Connect with us

Reflections

WHAT WE NEVER SPEAK OF: Reflections of a Britain’s gulag survivor

Published

on

WHAT WE NEVER SPEAK OF: Reflections of a Britain’s gulag survivor
Download PDFPrint Article

We are all born into the world of humanity at an ordained moment in time and space with a spiritual ordained mission yet we are the creators of our destiny. The world I came to was full of turmoil. My parents and their parents had been uprooted from their own homes to go serve settlers under very harsh conditions in the white highlands. I was born just before the end of the Second World War in Kamara, in Mau Summit. My father, who went to Sudan and afterwards Mozambique, told me that when he returned from World War II, he found a beautiful little girl born in his absence. The short sojourn between Sudan and Mozambique must have brought my conception. During her pregnancy, my mother felt like she was going to have a baby boy since she felt a boy in her womb. But instead of the boy she expected, I showed up. Before I was born, she had had five children, both male and female.

The End Of Childhood

With the aftermath of World War II, the battle for Kenya’s independence was now underway. My uncle Waweru, who was very involved in that battle was captured by the Brits and was sent to Manyani concentration camp, a death hole. He once told me that the beginning of the freedom war took place many years prior in the form of a secret movement. In the early forties, he was one of the organisers of “rika ria forty”, a very secretive oath taking movement. The movement comprised of young men and women who had sworn to take back their land which had been stolen by the white colonisers.

Read Also: THE BIBLE OR THE BULLET: Reclaiming My Redemption Song

He was also a teacher trained by the African Inland Mission in Kijabe but opted to go and teach in Gikuyu Independent Schools under the system “Gikuyu Karin`ga”. These schools had their own curriculum system based on African nationalism, religion, history and agriculture. I attended “Kiai Kia Ng`ondu” (nursery school) for two weeks where I learnt the history of my people. I learnt that I was an African and a Kikuyu girl. Soon after I started school, the British colonial government closed all the Gikuyu Karing’a schools and arrested and detained everyone who was involved in that education system and threw them into concentration camps. I still maintain that the reason they were closed was that the schools were teaching children how to liberate their minds from slavery and were developing their dignity as humans. I often wonder why after independence this type of education was not incorporated into the present day education system. We would have been better-oriented African Kenyan citizens for it, with that kind of self-knowledge based education.

From Heil Hitler To Hell

Originally, the area we lived in comprised of people from all parts of the country. There were Luos, Luhyas, Masaai, Kalenjin, some Ugandans, even a man from somewhere in the Coast. Soon after the closing of the schools, Kikuyu families were isolated from the other tribes. The Gikuyu were apportioned a separate piece of land to build their houses, far from the other tribes.

My father was an evangelist with the Africa Inland Mission posted in Kamara, before I was born. Because of that privilege, my older siblings got admission to a boarding school in Kijabe. One morning, after my mother and the other women had gone to fetch water, many trucks arrived. There were boarded trucks and flatbed open trucks lined up for half a mile. The soldiers jumped off the trucks, ran towards us and started whipping people and herding them towards the trucks. There was fear and pandemonium as we got onto the trucks. They took us to Molo concentration camp. My father had already left that day for his evangelical work hence he was not there when the trucks arrived and for years, we would not know where he was or what had happened to him. My older siblings were in school thus they were saved from the fate that begot the rest of us. My immediate older sister, my younger sister, and my baby infant sister only a few weeks old and I were in the truck with my mother. I was not yet 12 and already I was a detainee.

Of Auschwitz, Dachau And Molo

The Concentration camps were typically built in a clinical style. It was a field enclosed by mesh fences about 10 metres high. On the outside of the camp were a series of razor wires, each about a metre high. On the inside of the fence was another layer of razor wire, about a metre high. After the razor wire was a barbed wire fence, about ten metres high. After the barbed wire were 1-metre high poles. On those poles, there was a wire interlinking them. At given intervals on the poles were signboard warnings – if you touch or pass the wire that is towards the fences you will be shot. There was a watchtower with an armed soldier and floodlights at intervals. The pit latrines were open roofed and near the watchtower so the guards would monitor us so we would not be tempted to dig escape tunnels under the latrines.

There were also U shaped dorms built on the inner perimeter of the fence. At the centre was an open field, which had two purposes: it was where lorries dropped the incoming detainees and also where the head count was conducted on everyone in the camp, including children and the sick. After the head count, the detainees had to go through another gate to the stores for the food ration of maize meal and beans. For years, that is all we ate. Maizemeal and beans.

We went every day to get our rations after the headcount. If one missed going through they would not eat that day. The adults were sent to labour while the children were left at the camp. Many people and even more children died from disease and malnourishment. I was so traumatised that I was constantly sick and frequently hospitalised.

When I had the opportunity to watch the 1987 British television film – Escape From Sobibór – about the German concentration camps during WWII, I could not see the difference of those German camps and the British concentration camps in Kenya.

We stayed in Molo for more than a year then one day we were hauled in trucks and we were moved to an even worse concentration camp in Gilgil town. It was situated where the present police station is. We were there for another year or so.

More deaths occurred. The body count of children grew. More torture, more punishment, more men and women died. Death was constant. It was every day and it was all around. It had become our new normal. My baby sister learned to walk in a concentration camp. My mother did what she could to keep us alive, but it was often no more than a narrow escape from an ever-present death.

The African Inland Mission Eldama Ravine had informed the Kijabe headquarters of our detention and the mission sent a search party to look for its evangelists and their families. They finally received word that we were in Gilgil. They made the necessary interventions so that we could be released into their care. We began what was known as a screening process. The screening was designed to repatriate people to their homelands. We were on the move again, from one screening post to another, ending in Shura, Kiambu, now just a village before the Kikuyu bypass. From there, we were transported to the Kijabe mission station.

We Are Together Again, Just Praising The Lord

The missionaries and colonial government were two arms of one body. Education of the African was designed to prepare Africans to serve the white man. My father told me he was lured to Thogoto Church Missionary Society School as a young man. There were promises of education and more. When he finished at Thogoto, he was sent to Jinn School by the Thogoto (Scottish) missionaries (where the site of the now Mary Leakey School for Girls is) in Lower Kabete to learn how to bake and work in a kitchen. He had no choice. You got what you were informed you got. After completing his course, my father went on to the African Inland Mission in Kijabe, in order to continue his education. It was the Kijabe missionaries who had posted the newly trained evangelist to the Hemphill estate in Mau Summit. His task was to evangelise and to serve his master.

My father was a head chef at the Hemphill estate which must have been thousands of acres, a sub-county. There were well over 100 homesteads of workers each with wives and children. He and his fellow workers used to bake a lot of bread, cakes and other wheat items, especially at Christmas time. You cannot believe how much milk, butter, cream, wheat, hay and meat used to be sent to Britain. Whey (mathaci/machache) from milk was taken to the farm workers every evening. There were over 100 homesteads of workers each with children. I would collect about 2 litres of whey every evening when it was my turn to collect it. We liked it – it was very nice with ugali. At this point in time of course, those days were a distant memory of another lifetime. The Concentration camp experience had ended that.

We were released on Christmas day in 1954. Those who met us settled us and generously gave beds, bedding, clothes, food and utensils to my mother and her four little girls including my baby sister who was now just under three years old. We were happy to find our older siblings alive and together. We were almost complete but not quite.

We still did not know where our father was. We were worried because when the coloniser took men away, they rarely ever came back. Our mother settled us as much as she could, but it was not easy. A few months after our arrival in Kijabe, my mother was called by the head of the mission station and was told that they have found out which concentration camp her husband was taken. What remained was to fill documents so that he could be handed over to the mission since they had sent him to evangelise at the A W Hemphill estate. Our father was home by Christmas 1955. He never spoke of where he had been or his experiences.

Someni Vijana, Muongeze Pia Bidii

In Kijabe, the family was together and we all went back to school. I joined class one at Kijabe primary school in 1955. That gap of not going to school had created a hunger and a purpose studying hard through the twelve years of that British system. The system comprised of four years before common entrance examinations, another 4 years before the Kenya African Primary Education Certificate, another four years before the Cambridge school certificate, two years for the higher certificate and then, for those lucky and rich enough, college or vocational training. Then it was teaching or nursing. We walked to school barefoot, carrying a stone slate mounted on a wooden frame, with a special pen. One had to have a special permit to wear shoes and even with the permit; shoes were too rare, too expensive and too precious to wear to school.

We sat on long wooden benches and stored our lunch in a corner of the stone classroom. The education system was designed to eliminate young Africans. The grading system involved a forced curve grading which meant that in the years where students had passed well, their marks were regraded so fewer would progress. I did not repeat a grade and always got one of the few passes available. We had experienced so many traumas that we held on to one another with a true feeling of belonging and worked extra hard.

Free At Last… 

I remember the time Kenya got her independence. I was so happy. Whenever I see the clip of the British flag being brought down and the Kenyan flag being hoisted, I still well up with tears of joy. It was overwhelming. This is a whole story on its own, but I can tell you, it was like reaching the Promised Land. I remembered the camps, the children who died, the men and women who were killed and starved and tortured to give us Uhuru.

My greatest moment was when independence was declared as it abolished forced curve grading, shoe licences and the need to get a pass to visit my sister, who lived far away. I had had the chance to visit her in Murang’a, during colonial times after obtaining a special passbook in order to see her. We even needed a passbook to leave the Kijabe mission station even if it was to go to the nearest shops in Kimende town, 8 km away.

My parents both lived to see independence and to see their grandchildren. My mother passed away in her eighties around 1979 but our father stayed on until he was one hundred and seven in 2003. All of his contemporaries and younger siblings had long left the world of humanity before he did.

To My Grandchildren

My country is perfect. It is all right. There is nothing wrong with it. My country is beautiful, it is resourceful. It is only occupied by people who are brainwashed by a foreign colonial ideology.

When I see the ethnic conflict in the present, it makes me sad because of the knowledge that this is a devil planted in our country by the coloniser with the aim of making Africans hate one another for power and material gain. Then it was the white coloniser, today it is our brothers who have occupied the role of the coloniser. Do not be surprised by our people who still send our country’s resources to the west to fulfil the desire of that demon whose power Kenyans are yet to overcome to date. Why? Because the Kenyan society has avoided addressing the psychological effects of colonisation.

The poorest families in our land are those whose parents fought in the war of independence or those who had no opportunity to take on senior offices or political positions. Jua Kali inventions in our land are thrown out of the window so that we can import instead of encouraging and nurturing our young inventors. Did the coloniser bewitch us? How can you steal national wealth and give it to the very entity that diminishes your existence as a human? Many of our leaders and administrators have been to the west and seen how they treat blackness, like trash! Until we begin believing in God, who is the Innovator, the all-Knowing and respect our ancestry, we shall remain where we are – food for the enemy. Lazima tuheshimu our Africanism, Our Creator and our ancestors who left us soil, forest and unsurpassable wildlife. For those who empty the national coffers and send it to your evil master coloniser, for Kenya to remain in a pathetic economic state of affairs, this is your warning: You will die leaving an evil legacy to your lineage. Truthfully, it is sad that I live in a beautiful Kenya with this kind of mentality.

I wish we would realise our worth as Africans, which is not less than other races on the planet. My prayer and desire is that we would wake up and claim the glory of who we are. We have bottled this evil in our hearts long enough. It needs to be addressed in a therapeutic manner, recapitulation.

My children, realise that you are Africans. Not less than any other human being on the planet. What my fellow Kenyans are missing is respect for themselves as themselves. Know that you are a wonderful creation with great abilities. That whatever you desire will be yours, as long as you create it in loving kindness to benefit all humanity. Rise up Kenyans who love this nation of ours, God will bless your efforts.

Avatar
By

Wanjiku Mirye is a retired trainer, speaker. She was born at the end of the Second World War and grew up during the war for independence of Kenya. Widowed in her twenties, she chose to raise her children as a single parent while working within the church organizations. She celebrates being Kenyan and has a deep belief in the power of owning and celebrating that which is great about our land, our potential, ourselves as Africans.

Reflections

An ADHD Diagnosis: ‘My Nights Were Characterized by Racing Ideas, and Days Filled with Failed Projects’

My mind had failed me so many times I could no longer trust the ideas it put forth, no matter how brilliant or mundane they were. The tipping point came after a violent altercation with my cousin, which landed her in hospital and me in the refurbished blue container recounting my life story, and eventually, finding a turning point.

Published

on

An ADHD Diagnosis: ‘My Nights Were Characterized by Racing Ideas, and Days Filled with Failed Projects’
Photo: Melanie Wasser on Unsplash
Download PDFPrint Article

The diagnosis came about seven months ago. I was sitting in the counselling room of the hospital, a refurbished 40-ft shipping container painted light blue. I remember being annoyed by the breaks in the painting caused by the vertical ridges on the walls, and sucked on piece after piece of hard candy to calm down.

After a series of routine questions to get my history, an analysis by the psychiatrist, and several written tests, the verdict was delivered to me. Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. At first I was skeptical about the diagnosis. It was a strange case of déjà vu, one on which I’d sat in the same position across a psychiatrist two years ago and was given a host of diagnoses: I was told I had major depressive disorder, then affective disorder and then bipolar 1 disorder.

So I prodded the doctor, testing to find out if my symptoms covered a wide scope of diseases, or comorbidities, as the medical fraternity called them. To put my heart at ease, he showed me a TED Talk of a lady talking about her struggle with the condition, and the end of the video, I broke down and cried.

I’ll call the beginning of my visible symptoms as the crash. I’d excelled academically in primary and high school. I was a relentless high achiever, adapting the routine of school life which accommodated my bursts of energy and productivity. I graduated from high school with a good grade and joined university. But campus life came with the absence of a strict routine, and the unravelling at the seams of the thread of my life began.

I dropped out of my course after one semester and was kicked out of the halls of residence after failing to pay accommodation fees, due to procrastination. I resorted to clever methods to hide the absences in school from my parents. To cope, I drank and smoked a lot of weed. My nights were characterized by racing ideas, and days filled with failed projects because I couldn’t map them out; the brainstorm process ended up being crowded by other ideas and my mind couldn’t shut down. Then came the shame and low self-esteem. My mind had failed me so many times I could no longer trust the ideas it put forth, no matter how brilliant or mundane they were.

The first psychiatrist I visited was a referral from a general doctor. I’d arrived at the triage suicidal, struggling to breathe, and paranoid that I was being followed and watched. He prescribed some sleeping pills and handed me a sealed envelope addressed to a private psychiatrist clinic at the Doctor’s Plaza at Nairobi Hospital.

I didn’t feel bipolar – I was told bipolar disorder entailed massive mood swings, and this didn’t quite apply to me – but I accepted the diagnosis as it gave me a semblance of peace. At least I had a reason for my behaviour.

For two years, it cost nearly Ksh800 a day to pay for consultation and medication. Physically, the drugs left me feeling comatose on most days, and demoralised because I was still messy and erratic, but with a Ksh288,000 annual price tag to keep me stable. I sunk further into depression, culminating in a failed suicide attempt.

At the peak of my treatment, I was on a cocktail of seven different pills in the class of antipsychotics, antidepressants, and anti-anxiety medication. They gave me sleep jerks at night and vivid nightmares — eventually, I developed a dependency on the lulling effects of the anti-anxiety pills to help me sleep. The tipping point came after a violent altercation with my cousin, which landed her in hospital and me in the refurbished blue container recounting my life story, and eventually, finding a turning point.

The psycho-stimulants prescribed by the doctor were a relief. I could finally consistently complete my tasks and rein in errant thoughts, but the new ADHD diagnosis was exhausting. I imagined having to explain myself again to my friends about my condition over and over like I’d done for the past two years, and I was hardly prepared for the emotional or mental labour.

ADHD is a condition of limited self-regulation rather than a deficit of attention. A person with ADHD is able to concentrate for long periods of time in a state known as hyperfocus, that is when they are interested. ADHD exists on a spectrum and some people have it worse than others. We all have moments of ‘zoning out’ and procrastination, but for the ADHD individual, their symptoms fall on the extreme end of the scale and can be crippling.

Dopamine is a neurotransmitter that is responsible for a range of functions in the human body including emotional regulation, and motivation to guide your brain to accomplish specific tasks in order to get the desired reward. To use an analogy a psychologist gave – our brains are engines. Different parts initiate and receive tasks, others execute them and help manage one’s routine. Dopamine is the fuel between these areas, but ADHD brains have a deficit of dopamine. The result is that coordination is missing.

ADHD is a highly comorbid condition, meaning it exists with other mental conditions such as anxiety and depression. The emotional dysregulation and hyperfocus often leads to misdiagnosis as bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder or other affective disorders – like it happened in my case.

The DSM V – a diagnostic criteria by the American Psychiatric Association used to identify mental illnesses, leaves out a key factor of ADHD diagnosis – emotional dysregulation – from its list of symptoms, further increasing the likelihood of misdiagnosis.

While ADHD in children is extensively studied and treated, very little academic literature covers adult ADHD, and in particular ADHD in women, which is complicated by changing estrogen levels that affect the availability of dopamine in the brain at different points in the menstrual cycle. The link between estrogen and ADHD means that at different times of the month, the symptoms get worse and might require a recalibration of medication and more money to cover the cost of drugs.

By the time an adult is given an ADHD diagnosis, their lives are littered with failure because of trying to conform in a neurotypical world, with shame, guilt, broken relationships, and a calcified negative view of themselves as lazy, inconsistent, rude, violent, stupid…the list goes on and on.

As I discovered, conventional therapy is often expensive and limited to brief sessions with the psychiatrist and counselor once a month. Adults with ADHD need extensive help, an almost round the clock treatment in the form of non-judgemental accountability partners to help them form a routine, map out their life and follow through on decisions. In the case of an adult diagnosis, and given the individual demands of everyone else’s lives, such accommodations seem like ridiculous requests and one continues to live with their dysphoria.

ADHD and its treatment is very misunderstood. There are stereotypes such as “We are all a little ADD”, and there’s scepticism over whether or not it’s a real illness. Misleading media coverage about the alleged performance-enhancing abilities of the drugs used in treatment also hinder objective discourse about the reality of living with ADHD. The victims are the adults who continue to suffer, very often without knowing what their condition really is, at the workplace, in school or in their homes.

My life hasn’t completely changed, but it’s a lot better than it was. I have interacted with other adults who also live with ADHD and formed a small support group of sorts. I got back on track with my studies and graduated. Living with ADHD forced me to be extremely honest with myself about what I can and cannot do, who I can be and who I am not. There can be no illusions about my strengths, weaknesses and ability to commit to tasks, in order to avoid that vicious cycle of depression and anxiety.

As for the medication, it is not a panacea. I needed to be honest with myself about this too. It was easy to use the drugs as a crutch and avoid putting in place mechanisms to regulate my behaviour – and then blame mishaps on ‘being off the meds’.

What do I look forward to? More research. Particularly on ADHD and women and how environmental factors, socialisation and biology exaggerates or diminishes how the symptoms manifest. I keep a journal and note down observations on days where something strikes me as odd, and use that to inform my treatment. It’s the beginning of my own personal research, and I hope it can help someone else someday.

To conclude, ADHD is neither a gift nor a disability. We can have no illusions about that. It can make you prone to certain harmful behaviours and may give you some advantages over neurotypical brains, but the labels of gift or disability may prevent us from being objective about its management. But with a little more knowledge, and a lot more empathy, we can create a society where lives are not littered with failures that could have been avoided.

Continue Reading

Reflections

A Shocked and Neutered Generation Staring Disaster in the Face

To be Kenyan is to be constantly re-traumatized by the institutions and structures that we inhabit, and having been dehumanized we proceed to unleash low-grade terrors on those close to us. In the end we’re becoming a pragmatic, soulless people who think our biggest problem is corruption while in truth it is the collapse of social order.

Published

on

A Shocked and Neutered Generation Staring Disaster in the Face
Photo: Patrick Pierre on Unsplash
Download PDFPrint Article

On a bright, sunny yet cool Eldoret morning on Valentine’s Day this year is the last moment I would have expected to watch my dad breathe his last. Nothing can prepare you to watch your father die, and when I looked at him that morning, I saw so much of myself. He and I are both tall, lithe, nerdy, sensitive yet pragmatic, abstract thinkers and public-spirited. It was a mutuality of traits that made our relationship often strenuous, respecting, yet sometimes borderline acrimonious.

But more than that, we had more in common, right down to our upbringing and the irony of him replicating his complicated relationship with his father.

My father told us that one of his earliest memories was his experience living under Idi Amin in Uganda as foreigners from Kenya in the 1970s. He’d talk of subsisting on boiled maize for days as Amin’s men unleashed hostility, paranoia and angst on Asians, Europeans and by extension Kenyans and Tanzanians.

He’d talk of being held up in the house for days on end unable to step out, the whole family holding their breath and praying silently amidst the skirmishes in the neighbourhood as houses got torched by the Obote’s and Amin’s gangs. He’d reflectively recount his father (my grandfather’s) life in the Kilembe Mines on the slopes of Ruwenzori Mountains, on the border between Uganda and the Democratic Republic of Congo; a place that tugged at my grandfather’s heart for eons, and from where my grandfather would be brought back from, in a coffin for burial, three years before I was born.

My father’s family fled back to Kenya, and adjustment was tenuous, though the intervention of the hand of providence landed him education and job opportunities that set him on a path to relative social mobility. When he “made it”, my father quietly paid his “black tax”, supporting numerous relatives with money, time, advice and connections, well aware that his adjustment into Kenyan life owed more to the hand that fortune had dealt him, and that the same hand hadn’t been dealt to a large number of returning relations.

He, like an oak tree towering above his peers, allowed many to find shade and breathe, by sacrificially offering numerous opportunities to his kinsfolk. His altruism would run into the economic headwinds of the 1990s, but thankfully by the 2000s many of those under his care and tutelage soared, thanks to the neoliberal boom.

In 2002 I watched him for the first time admit to a close friend at a wedding that he’d finally began to come to grips with his vulnerability and physical frailty, something he’d never admit at the height of his “black taxpaying” days. But even for a man mired with such prospects he still would navigate the 1990s with relative ease given that the nation was facing an economic crisis. For my generation, we seem to be fighting a different kind of disaster.

We’ve walked into an economic crisis right at the moment where a shrewdly adversarial vice president is laying claim to the presidency against three calcified, largely uncreative, and primitive dynasties. In my peers, I see a demographic that finds itself trying to navigate their young lives in the dual crisis of messy succession politics and economic headwinds, in which a massively flawed presidency has deepened the dysfunction.

The power of being proficient in your field is the constant ability to juxtapose what is against what is to become. To that end, to claim the current economic mess was unprecedented is to perpetuate a lie. When this regime got voted back in 2017, I sat at a coffee house at NextGen Mall and grieved both for the body bags sent to my hometown Kisumu and also for the prospects that the Uhuruto duo portended for the coming five years. We knew what we were being signed up for.

I believe that the path of nations often follows a messy yet unbroken path into the future. Now as the economic wheels come off this train wreck of a regime, in my view the current dual economic and political crises could be the unlikely hand of divine intervention.

How, you may ask? First, this economic crisis will pretty much mark the end of the current oligarchic state capture as it will likely render millions unable to feed their families, hence eliciting a harsh criticism of the primitive elite with the possibility of widespread protests and revolution.

Secondly I see in the astute organizational efficiency of the deputy president, a ferocity that’ll awaken the dull and largely self-entitled dynasties to burn the midnight oil trying to figure out ways of upstaging him. Either way the final outcome of the current political contestation is that we as the masses might just witness a change in the elite framework of the society.

Thanks to a twist of fate, my intellectual journey started on the ideological Right, a landscape that built in me a reverence for structures from marriage to family, religion, and statecraft. Conversely by drifting further Left, the tools of critiquing power relations came to me by way of incessant debates with those to whom structures are almost synonymous with oppression.

To be fair, thanks to their extractive origins, the structures which we exist in this country have never been reformed to humanize our existence. Most of our churches are empire-building plans. Our schools unleash brutality in the name of discipline, verbal violence packed into the stereotypes, and the tyranny of low expectations by condescending teachers.

As is common in economically repressed societies, most homes out here have become the crucible for internalized violence, as husbands but mostly wives and children become the victims of anger and pain carried over from the public space by family members.

Our media is largely dimwitted, voyeuristic and goes for the shock value, rather than unpacking the layered realities behind what passes for news on any given day. This, to be clear, is often a potent mix of violence and poverty-porn laced with elite gossip, which for lack of a better word they call politics.

To be Kenyan is to be constantly re-traumatized by the institutions and structures that we inhabit, and having been dehumanized we proceed to unleash low-grade terrors on those close to us. In the end we’re becoming a pragmatic, soulless people who think our biggest problem is corruption while in truth it is the collapse of social order.

It’s the disintegration in the public trust; that core belief that this doctor won’t misdiagnose me, that this tout won’t hike the fares arbitrarily, that the rice I’m eating isn’t expired and repackaged, that the mechanic didn’t fit a faulty brake pad and pocket the money I gave for a new ones.

We can’t breathe because despite the billions looted from the coffers, the regime keeps telling us how the economy grew and all the great things they’ve done for us for which they deserve accolades. To be Kenyan is to desperately need the tools to help us see through the violence packaged in slimy words and to confront the assault on our sense of reality.

Lots of us Kenyans, grappling with declining incomes and job prospects, have to watch fuel guzzlers bully their way through our roads and red carpets laid for grand looters. We have to listen to empty yet colourful statements pepper the political talk by elites, and watch even more cash get looted by an uncaring and self-absorbed cadre. Our peers and relatives who lack the tools needed to process this reality and affirm their sanity amidst the constant assault are left to question their sense of humanity.

What prospects do I see for the future? First the human dividend that arises from having an educated generation not only increases the aggregate skill pool available, it also significantly increases the probability that a random person chosen to lead will be competent. Given that my generation (age 18-40) are the most educated then there’s hope in the horizon.

In the short run though I do not foresee any radical shift as the political class further strangles a shocked and neutered citizenry. It’ll get worse before it gets better and the tragic acknowledgement is that the worsening economy will claim numerous innocent causalities.

I’m constantly reminded of a conversation between a Kenyan economist and an unnamed Asian official to whom he was highlighting grand corruption in the country.

The Asian official, who was quick to remind him that his country has worse corruption than Kenya yet they were still prospering, affirmed a critical truth. That corruption is the near inevitable dysfunction of any given society. And that it takes that dysfunction coupled with incompetence for a society to produce the level of breakdown that we’re experiencing.

Elites are, in theory, the steady hands of the civilization, who ideally offer visionary leadership, invent new products and lay the path to future prosperity. But this a hope that we the Kenyan citizenry can’t lay on our ragtag cabal of elites who are simply united by their greed and plunder.

My primary fear for my generation is the risk of getting afflicted by the trauma of economic lack. A story is told about how during World War II, children would walk for days before finding food and then walking further to get even less food. Eventually the children came by a shelter where they were housed, clothed and fed. In the evening time the kind caregivers sent the kids to bed but the kids wouldn’t sleep. Aware that they didn’t know when they would come by food again, the kids stayed up all night staring at the crates of breads.

The caregivers figured out a solution, they gave each child a loaf of bread, and the kids slept well. That trauma of lack is a real possibility in our 40s and 50s. If we stay on the current path of grand looting and shrinking opportunities, we’ll emerge in our middle ages with little to show for materially. We’ll end up looting parastatals, risk the economy even further in a desperate bid to run away from the lack of bread that plagued our ‘jubinomics’ years. This same problem that’s plaguing the current 45-65 generation, who suffered the trauma of lack through the Moi years.

I can’t breathe as we’re swamped with tightening personal budgets, stalling academic prospects and dying art of community. I’m afraid when sanity resumes we’d have lost our capacity to smell the flowers, and regale in the simple joys.

Irrevocably traumatized, we risk being left stoic and unfeeling, laden with memories of economic violence too painful to retell in our later years. It’d grieve my now departed father that decades apart and despite his best public service, the plagues of his generation in Uganda are being revisited upon his son’s generation in Kenya.

Continue Reading

Reflections

#Repeal162 and Queer Waiting: Living Indefinitely In, And With, Despair

Queerness is found in the small, liberatory worlds we are creating even in this tyrannical here and now, not something far off and definitely never something to be waited on/for. Queer time is a disruption of state timing, state delays and state disremembering, and a commitment to everyday worldmaking.

Published

on

By

#Repeal162 and Queer Waiting: Living Indefinitely In, And With, Despair
Photo: Steve Johnson on Unsplash
Download PDFPrint Article

“Yesterday when I got the news I was feeling as if my life was over, but they were all sending me lots of encouraging messages.” – Kenneth Macharia, inews

“We are already winning through our visibility. We are reclaiming spaces, showing up.” – Njeri Gateru, Otherwise? Podcast Live Recording

 

Before his last asylum appeal was rejected, I imagine Kenneth Macharia awaited the British state’s decision regarding his asylum status reluctantly. I imagine that he scrolled through his email inbox hoping only to find spam and business as usual, knowing that banality creates a sense of continuity. I imagine that during the rugby games leading up to October 2018, he dug his toes into the ground a little harder as he crouched to catch pictures of his rugby team in action, each time waiting for the broken mud to give way to roots that would somehow wrap themselves around his foot, physically anchoring them to the ground, right there in Glastonbury, where it felt safer to work whilst queer, to love whilst queer, to be queer.

Maybe he thought, if not him, maybe the Home Office would listen to its own land. I imagine he did what it took to avoid the pain that must come with being stuck between two places that were intent on resisting his desire for home; two places that unsaw him – Black, Kenyan and queer – struggling to elongate every second so that he could resist the brevity of time and be home a little longer, a little safer. I imagine, he spent that time warding off the sharp “hopelessness” that comes with being told: “you have no basis to stay at [home] and you are expected to make arrangements to leave [home] without delay.” I imagine he brainstormed methods to resist the panic that he knew would ensue when he found the words to admit to himself that he might be made to wait for a letter that would put him and his relative queer safety on notice for a 6th and final time.

I don’t know, I imagine.

***

In the period of time between when the Kenyan high court was supposed to offer its decision on whether it would repeal the colonial-era penal codes (Penal Codes 162 and 165) which criminalized gay sex, and when it would actually deliver its ruling, queerness, for me, was unthought of, unaccounted for – blank. If queerness is “a rejection of a here and now, and an insistence on potentiality or concrete possibility for another world,” as Jose Muñoz defines it in his critical work Cruising Utopias: The Then and There of Queer Futurity in a tweet published on February 22nd, the day the court postponed the date of its judgement delivery to May 24th, that February 22nd acts as the last digital trace of my thinking, feeling, reading or doing queerness for a while. Instead I would do, feel and live through fear – my own immobilizing investment in the present, and a refusal to think beyond it.

In that last tweet, I wrote: “The postponement of the #repeal162 ruling has me thinking about how waiting, postponement, produces anxiety, slow panic, etc. and how debilitating it is for us, not just as queer individuals, but as a community.” Sensing my despair, a Twitter friend replied that this delay was standard for cases brought before superior Kenyan courts. However, given the affective resonances of this case, its stakes and the Kenyan state’s history of marking queer people as “non-issues” – as things to be considered after “corruption,” after “development”, after “tribalism,” and so on – bureaucracy as a rationalization for this delay was not sufficient. Though pragmatic, his words did not do what I needed them to do. They did not abate the anxiety, slow panic, etc. that was brewing in my chest, and spilling over into my thoughts, work, relationships – my (queer) living. They did not shake me out of that in-between state, where it felt like I was floating in stasis with neither words nor breath circulating, just blank.

In fact, it isn’t that his words did not do what I needed them to do, instead it is that they couldn’t. Their meaning could not be stretched to suture the gaping psychic and physical wounds that so many of us Kenyan queers had incurred at the hands of the state and the people that should have loved us. They instead functioned as a reminder of the waiting that had been done and that which was to come – the waiting we are still doing, and the loss that has been generated in the wake of those long pauses.

Here I want to trace the meaning of waiting – queer waiting. I want to think through what it means to make people wait and what it means to wait in anticipation, when at best what is being waited for lies somewhere between a sentence to live indefinitely in despair and a chance to live with it.

**

Friday February 22nd was anything but business as usual for queer Kenyans, and yet for the Kenyan High Court it was. With the chances of loss more palpable than that of a positive ruling, I needed to be able to feel unperturbed, without the distractions of impending school and work deadlines. So that week, holed up in my dorm room far away from home, I worked continuously, attempting to finish as much work as possible before Friday.

When Friday arrived, I repeatedly refreshed my social media newsfeeds and dragged as many tweets out of my shaky fingertips as possible, hoping that intellectual engagement could upend the physical distance between me and the queer community at home. I thought that maybe psychic proximity could make up for what I could not force distance to do, but it couldn’t and the loneliness I felt only festered. Instead, those tweets worked to fill up time. They shrunk each second of panic as the Justice announced the delay into something more acute – pain that was sharp and intense, but brief. The adrenaline as each angry word jutted out of my hands momentarily masked the impact of the long and destructive etymology of the Justice’s words – they delayed feeling, they put loss on hold.

In an article in The East African recounting the announcement, writer Sam Kiplagat explains that the ruling was delayed because “some judges had been busy.” Specifically, Kiplagat quotes High Court Justice Chacha Mwilu as stating, “We plan to meet in April if all goes well and see whether we can come up with a decision. You do not appreciate what the judges are going through.” In the same article, Kiplagat goes on to recall President Uhuru Kenyatta stating “President Uhuru Kenyatta has previously said that gay rights was not a burning issue for the country.” Here Mwilu imagines the sole victims of government bureaucracy and resource limitations as being judges. Queer Kenyans and advocates – the referents of Mwilu’s “you” – are recast as impatient and inconsiderate, patently unaware of the judges’ demanding workload, but most importantly uninjured. Here Mwilu’s “you” emerges from the same political genealogy as Kenyatta’s “non-issue,” and what is a routinized and standard delay within Kenya’s judicial system, as my friend explained to me, became tethered to a history of malice and neglect in which queer people, their wellbeing, their everyday, their lives, their injuries are always already an afterthought, things of luxury.

In turn, queer people are made to wait – forced to adhere to the state’s timing. “Waiting” functions as a lapse wherein queer futures exist at the state’s mercy or its lack thereof. The state’s readiness and their lack thereof become ours; the timing of our plans is recalibrated to move at the state’s pace; the ability or desire to feel, work, love, think or even move ebbs and flows with the state’s decisions, its silences. And at some point, in the course of waiting, queer timing is contorted into straight timing and queer life becomes tethered to state life, along with all its delays, its dismissals, its disremembering.

***

In its letter rejecting Kenneth Macharia’s petition for asylum, the Home Office stated that he was “expected to make arrangements to leave the United Kingdom without delay.Without delay. Prior to receiving this letter dated 30th May 2019, Macharia had been fighting deportation for three years, starting with his first asylum claim filed in May 2016 which was thereafter rejected in October 2016, triggering a lengthy appeals process that concluded with the letter I quote in this essay. In reading excerpts of this letter, I struggle to make sense of this timeline – its unevenness. Whilst the state reserves the right to mull over his claim severally over three years, I imagine Macharia’s expending his financial, emotional and mental resources, and delaying everything from critical milestones to the everyday mundane things one must do to survive.

And now, at the state’s command, Macharia is expected to leave immediately; he is expected to leave behind the communities he has cultivated and the home he has created without delay. Despite being made to live his life anticipating the state’s actions, despite being made to wait, despite the state’s delays, Macharia is expected to accelerate processes he likely never hoped to initiate. Here the meaning of “delay” morphs from the state’s lengthy bureaucratic requirements for asylum applicants to “prove” persecution into Macharia’s goodbyes, his livelihood, his family, his community, his lease, his rugby team, his resistance, his living. Survival becomes reduced to a “delay.” It does not matter that he has been made to wait for this dehumanizing decision for over three years, and it does not matter that he is being deported to a place where queer people have also been made to wait for the end of a legal regime put in place by the same British state which has made him wait at home. Here all that matters is the state’s time, never that of the queers.

***

When Friday May 24th arrived, I tried to ignore it. Still jilted from the court’s decision to delay its ruling, I found it difficult to be excited, let alone hopeful of what the court’s decision might hold. Yet as much as I tried to resist the optimism that framed that moment, the pictures of queer people in matching outfits and audio clips of happy, confident chatter were infectious. Though still cautious, as the morning proceeded, I began to believe that we would win. I followed the court proceedings via Twitter threads, fervently clicking, hoping that each new tweet would provide a surer understanding of what the court’s decision might be. I did not anticipate the court’s negative ruling until I saw it: “The Petitioners have failed to prove that the provisions are discriminatory,” as another Twitter friend paraphrased it. With those words, the disappointment of the court’s decision began to sink in. Excitement mutated into anxiety and fear and I began to sense a tethering to the state – to the here and now that Muñoz wrote against. It felt like a kind of betrayal. Even as the state forced us to wait, a standpoint wherein we were waiting on the state gradually developed. The line between state extraction and our anticipation had thinned, and disillusionment began to permeate my thoughts. It became clear that “to make wait” works as a strategy to tether queer people to the state, thus diminishing the liberatory capacities of queerness.

Here, we are forced to contend with what it means to anticipate the state’s ruling when queerness has always been positioned against the state and its death-dealing logics. Indeed what was at stake with this ruling cannot be dismissed. As many have rightly stated, Penal codes 162 and 165 function as precedents for discrimination, anti-queer violence and isolation – they force you to think twice about mundane things from holding your lover’s hand to congregating with other queer people in public and private spaces. What is left in the wake of these two destructive penal codes is distrust and worry, and so to wait on the state for redress is not wrong. In fact, often the extent to which one is able to distance oneself from the state and its violence is the product of cisgender, class and racial privileges. As such, untethering oneself is not always radical, instead it can simply be convenient.

But there are those who have always consciously resisted waiting. There are those who understand that at best what we gain for the state is harm reduction, never freedom. They teach us that the true work of redress and healing is done through our organizing, our hangouts, our home making, our drag shows, our podcasts, our art, our writing, our dance parties, our workplaces – through our community, away from the state’s gaze. They teach us that to untether ourselves from the state is not to take queer precariousness and state repression for granted, but instead to find ways to live with despair – to pursue freedom and life even as our bodies and minds continue to be devastated by the psychic and physical violence of being made to wait. For them queerness is found in the small, liberatory worlds we are creating even in this tyrannical here and now, not something far off and definitely never something to be waited on/for. For them queer time is a disruption of state timing, state delays and state disremembering, and a commitment to everyday worldmaking.

***

According to the change.org petition created in protest of Macharia’s deportation, on June 6th 2019 fifty friends and supporters from around the United Kingdom gathered together to accompany Macharia as he reported to his local police station. Two days prior on June 4th, Brenda Wambui, host of Kenyan podcast Otherwise? organized a live podcast recording featuring queer/ally advocates and organizers Njeri Gateru, Lorna Dias and Pastor David Ochar to think through what post-ruling queer organizing might look like.

Even as despair seemed to consume our everyday, these communities organized and strategized to disrupt the state’s everyday. Even in the wake of myriad institutional devastations across borders, across time and across struggles – they continued to generate small queer worlds that were positioned against the state. Together, they molded visions and initiated plans that existed in opposition to the derelict realities and futures the state would prefer we inhabit. This is queer time.

Continue Reading

Trending