Bishop Wanjiru was supposed to get married to her South African fiancee on February 10th. The courts stepped in and blocked the wedding, saying that James Kamangu's case had to be heard first.
Kamangu, as I've already noted, is a simple man: a cobbler and potter, who wanted nothing more than to have Wanjiru admit that she used to be his wife, and to stop dragging his name through the mud.
That was the old Kamangu.
The new Kamangu wears a yellow-checked suit, slick tie, walks into the courtroom with an army of lawyers, and now declares that he wants the courts to recognize his marriage to Wanjiru and give him his "marital rights" (i.e. bedroom rights).
How did old Kamangu become new Kamangu? Politics!
A group calling itself Maendeleo ya Wanaume (The Development of Men), rushed to his side and started talking about legal action. Some commentators argued that Kamangu had a legal case and he should take action, despite him publicly saying that he wasn't interested.
And, one can't help but wonder, did Wanjiru's political opponent, Maina Kamanda, who obviously has a stake in seeing this drama stretched out for as long as possible, have anything to do with it? While I haven't seen any reports explicitly linking Kamanda with support for Kamangu's case, there can be no doubt that he privately supports the mess, trying to keep Wanjiru's name dirty before the election.
The residents of Starehe constituency find themselves choosing between the troubled minister of sports and the over-scrutinized bishop. Voters seem stuck between a rock and a hard place. And that, my friends, is politics!
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Friday, February 09, 2007
A Rough Week
Ugh. When it hits Friday and you find yourself saying "Ugh," you know it's been rough.
Monday I became sick with what a doctor diagnosed in about 8 seconds as pharyngitis: a nasty sore throat that left me with a fever, dizziness and a headache. I was a little worried it could have been Rift Valley Fever, which last broke out in 1997, but has claimed more than a hundred lives in the past three months. (CDC says 32 cases have been reported by MOH. Funny 'cause the local media has gone way past that figure!)
(Incidentally, RVF's been mostly centered in the far north-eastern part of the country... which is actually near Halako's home of Hola. Check out this map: Hola's half way between Garissa and Garsen.) Clarification: RVF has been mostly centered in Garissa, which is near Halako's home, Hola.
Tuesday, Halako and I found ourselves hiding under our bed, convinced that our apartment complex was being ransacked. Turned out it was a couple of thieves who stole a phone and purse. They just made so much noise, we began imagining gangsters with AK-47s.
Today I ran around town trying to get some last minute information for a web site that we're creating. Didn't really succeed in much of anything except getting my phone stolen. In the scramble to squeeze on the bus that heads down Ngong Road, I barely made it to my seat. A quick check of my pocket showed that my phone didn't.
At least it wasn't the wallet with IDs and credit cards. (I've been meaning to not carry all my valuables in my wallet, but somehow circumstances made me put them all together and I just forget to separate them all over again.)
Monday I became sick with what a doctor diagnosed in about 8 seconds as pharyngitis: a nasty sore throat that left me with a fever, dizziness and a headache. I was a little worried it could have been Rift Valley Fever, which last broke out in 1997, but has claimed more than a hundred lives in the past three months. (CDC says 32 cases have been reported by MOH. Funny 'cause the local media has gone way past that figure!)
(Incidentally, RVF's been mostly centered in the far north-eastern part of the country... which is actually near Halako's home of Hola. Check out this map: Hola's half way between Garissa and Garsen.) Clarification: RVF has been mostly centered in Garissa, which is near Halako's home, Hola.
Tuesday, Halako and I found ourselves hiding under our bed, convinced that our apartment complex was being ransacked. Turned out it was a couple of thieves who stole a phone and purse. They just made so much noise, we began imagining gangsters with AK-47s.
Today I ran around town trying to get some last minute information for a web site that we're creating. Didn't really succeed in much of anything except getting my phone stolen. In the scramble to squeeze on the bus that heads down Ngong Road, I barely made it to my seat. A quick check of my pocket showed that my phone didn't.
At least it wasn't the wallet with IDs and credit cards. (I've been meaning to not carry all my valuables in my wallet, but somehow circumstances made me put them all together and I just forget to separate them all over again.)
Sunday, February 04, 2007
TV: Africans in America
A couple weeks ago Halako and I met with our friend Janis, who has lived in Nairobi for thirty years or so. Her home is New London, Wisconsin. Which, of course, is my home too. Now that we're both in Nairobi, we meet up every few weeks. When we last met with her, she told us that her daughter-in-law is working on filming a 60-segment television series.
The series is about Africans living in America, and the whole mess of cultural/procedural problems they encounters. Sounds interesting. While I don't have the bandwidth to enjoy this, you might: http://www.yamaafrika.com.
The series is about Africans living in America, and the whole mess of cultural/procedural problems they encounters. Sounds interesting. While I don't have the bandwidth to enjoy this, you might: http://www.yamaafrika.com.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
A Painting's Absence
Every morning on the way to work, I jump out of a crowded matatu, sling my black bag over my shoulder and walk along a dirt path that leads to our office.
This is an uneventful walk. Trees, grass, mud, litter, a women selling bananas and peanuts out of a small green basin, and the guys painting the large clay pots that are sold alongside the road. Along the dirt road in front of our office, is something of a nursery with a couple dozen people watering plants, or haggling with prospective buyers.
Last week Monday, I had something of a surprise, when I walked by the Paresian Center—home to a dentist firm, a World Vision office, and a couple other organizations/businesses—and found a large white rectangle of paint on the surrounding wall.
I looked at it for a second, trying to understand what happened. There used to be a nice large painting there of a man in a hospital bed with a quote next to it. It was one of the best public paintings I'd seen in Nairobi—in Kenya.
When I first looked at the painting, back in August, I was ignorant. The painting seemed loud, like it was making a statement, and struck me as too specific in its detail to be just another sick person in a hospital bed. But I couldn't make the connection. Could it really be just another painting about HIV/AIDs?
On October 20th, I discovered who it was. The 20th is a national holiday in Kenya, called Kenyatta Day, after Kenya's first President Jomo Kenyatta. The holiday was originally meant to invoke the (intellectual) heroes of Kenya's liberation from British colonialism: a group that included Kenyatta and his eventual successor Daniel arap Moi.
What the holiday (under Moi and Kenyatta) did not emphasize were the people who violently fought the British during the Mau-Mau rebellion. These people, generally from an “ethnic group” called the Gikuyu, hid in the forests, swore secret oaths, launched attacks on white settlers, and created enormous panic for the colonial rulers. Among their numerous frustrations, perhaps the chief one was that the colonial settlers stole their land.
The rebellion led to the declaration of an eight-year state of emergency, imprisonments of hundreds of thousands Gikuyu, and tens of thousands of deaths. Locally, it's seen as what triggered the British to give up its colonial rule of Kenya. (Though, since this was replicated all across Africa with all of the colonial powers suddenly granting independence roughly around the same time, it's unclear that the Mau-Mau rebellion caused or even speeded up Kenya's independence.)
When Kenyatta came to power, he was quick to distance himself from the Mau-Mau fighters, calling them a bunch of thugs and criminals. This might seem ironic since the British imprisoned Kenyatta as one of the leaders of the rebellion. In fact, it was strategic: he wanted to portray himself as a national leader, a national hero; not someone who would be held ransom to the demands of Mau-Mau fighters, or even one ethnic group. (Kenya says it has 42.)
As Kenyatta's increasingly dictatorial regime gave way to Moi's overwhelmingly corrupt one, Kenyans, especially Gikuyu decendents, began to mythologize Mau-Mau fighters as brave and creative warriors who fought for Kenya's independence—a struggle that was now continuing against their own rulers to bring democracy and justice to a country that failed to live up to pre-colonial rhetoric.
No fighter is more remembered or more mythologized than Dedan Kimathi. Once captured in 1952, he escaped with the help of local police. A year later he became a field commander, coordinating the Mau-Mau forest fighters for three years. The British labeled him a terrorist and finally shot and captured him. An ailing Kimathi lay in a hospital bed, awaiting his death sentence.
That, of course, was the painted-over image on the wall that I saw. That painting may be lost, but Kimathi's legacy lives on. The Kenyan government has now commissioned for a statue of him to be built; he's already the central character in Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o 's play “The Trial of Dedan Kimathi”; and he has a street named after him in Nairobi. Since Kenyatta Day is meant to remember national heroes, the media includes Kimathi among the ranks, showing this famous image.
I don't know if Kimathi is actually the national hero that he's now portrayed to be. His added prestige these days may involve more than a little white-washing: click here for a colonial police officer's less favorable remembrance of Mau-Mau, with its own share of vicious, brutal internecine warfare.
I'll miss Kimathi on that wall, not because I think he ought to be praised, as I'm sure the artist intended, but because that image reminded me of something else. The British labeled him a terrorist, Mau-Mau fighters called him their martyr, and the Kenyan elites dismissed him as a leader of criminals. In death, Kimathi is all of these things and none of them. That's the Kimathi I saw looking out at me, someone who lost control of his own destiny.
This is an uneventful walk. Trees, grass, mud, litter, a women selling bananas and peanuts out of a small green basin, and the guys painting the large clay pots that are sold alongside the road. Along the dirt road in front of our office, is something of a nursery with a couple dozen people watering plants, or haggling with prospective buyers.
Last week Monday, I had something of a surprise, when I walked by the Paresian Center—home to a dentist firm, a World Vision office, and a couple other organizations/businesses—and found a large white rectangle of paint on the surrounding wall.
I looked at it for a second, trying to understand what happened. There used to be a nice large painting there of a man in a hospital bed with a quote next to it. It was one of the best public paintings I'd seen in Nairobi—in Kenya.
When I first looked at the painting, back in August, I was ignorant. The painting seemed loud, like it was making a statement, and struck me as too specific in its detail to be just another sick person in a hospital bed. But I couldn't make the connection. Could it really be just another painting about HIV/AIDs?
On October 20th, I discovered who it was. The 20th is a national holiday in Kenya, called Kenyatta Day, after Kenya's first President Jomo Kenyatta. The holiday was originally meant to invoke the (intellectual) heroes of Kenya's liberation from British colonialism: a group that included Kenyatta and his eventual successor Daniel arap Moi.
What the holiday (under Moi and Kenyatta) did not emphasize were the people who violently fought the British during the Mau-Mau rebellion. These people, generally from an “ethnic group” called the Gikuyu, hid in the forests, swore secret oaths, launched attacks on white settlers, and created enormous panic for the colonial rulers. Among their numerous frustrations, perhaps the chief one was that the colonial settlers stole their land.
The rebellion led to the declaration of an eight-year state of emergency, imprisonments of hundreds of thousands Gikuyu, and tens of thousands of deaths. Locally, it's seen as what triggered the British to give up its colonial rule of Kenya. (Though, since this was replicated all across Africa with all of the colonial powers suddenly granting independence roughly around the same time, it's unclear that the Mau-Mau rebellion caused or even speeded up Kenya's independence.)
When Kenyatta came to power, he was quick to distance himself from the Mau-Mau fighters, calling them a bunch of thugs and criminals. This might seem ironic since the British imprisoned Kenyatta as one of the leaders of the rebellion. In fact, it was strategic: he wanted to portray himself as a national leader, a national hero; not someone who would be held ransom to the demands of Mau-Mau fighters, or even one ethnic group. (Kenya says it has 42.)
As Kenyatta's increasingly dictatorial regime gave way to Moi's overwhelmingly corrupt one, Kenyans, especially Gikuyu decendents, began to mythologize Mau-Mau fighters as brave and creative warriors who fought for Kenya's independence—a struggle that was now continuing against their own rulers to bring democracy and justice to a country that failed to live up to pre-colonial rhetoric.
No fighter is more remembered or more mythologized than Dedan Kimathi. Once captured in 1952, he escaped with the help of local police. A year later he became a field commander, coordinating the Mau-Mau forest fighters for three years. The British labeled him a terrorist and finally shot and captured him. An ailing Kimathi lay in a hospital bed, awaiting his death sentence.
That, of course, was the painted-over image on the wall that I saw. That painting may be lost, but Kimathi's legacy lives on. The Kenyan government has now commissioned for a statue of him to be built; he's already the central character in Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o 's play “The Trial of Dedan Kimathi”; and he has a street named after him in Nairobi. Since Kenyatta Day is meant to remember national heroes, the media includes Kimathi among the ranks, showing this famous image.
I don't know if Kimathi is actually the national hero that he's now portrayed to be. His added prestige these days may involve more than a little white-washing: click here for a colonial police officer's less favorable remembrance of Mau-Mau, with its own share of vicious, brutal internecine warfare.
I'll miss Kimathi on that wall, not because I think he ought to be praised, as I'm sure the artist intended, but because that image reminded me of something else. The British labeled him a terrorist, Mau-Mau fighters called him their martyr, and the Kenyan elites dismissed him as a leader of criminals. In death, Kimathi is all of these things and none of them. That's the Kimathi I saw looking out at me, someone who lost control of his own destiny.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Kenyan Music Videos
A couple Peace Corps friends have passed around links to some Kenyan Music Videos. For all those who are interested, here are some links: "Kuna Dawa" (There's Medicine), "Nakupenda Yesu" (I Love You Jesus), "First Lady," "Hallo Hallo Nataka Kuongea na Mariko" (Hi, Hi, I want to speak with Mariko), and "Nikiwa Ndani" (When I'm at Home-- lit. When I'm Inside).
(With special thanks to RPCV Amy Yates.)
(With special thanks to RPCV Amy Yates.)
Fiction: "The Cell"
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie just published a fictional story called "Cell One." She's a Nigerian-born author who made something of a stir in African literature with her book Purple Hibiscus, which I read a couple years ago.
Her new story, published in the New Yorker, is a narrator's sort of sad reminiscence of her mischievous older brother. It's worth checking out.
Her new story, published in the New Yorker, is a narrator's sort of sad reminiscence of her mischievous older brother. It's worth checking out.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Three Bright Kids and the Swamp of "Development"
Poverty is one of the most difficult things to get used. Having lived in Kenya for almost three years now, I'm surprised at how it still affects me.
On Saturday I was invited to a meeting of a half deaf, half hearing group. The leader of the organization invited along three deaf children from the area. They are two sisters and their brother. They had been attending Mumias School for the Deaf in Western Kenya. Now they were stuck at a hearing primary school in Donholm.
Why didn't they go back to Mumias? They couldn't pay their boarding fees.
Deaf schools are much fewer than hearing schools, and not many students can afford to travel to and from home every day. So, the schools offer boarding facilities at a rate of something like 10,000/- per year ($143).
This challenge has pushed parents and the ministry toward “mainstreaming”: putting deaf kids at nearby hearing schools. The same thing happens in America, often with interpreters. Whatever one thinks of “mainstreaming,” it's clear that for it to be remotely successful, the deaf kids should at least have access to what the teacher is saying through sign language. (Preferably Kenyan Sign Language, though at least a sign language.)
“Do the teachers at Donholm know sign language?” I ask them.
“Nothing,” they say.
I don't ask if they have interpreters. I know that they don't.
Looking at these three bright kids (Class four, eight and Form two; i.e. 4th grade, 8th grade, and a high school sophomore), I'm moved to try to help them. Maybe I can find a way for these kids to get back to Mumias. Raising around $500 shouldn't be too difficult.
But paying school fees doesn't change the system. One year from now these kids will still need assistance. Not to mention that there are hundreds of other kids (deaf and other "special needs" children) who don't attend school for the same reason.
Above all else, though, is this disturbing fact: there are a number of rich people here. People drive around in fancy cars, live in lavish houses, and send their kids to the top private schools. Just because Kenya is a poor country, it doesn't mean that there are no extremely wealthy people here.
How long will western countries “adopt” Africa's poor? If Americans and Europeans feel they have a social obligation to assist, how can they make sure that the communities that they're helping are not simply neglecting their own obligations?
Here's the point: social ills are best solved by the local societies themselves. American donors ship over the money, have little-to-no oversight as to how that money is used, and actually deter the local people from taking up their own social responsibilities. The government and the private sector need to join hands to address their massive community problems.
But, as a Kenyan once told me, “dollars are so sweet.” Not to mention that they often come with few strings attached. It's a lot easier to get an American to give out $20 than to get a Kenyan to give out the same amount in shillings (1,400/-).
So this is what pains me: getting the specific examples of people who need help, yet knowing that, as of now, I do not represent a long-term solution to this problem. And offering short-term solutions lowers the need for local communities to step up and address their own problems.
On Saturday I was invited to a meeting of a half deaf, half hearing group. The leader of the organization invited along three deaf children from the area. They are two sisters and their brother. They had been attending Mumias School for the Deaf in Western Kenya. Now they were stuck at a hearing primary school in Donholm.
Why didn't they go back to Mumias? They couldn't pay their boarding fees.
Deaf schools are much fewer than hearing schools, and not many students can afford to travel to and from home every day. So, the schools offer boarding facilities at a rate of something like 10,000/- per year ($143).
This challenge has pushed parents and the ministry toward “mainstreaming”: putting deaf kids at nearby hearing schools. The same thing happens in America, often with interpreters. Whatever one thinks of “mainstreaming,” it's clear that for it to be remotely successful, the deaf kids should at least have access to what the teacher is saying through sign language. (Preferably Kenyan Sign Language, though at least a sign language.)
“Do the teachers at Donholm know sign language?” I ask them.
“Nothing,” they say.
I don't ask if they have interpreters. I know that they don't.
Looking at these three bright kids (Class four, eight and Form two; i.e. 4th grade, 8th grade, and a high school sophomore), I'm moved to try to help them. Maybe I can find a way for these kids to get back to Mumias. Raising around $500 shouldn't be too difficult.
But paying school fees doesn't change the system. One year from now these kids will still need assistance. Not to mention that there are hundreds of other kids (deaf and other "special needs" children) who don't attend school for the same reason.
Above all else, though, is this disturbing fact: there are a number of rich people here. People drive around in fancy cars, live in lavish houses, and send their kids to the top private schools. Just because Kenya is a poor country, it doesn't mean that there are no extremely wealthy people here.
How long will western countries “adopt” Africa's poor? If Americans and Europeans feel they have a social obligation to assist, how can they make sure that the communities that they're helping are not simply neglecting their own obligations?
Here's the point: social ills are best solved by the local societies themselves. American donors ship over the money, have little-to-no oversight as to how that money is used, and actually deter the local people from taking up their own social responsibilities. The government and the private sector need to join hands to address their massive community problems.
But, as a Kenyan once told me, “dollars are so sweet.” Not to mention that they often come with few strings attached. It's a lot easier to get an American to give out $20 than to get a Kenyan to give out the same amount in shillings (1,400/-).
So this is what pains me: getting the specific examples of people who need help, yet knowing that, as of now, I do not represent a long-term solution to this problem. And offering short-term solutions lowers the need for local communities to step up and address their own problems.
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