Monday 22 February 2016

"STREET URCHINS" vs THE GOVERNMENT.

The biting morning cold jolts him from this drug induced sleep.His eyes are heavy and unwilling,but the cold won't let him sleep some more.And the hunger.(Hunger is an irritant that just won't go away). Plus the gum's running out,and there's nothing as terrifying as that.That final thought puts him into a full flight mode.See,food a guy can always do without.Even water,as long as there's enough to wash away the city streets dirt to the already choking river,a guy can do without too.But gum,that's a no, no.No gum, no life.Though only ten,he's as hard as a rock.He's made not even one trip to the hospital since he was born in some allay,and left there to die.But he heroically defied death then,and is doing so now,as well.Even when some ailment strikes,he just 'gums' it away.He sees the world as his enemy,its inhabitants as the coldest,meanest things ever made.With their fancy clothes and cars,they have no time for another street urchin like himself.He knows he does not belong.Even the government,rather than help,hides him,whenever they have to receive some global dignitaries.Then,he's locked up in the police cells like a criminal,until all the guests are safely away.But he feels this is in futility,since his pictures long found their way to the West,and regularly,these pictures grace charity events,held in five star hotels,as a bait to the rich,so they can give more to the privately owned charity organizations.

Humble Abode

Under the bridge,that he's now turned into his home,he can see the city above him choking in traffic.An endless file of unmoving machines,that the enlightened have willingly enclosed themselves into,as they go through the same, daily rituals of life,that they are either too afraid to challenge or get out of.Though the air is not exactly fresh under the bridge,he wonders who between him and they,is inhaling more harmful gases.Sitting up,he neatly folds the cartons that pass for his mattress,and stacks them away,where no other street urchin like himself,in search of rest,can spot them.Then he picks his black sack,throws it on his back and begins the uphill climb to the world above,to receive more battering by its inhabitants,if that is what will keep him alive for one more day.

The first garbage dump that he visits,offers him disappointment.Others got there before him.Some guys never sleep,he mutters,and heads for the next one,a few hundred meters away,where he gets to have his breakfast.His menu,is roughly one and a half crumpled chapati and bread.The mold,gives it a taste that has no name,for the giver of names is yet to eat fresh mold.Then he has to get rid of the invading army of insects that,having got there first,are reluctant to leave,and he results to force.Picking one insect he tramples it under his feet,like he was trampling on to some huge tortoise,that has its back armor in place.In his small mind,he's trampling on to the unforgiving world.Or to whoever sentenced him to it,for to him,life is a sentence,that has to be served,not lived.How else would you describe life,for someone who has to fight for food with mongrels and insects with no known names.Someone who has to live on what the world has thrown away.

Then he proceeds to stock up as much as he could,knowing not how the rest of the day would turn out to be.He's heard that street kids are to be enlisted into some government programme,and intends to go and check it all out,in the city center, where he's most unwelcome.He wonders how he's ever going to get there with all the cops milling around him,and the middle-class frowning wherever he passes by.Office clerks and other white collared folks, with just a few hundred shillings on them,will frantically go through their pockets when he goes near them,fearing that he might just mysteriously pick out their entire pocket.And this being the the only financial barrier between them and starvation they take no chances,cheap ties and matching coats  not withstanding.
Having had his fill,this young boy, named Macha by his peers,is ready to take on the world,one more time.

The Venue

It would be around midday when he gets to the venue.There isn't much oxygen around since majority of the audience is made up of homeless kids,gum in hand,emitting strange odours.Some are so stoned,their eyes are bulging out of their sockets like red tennis balls.Speaking incoherently,they blab about this and that,but mostly its "msituletee". Clearly something is wrong here.And Macha doesn't know what.He edges closer,but his black sack is caught in between other equally black sacks,and the resultant friction produces an even blacker smoke.This is the one kind of smoke that bellows out of a source that has no fire.More like soot,but refined.The uniformed men in the dais cough and sneeze.The kids are having no such problems,and they conclude these polished uniformed men must all be sick.And they are partially right.When you ask a street kid to pay for anything else other than gum,you are sick.And that's what these men have just done.Though the recruitment to the government programme is supposed to be free of charge,the recruiting personnel has decided to charge some"processing fee",of a hundred shillings each.To this kid,a hundred shillings translates to a whole week's supply of gum.So someone wants a hundred shillings from them,they better have the equivalent quantity of gum.Or the transaction will be deemed null and void.And from the look of things,these pot-bellied officials do not seem to have that kind of entrepreneurial spirit.

May hem

So its true.Msituletee.Now Macha joins in the chants.Somebody,who looks like something someone dug up,throws something to the dais.The pot-bellied men jump to their feet,others cock their guns.But these kids have no idea what a gun is supposed to do,they being rather too stoned to care.They don't have the ability to develop that thing called fear.For some,death would be a welcome relief.They can even help you pull the darned trigger.An overweight man trips and lands onto some hapless woman,who lets out a scream that is swallowed up by the chants and the commotion.Their drivers,in an attempt to rescue their bosses,all make unsuccessful attempts to position their four by fours near the dais.One Landcruiser runs over a boy too stoned to participate in the protests,and who was unbelievably asleep on the tarmac.The lad jolts up to life and joins in the mayhem.The sound of approaching police car sirens,sound like reggae music to most kids,so they stay put.Black figures with blacker,old clothes pour onto the dais,screaming in Sheng,a language they made up.The microphone is yanked from its holder,and the culprit proceeds to clobber the master of ceremony with it,who in turn screams and jumps off the dais.Papers are torn and strewn all over the place.Somebody produces a matchbox and the rest clap,for the first time.And as the dais goes up in flames,the government officials scamper for safety,as cameras click away.Foreign journalists focus on the fire and the masses sprawled on the floor.Bottled water,meant for the officials,is in the urchins hands now,like prized weapons seized from a fleeing army after a fierce battle.Victory chants rent the air.

There is more celebration when the dais finally caves in,covering the government Coat Of Arms. But when the first shot rings out,that's the official announcement that the corruption culprits too, will have their defenders.Macha didn't even know that he was the one who stopped that bullet.When he too,like the dais before him,caved downwards,he thought it must have been from lack of a proper fix.He could see white,winged creatures beckoning,but thought it must have had something to do with gum,his faithful companion.But no.A minute later,life gently ebbed out of him,with a an ever so slight shudder and sigh.And with that,the whole city descended into chaos.

All because somebody somewhere,asked to be bribed,so he could do his job.Vehicles were set ablaze like refuse.Shops were vandalized,looted as robbers and pick pockets all joined in the mad scramble for the city.Briefly,hooligans came out of their holes,to take charge of the city,thereby exposing man kind as one huge volcano that has only managed to stay under because it hasn't found the right opening.A society of pretenders and actors who,if left free to be themselves,would instantly transform into destruction machines.

The Irony.

A week later,after another brief riot,Macha's body is collected from the city morgue by a government donated hearse.The corpse is inside a coffin worth half a million shillings,also donated by the government.How ironic,for it was a government bullet,that took Macha's life.After its officials demanded a bribe from street kids,so they could join some programme,sponsored by some Western nation.Nothing has been said of this programme since the riot.But there are reports in the media that even the overall secretary,had diverted half the funds to some off-shore Swiss account,thereby transforming it into personal wealth with a stroke of a pen.What a genius.Now women are naming their babies after her, in admiration.How the society glorifies that which it is supposed to shun.

Macha was laid to sleep eternally in a government cemetery,the same government that possessed no record of his existence,when he was alive.I guess,for some guys,only death will bring to life their existence.And that nothing short of a tragedy will make the system look their way.The rot,is so deep,now its taking away the lives of children,both wanted and unwanted,whatever that means.And as the officials present promise to "leave no stone unturned" (They said those same words about an assassinated, flamboyant minister,who's death is still a mystery,decades later)until they get the "perpetrators of this heinous act",one can almost smell the non-committal attitude,oozing out of this sick public relations debacle,that only succeeds in breeding more anger and resentment toward the system.

Friday 12 February 2016

ELSA SALSA SUNSHINE, MERU.

It took a crazy mind to raise her. After she was orphaned, few were crazy enough to give her a chance of  survival. And in the wild, even for the best, survival is never guaranteed. Brute strength and muscle, always carry the day, though even that, is just a fraction of what's required for survival in the wild. You'll need to add some top-notch brains and an unparalleled scheming prowess. And maybe then, just maybe, survival can be possible . But never guaranteed. Especially if you belong to a species of outright winners; The Lion.

But Elsa was different. She joined the fray as an underdog, for no one really stood for her.
The lions, being too busy fending for their respective prides, would obviously have no time for some orphaned cubs. In fact, these other lions would normally be the greatest danger to the lone unguarded cubs. Adult males will always sniff the life of any cub they haven't fathered. It's their very nature to do that. Pity and sympathy will fetch you very little accolades in the Lion Kingdom. That's just the way it is. And in the extremely unlikely event that another pride would be willing to adopt the cubs, that would attract serious danger to the pride's own cubs. From marauding males and jealous females alike. It would be an extra burden, in an already unforgiving wild of the Meru National Park, where Elsa and her siblings were born. Any other animal species would maybe, have teamed up, to ensure the young's growth, what with the untimely death of their mother. But these were lions. Their world is different. Starkly different. In their world, death is the order of the day. Death has to occur, in order for them to eat. A life has to depart, for theirs to be sustained. There are no two ways about it. You either take, or you are taken. Period. Simple rule of the Lion wild world.

Now the trouble with Baby Elsa, she began her life on a losing note. As if she was born prey, though she belonged to a renowned family of hunters. If hunger doesn't get her, the hyenas will. Or the fox, on her way to the beauty pageant contest. She was that defenseless. Without Mama, her dice was cast. She was a goner. Like some scholar said, you do not respond to a mosquito bite with a hammer. Maybe that's why no one saw it fit to waste valuable energy killing some cubs that nature would kill anyway. Within days. I guess the males were too busy with the real, wild issues (A king will not sit on his throne to settle a domestic quarrel, when there is the issue of  that meteor, that is rumored to be on a collision course with his Kingdom), to take notice of this small distraction .

The Odds.

Elsa, was a baby whose odds were placed mightily against her. For her biggest foe, he who took her mother's life, when she was only a few days old, also turned out to be her biggest defender. A stroke of luck. I say this because when the gentle conservationist, George Adamson, shot her Mum, it was in self-defense. Or he would have made dinner for Elsa and her sisters. He'd realize later, that the reason this huge lioness left from the bushes going for his throat, was because, back in that grassland, lay her little cubs. And he'd made the mistake of going too close to them. So Mama was only doing what all Mothers do best; Defend her family. But that leap, was Mama's last. Because George, who years later, ironically also died by the bullet, missed nothing with his rifle from such a point-blank range .So when the shots rang out, and birds fled from the park's treetops in fright and flight, Elsa's Mum lay dead. And Adamson was to make the cubs discovery later with a sunken heart. In that instant, Elsa and her sister's, 'Big One' and 'Lustica' were instantly orphaned, for Mama was raising them on her own. I guess Daddy had much earlier fled to Timbuktu, when the pregnancy results returned a positive result.

So you see. The odds, like i said, were stacked against these three. And even though the imposing Rotterdam Zoo made room for 'Big one' and 'Lustica', Adamson made Elsa stay, so he could raise her on his own. Think of it as his way of correcting a wrong he'd perpetrated, albeit involuntarily. He made her stay, so she could fight for her place in The Meru wild. The Dutch could have Big One and Lustica. But they were not about to deny us the privilege of hosting arguably the most famous lioness, since the man eaters of Tsavo, who have since become permanent residents of some museum in Chicago, Illinois, as if The East African Railway, which gave them their notoriety and fame, was constructed in the United States. We were keeping our Elsa.

There was nothing about her that suggested fame or near celebrity status.  No one could have told that she would pack movie Theaters decades later, half-a world away, in Las Vegas and Hollywood, Los Angeles. Or prod the world to move millions of dollars, in conservation efforts, like it did, not so long afterwards, for the endangered majestic Tiger in Sri Lanka, also half a world away. Even George and his wife Joy, attributed huge chunks of their fame to this elegant Lioness.Their cause's destiny and effectiveness was effectively transformed single-handedly by the amazing feats accomplished by her.The Big Cat diary,The Marsh pride, all these owe their fame and success to Elsa, for she made it before them, thus swinging the world's spot-light to the big cat of Africa. 
The Adamsons were heard more, listened to more, respected more. Even studied more. The Leakey's almost pale in comparison, their selfless efforts not withstanding. Because, unlike The Adamsons, they had no Elsa, of their own. Tragic.

Now, when three years after her mum's death, and months after her own successful re-introduction into the wild, Elsa showed up with cubs of her own at the Adamsons enclosure, nothing could have been more gratifying to the conservationist. Not all that begins on the downward, spirals further downward. Unless you let it. You stop digging, if you wake up to the fact that you are already in a hole, as a sign that, for you, the only place you are headed is upwards. He beamed with pride, and felt he'd repaid his debt, though not in full. He'd killed Elsa's Mum, yes in self-defense. But he'd raised Elsa the best way he knew how, and here were her cubs to prove it.Wow!.

Hope In Adversity

It took a grotesque picture of a starving child, with a vulture lurking in the background in wait, to swing the world into action in unprecedented proportions, to save Ethiopia, Southern Sudan and the Sub Sahara region from starvation , way back in the eighties. In the absence of that picture, the world, as we know it, was a mere few weeks away from an irreparable imbalance on humanity and the Eco-system, albeit largely in one region. A hunger-caused imbalance. I do not know if this particular child lived to see another day, or if she made dinner for the vulture. But she saved millions of lives. Her suffering eased the suffering of others. Hard to understand, but true.
Sometimes dawn may take long in coming. But it always comes eventually. 
Maybe the Sudanese kid never made it. But the current crop of Southern Sudan leaders, Singers, Writers, Educationists etc, all probably owe their very existence to her. And the photographer who took heart-wrenching picture, like the pilot who dropped that load aboard the plane christened 'Enola Gay' on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, was forever transformed by what he saw. So much so, that years later, when he could handle the guilt no more, Kevin Carter, a South African photographer ,tragically chose to take his own life.Only a few, in a world of billions, even know of the existence of that kind of human suffering, leave alone being witnesses to it.And those who do witness it, are never the same again.

Back to Elsa. She's buried inside Meru National Park. Or rather, the park is buried inside her. Her genes roam the earth, refusing to fade away, even as mankind keeps encroaching on what's rightfully theirs. Every time a pride conquers a valley, a hill, a grassland, i like to think its because Elsa chose to live. And God knew the reason why he sent George in Elsa's way. And Joy. And other unsung heroes of the wild, who trained and cared for Elsa, forcing her to go out there and hunt even when all she wanted was her peace, and saw her blossom into the one Lioness that, even after her re-introduction to the wild, refused to completely sever ties to man.
She went on to conquer the wild too, and only a bout of Babesis, more like Malaria to humans, could put her to sleep. And even that, it had to be on Adamson's lap. She went out on her terms. 

A Hotel's Honor For The Hunter.

Now her name, emboldened in eternal gold, is etched firmly in the annals of history. And life itself.

And like her offspring, now roaming the grasslands of The Serengeti, where George eventually had her offspring moved to, so will we. Multiply. Grow. Spread, far and wide. She defied death, when she stood zero chance of survival. And even in death, she defies it some more,  refusing to fade away. She seems to live more in death. Rising from obscurity to celebrity status, and surgically healing an ailing tourism industry, then on its deathbed, swinging the world's attention to this East African nation, richly endowed.

In tribute to this great addition to life, and to every one else who beats the odds, overturns the patterns, the sequence and the normal, who challenges the 'order' while daring to dream, stands the elegant posture of Elsa Hotel, Meru.Kenya.

Long Live Elsa. 

Tuesday 2 February 2016

LOVING EVERYTHING, BUT OUR OWN.

With the current obsession and craze over everything Nigerian,soon we might have to relocate entirely to the West African nation.But seeing as they have enough trouble on their plate already,what with Boko Haram kidnapping school girls and hiding them in mars,where no one can find them without first manufacturing a space-ship,i'm not certain we would be welcome.Harambee stars need not bother making the trip,should we decide to relocate.For they would be turned back at the airport,since this soccer-mad nation would obviously want nothing to do with men who can't kick a football to save their lives.That,i can authoritatively report.You can accuse me of being unpatriotic here,but that's precisely also the reason why most Kenyans will watch the Zambian football on Supersport,on the day Kenya is losing to Djibouti's second string side and drawing with Somalia,a country without a soccer stadium

Now, this aping culture or situation is making life hard for our brothers from Kiambu and Mukurweini,who speech wise, can only successfully imitate a two-year old of any nationality and race.No matter how hard they try,they will not be mistaken for the West African man any time soon.Their speech is always betraying them.The sisters are all over the 'oga brodas',who, knowing that there is a ladies wind-fall in this East African nation,are landing in droves,making more noise than the timid Kenyan man,who has been battered by hard economic times to silence.Never mind the means,when it comes to cash,these brothers are running the dating scene.The Congolese have now been relegated to opening car doors for the ones who,just a few months ago,were falling all over themselves for anything from Congo.The light skinned foreigners now have to settle for a wave,and may be a pat on the cheek as she waltzes by,with an 'oga broda' in tow.Now they look rather scary from all the skin-lightening they did, when competition for them was at the highest.Used,spent and now addicted to heroine and crack,the Congolese now have to give way to the Nigerian.And the situation is not helped by the sudden interest in women head gear and that long African dress(some of our curvy ladies actually look gorgeous in that),that our ladies have developed.

But its the Kenyan guys who,in an attempt to compete, end up looking rather ridiculous in the West African garb.I understood when we dropped our accents for the American one,and ended up sounding like the Kalahari bushmen.Even when we ditched our everything for China,i took that in my stride.But under no circumstances will i let a retired primary school teacher from Mogotio, walk past me,raising dust and debris behind him, as he tries the balancing act on this gown,that a half-blind tailor made from the backroom.If we are going to copy everything else, i suggest we leave this one out.Here is why.

West African Garb.

This gown,will almost always have this shiny look that blinds all and sundry.Its texture can make a woman's dress any day.A West African man and his wife,can go to the same dress maker and come out not only dressed, but also both looking alike,having used the same clothe material.That in Kenya is an unacceptable crime.And if you are going to show up in the local watering hole later on,you'll see the reason why.You will be accused of having been 'sat on',and therefore a bad influence to everything male.Men will laugh when you speak,not because they love your jokes,but because you look like a pencil top,in that cap that matches the garb.You will notice Njoki is not as enthusiastic  to serve you that cold beer as she was the day before. And you have no right to blame her-any respecter of decent men wear,would rather not be seen with you,in case someone decides to snap away,and before you know it,you are on the Magazine cover of a children comic book.
 You will be made to understand that in Kenya, there are two things; a man and a woman.And that despite vehement campaigns by the ladies to yank the trousers ownership away from men,these two avoid sharing clothe material.And because you most probably do have a beer belly,it will be brought to your attention that pieces of clothing are hanging on it, swaying from left to right,not unlike the traditional healer.
At the bus stage,the conductor will address you as "Pastor",before picking out the distinct smell of a stubbed out cigarette,probably stuck somewhere in one of the four or is it five arm outlets (Why is it that Pastors are always the ones being used as fashion Guinea pigs?) .Some guys,who also believe in fairy tales,will believe that you have actually been to Lagos and that, that's where you purchased your garb,to be safe from the country's fashion police.Never mind the fact that the furthest you have gone to, since your sister's wedding in Machakos,is that monthly visit to your Sacco offices.

Forgive my lack of understanding,but if you are going to pay for clothes to wear,i would expect all pieces to be properly sown into place,eliminating the distracting hand motion of sweeping the entire side mass to the top of the shoulders,only for it to slide right back down in defiance.I suggest that the 'brodas' make up their minds where they want this piece to be,because enough glasses have been broken already.Now Kenyan men are being worn by this garb,thereby rendering the council cleaners jobless,for it will sweep an entire street and store garbage somewhere in there.Its a ridiculous look,and once again,forgive my lack of exposure and understanding.Its true Africa needs to embrace its own,and in that spirit Kenyan men are risking fire and lightning, as they trot in this gown,tripping and falling all over town.In the same measure,let the West Africans start cladding in the Maasai attire and the exchange will be complete.Or strapping the Turkana stools in those garbs.

The Risks 

I don't even want to get into the risks that Kenyan men put themselves into,as they ape the Nigerian.You see the Nigerians have mastered the art of walking in these garbs,though they occupy huge spaces whenever they walk in twos or threes,because of that inflated,flowing look,giving you the feeling of a typical African,who's already late for all his appointments for the day.(You can't be looking forward to a busy day and still put this thing on). Two of them will walk into an airport terminal,and The White House will be notified of an infringement in one of their airports.But its hard for them to either spill or knock anything down with it,unless its deliberate.They are skilled.For our Kenyan brothers,the aftermath of a man who passed by minutes ago,will still be knocking down everything placed on nearby tables, long after they have taken to their seat.He'll spend the entire day muttering 'pole ndugu','pole dada',as he tries to make amends for his blunders.And if sunset comes before he's dragged on the streets by a matatu he thought he had alighted from safely,only for it to speed off with one half that remained on board,then glory be to God.Walking along Luthuli Avenue in this garb,means you'll be walking five steps forward,then you are pulled three backwards.You'll arrive home late,dirty and battered.Put these pieces of clothing on,only if you are driving your own car.Again,please forgive my little exposure.Am just a little worried about the well-being of a man who chooses to abandon the traditional,well-cut suit to embrace pieces of clothing that remind you of some African nation's flag,complete with the emblem,on a windy day.

Guys,i want to assure you,our ladies will troop back to us the same way they trooped out,without resulting to suicidal tendencies.By the time they do Botswana,they will have realized that there is nothing so tragically wrong with us,just a torn pocket here and another there that has been plucked out all together.If the Congolese man has been dumped,then trust me even the Nigerian will be knocked out too.We just have to learn to be patient,because Nigerians tend to take a little bit longer.But we must keep faith and not go overboard in search of our sisters,they will come back.Let's leave the garb to the Nigerian dude,and hope he trips and falls flat on his nose,as he goes to settle the bill.For now,that's all we can do because the law is clear about shooting people you don't like.We look ridiculously funny when we abandon what we know,in search of new territories that we know nothing about.Because one thing is for sure-you will never be better than the inventor of the game.


Kinyuagm@gmail.com