9 Days in December: Village Reminisces

[For Jacky - A thing of beauty and love]

23 Dec 2012 SUNDAY:

            Semi-boring afternoon. Monotony defines the rather unpredictable weather. KPLC tortures villagers. No electricity. Dead phones. An entire afternoon spent greeting village mates and ducking former friends who want a tipple. Their insistence is fortified by the myth that the society made me. I have a fundamental obligation to give back. A few manage to convince me and I part with a few coins to save face and build name. I read the Standard Newspaper. It’s the best form of deflecting the semi-boredom. An ex-flame is arriving from I-don’t-know-where on a motorcycle and she gets thrilled on seeing me. Several minutes later, she is to jeopardize my ‘home’ image through blatant show of affection. My body gets cold after the embarrassing incident at the market center. On the reverse, a new hottie my eyes have trained on for the last 48 hours is cold towards me. I toddle away self-assuredly as if unscathed. A tinge of bitterness twitches in my heart but I pace on. In the village the boys and I call the roost. As dawn knocks, nimbus clouds form and people wrap their wares ready to flee the imminent downfall. Supporters of former PS of Children Services and Culture, Dr. James Nyikal color the market in orange. Villagers are divided on clan and handout lines on who to vote for among the array of contenders come March 4, 2013.

24 December 2012: MONDAY: On the Christmas Eve

            Woke up at 8.29 a.m. It’s too cold today. Yester night it rained cats and dogs. Pardon the cliché. I reel from the grueling dream where I was supposed to assassinate my master.  My morning recollections sourced from the comfort of the red sofa reveal large bullets. If I recall clearly, the first attempt missed. A vulnerability to fatal consequences. If exposed. Mother asked me to assume responsibility of our shop with its laughing shelves to keep me busy. Containment ploy. I pick up my handset and the novella I have been reading: So Long a Letter by Mariama Ba. Meanwhile, I bump upon tribesmen and women who solicit for Christmas. I make false promises. Lies that bind.  Page 30 reads:
“Her aunt never missed an opportunity to remind her of her royal origin, and taught her that the first quality in a woman is docility.”

Mariama Ba proceeds:
“To tell the truth, a woman does not need too much education. In fact, I wonder how a woman can earn her living by talking from morning to night.”

            New hotels dot the market center. The business ain’t that booming but at least it generates a sizeable surplus. At home, it’s a matter of survival. Nothing grandiose in terms of a balanced diet in most families. From the wire mesh holes of our shop, I detect a bosom pal lost in a jig inside a hotel opposite. It’s called the “Wanainchi Hotel.” Two girls a few years shy of our age operate there. It’s up to the reader’s own imagination to find out why my bosom pal was enjoying his jig.

            AFTERNOON: My handset indicates it is 11:39 A.M. Lunch break. Brown ugali with fried omena. Thereafter, snooze. I don’t know how many how hours I snooze but when I wake up, I reach for my cell phone. Away at arm’s length. I think I heard a shrill cry of a message. I need to confirm if I was wedged between dreams and reality. Kenya Power sent me a message. Only if they knew the persistent power blackouts lasting even for more than 12 hours here in the village. I step out. The splendor of the village calm. Except for the faint hum of a posho mill, chirping of birds and singing of bush insects, it’s all hushed.  One can hear himself put his thoughts to paper. Amid little worries that come with village life. No pressure about the impending rent. Electricity and water bills. Transport costs. Stress at work. Things are conducted one at a time.

****************

          Today is Chieng’ Chiro [Market Day]. I will have to attend. The market is bound to be full. New clothes. New shoes. New utensils. Business people from areas such as Akala, Akado, Kombewa and Kolenyo. It is the Christmas Eve remember. Tonight Jesus is supposed to be reborn but will we wander the night like the past years? Will fine ladies be there like those yester years? How many remained amongst the cherished ones who had now got married? And a snifter?

P.S: A Tot a day keeps temporary insanity away.

25 December 2012: TUESDAY: Hooray! It’s Christmas Again.

            Last night the massive downpour disappointed again. Today the morning is cold. Mother prepared us thick tea with not so soft chapatis. I complained. My two other brothers did too. But mother did not bulge. By the way, bar owners have been restocking since yesterday. All drugs to freak us skywards. According to yesterday’s plans with boys: Keep low profile. Staggering with kids is not a bright idea for our image now. Borrowed a newspaper from my uncle. Standard. In our village Standard newspaper sells better than Daily Nation, its fiercest rival. The Star is rare. It stems from a rather past misconception that the paper is pro-ODM. The party most favored these sides.

**********

           It’s Christmas but it does not even look like. Girls of 16 or 17 years pass by with their strapped grown kids from various churches on lean backs.

********

            Ok. The Christmas turned out well. Linked with the boys. Bonded. [Here prayers are sought for tender livers that were ethanolled with local brew]. Fine girls. That’s the bliss that comes with attending Christmas in the village. Former flames resurface from the Lord knows where. Kazi (Work). Colleges. From distant relatives. Some forgive me, from failed early marriages. Met with a former bosom one of 2007/2008. Confessions of past errors. Later, whispers under the moonlight. It never rained. Recollections of reneged vows. That’s life. Broken affairs. Miscalculated steps in the younger years. We grow up, shed away most of our stupidities, outgrow the adolescent manias and move on. Life is never static. Hopes get crashed along the way. We lose former best friends. Make new ones. Change ambitions and goals. It’s called readjustment. Good friends pass on. We mourn. Always hoping for our time with concealed dread. A year never goes without losing a loved one in the village. Life is fraught with plentiful distress.        

*************

            Many a young soul – underage for that matter brings barley to tongue never to recover again from the habit.

26 December 2012: WEDNESDAY: Boxing Day

            Arose after 8 O’clock news briefs. Had a horrible dream but don’t know why. Everyone is still talking about the mammoth number of kids that were at market center yesterday.

********

Visited my soul mate - the loveliest black figure of every man’s desire at Maseno. Received an affectionate welcome though felt a little nervous. Her brother was full of infectious humour. Traveled back home arriving at 9.04 p.m. Issues at home. Got totally irked. Later went to sleep in a foul mood.

27 December 2012: THURSDAY

Woke up with the thoughts of the oncoming get-together with boys dominating my mind. Read Guilt by Rayda Jacobs off the anthology: When the Sun Goes Down and Other Stories. Courtesy of my younger brother, I will try and gobble all the stories before the sun of my holiday goes down around January 10^th, 2013. Later, slashed the boma to keep busy.

*********

            Afternoon spent chilling with friends and talking loud about less necessary things while sipping hooch. Arrived home late again. Mother did not sulk as I expected.

28 December 2012: FRIDAY

            For the first time since I came home, I woke up late at 9.48 a.m. The rain suffered the blame since it begun from yester night around 9.04 p.m. till around 9.30 a.m. Took breakfast before reading a page of The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. On page 20, Fitzgerald describes a situation:
“For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened— then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.”

            Afternoon. Read Smitta [Tony Mochama] on his Pulse column of December 21^st, 2012 after a long time. He’s among my favorite columnists. The End of the World prophesied in the Mayan calendar characterized the column.

            But I still wonder why our girls lighten their skins. As Malcolm X would pose, agitated with blunt honesty: “Why Do You Hate the Color of Your Skin?” Girls around have an almost psychopathic fascination with bleaching their rich black beautiful skins. The trend is widespread amongst the returnees. And none has a clear reason for it. May be it is the fear of the return, who knows.

********

Had a brief tittle-tattle with the local councilor in the evening. He also happens to be my former primary teacher. He wants to be re-elected and we politick on his prospects in regards to his current competitors. We part with hope that he first clinches the ODM ticket during the forthcoming January nominations. I later inform him I will be of little help because I registered as a voter in Nairobi for the elections on March 4^th, 2013.

29 December 2012: LAST SATURDAY OF THE YEAR

            Attended the solemn interment of a village mate in the backdrop of intense painful emotions. Another time to grieve with others as a show of solidarity in the moments of bereavement. Later took one for the evening with buddy Mesh then retreated homewards. Read The Great Gatsby for an hour before sinking into uncertain slumber pondering about Tom Buchanan, Sister Catherine, Mrs. Wilson and Mr. McKee among other characters.

30 December 2012: SUNDAY

            The weather was grey and dull – the type that makes the village an extreme bore especially when there no farms to attend to. My step-father summoned me in the morning for some duty. He is to establish a ligala (New Home). According to Luo customs, after certain duration, a man is supposed to move out of his father’s homestead and set up his own home. Later we went to collect grass in another village to be used for thatching. Before then, I had bought a weighty Sunday Nation that I left for my brothers. I only asked myself something in a monologue like manner: How will my step-father create his new home without a son to lead the venture being a staunch traditionalist? This is because in accordance with Luo customs, when a man is going to create a ligala, he carries an axe and a cock with the first born son in tow.

************

            I don’t know what time we exactly finished moving the grass but I returned home and read the Sunday paper. Went to the market center thereafter to mix with the crowd. Later made a Facebook update after a long hiatus. The last of my 2012.

31 December 2012: MONDAY: THIS LAST DAY OF 2012

[Last Commentary]

            Last day of Our Lord. 2012. How days speed fast. People move to the next classes. Folks change jobs while others luckily chance into new ones. Unfortunately, others lose good jobs. Families prepare for the New Year with husbands who are jobless and hopeless. The flower of 2013 unwraps with bounty of despair and empty desperation. Families make babies in closets of both poverty and affluence. And people die on 31^st December. The sheer emptiness of existence in the first place. Children get orphaned. Men become widowers. Women are inherited against their wishes. The HIV/AIDS pandemic travels faster than light. Then the village gets messy again with new infections for the brand new year. Crops fail come January and folks whine but nothing happens. The harvest becomes nothing to be written home about. Young men flee the villages to seek jobs in the cities and when they get them, refuse to return back home. Girls mature fast and get impregnated by people who are supposed to be their role models. Early marriages ensue. Later, broken homes. Failed marriages and a new cycle of anxiety to reclaim the lost opportunities of school. The vital piece of advice that could have prevented the wrong moves. How life can be twisted. New women get married and come to the village for the first time. She first loathes the life but after the stark realization that she married a pauper, she recoils and decides to adapt to the savagery of existence instead of living. Who ever loved the village anyway? Everyone wants to move out after sometime. And the fear of the return hangs upon the soul nagging the being there in the city in his/her hollow life. This Last Day of Our Lord. 2012. God speak to us this ‘Year of the Snake.’ 2013.

***********

            It was a monotonous weather that makes you hate life. Exciting things turn stale. Spent the day in the family shop while staring at people and thinking. The thinking that enables you to evaluate and question and reflect and seethe with a mixture of rage and desperation. There are things one can change and others not. Read The Great Gatsby in the afternoon. Thoroughly enjoyed the pages. On page 48:

“As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host, but the two or three people of whom I asked his whereabouts stared at me in such an amazed way, and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements, that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table — the only

place in the garden where a single man could linger without looking purposeless and alone.”

            On the sheer lack of purpose and direction in life, a character inquires from others on page 52. In other words, at Jay Gatsby’s, people did not get invited for parties but were brought:

“Who brought you?” he demanded. “Or did you just come? I was brought. Most people were brought.”

The character continues theatrically in a blatant display of the purposelessness of life:

“I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to

sit in a library.”

Jay Gatsby [Page 54]:
“He smiled understandingly — much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced — or seemed to face — the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated

on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.”

            **********

            Connected with the gang in the twilight as the market bristled with intense activity being a market day. Retreated for the last time in one of market’s drinking holes and washed our livers. The nine of us except two ‘soft’ fellows. KPLC continued with its power blackouts with the heavy downpour extrapolating the situation. Vicious arguments later erupted that almost flared to blows. For the last night of 2012, stormed out of the intoxicated crew, strode home and hurriedly ate a lackluster supper then later went to sleep. 10 minutes away from 2013. Above, dark clouds.

The Rise of Fan Pages: Are They Not Too Much and Some, Useless?

             The latest fan page I have joined is called The Awakening. As I write this, it has 489 members and the number is sure to grow. Welcome to the rise of Facebook fan pages. If you have not subscribed to any group then count yourself left out of the train. Sorry. We are far now. You can’t reach us. Forget Campus Divas For Rich Men that raised a hell storm with almost 50,000 likes in about a fortnight. It was apparently closed by Facebook Privacy team after 1,001 complaints of its (mis)use of people’s pictures without their consent. On that note, you should as well go live in Syria where the internet was shut down by their absurd president called Bashar al-Assad.

            Are these fan pages sprouting day and night adding any substantial value to what they stand for? Is there an advancement of knowledge and proper propagation of ideas from these groups that profess commitment and dedication to their set goals and objectives? For instance, The Awakening that I recently joined spells out the following about itself:

“Poetry, Dance & Music
We are a team of Poets, Musicians, and Dancers, who believe in the awakening of conscience. We enjoy getting caught up in revolutionary, missionary, and visionary thoughts.”

            In simpler terms, the group deals with people who practice the craft of poetry, dancers and musicians or aspiring musicians. However, the nerve of poetry jerks me to uncomfortable ripples. Breaking News: Everybody is a poet/poetess. And everyone can write poetry. Every mushrooming fan page nowadays has a provision for poetry. Poetry is on its supposed deathbed and every Tom, Dick, and Harry is strapping it to a nearby a trolley for the ICU for prompt resuscitation. Young men and women are scrawling their hearts and even hurt away. Thanks to that ‘accidental billionaire’ who dropped out of Harvard. Run to Kenya Poets Lounge [the pioneer], Love and Life, CAN A POET LIKE I BE THE PRESIDENT?! Even at Sanaa Book Club, Creekside Reading Meadows, enthusiastic tender souls tap away their emotions freely with I suppose, extreme feelings of exhilaration. Writing poetry. The latitude provided by Facebook ensures even emotional junk passes as poetry. A flash of thought is condensed and hurriedly hurled to poetry readers in the aforementioned fan pages. Then friends like with the same vigor and ceremony as its new found self-crowned poet. Comments run in the thread as follows: “Great.” “You can do better.” It’s so deep.” “This is very deep.” And the deception snakes downward much to the false glory of our poet.

            Let’s make things clear. If you regularly post silly musings best kept in a personal diary to germinate as serious works, then keep off. Constant ruination of the purity of poetry is haunting its lovers to detrimental levels. Save me from an early suicide.

            Much fury for the last born child of literature. There are also fan groups that excel best in the breakdown of complex ideas and facts. The most notable group that rushes to mind is Freethinkers Initiative Kenya (FIKA). The objectives are tellingly clear:

“Freethinking is looking at new ideas and new information, being willing to re-evaluate your stance without letting your bias influence your conclusions.

They continue:
“Our perception of "truth" will change as new information is acquired.”

            If your mind is closed and lacks dynamism then don’t bother with this group. Here people openly question God, gays and lesbians proudly admit their ‘unique’ sexualities and Jesus suffers constant rebuke. The bible is subjected to ridicule and its authenticity demanded. In other words, if you have hard questions come and ask them at FIKA but get fully armed with information. Because its members don’t take debates for granted. Arguments are done with passion and at time with emotion. Personalities are bashed here and there are no chances taken for people who cannot ‘reason’ or ‘adapt’ to a line of argument. Expect more complex links during discussions and as the post attracts more FIKAist, more links follow. Subjects of discussion are hard because they require new thinking. Not what conventional dictates expects. Scholars are profoundly mentioned. However, there was a time when religion dominated and I raised my voice so were other members. We got heard but with a fight from its honchos. In a nutshell, if you want to go against the grain, welcome to FIKA. People rebel with relish and without apology.

            There are also the political fan groups that purport to sell this objective, that idea or goal. For example, there is the Bunge La Wananchi. By the way, desist from this group. It’s full of tribal venom. Members stoke ethnic tensions recklessly. People rarely debate with sobriety and decorum and things are taken personal. There is political worship and I bet the tribal gods who visit that shrine grin with intense fulfillment. Even at a membership totaling 45,769, the laxity of the administration to clump down on hate speech spewed chills to the bone marrow.  Please, keep away from fire.

            Another group that averagely generates interests especially on the current political scene is NO Pulling Kenya out of ICC Rome Treaty. Its objective is clear for those who understand English:

“This group is formed to block Kenya on reneging from the ICC Rome treaty that it is part of.”

            For those not in the know, two of Kenya’s presidential contenders are ICC suspects charged with crimes against humanity and having the greatest role in 2007/2008 post violence. According to the WAKI report, about 1,333 Kenyans were killed, 600,000 displaced and property worth millions of shillings destroyed. Kenyans are at crossroads whether Uhuru and Ruto are eligible to contest in March 4^th, 2013 elections.

            And more groups continue to be formed. If you do not join under your own volition, then a friend risks adding you up. Then the same cycle pops again. Bad poetry. Apple polishing from friends. Tribalism. Another fan page steals our attention, we request membership, it is confirmed and the dissolution of our lives skids to comical tomfoolery. Then Messrs Zuckerberg, the young billionaire fond of grey t-shirts laughs all the way to the bank.

Donald Trump Playing Racist Card

            Trump is at it again on Barack Obama with claims that he has the divorce papers of the First Family.  A revered business magnate, Donald Trump joins a list of other silly Americans (mostly white) who have obdurately refused to acknowledge the ascension of a black man in the White House. Trump and cohorts are so uncomfortable that every now and then, they have to use their influence to mudsling the president. Another sworn acolyte of the anti-Obama brigade is Dinesh D’ Souza who penned a book with the title: The Roots of Obama’s Rage where he lambasts an age mate of whom they share similar history to a degree that nauseates. Let me not get ahead of myself. The issue at hand is the ‘You are fired’ guy and his fixation with Obama presidency that turns such a well respected tycoon to a total unthinking figure. 

            First, it was the issue of Obama’s birth certificate. With notoriety for hyping his sensational, near-alarmist concocted fabrications; in early in 2011, Trump insisted that Obama must produce his birth certificate.  Trump had been alleging that Obama was not fit to be the president of America because he was born in Kenya and not the US. His ‘very, very big news’ compelled Obama to produce his birth certificate that indeed he was born in Hawaii. For those not in the know, Donald Trump is a fervent ‘birther’ and would stop at nothing to vilify and raise a kerfuffle over vacuum that Obama is not a legitimate natural born American. ‘Birthers’ is made up of conservative Americans who insist on the mark of ‘natural born citizen of America’ for anyone to hold an American public office. And the entire furore is because a black man is at the helm of the United States. Therefore, even with the money, the influence and prestige of being an author, TV host et al, a person like Donald Trump stills feels discontented with Barack Obama. 

            Truth be told, Obama is a normal human being with his flaws and Trump and ilk should treat him with modesty and decorum that he deserves. At least, if a person of Trump’s caliber engaged the American nation in Obama’s possible waterloo of drone attacks in Pakistan that is exterminating mostly civilians according to numerous reports then it would be sensible. But with a net worth of 2.9 billion USD according to 2011 findings from The Trump Organization, Donald Trump is a terrible disgrace to even those who look up to him in amassing wealth. 

            It is an ignominy when a public figure such as Trump tasked with setting the moral principles of their nations and the world at large to stoop to xenophobic inadequacies. Various definitions describe xenophobia as an ‘irrational dislike’ or ‘fear of strangers’ that is constantly jolting Trump from his quite to make headlines. Recently, George Will, a Republican commentator called him a ‘bloviating ignoramus’ who think others are wrong and he is correct. Thomas Paine in The Crisis notes that ‘to argue with a person who had renounced the use of reason is like administering medicine to the dead.’ Trump is dead mentally and should be hastily rehabilitated before he jumps with another ‘very, very big’ conspiracy that Malia and Sasha are bastards. And he has the papers to prove that such and such year, Michelle Obama was this and Obama was that to maintain his popularity ratings.

             It not thus not scandalous to find a business mogul whose books all have his name with funny titles befitting his extreme abhorrence for public good and individual integrity. Trump: Survival at the Top, Trump: The Art of Survival, Trump: The Art of the Comeback, Trump: How to Get Rich, Trump blah blah. Next time it will be Trump: The Art of Disliking a Black President. Get fired!

Right of Reply: Why the Middle-Class is Afraid of the Truth.

            Your opinion is grossly inaccurate and a true misinterpretation of what Ngugi wa Thiong’o said. First, I commend you for saying Ngugi is not such a superb writer in your view. Meja Mwangi does it for you. That’s okay. However, as you stated at the beginning of your writing that you will ramble, you have exactly done that to the detriment of the sobriety of the piece.

            You make wild claims that Ngugi views things in a static way and that he has no dynamics but how is that? Most of Ngugi’s novels were set in the backdrop of colonialism and they still ring true today. Ngugi’s novels speak of inequality that was entrenched after Kenya attained independence, historical injustices perpetrated by your beloved imperialists that you touch with kid’s gloves, wretched poverty that was planted by the first regime and national plunder that sound true in the Kenyan picture. A Grain of Wheat is a magnum opus by Ngugi and was published way back in 1967. The political betrayals of the period frozen in the book are still reflected in today’s politics. And none can try to dissociate politics and development. Can you? Legislators create laws that affect citizens. Politicians are in charge of coffers with taxpayers’ money and so these are bedfellows. You cannot divorce them. So how does the middle-class squeeze in between? It’s the political patronage, the corruption, the bootlicking tendencies to stay at the bourgeoisie level. Most of the middle-class cares for themselves. Period. Adolf Hitler, the world’s infamous sadist said in his political ideology Mein Kampf in Chapter 2 of the book under the title: Years of Study and Suffering in Vienna:

“The reason for this hostility, as we might almost call it, lies in the fear of a social group (middle-class), which has but recently raised itself above the level of the manual worker, that it will sink back into the old despised class, or at least become identified with it. To this, in many cases, we must add the repugnant memory of the cultural poverty of this lower class, the frequent vulgarity of its social intercourse; the petty bourgeois' own position in society, however insignificant it may be, makes any contact with this outgrown stage of life culture intolerable.”

            I am not in some class issues with the middle-class because none chooses in what family to be born. For example, you say the middle class find they are ‘truly’ themselves when they are ‘sitting at the dinner table eating kuku…’However, let me bring to your attention that daily most Kenyan families sleep hungry. In order to be themselves, they toil under the scorching sun with meager resources, receive little produce for subsistence but again, it is sold. It’s that grim and tormenting. According to the World Bank 2011 report, Kenya’s poverty level stands at 44 to 46 percent.  This means almost half the population is not living a comfortable life of meeting its fundamental needs that include adequate shelter, clothing, and the most paramount, food. Survival itself.

            Again, you declare that they (I am assuming the imperialists) cannot colonize your mind because there are ‘many deep places…education will never touch.’ This is total fallacy. The truth is, the White man came and brainwashed the African to think like he does. Imperialists came and destroyed African cultures and customs. They desecrated upon things Africans cherished. Things we valued in heart and in mind. That’s when the clans started disintegrating and young men started embracing the White man wholly and blindly by mocking their traditions. People society valued and had hopes in turned to the ‘Chuis’ in post modern Kenya (Petals of Blood). In a nutshell, in return for ‘civilization’, the imperialists robbed the African his African mind. Then Adam Smith came with his Wealth of Nations seminal text espousing the economics of Capitalism which I do not want to scorn. But it is also critical to observe that Capitalism has also produced its fair share of penury in third world nations such as Kenya. The bourgeoisie are adamant to ensure the proletariat maximizes his/her labor power at the expense of even his health all for the surplus value. In other words, there is a section that wants the status quo to remain so that they can continue amassing wealth at the expense of others. 

            Talking of languages, do you know some families are forcing their children to speak only English and Kiswahili at all times? What happens when they go to the village because we are Africans and ‘Home’ can never be Nairobi or Eldoret or even Canada as noted by Miguna in his book Peeling Back the Mask at the beginning. So, where is the pride in nurturing children in borrowed language if they cannot identify with their cultures and customs?  Even a true middle-class man understands it is an inadequacy on his part either from a psychological or sociological point of view. But they will hide under the disguise of modernization which I call inferiority complex. That is why Ngugi’s statement of colonizing ‘Wanjiku’ is very true. They want Africans to forget themselves and jump totally to the white man’s arms. 

            However, I do not object to the massive contribution of capitalism especially in the telecommunication sector in terms of cell phones, internet et al. It is a step in the right direction and a clear pointer we are headed for greater things. But, let’s pause a little and turn the other side of the coin. What about the majority of Kenyans who still do not have what to eat leave alone using technology? The average citizen who struggles to exist and not hustle for a modem or some credit card for his/her cellphone. Martin Luther King Jnr once lamented that man has learnt to fly planes and do everything sophisticated but cannot live with his brothers and sisters.  You also mention that your ‘generation know nothing about colonialism.’ Which generation is that? I bet they are not Kenyans or even worse Africans. Colonialism is taught in the Kenyan education curriculum. A subject such as History is mandatory in form one. Unless you schooled under the British education system that I doubt teach kids their histories. Things like the year of independence, the year when Kapenguria six were arrested and the formation of Kenya African Union were taught and still are. And the fact that our generation was not born in a colony does mean we forget the past.

            Then you rightly say that the middle-class is boring. It is the absolute truth. The middle-class has totally refused to participate in the political process of this nation hence things such as graft and tribalism remain rooted in the country’s psyche. When oil prices shoot up, the middle class will complain but still buy. When ordinary citizens grumble the education standards in public institutions is plummeting, the middle will criticize but take their kids to private schools. When there are security concerns, again they will show disgust but move to gated apartments with German shepherd dogs and security guards. No problem with someone living the life he/she desires. Already Chapter 4 of the Constitution on the Bill of Rights permits that. But that is again burying one’s head in the sand. Running away from a problem because after all, it is ‘them’ who know how to find solutions to their tribulations. And it is a norm for the majority of the middle class to blame the lower class for indolence and obsession with the politics of the day at the expense of seeking a meaningful living. But that is not case. The lower class mainly relies on CDF funds, LATF funds and scholarships because they cannot afford private institutions and gated homes. 

            Lastly, the way you interpret Meja Mwangi’s plots in his stories in relation to the world today is similar to those of Ngugi wa Thiong’o. The street thievery in Kill Me Quick is the same as the perfidy and kleptocracy in A Grain of Wheat and Petals of Blood respectively.’ The 60’s and 70’s that Ngugi keeps mentioning led Kenya to where it is today. Where negative ethnicity, cancerous sleaze and poverty is the order of the day. The 60’s and 70’s you want Ngugi not to talk about anymore because now there is Safaricom planted the seeds of unemployment and hopelessness among the majority of Kenyans. That’s why the regular Onyango, Maina or Makau will fall victim to things beyond his/her control because the powers that be are in control somewhere. But again, the middle class will admonish you that the poor keep on blaming fate and phantom external forces for their miseries and laziness. Who knows?