Jul
21
Of Persevering Bedbugs
Filed Under uchumi by Nyangolo | Leave a Comment
The cheek with which Finance Minister Amos Kimunya proposed his new tax measures aimed at cigarettes may have unnerved some, but he was unflinching. In a section of his 2008-2009 budget speech appropriately titled Contribution to National Development he “propose[d] to allow cigarette smokers to be proud Kenyans by making additional token contribution, averaging only (emphasis supplied) Kshs. 7 per packet toward development.” If the smoking fraternity were un-amused by his humor, the brewers certainly found it caustic: “Mr. Speaker,” the veritable Kimunya began, “Hon members will recall that last year, I increased the excise tax payable on malt-beer by only Kshs. 2 per liter, or an equivalent of Kshs. 1 per bottle of beer. Following this insignificant adjustment, the industry immediately advertised a price adjustment of Kshs. 5 per bottle, translating to a net gain to the industry of Kshs. 4 per bottle. To recoup part of this gain made by the industry to finance priority programs in this budget, I propose to increase …”
Pity we may not get more Kimunya budget humor. Pity, too, that the circumstances surrounding his hounding out of office may blunt the prospects of what was probably the year’s biggest budgetary innovation – long term bonds, including sovereign bonds, to finance infrastructure development. With allegations of corruption leading to his resignation, the sovereign bond, especially, may not succeed, leaving the country with a huge budget deficit of almost $2 billion. While the government has always made efforts to keep the interest rates low, a regime of high-interest rates with its attendant high inflation rates may just be in the offing, and, is in fact, already here. The Commercial Bank of
I’d, as usual, ordered my budget meal of rice and beans and was surprised – but not perturbed – when the bill was 80 Shillings and not 70. I understand, I told myself, everything has been going up. It’s expected. A week later I ordered the same meal, handed my 80 shillings to the attendant expecting some change back. Thanks, she said, and I understood that she meant “please come back again.” I was still ruminating on the sudden change in my lunch budget when the late night matatu made the last stop. Even before I stepped out, a feeling of unfamiliarity suffused the air. A bunch of people stood on the roadside beside what that morning was a row of kiosks, in whose stead now were the smoking ashes of dying fires. The big kiosk had been turned over, the rest flattened out. I forgot about the pinch in my wallet that night, but instead cried for the kiosk owners. The next morning and the next the kiosks stood somber and sullen, in the evenings gaunt and grotesque. For about a week the life that had so suddenly ebbed out stayed snuffed out. Yet one evening, about a week later, the fillip was palpable as teams of workmen worked on putting the structures back up. They weren’t daunted by the chill of the morrow’s morning, their enthusiasm buoyant.
Another late evening that night, and the sore realization that the kiosks were all flat and the big one toppled over yet again. On the morrow the life was absent, the roadside deserted. No quick banana before hopping into the matatu, or donuts for my breakfast at the office. I held my chin and stared into the distance. That evening, some of the dying embers had kindled a fire, and instead of the gaunt roadside was a stall – a small one, on which three shelves stuck out holding a crate of eggs, a rack of tomatoes and one of kales and cabbages. At one side of the stall stood the owner of the toppled-over kiosk. As I walked past her, I hoped I could shop with her just to show my solidarity. It was another week when the fire started to spread. This time, however, the stalls came up hesitantly and diffidently. Even after the big kiosk stood on its floor the owner didn’t start selling. Instead, only the other smaller kiosks seem to open only about half of the time.
Their resilience has astounded me. But if this teen counselor was right, I also have such “bed-bug” blood in me. “If you’re Kenyan,” she noted, “you are like a bed-bug. She’s often been heard telling her young ones: ‘Even hot water has to get cold after some time then life goes back to normal’”. It most certainly was in this lad who walked into this CitiHoppa minibus I was in, with a black polyethylene bag wrapped over what I assumed was a big novel. Once he’d ascertained the conductor was to his back, he unwrapped the bag, picked out a few sweets which he started hawking to the passengers. No one seemed to buy, and, a few minutes later, he lightly wrapped the polyethylene bag over the candy and hopped out as if taking back his rejected novel. Even if we bought some of his candy, I wondered, would he get enough to live on? I wondered. Still wondering about this lad, I asked my friend what he thought of such an enterprise: resilience, entrepreneurship or misapplied effort?
It’s a little bit of all, we agreed, but certainly misapplied effort. But we also noted we were harsh. The [grim] rules that are economic reality probably stand impregnable to his yearning for change. He only does what – and all – he can. Suppose there were a government-funded labor-intensive public works project … would my lad, or the kiosk owners participate in it? Definitely, I thought. In case they wouldn’t, they would have a very good reason backing their decision, I reasoned. But herein also lay the contrast: my friend and I believe the economic reality can be changed. Maybe that’s why we think misapplied effort is not good for the economy. But herein also lies the hope: we don’t need to remain persevering bedbugs – we can apply our efforts appropriately and reap success, not resilience.
Jul
6
We All Choose Life
Filed Under fasihi, siasa by Nyangolo | Leave a Comment
I held the rails on the third floor balcony and strained my eyes towards the valley a little on the left to see if a flare, or the bright of a flame, would light up the hazy mist hanging over the valley. Kevin stood on my left.
“The police must have arrived. You hear the sirens?”
We all strained to expecting some flashing lights to announce their arrival. An orange glow persisted above the misty haze.
“No, that can’t be a fire. It’s the flood lights.”
“Yeah, they’re floodlights,” we all agreed.
“They’re not flashing.”
“Yeah, they’re not flashing. They can’t be fires … must be the flood lights.”
There were a couple rat-a-tats in quick succession from the left edge of the valley. Two or three reverberated from Juja Road, on the opposite side.
“Dude, that must be the Mungiki.”
“You mean the ones to the left?”
A few more distant shots.
“Do you think it will spill out of the valley?”
“Maybe.” A pause. “I really don’t know … actually maybe. But wait … it doesn’t sound that bad.”
We stared into the valley, expecting it to answer us back. Wails, distant and feeble, then – still distant, but – more certain.
“Something’s going on. What’ll we do if it spills over into Pangani?”
“I think we’ll have time to leave the house and get away.”
“Yeah, there’s many houses before they reach our block.”
“There’s also a wall. The one they built two years ago to keep the thieves away.”
“But dude, you know the road passes right behind our compound?!”
“Aw, goodness me!”
The orange glow persisted above the valley. As I sighed “goodness me!” I turned and this girl was clung tightly on Dedan’s arm. Dedan had another girlfriend??!! Still, I felt lonely, a little scared perhaps. But certainly wishing the girl was clinging to my arm instead.
The distant shots again. Another, louder, where Juja Road met the street our gate stood on. Three bangs no more than a hundred meters from our gate! We all scurried down the stairs and in one fell swoop the two girls, Kevin, Dedan and I found ourselves in our tiny bachelor’s pad. Two chapattis were still rolled in a clear polyethene bag, left-over ugali on a plate, and the beef sufuria balanced on giant tweezers on the table. We excused the mess. I offered my name to the two girls and was surprised Dedan offered his too. Kevin had meanwhile dashed to his house to latch it but was back in a moment. With Joanna, the next-door neighbor. Joanna stood at the door.
“Please come in.”
“Goodness … you think it’s going to grow worse?”
In the house I offered Mani and Nunu dinner. Nunu stared at Mani. I stared at Mani.
“Er … I’ve already eaten.”
“I don’t think so … really? It’s fine … it will be okay … will you?”
“Uhm … not really.”
“Tea then?” Unrelenting.
“Okay, tea.”
“But you’re taking dinner … right?” I said turning to Nunu.
“Tea too.”
I stared disapprovingly. Play-acting … or rather, desperately persuading. To overcome Nunu and Mani’s fear, society’s fear, our fear, my fear. As much as we boast of our collective welcoming spirit, a surprising majority of us never dares eat in strangers’ homes. Perhaps I saw myself in them as I pleaded. I was grateful that they agreed to eat.
Dedan had since gathered the courage to walk up to the gate and stare down the whole length of the street and confirmed that there was no one on the 10 o’clock street. He ominously announced that it would be a long night as he walked in with Kevin. (When Kevin – and Joanna -eventually got the courage to leave, Dedan explained that Kevin had been too scared to walk up to the gate with him).
“Dudes, what if Luos overrun this compound? We’ll be finished!”
Joanna told Kevin never say that!
“But it’s true … we’ll be done!” It sounded exuberant, but what it lacked in pathos, it made for in sting. Dedan and I would not be overrun.
Mani and Nunu wished they’d traveled to Kiambu that day. They’d now be safe.
I said it would be fine. I said it as much to Mani, Nunu, Kevin and Joanna as I did to myself. Perhaps more so to them, as they seemed more scared than I was. You see, I’ve never quite seen danger make a beeline towards me and that makes me believe I’ll always be fine. Dedan seemed to feel the same way.
“Dude, it could be the Mungiki …” I found myself saying. Kevin interrupted the silent stares that answered better than would have been said … “Let’s watch TV.”
“We guys have DSTv and GTv … have a favorite?” Dedan asked. Nunu and Mani said anything would be fine. I thought they felt cold but couldn’t say, so went to the other room and grabbed two blankets for them. Kevin had grabbed the living room linen, and, sitting next to the door, occasionally pulled the door to stare the way of his house to make sure no one had by chance got into it. Joanna, Dedan and I watched TV.
It was sleep, however, that eventually overcame everyone’s scares. At 3 a.m. Kevin felt safe enough to leave at the urging of Joanna, who, though afraid, wanted to go to bed but was too afraid to leave alone. By 4 a.m. it was Nunu and Mani who said they thought they would be fine. But they made us promise to grab them in case anything came up. We’d also made Eleven, the Eritrean, promise to drive us away in his car if anything came up.
When we finally had the house to ourselves, I poked fun at Dedan for being so good with the ladies. He laughed. But we both reflected similarly. It’s Dedan who said first. Afraid that Luo mobs may overrun our compound, our Kikuyu and Meru neighbors had come to seek safety in our house. But we’d also needed them. We both knew we’d have hidden in the second room and asked Kevin to answer for us if perchance the Mungiki came knocking. My friend hypothesizes that perhaps some primordial sense of insecurity in each of our tribes crescendos into irrational orgies of violence such as may have been happening in Mathare that night. True, it makes sense. But that primordial fear also drove us to seek refuge in our differences. We all want to live.
Jul
6
When I was 17, I wondered how little my parents knew. When I turned 23 I was surprised at how much they’d learnt in a few short years!