Budget day

‘Its smoke’ I say to myself, ‘ black smoke or gray smoke like clouds from a shisha pie though stinging like a charred picture.’ But the woman next to me thinks its fog, from her expression. She pulls her cardigan over her soft brown breasts to cover her cleavage. She does not smell its choking feeling. She is used to Nairobi, she is used to the bellowing burnt out diesel from the 19/60 matatu. She’s used to the skyline glazed by cold of people and cold of fog. What to me is smog to her is everyday. The sounds the hoots, the radio blaring till my throat thumps like am getting a nervous breakdown, to her is normal?

To her the fact that a budget has been passed yesterday, a trillion, two trillion, three trillion… is normal? She sits there in her seat and waits for the conductor to ask for fare. And she asks, how much? And he says, fifty. And she pays. Its normal. I wonder, yesterday it was forty, tomorrow it will be sixty, last year it was a hundred. Why?

She does not ask herself questions. Life gives her and she takes it, and buys cardigans and stares at the smoke hanging like clouds over the concrete jungle above her and she sees Nairobi. It has changed you know, I have seen that from @kresearchers tweets. Nairobi during colonial days, in black and white photos. She probably has not so how can she see Nairobi tomorrow?

Am burdened with the need to see, the questions, but am not the only one asking questions. At least I find out. I can tell, you know, kind of telepathy. I see him and I take note of the creases on his forward he is asking questions.

His shoes are frayed at the hems where a repairer tried to sew back Chinese synthetic leather. He is a walker. There are a whole lot of them here. They do not look into the skyline when walking. They look at the ground in front of them and watch it unfold. They walk fast, as if hoping for their journeys end in this life. Maybe they ask questions, but what questions I wonder. Do they ask about the division of revenue bills, transfer of functions to counties, anticipation of taxing capital markets?

I do not know but I know this one is thinking about the price of keg. Yes he is thinking, yes, and asking questions about why they have to raised the price of the keg. All he wants is that they let him frequent that keg joint at backstreet. Where after toiling the whole day for a wage, he can sit back and sip keg from his tumbler. Lean back and savor the taste of insipid beer mixed with powder detergent used to clean the cups by wafting them through soapy water. All he wants is to suck at the butt end of a half cigarette borrowed from a friend. And he walks on hoping they have not made it so hard to get himself a keg jar. And he walks into the town at the same pace as our vehicle as we jerk along the traffic. Into the city of smoke. Waiting to eat us all up and belch us like smoke, cold like a drenched pavement.

So I sit back and think to my self I should probably blog about the budget. Maybe give an analysis of this and that, make projections here and that suggest recommendations or something. But hell, those who can read my blog probably have already seen an analysis of the trillion budget-read a whole day at parliament, in a five minute segment of their favorite news channel. Where an economist, preferably a CEO was called and asked what he thought about the budget, asked to talk about financing it and taxes and then a mostly on issues that had been of recent controversy. And as they flip through the TV channel… KTN ‘What do you..” NTV ‘…think about…’ Kiss TV ‘… the MP…’ Citizen ‘….Clamor for higher..’ K24 ‘…wages…’ the CEO/political scientist/banker/economist, answering as I would answer. And the MP laughing as they flip the channel, and they raise the wage bill, and the news repeats itself, and the woman in the matatu accepts and the walker wishes he was an mp when he gets at the end of his journey at a keg joint and the middle class I want to write a blog to #occupyparliament.

So I look outside the window at the middle class, trudging alongside the matatu with their Toyotas. Hooting angrily at matatus for dangerous driving. They try to avoid the reckless drunkards terrorizing the traffic threatening to scarp the paint off their Toyotas. And they are scared the beasts who do not care about the matatus they do not own will bump the Toyotas they do not own. The Toyotas they have acquired from loans they are yet to pay.

They are ached anxious in their Toyotas hooting angrily listening to radio blaring middleclass music, or classic fm, or easy fm, or kiss fm. And they hear as the comedians cum journalists who have left the comic stage to push journalists out of airwaves make fun of the budget allocations. And they laugh off for the comic relief. They are the ones who can ask questions I want to ask.

But what do they know save what the comedian joked about laptops and the billions it would cost, or what the CEO/economist/political scientist/banker said over news last night about the wage bill? And they too in their saloon cars, scrapping an eight to five week trudge along the morning chill hoping to get to town and park their vehicles at cost that will be read in a different budget that wont be comically relayed on radio or wont have the CEO/political scientist/banker/economist on news to discuss it.

I sigh. We enter Nairobi city. I alight. I join the millions trudging into the streams flowing like a jerky eddy through of the behemoth concrete jungle. And I put on a serious look, an important look as if am doing something important in life, over and over again each day.

A nation of Frauds

The good news of former colonial masters granting ex gratia to its victims during the Kenyan war for independence has been greeted with mixed reactions.

Concerns are gathering over the vultures swooping over the 1.8 billion compensation money. From fake claimants, to alleged home guards (who helped Britain perpetrate the atrocities being compensated) to advocates (who have been put on notice not to charge claimants), it is being proven that Kenyans are characteristically fraudulent.

Compensation in Kenya has always been faced with this same old culture of strategic positioning of non beneficiaries to reap the compensation at the expense of the deserved victims. During the forced Mau evictions, this same clout joined the evictees hoping to get resettled with the victims claiming to be squatters too.

The same scenario presented itself during the IDP after the 2007 chaotic elections where resettlement, to date has been marred by fake claimants and recompense is being seen to go to opportunists while victims continue to languish in camps.

 This national aberration towards fraud leaves a lot to be desired about our country and deserves national condemnation akin to that being meted to #Mpigs greed and underscores what Hon. Duale said about Kenyans being just as greedy as their leaders.

During the distribution of subsidized unga (maize meal) by the Kenyan government during a crisis i witnessed first hand this culture of fraud. The unga meant for the poor who could not afford the high priced off-the-shelf commodity was being acquired in large scale by rich Kenyans, and unscrupulous business men who repackaged and made a killing from it. Most of the poor who could not afford the ten kiliogram package did not benefit.

To demonstrate the vitriol of our  society, the people responsible for distributing the compensations were at the fore of the malaise, encouraging their relatives and friends to come benefit from the ‘freebie’ and serving these nepotic polity with priority over the real victims being targeted.

This malaise ought to be confronted and condemned if we are to purge our society of greed from the leaders to the led.

Notwithstanding this malaise as adverse as it is in Kenya knows no borders. After the Boston bombings in America, Massachusetts Attorney General Martha Coakley warned that within four hours of the bombing, more than 125 websites had been registered purportedly to collect money for victims most of them fraudulent.

Resettlement

She had always found these groups retrogressive, in their thinking especially. They were the most exposed, some of whom had never lived in Somalia like her. For folks who had been exposed to western civilization and foreign existence they had turned out too conservative for her taste. Her community has always been close knit, in bred and frowned on veering into the fringes, daring a leap of faith into the world out there. They had kept close to feeling of home and alienated as they were still clung together as if their life depended on it. She approved this of course, since what was a man without family?

But what if the family was distasteful to her invocations or her reaction towards the world? What if they met every of her action with spite as they had with Amina, the foreign minister of Kenya launching a cyber attack on her person because she did not wear a headscarf on appointment to the office. She smiled thinking about how crass they had sunk with their insults, guess they had learned something from their host country, Kenya had acquired a reputation for insulting people in cyberspace.

In the chatter in the big hall in Eastleigh where they had met she could recognize almost all present. Some family, some friends, community members she had lived with for years. The women were clustered away from the men invoking the loudest chatter cuckolding like penguins in the dark mystery of bui-bui’s. “Women cannot lead men, it is immoral and European,” a woman was saying.

In these meetings she preferred to hold her silence, the arguments usually heated exhausted her. And she always found her convictions at antagonism, always. “I heard that a woman wanted to be an MP in Garissa and after consulting with the village elders, they asked her to lead in prayer after the meeting, of course she could not,” another was saying.

She had always preferred to separate politics from religion. Religion had its place, culture had its place and politics had its place. “Exactly, another retorted, just like a woman cannot lead men in prayer so they cannot lead men in politics.”

She felt stretched to her uttermost tempted to go right into the argument. She restrained herself. Somalia was rising from its ashes like phoenix to a grandiose that the whole world never thought possible. Its people, unrelenting had been spread to the four corners of the earth but remained true to her. And now its people were on the verge of seeing Somalia resurge.

When the meeting was called to attention and issues discussed the main agenda came up. The leaders announced that they were organizing for the group to go back home. They had made arrangements in Mogadishu to get accommodation and they would be availing means to go home in batches.

Never had she seen so much enthusiasm the meetings. The eyes of the men shone brightly wither inner light of expectation. The women teared ululating. She felt her heart rush in an excitement. The thought of home had never been far although she had never been there. But what she was clear about is she was not at home here, at least life kept reminding her. She wished she could be there with her people. In their comfort and acceptance. Somewhere she could lay claim to, where she could be free like a kite slashing through the skies.

But, there was always a but. Some people were skeptic about the plans and raised their issues. What if it was not safe there and what of the lives they had started here. A cold shudder rushed through her nape, what of the life she had started here.

A comabatitive man had risen up vehemently thrown back by the doubt. He spat wildly and asked “A life here!” she remembered him, he had been arrested in the raid last week when the Kenyan police claimed he had no papers.

“Here in this God forsaken country you call this life. You call life when they think you are a dog and say it in your face. Where you do not have to carry a gun but by virtue of your being Somali you are considered a terrorist and they tell you in your face. Where they ransack Eastleigh everyday to kick in doors at night where our women are sleeping and defile them in unwarranted body searches. You call this a life in a country where they have sent their army against their own people in Garissa to shoot and maim Kenyan Somalis, and you, a foreigner, think you can make a life here?” He was shacking with indignation as word spat themselves out with frothing saliva at the sides of his mouth. The room had held silent for a while and as he sat down still shacking indignantly the crowd bust up with similar experience.

He was not wrong about Kenya, her office had been moved to a new building the other day. When se went there a guard had taken it to herself to be offensively mo through with her. She had insisted she turn her bag inside out. She was not ready to expose all her personal things to the strangers who had lined up and so she refused. The Kenyan guard lady had then made derogatory stereotypic insults of her; she had then called her office because she di not believe she worked there. “Kuna warriah hapa anakataa kuserachiwa…” (There is a Warrriah here who refuses to be searched…) she had shouted over the phone. What amazed her most is that the people in the line who had witnessed her humiliation and were now witnessing the false accusations, instead of backing her up, joined the guard in insulting her. “These Somalis, if they cannot follow our rules they should go back to their homes,” one blurted out bluntly. “They come here to make our country insecure, peace has returned, they should go,” another pointed out.

As other people recounted their own ordeals she felt her resolve had weakened. How could she call this place home when its government had issued a decree to deport her anyway? Was it not better to go on her own volition than be bundled and dumped like a reject?

***

When she got home that evening Paul was watching TV. “How did the meeting go,” he asked. “Not bad, just the usual,” she avoided the topic. She had fallen in love with a Kenyan man who saw beyond mere nationality. Love transcended borders, it knew no bounds and came when one least expected it, where one least expected to find it. Paul was a progressive in has thinking, he neither held the chauvinism her people held to so dearly nor the prejudices and stereotypes his countrymen were lent to. He saw her for who she was and appreciated every aspect of her. She had never found someone in this world who complimented her person as he did, who stood by her and was sworn to love her. She had kept him a secret from the group as she knew how they would react how they would never understand. Her act of finding this universal felling of love would be treated as a betrayal to her people, and her religion. They would never accept her fight into the foreigner’s arms, especially a foreigner they held with spite.

She sat with him and cuddled close to his chest. He kissed her soft hair and breathed deeply in relief. She could never find a warm and loving place more than her with him in his arms. The TV set was blaring a programme on KTN a local Kenyan station, ‘perspective’. It was showing a feature about two United Kingdom Somali, were planning on the journey home and their experiences in Mogadishu. Hw they had parted with friends and threw caution to the wind and gone. How it was blissful to land in the city with a silver sea shoreline and smell of Somali air. How they had overcome their challenges and how they wished all Somali in the Diaspora would come back and do their duty by their country.

Paul coughed uneasily, he wanted to change the channel but figured it would be awkward, “But you are not going back honey,” he whispered and held his breath. Silence dropped between them although they still held closely. She fought in her mind, in her heart, in her spirit and convictions. He was looking down at her when she raised her face and looked tearfully into those warm eyes that loved her with a passion. “I don’t know, I wouldn’t say.” She whispered and avoided his eyes looking beyond the TV set, beyond now and the future, looking at nothing.

How am going to tell my story one day

It is going to be quite remarkable, I assure you, like when I went to a junior class in college and my lecturer thought I could advise the younglings. Of course I knew the obvious “read hard” but I had to make it dramatic. I remembered how I had failed terribly during my last year in high school when I was struggling with myself and hard to read well into the night and wake up early in the morning just to get my grades up in time for the national examination so I didn’t shame my family as a failure in a big expensive school. I thought that could make a good rhetoric so I conjured up a tale and told the young lings that in my first year I had it rough and could not catch up. That regardless of where they are presently they could turn their fortune and pass students could magically end up being first class students. All they needed was determination, reading smart, like I did. It was a lie. At least it was not my story. But what amazed me was the same teacher who had been marking my exams and knew I was lying concurred and even gave my story an undertone. “Yes,” he said. “You see everyone of you has his destiny in his hands in fact even you can turn around your grades as he did.” Maybe pushed by the need to encourage some of his students or maybe he did not even remember how I was performing but he lied with me.

Thence I knew how I will tell my story one day. It doesn’t have to be true, just crafty rhetoric. So I picked around some phrases from those who tell their stories. How far they have come, how they have suffered, how they have succeeded beyond all odds.

Coming from a modest family with most of my needs catered for would not do for a good story. I’ll have to have come from a poor family. Am lucky I come from Busia, no big town it compensates really. Like see in a country where secondary school slots give priority to countryside learners and people from town register for their final exams in the rural areas to raise their chances, you would know the privilege of belonging there. So in my story I would lay claim to coming from a peasant farming family in Busia just like I did when applying for higher education loans bursary to raise my chances of getting maximum loan.

My schooling has to be apathetic people must wonder how I even made it to high school leave alone university. It must be rural in elementary and supported by family and friends in mchangos for secondary and funded by the higher leans board in university. I must have walked to school with barely enough to eat . I must have worn torn clothes and barely clothed. I must have studied hard and like the proverbial Kenyan runner running away from poverty so fast that he becomes an marathoner by adaptation I must have envisioned my success early in life.

My career has to have started modest. An internship in an organization that did not pay a cent and required me to be in the office by 8 am. Being new to the gerrymandering affairs of Nairobi town I will have gotten lost a couple number of time. I will always lack fare and I will have to walk for long distances. The great trek will span from probably Muthurwa market joining the masses from eastlando walking into town. I must have walked antil my feet are sore all the way to westlands where private offices are in plenty. There where food vends for my week’s worth of expenses so all I had to depend on was tea during lunch hours. And then I will have walked back to town and practically ran all the way to the train station and catch the Zion moments before the loud voice bellows, “the car of smoke (train) going to makadara, umoja, dandora and lastly ruiru is on the first line and is about to leave” in Swahili, and jump on the last five coaches before embarking on the journey back to the annals of eastlando.

For my home I will have stayed in a brother place or a sister’s place like dependency rates predict and then moved of to a tine bedsitter and paid rent late and always had the power switched off for not being able to pay.

I will have barely survived from hand to mouth incredibly scrapped for life and I will have risen from the ashes.

The art of telling ones story the Kenyan style is not really complete if you do not have a turning point. It has to be dramatic, like a street kid who tried to hang himself and the rope miraculously snaps, or a drug addict who came to the point of death or a whore who was surprised by the generosity of a white preacher. And yes the Jesus factor has to be in there somewhere. A moment of reckoning, a sotto castigation. Or  alternatively a mentor seeing the ingenious in the main character and changing the fortune or a literally prize like Binyvanga’s

So I’ll tell my story one day, sitting before eager audiences amazed by magnanimity of my achievement. Admiring how far I have come and wishing in my story there is an element of my life they can lay claim to even morose, like odyssey who had initially refused to go to war and asserted that even Achilles had dressed as a woman to avoid the war and were it not for the trick of offering a gift of weapons and embroided cloth that he could not avoid choosing weapons that rued his guise. Yes, I will be seated before an audience preferably national TV but who knows I might have to contend to the audience of four children who I intend to have or a couple of drunkard in a local pub depending on my success. And I will tell a lie of a story that must impress and the whole world or the small audience or the intoxicated audience will urge me on amazed by my achievements beyond all odds. They will know half the story is a lie, and they will be making a story of their own lying through and through even to themselves.

Perhaps that’s just the way we see ourselves, through misty mirrors.

Vocational Education and Training: Key Lessons for Kenya

Kenya has about 500 youth polytechnics and is ambitiously pursuing a policy that will see setting up of at least one polytechnic in each county in an effort to train more artisans.

While it is ambitious the policy might well be misguided as the Technical Vocational Educational Training Systems (TVETS) in Kenya are mostly supply driven and strained in resources and expertise. The move might only serve to replicate institutions that are ill equipped, blind to market status quo and costly to the taxpayer.

During a round table meeting organized by the Institute of Economic Affairs and Fredrich Ebert Stiftung, to unpack the German version of TVETS, a lot of valuable lessons were revealed. The German Dual system that is carried out through a definite co-ordination between government and private firms is accredited for very low unemployment rate among German youth and a sustainable TVETS that continues to bring out fully backed competent artisan.

Lessons Learnt

There is need to involve the demand side into the equation. The current situation where curriculum is not complimentary but a tag-along feature of training is producing artisans who are irrelevant to the job market. The specificity of competences should be developed through a co-ordination of all stakeholders with the industry owners at the forefront as they know the peculiar traits they demand off their employees. In Germany, competences are not based on inputs and time such as the years of learning or hours of lectures, but on certification done by the industry.

In Germany, experts come together to decide what they consider as competence and the curriculum is tailored to become an instrument in attaining the competencies. The curriculum is revised regularly creating new occupations and ejecting others in responsiveness to the job market. This should inform our own system where there are splinters of institutions and authorities that are responsible for the curriculum and the industry is used vestigially to rubber stamp it.

Another important lesson is that the private sector must have skin in the game especially in terms of funding.  While industry has kept away from training, citing costs and the threat of poaching by rival firm, this need not be the case. The German Dual System has proven that its is far less costly to train that assumed. The gross cost of training, less the returns from work (as the wage paid to a trainee is lower than a full time employee in the same level of activity), less the savings on recruitment (advertising, risk of recruiting the wrong person, induction and the cost of consulting hiring specialists) plus other benefits that cannot be monetized like reputation and loyalty outweighs the skeptism surrounding training.

Above all though it is important that we learn that there is no single solution and as Dr. Jutta Franz pointed out copy pasting the German system here isn’t either. More discourse around this is important to ensure that the education curriculum adequately prepares the student for work especially in vocational education and training in the development of a skillful workforce.

The inauguration- a short story

The humdrum that greeted the announcement might have spoken volumes. Perhaps to those who love subtle insinuations could have read from the announcer’s sneered mouth pulled back Mwende[1] style. Those who like direct confrontation like Mamaji in her late forties and too big for her age ‘nktted’. Loud and clear enough, following through with her eyelids and pouting her voluptuous cheeks enough to get the reverberating ‘nkt’ loud and clear you would think the microphone caught her protest and amplified it. Probably for the men in the small tin church who understood the intrigues of women and had their interests at heart, kept quiet as pastor Ken did. Hoping the episode would die over quickly perhaps, finding the delay would make the service longer and especially now that Muthutho time was already over or bungled out like the politician. Hoping the episode would die over knowing the details will be recounted over lunch at home. Hoping the incident would be over because this was a women issues to them.

The tin house hosted the lanky woman making announcements at the altar after mass. “Next week, the youth group will wash the church and do general cleanliness… blah blah blah, there will be a fundraising for the blah blah blah, Blah’s daughter and Blah’s son have announced their intentions to be married and blah blah blah. And lastly there will be a mothers’ Union meeting for the inauguration of the new chairlady. Blah blah blah.

And like the humdrum doing the announcement a handshake women started up. Men ignored and the concerned parties threw daggers at each other, just luckily they did it with eyes. Pastor Ken rose up and gladly ended the service traditionally doctrinal to the latter that one could have said the words for him were they not afraid to be sacrilegious. And the churchgoers poured out to the scarlet afternoon as clear as the depth of the sea.

Ma’ Akinyi came out into the light and caught its glare in the folds of her brow reacting to its gaudy rays. She moved towards an umbrella tree where children were playing oblivious of the sanctity that surrounded them. They were hitting at car tyres looking for those with alarms that would blare out loudly (more ignorant of the sanctity) and would  send the young-ones screeching away accusing one another of the offence. She stood there scanning the crowd and fanning the thick folds of her neck with the loose ends of her scarf which was more of a prop rather than a functionality. She spotted Ma’Wafula and beckoned waving frantically her scarf which was no longer a prop but a functionality. They smiled at each other conspiratorially.

‘Did you see her face when she heard the announcement, you could have though she was UhuRuto  on winning the Kenyan presidency,’ started off Ma’Waf. They did their African laugh that goes, hehehe huu and was capped off with a high five just for kicks. ‘And to think that she had stolen money when she was a treasurer and all the other accusations against her, that she won, mhh,’ added Ma’ Akinyi.

Ma Kimani had always maintained an aura above the din of gossiping women. She was one woman with an upstanding husband, intelligent children and a car. You might take this for granted but driving off after church was a prestige in Busia town. Having all those women wave to you as you left them behind gossiping how big and educated you think you are, or having one of them come over to your window and feign a smile begging for a lift and letting her cram up with the children or even sympathizing with the pastor who complained that the offering was not enough to fuel his vehicle in light of sky rocketing oil prices when he had to go round in his car burying people is quite a privilege. She was upstanding to degrees afforded her competition who were mostly wives to drunks who could never make it to church, mothers to sons who trailed at school and had to walk the dusty roads home. Ma’ Kim was going towards her family Toyota ‘nissan’ (Kenyan for Van) when she heard the gossipers. She turned and reproached them as she always did of people who always complained and did nothing to improve their lives. ‘I told you people that if we want good leaders we must do more than just talk. We must elect leaders of integrity who we can entrust our mothers’ Union. And that must be done when voting and not all talk and when time comes we vote without thinking and complain complain complain like #kot,’ she burst out on them.

She had not vied because she said she had a lot of commitment on her hands, she sat on four school boards which she chaired two, was a leader of other church organizations etc etc, good explanation to turning down the mothers’ Union job. ‘Aah, we were just saying,’ Ma Akinyi was on her defense but Ma” Waf sneered the castigation away and whispered rather too loudly to Ma’ Akinyi, ‘Mhm she goes around high headed ati integrity when we know Ma Mwas passed with twenty five votes and there are only twenty five Kikuyus in the mothers’ Union including herself.’ And Ma Akinyi laughed rather too awkwardly or knowingly or accusingly or all. It’s hard to have progress in a society the is too anecdotal to tribe.

Ma’ Kim ignored them and joined her family and drove off to women waving her off hoping to see her in the afternoon at the inauguration and those jealously throwing dagger looks at her while trying to maintain a smudge of a smile for her husband Oyier.

Mamamji walked out of the church last, trying to maintain her posture and composition. Perhaps she was waiting until Ma’Mwas was gone. She had taken a long time consulting with the pastor over programs the mothers’ Unioun would like to do in the church. The pastor was very impressed and shaking his head in acknowledgement hanging on every word Ma’Mwas was saying. Mamaji was angry beyond disbelief and pretended to need more time with invocation with God. She waited until Ma’Mwas moved on to the next group of women and then she made for the door. The pastor was still there seeing off the church members. She came to him and greeted him feigning her social smile that always caught people especially men between the gap of her teeth. She maintained the natural feminine beauty regardless of her drum shape that accosts most African women her age. She was leaving when Ma’Akinyi and co. came crowding around her to pledge their allegiance despite having lost to Ma’Mwas. When she had lost the accomplices were too ashamed to associate with her and even now some came to jest her just so they could later have fodder on gossip Sunday.

This gave her so much millage she held her head up high and walked past Ma’Mwas leaving the church yard triumphantly. Ma’Mwas spotted her and carried an olive branch on her head like an Olympic marathon winner and assailed her. ‘Mamaji, how are you today? I was hoping to talk to you about the future of mothers Union, I know we can work our vision together and do good for this church and the community, maybe we’ll catch up at the inauguration?’ Ma’Mwas offered. Mamaji scrawny with her short lived victory of sorts, retorted, ‘Maybe, but I do not think I will attend, due to unavoidable circumstances.’ And she was off in haste like a drunkard to a Shebeen queen, no pun intended.

***

Later that evening while she was doing strong tea boiled with lemon grass on her favourite china with Ma’Akinyi who had brought updates of the inauguration she recounted that scene. ‘Imagine that thief had the audacity to ask me to join her camp. She must be mad.’

Mr. Njogu her husband was reading a paper hoping it could distract him from the feminine chatter. But you know how funny it is when you are in a matatu and you listen to strangers conversations and secretly make your contribution to yourself, ‘These women’. He was looking at the photo of president Uhuru next to his Raila at Mr. Okuta’s burial and rumour mills were spinning that Uhuru had gone to offer Raila a statesman job.

Ma’Akinyi was at it fanning Mamaji’s indignation. She poured herself more tea on the small china and blew off the steam from the surface of the night black tea and sipped. ‘And you should have seen her supporters and how they were jesting you. They claim to be your friends but they were bad mouthing you in the open. Imagine that useless Ma’Amina audaciously bad mouthing you and we know how her husband is a philanderer’ I told them I would have none of it.’ She pointed out. Mamaji shrugged off although you could tell she was angered by her supposed friends who had turned their back now that she had lost. ‘Mhm let them go crawling to that leech, we will see if she will deliver on her promises and give those judases loans as she had promised.’ Mamaji retorted angrily.

What if she does? Njogu now sought to engross his mind from the venom of the women talk. He pretended to read keenly the article on how class one children would all get lap-tops amid skeptism especially with the fact that some children learnt under trees, wrote on the ground and some had resorted to prostitution to buy books! Now that is a tall order.

Ma’Akinyi shook her head sadly, ‘I’ll probably never come back to that union.’ She was saying. ‘Oh, but you must, if you do not that Ma’Mwas will rule us like kids. She is all evil and what will become of us.’

Oh please. Njogu was tired just listening to the women whine. He slammed the paper on the half inch tinted glass and stood to leave for the bar where he could discuss something more important like politics. The headline sprawled on the top of the newspaper. POSSIBLE RETURN OF RAILA AND KALONZO TO PARLIAMENT.

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[1] Mwende was a prostitute who went round churches bearing false testimony about her mouth handicap and had the pastor heal her and pay her later

Contemporary Threats: Media Freedom

Democratic rhetoric has unilaterally blamed absence of media freedom to government interference characteristic of African and oriental governments’ spewing vitriol that has determined discourse around media freedom.

However new threats to media freedom are in the offing as democracy spreads across the world.

I have come to like the BBC news channel in recent times due to its informative programming especially the coverage on Africa and the world as a whole. There was a time when we had our own Kenya Broadcasting Corporation. During the Moi regime and all the authoritarian use of the media to benefit myopic government ends, KBC lost all credibility as a media corporation and was more of a government mouthpiece akin to what we have as the government spokesman today.

Rightly it came under criticism and in an information age where there is a deluge of alternative media all and sundry migrated from KBC. It has since been plagued with losses, lagging behind and anecdotal affiliation to compromised media.

Why it did not transform into a respectable government funded media corporation like the BBC should be thought through if we believe in free press.

I say this because I believe the new threat to press freedom is over-commercialization, capital monopolies and political interest infringement.

When we opted away from government media we have since fallen to the corporate class who like the authoritarian governments driven by need to yoke people in propaganda, are driven by narrow minded self interest in profit. This has watered down journalism into sensational crowd pulling shenanigans mostly influenced by bigoted owner interests like the Ruppert Murdoch’s News of the world.  This is perhaps the biggest threat to journalism presently.

Plus with the rise of monopolies journalists are forced to play along editorial policies, some of which they do not even believe in. It closes out small entrants just like the autocratic bottlenecks used to.

To protect press freedom at this day and age we must look beyond the traditional threats into contemporary ones that threaten substance and importance of the fourth estate. We might have to go back to the traditional foe, the government corporation as a an alternative that is not driven by the myopia of profit but capable of churning out worthwhile journalism like the BBC and still leave the space open for alternative media.