A Trip to the Pool of Salt - Lake Magadi

My first visit to Lake Magadi will forever remain etched in my mind. The day started with all the child enthusiasm and excitement of a trip to anywhere, especially an exotic sounding place one hadn’t been to. To make it even more special we would be travelling by train.

Being in Kajiado was exciting enough. For me the desert–like environment was pure delight. I loved the vegetation; the short shrubs, umbrella trees, grassland everywhere, cactus, thorny bushes etc. But what I loved best was the endless sight of pure sand, sparkling in the perpetual sunshine. Having sand for soil, so clean, so white; no mud even at the slim chance of rain. Besides, the town and its environs was so sparsely populated that once you left the town centre, you were lucky if you met someone for miles. The expanse was divinely quiet and serene, with the occasional breeze bringing with it poetic whispers.

Of course, the Maasai, especially the Morans, could be seen here and there going about their purposeful walk to some place and women carrying jerrycans looking for water, while others carried traditional gourds full of milk for sale. I loved their milk, especially goat milk. It was so rich, so tasty.

Being such a virgin land, most travel was by foot, and unless you were travelling to a place near the road or railway station, walking was your best bet. It was always fun when dad took the whole family to visit so and so and we would take the refreshing walk while feasting our eyes on antelopes, gazelles and giraffes along the way. Luckily we never encountered any ferocious beast.

So when time came for us to travel to Magadi, the salt producing Kenyan lake, I was thrilled. Magadi Soda, we called it, due to its vast deposits and production of soda ash. And the journey did not disappoint. The train snaked its way along the rail, carrying various kinds of travellers, including those on a mission to fetch water from Lake Magadi – so dry was the Kajiado countryside. Fancy having to board a train to collect water!

The vast grassland revealed all manner of wildlife including buffaloes, zebras, wildebeests and the like. There was not a dull moment along the way.

Magadi itself was a sight to behold. We made the trip during the time when the water was condensing into salt, and the lake made a beautiful white ring (brownish in some places) along the town on its shores. A salt factory took over the industrial activity of the town, naturally.

But there was something else – a horrible stench that reached my nostrils with such vengeance I ceased to see or enjoy anything else hence. Dad explained it was the wettish salt, and that once it dried it wouldn’t smell so bad. Only that wouldn’t happen during this trip. I was stuck with the smell for today, thank you very much.

Add to the stench the unforgiving sun that blazed fiercely, and for me the visit was ruined before it began - the enthusiasm of that morning all but gone…. No amount of goodies, chilled water or drinks could cheer me up or take away the feelings of nausea and discomfort. While the others enjoyed their ice cream and everything else, I couldn’t bring myself to taste anything. Can’t they smell this? I wondered. But why engage others in my misery? At least someone was having fun…

For me the visit couldn’t be over soon enough. But dad did not bring us this far only to turn back without any adventure because of my qualms. The visit would run its course. Furthermore the train could only leave at a certain time. There was no place to hide, this small town existed primarily because of the lake and the stench was everywhere. So I brazed myself and bore my misery till it was time to return.

I don’t know how Magadi is like when there is no stench, but I’m sure it’s divine. For, besides that inconvenience, it sparkled pure white, from the lake to the sandy earth, bathed in sunshine like the rest of this region. No doubt a lot has changed since that visit. I’m sure your trip there will be jollier than mine.

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Boys Will Be Boys   

Illegal Immigration - is it Really Worth it?

So it turns out Kenya is a superhighway for Ethiopian immigrants headed to South Africa. Whereas I laud the devoted efforts of the investigative journalists who brought this to light, I am surprised that they expect this to come as a shock to Kenya, Ethiopia and the world? Haven’t we heard of all the other superhighways, from Mexico to the USA by either boat or tunnel, to Europe from North Africa by boat, to the Gulf from Somalia by boat, and many other such places around the world? Not to mention those from China, Eastern Europe and other countries, who ride for days on end via refrigerated trucks to the UK and other West European countries?

Trouble is, all these immigrants risk their lives and sell out personal property in the belief that life is better on the other side where they are going. But is it?

Even assuming they make it to their destination - and many do unless you die on the way or your racket is busted before you do, like the Ethiopians recently apprehended in Nairobi; is the grass really greener than where you came from? Let’s just pause for a moment and explore what is likely to happen here:

For one, you are an illegal immigrant therefore no real chance of getting work. So begins the cat and mouse game of painstakingly acquiring the papers needed to actually work. It’s not possible though as an illegal because the first thing to happen if you’re caught is the detention centre awaiting deportation.

Result? The only other two viable alternatives: Work on someone else’s papers, a friend or an accomplice, (they say we all look alike anyway so many are able to pull it off); or work for lawbreakers who know you are an illegal but will give you work anyway – they just won’t record it or make it official. Of course they’ll pay you peanuts and take advantage. Such is the case of quite a number of Chinese workers, case in point the 21 who drowned at Morecambe Bay picking cockles in the UK a few years back.

Even assuming one does manage to get work, what kind of work are we talking about? Well, you can forget about any snugly office work, or even light work like shop-attendants. We are talking gruelling warehouse jobs, dishwashing, waitressing / silver service (quite an attractive alternative, really), care worker (looking after the elderly and physically impaired persons), cleaning, and other jobs of such calibre. Which, thankfully, are in plentiful supply, but you will be lucky if you can advance to something more worth talking about.

Incidentally much of what is referred to as ‘nursing’ out there is actually care worker, where you do such chores as will leave you without an appetite for a week. Which is okay if nursing is your calling and you enjoy it, but if you simply want to make a quick buck (it pays better than most, care worker), you will find there is a high price to pay in the manner of chores expected of you.

Without a doubt a few manage to break out of the mould and get decent jobs and decent lives, but it’s much like the lottery – where millions play but only a handful of winners!

So is it worth it when you spend your life this way, only to return home when you’re old and weak, probably never having seen your family again, and without any real money to talk about? For don’t imagine it’s easy to save money out there. What with the exorbitant monthly bills! In UK for instance, house rent takes off about half your monthly pay, even when in a house share. While road transport is quite affordable, the tube is a bit of a money guzzler, and to be honest the cheapest mode of transport is probably to have your own car. After all, you can purchase a decent car at a measly Ksh. 40-50000. Yes, I said Kenya Shillings, not Pounds. It’s obviously a second hand, don’t get too excited, but will serve you many years.

The grass does seem greener on the other side as we watch TV and listen to heroic stories of other people. But please get your facts right. If all we are after is good roads, washing machines, cars and good houses, then we have achieved. But if you are looking to better not just your life, but those of those you left behind, and if you do wish to see your family again and have a worthwhile relationship (not an absentee one), then maybe it’s better to wait, for all it’s worth, to travel through the proper channels. And if that doesn’t work, I honestly believe you are better off at home, wherever that maybe.

Unless of course you are running from war or danger, and then any means is acceptable. I guess the Somali have a right to flee their country, one way or the other. Ethiopians, Kenyans and other peaceful countries? I don’t think so. What you can do out there you can do at home. Let’s work to build our own countries, then we will take pride in the development we ourselves have brought about, rather than flying (or riding?) away to enjoy the labour of others. I mean so you drive on good roads and live in good houses in the developed world, but what part did you have in their development? Of course that is debatable, what with all the colonisation, but let’s keep it simple, for arguments sake.

Mark you, even if you do travel legally and get the papers to work, the jobs are not likely to be much different from what I earlier listed, just so you know. The only difference is, you have more room to work your way up and out of those menial jobs, go to school, and get a decent career. That’s what every immigrant out there should aspire to. Big cities come with their own challenges. It is that much harder to break through, and there is little room for weaklings. If you want it, you have to go get it, no one will make it easy for you. After all, in the UK alone, there are about 60 million people competing for what you want. Think about that!

The New Dance

They said civic education had been well carried out and that Kenyans understood exactly what was in the proposed new constitution. Remember those days not long ago?

They said Kenyans would decide for themselves because they had read and understood the proposals of the draft law.

Now, suddenly, even the Government itself cannot tell what on earth was the meaning of scrapping Provincial Administration, a phrase we heard over and over again during the heated campaigns. I wonder what the average Kenyan makes of this New Law that the government itself can’t seem to unpack.

The implementation of the new law is much like an unborn baby where the expectant mother hopes and prays that the new baby is whole, beautiful and healthy. That it has all its toes and is a delight to look at; and that, save for a few birthmarks, its beauty takes one’s breath away. We hope and pray there will be no unpleasant surprises.

Personally I don’t pretend to get all the details of the interpretation of this law, but I do know there is something wrong when you tell people something ‘will be scrapped’ only to later, when the cat is in the bag, to say ‘Uhh, actually, it will not be scrapped, it will only be restructured, maybe even retained.’ Mh, now what does that even mean? Either you knew all along it would not be scrapped but used the deceptive line to lure unsuspecting voters, or you are now changing the rule of the game to play to your utmost advantage. A third option is simply unimaginable, that maybe even the law makers did not understand all the issues in the draft? Oh dear!

Mark you, this is only one issue in the new law. So one can’t help wonder whether we will go through this same ritual when deciding the fate of all the other issues, like how secular should our government be, who has greater authority, the governor or regional coordinators, how do we implement the right to decent housing, food, water, basic education…? etc.

Which brings to mind that interesting proverb I often see on K24 TV, ‘When the music changes, so does the dance.’ Trust me a lot has changed since the promulgation. Besides not being able to decide whether to scrap or retain Provincial Administration, now MPs and other interested parties are looking ahead to that all-important Senator/Governor seat. So much so that after by-elections, the word on the mouth of new MPs is ‘Watch this space, next time I’m going for Senator.’ Ouch!

The saddest thing about all this is, a scenario is developing where even at Senate and Governor level we will end up with recycled leaders, while the now lowly position of MP will be left to the new incomers to the game. So what changes? When we are fighting hard to change our country by injecting a new spirit and crop of leaders at a different level than what we have always had, the existing leaders have lined up to grab those new positions.

You probably wonder why we can’t just not elect/nominate them. Only someone completely new to politics would ask that question. Truth is, except for the final vote where we actually go to the polling stations, the common man has very little to do with who parties nominate to vie for positions. And eventually we only choose from those already nominated. Unless we have independent candidates not affiliated to parties, the choice for nominee is usually made for us. I mean it is parties who even decide to ‘field and back one candidate,’ isn’t it?

So now the new dance is to go round the newly created Counties with the pretex of holding all manner of meetings, while in reality leaders are gearing up and beginning campaigns for positions of Senator or Governor. Never mind that these positions are not meant to be filled till 2012, oh boy! I wonder whether anyone is doing what they are actually supposed to be doing anymore – so engrossed are they with the possible new job ahead.

Well, I know in any career people aspire to greatness and promotion, but doesn’t that come as a result of hard work, productivity, reward for commitment? Why is it that politicians have the privilege of deciding their promotion without pegging it on any kind of productivity or hard work?

Trouble is, they don’t miss a beat, our leaders. They catch on to the new tune quite quickly and begin dancing before the rest of us can say ‘pause.’ By the time we catch up the song is far gone, and we are in old news, the leaders having moved on to something else. This has always been the tactic; cover up for old blunders with new ones, even if you have to invent them. By the time we cry foul, there’s a new, even bigger thing to worry about, and so our feeble voices are drowned out.

The hope and prayer is that we don’t waste such a grand opportunity, the chance to change and build Kenya anew, just to accommodate political greed. The hope is that we actually positively implement the new law, and that Kenyans finally get to breathe the fresh air of plenty, development, contentment they have always yearned for. 45 years is a long time to wait for something.

Joyride to Work

I wake up in the morning, dress up and have my breakfast, then head for the bus stop. Everyone around me seems in a hurry, all headed for the same direction. Professionals dressed for the office, business people, their faces set in focus and purpose, school children in neat uniform and little bags strapped to their backs, plus a few idlers here and there taking a casual stroll to somewhere (or nowhere).

Soon I, and several others, reach the bus stop while others proceed to various other destinations. A school bell rings somewhere and a few pupils break into a run.

The bus stop is already swamped with commuters and everyone is alert, scheming on how to be the first inside the next bus or matatu (mini-bus), and how to ensure they get a seat. ‘Town, town, railways, kenyatta’ the rapid chorus hums from everywhere. Touts from about five matatus are competing with each other for commuters. No need at this hour anyway as we all are in dire need of transport, but it’s in their blood to shout and chant and hassle commuters into their vehicles. You are lucky if you can hear what they are saying, but you definitely will know when they mention the bus fare, ‘Town kenyatta hamsini…..’ Well, the hamsini (fifty) refers to the bus fare to Kenyatta, for those of you unversed in the way of our public transport. The ‘Town’ is left silent as it will be considerably more expensive, probably Ksh.70 or 80, but seeing as the commuter only hears ‘hamsini’ (fifty), you enter happily, only to find out later that you have to cough 20 or 30 more if Town Centre is your destination.

‘But you said 50?’ many a commuter can be heard later lamenting.

‘Oh no, you misheard. I said Kenyatta 50, Town 80,’ while in reality he said nothing about how much to Town Centre, that’s usually the trick. Which is why you will find most of us ask ‘how much’ before getting in. That way there will be no surprises. Unless of course you ask the beba beba dude (the one who gets commuters inside the Matatu but does not travel with it) and he tells you one thing, only to find later the tout inside has a different figure altogether.

Well, the five or so matatus rev to and fro, blocking each other’s way and the road in the process, and soon a traffic jam begins to form on either direction at the bus-stop. Private vehicles hoot and rant, road rage taking over, some swearing profusely, others resigned to this daily matatu madness, while still others threaten to get out and discipline the matatu touts and their drivers.

Eventually the dude blocking the road sees some sense and moves, thereby moving the traffic along. Now I am at the front of the bunch and I vow to get into the next mat. So promptly as it arrives I plant myself near the door, and the tout opens the passengers door at the driver’s cabin with a smile, ‘ingia hapa auntie’ (get in here auntie). Now, I’m not his auntie, let alone a distant relative or acquaintance, but I’m young and female and that’s all it takes to extract a smile from him, get a seat at the driver’s cabin and instantly become his auntie. Trust me, the only way men will get this seat is by some kind of force, or when commuters are few.

I’m only too glad to get a seat, though truth be told I hate travelling at the front seat of matatus for several reasons: One, I’m too close to danger were there any kind of head on collision seeing as the front of these vehicles is more or less flat. Second, the egotistical talk that usually takes place between the driver and his buddies, mainly about how useless female drivers and drivers of personal cars are. I mean I take both offences personally. So I do what I do best, pretend not to hear a word they are saying and ride in silence, craving the moment I reach my destination.

The holler and road blockage is repeated at almost every bus stop all the way to town centre, and I wish for the umpteenth time we had real rail transport in Kenya, anything to spare us this morning ritual of squeezed, slow yet raging madness. I mean rail network everywhere, not just the one line or two via Kibera, Dandora and Kikuyu.

Eventually the blockages at the bus stops and road junctions merge to form one huge traffic jam and now I begin to worry. I worry because I know matatus will take any available way out of the jam, including driving dangerously close to the ditch on the roadside on the pedestrian pavement. Pedestrian indeed! It may as well be a third or fourth matatu lane. Pedestrians often have to scuttle to safety as matatus come tearing along the pavement unannounced. Not that any vehicle should have any business being on the pavement anyway but hey, this is Kenya. I have personally witnessed a matatu drive along a shop veranda just to beat the competitor ahead…! I mean when you think of the effort the government put in ensuring all the road contactors built a pedestrian walk – you wonder why it can’t make the same effort to ensure only pedestrians can use the roadside pavements.

True to nature soon our driver veers off the road and onto the pavement, following several matatus which have already done so, and instinctively I begin to drive along with him, my foot applying imaginary brakes for him whenever I think he’s about to hit someone or something, or to deposit all of us into a ditch.

Well, he makes it to the end of the jam and immediately plants himself back onto the road in front of the nearby vehicle, and is all smiles as he passes the traffic police as if to say, ‘I’ve been a good boy, I’ve done nothing wrong.’ Not that it matters, he, like all other matatu drivers, knows his way around the police.

We reach town, much to everyone’s relief, and the tout announces ‘mwisho mwisho’ (the end, the end). We’re near the bus stop but not quite there, and in fact we are still on the highway, but hey, this is Nairobi. We all begin to jump out of the Nissan matatu, some even before it completely slows down. ‘Haraka, haraka’ (hurry, hurry). The same tout who had so lured us into the vehicle now has no more use for us and wants us out as quickly as possible. Indeed, those who drag themselves end up having to jump out of a moving vehicle, the driver just got tired of waiting for all the 14 passengers to alight somewhere in the middle of the road.

Whew! I think to myself. So glad to be out of that madness. By the time I reach the office, I’m mentally drained and I need a cup of tea or coffee to soothe my senses, then I’ll be ready for work till evening comes and I have to do the matatu thing all over again!

Boys Will Be Boys

The small light-blue pick up turned left off the Thika-Mwingi road headed for Mavoloni. The scenery and expansive natural vegetation was refreshing, and I wished the ride would not end. We were now on a dirt road having left the tarmac behind.

The natural vegetation soon turned into beautiful coffee plantations, extending every which way in spectacular formation; like someone used a geometry set to ensure the trees were planted in straight lines that then formed into triangular or circular patterns, depending on where one stood.

All too soon the imposing farmhouse came into view and we had reached our destination. My friends and I had been invited by a friend for a weekend out in the fresh country air. We would have fun here, that was for sure. And the place did not disappoint.

The following day three of us, me, the host and one other guy made our way to the river that snaked its way through the plantation at the valley below. It was a big river, complete with its own hydropower plant. My heart had that warm feeling I get when I am at one with the world. I love water, and the more natural the better. I loved watching the river flow by. But the boys had more ideas than just watching the water flow.

Just next to the power plant was a jutting mass of rock that formed into a steep slope separating the power plant from the area to its right. I had no idea what lay above it but I suspected it was just a bit of land leading into the river. If only!

Within minutes the boys were creeping up that rock and into the unknown beyond – well it was unknown to me. ‘Aren’t you coming?’ they called out to me. ‘To where?’ I inquired, ever the cautious one and the only girl in this team. ‘Come up, you will love it,’ they insisted.

Never one to shy away from a challenge, especially one as adventurous as this, I gave in and started up the rock. After all, my dear companions could not possibly lead me into any danger? Of course not: Except for one thing, they were boys and their perception of danger was markedly different from mine.

I had not considered just how difficult it would be to climb that rock. It was considerably smooth with very few hand and foot holds. I worked my way through slowly, precariously. By this time the boys were already up and urging me on.

Soon the climb became too laborious and I realized this just was not a task for me. I resolved to climb back down, but what do you know, it was like being in a bottleneck – easy to go in, very difficult to get out. The climb down proved even more difficult and dangerous so I abandoned it, now very aware I had been set up. ‘You can do it,’ my two cheerleaders urged me on, and since I had no choice anyway, I struggled my way till the top of the rock…. And then my jaw simply dropped!

Stretching there before me for about 50 meters was a mass of water collected into rectangular pools, separated by walls not wider than one foot each. Whichever way I looked was water, and the only place for me to put my foot was the one-foot-wide concrete walls separating the pools and the river. As in the only way to avoid plunging into one of the pools, or the river to the left, was to walk the 50 meters on these narrow footpaths!

By now the boys had already walked briskly on these narrow death paths and were seated happily and safely on a jetty that went into the river, having made it onto the dry land beyond these little paddocks (pools).

I took in the horror and implication of the scenery before me and my eyes welled up in tears. I would go back down the slope - it was the only way. But I had already established going down that slope was a no no. You could go up, you couldn’t safely go down; so I abandoned the idea and looked around terrified, wondering why my darling friends had chosen for me a death of water. And now I burst out crying….

Suddenly the boys went very quiet. They stopped smiling, stopped urging me on, and seemed to realise the gravity of the situation ahead. I was suspended atop a rock, the only way to dry land a one-foot path with water and a raging river on either side, and I was in a panic. (Did I mention this was the point at which the river turned into a waterfall in order to turn the power turbines below?) Whichever way you looked at it, this was indeed a dangerous situation for me and whoever dared to come to my rescue. If I held on to them and panicked, we could both plunge into that river…down the waterfall…

The boys were at a loss for words. I think at this point they felt stupid and very embarrassed. How could they put me in that position? Did they not realize I was a girl and living on the edge was not in my genetic make-up? Well they had to do something fast. So the host stood up and sheepishly came for me, trying to soothe and calm me down. He took hold of my hand and, as gently as he could, led me to safety on the other side.

My relief, and theirs, was tangible. They apologized profusely, and I think they learnt their lesson; leave this kind of scouting to boys. And if you ask girls to join in, at least let them know what to expect.

See, no one told me what was on the other side of that rock, until I was standing on top of it – oh dear!

The rest of my stay in Mavoloni was fun and not a hint of danger. My dear friends meant only well, but their boyhood got in the way… Yeah, some from Venus, others from Mars for sure!

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A Trip to the Pool of Salt - Lake Magadi

The Complexity of Language in Kenya

Whereas it’s true that most Kenyans speak three languages, the mother tongue, Swahili and English, the confusion lies in which of the two, English or Swahili, is the second language?

I know the answer seems obvious to a casual observer but, pause for a moment if you’re Kenyan and ask yourself, ‘What language did those brought up in the urban settings speak at home? And which one did they use at school? What about those from rural?

Truth of the matter is, if you grew up in the countryside, most of your life you used two languages frequently, mother tongue and English, while Swahili came in handy when listening to the radio, or later when you went to the city to work and needed a language of communication with everyone, learned and unlearned.

I find it difficult to claim Swahili as my second language without a certain amount of qualification. See, to the extent that Swahili sounds much more like my mother tongue as compared to English, then yes, it definitely is my second language. Even the uneducated elderly person in the countryside where I grew up, can bluff his/her way through Swahili.

Which reminds me of one of those times we would go visit dad in the city where he worked. My sister wanted to play with a neighbour who was urban through and through and whose language was by every count Swahili. So my sister called out to her friend, ‘kuja tusake’ (Come we play). Now that may sound strange to you but to my sister it was perfectly okay and sounded Swahili enough. You see, in my mother tongue ‘to play’ would be ‘tuthake’. And so really if you think about it, what much difference is there? Just substitute the ‘th’ for ‘s’ or ‘c’ sound, coupled with a Swahili ‘tune’ (or accent), and you’re home and dry.

Now that is just one example but believe me many of us upcountry got through Swahili that way (still do). I mean you couldn’t really fail to communicate in Swahili just because you are not a frequent speaker. We knew we shared enough words with Swahili (or came close to sharing) for us to somehow muddle through the language. And I expect it’s the same with many a Kenyan dialect as Swahili is a mix of several Kenyan languages.

To that extent then, the familiarity and correlation with our mother tongue, Swahili can be said to be our second language. After all, what does the English language have at all in common with my mother tongue? The only commonality I have found is in the word ‘take’, which is spelt exactly the same as the words in my language meaning exactly that, ‘take.’ The words are ‘ta ke,’ pronounced ‘tah keh’. No difference really except for the added ‘h’ not to confuse English pronunciation. That’s all we, or they, came away with really.

I mean how can my mother tongue, which is full of vowels, have anything to do with English, a language that goes mad with consonants? A language where more often than not several consonants follow each other, with some words having only one vowel – case in point – ‘drill’? In my mother tongue the only consonants that ever follow each other are ‘mb’, ‘nd’, ‘ng’, ‘th’. You’ll be lucky if you can find another genuine one. I know modernity has added ‘ch’ but that is usually simply pronounced ‘c’ as in ‘cai’, (tea). But even if we allowed ‘ch’ that is only five sets of consonants.

The rest of my language demands that every consonant be followed by a vowel, and we have only so many consonants. I mean we don’t trouble ourselves with letters such as ‘f, s, l, p, q, v, x, z’, which explains why we have such problems with pronouncing ‘l’, for example. We don’t have it in my mother tongue and so for the most part we simply pronounce it as ‘r’. Ouch, can you imagine the confusion when we say things like ‘rate’ when we mean ‘late’? Tip of the iceberg, though. Stay around us and you will find out more.

So then you could say English and my mother tongue are as different from each other as light and day. I mean you can hardly bluff your way through like you would Swahili, neither would you hope to speak my mother tongue in an English ‘tune’ (accent’). In that regard English is a totally foreign language which we have to go to school to learn. Which brings me to my other point.

Whereas I used my mother tongue all the time at home, in school I had to use English. From the moment I entered Nursery school (sorry, you dot.comers, I didn’t have to go to baby class) I was taught in English. Except for my mother tongue and Swahili, every other subject was taught in English. In fact, the headmaster / mistress went further and imposed what was called ‘monito’ (I think it was meant to be ‘monitor’, I could be wrong), a gadget one was made to carry for not communicating in English, and which meant punishment at the end of the day. Suffice it to say in this kind of environment, by the time we reached Form 2, we were all certified fluent English speakers, while still just bluffing through Swahili. It is in this sense then that I think for those of us from upcountry English, rather than Swahili, could count as our second language (well, if you did go to school).

The story would be slightly different for those brought up in the towns. With Swahili being the de facto language for almost all urban Kenyan children, it serves as their first language (with a few from upper class areas using English). Second at home would then be the mother tongue and, again, English for school and work life. Now, considering very few urbanites do actually use their vernacular for anything, then English takes the place of the second Language, relegating mother tongue to third language.

To make everything even more complex, English is the language of choice in the office, and most of us prefer to use it in communication even on the streets, unless we reckon the person we are speaking to may not be well versed in the language.

So then it’s a complex concept, this assumption that Swahili is the second language for most Kenyans. Maybe for the nation as a whole, as it is the unifying language easily used, to communicate effectively to both the learned and unlearned from across all Kenyan dialects. In this regard it actually supersedes both mother tongue and English to become the first language, the National language.

For daily practice though, the person upcountry is not that well versed in Swahili, and if they are educated they would sooner use English. Likewise the person in the city is not well versed in vernacular and, will sooner use English or Swahili. Only if they are not educated they will stick to Swahili. But all of us, learned or not, will use Swahili if we want to communicate to all Kenyans everywhere. At least, somehow, we all understand Swahili.

No wonder the New Constitution has turned Swahili into an official language which may be used for official communication, and there are numerous efforts to revive interest in the Swahili language both in schools and in the writing and reading of literature. It’s no secret that, once we are out of High School and no longer required to read Swahili novels, we will probably never again be caught reading anything written in Swahili, except the usual notices here and there.

Indeed there is an onslaught on the Swahili language and it came by default as we worked too hard to make sure every Kenyan could speak fluent English. So now we have established we are good at English, can we promote Swahili without making the same mistake, where again we become good Swahili speakers at the expense of an international language like English? Can we strike a healthy balance where we can then say, our language is mother tongue, Swahili and English, without question marks and grey areas…?

Kenyans Abroad

Not long ago it was a novelty for a Kenyan to travel abroad. When prospects of travel were hinted at people went on overdrive preparing for the big day. Almost always there was a harambee (fundraising) organized to aid in the travel expenses – which was weird because the harambee usually happened even before a visa was issued, and you know how rarely anyone was actually given a visa.

Then came the big day for those lucky enough to get a visa, and it was a village or estate affair, depending on whether you lived rural or urban. Close and extended family and friends had to see you off at the airport. So vehicles were hired, there was a kind of party the day before, and the airport often nearly came to a standstill as escorts from all walks of life swarmed in with twigs, banana stems, the lot; anything to signify one of their own (the closest definition of the loosely connected crowd) had achieved the near impossible feat of travelling abroad.

Mh… never mind that for some reason, many of the Kenyans who did go abroad didn’t bother to return home, not even to visit. Those who did usually took many years before making the visit. A few though did return, or at least visit as often as possible.

It didn’t seem to matter though for those aspiring to send their children and relatives. Apparently, being abroad is so desirable that even if you never see your loved one again it will be all worth it – oh well… I hope no one burst the bubble!

Today things are different on one or two fronts. First, Kenyans are simply tired of harambees. Well, we did our best to keep up with the harambee spirit until everyday became a fundraising day for all sorts of reasons – school fees, hospital fee, church building, Pastor’s car, travel abroad, travel to Uganda, business venture, newborn baby, get-togethers…. We simply got harambee burnout.

Second, with so many going abroad now, it’s no longer a novelty and, frankly, almost every home has someone living in a foreign country out there. As such the airports can breathe easy since we no longer crowd to see off travellers. After all, with so many going, we would have to make that our full time occupation. So now only the immediate and very close family bothers to see off travellers at the airport, and even a smaller number picks them up when they return.

‘Kenyans abroad’ is now an English phrase all on its own, so many are we. ‘Kenyans in the Diaspora,’ we like to make it poetic. Think about it, this group of Kenyans has its own special GDP calculation slot. They are now an important segment requiring a special mention on Budget-reading days.

Gone are the days when we stood in awe of anyone who has either been abroad, or has a relative/friend abroad. Why? Because now we all do, more or less. And as a result the older generation, those who stood little or no chance of flying out due to their academic limitations, are now criss-crossing nations and flying all sorts of airlines as they go to visit their children abroad! Think about that for a moment… Before they couldn’t travel because they had no papers and couldn’t claim they are going for studies, but these dear ones worked hard and educated their children, and now they are flying without requiring a single qualification – simply as family visitors! ‘Whatever goes round comes round,’ remember? Do good to your children, it will come back to you with a vengeance.

It’s refreshing how often as you move about nowadays you meet people and hear ‘so and so now lives abroad with his/her son, his/her daughter’. You know, those totally ordinary villagers upcountry who had probably not travelled outside their District before. But after labouring to educate their children have now travelled from their little village straight to magnificent, overwhelmingly huge Western cities.

So before you try to impress anyone with your flying or travel experience, pause and ask yourself whether maybe you did not share the same plane with them on your last trip to wherever: Or whether maybe they are not just here for a visit, waiting to fly back abroad where they now live with their children… maajabu haya! (Amazing!) Don’t let their age or appearance deceive you.

The one thing that hasn’t really changed is how many of us don’t want to come back once we travel to America, Europe, Australia and other such desirable places. I mean not even to visit? I can understand if you cannot imagine yourself settling back in dusty Kenya after the spotlessly clean West, but surely we can visit our country, our family, our friends? Oh well…

I think it is time those granting visas relaxed the rules for Kenyans since it’s now obvious we have entered the class of those who travel. And not just the young, but the old too. Whom are we kidding? Think of all the revenue we earn for those countries in terms of visa fees, airfares, upkeep and all sorts of other expenses. (Never mind the labour we provide, building up those economies.) It’s time we were considered frequent travellers like many other nations and therefore not harassed when we apply for visas. All we want to do is travel, get a bit of exposure, see how other people live and contribute positively to other economies as we build our own.

It’s a global village now, it’s a very small world. We are determined to own it and this is just the beginning. We can and we will because we are Kenyans.

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How Well Do You Know Your Talent?

The ongoing Tusker Project Fame, East Africa, plus other talent finding projects like East African Idol etc, are an exciting and refreshing addition to our TV entertainment. Alongside natural born stars are those tag alongs who make our evening so fulfilling with their out-of-this-world singing and dance styles.

The world over, it’s unbelievable how many of us believe we can sing. Many have grown up hearing from family and friends what amazing voices they have. Unfortunately the world of family and friends can be very small and so our voices may only sound good to this small clique in comparison to their challenged vocals. But expand that circle to the whole Kenyan nation, let alone East Africa, and we experience the shock of our lives.

Of even greater humour is the expression of pure shock on the faces of some when the judges deliver the all-dreaded ‘no’ verdict - so mortified as they watch the judges either grimace in pain, double up in laughter or simply hustle them quickly out of the audition room. Now we know quite a number are there simply for their 5 minutes of fame on TV, but many sincerely hope to catch the judges’ eye and go on to greater glory.

Mark you, sometimes persistence pays overwhelmingly as one Ngangalito will testify. Some judges constantly wanted him out last year but the crowd constantly put him back – so endearing was he – that eventually he finished an incredible number two! But unless you have at least the vocal capabilities, charming personality, good nature and iron-will of Mr. Lito, save your vocals for something closer home.

It’s also true that many wonderful talents have been trodden underfoot in such projects as people who sing beautifully are torn to shreds by subjective judges looking to put a tough front. You realize talent searches cannot accommodate all the interested participants and so some great talents are by-passed for all sorts of reasons. The result? Those who are resilient and self-assured put the competition behind them and go on to develop their talent anyway in more solid and predictable ways which are within their power to control, while the weak-spirited believe they are good-for-nothing as the judges have said and proceed to abandon their talent completely, too distraught to face their humiliation.

Knowing yourself is key. Do you really sing beautifully? Would people pay to hear you sing? Then by all means, even if you were rejected at the auditions, move on. At the end of the day, the auditions happen once or twice a year, and only benefit the top five, ten if you’re lucky. And the real winner is only the number one. So are you going to sit around all year round waiting for Project Fame or Idols to come back? Take the reins and drive your destiny!

On the other hand, a closer, truthful look may reveal that you, in fact, only sound good to yourself, and maybe to family and friends. In that case, save yourself unnecessary trauma in front of the judges and sing at home instead, to yourself and your loved ones. Singing is a crucial part of the human nature and culture. Don’t nobody ever tell you to stop singing. Singing makes us happy, relieves stress, and furthermore God wants us to sing to Him like all the time. So keep singing please, but don’t imagine you will be able to pull crowds with your voice. Just sing to God, to yourself, and your loved ones. And if you can at least carry a tune, then join a choir. You will be amazed how wonderful we all sound when we sing along with others! Just don’t expect to be the soloist…

Still, what would those auditions be without all the drama of clueless vocals trying to sound like the Mariah Careys of this world? I honestly don’t envy the judges their role. Figure having to sit through all that! Then separating the wannabes from the real talent, the jewel beneath the ore? No wonder they get so stressed up they end up being mean. Sometimes it’s the only language we understand. Ask Simon Cowell (though he could be less harsh) or our very own mushrooming meanies.

At the end of the day, these talent searches are a Godsend to our aspiring artists. At least every year, someone’s music career begins this way, some find out they can actually sing better than they thought, and the training received in ‘the house’ is forever invaluable (well, scrap some of the irrelevant drama played out in those houses). I can’t wait to see the Southern Sudanese join the competition this year.

This is a great way to go, and I wonder why no one has thought to do a Christian music project like this. Some of the best singers in the world are gospel singers, it’s a known fact. So maybe Christians should organize a talent search of the same scale, since many Christians find it difficult to participate in the secular arena due to their faith. After all, even if they do participate and win, what will they then record? Secular music? A few might but others will not.

Well, sing on East Africa. It’s healing to the soul.

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Playing With Fire - Hakuna Matata

Hakuna Matata gained new meaning in my mind three nights ago. For me the phrase had always meant ‘Don’t fear us, come to Africa. We will neither hurt you nor eat you.’ You see, when there was a coup attempt in Kenya in 1982 I was still a child and around that time the song Hakuna Matata played over and over again on radio and TV in an attempt to reassure both Kenyans and foreigners. I didn’t realise at the time though that we needed to reassure foreigners, I was too young to understand the dynamics of tourism and foreign investment. So the song attained its association in my mind, ‘Don’t worry, everything will be alright, there’s nothing to be afraid of.’ Yeah, right in the middle of a national crisis. Good one! It did reassure my young heart at the time.

Later in my adult life I encountered a different and rather unflattering meaning to the same phrase. The West interprets it to mean ‘There’s no hurry in Africa. Take your time, the grasslands and wildlife stretches out before you; the sun shines bright all year round, no uncomfortable winters or summer heat-waves; you’ve got enough oases here and there; work a little, get just enough to get by, food for the day, some kind of roof over your head, some kind of roads, some kind of hospitals, some kind of minimum wage. Tomorrow will be another day and you can get up and do it all over again. So why stress, why strain, why do any more than you have to today? Sleep or rest a little.’

A long one, right? But that’s exactly how the West translates our beloved Hakuna Matata phrase in relation to Africa. If you don’t believe me just watch ‘Lion King’ again.

I hated that translation and would have done anything to defend my continent, until like I mentioned earlier, three nights ago.

I’m sleeping peacefully in my bed when I’m suddenly awakened by a bright flash of light followed by a loud explosion. ‘What on earth?’ I think to myself, simultaneously jumping out of bed, calling out to my husband and looking out through the window to see what was happening.

It did not take a genius mind to figure it out though. You see, right behind my bedroom is this electric cable that is suspended 3 meters from the ground and comes right across to the wall of my second floor flat before going up to somewhere on the roof of the three storey building. (I've always distrusted that cable, especially so near my bedroom.) I'm made to understand it has something to do with pumping water to the houses, the details are lost to me. Now this cable was spitting fire like the old dragon and had become a menace to the whole building, threatening to raze down the place.

Within seconds I had the house keys in my hands and the front door open while my husband flew to the mains and cut power to the house, a basic cautionary measure in case of fire.

As fire rules demand we knocked on our neighbour’s door trying to alert them on the possibility of fire but that idea was lost on them as they did not bother to get up at all, not then nor during the 30 minutes period when we woke up the watchman – yes, woke him up! – called the caretaker and tried to get the Kenya Power emergency service so maybe they could cut power supply to the area for a while. Speaking of which try as we did we could not reach the Kenya Power emergency service. So much for 24-hour efficiency!

Did I mention this happened around 3am? Who gets up at 3am in Kenya for anything, even if it is to run from, or prevent a fire that has not yet reached destruction stage? Take your time, we will run, scream and blame the fire service once our property is already burning and people are caught in the flames. In the meantime we sleep and wait for those with the energy and time to try and deal with the problem. Hakuna Matata! There… you see how easily the phrase takes on its ugly meaning?

As the explosions got louder and the light brighter, sometimes red sometimes white, we decided in the absence of anything more meaningful the caretaker should switch off the power to the troubled cable, which he did and assured us all would now be well and that promptly at the break of day the fault would be rectified. Even though the landlord lives right behind us, we couldn’t convince the caretaker to alert him of the problem. Yet if that short-circuit did result in real fire, no one around would be safe – not with the live fence and trees over which the cable disappears to the landlord’s side of property.

You can imagine how difficult it was to go back to bed after that, for me at least. My poor husband wanted to sleep – bless men for their courage – while I on the other hand needed a scientific explanation from him that assured me now we were out of danger. Which he went on to provide, but with the caution that, save for power being completely cut off to the cable, it was still live beyond the mains switch (hope I didn’t lose you there) and so the explosions might happen again.

And they did, two more times, louder and even brighter this time.

Anyway, this morning, two days later, after a peaceful night, the cable started to spit fire again. And now I was mad. I called the caretaker and took him to the place where it was all happening. All I wanted to know from him was, did we not communicate? Did he not promise something would be done the day before? Did the landlord not imagine this to be a serious issue? I reminded him these were really after all not our houses. We could move, but the real loser would still be the owner (unless of course he’s counting on some kind of hefty insurance?) God I hope not, otherwise help the tenants for then they are on their own!

As we speak they are working on the cable. I decided people may have played around with my life as a child when maybe I wasn’t allowed to speak for myself, but as an adult I’m not gonna sit back and watch my life and property threatened by something so preventable, so I gave them a piece of my mind and told them ‘this is the last time I’m telling you about this. My work here is done. Now do something about the silly cable!’

Now, flashback to 2007. I’m in my bedroom in my flat in the UK. I’ve just come from taking a shower and I’m busy dressing up when I smell electric fire. Quickly I go to the living room and the place is engulfed in smoke. I do not see any flames but I sure can tell that’s electric fire. So I switch off the mains then go to the hall to see whether maybe the smoke is coming from the outside but no, just my flat.

I quickly call the Fire Service and inform them of the situation, though I clearly mention there is no flame, only smoke and the smell of electric fire. The smoke is concentrated somewhere near the computer.

For starters I’m able to quickly get my call through to the Fire Service, a far cry from our attempts here to reach the Kenya Power. The lady on the other side advices me to close the door to the affected room (another fire rule), then get out of the house, and wait for the fire service. To tell you the truth I’m hoping they’ll only send one guy in a small car because the fire is not yet blazing and I think all they need is to find the problem and rectify it.

Within 10 minutes I hear fire truck sirens and I go, ‘Oh No!’ Would you believe it? Can you imagine our emergency service responding so promptly and overwhelmingly that you go ‘Oh No!’? I hope it happens in my lifetime!

Soon five – FIVE, NO EXAGGERATION! – fire trucks are parked outside my street, and TEN or so handsome, tall and neatly uniformed firemen emerge, ready to tackle the smoke in my living-room, ha ha ha ha. ‘Amazing,’ I think to myself. ‘The neighbours must be wondering whether the street is burning down.’ I reckon it’s a slow fire day in London otherwise for the life of me I can’t imagine why they turned up in FIVE trucks, but I’m very glad they are here all the same.

As the men are too huge to all squeeze into my little flat, the chief among them, plus a few others, come through and, after a few minutes establish the fire was coming from my computer. A little more check and it’s now clear what caused it; the computer motor had overheated and burned out. Phew! I’m so glad it’s nothing worse.

See, I had broken two simple rules of fire prevention that day. One, I left my computer on standby when going to the bathroom. Fire rules demand you switch off all electrical appliances when you are not around (whenever reasonable, that is. Please don’t switch off the ventilator, or the fridge!) Second, I had neglected to replace the batteries in my smoke alarm, so the silly thing never rang when all the smoking started. Well, the fireman had a thing or two to say about that, and made sure he put a new smoke alarm before he left, one that needed no batteries and one, he assured me, that I could not remove without it going off and alerting them.

Interesting, wouldn’t you say? While on the one hand one group responded extravagantly to my cry for help, the other adopted a laid back attitude to a potentially fatal situation. And therein is the difference between our culture, our philosophy as a country and continent, and that of the West. Hakuna Matata is still wreaking havoc in our midst.

Think of all the fires that could have been prevented had the appropriate parties responded in time. Think of all the deaths, injuries and destruction that could have been avoided. Think of all the accidents on our roads, unnecessary deaths in our hospitals, plane crashes, ferry accidents, famine, drought, fighting, crime, deforestation. Think of what little action was required on our part to prevent most of these. Think of all the lives and property that could have been spared, all the water and food we could store, how much more orderly our society would run with a little bit of initiative and efficiency.

True, I know God has a hand in what goes on in society, but God also gave us brains. That is the greatest indication that He intended for us to use our heads to solve problems, deal with undesirable situations and generally make our lives better. I hate to break it to you but God never intended for Kenya or Africa to be a constant terrain of pain and anguish. Otherwise He would have to explain to us why the West is doing so well despite, let’s face it, massive degenerate behaviour. So quit playing the sin and judgment card and let’s just take responsibility for our lives, and our mess. You’ll be surprised just how much judgment would be reduced if we rolled up our sleeves and did some real work. Believe me, God does not need your help to bring disaster. If we do take responsibility and work to eliminate these problems and ensure an abundant supply of food, water, services, law and order, then we can rest assured that we have done our best, and that Caesar gets credit for what belongs to Caesar, while God is credited only with what He is actually responsible for.

‘If you don’t work don’t eat,’ says the Bible in so many words. So if you’re hungry ask yourself, ‘Is it because I’m not working?’ If the answer is yes, then get out there and do some work. If you can’t get work then ask God to give you work and then go out and look for it. If the answer is no, you are working and are still hungry – yes, then ask God to give you food, and maybe more profitable work – but whatever you do please keep working, otherwise you will get even hungrier. Let’s show some initiative, my beloved Africa.

One more Bible verse states that ‘a wise man sees danger and takes refuge, but the simple (foolish) keep going and suffer for it.’ Yeah, that was literally the situation in my building; real threat of fire yet two days go by and nothing is done about it. God have mercy.

Africa, Kuna Matata (we have issues). The sooner we realize this and wake up to the reality of our situation and issues, the sooner we will begin to mop up and make our continent habitable and attractive. Then we can sing the song, Hakuna Matata and this time truly mean there is nothing to fear in Africa, we have no issues, everything is as it should be: Birds are chirping, children are happy and playing safely on our streets; our public coffers, as well as personal pockets are swelling up; what a wonderful world, God has smiled on us, and we are blessed. We can change our culture of laxity, we can command respect, and people will only be too glad to travel and spend their hard currency on our soil.

May that day be soon, and it will be, if we all pull our weight in our area of responsibility.

Never a Dull Moment in Kenya

The last week and a half has seen Kenya wade through a weird path of pride, glory, controversy, honour, glory again, and the list goes on.

In the week that our new Constitution was signed into law, Kenyan athlete Rudisha broke the record for the 800 meters race – not once – but twice!

Funny story, at the promulgation of the new law, we were graced by the unannounced visit of one Al Bashir, the President of Sudan, much to the chagrin of the international community – ouch! See, the terrible human atrocities at Dafur have earned Bashir an ICC warrant of arrest.

Not to worry, a week or so later the national census results were released, apparently perfectly according to the UN requirements and format, within a year since the counting exercise. And we scored marks there…

Only in Kenya do things take such sudden twists and turns, from good, to bad, to worse, then back to best again. One minute the world is singing our praises and we are on top of the moon for yet another milestone surmounted, the next we are being threatened with UN action.

To be honest it no longer feels strange any more, we’ve gotten used to powerful nations telling or wanting to tell us what to do. Patronage is a word and attitude we’ve gotten used to by now. Foreign diplomats go around the country talking to the general populace about all sorts of political and leadership issues and one wonders for goodness sake who rules our nation any more? And whatever happened to diplomacy?

Back to that arrest warrant, since it was issued, why hasn’t the ICC simply walked to Al Bashir and arrested him? Of all the places he has been to since, why must Kenya be the one to do the arresting? And did he not share a platform with many of the Western diplomats on that day? Why not come and whisk Bashir away instead of requiring Kenya to do such a task which is obviously rather undesirable for any African government?

Well, Bashir is an international issue, but the New Constitution is a Kenyan issue. So we will just concentrate on implementing and enjoying our new law, hoping it brings with it the much talked about freedom, democracy and development. And we will continue scooping athletics golds and setting new records.

Kenya will live, despite everything. That’s our spirit, our culture, our DNA. We survive the worst; resilient we are. We’ve seen it all yet here we still are. Kenya will live!

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