Why i shall be at Uhuru Park tomorrow...

In a relay race, one runner does their best to deliver the baton to the next runner in good time. If one runner should slack, trip, delay or waste time, he / she risks sabotaging the race for all of the other runners in the race. It is a matter of trust, teamwork and sacrifice. The win is vital if not for yourself, at least for your team. 

I tend to apply the same to Kenya. We are constantly in a race against different things; hunger, disease corruption, bad leadership (and any other vice you can insert here). In my model, the different generations are the runners in our relay race. And the vices are the opposing teams that threaten to bring this country back.

 Our grandfathers made up the first runners on the relay team. They fought against the colonizers the best way they could. They didn’t care that they had inferior weapons. They didn’t care that their tactics were far more unsophisticated than those of the whites. They didn’t care that some of their friends and neighbors were the very ones that informed on them and led their executions when they were arrested. They did not care because it was all about making a better future for their children; the next generation. For this, they were willing to give up anything, including their lives. 

They ran a good race and hooray! independence. But vices are not ones to give up easily and we were soon on the run again. And the baton was passed on to our fathers; the second generation. In the late 80’s and early 90’s they fought. Not with guns and pangas this time, but with protests, marches and constitutional arguments. They were fighting for a multiparty democracy. They were fighting for the right for you and I to openly laugh at Gaddo’s cartoon of MP’s raping the cow after it has been milked dry. They fought for the right for you and I to bitch and lament on social networks about anything under the sun without the fear of persecution. For these, they were struck with teargas, arrested, assassinated, exiled, tortured, some were scarred for life. But fight they did.

That battle too, they won. The race is not finished however for even now with freedom from colonialism, freedom of speech and a multi-party democracy, the vices have once again presented themselves to us in the form of corruption and bad governance. Billions are looted by the few in power while the majority is left to die from hunger, suffer in tents and wallow in disease in poorly financed hospitals. Not a week goes by without a multimillion scandal in government. And these are the few that get to us. What about the many that do not get to us?

The race is still on and the baton has been passed to us. As part of the team, it is up to you and I to ensure that the baton does not fall. It is up to us to ensure that the baton is passed on safely and timely to the next generation. If we do not do this, we will have failed our national heroes who began the race. The national heroes whose statues we erect so proudly in the different parts of our capital. We will have disrespected them and spat in their face. They would have sacrificed their lives for cowards who can do nothing about deplorable governance. Cowards who hide behind laptop screens and throw laments from afar.

There is an extract from Field Ruwe’s article titled “You Lazy (Intellectual) African Scum!”  He speaks of the people who term themselves educated Africans…it says;

“When you rest your head on the pillow you don’t dream big. You and other so-called African intellectuals are damn lazy, each one of you. It is you, and not those poor starving people, who is the reason Africa is in such a deplorable state.”

I see you there African intellectuals, reading this from your Blackberrys, your sophisticated touch screen phones and your ipads. Making excuses as to why you can not be there tomorrow. Blaming it on your busy intellectual lives. On that important corporate meeting or fancy coffee date you have at nine. Leaving the marching and the protesting to someone else…the uneducated poor maybe.

 I saw you there admiring the graffiti that calls the greedy politicians vultures, and you liked it. You agreed with it. You discussed it with your friends, you facebooked about it and twitpic’d it.

 You admired the courage of those who did it. And now, the chance is here for you to give up a few hours from your busy tweeting and blogging life to march with other like-minded individuals who want the best for this country. Who want to protect the future of their children. Who want to show the vultures that we too have a say in how our country is run…and you are going to pass it up?

When we are long gone and the history books are updated to fit our generation, let it not be us that remembered for not taking that baton and running with it. For not having done as little as peaceful marching to stand up for what is right. For not having done our part.

And for that reason, I shall be at that freedom corner tomorrow at ten to take that baton. 

I leave you with lyrics from Tracy Chapman's "Talkin' about a revolution"

They're talkin' about a revolution
It sounds like a whisper
While they're standing in the welfare lines
Crying at the doorsteps of those armies of salvation
Wasting time in the unemployment lines
Sitting around waiting for a promotion

Poor people gonna rise up
And get their share
Poor people gonna rise up
And take what's theirs

Don't you know
You better run, run, run
Oh I said you better
Run, run, run

Finally the tables are starting to turn
Talkin' bout a revolution

Join us wont you? Kenya ni kwetu.

We lie and we lie..but its for the best

 Someone asked me today why I don’t call them na mbona nimepotea hivo. Very simple questions really, that are asked rhetorically and don’t require very mind tasking answers. However, because we are good people, we just lie through questions like that. We lie through most pleasantries as a matter of fact or at least I do.

The good lady who asked me this today got hit with the same old “niko tu…” and “I lost my phone…” blatant lies. Its not that I am a dishonest bastard, small lies in some cases are just easier. And we all do it. Because it is simple, easier and cuts an otherwise long unpleasant story short. Also, if we told the truth all the time we’d have no friends seeing that we are social beings.

Most lies we tell to make life easier are not more than five words. We keep them short so as not to implicate ourselves. Personally, I tend to be very descriptive when talking of things I like but when I lie I keep my words to the minimum; mostly two or three words.

Think about it.

For instance, a female friend excitedly asks another “Am going out for a date…how do I look?”

The truthful response:  “you are trying too much you bitch. Your make up makes you look like an ambitious clown. That dress is too short, as is your future with that guy if you table manners are as I remember. You are not supposed to wear stockings with mules, your toes peeping out at the front covered in overstretched silk knock offs makes you look retarded and for humanity’s sake stop forcing a cleavage your boobs are not half as big as the fool you are going to make of yourself tonight.”

This is the truthful response. But what does the friend say all smiles?  “You look fine sweetie…” four words; three minus ‘sweetie’. It’s very important that you throw in a food related term of endearment for your lie to meet the standards. Sweetie, honey, sugar-pie and cookie are some you can pick from.

The lecturer in that class you think you can do without asks “do you understand?”

The truthful response: “I don’t understand, I don’t care to understand. How on earth is this bullshit going to assist my career? You hardly understand what you are talking about yourself, how do you expect me to? I pay all this money to have you read slides to me word by word. You have all those degrees and PHD’s and you are stuck here teaching a bunch of ingrates who care more about their nails and drunken sex than they do about the shit you just spent an hour reading to us. Your jokes are not half as bad compared to my understanding of the hogwash you just read from those little slides you hurriedly prepared there.”

Answer you give: “yes sir/madam!” two words that are simpler than all the above. Because you need one letter, ‘A’.

What’s worse is that sometimes these lies are completely unsolicited. No questions are asked. We just blurt them out for selfish reasons; to kiss ass or get mileage for whatever course. In a club for instance, a guy walks up to a girl and strikes up conversation. It’s close to last call and he throws in a drink and a recycled pick up line for the skimpily dressed not very lady-like lady.

In-between jokes he moves in for the kill with a pick from a collection of simple lies that have guaranteed countless men all through history philandering success. Simple lies so strong that if delivered correctly would make any woman weak at the knee. The lie should be not more than three or four words complementing the girl in a vague but deep way. Unlike the simplicity of the words, how they are said makes the whole difference. Our skilled hunter stops talking while the girl is laughing, straightens his back on the chair, looks straight in her eyes, pauses to make sure she’s been enveloped by the urgency and passion in his and Bam!

moving in for the kill

What he says; “you are very pretty.”  “You have beautiful eyes.” Or if he wants to be fancy with words “I don’t see what anyone can see in anyone else but you.”

The truth: I don’t remember the fake name you told me. I hope you don’t have anything I could catch when you pay for that drink later. I hope you leave early in the morning too, because I wouldn’t want to be seen with you around my neighborhood. Other than drunken sex I have no interest in you whatsoever. The prettier, classier girl I really wanted already left with her friends but my friends are all getting laid tonight so you better chug that drink quick and get into the taxi. I have an ego and peer respect to maintain.

 Small lies small lies. They are just simpler than the truth. They make life so livable. They make us get along with each other. They help protect people’s feelings and sex lives because sometimes the truth is just a bitch.

So good miss you wonder why I haven’t called you na mbona nimepotea?

The truthful response: I really don’t like you much. I never have. You have absolutely no value to add to my life. Just because we go to the same institution, does not make you my friend. I’d rather count my pubic hair or use my phone to crash macadamia than call you. You and I have absolutely nothing in common and I did not save your number that time you read it to me. I do not even remember how you and I got acquainted and honestly I don’t care.

What I said: "I lost my phone…"

Because it’s easier.

you and I

If there was a god

If there was a god, I’d have quit school at the start of the year to focus on writing and beer.

 I’d have shacked up in my house in purple trousers and kikois and written scripts for series’ that would be taken up by an African station on DSTV. Not those that show shoddy Nigerian and Tanzanian movies but rather a station like mnet that targets the contemporary modern middle-aged African. My series would tackle real life issues but still be funny and witty; and they’d pay me handsomely for it. 

I’d also acquire a contract or two writing articles for respected online publications read by only a handful of Kenyans who are sophisticated enough but that is popular abroad. These would provide me enough money for linen trousers and fancy African sandals.

By the time mum noticed I’d quit school and spent my semester’s fee to kick start my writing career it would be too late. But she would be glad coz I would be making good money by then and I’d buy her good African jewelry and cups with messages that praise her mothering skills on them.

I’d move to a gated community of flats a few kilometers out of Nairobi. Somewhere along Mombasa road where you’d branch off from the main road and drive a kilometer or two on a well maintained murram road. The estate would have a fancy name with “view” or “ridges” at the end. It’s important that the estate be inaccessible via public transport to keep off nagging girlfriends. But it will be close to a shopping mall, preferably a Nakumatt. 

The estate would be well maintained and one of my neighbors would be a news anchor or well known local journalist. This serves the purpose of creating small talk and impressing visiting friends. The estate would be serene save for a few kids riding their bikes dangerously on the streets that serve as parking lots at night. The rent would be fairly cheap to leave me enough money for beer and books.

I would drive a small car. A Volkswagen beetle or if the ratings of the series’ go up, a Volkswagen polo; something worth more than half a million but less than a million shillings. Anything pricier than that would leave me less money for books and beer.  I’d hang African things on the rearview mirror of the polo and give it a female name; Lucy perhaps. I’d have a bumper sticker on the polo…bumper stickers even. I’d value the car but wouldn’t wash it very often.

I would sleep with slim, dark women with a taste for art, wine and natural short hair. They’d be very similar and suspect me but they’d never find out about each other. 

One would be a tall, dark, bald upcoming model with a love for poetry. 

Another would be a fourth year college student studying a tasking course such as aviation or medicine. She’d wear heavy glasses and have slight self esteem issues, a bright future and beautiful eyes underneath her glasses. She wouldn’t care much about dressing and fashion but she’d be extremely rowdy in bed. She’d also be well versed with current issues and good, old music making her good for night long conversations.

I’d also occasionally sleep with one of my neighbors whose older, richer boyfriend is slightly fat and bad in bed. She would be a bank teller or something of the sort with manicured nails, beautiful skin and fake hair.

 Every so often I’d have friends over and we’d sit round the table and argue loudly about our poor education system, dirty politics and how we’d never reach the 1^st world.  We’d all compete and sit on the edge of chairs to give our opinions on what the problem is. But we’d offer no solutions because we are educated.

When this gets boring we’d drink and discuss girls and the large painting of a jumping, naked maasai that would be hanging in my living room. Then we’d go out to concerts sponsored by local telecommunication companies that support art. The performances would mostly be by Kenyan jazz or afro fusion musicians who aren’t known very much beyond artistic circles. After, I would write an article about how Africans don’t support their own and make more money. The artists would call to say that they read the article and agree with it. We’d then set up coffee dates to discuss Nigerians and river road as the nemesis to sales of good Kenyan artistic work.

One of the rooms in my 2 bed roomed flat would be converted into and office or creative space. I’d spend little or no time here but would describe it to visitors as “where the literary magic happens”. I’d work in the house save for when I’d go on location to direct short movies about the despondent in society that would win awards and earn me recognition and more money for books and beer.

I’d wear sandals everywhere apart from when going dancing or camping. But even then, the shoes I’d wear would be flat and require no socks. I’d be invited to book launches and conferences to discuss African literature and such and such. I’d write a book with a mystical title about how our education system was failing the artistic.

But there is no God and I have not quit school so now I have to rush to class.