it start? Maybe you post a photo on social media and a friend quips that you should vie for a public office. You laugh and joke along but deep down; a seed has been planted in your heart. Or does it begin when you are having two for the road with your friends, and you are extremely generous that day and they pat you on the back and casually say, “‘Buda, si usimame. Umeweza. Sisi tuko nawe all the way”. Or is it a deep unignorable conviction from your heart that won’t go away, gnawing until you softly shout, “I yield. I will be vying. Leave me alone now.”

My father vied in the August 2017 elections as well. Unfortunately, he did not even get to the final cast of the 13,200. We were having family conversations late at night after dinner like we normally do during the holidays when my brother asked him if the rumours were true; if he would really be vying for a seat in the Homa Bay County Assembly. He complained about the state of infrastructure, the blatant misuse of county resources by the former member of county assembly among other ills bedevilling the people. He talked about how, if properly managed, devolution could be an important bridge for development. He said the people had asked him to serve them. He did not directly answer us whether he would be vying or not. A politician was coming to birth. He had listened keenly, or seemed to, when we told him how expensive it would be to run for a seat at the assembly, the pressure on family and the emotional and physical wear it would have on him. We were looking out for him, we had thought so. When he announced the following day at church that he indeed he would be vying, we looked at each other, not really surprised, but with the look you have when you get that news that you had been expecting all along but nevertheless, had hoped would have miraculously passed.

My dad is one of those ‘true’ African men who have a hard time expressing their feelings. This is not to say that he doesn’t talk much. He talks. Just about the weather, politics, and other critical issues of national importance. He is those parents who used to come to school during visiting days swinging his hands; a phone on one hand and Nation Newspaper on the other. We would talk briefly about my grades and how the people at home were doing and whatever big project was happening; a school harambee back at home, the dilapidation of the road back home; the proposed revival of Miwani Sugar Company. He would invite me to help him fill the Codeword puzzle, an exercise more for my benefit than his, and patiently watch me struggle to get the lead word. We would shake hands and he would be on his way, an arm lighter as he would leave me with his favourite newspaper. Leaving his ubiquitous companion behind would be the closest he would come to say, I love you son.

Of course, there was no way he was going to ask us to support him. I don’t ever remember the old man asking for anything. He had this guise of ‘I got it covered’, a ruse we had bought hook, line and sinker, in our younger years. We were wiser now.

We mobilized ourselves, helped set up a committee, mobilized additional resources and helped with ideas whenever we could. We even joined him in a few rallies and strategy meetings whenever, we could. We attempted to be there while taking precaution not to dominate. The committee had experienced politicians, local technocrats and a youth wing that was passionate, strong and believed in their general. They were motivated not by what they were receiving, but how they would get opportunities from being ‘close to power’. From their conversations, projections and action plans, it seemed that they had it all covered.

I must confess I have always been wary of politics; Kenyan politics. They say it is a dirty game where the ‘dirtiest’ thrive. I have always envisioned it as the theatre of the absurd, where issues and ideas are peripheral to comedy, rhetoric and self-aggrandizement. It hurts me when I see public intellectuals engage in debates over non-issues. Maybe, I had been too harsh. Maybe politics could be different.

After traversing all areas, campaigning, selling his vision, it was nomination day. From the initial projections and counted votes we were doing well. We had every reason to believe that victory was in sight. In this area, they could as well cancel the General Elections, party nominations got you two feet in. When we reported to the constituency tallying centre, we had the summaries of the announced results and thought it was given. I stood directly behind my father on the dais where the results were to be announced from. It was more of an instinctive reaction to protect him, I don’t know from what.

When the returning officer made a contrary announcement, we were stunned. The old man was immobile for a while. It was difficult to know what he was thinking. Was he surprised? Angry? Disappointed? Anxious? His face remained expressionless, calm, as if he knew something we didn’t. I requested for the forms to see what would have gone wrong. It was a charade at the very least. The numbers that were used were written on a piece of paper, plucked from an exercise book and collated using a phone calculator, with little attempt to involve the candidates in the tallying. There were no signed forms at all as should have been.

Meanwhile the rival supporters had broken into ululations and dance. They had begun to throw obscenities at the old man. They said that he should know people. They hurled a few unprintable things. It was the first time it hit me that he was a politician. That he had to accept that this was part of the game that he had signed up for, that he was not immune to slander. That clarity in thought hadn’t stopped me from feeling angry for him. How could they?

Nyakawalulochwa,”(We must follow up on our victory) they had insisted. Trust me it’s deeper in Dholuo.

After an eternity of shuttling between home, Homa Bay and Nairobi, sleep deprived, the appeal was successful. My father was handed an interim certificate from NASA, but another counter-appeal against him was successful, before we had even started celebrating. It was a story that would intrigue political analysts and make a great plot for a skit at Kenya National Theatre.

Meanwhile he kept receiving calls from curious supporters and friends who wanted to know what was happening. Each was recommending a different course of action. It is at this time that you realize everybody knows everybody. “Call the Governor, I know this party official, stop wasting time with the party appeal, go to the parties’ tribunal. Talk to IEBC. Explain what happened. Tell them this was a robbery”. Pursuing each recommendation had its own cost implications. We however followed most of the logical recommendations. At least we owed them that. From their tone, you could feel the disappointment, impatience, frustrations, like the oldman wasn’t doing enough to protect their victory; luwolochgi. He didn’t say it, but you could feel the strain of having to relay the same message to different people was taking a toll on him. I think, by repeating the message, it was also starting to dawn on him that options were fast closing, and that maybe the illustrious run was coming to an end, after all.

A million assurances later, late night strategy meetings with advisors and political ‘bigwigs’ and wheeler-dealers, unintentional camping at the party headquarters, the provisional party list was released, his name conspicuously missing. That’s just the provisional list, relax, they assured him. We will still fix it, when it matters the most. Meanwhile the gnawing feeling that we were postponing the inevitable was beginning to grow. It was increasingly feeling like a case of throwing good money after bad. When it was apparent that the provisional certificate and the assurances they had given him had the weight of a sack of cotton, his committee insisted he vie on an independent ticket, an idea that would not see the light of the day.

When he decided to pull the plug, we heaved a sigh of relief. Were we bad children for getting relieved that this phase was coming to an end? We felt so.

Shouldn’t we have urged him more to ‘luwolochwa?”.

The pain of losing is however not just on the loser, it’s on the family. It is in knowing that he says he is okay but he is not. It is knowing that he didn’t want it, but when he wanted it, he wanted it with all his being. It is in knowing that it is not his pain alone that he carries, that of his people too. Their frustrations. Their anger at the system; at him; at us. Why couldn’t he be stronger? Why couldn’t we have been stronger for him?

And it is in knowing that you can’t get mad at them, they are hurting too, in their own way, even more than the bereaved can admit. Sometimes I imagine all the rollercoaster of emotions I had; have. The joys, the anger, the surprises, the betrayals, the hopes and wonder how father’s must be heightened.

It is in knowing that there is nothing you can do for him, other than being there.

To a large extent we are victims of the facade of stoicism so commonly displayed by African men; strong, all-knowing and always in control. Mental health and stress are rarely spoken about in our cultures, often seen as either a white man’s problem or at the very least, a rich man’s problem. There is indeed a majority of Kenyan politicians who deal with their stress like the proverbial ostrich, hiding their head in the sand, and hoping the danger will go away, until it doesn’t. Maybe my father’s ability to accept and move on is what sand is to an ostrich.

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A writer based in Nairobi, Kenya

Reflections

Of Chapati, Identity and Migrant Politics in Europe

The common narrative is that imperialism, colonialism and Western staples have influenced the non-Western world. But the Global South too is impacting the West, one plate at a time.

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Of Chapati, Identity and Migrant Politics in Europe
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In the mid-90s, my mother paid a visit to an aunt who had emigrated to Scandinavia and settled in Stockholm, Sweden, for over two decades. Of the many memories she held on to from that trip abroad, her most notable was the culture shock she suffered at a lunch that my aunt’s neighbour had hosted in honour of the guest from Africa.

Swedish staples were laid out: cinnamon buns, pancakes, pea soup, mashed potatoes, pickled cucumbers, cheese and lots of bread. After sampling foods that did not appeal to her palate, my mother turned to my aunt and whispered in Dholuo, a touch of concern in her voice, “Gikelo chiemo saa adi?” What time are they bringing out the food?

We are what we eat and food is a social identifier; being thousands of kilometres from home, my mother was simply looking for the familiar in a foreign place. The food choices that one makes are a significant indicator of one’s cultural identity in a foreign country. When significant numbers of Kenyans started seeking economic and educational opportunities in the West in the early 80s and 90s, the essential items that they would request to receive from home were largely food items.

Some of the most popular choices were maize flour, chapatis, Farmer’s Choice sausages, local flavours such as the Royco brand of food seasoning and indigenous green vegetables. Things have of course drastically changed. Foods from Asian, Mediterranean and African cultures that were once considered exotic are now readily available in the supermarkets of many European capitals.

Nothing says home like the taste of food. In fact, finding authentic African food becomes a way of finding one’s grounding and establishing social solidarity. When I moved from Kenya to a Dutch suburb just outside Amsterdam, one of the first things I went out in search of was our food.

Family members would call from home and ask with great concern whether I was able to find food. On one occasion, I turned on the video on my cell phone to show them the boiled corn I was chomping on that I had bought in an African market in Amsterdam; they were duly reassured.

The villager in Europe

My first Kenyan contacts in the Netherlands spent a great deal of time pointing out to me where in Amsterdam I could get “our food”. I was shown the Kenyan-owned restaurant where I could get a taste of home. I discovered the Biljmermeer neighbourhood in Zuidoost, the South-East of Amsterdam, known for its African presence drawn from Suriname, the former Dutch colony in South America, and the significant constituency of West African immigrants.

I was pointed to the Moroccan neighbourhoods in Nieuw-West for authentic shawarma, and for rotis and chapatis, to the Asian supermarkets dotting the Amstelveen suburbs that cater to a growing South-Asian expatriate community.

As a conscious pan-Africanist raising young children in a European capital, my food choices have become something of a political statement. I am reminded of assassinated Burkinabé revolutionary leader Thomas Sankara’s enduring statement:

“Where is imperialism? Look at your plates when you eat. These imported grains of rice, corn and millet — that is imperialism’’.

The common narrative is how, largely through imperialism, colonialism and the now dominant neo-liberal agricultural policies, and Western staples, particularly wheat, have influenced the non-Western world. What is not talked about enough is how the Global South is impacting the West, one plate at a time.

In a sense, Europe’s multicultural dynamics are best illustrated by the food on your plate. Besides the politics of identity that has set me off in search of flavourful sweet potatoes, cassava, indigenous vegetables, plantains and tilapia in pop-up African markets in Amsterdam, food has also become a big pointer of my multicultural influences. As an East African, my food choices are heavily influenced by South Asian and Middle-Eastern cuisines.

I remember the first Asian supermarket I spotted in the upmarket Amstelveen suburb of Amsterdam. When I walked in, I struck an immediate rapport with the storekeeper, establishing his country of origin, greeting him in Hindi and asking about the varieties of dhaal, dengu, beans, basmati rice, spices and, of course, chapati available. When I crossed over to a Middle-Eastern grocery store, I switched to an Arabic salutation to express the joy of finding familiar foods. An Ethiopian woman I met at a pop-up market remarked about Kenyan love of Indian food and my response turned into a historical lesson on the centuries of exchange between the East Coast of Africa and the Indian sub-continent via the Indian Ocean.

While African food is still limited to African hubs, with the occasional sighting of an Ethiopian or Eritrean restaurant, Asian-inspired cuisine is widespread. I can find chapatis in many places in Amsterdam and this points to how the humble chapati and pishori or basmati rice are perhaps the herald of the Asian century. Every European city now has a sampling of Asian fine dining restaurants, from Japanese, to Chinese, Indian, Korean, Indonesian and Thai cuisine.

Chapo lives matter

It is almost impossible to talk about culinary influences without encountering imperialism and resistance and the chapati movement serves as a great illustration of culinary globalisation. I have been thinking about the rapid rise of the chapati and the socio-political history of this popular South-Asian flat bread.

About a century ago, way before the arrival of British imperialism in Kenya, a curious incident occurred in India in 1857. Mark Thornhill, a British magistrate serving in the town of Muttra, now Mathura, discovered after some investigations that chapatis were travelling up to 300 kilometres across India. This bizarre distribution of chapatis set off the panic buttons in the British ranks.

The rapid movement of chapatis from hand to hand, village to village had all the markings of a conspiracy and a rebellion. Police runners would bake and hand over the chapatis to their colleagues who in turn would keep the chain going. The chapatis were unmarked and those who accepted the offering would make more batches and pass them along, sometimes moving them up to 300 kilometres in one night.

The chapati moved from village to village with the sort of efficiency that would today be described as viral. It did not help matters that the police were the conduits of this underground chapati railroad and a deep sense of unease spread across the British ranks. A revolt did eventually break out later that year and the movement of chapati was seen as part of the campaign of mobilisation.

While a century ago the chapati served as a symbol of agitation, and was the inspiration for a mutiny against British occupation, in the East African colony where the South-Asian labourers brought in to construct a railway from Mombasa in Kenya to Uganda had stayed on and built an influential minority community, the chapati would a century later emerge as a social leveller in Kenya.

In my formative years in the 70s and 80s, chapati was an exotic dish and a status food. Maize, the Kenyan staple, had been demoted to common fare and those wives who demonstrated the ability to make chapatis improved their social standing. Chapatis were a delicacy, only served during important feasts like Christmas and at highbrow weddings. In Nairobi today, the chapati is about the easiest food to find and consistent in its production across the board.

From the highbrow restaurants to the simple street food stalls, the chapati is the one common denominator. In a cash-strapped economy, chapati flour offers more value for money because of its versatility. It is easy to store, transport and can be consumed with a variety of accompaniments or on its own. Ugali, the dominant by-product of maize flour, lacks that kind of culinary diversity. Chapati is adaptable where ugali is not.

The great corn game

From the 1880s to the dawn of independence in the 60s, maize was the status food introduced by the British as a cheap food source for African farm labourers. With urbanisation and the introduction of wage labour and, later, mechanised mills, maize overtook millet and sorghum as the preferred food of the emerging elite who found it finer and more aspirational. It was considered sweeter, and it also doubled up as a cash crop.

In my home county of Siaya, celebrated historian E.S. Atieno Odhiambo argues in his book Siaya: The Historical Anthropology of an African landscape, that the introduction of maize into the texture of Siaya life was a mode of westernisation. Maize meal was known as kuon ongere, the white man’s ugali, eaten by those who had acquired a Western education. In the last 20 years or so, the chapati movement has grown. Presently, it is Kenya’s preferred fast food, more readily available than fried potato chips, and it has overtaken bread as a breakfast staple.

Chapati is made with wheat flour, and if we follow the logic of Yuval Noah Harari’s persuasive argument, in his book Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind, that the wheat plant manipulated and domesticated Homo Sapiens to its advantage to become the global staple leading to the westernisation of our diet, we could say that Asia is manipulating the global palate. South-East Asian nations are now the world’s largest wheat-importing regions and consequently we are witnessing an Asianisation of our diets, the most telling sign yet that the future is Asian. 

The story of the chapati’s movement across Africa and Europe is also the story of the power of multiculturalism and how the Asian and African diasporas use food to assert their identities and influence the foreign cultures they integrate into. The Japanese took sushi global. Chinese takeaway is a popular cultural marker of the North American fast food culture.

What we cook and eat is more than symbolism. My desire to preserve my culture is manifested through my food choices and culinary practices and this is a trait common to all migrants who find themselves negotiating minority positions in dominant cultures.

Asia and Europe have a long history of trade and the modern Silk Road continues to assert its influence on European culture. The largest supermarket chain in the Netherlands, Albert Heijn, sells a range of products aimed at marking Ramadhan in a country where a far right populist figure and leader of the third largest political party, PVV, Geert Wilders is infamous for his anti-Islamic and anti-immigrant sentiments.

These new flavours from Asia and now Africa challenge dominant narratives in subtle ways. From the street corners of the colonies, they are now to be found on the high streets of Europe. Asia’s population and material prosperity has gained traction in Europe and its cuisine is no longer the stereotypical cheap fast food but is now part of an expanding repertoire of fine dining.

Europe as a globalized pantry

The influx of African foods in the Netherlands, for example, is directly linked to its growing African diaspora. It greatly surprises my mother, living in Kenya and worried that I may be subsisting on bread, ham and cheese, that I eat pretty much the same food I would eat in Kenya.

It might be logistically harder to source coarse maize flour than it is to find chapatis but I no longer have to have a contact in the airlines in order to get a taste of home abroad. The proliferation of other foods in Europe shows the varied pathways of culinary globalisation and the inevitability of change brought about by migration.

In some pockets of Europe, the growing influence of minority food cultures has become a political issue. In 2016, Denmark’s Ministry of Cultural Affairs carried out a poll seeking to identify core Danish values. One revealing pointer from this survey was the prominence of eating consumption in the responses, elevated as a symbol of Danish identity and interpreted as part of a culture war and a stance over migration.

In the Netherlands, the influence of the former Dutch colonies — notably Indonesia and Suriname — on the national cuisine is well established. Nasi Goreng, a rice-based meal introduced by Indo-Dutch people, fries with satay or peanut sauce, Suriname sandwiches locally known as Surinaamse broodjes, now count as national dishes.

Spices from the Dutch East Indies penetrated local cuisines and the Dutch embraced these new flavours from abroad in much the same way that the British love curry and favourite English food choices are South-Asian in character.

With the changing food supply chains in the wake of the coronavirus pandemic, the questions of food politics and identity are emerging more prominently. There is a growing sentiment of European food nationalism, where eating local is associated with patriotism. European consumers, particularly those from the South, are increasingly interested in where their food comes from in order to support local farmers and preserve their cultures from foreign influences.

Since food is a cultural identifier, Europe’s politics of identity and belonging is bound to continue playing out on your dinner table. The revolution you might be looking for might just start on your plate.

This article is part of The Elephant Food Edition Series done in collaboration with Route to Food Initiative (RTFI). Views expressed in the article are not necessarily those of the RTFI.
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Reflections

Reflections on Tyranny and Terror in Kenya Then and Now

How do we channel our emotions when the tyrant is this amorphous cold gel of capitalist corporations and totalitarian organisations?

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Reflections on Tyranny and Terror in Kenya Then and Now
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I am over half a century old now, bald, aching in new places everyday, with more and more of my peers signalling the quickening approach of our generation to our graves by their affliction with new health problems every passing day.

Growing up in the Moi era in Kenya, one just grew up. No one I knew had any sense of teleology ; most of us just tried to survive, others endeavoured to prosper if they could.

This is the outcome for a society whose entire existence is premised on kowtowing to the desires of one man. All thought, speech and action — outside of those actions undertaken in the pursuit of fulfilling organic needs — were measured against the risk of offending Moi.

This obviously had the effect of stunting individual and collective thought.

Stunting collective thought regresses a society into superstition and imbecilic reasoning. For those who can remember that era, any tragic motor accident with massive casualties was always explained as some form of “occultic sacrifice”. Such tragic accidents had to be the consequence of some “unseen forces”. Institutional incompetence was never even remotely considered. Who’d have dared blame the Big Man’s government? Moi was “No.1 in everything”: agriculture, engineering, education… there were songs and poems praising the greatness of his genius, culminating in the highpoint of then Education Minister Peter Oloo Aringo’s declaration that  Moi was “The Prince of Peace” himself! And this of course served “the Big Man” well. Being bankrupt of thought and vision, “the Big Man” could not tolerate the slightest criticism.

In such an environment, fear is not just an indispensable tool; it is the only tool by which a tyrant can maintain his rule. From the oldest and most infamous tyrant, Firaun (Pharaoh) of polytheistic Egypt, to the land of the brutal Count Drakula, atheistic Romania under Ceausescu in the 80s, belief in sorcery, witchcraft and magic becomes the refrain of the collective mind when dominated by irrational fear. Even elites do not escape it; Elena Ceausescu, the tyrannical wife of Nicolae Ceausescu, was said to retain a personal witch, in spite of the atheism of the state they ruled.

Rule is either by consent or coercion, there is no other method. Consent is acquired by mass adoption of an overpowering vision that encapsulates certain ideas and values. Coercion needs no explanation. Therefore, in a political medium devoid of ideological proselytisation, police are the primary tool of rule.

This creates an environment of paranoia with a vicious feedback loop. Thoughts driven by irrational fear, lead to irrational action. Irrational action heightens paranoia, both in the masses and in the ruling class, which leads to further irrational action by the ruling class, on and on without end until there is a revolution or a coup. Both of which start the process all over again if the elites fail to anchor the society in a rational doctrine with a consistent and  transparent  system of governance.

This was Moi’s world.

Like any tyranny, everyone was suspicious and relatively fearful of everyone in a political sense, even colleagues and friends. Everyone fears everything in such an environment; even “walls have ears“, an aphorism turned adage.

The police love such a world.

They preyed on us everywhere, no public space was safe, no private space was sacrosanct.

They could strip you naked if they wanted, they would riffle through your pockets like robbers if you claimed you had no money, they would fondle women and even rape them in police cells with absolute impunity. They were hyenas in a sheep enclosure.

A close elder with whom I discuss the politics of the day, one day revealed he was a veteran of the infamous Nyati House torture chambers when, to our consternation, in the middle of the conversation, cracking us up with dark humour, he suddenly started stating bizarre and irrelevant facts, “Mama yangu anaitwa Rebecca Anyango (my mother is called Rebecca Anyango)”, “Alisoma shule inaitwa Busonga Primary (she went to Busonga Primary School)”. He explained that after several rounds of torture one would start answering questions without waiting to be asked. The security agents no longer needed to speak to you, you would volunteer anything and everything you knew, unprompted.

What had been my elder’s crime?

He had denounced Moi while having a drink in a bar, unaware that the next table was occupied by state security agents. To date, he looks around suspiciously before airing his opinion and uses a whispering tone even in private conversation.

This was Moi’s world.

While the fear in the mind of the ruler is largely paranoia born of his own certainty in his illegitimacy, the fear in the mind of the masses is legitimate.

Today I feel the same fear I sensed in my parents.

The difference is that today it is global, it is pervasive and it is not fear of a man; it is the fear of expressing a thought.

For everyone, it started as fear of expressing the idea of political pluralism born of the Cold War. Then the War on Terror was declared, and for Muslims it became fear of expressing the idea of Islamic law, then Islamic Jihad and now Islamic caliphate.

Now, every society has, for want of a better term, it’s “domain of discourse”. In the formal sciences “domain of discourse” is the set of entities over which certain variables of interest in some formal treatment “are allowed to range”. So for instance, in some tribe of valiant horsemen “T”, if the set of entities allowed for dowry are horses “H”, the suitor can include any type of horse in payment of said dowry but cannot present a mule or a car. It is not a question of means of “transport”. Certain “formal rules” determine “the allowed range”.

An alternative definition of “domain of discourse” is a class of objects considered within a given context. Any proposition outside is considered false. If a society believes their queen is a deity, then the proposition that she will one day die isn’t just heresy; it is — in the words of former Attorney General of Kenya Charles Njonjo — “treason”, given the political context. This of course assumes that the definition of god includes immortality as an attribute of god. There can be no social order without an agreed “domain of discourse”. This “domain of discourse” is unfashionably termed as “the officially-sanctioned religion” of the state. This is the nature of society.

The problem in a tyranny is that the “domain of discourse” is calibrated by the whims of the tyrant. Given his paranoia, the boundaries and nature of the domain of discourse keep being shifted by whatever demon or bogeyman plagues his dreams at night or his mind in the present. This has the effect of crippling social functioning and stagnating society.

This is why all absolute tyrannies not only do not progress, but regress into superstition.

Today we have no visible absolute tyrant but we live in the same fear.

The police prey, assault, extort, rob and kill with the same impunity they did under the tyranny of Moi.

The economy is in the same decline, public pilferage has compounded and we have returned to the same sense of hopelessness and fear we experienced during the Moi «error».

We are suffering the same psychological, physiological, economic and political dysfunction.

But who is our tyrant now?

Who are we to blame?

Whose effigy are we to burn?

Now I realise, whether rightly or wrongly, that there was value in knowing the tyrant, in having all our problems represented by one man. We could channel our thoughts and our emotions, or more specifically our curses and our hatred. This not only had a placebo effect, but it also gave us hope that we could surmount our problem; since our problem was a clear, measurable, defined, finite object, it was therefore resolvable, it was a question of time. We could look forward to the tyrant’s death; that was something to hang on to.

So, this gives us a question, a starting point to frame the problem of our time — who is defining and shaping our dystopian reality? And the next logical question is: who shapes a society’s reality?

If the answer is The Sovereign, then our tyrannical sovereign can only be identified by the powers he exhibits.

Thomas Hobbes, the 17th century scholar who first most comprehensively defined the Sovereign in his magnum opus The Leviathan, first published April 1651, goes into great depth in describing the characteristics of the Sovereign, mainly in terms of his rights. But they can be largely grouped or reduced to four broad categories.

The first and most important, is the right to legislate. The Sovereign calibrates all social relationships through legislation. Second, he decides the religion of the commonwealth. This is intrinsically linked to education and culturing on everything from morality, what is right or wrong socially, to ethics, what is right or wrong individually. The third is the right to take life — to kill. This can be defined as the right to punish by death within and the right to declare war without. The fourth in place but no less significant than the rest, is the authority to levy tax – economics.

Applying this criteria, let us look at the most significant phenomena in our time in each of the described elements.

The most significant legislative initiative in the last two decades has been the passing of “terror-related” legislation around the world. It suspended the fundamental values of modern civilisation that have hitherto been taken as completely obvious, that is, Human Rights and even the Geneva Convention. It abrogated legal tenets that are the basis of modern civilisation, such as “The right to trial” and “Habeas Corpus”. It created a secret police force and a prison network around the world, introducing to modern vocabulary the terms “extraordinary rendition”, which is really just supranational kidnap and detention, and “waterboarding”, which is really drowning someone alive. These laws remain in place, and are often used against political dissenters.

Our lives have been defined by the “War on Terror”, the Iraq War, the invasion and occupation of Afghanistan and a host of other countries since the assassination of American Imam Anwar Awlaki and Iranian General Qasem Soulemani in absolute contravention of the already torn illusion of international law.

Who is the sovereign capable of waging war unilaterally, kidnapping, detaining and/or killing citizens of disparate nations around the world without fear of consequences?

Our taxation is now directly linked to our level of debt. Our currency is pegged to the dollar. “Our” here is global humanity. Therefore the state of our economic welfare is in a long-winded way determined by the printer at the US Bureau of Engraving and Printing in Fort Worth Texas, United States of America. Well, at least materially.

Who is the sovereign who dictates our Tax regime through the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank?

Of late, the COVID-19 pandemic has served as the political cover for the largest rollback of political rights of assembly and suppression of political organising and activism. Under the guise of “Public Health” concerns, we have witnessed the most brutal and savage acts of police aggression on even the most innocent crowds; people struggling to get home.

Governments have expediently weaponised the pandemic globally. Even in Europe, where an entire generation has grown up completely unaware of the nature of police brutality, COVID-19 has revealed the imperialist underbelly of the modern Westphalian Nation-State. The brutality of the normally benign police of “civilised Western Europe” has stunned media elites.

Who is the Sovereign shaping COVID-19 policy so consistently across the globe?

It seems that globalisation did not only globalise markets; it globalised the tyranny of the capitalist police-state.

Our tyrant is a supranational system of totalitarian state-funded entities and organisations, unaccountable to anyone and only subservient to capitalist imperialism. Where does one protest against a World Bank loan that has been advanced and signed in the citizens’ name without their consent? How would one hold to account the opaque global Anti-Terror Police deathsquad infrastructure that was created via the terror-related legislation worldwide? How does anyone challenge the World Health Organization’s COVID-19 policy which is the basis for the current political suppression and police brutality around the world?

How do we even channel our emotions when the tyrant is this amorphous cold gel of capitalist corporations and totalitarian organisations? The psyche needs a tangible finite target to focus on, a crisp image; the humour may be macabre, but one misses the ol’ days, when we knew exactly who the bad guy was.

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Reflections

To the Brothers and for the Women in Our Lives

We were made husbands before we became men, and it might benefit us a great deal to restore the trust we once had in the guidance given to us by the women in our lives.

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To the Brothers and for the Women in Our Lives
Photo: Flickr/Ninara
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Since childhood, my great aunts, my grandmothers and the older women of my clan have referred to me fondly as their husband. “Nga uyu mundu wange,” here is my man, here is my husband, they would always remark in Maragoli whenever we met, never failing to claim this very unusual relationship to me with the biggest village smile on their faces. This, if you can imagine, was one of the few things that didn’t exactly excite my curiosity as a teenage boy. They were women in whom I had unquestioning trust, but what kind of humour! I could not understand where the grace of a woman that old had gone for her to say such a thing. Why? How? It was something too big for my brain to bother with at that time. Now that that boy is a few years older, the message is decoded from the different words of another group of Maragoli women in a closer space and time.

Highrise Estate Kibera is a special place to me. Apart from being my refuge during times when “the situation” seems unbearable in the adult world, where I retreat to the cradling love and care of my aunt and my cousins, it also happens to be a space where I get to experience the village from my interactions with Maragoli laundry ladies. There are a lot of Maragolis here, and most of them live on the other side of the wall in Soweto Kibera — where the real ghetto is. The lives of the people of Kibera, how they make a living, you will find very interesting.

In the early hours of the day, Mbagathi Way’s pedestrian paths might easily be mistaken for the venue of a serious racewalking event as Kibera residents — Nairobi’s labouring class —  race past each other as they trek to Industrial Area. At around mid-morning, the journey becomes shorter for some, those opting to make stops midway as others turn back all the way. While it might seem like a foolish thing for them to do, it is a well-informed decision.

Some of those who woke up earlier are on their way back, they need not say anything about where they’re coming from. Neighbourhoods such as South C, Nairobi West, Madaraka Estate and finally Highrise Estate become their checkpoints; you never know, someone might need a parking lot swept, a house cleaned, some laundry done, some dishes fixed. No functioning human being wants to gamble with energy they lack the resources to replenish. So they change direction, reversing from an industrial vision to a domestic one.

Women are the majority among those changing direction, coming back home, not because their muscle mass will not allow them to finish the race early enough, but because it has made them unsuited for the roles industrial work provides for the labouring class.

So, what is the significance of the relationship between Highrise Estate Kibera, Soweto Kibera and this labouring class? Or, what is left of it in this story? It is more or less the same significance my great aunts, my grandmothers and the older women of my clan share with the laundry ladies of Highrise Estate K. in my life.

When the COVID-19 pandemic hit us in early 2020, a lot of women in the employment class just above the labouring class started working from home; a good number of them were sent on compulsory leave without pay. With less cash at their disposal and more time to spend around the house, many of them had to let go their domestic workers. Were they to go back to the ghetto? In Highrise, at my aunt’s and the neighbouring blocks, these women sit outside their sources of employment.

A keen eye will easily lead you to the Maragoli laundry ladies’ base in the area. You will see them seated next to water jerrycans and buckets, stoically bearing the Nairobi heat as they wait for the few opportunities available to them. When the pandemic was at its peak in mid-last year, some of them would go for days without finding a single client, but still, they would not ask for anything from the people they knew. Rather, they hollered out at them like friends and would only insist on us promoting their side-hustles. One such woman is Maggie.

Maggie, a middle-aged woman with a son she recently disclosed to me was in medical school, would shout out to me, “Maragoli!”, caring nothing about whether I was a block away or just on the other side of the road. She would easily convince me and my cousins to buy a few of the avocados she was selling, it mattering not to her whether we had ready cash; we would pay when we had it.

From being her customers, our relationship with Maggie grew over the months to that of neighbours who have no problem commenting about how the other is looking today — not flattery, just raw, honest village banter brought to the city. Recently, Maggie made a personal comment about me; she said, “Sahizi mwili wako unaonekana vizuri, last year ulikuwa unaonekana na wasiwasi sana”, now your body appears alright, you had lots of worries last year. This was weeks after another powerful remark made on the first day of February 2021. Remarks that decoded the message in the words of the women who claim me as their husband back in the village.

“Genye’kana munyo’re zi’gasi mtange’ kuhinzira.” You are supposed to find jobs and start working, functioning, Maggie said to me and my older male cousin late that February afternoon. I had no idea what observations led her to utter such remarks, but they were delivered in a tone so light that we almost laughed. So detached was her position as she made them that it would have been really easy to miss the concern and interest she had for us. And it bugged me, more than the thought of being my grandmothers’ husband bugged me as a young boy. It did not help that both of us had quit our jobs a few months before the pandemic exploded to “focus on our art”. What humour! Why would she say that to me? Now this appealed to my sense of curiosity just as it confounded me. Was she simply asking us to find jobs so that we could in turn provide employment opportunities for her? Was she encouraging us to keep on looking for opportunities and not give up? Or was it a witty rebuke to Maragoli youth walking around the estate in the peak of the afternoon, pretending to be in the same position as her, lacking opportunity?

I remain unable to place these remarks. Nevertheless, if Maggie Maragoli sees me essentially as a Maragoli man then, truly, I am her husband. The women of my clan must have been teasing me with the responsibility that comes with being a man in the community. That as a Maragoli man you are answerable to more than one woman in your life; your functioning does not just benefit the woman you raise a family with, it is essential for the whole community’s prosperity. It might also be that we fit the image of the man Maggie would like the daughters of the community, her daughters, to have, and that she is playing her role in moulding these functional partners. Whatever the meaning of the remarks, they remain a response given in an attempt to show direction.

Only one message is clear.

A deep concern seems to be building up among a group of women from the ghetto. Not about themselves, not about their children, not about anyone really close to them. Just their husbands. A concern that manifests itself as a wound, an old wound, a very visible wound which regenerates into the painful thing it was many years ago when it was first inflicted by our fathers. We, their husbands, are that wound.

In the ghetto, Kibera at least, based on the selective principle industries apply in recruiting workers of the labouring class and the number of women in domestic work, there are more men in meaningful employment than there are women. Is it, then, beyond us to say that when the vision for women is reversed from industrial roles to domestic roles in the labouring classes of capitalist systems — worse in a corrupt country — the people become poorer?

Oftentimes, I find myself promising to give something back to these women in the future. I want to make them happy, these distant but very present wives of mine, these very close but physically distant wives of mine, for the priceless education they have given and continue to give me. But time is limited, and it would break so much to go beyond oneself, I am just one among many men of the community. And what makes me think that I carry the key to their happiness!

The surest thing I could give is my ear.

I get it, I think, I feel as though I have gained understanding. I have to function.

We were made husbands before we became men, and it might benefit us a great deal to restore the trust we once had in the guidance given to us by the women in our lives. Our mathes, our sisters, our senjes, our gukhus. These women whose presence, physically, emotionally and in memory, has never failed to check us at every stage of our growth as human beings. We should trust the women in our lives to give us direction, not answers, on what proper manhood looks like.

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