The Ultimate Kenyan Dream

A palatial home. For a mere driver of a university vice-chancellor.  It left many Kenyans in awe of the exceptional business acumen of a man holding one of the least desirable careers. It turns out the only qualification is a complete lack of integrity.

I hereby corrupt – which is now a cherished talent of ours – a line from a movie I once watched: do not be addicted to integrity; you will resent its absence.   

The audacity of the Mara University heist does not surprise anymore. Hairdressers and receptionists have made away with millions of shillings before; paling the driver’s if attempts at comparing it are made.  

Kenyans, in their characteristic manner, decried the blatant theft by – and this is a country that prides itself in a constitution that dedicated a whole chapter on integrity – inquiring where they can get such a lucrative driver’s position.  Overnight, being driver was the most coveted job.

It turns out that, despite constantly decrying the vice, the ultimate Kenyan dream is make way too much money with the least effort. Being in charge of public funds gives one the same status as that of a Fortune 500 Company Chief Executive Officer.

There have been numerous news of heists that have served one core function: to be awed by the mindboggling figures being quoted by the media. Then we move on until such a time we shall be required, as a civic obligation, to be awed by another mindboggling plunder of public funds.

Goldenberg, Angloleasing, Eurobond, SGR, Arror group of dams and the latest, Mara Heist have come and gone. If not, Kenyans shall apply the time tested mantra – forget and move on even if a container of carcinogens is imported, and, which is often the case, cleared by Kenya Bureau of Standards.

The question that courses through the minds of many right thinking Kenyans (and I here I mean any person who could use an extra one billion shillings) is: are we angry enough at rampant theft and abuse of public office?

The answer is: yes. Many are angry at the fact that it is someone else stealing and not them. Many are angry that they have to persevere through a 5-8 job (wake up at five in order to get to work at eight, and leave at five in order to get home at eight) and millions others who are enduring joblessness.

Many Kenyans cannot simply turn down an opportunity to make money through dishonest means. Straight from matatu touts to doctors the potential to be corrupt is limitless. I can’t even talk about the police. In fact, as recognition of their distinguished service, they have been rewarded with new uniforms for one critical law enforcement purpose – to make them visible.

It is not a wonder why Kenyans keep electing leaders with questionable backgrounds. Even if they possess the integrity of pubic lice, they will be vetted, and voted in quite overwhelmingly. It helps if that man is monied, as it helps the electorate to exercise their inalienable right of asking for handouts.

Once a leader has been accused of making away with public money, the electorate will come out in large numbers and – get this clearly – elect them to public office if they don’t occupy one already. This is often done as a sign of protest. (I know one such leader who is already preparing his victory speech for 2022).

But there’s hope. There is always the light at the end of the tunnel especially if you get the tender to supply electric poles. If you are informed you already know that this has been taken.

It all boils down to what an individual feels about corruption. Most people start as honest citizens until they are confronted with a moral dilemma of whether to use money meant to purchase life-saving drugs for millions of people or purchase a private plane.

As Kenyans whose blood can be identified with Wanjiku’s, there’s nothing we can do except accept and move on until such a time we shall be called upon to make poor electoral decisions. These are the only times we truly care about the fate of our country. 

Breaking Down

The sight of your name in my inbox,

Reminds me of you, of the wrongs

Some that I did, most that you imagined

And you blew them up to the right

The songs that we loved to listen

Break me apart with the memories

Unable to think about anything else

Except your love, your touch, you kiss

Without a doubt, you are gone forever

There’s no energy left in me to fight

Every single day there’s this and that

Unable to love each for a week

 There were no lies on my part

And if there were, kindly forgive

If you can, because I never found a wrong

I couldn’t forgive in you

The sight of your name in my inbox,

Reminds me of you, of the wrongs

Some that I did, most that you imagined

And you blew them up to the right

The songs that we loved to listen

Break me apart with the memories

Unable to think about anything else

Except your love, your touch, you kiss

Without a doubt, you are gone forever

There’s no energy left in me to fight

Every single day there’s this and that

Unable to love each for a week

 There were no lies on my part

And if there were, kindly forgive

If you can, because I never found a wrong

I couldn’t forgive in you

Back

She doesn’t even beg to get back

She strolls back like it was all normal

Like it felt all too good when she wanted out

When all I felt was something drain out of me

Something that smelt like life or love

I thought we were done for good

Every single thing we held dear – I

Felt them disintegrate to a point –

A point I didn’t want to try anymore

Neither did I want to care

Yet, when you seem to have made your mind

You stroll into my life like we are some lovers

Who had been away from each for a while,

ours’ been a year – just imagine a year

of waiting, longing for something ungraspable

a part of me died from the constant bickering

and I have often – always -  watered it

with the thoughts of you, wondering incessantly

if I had erred so much to worthy of forgiveness

the more I did, the more I wanted you close by

Review: A Clergy Man's Daughter - George Orwell

In a bid to fill the void that sometimes creeps out of thin air, I chanced upon George Orwell’s A Clergy Man’s Daughter. I had previously read Animal Farm, but it did not register in my mind as a novel worth investing my time on. Just like sci-fi movies I do not find talking animals particularly attractive. Perhaps, I’d find it more alluring to watch a lamppost withstanding the pouring rain, likening its loneliness to my own. Sometimes.

For that matter, I left Animal Farm halfway, just like a million other novels I have, both hard copy and soft copy. As fate would have it, a ninja of mine passed me an assignment, a story to review. Shooting The Elephant, it was. I read the story twice and produced the a thousand words within a record time. many nights later, when sleep evaded, I absently began reading other stories that were part of George Orwell’s collection Shooting the Elephant, which was the title, included.

First I started with the review of the stories. The fantastic turn of phrase was near orgasmic, that is, if you have never had the taste of another’ nakedness – the opposite gender preferably. The review was effusive of Orwell’s stories, saying that he actually wrote what he experienced. He was a police officer, so to say, in India during the days of the British Empire. He actually was born in India.

After five years of service, he visited England and decided that the perils of India were not worth it. he decided to stay and became a tramp. He wrote about his street days, where they picked cigar butts with other tramps on the street. It was actually the first story I read and I was overwhelmed by the way Orwell pieced his words. None felt out of place, all neatly sitting by each other, as the story bowed pleasantly to you, as though you were a powerful king.

I quickly devoured the story, and then another and another. For the after taste of a good story lasts ages after you have eaten, I pored over my usual poring places to see if I can find more of Orwell’s brilliance. You see, the way Orwell writes, does not arouse a sense of pity, even if he were to write about the pain (mostly his pain) of a cancer affliction. He is more like ‘laugh at my pain’ kind of writer.

Luckily I found A Clergyman’s Daughter, which is the story I am currently reading and it is the basis of this piece. (Sorry for the long intro if you are still here). The story features a character named Dorothy, the daughter of a Reverend Charles Hare, Rector of St. Athelstan’s church. Dorothy is a dutiful girl, who prepares everything for her father every morning before going to church for prayers. The morning prayers only attract three people; an old woman, Dorothy and her father. That makes two people in the congregation. Sundays seem have a better attendance by the locals of Knype Hill.

Dorothy takes care of the family’s meals. They are only two of them since her mother died, but they have a housemaid whose brains begin working only after seven in the morning. That leaves Dorothy to take care of chores earlier than that. Now, I don’t really think so highly of girls named Ellen. I will be bound to be prejudicial towards them as has been my norm since I met a girl name Lucy. My recollections of her are actually hazy, but I remember the dread she filled me as a kid. (story for another day).

The family does not make enugh money to make ends meet. The characters in this story do not live in age where there’s Tala and branch, so Dorothy takes everything on credit, including meat. Who does that, you may ask. Apparently that’s the way of white people – to buy meat on credit. Her father, even though he is a man of god, does not allow himself to be bothered by trivial things as providing for meals. He even sarcastically asks Dorothy if has started a poultry farm if they partake eggs twice in a row.

Every morning Dorothy prays that the butcher man does not demand she pays the bill. However, sometimes god does not work that way. The butcher sends the bill anyway. She tells her father about it and he drifts away in the golden days, telling her that there are debts that lasted thirty years back in his heydays. And creditors or shop owners never bothered people. He tells her she can shop elsewhere, and proceeds engaging in fervent reverie of his days, when things were good and creditors did not bother people, at least for thirty years.

As Dorothy goes shopping, vowing to avoid the bothersome butcher, he meets a man known as Mr. Warburton, whom can be described in our local parlance, as a sponsor. He is as unsightly, physically, as many that grace this concrete jungle of Nairobi. Mr. Warburton is widower, and relentless womanizer. He is also rich, certainly, Dorothy tries to evade him, but he is not the kind of man to be let go off easily. He is forty eight for god’s sake. So the daughter of a clergyman and a old man walk around the town giving gossip mongers juicy stories to tell. They have what Orwell calls a connexion, having liased romantically in the past. The town knew about it.

He propositions Dorothy to come to his house that evening for he had a special visitor. The visitor is an author a book Dorothy denies having read. The book itself is sort of pornographic in nature, just lie the way a forty eight year old would like. She agrees after his relentless budging. And she goes out to shop. Just like that, without asking Mr. Warburton for money. And she is in deep debt.

That’s where I am now. I’ll let you know about what happened, at this time next year.

Maverick Chang'aa Makers

Photo/Aljazeera

It is a place where men and women rise every morning to solely devote their god-given talents at – take note of this – being unproductive. On the bright side, these are extreme hobbies of ICU patients, lunatics, and certain animal species, whom, for lack of a better word, I’ll call politicians. I was part of this esteemed entourage of people for one impeccable intellectual reason: to dream-up creative ways of wasting a surplus commodity in our hands which was TIME.

And for most days, there was none. We resorted to raising our antennas really high in order to spot a drunken man or woman, upon which we’d go where he or she is coming from. Sometimes, when they have not passed out, we’d ask them where an oasis has sprung so we’d quench our thirsts. One time, through sheer bravery, we braved fierce winds that blew so hard that it appeared to rain horizontally. In the distance, a dark sheet of falling rain covered in a meticulous manner from earth to heaven. And we were heading that direction.

At times we sat perched on raised grounds, like people suddenly struck by a disease that made everyone hold a solitary meeting and wonder how he or she would spend his thirty hours available for the day. During these solemn moments, I actually could feel my intelligence quotient hurtling down like a Boeing that has been shot down by a rocket propelled grenade. It wouldn’t have been a nice experience for people with single digit IQs – the process would feel like a crushing can experiment, leaving the victim permanently retarded. On medical grounds, however, such a person makes an excellent voter.

On this part of the hemisphere, illicit brew is so rampant that it has been determined to be beyond spiritual redemption. A catholic priest has since urged people to use their heads which is a brilliant piece of advice ever given considering that the head is where the mouth is usually located. The priest seemed concerned by the fact that people are spending their extra daily allotment of hours to come up with ways of ingesting chang’aa. The only person who has so far been proven to be innovative is the area chief – he uses the foot. However, his innovation is so detested that people flee when they see, hear, or feel his presence.

The dens are exclusively manned by brash and bulky women who have since discovered the scientific reasons of not giving a s**t. You never want to offend them because they’ll fire a salvo of insult as if your carbon emission is the leading polluter of the ozone layer. They quietly move in and out, dishing the precious liquid, sometimes covered with sooth, with their sniper-like eyes scouting for the next trouble maker. They make a living this way, undeterred by the threat of arrest, or even death.

As a sign of sharing – but I call it lack of business acumen – these dens serve a paltry of their brews. There’s never a surplus in each house. By eight am, you won’t get any busaa in the entire village. The approach used in busaa is – you blink you miss. Even chang’aa is available in little quantities. They’d even pack them in medicine bottles to give someone the illusion that they’ve drunk too much. You move from one den to another the whole day if you are really motivated to destroy your liver. And folks here are quite motivated. Based on available evidence, heaven doesn’t serve these kinds of liquids, and they are determined to make the best of it before the time comes. Hell, they won’t even go to heaven but that’s not a matter of immediate concern. Perhaps, the last prayers will charm God into admitting them to His humble residence.

Perhaps you could be wondering if there’s any honor in living such a pathetic lifestyle. With enough foresight, you can see that a majority of these people have already time travelled to 2022, and they know how they want their lives to be. And this is it: they want to make one hustler even much richer while they pass on the cherished tradition of loafing time to their children.

On a serious note, that is not the way to live. Personally, I learnt that there is no honor in drinking when you can’t even write about.

***

From the experience, I made a note to stop drinking.

  

If You Must Leave

If you must leave, leave me with my sad songs

Take the memories with you,

For they will be a baggage I won’t be able to carry,

My hands are already full,

With poetry, and, significantly, whisky-

Take my sanity with you, I do not need it anyway

If you must leave, leave me with sad songs, poetry, and whisky

Daughter Of Man

Scrubbed, wiped, mopped,

Bent, crouched, reaching places

That, ordinarily, I wouldn’t even think about

And at last, a sigh,

That a daughter of man wouldn’t find me repulsive

-everywhere spotlessly clean (including myself and the toilet wall)

And then, daughter of man did not show up

Leaving me with cleanliness I hadn’t gotten used

The roaches that listened to my sad songs,

The sad lament of my heart, of longing-

All gone with the subtle whisper of your uncaring attitude,

Daughter of man

Now tell what to do with all this cleanliness…

Tell me, daughter of man