Sunday, November 30, 2014

to be

There is inside you
all of the potential to be whatever
you want to be
all of the energy to do whatever
you want to do.

Imagine yourself as you would like to be,
doing what you want to do,
and each day, take one step
towards your dream.

And though at times it may seem too
difficult to continue,
hold on to your dream.

One morning you will awake to find
that you are the person
you dreamed of
doing what you wanted to do
simply because you had the courage
to believe in your potential
and to hold on to your dream.

Monday, May 12, 2014


Find more music like this on G5 world

Sunday, March 25, 2012

that august house

Kibaki: “Hizo mawezere wezere wezere wezere ….”
Karua: I beg your pardon?!
Kibaki: Bloody bure! I was just singing to myself
Mwakwere: Are you from Coast?
Marende: Order! Order! Any member can sing if he is feeling sufficiently philanthropic!
Kalonzo: It’s like I was telling my constituents the other day. A country is like an eighteen wheeled lorry painted green with “Rough Riders: Ride Or Die” painted on the rear windscreen with a colobus monkey, a banana and a rabbi in the front seat …
Charity: And?
Kalonzo: I forget at this point the point I was trying to make. But it was very important!
Mutula: Not as important as my proposal. I propose all roads be expanded as follows: One lane for the president, one for the prime minister, one for cabinet members, one for the police and fire brigade, one for left handed people, one for right handed people, one for people under 6 feet, one for people over six feet, one for people who watch Tyra and one for people who watch Oprah. I also propose that all roundabouts be expanded with smaller roundabouts being put inside the larger roundabouts.
Nyongo: (Sarcastically) Indeed.
Kimunya: If I may speak…
Ntimama: Quick! Someone please check that the chambers have not been sold to the Libyans!
Mwakwere: Are Libyans from Coast?
Bifwoli: Are we been served tea in this meeting?
Ruto: You and food!
Bifwoli: (Indignantly) Me? ME?! Look at you! You are covered by a very thin film of a powdery substance ….
Ruto: It is NOT maize flour! Besides, is it a crime to wallow, roll and swim in maize?
Bifwoli: Well ….
Kiraitu: Pff! Krrkmmzz. Grrggnnn
Bishop: Glowreh! Someone please help that Son of God from choking. Glowreh!
Karua: He’s not choking. He’s laughing
Nkaiserry: Is it just me or does someone here smell powerfully of diesel?
Kiraitu: Can you ngo srow on this matter. I don’t have anything to do with the fuel shortage
Sambili: Can we focus my friends. We have a crisis in Kenyan football.
Raila: You know, football is like a game of football.
Magara: Hear hear!
Poghisho: Focus everyone. Can we discuss the Hague?
Mwakwere: Bless you
Poghisho: But I’ve not sneezed
Mwakwere: Sorry. Go on
Pohgnisho: Should we support the Hague…
Mwakwere: Bless you! Is there a flu epidemic in the house?
(Ngilu whispers in his ear)
Mwakwere: Oh! The Hague! I get you, I get you. Is it in Coast?
Mungatana: Let us discuss critical issues affecting the country. Did you know that GTV folded last week and I had paid for 3 months in advance!
Raila: Who is Mungatana???
Ngilu: Can Saitoti have a written statement delivered to our offices by tomorrow on this matter?
Saitoti: There come a time! There come a time!
Nyongo: Tell it to the birds
Saitoti: Garment takes it very seriously…
Bishop: Government you mean
Saitoti:That’s what I said. Garment.
Mwiria: Can the Minister for Tourism explain why it cost the treasury 20 million for the President to go to the Mara? Outrageous!
Balala: The Honourable member is speaking from a position of disinformation. The president did not actually go to the Mara. We flew all the Rhinoceroses (or Rhinoceri if you prefer), Hippos (or hippi), Lions (or Lioni), buffalos (or buffali), Elephants (or Elephanti), impala (or impali), camels (cameli) and assorted birds TO the president. Mohammed and the mountain of you get me. Flights cost money, especially since some of us are storing fuel in a manner likely to suggest resale at a future date for an exaggerated markup. The flights are catered and you know how camels drink!
Ruto: Exactly. In fact maize was served on that flight!
Balala: (Modestly) My ministry was also able to move a river and a small lake
Mwakwere: If I may ask a question…
Nyongo: (Irritably) Are you going to ask if Balala is from coast?
Mwakwere: No
Nyongo: Good
Mwakwere: Are hippos from coast?
Kiunjuri: If we might turn our attentions to the tisha strike.
Beth: The what?
Kiunjuri: The tisha strike.
Beth: What is that?
Kiunjuri: My esteemed colleague seems to be wallowing in a fetid morass or ignorance if she is unaware that those of the noble profession entrusted with imparting knowledge to our youngsters have downed their tools in a sustained campaign for improved remuneration. There is a tisha strike.
Wetangula: You people missed history being made! When i was in America ….
Bifwoli: Uuuuuuwi! Uuuuuuwi! Wetangula is a tiktater! Wetangula is a titkater!
Marende: Order! Order! If Wetangula is feeling sufficiently philanthropic to go to America
Mwiria: And watch the inauguration from the top of a tree ….
Wetangula: That is neither here nor there. The fact is I watched it live.
Magara:We need to investigate if the Obama inauguration was in fact live!
Namwamba: Lucy Kibaki is the director of Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae. And Enron. And BCCI. In fact it’s no coincidence if you take the fourth letter of Hitler and add U, C and Y. Try it! Shocking stuff! A scandal!
Kibaki: Bloody bure! I’m making some changes. From now on you call me either Mr President or The Emilio. In two weeks one of you will be fired.
Bifwoli: Where’s our usual cup of tea?
Ruto: I have made arrangements with … er … a catering company that will be providing us with maize porridge until the next election.
Uhuru: My colleagues, the economic crunch is getting biting. Nowadays I am forced to share the same car as my driver! Outrageous!
Kalonzo: Given that Button Moon is about to come on in the next half hour I beg of us to close this meeting and our allowances to be paid.

the challenges of modernity, indigenous habits in a changing world

Strictly speaking, until recently the word “habitat” never struck a chord in me; it never rung a bell. When it came to understanding the concept of human habitat, I was the goat to whom the guitar was being played. I imagined of habitat as a weird and remote place where headless animals bump into each other and where legless animals crawl and where the fabled Lochness monster once lived in harmony with the mammoths and the dinosaurs, or something like that. But sometime back, I realized that my misconception of habitat was not a personal problem, many others perceived of habitat as a noun, a place, a region or an indigenous forest full of predators and preys and the other uncanny characters in the animal world.

It dawned on me, late, that “habitat” is a verb, a doing word. It is the way we live, what we eat and drink, how we cook and eat, or “not cook” what we eat. Habitat went beyond housing and people, it came to life and meant much more. Habitat is all that surrounds us and how we contribute to our surrounding and also encompasses our interaction with the environment. For example; how we treat the smallest animal in the house might just have a domino effect on the next meal we have, fumigation of beehives might mean no food for the rest of our lives. Habitat suddenly had this whole new meaning to it, and to attempt to fully define habitat, is like trying to define life. We live it, we have it, we lose it, we even conceive it, but we cannot define it fully, yet we know it is there and everything that we do affects it.

While most of us come from an addressed and specific apartment or home within an urban habitat, where mail boxes line the manicured streets and kids on bikes crisscross the neighborhood, several communities in some of the harshest habitats in the world do not know of such “civilized” existence. They walk around in medieval skin cloths and some even walk bare-chested; in a country where the breast and bra business is brazen and raw, such communities offer no business value and zero market. Some still eat raw meats and drink blood, fire is a luxurious indulgence and is only used on special occasions. But even with such “backwardness”, these communities have been able to conquer their harsh habitats and excel where most of us would definitely spend only a few days before going six feet under.

The Bambuti People of the Ituri Rainforest- The Democratic Republic of Congo

The average height for the quintessential American male is five eleven, I am not even close to that, maybe with a Chinese knee-job and heeled cowboy boots I might come close. Apart from the vagaries of the short man syndrome, does my height bother me? No. Why not, you may ask? Standing among the Bambuti people, I am a giant. In a community where the average height is between 50 and 70 inches, height is not an issue. The Bambuti people inhabit the Ituri forest in the Northeastern region of Congo and are about thirty thousand in number. With the war in Congo and everyone rummaging through the lush forest in search of lumber and uranium, the Bambuti are quickly losing their natural and only habitat. The Bambuti are hunters and gatherers, in the most elementary form of that word.

They hunt small animals in the forest and also forage the undergrowth for snails, bugs, insects and other animals. Crabs, shellfish, ants and larvae are essential part of the Bambuti diet. Antelopes are not only a big source of meat, but also used in dowry payments. However, despite living among a whole variety of forest flora and fauna, the Bambuti have so much food, they can afford to be choosy. Hogs and rats are considered un-kosher and as such, are not eaten. Clearly, everyone hates pigs.

The Bambuti, also called the Mbuti, do not keep livestock or rear mammals, reasonably because the forest is home to the biggest, fattest and deadliest tsetse flies which cause diseases in both cattle and human beings. Tsetse flies cause sleeping sickness in humans, but for a people whose habitat is almost self-sustaining, who worries about taking sudden naps in the middle of a bug gathering session? Too much rainfall in the forest kills the small animals or sends them away and too much drought also creates a famine, so for these tree-dwellers, life is one tough balancing act between nature, hunting and inevitable sleep. Accompanying the meats in the Bambuti diet is an array of vegetables, flowers, roots and tubers, for example, yams, amaranth, hibiscus, peanuts and gourds.

The Mbuti have an egalitarian system of leadership where there is no boss or chief, you are your own (short) man and when you offend others, they simply smack your short body back into discipline and sense. How cool? They also practice arbitrary barter trade, usually exchanging meats with other bands of Mbuti in the forest.

Have you ever had a crush on your friend’s sister and simply killed the thought since you could not imagine lusting after your friend’s own blood? Blame your ancestors for your woes, and broken heart! Among the Mbuti, marriage is by sister exchange between acquainted bands in the forest. See how easy it is to obtain your friend’s short sister in the forest, signed, sealed and delivered?

Dowry is uncommon among these people, but killing an antelope for your parents in law is usually a welcome method of showing gratitude to your in-laws. Despite their short lifespan, people of the Congo still consider the pygmies a sub-human species and there have been reports of cannibalism where people short of food look for short people and in a short while render humans food. It’s usually a short trip from the forest to the pot for a short species of humans.

The Maasai of Kenya

The Maasai are much more in number than the Bambuti pygmies, about a million of them traverse the plains of Kenya, as keepers of livestock and they also practice small scale subsistence agriculture. The Maasai are a semi-nomadic pastoral community who wander from place to place in search of greener pasture and fresh grass for their thousands of cattle. However, with recent trends in urbanization and the emergence of a middle class in Kenya, land that initially belonged to Maasai pastoralists is now being taken and used in a “more appropriate way”, a classic tragedy of the commons.

Wealth in the Maasai community is pegged on the number of cattle one owns, and also chiefly on the number of kids one has. Possession of either one without the much needed complement of the other is considered a sure recipe for poverty. Physically, the Maasai are much taller and lankier than the Mbuti pygmies. In a society where adolescent males, mythically, had to kill male lions, using a spear, in order to be inducted into the realms of manhood, physical fitness is a must have quality. Despite the Maasai being one of the main tourist attractions in Kenya, the government’s ban on lion hunt has led to the culture abandoning the spectacle and resorting to other modes of proving masculinity.

The Maasai live in small one roomed units called Manyattas which are made from twigs and leather and cow dung. The recipe for the “concrete” includes human urine and ash. Gross? Not really, when you consider the high efficacy of urine and ash as a pesticide, fungicide, herbicide, and the list goes on. And the cow dung? It ensures that the roof is water proof and air tight. The house, called an enkaji is about one and a half meters tall and in area, three by five meters. Due to the highly nomadic lifestyle of these plain dwellers, housing is but a temporary venture.

Marriage in the Maasai community is not as easy as it gets in the Mbuti community; however, it has its own idiosyncrasies. When a man gets a visit from another man, he is to relinquish his bed to the visitor, and it is then up to the lady in red to decide whether to sleep with the visitor, or not. It is a custom which gives equal opportunity to both men and women, since neither polygamy nor instances of polyandry are frowned upon. Weird or plain interesting?

Competition among the Maasai warriors, called the morans is intense, as with all other normal males. During dances, the morans, jump high as they sing and dance in order to find who jumps the highest without having his heels touch the ground. What makes the morans have so much energy as to be considered “to be of Olympic athleticism”? A diet consisting of milk, blood and meat provides the much needed protein for muscle growth and development, while maize meal provides the energy. An occasional drink made from the bitter leaves of the Acacia also provides a much needed cleansing for their systems and reduces their cholesterol, according to web sources. Having been born and raised in Kenya, I am yet to see a fat Maasai. Either I have not looked carefully, or they simply do not exist.

The Maasai clothing consists of bright red and black clothing. Usually pieces of red clothing are wrapped around the body and adorned with beaded ornaments and a few metallic jewels. A beautiful face, the Maasai say, needs no jewels. Mutilation of the ear is often seen as a measure of beauty, as is removal of canine teeth. The larger the stretch in the earlobe, the more jealousy you inspire. When it comes to hair braiding, no Kenyan communities are more adept at this skill than the Maasai. The morans braid their hair with finesse and then color it with red ochre.

The Maasai circumcise their boys, and “dump” them in one hut with no protection from the wild animals, in order to show their transition from boyhood to manhood. Prior to being locked in a hut, the boys are not expected to show any motion or emotion during the cutting of the foreskin, ostensibly to prevent any extra pieces of meat from being chopped off accidentally. A Maasai tradition that has obviously raised one big pandemonium among Kenyan activists is female genital mutilation (FGM). Despite the traditional Maasai terming it as a measure “against the pleasure principle”, FGM has been known to cause infertility, excessive loss of blood, lack of sexual stimulation and in some unfortunate cases, untimely death. While some Maasai have heeded the noble call to abandon this medieval act of evil, quite a considerable number of the older Maasai generation is still embroiled in this act. Also, in a community that is largely parochial, patronage against education of the girl child is still common. All in all, the Maasai are a colorful community with a capability to harness all the resources in a habitat where few are available.

There is a thin line between truth and fiction. This is that line.

Nel On The Head,

Thursday, March 8, 2012

the atheist and the rainbow

He is an quite an intelligent guy my atheist friend, however, when he sent me an e-mail with a superfluity of quotes and sagacious anecdotes on faith, I knew that he was up to something deeper. There's something in every atheist, itching to believe, and something in every believer, itching to doubt. That is what my atheist friend, let’s call him Patrick, told me.

When I first told him of my faith in Christianity, I told him that I was not a regular churchgoer but nevertheless a staunch believer. He quizzically looked at me and asked me how that was possible. “How do you become a sailor without going to the sea?” he asked, ostensibly to ridicule my philosophy of online or telekinetic Christianity as he called it. I did not have a better answer than to slip open my confused mouth and smile and look upwards as if to leave it all to some unseen source for clarification. Apart from his heathen flip side that set us slightly apart, Patrick is not a “bad” person, whatever that means. Okay, I mean, he does not steal anybody’s maize nor uproot any country’s railway. He is the quintessential modern bachelor, except he lacks faith and facial hair.

Having grown up in a home where church was encouraged but not forced, Patrick had attended Sunday school as a means to escape the routine drudgery that is school. He did not care much for the baby who was rescued from the waters of the Nile (even though he insists that Migingo will not secede to Uganda while he is still alive) or his fellow escapist, Jonah or his part-time misbeliever Saul or any of the other lesson-filled stories found in the good book. His idea of church was founded on escapism. As a child, he used it to run away from the chalk waving teachers and as a nonbelieving adult, he uses church to excuse himself from work, to pick up potential girlfriends and to escape paying taxes.

When he set out to find faith, Patrick did not believe that it existed, or that it could be found. He set out on a faithless mission to find faith just to prove me wrong, and he almost did. Even though my non-church-going self is not inspired enough to speak for the church, I went pious and waxed philosophical how it took the same amount of faith to be godless or a believer. As I spoke, I felt wiser, better than him and inspirational. This was my last shot at the ghost of atheism that had dwelt so long in my friend. I attacked it with holy verses. I jabbed at it with pugnacious prayers. I struck it with pithy discussions. Eventually, he (Patrick, not the ghost) looked at me with dead eyes and an unrelenting smile with one wave of his hands, dismissed me and told me to shut up; he’d heard it all before. I faithfully obliged.

With that, his journey to find faith began, yet he still claimed that we believers were not far from being insane, if not an outright bunch of ignorant idiots. To my self-righteous self, Patrick’s was an imbecilic quest to seek faith because he had the strongest and unwavering of presumptions from the beginning that he was not going to find it. Hoping to strike a pot of gold, he followed the atheist’s rainbow, up the arch and down the slope. What he found at the end of the rainbow was a goose instead, the same goose that has been laying golden eggs for him for six years now. When I heard of his business ventures, I sought the story of his journey.

So, on his journey, he met all calibres of clergymen. He told me of men-of-the-cloth whose clothes could feed him for a decade, and of generous priests whose food handouts made them hungry for more flock, of flamboyant pastors who preyed on his infidelity and threatened him with horrific stories about hell and eternal damnation. He played the part of the confessional sinner and wept, wailed and spoke in spasmodic gasps and when he was ready to enjoy his golden eggs, he was happily baptized and trained in the art of using the church as a tax-exempt ladder to social and corporate wellbeing.

He owns a church, not for the faithful and not by faith, for business. Patrick is now a corporate pastor in Nairobi. It has been six years since he established his ministry, that’s his goose. Even though he dresses like the rainbow he once chased, colorful suits and shiny cars, his sense of the expensive and tasty is inexplicably exotic. His hedonistic indulgence in “things of the world” is well documented in his memory as he told me of countless women, businesses and families that he had, in his own words, “torn apart”, he says this with a victorious smile and the cockiness of a tall, dark and handsome Luhya. From the prohibited ivory to the rare gold, the threaded linen to the threadless satin, his world is a now a royal mix of soft and shiny, illicit and legal and above all a blend of faith and doubt. He is still the same old atheist inside, with a staunch belief in the weaknesses of humanity.

He professes to be a believer, but only to his Christian congregation whom he has a blessed stranglehold on. Even though his congregation is very wary of his expensive lifestyle, inexorable girl chasing and reckless drinking, the bon vivant has a growing following in his church; they follow him wherever he goes like hungry sheep would follow a grassy wolf. “They want what I have”, he tells me.

“How do you live with all this, a life of lies and treachery?” I asked him. He smiled, looked straight at me and with his fake bucolic accent, he explained how his calling to be an atheistic and self-serving “man of faith” was nothing worse than a teacher who does not believe in what she is teaching, or a builder who does not believe in the strength of his cornerstone, or the doctor who administers a drug while at the same time counting the hours before the patient dies. I looked at him, gave him a sardonic nod and prodded him on.

“It’s the same twisted thing my friend, you believe but don’t act, I don’t believe but I act.” He told me as he rose to leave for the evening sermon before the evening drink.

"There is a thin line between truth and fiction. This is that line."

Monday, June 20, 2011

We Are Who WeChoose To Be

If there be any one of us who
truly understands and knows his
deepest and true nature,
blessed is he among men, and
women. As soon as we are pulled
into this world, literally, and slapped at birth, we start
carving an identity for ourselves.
The softies cry at birth after
the slap, the hard-cores smile.
That is when we start making
milkshakes from the milk that life has to offer. As babies, at
birth, we kick and struggle to
get out of the same place we
so much will struggle to get
back in, at least in part. While
some of us are “lucky” to go back, some never do. Others
claim they like the “reverse” of nature better. The genteel and
cultured christen such with mild
sobriquets: lesbian and gay. The
truthful and judgemental of us
call them homosexuals. Asked if a
gay couple can procreate, Harvey Milk says, “We can’ t. But who knows? We keep
trying”. We are who we choose to be. Kwani jana kuliendaje? We do
not indulge in drinking for the
pleasure of it, as much as for
the approval and fitting in.
Whatever that means. Square
pegs and round holes. That is what we make of our lives when
we try to “fit in”. How many of us started drinking, and raving
and smoking and doing drugs for
the purpose of achievement? If
there is, then he must be dead
and gone. All of us, who do such,
do it for we were told it’ s “cool”. Take smoking for example, what hedonic elf lies to
our innermost souls that it is
cool? Don’ t smoke. There are cooler ways to die. But again,
the greatest of all gifts
bestowed upon man is choice.
Either the ability to discern and
be wise, or otherwise. We are
who we choose to be. Pride and prejudice. We interact
only with those of our ilk and
cadre. Those who know what
LCDs are and how plasmas
function. Those who know the
tech behind the liquid crystal and the cathode ray tube.
Those loud talkers and little of
thinkers. Those who tell us what
we want to hear and not what
is true. But again, the truth
always outs. Whether they have the candour to tell it like it is,
or are cowards who’ d rather beat around the bush than go
for the bush itself. Magellan, the
Portuguese sailor, went round
the world. While he did not
complete his circumnavigation, he
created a “truth” that most of us would rather circumvent for
the bliss of instant gratification.
The truth is, that the world is
round, and what goes around
comes around. We never know
when those who think LCDs are some sort of food or cathodes
have something to do with
Catholics will be lifted up and
become the next pope. Never
should we despise others. But
even if we do, it is our choice. We are who we choose to be. Holier than thou. Of Christianity,
salvation and ostentation. Noses
in the air. Weaves and wigs in
place of hair. Those holier than
us strut and stroll. Despite cat
walking, they still see us as dogs. With painted nails and four
shades of lipstick on two lips,
they walk six-inches taller. Being
taller, they look down upon the
“unsaved”. The men in suits claim to be direct protégés of
Christ and profess his counsel.
Claiming that you can’ t pray for a pauper to own a Merc if
you don’ t have one. Christians!!! What with the pretence? While
many of us squirm at the
thought of watching or making
porn, in public, Betty Kaplan, a
“Christian”, argues that porn is simply an art. An art of seeing
the human body, or bodies,
organized with finesse while
having sex. Asks she, “What could be further from
“humanity” than porn?” We have used the name of God in
vain, albeit without drastic
consequences. Calling ourselves
saved and not showing that we
are. What do we get saved
from, for those of us who are? Sorry, it is all a matter of
choice. We are what we choose
to be. While we can’ t please everyone, we can very easily piss
everyone. So, as we indulge in
our veneer pretences, or drink
ourselves silly to fit in, or smoke
to be cool and avoid the heat
of reality, or interacting with people discriminately (sic), or as
we live our parents’ dreams instead of our own, or as we
twang in Luo and Malayan
accents simultaneously….we are what we choose to be. So, still I
ask, who are you?

The Intrigues of aFailing State : TheKenya We Want.

The events in the country,
whose history is enduring, in the
past few months have shocked
many, if not scared them. That
a country whose governance
systems were repudiated by friends and foe alike in the 60’ s is still grappling with the bitter
aftertaste of ignoring such wise
counsel is pitiable. Tribalism,
corruption, unethical leadership
and regression are just but the
basic of problems that Kenya is struggling to deal with. Worse
still, curbing primary challenges
of humanity such as hunger,
ignorance and poverty remains a
threat to the very fibres of her
society. Providing education, food, water and medical services
for all remains all but achievable
in the near future if the
current ineptness of the
systems endures. Last January, the spotlight was
on Kenya, but for the wrong
reasons. That was when the
country smelt of death and
smoke. The hope that springs
eternal in all of us enabled us to go through that period and
resiliently rise from the ashes
like the proverbial phoenix. Later
on, cases of internal
displacement, school unrests and
examination fraud, police brutality and road carnages,
floods and drought among many
others, dotted the year.
Regrettably, this year has began
on the same sad and deplorable
state. Seeing images of fellow humans feeding on what
hitherto had been classified as
weeds and wild berries is beyond
painful. Adding insult to injury is
the ongoing rhetoric about
“maize-thieves” by senior politicians while still not doing
much, if anything, about the
situation of the hungry. True,
there is not a more inhumane
death than dying of hunger and
thirst in a free country. Being a satisfied refugee is “more human” by all parameters than being a hungry man in a free
country. George Orwell’ s eclectic piece of literature-The Animal Farm-has
been interpreted and
misinterpreted over the years.
However, any attempt to
juxtapose the book’ s animals with the Kenyan politicians is all
but preposterous, they fit
perfectly like a jig-saw. Kenya’ s political leadership has proved to
be one of the most inefficient in
Africa in the recent past. While
the leaderships of many of the
failed states in West and Central
Africa rule by the bullet, or sometimes by the sword,
Kenya’ s leadership rules by the ever-dangerous word of mouth.
Having perfected the act of
double-speak and poisonous lip-
service, ours is soon
degenerating into a lawless
society where some animals are more equal than others. Fancy
cases of corruption have dogged
the Kenyan government since
independence. They have come in
all shapes and colours. From the
golden bars of the Goldenberg to the white grains of the maize
scam and the flamboyance of
the Artur mercenaries,
corruption has become a
phenomenon in the country’ s top leadership. All the regimes (read Kenyatta,
Moi and Kibaki-Raila) have been
doused in the stench and filth of
graft and while time is fast
flying by, the sleaze is
deepening and becoming a soul- mate of Kenya’ s poor leadership history. Looting the
country of billions with reckless
abandon has created overnight
millionaires and is still creating
more of such treacherous
politicians and business persons. It is only in Kenya where
politicians whose names are on a
list of shame, such as Waki’ s enveloped list, are allowed to
walk free and hold top public
offices, while still under
investigation of funding,
recruiting and organising
hooligans to partake in the shameful and insensitive looting,
killing and annihilation of society
as witnessed during the 2007
post election period.The tears,
blood and sweat that have
moved Kenya to where she is at the moment are soon running
out. The worm has turned and
the populace is getting restless
for the time for the change
that Kenya needs has indeed
cme. It is high time our politicians start being accountable to the
electorate over issues of
governance and delivery of
services. Is there a day when public
hospitals shall be trustworthy
centres of treatment and
recuperation? Is there a day
when public offices will deliver
quality and efficient services instead of being safe havens for
poorly paid and apathetic
workers? Is there a day when
public schools will match up to
the lure of private schools? Will
we ever see a Kenya where teachers will rejoice with the
government and appreciate their
salaries? Is there a time when
national exams will be free of
the filth of leakages and
fabricated computer errors? Is there a season when the
Budalang’ i floods that wreak havoc upon the inhabitants of
the area be controlled and used
for more beneficial activities? Is
a day coming when we will
demand for better leadership
from our politicians? Will we ever be keen enough to see the
corruption episodes being
scripted and encrypted and not
stay mum and unconcerned like
we are now? Will we ever elect
leaders based on ability and not on tribe and wealth? Will there
be a time when we shall have a
functional system of governance
and taxable parliamentarians? I believe that day is coming.
That day will come soon enough,
but only if we, as Kenyans, are
willing to open our eyes and see
and then act. That day will come
soon enough if we stop becoming ostriches with our
heads in the sand. That day is
soon coming, if we are willing to
dream and are ready to pay
the price to make that dream
come true. The day will come soon enough if we take control
of our leadership instead of
letting the avarice of our
politicians wipe out our society.
They be the blind leaders of the
blind, and if the blind lead the blind, both shall fall into the
ditch. It is time for Kenyans to
take over and to open their
eyes. Yes we can!