My Questions for Wiki Leaks

I have been holding my breath to see if there is anything sensational to come out of Wiki Leaks about Kenya in the past one week but I have seen nothing ‘earth shaking’, except to state a well known fact that Kenya is indeed a swamp of corruption and that we facilitated exportation of military ware to South Sudan, in contravention of a peace accord we helped create. On the Tuesday Daily Nation, columnist Macharia Gaitho wrote what he thinks the American Ambassador here should have written to Obama, ending with the hope that he should be allowed to run for president of Kenya as he does not think highly of the three top men in Kenya.

However on a more sillier note (naturally), I would have hoped for Wiki Leaks to at least shed some light on the following 5 key issues:


Hoping Assange can help answer my five concerns


1. Is the American government (in cahoots with key Kenyan politicians) behind the mushrooming of FM radio stations and Mexican Soap Operas, two institutions that have done more to promote stupidity among the general population than schools have managed to, the aim of which is to keep the entire population focused on triviality and consumption thus being unable to realize that they are being bled dry by politicians and big business

2. Does the American Government think William Ruto and Alfred Mutua were born stupid or it is something they have had to work hard to achieve? Is Alfred Mutua a US spy planted by the American Government to make Kenyans generally look stupid so that no one takes us seriously?

3. Was the production of Tusker Project Fame Season 4 (music talent program modeled along the lines on American Idols) an attempt by the sponsors (East African Breweries) to kill of East African talent once and for all by making everyone so disillusioned that we all give up on talent and resort to drinking thus driving sales up for the beer maker?

4. Did the Obama administration help pass the law that states that Kenyan journalists and news reporters must lack critical awareness, have low standards of education and undergo lobotomy so at to make watching news rival watching the World Snail Athletics Championships?

5. Is Justin Bieber an American Government project to gain mind control of the world?

For now I will seat by my computer,waiting to see if the incoming set of cables will answer these concerns.

Image from google images. If you are the copyright owner of the photo and want it removed, let me know

Pictures Worth More Than 10,000 Words

They say that pictures are worth more than a thousand words...well, to me some pictures are actually worth more than 10,000 words! Yes, I don't think I can find ten thousand words to describe the cruelty I see in the picture below.



I recently came across this picture on twitter (via @PeterKiarie) and I just could not fathom what it was was that drove some people to do this. A symptom of our society? A few weeks ago, I tried to write about how we are embracing the culture of evil triumphing over bad here and what I could not put in words then, this picture says it all for me.

Tears For The Village Girl

When the pains began, she had hurriedly rushed to call Nyasembo. Nyasembo’s homestead was about three minutes walk down the narrow zig-zagging path that formed a vast network of paths, joining one village to another, and eventually connecting the whole location. In her case, it would take her more than fifteen minutes to make it to Nyasembo’s. The load she was carrying made her pace much slower. Still, for her age and condition, she was remarkably strong. When the news first broke that she was heavy, many had predicted a difficult period for her. Worse still, many had expressed concerns for her grandmother, for she was literally her grandmother’s hands, feet and eyes. If she was going to be rendered incapable of moving around very much, how was her almost immobile grandmother going to cope? However, by the eighth month, much to the disbelief of many, she was still remarkably strong. She was still making the daily 45-minute walk to collect water, balancing a full twenty litre pail of water on her head and dangling two other smaller jerricans on each arm. She had always been strong.

It was Amollo’s strength that made her standout from the rest of her siblings. Maybe it was the reason why she was the one who was packed off to go and stay with her grandmother Paulina. She had arrived in the village as a gangly, shy, but rather malnourished ten-year-old. With the last of her stronger grandchildren taking off to the city to look for either employment, study or marriage opportunities, grandmother Paulina needed somebody to help her around the village. Somebody who could collect water for her, prepare food and generally keep her company. All that was left in the village were the elders and very small children. The young men were not counted as their general contribution to the development of the household was minimal, if any at all. Yet, they too needed somebody to prepare for them food at the end of the day. Under the prevailing circumstances, it was very easy for everybody to assume that somebody had made sure that granny had had something to eat. So it was that on one of his rare visits to the village, John, granny’s only surviving son, had insisted (over a glass of the illicit chang’aa brew as usual) that somebody must be found take care of granny. His last born sister, Atieno, was struggling to raise her four children on her chang’aa addict's husband miserable wages. When the opportunity to send her eldest daughter to her granny’s arose, she was only too glad. It meant one less mouth to feed. That was four years ago.

Nyasembo was not at home. Though Amollo could see that the door was not locked, that did not necessarily mean that she was nearby. For all she knew, Nyasembo could be in the market, thirty minutes away, walking at a steady pace that is. In her case, it would be an hour before she could get there, probably more because of the hill and depending on the contractions. The pain sliced through her back to her lower abdomen and she sat down. It was about 4pm and if Nyasembo had gone to the market, she should be on her way home. She will just have to sit down and wait. Luck was on her side for she noticed Odhis slowly walking towards the homestead. He was back from school. She called out to him and Odhis having received the message, was soon flying away towards the market. In his mind, he was driving one of the rally cars he sometimes sees on television. Vroom!!! He went.

It had taken Amollo almost one year to get used to her new surrounding. She was a shy girl and avoided socialising very much with the rest of the society. She mostly kept to herself and only went outside the homestead when she was sent, or had to collect water or firewood. But she was hardworking, and very soon everybody in the village had noticed this particular trait. Granny Paulina harped about it to anybody who came to visit her. Normally she was up by six in the morning and by 9 she had finished all her chores. She would prepare lunch at one, wash dishes then go to the river at four. Most of the day she spent listening to Granny’s endless talk. The other women soon realised that she could help them in her spare time, after she was through with granny. The trips to collect water and firewood became more. When somebody wanted to get something from the market, they thought of Amollo. By the end of the year she had become pretty much the village’s maid. Then John came home from Christmas.

He was happy that his granny was now happy, being well taken care of. But he was also a schooled man, who believed that everybody should be schooled. Despite protestations from his wife, over a glass of chang’aa, he declared that he would pay Amollo’s school fees from January (in January the government would declare free primary education for all anyway). Yes, it was quite possible for her to help out in the home early in the morning and late in the evening while getting schooled in between, John declared. Once more, an important decision regarding her life was made over a glass of chang’aa.

By the time Nyasembo arrived, the contractions were now becoming more regular. It had taken Odhis one and a half hours to get Nyasembo (it would have taken him less had Baba Onyango not hijacked him on route and send him to get him some cigarettes despite his protestations). Nyasembo had handled several deliveries before and considered herself a professional. She could handle a delivery with her eyes closed. She asked Odhis to light the stove and put on some water to boil. He was then to look for granny Paulina and inform her that Amollo’s time had come. She should be back from her prayer meeting by now. Amollo’s body did not betray the fact that her time was up. She could have easily convinced anybody that she was only five months pregnant. She had not attended any clinic during the entire duration of the pregnancy. A waste of time, Nyasembo had remarked when she had told her one evening that her school teacher had been to visit her and asked her about clinic. He had said that she should go for regular check up. Nyasembo wondered what men knew about pregnancy. As long as one was not feeling unwell, one had nothing to worry about. Besides, did he leave any money for her to go to the clinic? she sarcastically asked. Granny could not have agreed more with Nyasembo. Amollo never mentioned the subject again.

The contractions were now more rapid, and more intense. Nyasembo found her stoicism amazing for she never let out a scream even as she pushed. At half past six, the baby boy bounced out, looking healthy but quite small. Granny, who had been patiently seating outside was called in to receive the baby while Nyasembo struggled to stop the bleeding.

It was an hour later that Nyasembo (and a few villagers who had gathered at her place by now) concluded that she needed to be taken to the health center. If anything, the bleeding was getting worse. Odhis (in his imaginary rally car) ran to Granny’s to get a wheelbarrow. After wrapping her with some lessos, she was put on the wheelbarrow and Osewe was tasked with the task of transporting her to the health center, with Odhis and two other young boys to keep him company. Nyasembo would be slowly following behind. It was an uphill climb all the way to the health center and it would not only be a long journey but also taxing to the young man’s muscles. Instruction was that they were to flag down the first vehicle they saw once they reached the main road. At this hour, very few haboured any hopes of coming across any vehicle.

Before he reached the main road, it became obvious to Osewe that she was gone.

I was lying on my bed, trying to tune the small transistor radio to Ramogi FM when Odhis bust into the compound. I could hear him asking Nyaseme my whereabouts. Then I could hear his footsteps running towards my hut. That boy was always running, I rarely saw him walking. Too much energy for his own good, I thought.

“I have been sent to tell you that you are wanted at Paulina’s, very fast!” he gasped. My heart started pounding. What could be the problem? Why did they want me at granny Paulina’s at ten at night? What could be so important that they sent Odhis all the way at this late hour to fetch me?

“What’s the problem?” I calmly asked.

“Amollo is dead” he said matter of factly.

I found a fair crowd gathered at Paulina’s. Baba Onyango, as the eldest male around was in an impromptu meeting with the women. I saw Osewe and Otieno making a makeshift stretcher. I wondered why they should be making a stretcher yet she was dead. Did they intend to take her to the hospital at this late hour? I enquired from him what was happening.

The old people, and specifically Baba Onyango, had insisted that she had to be transported to her father’s place, that her body could not stay overnight at the village. A few were of the opinion that the body be taken to the Health Center but they were quickly overruled by Baba Onyango. What would that achieve? He wanted to know. It was obvious that he had had his day’s share of chang’aa and he was going to get things done his way. He was the most senior man in the gweng’ and therefore his decision was final. They were rounding up a bunch of young boys who were going to carry the body all the way to her home. That was going to be about four hours of walking. Maybe five now that we were carrying a body. A bunch of young women were to accompany us. I cursed why they had to pick on me but this was a communal calling. You could not say no, especially to Baba Onyango (more so when he was tipsy!). Was the child okay? I inquired. Yes, it was a baby boy. I secretly wanted to see the boy but I was careful not to make known my wishes. This would raise eyebrows.

By the time we took off it was eleven o’clock. The women led the way out of the village, wailing, singing dirges and praises of Amollo’s qualities. We carried the body in shifts, groups of four at ago. I was not in the first shift and I walked behind the others together with a friend. It was getting cold. I looked up and saw that the sky was overcast. I prayed that it would not pour. Once we were safely out of the village, the wailing died, commencing whenever we passed a village and then quickly dying again. We exchanged shifts very often but not as often as we exchanged the chang’aa jerrican. We were not expected to travel all the way with the body with a clear empty head, in the middle of the night. Baba Otieno had donated a hundred shillings for the chang’aa and we had topped this with our own contributions. As the chang’aa started to take effect, the mood became kind of merry and the load a bit lighter. The women were concerned that we would get too drunk but we swiftly dismissed their concerns. The small jerrican went round to some of them and before long they were wailing the loudest whenever we passed by a village. Jokes were cracked and we bust into laughter, insults were hurled at laughing hyenas while occasionally somebody was berated for trying to grope at one of the ladies. Someone lit roll of bhang and passed it around. I inhaled deeply as one of the women asked whether anybody knew who had impregnated Amollo.

Amollo had insisted that the child she was carrying was my child but I had refused to believe her. How could she be sure? The question had been directed at myself more than at her. I had come to learn that I was not the only one she had slept with. I had taken keen notice of her sometime last year. She had changed from the Amollo of four years earlier. Her body was filling out, her breasts developing and she had started to be particular about how she groomed and dressed herself. A few heads were turning whenever she came down to the market. There were always whistles whenever she passed by the Base. The Base, or Al Qaeda as we also referred to it was a bench outside Ben’s Berber shop. Here is where we relaxed most of the day listening to reggae and soliciting money for drinks. It was also where Otis discreetly sold bhang and girls were discussed. It was not long before Amollo started featuring in our conversation. And as usual, the conversation around girls always centred on sex. And at the Base, there were no secrets.

Peter, a local school teacher was one of our peers who was not always welcomed at the Base. Not that we did not like him but because we did not like what he talked about. Peter was about fear. He was always telling us about how we were wasting our time spending the whole day hanging out by the Berber shop. This we figured was because he had a job. He was paid by some organization to preach to us about Aids and such kind of stuff. One day he had stopped by the shop and once more launched into a lecture about Aids. Then he had talked about the issues of the young girls getting pregnant by the day. This, he had said, proved that they were all doing it without condoms. What did this mean to us? He had posed. I could have sworn that he was looking at me.

When we were almost at the village, a small group went ahead of us, to raise an alarm. By the time we were entering the village, there was wailing all over as Atieno came to meet the dead body of her daughter. I walked slowly at the back, avoiding everybody’s eyes. This was because there were tears flowing down my cheeks.

Point to Ponder: Of Old Age Creeping In

"The way I picture it, adulthood is a big sleek jungle snake. It swallows you subtly, a bit at a time, so you barely notice the signs. You start reading the labels on things before you eat them; you find yourself listening to radio talk shows because the pop songs they play on the music stations (can this really be you thinking this?) all begin to sound the same. Before you know it, your furniture is nice. And suddenly you realize that you'd rather sit round your furniture and talk about the warning signs of colon cancer than, say, find out what happens when you set one of those plastic milk jugs on fire. And if your child sets a milk jug on fire, you yell at him, "somebody could get hurt", and really mean it, from inside the snake."
Dave Barry, Dave Barry's Greatest Hits

This is my point to ponder for this week. I found this passage from my old college days note book and it instantly struck a cord with me, the reason being that I am finding myself starting to become an adult. Yes, I know that I am married with two kids but nonetheless, I have always considered myself young at heart. I pretty much do things the way I used to when I was younger (at least that's what I think) but nowadays I get the feeling that I am starting to feel a bit older. I find myself frantically looking at my watch whenever I go out for a drink with friends, and when the clock strikes midnight, my heart is set on home. You have to have a very good reason to get me out of the house on Sundays. I hardly enjoy modern music and whenever I am looking for music or movies, my mind travels back several years back. I find FM radio stations boring. Yes, I need to be on the watch out lest adulthood make me start missing life!

The Tooth Fairy Deception & Joy

Recently my 6-year old daughter, Tamia had a shaky milk tooth. At first it was not clear to me why she resisted having it pulled during the day and was only too willing to get it done at night. The tooth was eventually pulled out and she went into a brief state of mourning when it got lost. I tried telling her it was only a tooth and she would grow another one in a short while. That did little to comfort her and I only understood her position when she told me about the tooth fairy. Apparently if it was done at night, she would have safely placed it under the pillow and the tooth fairy would later take it and replace it with some money. I shook my head. When I was young, we simply yanked the tooth and threw it away in the nearest bin.

Fast forward a few weeks later and another tooth was loose. I got home to find her gurgling water and spitting blood into the sink, tooth firmly clenched in hand, a smile on her face. Her mother had yanked it out for her (she does all the bloody work in the house while I only take on chores that will endear me to the kids). This time she was determined to place it under her pillow and get her money. I struggled with the temptation of telling her that all this was nonsense and that tooth fairies do not exist. I did not want her to get disappointed when she got up and only found a tooth under her pillow. This is the time to start teaching her the reality of the world, I reasoned.

A voice inside however told me that maybe it only wise to let children enjoy the age of innocence, and the fact that I did not enjoy the same when I was a kid is no excuse to deny Tamia the same. I reluctantly gave the mum some coin to put under her pillow once she was fast asleep. The look on her face when she woke up was priceless. I was glad I did this because it is better for me to see that joy on her face, despite knowing that the whole story is a lie, that to see the disappointed that would have greeted me though faced with the truth. And I went to work a happy man that morning.


I wonder whether Tamia used that money to do her hair!

Found Photos: Last day in Dadaab

Look at what I just found in my computer! These are some pictures from my last visit to Dadaab refugee camp, sometimes in June this year. Dadaab is currently reported to be the worlds largest refugee camp, with over 300,000 refugees, mostly from Somalia, cramped in.



This is how the roads look like.

I first went to Dadaab in 2005 when I began working for FilmAid International.



Posing for a photo with FilmAid staff and refugee volunteers in IFO. Dadaab refugee camp is actually three separate refugee camps, Hagadera, Ifo and Dagahaley.



With staff in Hagadera. Hagadera is the most politicized of the camps and one of the most difficult camps to work in.



This picture is part of a campaign against sex and gender based violence (SGBV). SGBV is quite rampant in the somali refugee camps.



Hanging out with staff



If you cannot eat goat meat in Dadaab, then you will probably starve to death. Tearing into goat meat with Jackie whom I had just introduced as FilmAid's Program Manager in Dadaab.



My last task in Dadaab was to do a jig with Victor and Somali musicians before dashing for my flight. That jig almost cost me a missed flight!

Cat Herders Day and other Weird Days Observed Around The World

A few days ago I noticed that some people in the world were observing the INTERNATIONAL CAPS LOCK DAY (might as well write it in caps), or something like that (actually it is celebrated twice a year, October 22 and June 28. I could not imagine what one is supposed to do on that day, do all your typing in upper case? Keep on computers locked on caps lock mode? Maybe people who value the caps lock have been oppressed for ages and this was a day to agitate for their rights? A few months ago, I also noticed that some people marked an international day for the left handed. Among some of the issues I heard being discussed were the possible agitation for factories to manufacture scissors for the left handed and have tailors make trousers with inverted zippers to make it easier for the left handed to zip up and down!

I got thinking, so how many crazy or weird holidays are out there? I decided to find out and what started off as a quick Google search ended up with me rolling on the floor with laughter and serious rib ache! The following are some of the gems I found:

January: National Hugging Day, Squirrel Appreciation day, Organize Your Home day, Bubble Wrap Appreciation day

February: World Thinking day, Adopt A Rescued Rabbit month, Working Naked day, Chocolate Mint Day, World Marriage day, Blame Someone Else day, International Pancake day

March: What If Cats and Dogs Had Opposable Thumbs day, Panic Day, Middle Name Pride day, International Goof-Off day, Bunsen Burner day

April: International Pillow Fight day, World Rat day, New Beers Eve, Baby Massage day, No Housework day, International Moment of laughter day, Blah! Blah! Blah! day

May: Respect for Chickens day, National Day to Prevent Teen Pregnancy, No Homework day, No Pants day, Stay Up All Night day, Blame Someone Else Day

June: Leave The Office Early day, Crowded Nest Awareness day, Please Take My Children To Work day, Ugliest Dog day, "In God We Trust" day, Bugs Bunny day, Sense of Smell day

July: International Chicken Wing day, I Forgot day, International Cherry Pit Spitting day, Take Your Webmaster to Lunch day, Don't Step on A Bee day, Cow Appreciation day, Take Your Houseplant for A Walk Day

August: Bad Poetry day, International Nagging day, Presidential Joke day, Work Like A Dog day

September: Talk like a Pirate Day, How Much longer Day, Hug A Vegetarian Day,

October: Guardian Angel day, National Kick Butt day, International Moment of Frustration Scream day, Be Bald and Be Free day, World Toy Camera day, Information Overload day, iPod day, Checklist day

November: National Men Make Dinner day, Sandwich day, Use Your Common Sense day, World Toilet day, Maize day, Flossing day

December: Bathtub day, Cat Herders day, National Whiner's day, Make Up Your Mind day

I came across these days from several sites but one of the most comprehensive site was http://www.brownielocks.com/ Most of the crazy days are of course observed in the US but quite a number are international! Some of my favourites were Cat Herders day, I Forgot day, and Leave The Office Early day. Which were yours and what other crazy days have you come across?

Dead and Buried, Rip Mr. Sony Walkman

It is now official, the Sony Walkman is dead and buried. To the younger generation the walkman might not have meant much but those of us who saw out our teenage years and the early twenties before mp3s and iPods, the walkman was the coolest thing to a music buff those days. It was the must have thing when in school, college or when traveling. I have not held a walkman for over 10 years but when I read earlier this week that Sony had officially ceased production (I was actually surprised that production had been going on till 2010!), I could not for a moment contain the nostalgia. The following are some of my walkman moments of yore!

My first memory of the walkman is listening to Whitney Houston's Miracle off her I am Your Baby Tonight album in the very early nineties. And it was under the bedsheets, way past sleeping time in the boarding school dormitory. I had a crush on Whitney back then (I can't believe how she turned out!), and on my way to Maseno School at the beginning of the term, I bought a pirated copy of I am Your Baby Tonight cassette at Kisumu bus stand - together with a set of some AA batteries. I had to wait for Goddy's batts to die out a few days later before I could finally borrow his walkman, and I fell in love with Whitney under the bed sheets, lights out. Later on I was to acquire the likes of Michael Bolton and Karyn White, not to mention the recordings from KBC's late date program.

Fast forward a few years later to a small town in Rajasthan in India, Udaipur. To be honest I don't know how I would have survived those years without the pleasures of the walkman. I remember once traveling all the way to the city of Bhopal, a one and a half day bus ride, to cash my draft cheque. This was my first year in India and as luck would have it, the bank declined to cash the cheque as it was not properly signed. Broke without enough money for a decent bus, I took what we called the mango-head bus, buses which had hard seats similar to those found in the old KBS buses. I over 30 hours in a very hard seat, without a single bite but with my walkman and a bunch of Kenny G tapes, I was able to endure the trip. I think I must have listened to Breathless more than 10 times on that trip!

Take a close looks at the seats here, that's what I am talking about (photo courtesy of http://jukwaa.proboards.com/)

A few years later, just about to embark on a 14 hour bus trip from New Delhi, I stumbled upon Tupac's All Eyes On Me cassette, and Tupac was never the same for me again. Yes I had listened to Tupac's music before but playing the tape over and over again with everything else blocked out, listening to each and every word of Only God Can Judge Me and Tradin' War Stories, it took my awareness of Tupac to another level. About a year later,the chap was gunned down but give that album over any new hip hop album any day. Lastly, after spending five straight years in India, I took another long bus trip, 18 hours, to Mumbai from Udaipur, this time on my way back home. It had been an emotional farewell to friends but I had about 100 cassettes in my bag and 18 hours in a bus never looked so short a time! I think that was the last time I listened to the walkman, for upon my arrival in Kenya, my younger brothers disappeared with it. Not that I miss it (not with over 100GB of mp3 music in my laptop and the convenience of an iPod), not with the rewinding and forwarding to get to your favourite track, or to find it has chewed your favorite cassette, but while it was the only technology for carrying music along, it gave me all the pleasure. RIP Mr. Walkman!

King, Prince or Pauper: The Week's Point to Ponder:

Growing up, one of my favourite fiction authors was Jeffrey Archer. I especially liked his short stories, most of which always had the most unexpected of endings. I wonder whatever happened to him, the last I heard of him I think he was off to jail or something like that. My point to ponder for this week is therefore based on a quote from him, having felt low on energy the last week and getting this feeling that I might be slacking on work a bit.

“Never be frightened by those you assume have more talent than you do, because in the end, energy will prevail: My formula is: energy plus talent and you are a king; energy and no talent and you are still a prince; talent and no energy and you are a pauper.” (quoted by Michael Levine in Take It From Me)

Another reason why this quote impresses me this morning is because of a conversation I had with my brother last night as we watched Tusker Project Fame (my first time this season I must confess). We kept wondering why a majority of young kids who win these competitions never attain the great heights of stardom that these competitions promise. They just disappear into obscurity months after the show has been wrapped up. Is it because they don’t put in a hard shift like those working from the bottom up?

I have never considered myself really talented but everything I have ever achieved is because of a hard shift. Today I see many young kids thinking that everything will easily fall into place because they have some talent. The culture of just having to work hard to attain whatever you aspire for is no longer there. The mantra is more of “don’t work hard, worker smarter”. Not that I begrudge that, put in some context I agree but in the end, it should not be a philosophy of get shortcuts at every opportunity for nothing beats good old fashioned culture of honest work.


As I slack off, my daughters have been taking over my work!

Finally:
Sow a thought and you reap an act; sow an act and you reap a habit; sow a habit and you reap a character; sow a character and you reap a destiny. – Ralph Waldo Emerson

My Shujaas

So yesterday was Mashujaa (Hero’s) Day, and everybody went gaga talking about great men and women, patriotic people who have sacrificed their lives for the freedom of this country, gave their sweat and blood to put the country’s name on the map, worked tirelessly to improve our lives etc. etc. But wait a minute, must a hero be someone who indulges in self-sacrifice, be willing to put their lives on the line for your sake, be read to sweat blood for our sake? When I think about those who have influenced my life, made me to be who I am, they are not always those who fit into your hero stereotypes. Yes, I know about my father sacrificing his house to put us through college, that teacher who inspired a dream, that boss who pushed me into the right direction and showed me career tricks…but I am however here to celebrate other small heroes who in one way or another changed my life, mostly unwittingly.

Caroline Mutoko and Kiss FM (and by extension FM radio presenters): Why are they my heroes? They made me stop listening to FM radio and this has made the quality of my life better. Years ago, like millions of Kenyans, I too tuned in to the radio stations to listen to the nonsense that FM presenters regurgitate every morning. Kiss FM was the leading station by then but the more Mutoko ranted her nonsense then, I was put off radio. Nowadays I don’t listen to radio at all (with the exception of BBC occasionally and sports commentaries) and that has helped me keep my sanity. To be fair to her, I am made to understand that she has improved over the recent years, shed off some arrogance but nonetheless I am not willing to find out.

Michuki, Kiraitu Murungi, Kutuny, Ruto and other Kenyan politicians: When Narc got rid of Moi and his cronies from power in 2002, I joined the rest of the country in believing that change was indeed on the way. Then came Michuki’s famous juggling of the liver analogy and Kiraitu’s women willing to be raped speech. Those made me realize that even after Moi, Kenyan politicians still have the intelligence of garden tools. People like Ruto (both William and Isaac), Jakoyo, Mbugua, Kutunyu and their ilk have since strongly confirmed this. They are my heroes because they successfully killed any aspirations I might have had of getting engaged in politics.

Alfred Mutua, Kenya government spokesman: He is one of my biggest heroes. Whereas I previously thought that people who have gone through colleges, and even lectured there, are generally intelligent people who know what they are talking about and weigh their words carefully, Mutua has gracefully taught me not to make such assumptions. His denial about a blast at Wilson Airport, insisting that it was an explosion (or was it the other way round), his bundling of a matatu driver into his car trunk and his creative efforts at Cobra Squad taught me important life lessons, always look beyond education Charles.

Church Clergy: I used to believe strongly in God, until I started giving the clergy, especially the so called televangelists, audience. Then doubts started to creep in. Don’t get me wrong, there are some honest believers out there but the more I listen to the clergy, the more I doubted the existence of God. When I stopped going to church and listening to evangelists, then I found God. Does this mean they are heroes or not, I am getting confused there….

The Week's Point to Ponder: What Money Buys

I just found this quote from an an old notebook I have had since the 90s. It is attributed to an Arne Garbog though it does not cite the exact source (this is the age of Google so I will google him/her up). It goes:

"It is said that for money you can have everything, but you cannot. You can buy food but not appetite; medicine but not health; knowledge but not wisdom; glitter but not beauty; fun but not joy; acquaintances, but not friends; servants but not faithfulness; leisure but not peace. You can have the husk of everything for money, but not not the kernel."

Upon reflection, I realize that some of the best times I have had, times of real happiness, have been under circumstances where money was not involved. Of course it helps to have some money, it brings all the conveniences but we need to also learn to enjoy our lives without having to buy anything. Nowadays the pressure is on spending, consuming. We now live in an age where we are defined by what we can buy, consume. As I consume, so I am. When you turn on the TV, the radio, open the newspaper, it is always about buying more of this or that. When I walk into a supermarket with my small daughters, they want to be bought for this and that. What is it we really want? And can we only get it by buying it?

"It is not what you possess in life that gives you worth, but what you pass along to others" - Thien Loc Vo

A Dramatic Dialogue With Myself: 10th anniversary?

While getting rid of some old CDs the other day, I came about an article I wrote about 10 years back, just out of college and full of enthusiasm to influence the world. I wonder what has happened to me since then? Anyway, I decided to reproduce the article here exactly as I had it then and then spend the next few days reflecting on it. The article itself was published by Shikshantar Santhan and it is part of the reflection on an post I published here a few months ago. Let me know you think.

A Dramatic Dialogue With Myself
Charles Otieno-Hongo

When I received the invitation to write this article, several questions ran through my mind. First I thought: What am I supposed to write? Then I started to ask myself several questions. Then I thought, why not simply talk to myself, challenge myself through these questions? This is especially important to me because my early "education" always involved being at the passive end of a process, where I was expected to simply receive information and later reproduce it. I was only allowed to ask limited questions concerning my understanding of what the teacher taught, without challenging the idea that was being imparted to me. Later I was to discover that it is through critical questioning, questioning what I was taught, questioning what I believe in, interrogating my values, it was only then that I started to properly understand the world around me. And this is how I learn, by asking myself questions.

I have decided that the mainstream education model (schooling) is not my cup of tea. I have been heard to say that if we are to generate solutions to the current complexities facing our continent (Africa), we should abandon education! What inspires me to think like this? How did I come to the conclusion that schooling is the not the best thing to happen to somebody?

Sincerely speaking, I don't have a definite answer. Looking back, I have seen people, my friends with so much potential and talent, wither away under the school system. I too would have. I found school somewhat boring and frustrating. The lessons, the regimentation of time and duties, the lack of free time to pursue activities of interest, the atmosphere of fear and hopelessness and most importantly the lack of freedom to express myself.

I found lessons boring and frustrating, because all I had to do was sit in the class, listen to the teacher and take notes. I was only allowed to speak when directly spoken to by the teacher, or when I had to ask a question, because I had missed something that the teacher had said — never because I did not agree with the teacher. Something else that was a source of great frustration was the way my time was managed. I had totally no say or control over what I did with my time. When I was in primary school, my day was organized for me from Monday to Friday; when I went to a boarding high school, from Monday to Sunday. In high school, I often compared my stay there to life in a prison cell, for everything I did was controlled by a bell. I was woken up by the ring of a bell, sent to the dining hall by the ring of a bell, went to play by the ring of a bell and went to sleep by the ring of a bell! I felt that all this was designed to make me lose my individual identity. I was just one of the boys. I even had a number that I was known by in the class registry, number 34. Whenever the class teacher called out number 34, I knew that was me. Just a number.

Then there was the question of fear. The environment I schooled in was dominated by a fear of teachers and prefects. We would be caned for speaking in another language which was not English. We would be caned for talking when we were not supposed to, for being late, and even worse, for not knowing! Our mathematics teacher was notorious for giving sudden tests, or what he called 'mental tests', a total of ten math problems, every morning. If you missed one, you got one stroke of the cane, if you missed five, you got five strokes. I was always missing at least three or four problems!

How did this affect my learning?

Because of the repeated 'failing' in especially mathematics and science tests, I lost confidence in my ability as a learner. I came to believe that I could learn nothing where science and mathematics are concerned, and thus I lost interest in science issues. I concluded that these were fields for certain people, endowed with certain intelligences, and it was better if I kept off. The idea of forced learning and total unquestioning submission to school authority incited a rebellious streak in me. By the time I was in my last year in high school, I regularly absconded classes. I believed that university was not made for the likes of me, no matter how hard I tried.

When I say I too have withered under the school system, what do I mean?

When I was growing up, I had a desire to study law and become a writer. But under our examination system, I had to get a pass in mathematics no matter what I intended to study at the university. I was not good at mathematics and therefore simply gave up hope of going to the university. In effect, this meant giving up on my dreams.

In high school, I had friend who could never get a pass in any subject, but he was not only a very talented artist, but also very kind and warm person, always ready to help others. He would spend his study period drawing biology diagrams for those of us who were not good at drawing. The fact that he never managed to pass other subjects meant that he could not pursue art studies at the university. The system was punishing my friends and me by denying us the chance to pursue our interests at the university level, simply because we were not interested in unrelated subjects. Worse, however, was the fact that my teachers and parents had made me to believe that it was only by going to the university that I would be considered successful. The teachers made us to believe that the reason we were in high school was to go to university, and each year a list of those who made of those who made it to the university and those who did not was pinned up on the school notice board. I was not able to see beyond the university and look at other options.

But don't I think it makes sense to have at least some knowledge in several subjects?

I see several issues here. It is not a matter of acquiring knowledge but questioning how knowledge is measured and determining what constitutes knowledge. Let me start with the first one, measuring knowledge. In school, the knowledge we gained was measured through tests. I saw some boys dash through a three hour math test in one half hours, others completed the test in three hours while others probably needed five hours to complete the test. Looking back, I tend to think that the system was unfair to those who needed five hours! I was one of those people who needed more time to complete a test. Actually, what was being determined here was test-taking skills rather than a deep understanding of the subject.

Secondly, acquiring "knowledge" was presented to me as a competitive process. The whole point of taking examinations was to determine who was the best in the class. At the end of each term, we were ranked according to performance. The competition here was so intense that friends would stop speaking to each other for several hours, simply because one had come out in front of the other. In the primary school I attended, the headmaster would call out the best three performers at the end of each term and reward them. He always reminded us the importance of competition by using Aesop's tale of the Tortoise and the Hare. Those who had slept like the Hare and had been overtaken by other students (the Tortoise) in the rankings would be ridiculed.

Thirdly, I was being given "ready-made knowledge" to consume. In other words, what was expected of me was to memorize whatever was on the books. Most of this was alien to me because I was not doing anything active or creative. I was not given the opportunity to question where this knowledge came from, how it was relevant to me, and what my role was in its construction and dissemination. I was thus never able to identify with it and forgot almost everything as soon as it was taught to me! It became difficult for me to become a model student.

Then we have the question of interest and motivation. People learn certain things for various reasons. My father is a scientist and, right from primary school, there was a lot of pressure on me to emulate him by performing well in Mathematics and Science subjects. But the figures and the technical explanations did not appeal to me. I preferred to learn History. This was because I enjoyed stories about struggle, especially against colonial powers. The story of how the Ethiopians successfully resisted the invading Italians during the battle of Adowa was my favorite, because it demonstrated to me that the Europeans were not that superior after all! I had no motivation to learn about molarity concepts, and here I was in a system that was going to condemn me to failure because I did not enjoy Maths, Physics and Chemistry!

Is this when I started "losing hope" in education?

Not really. I believed that a serious reform in the education practice to cater for people like me was necessary. I would think, "All this learning for what? To get to university, graduate, get a job…was that it?" When I was in school, they had promised us that if we study hard enough and pass, we would get lucrative jobs. The government of the day used a particular song to promote schooling: "Someni vijana / muongeze pia bidii / mwisho wa kusoma / mtapata kazi nzuri sana" (loosely translated: young people, study hard / put in a lot of effort / at the end of your education / you will get very beautiful jobs). Almost all school-going children knew this song. And we were all studying so that we could get beautiful jobs. And yet all around me, I could see jobless people who had degrees! I thought the education ministry should allow me to study what I wanted to, become an expert in a particular field… I mean if they didn't force us to learn all these unnecessary things, then our country would be a better country. It took me a stint in college to realize that I was just kidding myself.

What was my experience in college?

When I left high school, I decided that I wanted to become a writer, a profession that I assumed did not require a pass in mathematics or a university degree. My going to college to study for a degree course was mainly a result of family pressure. Within a year of completing high school, I was packed off to India. I had taken the attitude, 'if people want a university degree from me, then let me give it to them!' Despite my cynicism, I had hope in college. I thought that it was in college where one questioned the world. Within no time, frustration set in. All I had to do was remember what my lecturers taught me! I was not allowed to think on my own. Of course, they will tell you all about original thinking and stuff like that, but then try writing down an answer that contradicts the textbook and see whether you pass! Today I don't remember much of anything I studied in college, and neither do I find the degree useful. I think it was a complete waste of time and resources.

What do I mean when I say that I was not allowed to think on my own?

I mean that the moment I stepped into the classroom at the age of seven, somebody somewhere had already determined what I was expected to learn. Even in college I had to answer questions by saying, "According to professor so and so…" What would have happened if I said, "According to Charles Otieno-Hongo…"? There was this feeling that something somewhere was controlling what I was supposed to think and learn.

This goes back to what I said earlier about my time having been organized for me in advance. In college, I bought a curriculum book at the beginning of the academic year, which contained all that I was to learn. For example, for the poetry class, I would find a list of all the poems I was expected to study. There was no room for me to introduce and analyze my own poetry selection; it would not be examinable anyway and therefore would be construed as a total waste of time. The same applied to all the other subjects I was studying.

How did I feel at this particular time?

I was rather confused during this period. I felt as if I was being led somewhere, with a noose tied around my neck. The problem was that I did not have the faintest idea as to where I was being led. There seemed to be something rather evil in the notion that thousands or maybe even millions of people were being taught precisely the same thing in the same manner, regardless of their backgrounds and individuality. With time, it did occur to me that this process of mass education was a continuation of the same process I had experienced in school, being trained to fit in a well-defined system.

In school, we had to recite what is known as the Loyalty Pledge every week. We pledged our loyalty to the country and to the president. We were being trained in the art of unquestioning loyalty to the State, without being allowed to critically reflect on what the State actually means, how it came about, who benefits from it and who loses. I remember we would change the words of the pledge to make nonsense of it, an act that would be accompanied by punishment if found out. We would be forced to sing songs of praise to the president during particular occasions, and these too we would subvert. (Some of the versions we developed were rather obscene.) We were young but very creative. It's amazing how children can learn to resist and subvert education with natural ease.

In high school, I started to get an idea of what authority means and, even more importantly, what it means to bow down to authority. In my school, a lot of power was invested in prefects. These were the students who ruled on behalf of teachers. They were selected from the senior-most class. When I was a senior, several of my friends were selected to be prefects. At the same time, I was elected the editor-in-chief of the school's writers' club, a club that was charged not only with producing the school magazine, but writing daily happenings in the school. These would be pinned up on the Writers' Club Notice Board. In my position, I was responsible for any literature posted on the Board. It soon became clear that I had not understood my work. While I had assumed that my work only entailed checking other peoples' articles for grammatical errors, I soon found myself before the prefects, explaining why some articles questioning the prefects' decisions were on the Board. I was a bit surprised, because I had assumed that these were my friends. I was to find myself receiving several strokes of the cane from the Principal, something that I became proud of — not because it made me a hero among the commoners (as non-prefects were called), but because it made me realize that authority, justice and freedom are not the best of friends.

These experiences, coupled with the learning experience I was going through in college, made it seem to me as if I was being fitted into something. With time, I came to learn that there is no such thing as neutral education. Education can be used as an instrument to facilitate the integration of the younger generation into the present socio-political system and conform to it, or it can be used as a tool for self-liberation, for dealing critically and creatively with the reality that surrounds us to transform our world. My school education had been preparing me for the former. My education was not preparing me to perceive the world in a radical and critical manner, to understand the power relations between the oppressors and the oppressed and even more importantly, it was not facilitating any process whereby I could engage myself in conceptualizing and co-creating a more humane society. It was the kind of education that would probably increase my chances of getting a job in an NGO. But then I joined an informal college.

I use the term informal college to refer to the new learning process and environment that I experienced when I was introduced to Shikshantar: The People' Institute for Rethinking Development and Education. I started getting involved in challenging discussions with friends, asking questions like, Who really controls society? How do they do it? Why? Who benefits the most and who loses the most in this scheme of things? I call it alternative college, because there were no subjects, no exams, no know-it-all teacher. Everybody was a teacher and student at the same time. It did not matter whether you had a Masters degree in education from Harvard, or had worked with all the major institutions in the world, or whether you were a first year college student, fresh out of secondary school. Everybody was accorded the same respect and given an ear if s/he had anything to express.

What did I find unique about this process and environment for learning?

Hey, I was starting to be in control of my own learning. The idea of somebody or some agency out of my reach, setting the agenda for me, was no longer there. I was even starting to ask myself, "Why am I learning what I am learning?" The questions we asked ourselves were open-ended and this helped to stimulate my thinking beyond the usual "there has to be one right answer" attitude I was used to. It was all very exciting to me. Through the challenging discussions and the literature I was getting exposed to, I was beginning to realize that my education had indeed been a process of fitting me into society.

What do I think is wrong with this?

I do not want to be manipulated to fit into a society in which only a few people have the power to make decisions for me. I want to be part of the process of deciding and co-creating the society I want to live in. Through the dialogue I was engaging in with friends at Shikshantar, I was starting to be conscious that certain forces were not only fitting me into society but also designing that society, for their benefit of course. Hell! It is my imagination that they have been stealing!

What forces are these and how were they stealing my imagination?

For example, by analyzing the media, I learned that only a handful of conglomerates, through news and television programming were controlling what I should know. Through advertising, they were manipulating my aesthetic senses and prescribing what I should consume. I learned that powerful conglomerates, through the process of Development, Education and the mass media, were controlling almost all the spaces I have to express and develop myself. And in the process, they were not giving me a space to imagine an alternative society. I would spend countless hours watching movies and sports on television. All this time my mind was asleep!

I learned that this is a society, where less than 20% of the people owns and controls over 80% of the world's wealth and resources. It is a society, where we put profit over nature and over people! It is a society, where I am expected to consume, consume and consume, as if there is no tomorrow. In the city, everywhere I look, billboards tell me to buy something. When I listen to the radio, I am being told to buy something. I can't watch TV for ten minutes, before I am told to buy something!

I am living in a society where I never got to learn dholuo (my mother tongue), because I was made to believe that English is the mother of all languages. In the primary and secondary schools that I attended, we would often be punished for speaking in our mother tongues or any other language that was not English. The school intended, and it still does, to make us perfect English speakers at the detriment of our languages. Today I find myself in the embarrassing position of not being able to communicate properly in my mother tongue. I am not alone, there are lots of Nairobi-born and -bred young people who cannot speak their native languages. I am only starting to understand the rich tradition and wisdom of the Luo people that I had lost when I was alienated from my mother tongue.

I was told that before the white man came to Africa, Africans did not have a history. How could they? It was a Dark Continent. There were no written records! I am living in a society in which we have been made to believe that our continent is backward and underdeveloped, that we can only survive courtesy of the messiahs from the World Bank and IMF. When I look around me, I see that the problems facing my society are so complex that I wonder how these messiahs from their Ivory Towers in Washington are supposed to help us. These problems are so complex that even the so-called teachers don't have the answers! How then do we expect them to show us the way out? We have to start learning and understanding the world and ourselves anew. This is the new process of learning that I embarked on.

At the so-called informal college?

Yes. Together with students from other countries of Africa and Indian learning activists, we started asking tough questions and pondering these issues. This was my first real empowering experience. After a few informal discussions with friends at Shikshantar, we decided to create a forum where students, especially from Africa, would discuss the development and education issues that were of concern to the African continent. I was motivated by the fact that college was not providing us with forum for discussing and interrogating issues from our own perspective. In the debate about Africa's Development, our voices were conspicuously missing! This forum was the first step towards righting this wrong. Shikshantar provided the right environment for this. It was an open environment and therefore we did not have to worry about ideology. We also had access to a lot of literature that we used as tools to stimulate our discussions.

Did I get some solutions?

I have to be careful about words here. I started coming across some answers, as far as why some things are the way they are. For example, I was able to understand that contrary to what I believed in (that technology is all-good and will make the world a better place), technology is not neutral and investment in it is a Faustian bargain. It seemingly makes work easier, while rendering millions jobless, and promotes a 'global village', while facilitating the annihilation of non-western cultures. These were not the things I was taught in school. I think solutions will have to come from the society learning together, as opposed to an individual institution. I see this learning as involving critical reflections with actions. I will demonstrate how I decided to experiment towards this.

I also learned how the idea of a Nation-State (especially in Africa) was created and used as an instrument of (economic and cultural) exploitation and ascendancy to power. Before the Europeans carved out countries round a table in Berlin, the idea of Kenya did not even exist. Yet today I have been made to understand that I am different from my brothers in Tanzania and Uganda (through the issues of papers, such as identity cards and passports, and manipulations through recitations like the loyalty pledge!). These boundaries, created for the sake of divide-and-rule and exploitation, are being maintained for precisely the same reasons. The State offers the framework through which exploitation and oppression takes place.

For example, I have talked about how education/schooling is a process of integrating one into the global system of exploitation and, at the same time, suppressing our creative abilities to oppose and transform this system. The State acts as an accomplice in this process by providing the tools through which this objective is made achievable. In Kenya, schooling has been made compulsory and is used as a discriminating factor against those who refuse to go to school. You cannot get any meaningful employment without presenting papers that show you have been to school. A new Children’s Bill to take effect this year proposes to jail parents who do not take their children to school.

In our African students' discussion group, we initiated discussions around some of the issues we thought were pertinent to our lives and our countries. We discussed how the media affected us, our experiences in the schooling system, what we thought of democracy, peace, human rights and other institutions of thought control. We brought diverse views; we sought out different writers and critics and went over their essays, criticizing, discovering new perspectives.

During this process, I started getting new and deeper insights into the issues that we were discussing. We specifically chose marginalised voices to get their perspectives too. What happened is that I started to think more critically about the system and, at the same time, developed confidence to articulate my fears. But even more importantly, I began to imagine and create new ideas without feeling that this is the responsibility of experts only.

As I said, critical reflection should be accompanied with action. As they say in the Bible, "Faith without Action is Dead," or as Gandhi put it, "What is faith, if not transformed into action?" So we started asking ourselves, "Now that we are learning all of this, what should we or what can we do?" Part of our discussions had focused so much on the media, so we thought of creating our own media. It would become our learning space and a platform for engaging others. We came up with a publication we called 21st Century Africa. This was a platform where we could freely express ourselves without having to worry about censorship, a platform where I started to explore my vision for Africa in the 21st Century. The most important thing though is that this effort helped to demystify the media and my role in it. I was no longer the passive audience I had been for years. The media was no longer the domain of a certain class of professional people. As long as I have something to say, I can create a platform to say it.

And so 21st Century Africa became the platform?

Yes. 21st Century Africa acted as a compliment to the discussion community we had created. Later I left India and came back to Kenya. Others might have been glad that I had come back with a degree, but I saw myself in a new light. The university degree was no longer important to me. I saw so many young "educated" people with degrees from universities all over the globe, all fighting to get a space within the system, little knowing that the system had space for few of them. And I wondered whether I would end up being one of them. I met friends who graduated years ago and were still walking around town looking for that elusive job. Some become frustrated and graduated into alcoholism, while others added to Nairobi's growing crime rate. School promised so much and yet offered so little.

Most graduates in Kenya have been trained for white-collar jobs and hope to get employment within sectors such as telecommunications, manufacturing industries, and maybe within the civil service. The irony is that most companies are either downsizing or moving away due to the harsh economic conditions. Having been trained to do nothing else, this generation does not know what to do except wait and hope that, sometime in the future, jobs will be available.

I talked of writers and critics. Are there particular writers or critics who made a major contribution to the way I see the world today?

Definitely. Perhaps the most revolutionary book I have ever read is Paulo Freire's Pedagogy of the Oppressed. It is revolutionary to me, because it made me humble. Even as I went through the process of detoxicating my mind, I still thought that I was better off than so many people, because I could read and write. As I was learning all these things, I thought that I could HELP others free themselves, empower themselves. But after reading this book I realized I was not more educated than 'the other people.' I could not be their messiah. I must fully strip myself of this kind of mentality and become one with the people whose struggle I identified with.

I was also influenced by Gandhi's Hind Swaraj, which brought home the essence of dialogue. Gandhi demonstrated that I don't have to chose either of two sides, but that I can transcend the compartmentalization 'either you are with us or against us' to reach a higher third level. This has proved particularly useful when dealing with people who tell me that if I am not for development, then I am for suffering and poverty. I am for neither!

How am I engaged in the process of resistance, decolonization and regeneration today?

I have been lucky to work with an organization called Mzizi Creative Centre, which is involved in grassroots communication strategies. This has given me the opportunity to closely study different communities and gain further practical insight into how development has been imposed on societies and how these societies are resisting this process. It has also given me the opportunity to pose some questions and share my understanding and experiences with other people/communities.

I am also rediscovering the art of storytelling. Before schools intruded, storytelling was the principal instrument of learning in African societies. Together with friends, I am involved in efforts to not only revive the art form, but to transform it into a tool of critical analysis and active and participatory learning. At Mzizi Creative Center, we are developing an art form known as Sigana. Sigana combines storytelling with elements of dance, traditional chant and banter and incorporates communal dilemma resolution as a tool for raising critical consciousness. Incorporating elements of Freirean participation and Boal’s theatrical techniques with traditional African storytelling concepts, we hope to develop a tool of communal interaction, self-critique and regeneration that leads towards the development of an interactive and participatory learning society.

I am also engaged in the Counter Renaissance publication. Here I not only learn from others but also share my perspectives and initiate debate on decolonization and regeneration. Issues raised in the Counter Renaissance have led to the formation of a group known as Brainstorm. Still in its early stage, Brainstorm hopes to bring together young people who envisage alternative media spaces to be used to facilitate discussions on decolonization, the reawakening of our creativities and the concept of an African regeneration.

Any last words?

I have slowly discovered that nobody can educate me, and neither can I educate anybody. I have to continuously learn and re-learn. Likewise, if we are to survive, the whole community must learn, unlearn and relearn. This learning involves an unprecedented tapping of creativity and as such, none can afford the arrogance of "I am the one who knows". I am refusing to be given a title that classifies me into a certain category. When people demand to know who I am (professionally), I insist that I don't belong to any profession. I am not a teacher. I am not educated. I am a learner. This is precisely why I think we should be learning, not going to school!

Celebrating the Culture of Thuggery

Is it me or are we slowly starting to invert the concept of good and bad? It seems to me that it is nowadays becoming more and more fashionable to be "bad" rather than "good". Let me explain. When I was growing up, I was a big fan of the WWF (nowadays WWE) wrestling series. Back in those days, wrestling was rather simple, there were the bad (or evil) guys and the good guys. Everybody supported the good guys and even though the bad guys at times won (mostly by dirty tricks such as knocking out the referee), it was the good guys who won most of the fights, in a clean manner. Then things began to slowly change. The evil undertaker started to become popular. The moment the beer drinking, profanity uttering Stone Cold, with a vast array of dirty tricks up his sleeves become the most popular wrestler, I knew it was time for me to move on. Nowadays the 'badder' you are, the most popular you will be.


Stone Cold: The badder, the better

I came across this reflection during the recent by elections in Kenya. It seemed to me as if it were that the more murkier your past was, the more the questions and speculations about how you got your wealth, the more popular you were. I have nothing against the newly elected MPs for Makadara and Juja but the fact that they seems to be extremely wealthy, and that nobody seems to be able to explain the sources of their wealth has been more of a plus for them as opposed to being a hindrance. I will not speculate on the sources of their wealth, or reproduce rumours of it that are in the public as I am too poor for litigation, but I have been surprised at how the fact that they almost seem to be thugs has been a reason for celebration.


Mike Mbuvi aka Sonko


Yesterday, the Daily Nation had this on their Facebook page:"The new MP for Makadara known as Mike Sonko is fast becoming an urban legend with Parliament. On Wednesday, stories were circulating of people with some similarity to Sonko some linked to crime. The 35-year-old MP, who often sports oversized casual shirts and expensive jewellery, has fired up the imagination with his display of largely unexplained wealth." These were some of the comments that followed it:
-Leave sonko alone where is da complainant foko jembe,media 2 i havent heard any1 cal a pres conf an says mbuvi aliniibia ama is a thug bure kabisa
-atsii.arent the other mps proved thugs from morasses,maize,angloleasing,freeprimary education,goldenberg yet have seen any prove on sonko claims mwacheni jamaani kwani DN hanma news.
-Mike uko juu 2 sana wenye uwivu wajiyonge tutawazika!
-There are always h8z every whea. Their presence and panganga' signifies that the new kid on our block is bringin change and development. So gud mornin h8z, sit down relax nd see how an mp frm makadara should work.
-I tink sonko has juz proven dem wrong. Mike move ahead wid ua head up na kazi iendelee. bravo mheshimiwa u r mo than wat they tink u r!!!

The more devious you are in attaining your goals, the more adept you are at cheating the system, if you can hit below the belt and not get caught, then you are a hero my son! That's what wrestling has taught us as a generation

Animal Conflict Resolution Styles - Which One Are You?

I have been attending a conflict transformation workshop for the past few days and one of the interesting stuff I came across was the use of animal characteristics to illustrate our conflict styles (adapted from Hope and Timmel II, 1995). As I mulled over these I discovered that I am probably a cross breed of lion and turtle. Although at times (like a lion) I tend to dig in and fight whenever others disagree with my opinions (though I must add I am also ready to concede defeat when clearly defeated), at times I do behave like a tortoise and withdraw from a group or refuse to participate in efforts aimed at discussions. This is especially if I feel the other parties are unreasonable or strongly opinionated as not to have an open mind.

Anyway, here are the different conflict styles I learned, where do you fall?


Donkey: Very stubborn, and refuses to change his or her point of view. I have a few friends (and a relative or two here) but I generally avoid such people



Elephant: Blocks the way, and stubbornly prevents the group from continuing along the road they desire to go


Lion: Gets in and fights whenever others disagree with his or her plans, or interferes with his or her desires. I am thinking about Imani, my second 2 year old daughter and especially how she deals with Tamia, her 6 year older sister


Rabbit: Runs away as soon as he or she senses tension, conflict, or any unpleasant job. This may mean switching quickly to another topic



Ostrich: Buries his or her head in the the sand and refuses to face reality or admit there is any problem at all. For some reasons this reminds me of our president



Turtle: Withdraws from the group,refusing to give ideas or opinions. I find this very useful when dealing with a group of donkeys or elephants!



Chameleon: Changes colour according to the people he or she is with. Will say one thing to this group and something else to another. Very common with Kenyan politicians!



Owl: Looks very solemn and pretends to be very wise, always talking in long words and complicated sentences



Mouse: Too timid to speak up on any subject



Monkey: Fools around, chatters, and prevents the group from concentrating on serious business

PS: Pictures are sourced from Google images

Point to Ponder: Reflecting on the Celebrity Culture

When I was in college, I was an avid reader of Readers' Digest. Apart from the usual witty sections like "Laughter the Best Medicine" "College Rags" and "All in a Day's Work", one of my favorite sections was "Points to Ponder", a section that had profound statements, often about a paragraph long, on life's little lessons. Sadly I no longer see this section on the current South African editions that I occasionally pick up from Nairobi's street vendors. I was so addicted to this section that I would pick up the best of the lot and write them down in an exercise book that I still own over 10 years later (yes, I went to college when laptops were an extreme luxury and we wrote down stuff in our diaries and exercise books!). It was when flipping through this book - now aged with time - that I came across this gem:-

"When I was 12, I read Tolstoy. But I didn't know it was Tolstoy. I was interested in the story, not the author. A real reader, especially a young reader, never cares too much about the author. He wants to read the book and he enjoys it. When people begin to be less interested in the art, they become more interested in the artist."
- Conversations with Isaac Bashevis Singer, with Richard Burgin (Doubleday)

I have noticed a trend with some of my friends where before watching a movie, they ask who is in it. If it is not a superstar name, then they figure it is not worth watching. People go to poetry readings based on who will be there (and then proceed to chat away when the poetry is being read) and not necessarily to hear the poetry. If there is no high profile name in your event, it will be shunned by the media and thus the public. Even in organizations, it is now common to hear people brainstorm on the need to get a high profile name for an event to be a success. It is no longer about the content but rather in whose name the content is affiliated.

I have at times been accused of being aloof to celebrities and other high profile names that I have met in the line of work or socially. I might like your art, writing, music etc, but that does not necessarily mean I have to treat you as if you are more special than us mere mortals.

Don't Quit - Inspiration from an unknown poet

I first came across this poem, (whose author I have never known), some 20 or so years ago, and often when I have felt really down and on the verge of throwing in the towel, I have turned to it. It has been a difficult week both at work and at home, and now I turn to it again! Just figured I'd post it here in case someone who has never come across it stumbles upon it here! Also let me know if you know the name of the author!


Don't Quit

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all up hill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest if you must, but don't you quit.

Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As everyone of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about
When he might have won had he stuck it out;
Don't give up, though the pace seems slow -
You might succeed with another blow.

Often the goal is nearer than
It seems to a faint and faltering man,
Often the struggler has given up
When he might have captured the victor's cup.
And he learned too late, when the night slipped down,
How close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out -
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt -
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems afar;
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit -
It's when things seem worst that you mustn't quit.

- Unknown

Rape by Deception - Really?

There was an interesting news story recently whereby Sabbar Kashur, a Palestinian from East Jerusalem, was sentenced by an Israeli court to 18 years in jail for rape by deception. Two years ago Kashur met a Jewish woman on the street in Jerusalem. He worked as a messenger for an Israeli law firm and like some other Palestinians looking to integrate more effectively into Israeli society had assumed the identity of a Jew. He called himself Dudu, a common Israeli name. On the same day the two had a consensual sexual encounter in a nearby office building. The woman, whose identity is still protected by law, did not know Kashur was an Arab. When she found out she filed a complaint with police. Kashur was questioned by police and spent two years under house arrest facing a charge of rape and sexual assault. It was later dropped to the one of "rape by deception" in a plea bargain.

This story elicited quite some discussions in the blogosphere, with some people calling it racism, others saying it was justified and others saying it was demeaning to ‘real victims’ of rape. One of the things that struck me was the argument about how many men would be behind bars if there was really a case of rape by deception.

It is generally accepted many men in our community that you got to ‘hype’ yourself up a bit to secure the affections of the ladies. While one would ordinarily dress sloppily, one would go the extra distance to dress in a certain way to attract the eyes of some lady. People have been known to even borrow clothes from their friends. Men have been known to also borrow cars to impress the ladies, lie about their actual incomes and even titles at the work place just to get that extra mark. Cleaners suddenly become Sanitation or Office Health Assistants or technicians. When these men land their targets, are they now guilty of rape by deception? And what about those who say they are in love when they are not but just want to get into someone’s pants?