Mad men Laughing; Cows and Dogs Talking; Eugene Replaces Mutula

11 May

(Curtains open)

Two mad men standing by the road are looking at grazing cows. The shepherd has a dog and a walking stick.


First mad man: See those cows talking over there…

Second mad man: Cows never talk…dogs do…

First mad man: Fine. Look, the dog has moved closer to the cow.

Second mad man: Now you can say there is a conversation going on there!


Eugene Wamalwa is a pointed minister for Justice and constitutional Affairs?  Really? Eugene, really? Let’s pretend those who made this appointment think Kenyan’s believe them. Pretending is impossible since Kenyans don’t believe them. Ok, another route. Let’s imagine Eugene Wamalwa will discharge his duties well. Well, he will, according to the needs of the people who put him in office. There is no need of imagining. Last route. Assume Eugene Wamalwa is the best man for that job. Yes he is, in the early eighties, he would have made a good minister for Justice and Constitutional Affairs. Did that ministry exist then? And, we are in 2012 today.

The wrong man for the job

Eugene is wrong for that job

I am at loss on this. Any explanation that can be said in a place where there is light on how this young man came to replace Mutula Kilonzo does not make sense, making his appointment look so curious and inappropriate.


The appointment must have made his speech writers a hard time crafting his acceptance speech. Their involuntary reactions must had been pushing to write things like; ill advised, ill intentioned, ill motivated, ill meaning, ill timed and the like… But then I digress.


 First mad man: What could they be talking about?

Second mad man: That Eugene Wamalwa is the minister for Justice and Constitutional Affairs

First mad man: (Irritated) There is grass growing on your head.

Second mad man: Get serious man!

First mad man: I thought we were talking about things that don’t make sense…

Second mad man: (Scratching his beard) Ummmh…Wait a minute there genius… (Moving closer to the first mad man) That actually makes sense.


The appointment reeks of a plan to keep the state of some affairs in a particular form or to sway the direction that those issues might take unlike what would have happened  if they were left on the hands of another man-capable or not.


The fact that Eugene is a lawyer is best laid with the fact that he is the brother to our late former vice president. A man, who like Eugene’s profession inspired confidence and was accorded respect at any given time in any part of the world that he happened to have been. Probably it was Michael Wamalwa’s stellar performance or his flamboyant English and dazzling smile. Probably, he knew what he could do and what he could not and delivered on his promises. Probably, just probably, he actually stood for something, though I am not sure what. BUT Eugene!  No one can say what he stands for, whether he even makes promises, let alone keeping them, and that smile of his… Save us.


His appointment was a shocker. Piecing up the mental process of how the two principles arrived at him replacing Mutula Kilonzo is so disturbing that it better be left to the historic records of shame.

Wrong…even the cows know that


First mad man: What makes sense?

Second mad man: That the cow and the dog are talking…

First mad man: And Eugene was sworn in on Tuesday

Second mad man: Replacing Mutula Kilonzo

First mad man: Stupid sense

Second mad man: Cheated sense

First mad man: Red ties and under the table deals sense

Second mad man: Stupid mass sense. I give up.

First mad man: Do you even know Eugene Wamalwa?


There is very little we know about the work this man has done. Sabaoti… Saba what?  Yes, he represents them in parliament. He also a lawyer whose records are known to all or unknown to you depending on who you are.  He campaigned for the new constitution but right now is in an alliance with the leaders of the team that opposed the same constitution that he now wants to be faithful to. So should I GIVE UP?  No…


Second mad man: Who doesn’t?  Si he is that man with Elephant ear lips?!

First mad man: Right on…Right on.

Second mad man: Do you know that his middle name is Ludovic?

First mad man: (Laughing) I know, means famous warrior.

Second mad man: Not fitting at all. They should have called him Luigi; as in Abbot Luigi, a talking statue in Rome.

First mad man: Man, man… We got to leave. That man with the cows is coming to us.

Second mad man: He thinks Eugene will be faithful to the constitution and its implementation…

First mad man:  Mad man! They all are crazy to believe that.


Stage closes as they leave as they leave



ODM Mental Institution

2 Apr

This must be how conversation within ODM goes on.
Grrrrrrrrrrrrr…Grrrrrrrrrrr…Grrrrrrrrrrrr…“ You need to make up your mind, if you want to leave ODM, go ahead and leave.” Mmmmmh…Mmmmmh…Mmmmmh. “Get up and leave if you want instead of grumbling and mmmhing in here!” Mmmmh…Mmmmmh…Mmmmmh.  (He gets fired or demoted.) Grrrrr Gugu…Woof! …Grrrr Gugu…Woof!…GrrrrGugu…Woof!
Now, maybe members of the Orange Democratic Movement (Mp’s, party leaders, councilors, youth wingers, hatchet men, day people, night people down to the hired thugs) have realized a trend by now; they grumble when in ODM, rebel a bit but won’t leave. Then they get fired and they all go Woof! Woof!
Whatever it is that is happening within ODM is known only to those who sleep within its door. But I know what those who get kicked out into the cold night say of the ODM.
To a high degree, ODM  reminds me of a mental institution that houses men and women who have been figured out by other men and women as unfit for normal living. People who have something that need to be fixed in them. So they get chained to walls in small cubicles with tiny windows close to their roofs. When in there, they get fed, and given daily doses of some unknown drug.
These captives yell. They scream and call out for help but the doors to the mad house remain shut. The ‘doctors’ administering the treatment walks around with masks on their faces and threaten the patients with their silence or a fully filled syringe. Or even worse a shotgun used for injecting baboon and rhino’s when they are being treated or being sedated.

When the patients get out of the mad house, the first thing they do is to hurl insults and talk about the ills of the mad house and its wicked doctors. The normal people will pay them little attention and in most cases think that they are overcooking up their stories. They will vow to bring down the mad house to rubbles and ensure that the future of the doctors in there is ruined forever. But do they ever?

Back to ODM, So Balala is the latest man to be kicked out. He has found himself a lone, the first unit of a nuclear family and is now all warfare and nuclear weapons. He follows Ruto and his gang of miscreant MP’s and councilors, and the man who barked so loud it was heard in the moon-Miguna. When Ruto got out, he went on a murderous verbal riotous rampage. Threatened to bring down the party into bits by some great political calculations and activity. I am still waiting or rather he is still either calculating or still shopping for the right activity through which to execute his threats.
There is nothing to say about Miguna. Probably, he finally realized that suing the Nyayo era is more profitable than writing ‘the book’ which was to lay all misdemeanors of ODM and its leadership bare.
ODM sounds worse than a mental hospital, it sounds more like Guangzhou-a pal of mine says that’s a city in China, or the only Kim-do (o) m existing on earth. It sounds like one place where dictatorship is not only observed but also taken with utmost seriousness. The kind of seriousness that one takes his life with when he goes beneath the water surface and swims down there while holding his breath. 


The joy at coming out, is heard in how they gasp for air and how the sight of freedom (the sun) makes them feel safe against the just ended nightmare of having meters of water bearing them down.
It sounds, (since I have only heard from those who have been ejected out of it) like one place with the ultimate general, whose word is law and the law is him. A man whose line you cross only if you are willing to leave your to toes on that restricted area. A man who does not keep an iron first on the party issues, he keeps an alloy first over his party issues. An alloy loyalty and punishment over the party and its issues.

Lets us say ODM is a democracy. That it is open and growth is encouraged. That you can have a stand that does not sit well with its top leadership but still be in the party right? Right! ODM is indeed a demo…

That Politicians are Pigs is no Doubt

17 Feb

There are few animals that can be compared to a Kenyan politician or should it be that there are few Kenyan politicians that can be compared to any animal? Well, luck favors us since we have most of the animals that one can compare anything to so let’s have a go at some, shall we?

A hare. The master of trickery in African fables. Small in size but very smart, in fact it was the solution provider in most African society problems. Its major downside was that it is lazy and loved to reap where it did not sow. The similarities include; trickery and trickery. The differences include; the Kenyan politician being big, fat and oily like a slob, and diminutive brain.

A  monkey. A close look alike of man, fearful but with an intrinsic ability to cunningly wade out of trouble. Formed part of the crowds and only did anything when its life was on the line. The young ones have longer tails. Similarities between the Kenyan politician and the monkey; close look alike of man, cunning and only does anything when its life is on the line, young and upcoming politicians make the loudest noise. While the differences include; the politician being brave, the politician being self full and self absorbed he cannot form a crowd, he has to be on the stage.


Hopping..from here to there...


 A hyena. One of their kinds is fabled to have died trying to follow two roads at a time while others eat themselves at times of hunger. Greedy to the core, they also have been blessed with stupidity. The similarities between a Kenyan politician and the hyena are greed. No need to say more.


Eating themslves...they can


Especially the part where they eat each other. The differences are not so clear but one thing for sure is that the Kenyan politician at least does something to get whatever they want to express their greed on, unlike the hyena that is too lazy to hunt so waits for other animals to die before they can eat.

 A lion. The king of the jungle. The ideal leader in form and action. The similarities between the Kenyan politician and the lion are few and far between. They like and know how to protect their turf. They have a hereditary kind of leadership style where the son inherits the throne from the father. The differences; the lion is a leader, the Kenyan politician is not.

A goat. Trouble. Willy and has a tail with no use. Take my good political friends and those sycophants hanging on their tails. Enuff.

A pig. Dirty, senseless and greedy enough to eat its own pooh. Has this wickedness that was biblically endowed and does little to change that image. The Kenyan politician has no senses at all. Otherwise how would you explain their constant call to increase their salaries, their adamant refusal to pay their salaries, their disgusting refusal to take responsibility after misusing the office, their treasonable corruption activities?


Fat..Ugly and Disgusting


The Kenyan politician talks today and refuses tomorrow. Says this here and denies the same thing a few paces away. Like poohing and eating it again. There is something fat and ugly about the Kenyan politician, there is something fat and ugly about a pig.


Rolling in the mud


There is something disgusting in the manner that the Kenyan politician goes rolling on his words and rolling on people. There is something disgusting in the manner that pigs roll in dirt. There is something wicked and disturbing about pigs, something that makes the pig think it can cheat the whole world while it sits in there in the sty.

George Orwell had the pigs in the animal farm, pigs who thought they were better and saw themselves as better than the other animals. There is something pig-like, wicked and disturbing about the Kenyan politician. A pigsty is one place that many find tormenting to visit. Aside from the pungent stench that reeks out of the place, a stench that can knock out a buffalo, the image of pigs in many peoples’ minds is that of an evil, ugly and untrustworthy animal.

That Kenyan politicians are pigs is no doubt.


Baod Cymmetry

10 Feb

Where political friends turn foes and support turns to criticism

The grave yard of politics is filled with tombstones of men who fell by the swords of sheathed with love, friendship, undying support and loyalty. Men brought down in blood and a thick saddening sound of a skull crushing against the rocks of betrayal and revenge.Quit literally and symbolically, political deaths have more often that not arisen from a friend turned foe and the Kenyan political scene is no different.

Baod Cymmetry

A few years ago, Martha Karua shocked the nation, probably even the whole world. The post election violence that followed the disputed 2007 elections had hit bloody heights and country men were dying. Martha Karua on her side was busy earning the nickname of ‘The Iron Lady’ by defending Kibaki in the six man negotiation team meeting at Serena Hotel in Nairobi with Koffi Annan.

Her loyalty, and support for Kibaki was unquestionable. In fact at one point she was being considered a stumbling block to the negotiations by her pro- Kibaki hardline stances that she took.

Iron Lady...turns the fire on Kibaki

Fast forward to ten or less months later, she walks out of PNU, resigns from the position offered to her as a reward for her undying support at a time of need and becomes a fierce critic of Kibaki, poking holes at every decision he makes.

The same valour that she was defending him with, poured out scorn and disrepute to the man’s actions. Kind of makes you wonder; Madam Martha, what really changed? Did your ideologies suddenly begin to conflict? Where did the love go? At what point, did the love tip and become hate and more importantly at what point did you realize that the man was actually a stupid buffoon?

In the recent past, there has been some loud mouthed man who wears a Muslim style cap and tells himself that he has made a name for himself and can no-longer be taken lightly. Funny man, he looks like a dog barking at the moon. Miguna Miguna.

The man barking at the moon

A personal friend to Raila Odinga. His former advisor on coalition matters. A man who has been with Raila in the thick dirt of politics. A man who by his own account flew across the globe on his own expense to accompany Raila to meetings and conferences.

Then he got sacked.

In a snap of a finger, Miguna turned into something else. He cut off his ties with Raila and had a rapid change of attitude which erupted in killer vitriol. The tension was there and his resentment grew and mutated into rage and anger. He bounced back with clear plan of how to bring down his former friend. His revenge mission was far much greater than the betrayal that was committed if there was any that is.

His hot peppered, chili laced and perhaps acidic outbursts at Raila more like superseded abandonment rage. He wondered why Raila did that to him, why he disappointed the hopes and expectations he (Miguna) had in him… He lost favour with everyone through his bitter lamentations but did his damage revealing damaging secrets through a book yet to see the printers, his attempts at bringing his former friend down.

The question is here again; at what point, at what point did this learned man, who like Martha Karua, holds a law degree realize that Raila is a non-thinker who surrounds himself with men of scanty academic credentials?  At what point did the love turn to hate? What is the gray point where white merged with black? The point evil and good interfused and good lost out? What changed; in the heart? In the mind?

Other tombstones in the political graveyard read thus:

Here lies Raphael Tuju,

Reformer, development conscious former friend of Raila.

He clinched the Rarieda seat after getting endorsement from Raila

We hope he gets past Pearly gates

Another goes   like this:


This stone stands in memorium of Rift Valley Sun

William Samoei Ruto

Defender and crusader of Raila

Betrayed; fought back and died in Hague


And yet another reads such:

Some men are born black, others white and others probably yellow

But beneath this mound of earth

Rests the twisted bones of a left-right man

Black- white man

Otherwise famous for being Yes- No

Red- Green…The water melon man

Kalonzo here lies… He took on a group of friends and walked away with their party

Turned an enemy for ever…and useless too…

Pray heaven and hell has a fence

I know that probably a deal went sour. Someone felt deceived or mislead. Or maybe some favours were withdrawn. Vows broken, somebody was seduced and then deserted. Isolated and left in the cold. These are possible scenarios.

Whatever the fuel; betrayal, rejection, revenge, isolation or even being delivered to an enemy…the question is;

At what point does a loyal friend, supporter, fan become a fierce critic? At what point does love tip to hate and anger and destruction gates open from whence love flowed once?

Are these people genuine in their critism? Can we trust them after such rapid, almost violent changes of heart and mind?

Caesar...murdered by Friend

The play Juius Caesar by William Shakespeare depicted this political love hate scenario long ago… Brutus, a friend of Caesar, a loyal friend who swore that Caesar loved like a brother, turned and drove a knife into the heart of Julius Caesar. His reason when he was asked; he loved Rome more. In his defense, this is what he said…

“As Caesar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him: but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There is tears for his love; joy for his
fortune; honour for his valor; and death for his ambition.”

I call it Baod Cymmetry. Where political friends turn foes and support turns to criticism. The end is at the political graveyard.

Raila Odinga; The Woman

6 Feb

TANTRUMS, DESPARATION, TEARS and WHINING. People shoving. Tempers Flaring. ANGER growing in the Chest like Bile rising. FROM the ABBYS Of BETRAYALS’ forgotten Forte.  Fear of death. Death everywhere. And One man Throwing Tantrums like a lady in Her Menses. Loathing. Needing someone to help Her. John Kofuor. Koffi Annan. The End IS a union of two parties. UNDER THE Guise of ‘FOR the sake of THE Public.’

Like A woman

Kibaki Takes His Bride

Kibaki Takes His Bride

The Year 2007 Nearly Closed on a Dream long Fought For By This Man. Near Miss, After such Painful Courtship. He Needed The Presidency. Loved it Since His 1982 Detention And subsequent House Arrests.  2007, He was poised to Get The Rewards of His Toil. As a MAN. But NO. Kibaki Got it Like A MAN. STOLE the Prize in The WEE hours OF the Morning AND Got SWORN in BENEATH trees During the NIGHT. HAHA.

Since 2007 TO THIS MOMENT. What we have Seen is RAILA The WOMAN. Begging to be taken in. Accepting Anything. Mostly CRUMBS. Getting Into a Deal. Tempted and Driven by the Fear. Of Losing OUT. He Made Moves That SAW His men GET Peanuts out of the Coalition government.

Like a Woman who Moved Into A man’s house. HE found Kibaki with a Full house. Ministers and All. He bargained From There. As the Little one of the two. The Woman. Of The Coalition House. And what he WAS Given. With open arms He/SHE  received.

The Co-Wives WERE ALSO In the picture. Married To Kibaki. Kalozo the VP. And like any Two Women Married to One Man. He/SHE Faught for Place in the FAMILY. Was He/ SHE The Number One Or Two Or Three? Was He an Equal iN the DisUnion. Would She Cook on Mondays to Friday Or Fridays To Monday?  Was She entitled to a Toilet? Or would He/SHE Continue to Go to the bush? What of the Fabric Called Red Carpet? Was he to get Half That Of Kibaka ? Or would he Get the full Length of the Kalonzo size?! Co-Wife Problems Woman!

Year after Year. Like Waves Rise Behind Each Other. He Made Decisions. Like Castles Built Using Sand On The ShoreLINE. Only For a Wave to Come and Bring Down the Castle. Only For Kibaki To Come And Wash Down to a Useless Pile His Decision. And Leave HiM/HER standing Like A Confused Powerless and Helpless Woman. Remember Ruto sacking? Huh. Who was The MAN There?

Then Came His Constant Whining and Crying. About Being Ignored. Being Taken For Granted. About Not Being Consulted. KiBAKI Neglected Her/Him. Treated Her Like Dirt. Deciding Who In the Cabinet Did what, where and WHEN. All He/ SHE did was to Cry ABOUT IT. To Go Back Into The Bedroom and Weep.

Mmmmh Cry Sweetie it is all you can do...

 Try Me. To Pretend He was The Voice Of REASON In The Marriage. Try ME Hard As I Try. All I SEE Is Woman. Married to Man Who Knows way more than he/ She Does. At No Point… Even with The Help. And Intervention Of ElderS. Did They Work As Equals. He was  The Woman. Who Kept The Marriage Alive. When The Man. Went Out To Drink. And Be Merry With Other Women. Prostitue!

Heheh..THE mAN

When The Children Felt Hungry. The Man Sat MUM. Legs On the Table. Strocking His Bear Belly. When Panic Struck. Children Ran To Him/HER. The Man Was Out Insulting Him/ HER at Being. A bad. Stupid. And Ugly Wife. As He Played Golf. Being Waited On By His Mistresses.

Rushing Eagerly. To Please Guests Invited Without His knowledge. Like a Dutiful Wife Knows How. Dancing at Balls AND Boring Dinner Parties With Chinese Men Who Can’t Dance To Save Their Short Lives. Round and Round He/SHE Spins. Trying To Please The Husband. Playing The Good Hostess. Balancing Precariously. Tea Pots and Slender Wine Glasses. At The End Of The Night. When All The Partying Men and Women. Have Retired To Their Homes. He/SHE Recieves A Smack On The Face For Flirting With So And So. In Retaliation. The Next  Dinner. Kibaki Invites His Friend From Sudan Bashir. She/ He Declares To The Public. That He was not Party To. The Plan. To InVite Such An Evil AND Cannibalous Man To Their Party.

Do You Recal. How Many Times. Raila Had to Take Back His Words? How MANY Times Kibaki Overrun What He Said?  How Many Times He Complained of Not being TAKEN OUT. Not Being Bought New Clothes? Not Being Treated Like A Lady?! Railla Odinga…The Woman.




1 Feb

The national flag was slowly but gradually rising up the pole. It was an impatient day and the wind beat the flag furiously from side to side and sometimes round and round. Whatever the wind wanted to communicate, the young man in his place in the not so crowded stadium concluded that given a chance the wind would simply bring down the flag together with the pole. That is what he did in his mind and he was happy he had helped the wind.

Jamuhuri day celebrations, he had left his single roomed cardboard house at Kibera slum and was only looking forward to a long and tiring day at Gikomba where he worked as a jua kali artisan though mainly transferring pieces of metal from one store to another. He often wondered whether that was jua kali and what his wife of six months, who could barely spell out her name, would say if she found out that he was not a secretary at the ministry of Public Works. I digress though. The flag stopped moving up. He peered down keenly in time to see the police officer hoisting it yank at something strongly forcing the flag up in a jerk.

After the flag goes up, guard of dishonour

The national anthem was sung. The public mumbled incomprehensible sounds as they edgily shifted on their feet. The armed forces band sung. The young man tried to recall how he had arrived at the function and ended up grinning to himself at how Kenyawas an interesting country. The Nissan matatu he had boarded about an hour or so ago had suddenly forgotten the route to town centre; instead it came straight to the entrance of Nyayo stadium and offloaded everyone at the entrance before speeding off for what looked like another trip. They all wanted to make noise, they all wanted to shout at the driver at once but when they saw what awaited them. They thought otherwise and quietly entered the stadium. Police dogs and police men with guns and shields are only nice to look at on newspapers and TV.

After the national anthem, a row of shows started which went on for the next few hours.  The young man could tell that the performers were either entertaining themselves or doing it for the money since the president and the other men in blue suits were either sleeping or bored to death. The public simply did not care. They bought edibles and ate, turned to one another and chatted. Then one by one the big men gave their speeches. They read from sheets of prepared speeches which from their tones you could rightly guess that they were seeing the sheets for the first time on stage.

The buzz from the crowd, the uneasy shifting and movements of people wherever they stood, the scorching sun on their heads and the wicked wind did not make things any better. Their faces wore an impatient and angry veil. The men in suits talked, others recited their pieces and had theatrics all over the stage. The young man thought these people would have made good comedians in some local market somewhere in Burkenge. Only one thing was consistent through out the speeches, an overwhelming feeling of apprehensiveness and anxiety mixed with a cool but ostensible detachment from the whole scene. The public felt that the ministers and their superiors were insulting their sensibility with their mirthless effrontery.

Then there was drama somewhere close to where the president was sitting. Someone apparently was not pleased with his leadership skills wanted to tell him so. He was a short man with a heavily built structure but when the Secret Police Service came to pick him up the agitated man rattled and yelped as though he had propellers in his nasals. He barked and kicked and shouted but one thing the young man and the other people in the stadium who were now fully taking up the scene knew, was that those mean looking security men were going to calm the man and the whole insanity of his act down to a simple idea of nightmare.

The president then took to the podium to talk, people jeered at him. He reduced the price of unga; they jeered, he increased the minimum wage to six thousand; they jeered and shouted him down, talked of police brutality; they chanted freedom songs and dirges at him, he talked of corruption; they threw stones, bottles and papers at him. He grinned, a frog like grin then told them to their face that they were no fit than mavi ya kuku and that wote walikuwa wapumbavu tu! And started his journey off. In his place the young man said softly, “I just love this country.”

Somewhere as he left, there were journalists wearing black T-shirts and had white gags all over their mouths, one of them was dressed like a prisoner, the young man could swear he knew him from his silly acts on TV. He was not a light man but those men in black suits featherly lifted him away as though he was some malnourished child. The journalists wanted to eat the president and his men. They took shots and captured the event. Reporters took down notes while the photographers clicked everything into film. They were breathing fire and speaking petrol. The government could not harass them in that manner. This time the war was on.

They forgot one thing though. This is Kenya the land were the media and all its gallons of ink and tones of paper not to mention rolls of film have little if not no effect at all on the government and its actions. They were pathetically helpless and they knew it. Yet for a second, they had forgotten and were raising unseen dust over their harassment. The young man, though not trained in journalism or politics knew those shots and recordings were a waste.

Things quietened a bit with the inceased presence of men in uniform and within one hour the stadium was empty, people were heading to their homes or wherever they came from. The young man, Victor, for that was his name lamely joined a crowd of young men going up hill towards Kibera slum; they were talking of how they had been brought in a City Hoppa, rudely and forcefully diverted from their days’ activities. They had to walk since they had no money for transport. No one talked of lunch or evening meal.

Down here...'tis a jungle

They arrived at their slum houses at seven in the night around four hours after the men in blue suits and big cars had been driven to their rich homes, taken lunch of say chicken wings and some abracadabra sounding thing and topped up with white wine just before napping. Victor and the other young men were in time to catch the news at the local video place where half the slum watched football. There were pictures of people smiling at the stadium, people singing and dancing and sections of the crowd applauding the president. It was a happy celebration.

Fluffy and oily

 The next day in the news papers there was a piece on the Administration Police trainees who had also been carried on a lorry to come fill the stadium. He saw that as he alighted at the city centre and headed for Gikomba wondering whether his boss was going to fire him or not. This isKenyaand he loved it all the same. What else could he do?



25 Jan

The era of genuine and cause driven human rights activism died with the death of Nyayo tea zones, Nyayo Pioneer  cars, Nyayo free school milk, Nyayo Wards and the exposure cum opening up of the Nyayo torture chambers to the public.

Let’s assume that politics was a man and human rights activism was a woman. Politics is aesthetically challenged; his face bears the official stamp from the chairman of the World Uglies Corporation. His skin tone is uneven with rocky mounds; the pigment is dark and oily like the surface of a sewer puddle. His lips are two black bitter bananas’ put conically facing each other covering a mouth crowded with 49 teeth some of which grow downwards on the roof of the mouth. Inside his head, there is a manually powered brain, but the knob that powers it is broken. It cannot be powered.

He has the money and power. His father had it too or maybe he just made his bones breaking other people’s bones for another man. He drives a Mercedes Benz and dines in seven star (if they exist) hotels.

 One evening, while attending a funeral in some village where the mother of a political colleague had passed on, as they leave they are escorted out of the home by the relatives of the departed. Near the gate, he notices this sweet looking lady barely in her mid twenties. She is beautiful. His heart dances to a beat known only to him. He asks the man next to him about her.

Activist Today

“She is one of the most gracious ladies in this village, caring, loving and fierce when it comes to defending what she believes in.” He is told. Their eyes meet. She gives him a faint smile revealing a row of nicely set teeth. He asks her name. Human Rights Activist, he is told. A coffee drink later in town and she felt the coolness of his car. Two lunches at a hotel with an Italian name and a gift of paid monthly rent not to mention brand new red Vitz car and she saw the ceiling of his bedroom while lying on the bed. She was not alone. A month later she is expectant. When she eventually delivers, the baby looks like an offspring of a bestial man who raped a black she-goat.

What happens when politicians put human rights activists in their pockets? When human rights activist go to the roads with placards and twigs only when they have been paid?  When human rights activists take sides with political outfits and defend those political outfits after meeting held in the dark where promises were made and money changed hands? You get across between a man and a she-goat. An ugly thing that cannot be looked at twice. And that is what we have in Kenya today in the name of human rights activism and activists.

Activism used to be born out of passion, now it is sold for a few thousands. It was directed towards the accomplishment of a particular political or sociological agenda for the betterment of the whole society, now it accomplishes nothing and benefits an individual.

Activists themselves were men and women of honour, who preached water and took the same water even if it had mud in it. They lived their lives fighting wars and believing in causes that were bigger than themselves. And their lives could be taken in a split second and indeed most of them lost their lives.

I understand that we have paid mourners, paid fathers, paid mothers, paid babies, paid miracle callers…I run out of names, we even pay for grades in colleges but hey, paid human rights activism s just way out of line!

Activists on the road

You can always tell when they have received a cheque. How they jump about the streets, how they heckle, how they address the media through their ‘serious’ press conferences sounds PAAIIDD! Before the money comes in, they are silent like brooding night.

Maybe it is the hunger and poverty in the country causing people to make careers out of carrying twigs, placards and braving the hot midday sun in sitting on tarmac in some city road.  Maybe it is how the world has changed. You never know. And talking about careers, this is how you go about launching a successful Human Rights or Civil Society body in Kenya, they are only three steps:

Choose a name– the name must have International OR Rights OR Centre OR Human OR World in it, any other suitable word like Society, Foundation, Freedom, Against and Disabled are to be added according to your line of duty…

Wait for a political scandal– this will take you a month or maybe less. Wait for some minister or MP to be accused of looting public funds or wait for a public servant to pinch somebody in the nose. Look for the opponents of this person, approach them for money.

Organize a protest (after getting funding)- Buy orange or pink or white manila paper and about ten black felt pens and markers. Have a group of idle youths accompany you around town chanting and singing. Remember to instruct them on what right roads to follow, where to sit, when to wail and how to disperse after you have paid them Ksh. 200.

P/S ; Make a poorly designed banner with all colours in it.

You don’t even need to register the group.

So what happens to activism now?

Show me the money

It is for sale. You buy activists and decide what they say, how they say it and who they attack. He who pays for human rights activists calls…