What to Say?

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In the days since I came back from Kenya I have suffered from a serious malaise about writing. You see, most times I write frivolous, light-hearted stories, or blog posts. The way things were (and remain) in Kenya, I did not want to be another voice muddying the waters, or to seem to be in my own ‘let-them-eat-cake’ world at a time like this. I felt impotent. Expressing my feelings at everything that has happened has been difficult especially in light of all the good things that were happening on a personal level in the midst of all the chaos. I haven’t written much since Jan 2. I’ve realized that the only way to get out of the funk is to write my way out. There are many excellent blog posts out there about Kenya and the crisis…I won’t attempt to analyze the politics of the situation here, being no pundit. I just want to put into words in one post, some of my own and my family’s experiences.

I will not forget:

Listening to and trying to console my sister’s househelp as she recounted her experiences in Kibera, I thought she was living what we were only watching on TV. Surrounded by GSU to contain protests to within the slum, going in and out of Kibera was treacherous most days. We were never sure if she was OK until we saw her. She told us of watching her neighbours pilfer through the belongings of fellow residents who had either traveled upcountry to vote or left hurriedly fearing for their safety. Mary was really angered by the fact that some of the perpetrators were women that she knew by sight as being from the neighbourhood. She was angry when she overheard some women declare how they should go to Jamhuri Park to beat up their neighbours who’d fled there for safety. The bitterness in her voice was heartbreaking. Mary’s reluctance to leave Kibera for the safety of my sister’s house was great; though it might not be much, her home was still something of her own. Eventually we convinced her that she deserved to sleep safely, that her house was no longer home to her. I think she was worried that in light of how neighbour had turned on neighbour, she could not count on an employer from another tribe to a.) open their home to her or b.) keep their word about housing her as long as she was employed by them. Mary moved in over three days (it was not safe enough for us to drive to her house and help carry her belongings), helped by some mkokoteni guys. I felt better knowing Mary was not in Kibera. Her anger would still burst out when she caught sight of politicians pontificating on TV or listened to news broadcasts…but her faith in humanity was somewhat restored through the acts of kindness by her different employers (she works for several households throughout Nairobi). Everyone was genuinely concerned, and everyone made sure she was still paid in spite of the chaos around the city. How many others could not count on employers to rise above the fear/tribalism that gripped the city?

Sitting in the house as protesters marched along Argwings-Kodhek road, singing and chanting “Kibaki aliiba kura!” amongst other slogans. My cousin called from their house which happens to be kitty-corner to ODM house, “Do not even think of leaving your house. They are coming!” Those apartment dwellers who dared to peep out of their fortified windows were met with taunts from the crowd below: “We will come for you tomorrow!” I regretted not taking up my parents’ offer to spend my second day in town away from it all, in the relative ‘safety’ (more on this) of Kikuyu. The GSU came. They must have used water cannons in their attempts to clear the crowds because we didn’t see any teargas in the air (which certainly wasn’t the case along Ngong Road- only the very brave or v. foolish dared). Having lived through the protests in the ‘90s when there was agitation for multi-partyism, the sounds of crowds, angry, loud and male, brought back memories of those days. I was afraid of spontaneous violence breaking out (and it being directed at us). I remember thinking that we were sitting ducks behind the tall stone wall and barbed wire fencing. If the mob decided to ‘invade’, where would we go?

Digression: Some moments during the ‘siege-of-Kilimani’ had me shaking my head:

During the entire day, my sister, driven stir crazy by being housebound all day lay in bed having what I call a ‘Scarlet-on-the-divan’ moment (you know, in ‘Gone with the wind’ when she says something like “We will go home to Tara!”). She declared, “When this is over, I am going to Salongo and ordering the biggest steak that they can find!” To me, the name Salongo will forever evoke that day. I had to laugh (mainly because I had no idea what/where/who Salongo was! While Nairobi literally burned, she was thinking of Salongo! Now I know what cabin fever is- we stopped by Salongo for a drink shortly before I left, I liked it. I can see why one would consider it as a first port-of-call after the ‘siege’. I haven’t tried the steak yet.

My sisters’ neighbours include a Korean couple- largely unremarkable people, I hardly saw them…exept on the day of the ‘siege’. As the angry crowd drew closer, their chants louder, the Koreans trotted to the gate, opening it (not the little pedestrians’ gate, but the main gate) so that they could take a peek. “Are you nuts!” thundered one of the other neighbours. “Keep the gate shut!” Yeah, as in, someone had to tell them that this wasn’t Zaccheus, Jesus and the Sycamore tree; this was a potentially harmful situation! Needless to say the Koreans scuttled shamefacedly, ears blazing, back home. The sight of them running in little mincing steps back to their house, complete with the sounds of their verandah doors being bolted shut…priceless.

Heading towards Westlands after all the chaos of one day had died down (or so I thought), we encountered a mob along Argwings Kodhek, just as they began uprooting bus shelters but before they descended on and destroyed the store at the Engen gas station. Quickly executing a Safari Rally-esque U-turn, I beat a hasty retreat. A couple of us flashed our lights and honked at oncoming motorists to warn them that ‘ni kubaya!’. Most heeded the warnings and performed similar turns. Except one genius in a spanking new Mercedes Benz with diplomatic plates who either mistook our flashing lights and honking for merry-making Nairobi-style or assumed that as a diplomat was untouchable, smiled at us, waved, and kept going on his way. There were no news reports of a burned out luxury saloon so I guess he got away. 

As they say in Kikuyu: “Gutire citathekago!” Meaning, sometimes, even in the direst of circumstances you just have to laugh.

From the beginning, the violence in the Rift Valley has been personal for many people in the Kikuyu area. The population has grown, putting pressure on finite land resources. Most plots are now too small to be further subdivided, meaning that over the years, locals have had to move to wherever they can buy land. Some, unfortunately, are now displaced, returning to homesteads that are already catering to too many family members as it were. My parents have hired employees that were victims of the clashes of 1992, and ’97. Two sisters, along with a really gentle man (from having a piece of land of his own to being a hired hand in his sixties) have been the ‘faces’ I will always put to the clash victims- they are the fortunate ones because they survived. I wonder though what survival of that kind means. By the time I got home, the church in Eldoret had been burned, Kisumu was ablaze and the horror show was well under way. News of violence elsewhere had been coming in for days, and I watched Waithera’s face each time her mobile phone rang. I was so scared that it would be bad news from her family.
Our neighbours were the first to hear. Their uncle was dead. Hacked to bits because he was known to have negotiated and lobbied in the community for the safe return of many clash victims in the past…peace makers were not wanted. The murdered man had previously spent time in prison, detained, during Moi’s rule, fighting for the same multi-partyism that would give his killers a guise under which to take his life…I wonder whether the killers knew of his sacrifice? Did they care? All they saw was another person to kill.

Next, while visiting my cousins, I found out that they had a relative stuck in Kakamega. His only mistake was paying a visit to the home of a friend from that part of the country, immediately after he had voted on the 27th. He only got out by luck and the technology which allowed family members to buy him an e-ticket on Kenya Airways, then the intervention of good Samaritans to get him to Kisumu unharmed.

With images of the mayhem in Kisumu still fresh, we heard that my mothers’ relatives had escaped from there with nothing but their lives. Their business, their lives, friendships, built over decades, with hard work, sweat and toil destroyed. Their employees called. They were concerned, not for their jobs (which are now gone), but for the wellbeing of fellow human beings. They spoke of the destruction and the looting (by some of their preferred customers arriving in time to ferry the ‘spoils’ away). They spoke of the kindness of employees, and friends who helped them out at great risk to themselves. Ranging in age from toddlers to adults, they are currently living in cramped conditions with my mother’s family, just relieved that they still had relatives who were willing to take them in. I don’t know if they will ever go back. I suppose with time, they might, but the look on their faces, it’s not bitterness, it’s the shell-shocked looks I can’t forget. I don’t think it had really hit them what had happened.

On-going: my parents received threats allegedly from the local Mungiki, because they have the ‘audacity’ to hire Kenyans from all over the country in various capacities rather than locals. I felt angered by this. When I consider all the sacrifices made, the opportunities created, the support (material or otherwise) given by my parents expecting nothing in return. As members of local school boards they have fought for efficiency and transparency in handling of funds, and encouraged improvement of standards of education for local children. As members of their church they have volunteered countless hours for projects ranging from teaching Sunday school to overseeing the building of a new church. My father, a Ph.D volunteers his time twice a week, teaching ‘lowly’ primary school mathematics and science at one of the local schools (much to the shock of some fellow retirees who would find it impossible to charge nothing for their decades of experience). For free, he introduces school children to the idea that learning can be fun, that math is interesting, and that they, like him (a local), can succeed. Both have established scholarships, raised funds aggressively from family and friends, to make sure that local kids’ dreams do not end after KCPE. My mother has hired local women even when we didn’t really need help with housework just so their kids did not starve, allowing them to earn an honest wage. In my heart, I am sure I know some of the authors of these spiteful letters. They are the same idiots who wanted to drive away our neighbours who were from other tribes. One man, a Kisii, whose store has been a fixture at our shopping centre to the point that it lent its name to that block of shops, has left. Chased away by the bigotry of a few, chased away by what he has seen/heard happen elsewhere.

When violence started to break out across the country, and as local families began receiving their kin displaced from other parts of the country, my father was part of a team calling for peace in our neighbourhood, arguing that ‘revenge’ for what happened to the returning IDP (internally displaced people) should not be in the hands of emotionally overwrought (sometimes high on drugs and alcohol) young men. For a time, they listened. The sharpened pangas were returned to their original, real jobs: slaughtering animals at Dagoretti Market, or farming. Then came the ugliness of ‘Mungiki’, with threats- specifically naming my parents. He left the group for fear of risking the lives of our employees, tenants, neighbours and family should the threats against him or my mother be carried out.
What irks me: a person who has never applied for a job with my parents or been turned down unfairly; a person who has been offered more chances than many in Kenya ever get in a lifetime* feels that they have the right to decide that my parents deserve to die? Many have grabbed at the opportunities, building lives for themselves. Some have fallen through the cracks due to various factors, leaving them ill-equipped to be employed in anything more than menial jobs- my parents and others have tried to create opportunities that offer more to them. A few choose not to work hard, or have let circumstances define the course of their lives. These few are the instigators of violence, and have on many occasions been jailed for law-breaking activities within the community and in Nairobi.

Aside*:
Our area has plenty in comparison to most parts of the country. For local children, there are enough schools to go around. Employment opportunities can be found in the many educational institutions within steps of the village-throw a stone and you can hit a Teacher-training college, a University, a Theological college, and several hospitals. Healthcare is not inaccessible since we have had a Presbyterian-run mission hospital nearby since after the turn of the century. There is farmland that is fertile offering more employment and income for many. Though hunger has sometimes been known to occur, most people go to bed on a somewhat full stomach. Due to close proximity to Nairobi, commuting to work is an affordable option.

The last story is of a friend whose mother and two sisters were displaced in Rift Valley. One sister is pregnant. Her story was made even sadder by the fact that she had previously lost a child in a fire. The new baby was a new start for her. Instead, she showed up in Nairobi, blood pressure skyrocketing, an emotional wreck, a pre-term delivery almost guaranteed. What can you tell this woman?

Can any of our politicians really see what has happened in our country? I don’t think so. The whole time I was in Nairobi, I would go to places like the Junction or Westgate Mall or Yaya Centre and feel sad at what I felt was a general detachment from the reality of the rest of the country. But for the lottery that is life, I could have been one of the people in Rift Valley, displaced and homeless. On the other hand, I understood that going out to dinner, buying that smoothie at Dormans, buying chicken at Kenchic, getting fruits from the guy outside Kilimani primary, getting my hair cut at ‘Supercuts’, using Wambua’s taxi to get to town while seemingly callous at first glance, it also meant that someone did not lose a job, or starve. 

I met this man at the Shell gas station in Hurlingham. E. was in the store buying something, I was in the car, just watching the world go by, when I saw this walking bunch of flowers with a short guy behind it. The man was one of several that sell flowers and fruits etc in that general area. He tapped on my window, and I got out to talk to him. He offered me the three bunches for a thousand shillings. The roses were beautiful. I didn’t need roses, we weren’t even going home. He told me how business was slow since everyone was staying away (there had been two days of skirmishes that week) and it was now the end of the day so he just wanted to sell the flowers. He was making an honest living. I bought the roses, I smiled at him and I wished him well. Throughout my stay I kept doing this. I knew that for a certain tier of workers, employment is that much more precarious (some will lose their jobs simply because their employers are malicious, not because of economic hardship).

The day I left Nairobi, I went to buy some jewelry and the salesperson told me how she was being evicted by her landlord since he didn’t want anyone to target his property over her ethnicity. She had no time to find a new place, because she did not want to ask for time off. She was worried that she might lose her job- the store had hardly made any sales since the days after Christmas, yet the rent on the store was in the thousands. As I drove out of the parking, I thought I recognized one of our politicians walking into the underground parking, and for a fleeting, murderous moment, I wanted to just floor the accelerator and send him flying! But what would that achieve? I graciously let the man cross and went on home, listening to Nyota Ndogo’s ‘Watu na Viatu’, wondering what the future holds.

For me, writing this post is a form of ‘dealing with it’. I am just one of over 30 million. Multiply these stories and you realize that few people in Kenya are untouched. I am convinced that everyone who has played a part in fuelling hatred, in taking lives, destroying property and funding violence will pay for it in one way or another: you cannot do to another human being something unspeakable and expect it to have no effect on you thereafter.

It is not all terrible news. I feel that there have been as many, no, definitely more Kenyans doing good things during this time as there were Kenyans destroying, inciting, looting, raping and killing. The donations that people poured out generously, the kind acts of strangers, the stories of which there were (and are) too few from any of the news sources, made me proud of what good people can do in a time of crisis. I have to commend the small ways in which ordinary citizens, many of them removed from the calamity by the nature of their social status or geographic location, came out to help. Rather than just pointing fingers in blame, many have chosen to do good. Hopefully with time, the goodness and kindness of people will overcome the evil and malice that has been unleashed.

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