Oh Kenya...

Kenya was never known for its black gold like Nigeria,

Or its diamonds like South Africa,

Instead it had that mystical swagger, that little shake of its gynormous African hips when confronted with a vice

An ability to tap into it and mould it into its own

An inherent solution to every problem, it would find its dearth in creating infinite choices but mainly at the bar

Kenya didn’t have copper like Zambia or the entrance to the Nile like Uganda

Despite all this it was still considered a masterpiece in and of itself

Sometimes we consider the fact that we are luckier without these things in our beloved country

Or we might turn out like war torn Southern Sudan,

Decrepit like the Democratic Republic of Congo,

Chopping off our people’s limbs like in Liberia.

Sometimes we stray but we never delve too far into the madness brought about by the almost incurable greed our riches may aid in destroying us

Our riches lie in our ability to cater to the neo-imperialists

Struggling every day to create a suitable image so that our version of diamonds, black gold and people can be turned into a pretty image featuring us as a touristas haven while casting aspersions between us and the rest of Africa. Carefully sweeping our problems under a rag until we’re holding onto frayed bits of string on top of our tableau of garbage. Taught ever so eloquently and frequently to deny that we have any issues for the sake of our imaginary peaceful & honorary status among white people (unlike in Zimbabwe?).

Our politicians know exactly how to stir us up right before elections. They claim to have the answer to our every problem from failed rains to dramatic increases in our girls dropping out of school due to preying teachers who knock them up or for men who knock them about because they have no jobs and have to find ways to prove themselves worthy of the term ‘man’. We fail to acknowledge that five years ago they made the same damn promises so yet again like sheep to the slaughter, we fall prey to their empty words, all the while pocketing the petty handouts flung to us by their so called adherents. Local youth promoting a culture of materialism that seems to fit more precisely on a 50Cent video but no matter- it’s all about a facade. They dress in baggy jeans, wife beaters and funky tees, some even rocking fake bling, branded in the logos and mentality of their “political parties”, tees that tout the faces, names and slogans of their so called ‘leaders’. Standing for one thing today, busy resolving to fight for another the next.

Once in a while, they get into it with members of a rival gang because that is unfortunately what they are. Gangs of marauding youth are given a grace period of power; heady stuff like potent {obeyah} juju from a Haitian witch doctor that inhabits their souls and beings for a time.They wield machetes and bay for blood...

During this period, they don’t have to explain to Mr Mohammed why they came into work late, dusty and looking more battered than pounded yam. Well, at least until the elections end. And all the while they are taking it upon themselves to relive African battles & moments of warriorship, the inimical leaders, progenies of a time, watch from afar able to distance themselves from the terror of the blood thirst that takes over their ignorant minions.

Let’s learn to love one another again. (I kinda ran out of words here...)

Warm Milk

I was walking back to my room after a somewhat dismal breakfast (who runs out of warm milk? We all need it, for cereal, tea, coffee) and ran into the tourist from the day before. Before she could say, ‘Jambo!’ I was on it like white on rice. Just not ‘Jambo’ though. I slide in my ‘morning’ and felt so much happier for having said it. ‘Jambo’ to me has a place and a time. Naru Moru was not just that place and the timing was off. ‘Jambo’ reeks of tourists on the beach in Mombasa. Maybe after a few drinks I’d be (more) congenial to ‘Jambo’?

I remember once, many years ago, a gaggle platoon of tourists chose to roam the estate we lived at and they unfortunately decided that this poor unsuspecting African child was the best option to yell at the first word they’d learnt. ‘Jambo’ they chorused and I looked at them aghast. I muttered a stony ‘hi’ and left them shocked and appalled that I wasn’t warm enough to repeat their dreadful cry. I was annoyed they assumed I didn’t speak English and they probably thought I was extremely churlish. But that’s neither here nor there. Teenage angst is hardly the moral of this story.

What does ‘Jambo’ mean anyway? Where did it come from? Why does it exist? I’d be more impressed if a tourist yelled at me ‘asapaaa’ or ‘wallaps’ or who knows. Maybe I’m just stuck in a little rift of my own, sneering at tourists with their dopamine & oxytoxin-laced, generalized terms of greeting and ashamed to admit that I am technically the same because I bear the same generalized greeting forms but don’t insist on them. I digress.

I assume this all boils down to the stereotypes people have of places and my main issue stems from the preconceived notions people from developed nations have towards people from developing nations. ‘ohmigosh u have running water’ ‘there’s tissue here?’ ‘you use toothpaste’ ‘you don’t wear skins’ ‘you don’t live in trees’. WTF!? Sure some places don’t have running water, sure some people still use leaves for tissue, sure some people use a medicinal twig to brush their teeth (apparently it’s so much better than an actual toothbrush or paste) but I don’t remember the last time I saw someone running around in skins (cue Dedan Kimathi circa pre- independence pre-my birth even) or lived in a tree. I really don’t think any Kenyan has achieved that feat despite my sister telling her pal in Engineering that where we came from my dad owned a whole forest and he made people pay rent to stay in the trees because ferocious beasts like lions stalked the forest floor waiting for some hapless human or animal to stroll by ready for… breakfast? At least they don’t need warm milk (cue title of this blog post). I’m just saying.

My ramble for that particular day in December ’09 (right before we went off to see the splendor of Isiolo town).