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Reflections

Dear Millennials

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Dear Millennials
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Reading recent submissions to The Elephant by Millennials, one gets the impression that there is a generational battle going on in Kenya. It is portrayed as the Millennials beating back their elders who, having sold out first to the Colonialists and then to kleptocracy, now persist in accusing this generation of narcissism for rejecting colonial precepts of success and progress. The most astonishing assertion in this verbal deluge was made by Kingwa Kamencu.

“[Millennials] question everything. They ponder and muse over and critique everything given to them, weighing and evaluating its weight and worth, something their parents’ generation never did. Their parents simply swallowed all that was force fed to them as truth.”

The evidence suggests otherwise and we shall return to the work of our parents. First the musings of the youth. Walking behind a trio of Ugandan youths one day I overheard this snatch of conversation;

“…I told my Mzee – No, I expect something more expensive than that for my birthday…” They were not ten years old, closer to twenty. The other two listened while the first explained that he had rejected a first offer of a birthday present and was waiting to see what his father would turn up with at the end of the day.

There was another one who would not leave my bank manager’s office until his father (the manager) had promised to ‘see about’ a car.

They didn’t strike me as being part of the “mass-movement of philosophers” that Kamencu claims the youth are, just frankly brats with a heightened sense of entitlement. But to judge all young people by the actions of a few would not be helpful in grappling with the existential issues at hand. Admittedly Kamencu states she speaks for the affluent whose concerns are ‘the higher things of life.’

In defense of Generation X-ers and earlier generations

Our forebears were just as much victims of colonialism as are the present generation. The difference is our forebears had to find a way to survive the immediate physical and economic barriers to their advancement. It was a time when the entire population of Kenya was diagnosed as being genetically backward. It was said that if the African was not colonized and made to labour, s/he would become extinct and so they were flogged and starved in to submission. And yet they survived and prospered mainly through their physical labour as farmers.

They survived the onslaught by a combination of diplomacy, subterfuge and open defiance. Apart from one chiefdom in West Africa that was traded for a consignment of alcohol, there is no record of our ancestors voluntarily giving up their sovereignty.

Without judging the choices of any one cohort, it is necessary to point out that the most defiant did not live to tell the tale. Neither did their communities.

King Jaja, of Opobo in today’s Nigerian Rivers State had been trading in the area since 1869 (Meredith, 2014). Jaja had developed a monopoly, by fair means and foul, and was a successful exporter of palm-oil. He managed to by-pass local merchants and sell directly to ports in Britain. So successful was he that he could afford to have his children educated in Scotland. The National Africa Company obtained a royal charter in 1886 to encroach on Jaja’s territory. He resisted. In to this scene stepped Harry Johnston, the British botanist who invited Jaja to a meeting on his ship with the assurance that he would be free to leave whether or not he accepted British proposals. Jaja never set foot on Opobo soil again but was transported first to England where, bizarrely he met Queen Victoria, and was then exiled to the West Indies (Cookey, 2005). The Royal Niger Company went on to develop its own monopoly of palm-oil for many miles along the River Niger.

Sultan Abdullah of Perak (now part of Malaysia) spent seventeen years in exile in the Seychelles from 1877. His was a rout – thirty-seven others were exiled with him. Also exiled were Ghana’s Yaa Asantewaa, queen mother of Ejisu of the Ashanti Empire and her son King Perempeh. Sultan Sayyid Khalid bin Barghash Al-Busaid of Zanzibar was exiled there in 1916.

After protracted guerilla warfare Kings Kabalega and Mwanga of what are now kingdoms within Uganda, were exiled to the Seychelles in 1897 where they met with fellow exiles of the British.

Possibly the best example of the Imperial take-no-prisoners approach is the ancient and extinct Kingdom of Benin. Benin was a sophisticated, prosperous and powerful kingdom. It remained independent until the nineteenth century despite increasing pressure from the British to form a trade alliance (and become a Protectorate). In the seventeenth century it was described as follows;

“The King of Benin can in a single day make 20,000 men ready for war, and, if need be, 180,000, and because of this he has great influence among all the surrounding peoples… His authority stretches over many cities, towns and villages. There is no King thereabouts who, in the possession of so many beautiful cities and towns, is his equal.”

British pressure mounted leading to two Benin soldiers opening fire on British troops. After the Benin Punitive Expedition in 1897, all that remains of the Kingdom of the Benin is its artefacts, themselves the property of Western museums.

Kings and chiefs attempting to resist the annihilation of their Kingdoms and way of life; were deposed either by the British government itself or by their commercial agents, the Chartered Companies, other examples are; Dizinkulu and Lobengula. The aftermath of the Maji Maji and Hehe Rebellions, the Matabele and Mashona wars, the Mau Mau Uprising was not victory for the African. What can be said is that they established a tradition of defiance.This would not have been possible had each been focused on his/her own navel. To interprete their predicament as ‘chugging down Westernization’ as Kamencu does is simply childish.

More recently Albert Luthuli, Robert Sobukwe, Bantu Steven Biko, Nomzamo Winnie Mandela and Madiba, Albertina and Walter Sisulu, Oliver Thambo, Samora Machel, Amilcar Cabral, Kwame Nkrumah, Patrice Lumumba, the children of the Soweto Uprising and Thomas Sankara questioned everything.To these add Achebe, Ngugi, p’Bitek, Neogy, Abrahams et al and those who read and constantly re-read them.

Each of these represented and was largely supported by her/his generation. Progress was made, but the cost was always high. It was only made possible by cultivating ‘old-fashioned’ values such as forebearance, longsuffering, community spirit. Ubuntu.

It is just as glib to say such and such an age cohort is lazy as it is to say,“Our parents, directly in the frontlines of Westernization during colonialism and in the new independent state … never had the luxury of looking for this thing called purpose.” The pursuit of political and economic freedom was their purpose. The work is not yet complete.

They had their faults and personal failings from which I am sure Millennials do not suffer. But they were prescient too, listen to Biko’s interview on Black Consciousness. His discourse on the exploitative economic structures of South Africa sounds as though he was being interviewed last week. Biko was thirty-one by the time he predicted that post-Colonial freedom not accompanied by redistribution of wealth would result in a black ruling class and a [persistently] poor Black majority. This has come to pass.

In South Africa the missionary education Africans received enabled them to side–step the subversive apartheid Bantu school system and develop the skills to form and commit their thoughts to paper using conventional language, spellings and grammar accessible to the wider population, which is why we have them today. They were able to communicate with allies outside their own ethnic and generational groups and beyond their own borders to spearhead the anti-apartheid and independence movements. Had the elders rejected wholesale all that their forebears and the missionaries represented, Millennials would be labouring on corporate plantations and only philosophizing during their lunch-break if any.

Speaking of which, what is the philosophy of the Millennial?

Per Kamencu– We wear, do, say what we want. Nothing new there. Biko famously said, “I write what I like.” He was killed for it.

– We sing in Sheng and not English, she pouts, supposing new ground is being broken. But before Sheng there was popular music in Swahili, Luo, Luganda, there was mbaqanga, Lingala…almost as many languages as there are ethnic groups. In any case, Sheng is an X-er thing, the term was in use at least as early as 1993.

Kamencu then claims wearing vitenge as a new form of decolonisation along with natural hair. Of course vitenge, tie-dye, corn–rows (Kiswahilli in Luganda), Ghanaian wuzi (natural hair styled with cotton thread) and naturals or afros made their first appearance as symbols of Black Power in the 1960s during the struggle for Independence and American civil rights.

This lack of awareness of our liberation history is worrying. What hope is there in an awareness of Imperialism in camouflage? Can we look to Millennials for solutions to neo-colonialism – now called state-capture or subimperialism– and to unsustainable debt? What about Foreign Direct Investors carrying on from where chartered companies left off?

Many privileged Millennials, enjoying hard won racial equality – do not minimize the importance of racial equality – and enjoying all the advantages of the education, healthcare and transport facilities their forebears worked and paid for, and many beneficiaries of post-Independence crony capitalism, have yet to go beyond pointing out the shortcomings of everybody around them, to suggest some viable answers to the questions of the day.

It is only at the end of her discourse that Kamencu mentions the socio-economic issues: unemployment and the lack of a social safety–net. There is no acknowledgement that precarity is partly a result of the Structural Adjustment Programme (SAP) and has forced Millennials to make certain life choices. No recognition that precarity exists in colonizing countries as well as among the colonized or among the elderly whose pensions and savings have been demolished by mandatory currency devaluation and other international monetary interventions. No understanding of the role of capital in all of this.

It is not only Millennials that have valid grievances. Many Boomers and Generation X–ers moved on to middle-age and retirement to find that the social support systems they paid in to and that their forebears enjoyed in that phase of life are absent, such as; real pensions, affordable housing, reliable public transport and affordable health-care – to which, arguably, they are entitled. In many countries, Uganda being one, the fifth ‘marker of adulthood’ – saving for the future – was rendered meaningless by currency devaluation.

In defense of the Millennial

More encouragingly, Joe Kobuthi’s analysis of Kenya’s post-Independence (post–Moi) history supported by facts and figures is the first coherent, contextualized description of the challenges of African Millennial life this writer has seen. It also makes clear that the privileged (whether in fact or in attitude) are a tiny minority of society.

Darius Okolla is similarly engaged in a factual analysis of the individual phenomena of modern living’ in their socio-economic context, the famous five ‘failures’ in ‘adulting. He is strongest when he challenges the assumption that an age-cluster is necessarily a homogeneous or bonded entity. Okolla argues that Gen X-ers were interrupted in their ‘bonding’ by the disruptive effect of the SAP. Many of them he rightly points out, elected to buy in to short-termist economic policies that did not build for the future. (One could go further, looting the State is not even an economic policy properly so-called. It is theft.)

Perhaps this is where the fundamental error lies, equating arithmetical age-groups to cohorts that come of age together in the structured, time-honoured and accepted rituals of the past, rituals symbolizing and founded on a common outlook: the Kikuyu Mariika or the Inkajijik for example.

It may be a conflation of the two that leads Okolla to the staggering assertion, without his characteristic presentation of evidence, that the SAP “united [Gen X] in sedative leisure of booze, longing for emigration abroad, sex and despondency.”

Perhaps it is a Kenya-specific thing. Ugandan survivors of the same period will find the particularly painful.

Western generational clustering is not helpful in defining the parameters of the struggle for economic liberation. Any struggle should encompass the entire population facing uncertainty – the Precariat – regardless of age or nationality.

Lessons need to be learned from past mistakes because there is no guarantee that the young would be immune from tendencies to corruption, self-indulgence and consequent poor governance (come the revolution) by which they stereotype the older generations. Remember, the authors of state–capture were once freedom fighters.

We have heard too this week, about Mathare Futurism an initiative of the youth of Mathare to begin imagining a better future. Interestingly, the founder Wyban Mwangi is not a child of privilege preaching divisiveness but someone who out of necessity was taught to beg on the street before he learned the alphabet. It is he who proposes the beginnings of a solution.

The Mathare Futurists have started a green movement to provide nourishment and medicinal plants as well as trees to make Mathare beautiful, more liveable. Importantly, the initiative involves a healing process in which trees are planted in remembrance of those who died at the hands of the State.

The healing needs to extend to those who have ‘folded in to themselves’ as Troy Onyango puts it. The depression he (and one imagines others) suffered seems to be related to a phenomenon Frantz Fanon observed among Algerian victims of French oppression and described in The Wretched of the Earth. Fanon’s patients had succumbed to an apathy accompanied by a mysterious physical paralysis, losing the ability to function. There was no visible cause and they recovered when removed temporarily from the hostile environment.

Onyango recognizes that when elephants fight it is the grass that suffers. He affirms the contribution made by earlier generations even as he deplores their intolerance of the necessary choices the younger generation has to make.

We are not far off agreeing that the local agents of foreign capital, Fanon’s ‘native elite’ do not represent the interests or intentions of their generations. Patrick Bond describes them as “a global–scale buffer elite emerging which the imperial powers generally find useful in terms of legitimation, financial subsidisation and deputy-sheriff duty.”

We are all victims of these men.

It is true, as Joe Kobuthi says, we lack an ‘organizing theory’ around which to rally. Amilcar Cabral found the same in the 1960s,

“[…]The ideological deficiency, not to say the total lack of ideology, within the national liberation movements — which is basically due to ignorance of the historical reality which these movements claim to transform — constitutes one of the greatest weaknesses of our struggle against imperialism, if not the greatest weakness of all.”

If X-ers were allowed to make a contribution, I would suggest we work towards planting a tree to symbolize the search for what Kobuthi calls new concepts and the new wo/man.

As in the days of old when communities gathered under communal trees to diagnose and discuss their problems, we need to come together to heal,for each generation to show empathy for the others, to confirm our common interest in a better, less precarious future and to identify and organize against those who would deprive us of it.

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Mary Serumaga is a Ugandan essayist, graduated in Law from King's College, London, and attained an Msc in Intelligent Management Systems from the Southbank. Her work in civil service reform in East Africa lead to an interest in the nature of public service in Africa and the political influences under which it is delivered.

Reflections

Surviving the Hood: A Walk Through Nairobi’s Iconic Neighbourhoods

For us hood folk – no matter where we land – especially if we survive the hood – then it is forever home

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Surviving the Hood: A Walk Through Nairobi’s Iconic Neighbourhoods
Photo: WikiCommons/tropenmuseum
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What you up to I asked.
I’m going back home to take some pictures for my foundation was the answer.

For us hood folk – no matter where we land – especially if we survive the hood – then it is forever home. Because we remember how far we have gone.
And no matter what trauma and hardships we suffered – we remember this time through rose tinted glasses.

What? Going back home, home I said
Yes, won’t be there for long but we can meet after. No way! I am coming with you. I am going home too. And so, we set off.

First stop Kaloleni – Ololo – for a walk and picture taking.
You see for them Americans to give their hard-earned cash – we have to reaffirm our poverty and massage their saviour ego.
But today I am not on that soapbox.

I am 7 years old, visiting a relative in Kaloleni – eating peanuts that Nyaredo (my uncle) has bought us.
I am 7 years old – waiting for the medicine man to bring a variety of roots that need to be boiled and me washed with it. You see at age 7 I have terrible eczema and the many trips to Aga Khan courtesy of the KQ medical cover has not helped.
Dana knows the cure – and so off we go to Kaloleni.

We say hi to Mama. She is shocked to see me. I am happy to see her.
And of course, I come bearing gifts. I know she loves flowers – and these are bright orange. My Mama loved orange.
Mothers are precious and I do miss my own Mama, so I channel that love to any mother I come across – especially my friends Mums.

These houses looked much bigger when I was 7. They seem shrunken – but we have grown. This takes me back to the sights and sounds of our homes growing up.
Wow – it must have been loud – with laughter, joy, tears and hopes.

We walk around the old neighbourhood.
There is a beautiful old building that was the maternity clinic back in the day. A safe place. Walking distance from any home for mothers to welcome new life.
The library is next – open – recently renovated.
The social hall still stands …and there is a handball pitch too.
Hmmm – handball I inquire – yes, it has been here since our childhood.

This estate was planned.
Every common space has a tree.
The wooden shutters – painted green and that city council sky blue are still present. I am 7 years old, eating peanuts as I wait for the medicine man.

Next stop is my hood. Jericho.

Jogoo Road has changed but it is still the same.
Barma market – where we bought live kukus for those special Sundays still stands. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

We exit Jogoo Road as we remember the number 7 and 8B bus routes. Long live Kenya Bus Service!

Bahati estate is still the same. Jennifer would get off here.
She was beautiful – Arab looking Kamba gal – Evelyn Tei’s cousin. Next
Evelyn and Davi would get off at Kimathi.
These were the it houses! 3-bedroom stand-alone homes – yo!

I was then in the bus by myself or with Agnes till Jeri.
Funny – no one lived in Jerusalem or Ofafa Jericho…maybe they did, and we just didn’t take the same bus…

Welcome to Trench Town

The sign greeted me as the bus turned into my road. Then I knew I was home safe!

Oduko so – the big shops – the main shopping centre – our Mall
I ate mtura there and ferried metal birikas of soup from there to neighbours’ homes. I got my shoes mended there at the cobbler outside the bar.
My feet grew like weeds – no new shoes, mended shoes for me.
My Mum’s local – drinking those small Tuskers with my Godmother and various aunties. Laughing.

The field next to the dukas was where the monthly open-air movies were screened. To this day I wonder who was behind that…
Bringing a screen and projector and showing a free movie to the masses.

Then the clinic…
The clinic where you had to buy an empty small bottle for your cough medicine. In the hood, Actifed came in 5 litre jerricans.
The clinic where Starehe Boys volunteered during the holidays.

Them in their very colourful uniforms – ever so smart. Patrick Shaw smart. The clinic that I ran to when I broke my toe…
Which was not set properly – and has given me wahala ever since.
I remember the day clearly because my uncle Cliff was there volunteering that day… The game was tapo…or blada…or cha mkebe
Anyway
I ended up with a broken toe that healed funny.

St. Joseph’s …my nursery and local catholic church. Weird place, looking back.
Lots of light skinned kids …pointies…running around. The only white jamaas were the…. yeap! ‘nuff said!
We drive to the parking lot and I am 12. I loved a boy from that house.

He smelled sooo good – Old Spice I remember.
First place I ever heard Tracy Chapman.
His brother was playing his guitar to ‘Fast car’. But alas, he was smelling good for someone else…

Celestine’s house.
Her mother told her not to talk to me because ‘I knew too much’. Celestine got pregnant in Standard 8…
Clearly, I knew nothing!

Wiki’s house – Wycliff – his full name was too long for us kids. First boy and last male who ever slapped me.
Heard my brother defended me by giving him a thorough beating! The joys of big bros in the hood.

Hilary’s house.
Now that was an anomaly…
Hilary lived there with his Mum. The end.
Just him and his Mum…in that huge 2 bedroomed house! My family of 5 kids was the smallest…the average was 8 kids We had a cousin and house help living with us…
We slept in one room.
So, you see the thought of just Hilary – alone – in the room – solo…that was mind boggling!

Owanjo so…the big field Looks so small now.

Walking to church along the bougainvillea fence…
Wondering why the boys are allowed to watch football whilst I have to go to church.

Oti Papa – towering tall. The coach. Superstar Someone scores, the crowd goes wild…
I walk to church…

I am 10.
Walking across the field after school to the far far corner to buy deep fried mhogo… Laughing with my two mates – Pauline and Mamie
Pure bliss
Them Mushrooms are having a jam/rehearsal session. The drums sound good, I fall in love with the guitar We eat and listen…

Thoma’s house.
First real rejection. I am 15 going on 16
Standing in the kitchen – the gally kitchens of Jeri… Gathered courage to go in for a kiss.
Dude jumped back as if I was about to stab him…
Note to self – do not make any sudden movements towards the male species. They are somewhat fragile when not in control.
Years later – we are back in the kitchen. Him from Sweden, me from my new hood. He has lost his Dad; I am saying pole.
And I remind him …ai ai ai…wacha hiyo story Posh (my hood nickname). We laugh and he goes – lakini you are free ku jaribu tena.

The car park.
With the Maasai watchie wrapped in his Raymond’s blanket, armed with his bow and arrow. It must have been a good year for Peugeot…everyone seemed to own one…or so it seemed. There was the occasional Datsun, Nissan and my Mama’s VW – KGG 908.

My street. Our house.
Laughter – it is a Saturday and Mama is having her bura – she is laughing, my aunties are laughing, gossiping, listening, helping, soothing, accounting for the monthly contributions. They are drinking and laughing, and Franco plays in the background.
Sisterhood – this is what it looks like.
Joy – Earth, Wind and Fire – blasts from the record player. I am mesmerised by the sparkly cover.
Fear – people running, horses…what? horses in Jericho? Screams… the 82 coup has arrived. Tears – loud wailing – my Uncle’s death – HIV – early days…he makes it into Newsweek… Violence mwizi comes the rallying call. We all pour out of our homes…
Nyerere with a panga, blood everywhere, leta mafuta…
Later on I wonder how witnessing that affected us kids…
Domes – the wall shook…my neighbour battering his wife. Her head made contact with the wall.
The late-night knocks, the crying, black eye, broken bone – letting in a weeping female who needs to make it to hospital…
Clear thought goes through my child mind – never marry a Kisii or a Luo for that matter…

The big easy – remembering the lazy Sunday afternoons, the footballers walking home, Leonard Mambo Mbotela asking us je, huu ni ungwana.
The only time I think Luo men my Dad’s age attempted to understand Swahili.

The Bus Stop
My stop – 3 steps and I am home.
The bus stop where Mwangi gathered courage and gave me a love letter via Freddie.
In their Martini uniform. Martini which I later realised was Martin Luther King Primary School. Go figure!
Mwangi from Ziwani.
As I got off the 8B – he got on. At times he didn’t.
He sat there with a clear view of our kitchen and veranda. Young love.
I turned him down gently…he swore to love me fore

The Obembo tree.
Weeping Willow – I discovered years later in my adulthood.
Dhi kel kedi – go bring a stick. God help you if you got a dry one!
It had to be flexible…so as it came down on you, you were dead just from the swishing sound it made.

I am 9.
In standard 3…
I have a toothache.
I take a nap after lunch and I miss my afternoon classes. The maid reports me to my Dad with glee!
Dhi om kedi. I die a thousand deaths. I am sick, in pain, my tooth!
All my Dad hears is that I skipped school…like that is my fucking nature!
I pick a nice flexible one because even in my misery, I want to be good and obedient and get a good kedi.
I have seen this guy cane my brother.
Watched my brother cry – my defender, my hero against the hood boys… I can’t imagine that wrath reigning down on me.
My Dad is speaking… I can’t hear him…
I am dying – can’t he see? I am crying – I am the good one. I am screaming – I am not lying! He raises his arm…
I pee…right there where I stand. He looks at me in shock…
I look at him in shock… He tells me to go shower.
He never raised his hands again…to me. But everyone else got it…sadly.
That is why only one boy has ever slapped me. One. Once. The end.

The hood.
We connected at a basic level
No pretence. No explaining. No pity. No judgement Just simple memories…
The medicine man The bus ride Sunday football Them Mushrooms
The Weeping Willow – which caused a lot of weeping Love – young unrequited love
Friends – rest in peace Mamie Tracy Chapman
Old Spice.

I am 45.
Standing in an empty car park Facing owanjo so
The bougainvillea is long gone
There is a stone wall instead – protecting the space from land grabbers…Kenya! The grass and red soil are now gone…
It is astro turf
Kids play in their bright yellow jerseys…dreaming… Oti Papa would be proud.
I wonder about Celestine, Wiki and Hillary…

Me at 45
Standing in the car park Old spice in my memory
But now not quite Old Spice but an expensive scent Tracy in my memory…
Nvirri the Storyteller on my mind
Football in the background
And in front of me… Home.

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Reflections

Die Kijana Die: The Crime of Being a Young Poor Man in Kenya

Growing up in Mathare, we all start out with beautiful dreams. A dream of becoming a doctor, police, engineer, professor, pilot, and so many more. Teachers used to tell us these dreams will only become true if you work hard. Maybe that’s why Motiso worked so hard to achieve his dream—to be a dancer.

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Die Kijana Die: The Crime of Being a Young Poor Man in Kenya
Photo: Julian Myles on Unsplash
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If you want to see colonialism alive and well in 2021, one of the first places you should look is Mathare, or any of Nairobi’s informal settlements. These are places where people are still not treated as full citizens, but rather, as sources of cheap labor. Citizens deserve publicly provided or accessible water, electricity, healthcare, education, roads, etc. But the people of Mathare are not treated as citizens. They are treated as disposable.

One of the ways that disposability is made most clear are police killings. In August, there was one week when police gunned down seven uncharged, unconvicted young men. But, while criminal suspects in other parts of the city are arrested and jailed, police kills the “disposable” young men of the ghetto because society, in its complicit silence, has agreed that it is more efficient this way.

We know that Kenyan civil society has long spoken up against police killings. The recent murders of Benson Njiru Ndwiga and Emmanuel Mutura Ndwiga while in police custody in Embu have rightfully incited public outrage. But what about the seven young men who were shot dead by police in Mathare within that one bloody week in August?

*****

On 9 August, 2021, a young man called Ian Motiso sat down to take a late lunch at a kibanda in Mlango Kubwa, Mathare when a killer cop called Blacky passed by. Blacky took out his gun and shot Motiso down then and there. Just like that, Motiso is no longer with us. He was 21 years old.

Another extrajudicial execution. Another life cut short.

Even though police killings continue throughout Kenya, people are speaking up about it now more than ever. A couple weeks ago, the Ndwiga brothers were detained in Embu by police. While in police custody, police beat them to death. The public responded with anger. National news covered it widely. Lawyers have taken up the brothers’ cases.

But what about Motiso? What about the other six young men killed in Mathare within that week? Almost silence.

People say that the young men police kill in the ghetto are “thugs.” People say that those who speak out against police killings simply do not understand what it is like to be a victim of crime in informal settlements. I was born and raised in Mathare. I have been a victim of crime. I know the pain of being robbed of valuable property. I know the pain of beatings from heartless young men. I know the pain of losing loved ones to “boys” who stab with knives.

Motiso committed crimes. Motiso personally attacked me. And Motiso did not deserve to be extrajudicially executed. I believe this, even though I still have a wound behind my right ear from when he bashed my head.

Two months ago, Smater Zagadat and I had just arrived at the Mathare Social Justice Centre (MSJC) to lead rehearsals for the MSJC Kids Club as usual. MSJC Kids Club is an initiative that uses dance and community theatre to advocate for social justice. Smater and I are the coordinators. That afternoon, I was wearing a black T-shirt with the logo “Dance with Zagadat”—Smater’s brand—so Smater took our her phone to take a picture of it. Within seconds, three teenagers swooped in and snatched the phone. We ran after them down towards the river and managed to catch the guy who grabbed the phone. Some kids from MSJC Kids Club followed behind.

We grabbed the thief and dragged him back up to the office so he could return Smater’s phone. But, suddenly, a group of young men came out of nowhere and attacked me. I only remember feeling their punches coming from all directions. Their fingers were covered with heavy coated rings. My teeth almost came out. I could not see what was happening, but I could see blood coming out of my mouth. All of this happened in the early evening on Mau Mau Road, between the bridge that connects Kambi Safi Road to Kosovo Hospital Ward, a very busy area—yet no one came to my rescue, except for the MSJC kids who shouted and cursed the attackers.

I recognized one of the attackers. Even though he recognized me back, he didn’t stop beating me. He felt no shame attacking someone he knew. He was Motiso.

Let me take you back, because I want you to understand something important. Motiso was born and raised in Mathare. He knew all six wards of Mathare very well, from the elderly to children. By the time he was 16 years old, he was already a very talented dancer and was a part of the Billian Music Family (BMF), together with Smater herself.  The community loved these dance groups, and in return, the groups inspired many kids in Mathare, including myself.

The first time I saw BMF’s Dance group, I was just out of primary school. The dancers were performing “Vigelegele” by Willy Paul along Mau Mau Road. That was the first time I heard the name Motiso. The kids, yelling above the booming speakers, cheered for him as he danced.

“Umecheki vile Motiso amedo hiyo Stingo?!”

“Atakua dancer mgori!”

He was just that good, and I guess that’s why he easily became famous.

Growing up in Mathare, we all start out with beautiful dreams. A dream of becoming a doctor, police, engineer, professor, pilot, and so many more. Teachers used to tell us these dreams will only become true if you work hard. Maybe that’s why Motiso worked so hard to achieve his dream—to be a dancer.

Maybe if he wasn’t born into a poor family, his hard work would have turned his dream true. But Motiso was born into a place that reeks of all sorts of human rights violations, of poverty, of ecological injustice. His dream was shut down because of the environment he was brought up in. So, did he give up? Yes, Motiso gave up.

Imagine the struggle he passed through. First, he was unemployed. Motiso, like many of us in Mathare, was trapped in a cycle of wage slavery. You wake up, go to job, get a salary, barely make food and rent, sleep, repeat until you die. But your work never turns into a dignified life. You’re just trapped.

Second, Motiso was in the danger zone of being a man in his twenties living in the ghetto. As young men in Mathare, when we reach this age, we automatically become an enemy of the state. The ghetto is a place where a child grows up innocent, then later on becomes a victim of predators who target, hunt, and prey on them.

So Motiso went ahead and jumped on a bad bandwagon. He left dancing and got involved in crime like petty theft. The reason why he chose crime over a path of straightness is simple: He needed to survive.

Some people criticize his decision, asking why he should commit crime when the government has offered plenty of job opportunities to the youth, like one program called Kazi Mtaani. But, if those people understood that Mutiso was a victim of structural violence created by the system that we are born into, they would understand that they are demanding a young man to make “good” decisions while he chokes inside a system that has never treated him as a human.

Mutiso did try to join Kazi Mtaani, actually. A few months ago in Mathare, a group of young men went to the administration to register for Kazi Mtaani. But they were surprised to find that, in order to participate, they would first have to bribe the Area Chief 1,000 KES ($10). How can you look a young unemployed man in the eye, when you know he has no job, and ask him for money? Maybe the thieves who snatched Smater’s phone wanted to sell it in order to bribe the Chief and get a job.

Motiso will always be remembered as a thief. He robbed many. Many are still crying because of what he did.

But remember—he was also a friend. He was a family member.

He never deserved to be born into a system that does not care for poor people.

He never deserved to live in a world that kept poor people powerless in order to exploit them and, when they did what they wanted to survive, killed them off.

He did not deserve to be killed by the people whom we expect to protect us.

He never deserved that.

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Reflections

This Season Is Heavy – Yaani, COVID Has Shown Us Things

Yet, even with this heaviness, the digital world has offered many families unable to mourn physically with their loved ones the opportunity to be inclusive.

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This Season Is Heavy – Yaani, COVID Has Shown Us Things
Photo: Ovinuchi Ejiohuo on Unsplash
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This 2020.1 version is dealing a heavy hand. Heavy! That’s what it feels like. Heavy. I thought rough would be a better word, but in my head, that rough comes with some gruffiness. There is nothing gruff here. This season is heavy.

Heavy. Laden. It feels like we are riding a storm in the high seas being pounced upon from above and below. The port and starboard are defenceless. Yet, the periods of calm and when the sun does manage to break the clouds, the relief though appreciated, leave one edgy. That’s how I feel right now, and I know that I’m not alone.

Many of my friends have been telling me to write. Write what I’m feeling and share. But neither the soul nor the fingers have been willing. I have tried, but I don’t get beyond two paragraphs. This is more than I’ve done in a while and so maybe you might get to read a completed piece. So far, so good. I’ve shared my feelings with some folks. I know that if I keep on holding what I’ve been feeling, it will come out in the most unlikely way and probably be rather embarrassing. Like throwing a tantrum at a Naivas shop attendant and demanding to know why they don’t have whole-wheat-bread, yet they should know white bread bloats me. So, I need to speak. As they say, a burden shared…

Twenty-twenty plus one, up to now, has been one hell of a rollercoaster. I want to get off, but I’ve got the happy hour special, where I seem to have gotten a free ride that I had not paid for.

I lost my dear friend, correction, our dear friend, Lorna Irungu, aka Kui. This was in March, my birthday month. The same month I’d moved house and was yet again taught to appreciate Kilifi and the sea with new eyes. It was in March that I tested positive for COVID. That was scary, and I don’t want to wish the disease on my worst enemy. I mourned Lorna within the confines of my home, alone. Grief is even more painful when you are denied human touch. I wanted a hug and to be held. I wanted my tears to fall not just into my pillow or run down my cheeks but to be also comforted tactilely because I was in pain.

Many other friends who knew Lorna (Kui) were hurting. Still are. That was March. A birthday month that will not be forgotten. It was a month when I learnt yet again to surrender to the inevitable. Acceptance. I recognised my humanness, frailty and the fragility of life. COVID left me humble and terribly grateful, and I’ve shared that experience with friends and other COVID survivors.

Whenever I hear that someone has tested positive, I pray that the virus is kind to their body and, hopefully, they get well. Recovery, as we’re seeing, is not always guaranteed.

I’m learning to celebrate the victors and honour the fallen. This heavy season is, in essence, about the cycle of life. Only that the death aspect of it has been ratcheted up. A friend told me the other day, as we consoled one another over our respective losses, that the thing that makes this period heavy is that there is hardly any time to mourn or reflect. Because in almost rapid-fire speed, there have been several RIPs on Facebook or Instagram or staff emails with the words, ‘It is With Sadness…’ or getting invited to yet another Whatsapp group that is, ‘In Honour of…’

It’s heavy! We have been introduced to Zoom, Google Meets or Teams, and virtual memorials and burials. We not only work and socialise remotely but also mourn remotely! Yet, even with this heaviness, the digital world has offered many families unable to mourn physically with their loved ones the opportunity to be inclusive. Yaani, Covid has shown us things.

The month of April rolled in. I said farewell to Lynn, a former colleague turned friend. Then there was Frank, whom we joked about eating Kanyama (roast meat) together once we recovered from ‘The Vid’. One of my doctors fell ill at the same time as his elderly mother. He was recovering at home while she was recovering in the hospital where he worked. I said goodbye to a woman who took me into her bosom even though neither of us could speak either’s language. I had to trust that my virtual support and financial contributions meant more than just the obligatory expectation. Adieu, Adel.

And then, there was Baba. My dad. Who passed on, just like that. ‘The Vid’ didn’t get him, a stroke did. A reminder that there are still other things out there claiming lives. May was double the intensity of March. Within days of losing my dad, one of my close friends lost his dad too. I learnt how skin becomes thin, and I would become irritable at the slightest thing.

I learnt how loss also brings in a flood of care and love from unexpected corners. Even though the world felt rather shenzi, there was a battery of angels who just showed up. Kindness and comfort do balm pain. But my word doesn’t death sting! Others who’ve gone through similar loss were on hand with realness and not hollow words. Maybe my skin is still thin? During that period, there were phrases and words I never want to hear again. But I know, I will.

Anyway, who knows what to say during these times and who is consoling who? Sometimes just silence and presence are enough. And I learnt that even in the depths of grief, there is still space to laugh and smile. I remember telling one of my relatives that I didn’t know how to be strong. How could I be at that time? I was in pain. And grief brings along a pain that if you don’t let out, it will surely find its way out, where you like it or not. So, to those who encouraged me to cry and let me cry, thank you. I’m in a better place right now. My family and I, like many others, are navigating yet another new normal.

I’m in a place of more learning and unlearning. And trying to steady myself through this season of heaviness. I’ve also learnt that this is also a season of grace, and I’m dishing it out royally. We are still living in a pandemic. These are unheralded times, and people do and will continue to do shitty and baffling things. My life coach, Cece, keeps reminding me to think of the lessons I’m being taught — the takeaways.

I’ve gone back to embracing the moments so that I can get through the day. There’s a lot more gratitude within me, a lot more. On some mornings, I step into the day gingerly, and on others, I step into the day and let life happen, hoping I have the strength to deal with what life throws my way.

My word, what a season we are in! Yet, this is life. So, here’s wishing you grace for all sorts of days, be they sunny, blustery, or torrential. And, the strength to see you and me through this season.

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