Up Yours, Dear Kenyan Mangina: Go Suck a Real Dick ||

Now at this festival, there was perhaps no more indicative a bullshit session of Kenya’s faux liberati scum as the forum dubbed ,“The! Future! of Men!: What is it like to be a man in Kenya today? of Men!: What is it like to be a man in Kenya today?” 


It was moderated by the consummate prick that is Oyunga Pala, supposedly in conversation with his little big dickmate Biko Zulu, but eventually groped by the now infamous Tony Mochama.We both know you came to drool at Biko, little girl. So sad you were that he did not show, you pulled off your panties and put the roof on fire. But did not squirt it off at the end, when it really was the least you coulda done.


I will not sit here and talk about what has been extensively cataloged by every feminist blog between here and kingdom chick-bean-flicking cum. As an audience member, I did that. Internal monologues between me and myself, and later with one puny cocked weasel Yule Mbois Mndialala who thinks himself some sort of autonomous wankster god on Facebook.


The session turned out quite as I had expected. In these Kenyan *spaces,* the right to doublethink has categorically been displayed as a privilege the *mens* should – make that capital, underlined, bold *Must* – check. It is whipped out in such fancy colours that you, the menses, actually do. You do check these privileges your dick gave you over her pussy.


Women have been silent for so long in Kenya, the second they grow a pair of brain cells, they feel they own the privileged right to whip it out and shut you up with it.


Who said that victims cannot be graceful victors? All I see in these streets are victims walking around either moaning about their victimized little minds, or masquerading as victors to manifest their victim mentality in every puny argument their weak ideas present:

‘manslamming’this, 

‘manspreading’ that, ‘maninist’ this… 

‘manspreading’ that, ‘maninist’ this… 

[Caution: spoken with a loud curling Kilimani twang, or else...] 

What is it with you little bitches and your manventions? Ok, I get that you need to vent your manly frustrations, but really? You gave yourselves a label, so we need one too? Don’t we already have enough in our liquor cabinets?


Don’t you see that these one-size-fits-alls will be your undoing?


Tell me, dear little femininely shamed slut of a feminist, how when a man drinks himself silly and has his way with your tired but equally drunk hung-out-together-all-night ass, it is rape. It becomes rape when you wake up, remember your inhibitions were more than slightly off their ticking rockers, and so you could not have been in any position to give his drunken ass consent.


I will wait for you to swallow that.


As a matter of fact, I will rephrase it for your weak little bitch-fitting brain-denying cunt: he was high, his cognition holds up; you were high, yours does not. How can you turn around and look me in the eye, away from your place of invisibility, as you sing that doublethink back into my ear?


Do you even realize how vile that parseltongue is to me?

At the Future of Men rolling in the Hay session, you and your ilk stormed the house.


Check.


You were pricked by Tony and the like.


Check.


You stormed out.


Double twice check.


So you proceeded to whip your imagined dicks off onto the mic, and refused to back down when it was your turn to. Order, dear little vadge-badge, applies to you too.


If you grab the mic off my hands because your fragile little angina tells your vagina that it needs to bring its monologue out into the public, and so fuck me as I wait for my turn to speak:

*you are that little mansplaining, manspreading, manslamming prick you so love to detest.*

Start acting aware of your surroundings. Get away from your phone’s little screen and tembea fucking Kenya. Otherwise you will get plowed down by people who are also unaware of their surroundings. And for the life of your (un)born sons and daughters, little bitch, get a life and live it.


Screaming bloody murder and oh “not all men” means all men, but “no means no”?


Will you stop and get a hold of your export brains before they fall completely out off your imported bra?


In closing, here are the immortal words of T.O.K., the same ones you danced your skinny ass off to before it grew fatty cellulite and made you a fat angry bitch:

No way, Jose, we nuh go ever stay, a gurl fi know she haffi give it up

before we pay…

Coz if she don’t play, then we don’t pay!

Think about that too, every time we pay your way for a lay. Because if I have to hear you claim to have more sensible investments than we do, coz you got land and shit? You and your funny nanny of a fanny will see how gaskets truly blow.


Yelling how there's a mansis up in every nigga-fucking large hall that lets you pander your Bull. How there are no men left up in this bitch.

Bring it! What? We right here, We're not going anywhere.We right here, This is ours and we don't share... We right here, Bring your crew coz we don't care...

- DMX, We Right Here

If you can't find a good one, so you wanna whip up your own little mangina to Lorde over, get the fuck outta my way. I am human. You can take that broken groupthinking gender kaleidoscope and shove it where my sunny little dick will never shine.


And now, in true closing, I will quote my friend Smitta Smitten, the one y’all tried to smite – all hail, ye mighty smiters –

“oh dear, better legal gold than legal lead…n both are better than legally dead!”

Now go manfist your Audre-manifesting self or some shit. I'm out.

Signed,

Marquis de Sadness 

Member of the World Fuck You Media. 

The Women who Lay Over Us

Women are not equal to men. In structure, in theory and in practice, men are more equal than women. Sure, love takes its toll equally on all; some more than others. Sure, the sum of this ‘some’ is not entirely made up of women; experience and interaction abound to prove it.

Sure, money should be split equitably between the sexes. Yet many a girl gets what she wants, many a times, based on what she can give ‘back to sender’.

Lay over – a temporary break in a journey; 

usually imposed by scheduling requirements. 

This is where the needs argument usually comes in.

“I have needs to take care of”, says Stoopy, in justifying her multiple streams of income. Streams – you will often find – that she pays for in kind sex, love without benefits, or smiles and pet names. 

Sometimes, just sometimes, streams that are paid for in rape allegations and entrapped alimony.

Watching world wrestling this weekend, the ironies of our hypocrisy – as concerns the stereotypically weaker sex – could not have been clearer were they erected in crystal pillars. It was a tag-team match, one in which two guys chose to beat the brains out of each other’s brawn. We shall call them Egg-face and Egghead.

The guys went at each other. Fought hard, fought smart…or some semblance of it. The rules of a tag team are that a teammate usually does not interfere with the ongoing fight. Egghead’s tag-team partner would thus remain in his corner, until such a point as Egghead tags him in. At that point, Egghead leaves the ring, taking his associate’s position at the corner.

Further, unless Egg-face can get to his partner before Egghead’s partner-in-crime gets to him, then – ideally – ‘new blood’ should continue to pound on him.

This particular match was different. Whereas the tag-team partner is usually another man, this time, on the sidelines stood female reinforcements. Two women wrestlers. We shall call them the sidelined girlfriends, henceforth SGs. Two things quickly emerged:

a)        

There was a special rule for the Eggs’ SGs. If Egghead tags in his SG, then Egg-face has to tag in her counterpart. Because men do not fight women.

b) 

The match was won when Egghead’s SG hit Egg-face below the belt. You know, in the luggage; in ‘the boys’. Egghead then took over, pinning Egg-face to the ground for the 3 count. Game over.

Now let’s recap. A woman cannot be hit by a man, when in the middle of a fight she signed up for; that would be wrong. She is not structured to be hit in a fight, within a ring, by a guy. Her body is her weakness, in this fight.

The same woman can hit a man. She can take him out by going for his weakest point, his weakest weakness. This she can do at a time when she is not supposed to be interfering with the action in the ring. She can then stand by and watch a strong man mop up, and take the credit for her kill. Her body is still her weakness, you see, in this win. Because while she can opportune a hit that cripples a guy momentarily, physique says she might not stand any chance pinning the man down.

Before Westgate took over Kenyan airwaves, two similar women had been consistently portrayed as the shamed queens. Rachel Shebesh, a Member of Parliament who took a gubernatorial smack in her cheek. Caroline Mutoko, a Radio Diva who took an unsanitary senatorial blast in her ear.

Two women who were in a fight with two men. Let me rephrase that.

Two powerful, privileged, obnoxious women, who purport to speak for all Kenyan women, pit their fists – metaphorically speaking – against two powerful, privileged, obnoxious men, who purport to speak for everyone. In a fight whose rules these two women expected to control, having carefully choreographed it to be on the record.

For a second, let’s walk away from the fight I feel coming, as to whether so-or-so deserved – womanly as she was, is – the reaction her transgressing action brought bare. Let’s walk as far as Germany, shall we?

Lay over – To postpone for future action

At the heart of the Holocaust, it has emerged, were women as brutal as Hitler’s men. A mother, who shot fat-nosed Children of the Ark. A nurse, who injected lethal fluid into Jewish campers, turning their blood as cold as her own.

These German women were complicit to the white-washing of Jewish lives from German nationalism. They killed, directly or indirectly. Just as the terrorist who allegedly warned a pregnant lady he clearly liked, that there would soon be a stampede at the Westgate Mall, was her savior.

Yet only a small number of these women, such as Irma Grese – a concentration camp guard – were punished, and fittingly so, for their crimes in Nazi Germany. Like the accountant who helped Pattni, aka Pastor Paul, rob Kenya blind with government sanctioned scams, or the lawyer who fattened his career protecting Nyayo’s corrupt regime, the naming and shaming game did not apply to these women.

Closer home, a young girl took a knife and stabbed her father dead. She had been repeatedly raped by her guardian, and could no longer take it. While the penalty for rape is surely not death, this case was, and is, justifiably a case of self-defense. For one, she could not possibly rape him back; but more so, rape is a twisted power play, one that deprives its victim of choice, not to mention scarring them both physiologically and psychologically.

I do wonder, though, if the tables were reversed, whether a 17-year old who killed his female guardian would be pardoned on a self-defense claim. Whether his plea would be given a slap in the hand without warranting a visit to the doctor’s, at the very least, to help him with the trauma that got him to take another’s life. I wonder if, simply because he were male, the question would not be as to whether there was any immediate danger to his life.

I wonder if, as with the case of Duduzile ‘Dudu’ Manhenga, it matters that life is precious, and unless it is taken justifiably, then it matters not by whom; just how, and perhaps why. Dudu has been called, in disclaiming her culpability in an accidental homicide, both a 'good person' and a 'woman of God.'

While Dudu's case has many complexities that have little to do with her femininity and a lot to do with her Godliness, even as I write this, a big part of me feels sorry for her. That part of me that feels that a woman should be excused for her actions, simply because she is a woman, and the world has not cut her enough slack. 

The same part that forgets to tell girls - as we tell them that they can be anything, as we tell them that they can be like men - that the world they live in does not truly think so. That the men around them will not live in fear of defilement as they walk home late at night. That they do not have to worry much about what happens to their bodies when they're drunk and passed out at an inconvenient spot in a ditch. That while it's OK to push for equal opportunity, equal circumstance can never be achieved.

That same part, I would imagine, that this comment recently criticized in a discussion I was involved in:

[There is a line between] "rape" and consensual sex at a party. Getting drunk with a girl is not necessarily sexual assault or rape [sic]. It still bothers me that it is expected that a drunk man is responsible for ALL his decisions and actions, but a drunk woman is not responsible for her decisions and actions. Where's the equality?

Either drunk people can still make sound decisions about sex, or they can't. Pick one. 

Lay over – To place on top of; to superimpose

What many women do not always get, in getting what they want, is what they deserve. What their needs often forget, in justifying what some women get – usually and quite simply because of their structure – is the inherent irony. The irony in expecting to be taken seriously in complete disregard of what you look like, when your other hand willingly accepts money and gifts; because of what you look like.

The irony in complaining about the world’s evil hold on women’s necks, when in the same breath expecting women to receive lighter or no sentences for their transgressions.

There’s a million voices

To tell you, what you

Should be thinking

So you better sober up

For just a second.

-   Youssou N’dour.

To rape… to abort; two unwanted mutually inconvenient verbs that demonstrate just how much more men equal, than women.

These two verbs; two doing words that pit their choices against each other while consciously ignoring the woman. Choices that society’s misinterpretations of feminism forget to mention. Mention that some men choose to rape a woman of their choice. Mention that when a woman aborts, it is often out of lack of choice.

Not every woman, society’s feminism seems to ignore mentioning, aborts for lack of choice. Being born male, contrary to society’s ignorant double standards, does not herald a predisposition to rape a female.

Two words that are consistently peddled to generalize women’s fears and struggles, while simultaneously in many cases pitting men in general as the cause of these fears and struggles. In one fell swoop ignoring the fact that these are not, should not be, absolute issues.

This, especially not, where gender were concerned. Because pitting men against women, not only defeats the purpose of seeking a solution; it entirely closes our eyes, locking out the few in society who do not ascribe to our definitions of gender.

What happens when we refuse to think for our selves? Absolute and systemized pigeonholes become systemic definitions of right and wrong, and provisions for selective absolution. 

By labeling yourself - dear feminist, dear counter-feminist, dear activist - you simply label others. Because a label asks them, from the get-go, if they are "for us; or against us." 

___________________________________________

Written by Fred Wambugu Maina.

Photo by Fungai Machirori.

It’s All Over Now: Kubali Matokeo? No. Time to START Living, if #WeAreOne.

A lot has changed since the late hours of Saturday morning. Life has needlessly gone to waste. Our inept governance and disaster response reactions have once again come to the fore. Even worse, our inhuman opportunism in moments of human pain further sullied a bloody backdrop.

15 years ago today, we were heading towards 50 days from our first involuntary encounter with Al Qaeda. 212 were dead, and countless lives scarred by a disaster I was too young to fully comprehend. 

The only thought on my mind, on August 7^th 1998, was my 11^th birthday the following day. Would they cook chapatti at my grandma’s – where I was heading, seated in the passenger seat of a matatu, as news of the bomb blast broke on the dashboard dead ahead of me – or ugali?

4 months ago, Storymoja Africa asked me to imagine the world with them. Gladly, I did. Imagination is the stuff of dreams, you see, and boy do I love to dream. What I care for more than dreams, however, is to see these dreams come true. I wait patiently to make them be. 

What happened on Saturday, while I had imagined it before, is no dream. It is a nightmare, the easiest kind of reality that comes from imagination. It was, however, no surprise to me. 

Last month, days before the August 7 memorial, I happened to be at Memorial Park. The park sits at what would be our Ground Zero – the site of the ‘98 terror attack. Let us now recap what we learnt then, and how we have applied it since. I’ll save you the trouble with one statement:

A lot has not changed since the late hours of Saturday morning.

As I learnt while talking to someone at our Ground Zero cenotaph, only the direct victims of what is now a fatefully insignificant tragic statistic in Kenya’s history actually remember it. The park may be called a ‘memorial,’ but beyond it simply being a commemorative plaque of one dreadful event in Nairobi hiss stories, the monument is now a simple revenue collection bin. 

That some choose to piggy-back on the park to fill their piggy-banks is hardly new. It is also, sadly, no news. Your government is still inept. Your morality is still for sale to the highest bidder. Your public utilities are still inutile. Your health system still sucks. 

You still don’t know who you are; still can’t tell what you need from what you want. 

You will still sit on your arse and wait for the next tragedy – small or monumental, natural or otherwise. You will wait only for you to react; to say, to never think or act independently.

“Stupid is as stupid does. Are you happy with your life today? Time is a blessing, that ticking clock has been sent to remind you that your life is valuable.

It is also futile; it has a beginning and it has an end.”

• Seven Sentences

And so tomorrow you will wake up. It may take longer than 24 hours, but tomorrow you will wake up. You will shed your patriotism. You will lose your nationalism. You will lose your leased ideals and leeched morality. Latch on to your good old need to feed off your brother’s flesh.

Indeed you will accept, you will move on, your choices will have no consequences.

Already you wonder what these tens of lives lost, these disquieting tens of hours under siege have done to your money. What they have done to Kenya’s economy, and if we can recover. 

Already you replace past silent tragedies with this latest loud one. 

Already you are marveling at the picturesque pictorials of gore, talking about the effectiveness of their insensitivity. Already you are rising up to defend your respective tribal leader’s squirms or otherwise squeamish action during the skirmish. 

Already you are baying for blood. 

Accusing your Eastleigh brother, that Somali Arab-looking brother you don’t know, for the acts of terror inspired not by race or place, but by creed. Already you are talking of reactions to these terrifying actions of terror. You have killed – if understandably so – every last gunman in that mall. Make no mistake, dear KDF , for I applaud your patiently conclusive reaction. 

It was, after all, in self-defense. You were, after all, doing a job that should only be yours as a last resort.

A job you did in defense of inhabitants – temporary or permanent – of Westgate, who on the day became hostages and victims. It is by no fault of your own that every possible trail – it would seem – as to whom and the wherefores of the attack, runs cold. 

We are left in an all too familiar position now, however: that of shooting in the dark.

People died in 80 odd hours from Saturday morning. They died at a rate, perhaps, of 1 life per hour; a rate, more so, of countless hungry, overall. Countless wept, overall, but few of these weepers were conscious, sadly. 

Nigh fell. Many prayed. They did the natural thing when confronted by the unknown. They went for the unseen.

That is no critique, this atheist might add, for the unseen comforted me too. I went for my music. And while unlike any god this music could be heard, I had but my own interpretations of this music to go by. 

In this way I was similar to some religious folk; but not to those who rely on what is interpreted to them of what they believe to be their own script.

That kind is no different from the ilk that shot to death unconfirmed denizens in the dozens of dozens.

But already, dear hustler, you have returned to Kenya to help ‘calm the situation’ down… to "participate in security briefings." 

To consult. 

Because these attackers chose a time when you were not here to strike. Of course they did it in spite of you, not to spite you, dear hustler. Don’t come chasing waterfalls, while your colleagues sit chasing after doves in and outta parliament.

"We hope that some people will begin to contextualize what is going on and begin to appreciate the challenges that Kenya is going through, the region is going through, and the complications that are brought by what is going on here."

H.E. the VP of Kenya, W.S. Ruto, in "The Hustlers also Cry".

What does it matter? After all, opportunity – bloody or otherwise – is for the strongest to reap from. 

 

"In light of the circumstances and the views heard during the hearing, the Chamber excuses Mr Ruto from the proceedings.

For the moment the excusal is permitted for one week only, subject to any further requests that Defence counsel may make if need be to extend it,"  

Judge Chile Eboe-Osuji swallowed. Hook and line sunk.

This too shall pass. Not because we are a strong nation. Not because we are unscarred; because we are oblivious to our own bloodshed. At the least, this time around, we have a common enemy. Who that enemy will be, however, remains to be seen as the year closes down. 

I am worried. Not slighted, for that would imply – if only by similarity of sound – that it was slight. Worried, you see, sounds to me like war. It sounds like all out warfare unto the few in my town who think they know, while knowing not. To those who forget to feel, because – and get this – they have bills to pay. 

We all have bills to pay. We all need passion. Yet passion pays no bills. So ask yourself this:

“If you don’t like what you are doing right now, if your [life and work don’t] wow you…then why are you still doing [that]?”

• Seven Sentences

To paraphrase one of my favorite quotidian reads, quoted and attributed extensively through this post, is it simply because family responsibilities? Or is it because financial security? Perhaps it’s because some other lying, cheating, stealing reason?

“A good dream won’t make you poor, if you think it through, if you plan it well…”

• Seven Sentences

So if you’re doing what you don’t mean to be, then every time you are asked why you’re still at it, forget every other excuse, and give this reason:

I cannot think my dream through. I cannot plan it well enough to follow it through…

 

Only say you care about the world if you care enough to suffer through doing something to impact it. Regardless of what happens to you through it all.

The Riskiest Thing You Can Do Right Now Is To Simply Keep Doing The Same Old Thing.

The Women Who Lay ME

Nairobi, July 21, 2013; 10.45 am.

Timothy Mwaura Wambugu's Photography; Fred Wambugu Maina's Writing

There is no need, and indeed there never is, to quantify thoughts about women. This is one opinion, a personal one. It is also the overriding frame with which the next few words are to be read, if not the very same they were written in.

¹ To beat or strike down with force.

At this point, I will allow the first general quantification of women. We will attempt to call her Stoopy, this little feminine generalization; perhaps only she, ever so feminine, can explain my own physical – and beyond – relations with women. I might even get to the sub-atomic particulars of wrath, love and fire – all mine – for, about and from women.

Why? Because while I like the ‘care less’ attitudes women around me have developed in response to such outright stratification as is Stoopy, I also like being real. I can only be as real as my own experiences are. 

So perhaps it serves better logic to stalk off with these ‘imported airs’ women have been walking on. 

Perhaps.

Enter the women who lay me.

“Such docile creatures, women are. Women are drama queens, such little bundles of explosively combustible chemicals. Women are elementary; probable; possible. Women are not plausible. They are hardworking multi-taskers; women can take a hit and be silent while at it. They can take another hit.

Women are short, literally and figuratively; so portrayed in literature, so assumed in their ability to move furniture around. I kid you not. Women are lovers. Women are quiet in their suffering. Women are sufferers: mass sufferers in the subjugator systems of The World, et al.

Women are housewives. Women are mani-pedis and mothers; women are not career-led.

Women are to be submissive; the perfect woman is to be patient, kind, servant, willing, and savant to the man’s needs; strong under conventional duress…” Thus Spake Stoopy.

“I do not let women teach men or have authority over them. Let them listen quietly; [or]

“I do not permit a woman to teach or to assume authority over a man; she must be quiet; [further]

“I exhort therefore, that, first of all, supplications, prayers, intercessions, and giving of thanks, be made for all men; for kings, and for all that are in authority; that we may lead a quiet and peaceable life in all godliness and honesty.

For this is good and acceptable in the sight of God our Saviour.”

² To dispose or spread over or on a surface; to press down giving a smooth and even surface.

There are no accusations to be advanced; no duties or burdens, the lot of us is under punishment, should we be so willing to acquiesce to it. Many women have been laid to such faulty inspection, for all of time in her eternity; for most, the order barked at them, becomes them.

Man: Silence!

Nanny: Sit at your corner!

Women are dyslexia. Dyslexia is a woman.

“Dyslexia is characterized by difficulty with learning to read fluently and with accurate comprehension despite normal intelligence;” thus spake the world’s freest – most used, and sometime abused – encyclopedia. 

The world’s most womanly encyclopedia, that is.

Why are you still reading, woman? When, do you reckon, will I stop bullying? When, do I reckon, will you be bullied no more? 

A woman I know told me recently, that her mother told her – showed her really, in analogizing life – that she is to ‘wear your seat-belt when you sit in the front seat...’

Is this the front seat? Are you, dear feminist, driving it? Are you, perhaps more likely, riding shotgun? I wonder what the buckshot feels like; how much better the headlights are, coming right back at you, dear “doe, a deer, a female deer…”

A mother is the elixir of her child’s life. Her blood is as thick as it will be allowed to be. Like water, the more it is allowed to flow out of her cuts and bruises, the more her elixir extinguishes, long before she has the chance to be her child’s life. Yet unlike water, blood clots.

We have taken advantage of this ability of blood to clot, calling them strong, our underprivileged and underfed, overworked and overborne ‘weaker sex’. Blaming them for not being stronger, criticizing them when they become too strong. Telling them that they do not have all the answers; paradoxically blaming them when they ask "why?"

Never ever being, never ever being real; the lot of us. Being a woman is a criminal action, and being a man the ultimate disciplinary action; the ultimate violent reaction.

"Inside of you is a smart, powerful, dynamic, capable, self-confident, alive, alert, fabulous woman! Let her come out and play. The world is waiting for you."                                                                                                        - Louise L. Hay

³ To bring forth and deposit (and egg); to place for rest or sleep, especially: bury.

To give and to take away; such was my mother, the woman who first laid me. An egg was my self, an odd quarter century and a twenty-fifth of this next ago. 

“Why am I soft in the middle now?” Can you call me Al? Call me what you like; my mother gave what she took; and she got a lot of bad, disposed of it, left with the good and gave it to me.

Just like that, five years ago today, so too was she taken. Taken by men; by a manly system... by an unhealthy Hospitalized system of protocol resigned – not designed – to live and let leave. 

Living, you see, is for the fittest; for the blurred lines between price and bids, prize and greed.

The expression ‘pre-loved, not brand new’ perhaps attempts to sum me up; in my own estimation of my self, it is the lasting lesson from my mother: the self-supply of responsibility, a yearning for release from the shackles of commune. At the same time, tis the realization that our individuated response abilities are interconnected: and much as life goes on, when a loved one moves on to a ‘better place’, moving forward is that much harder. 

We are internally connected to them by choosing to love them.

⁴ To bring against or into contact with something: apply; to prepare or position for action or operation.

I have had bosses, in my time doing the corporate do-do. My immediate bosses, it turns out, have all been women. In all except one case. I have found many of them – within the confines of the office – to be headstrong misogynists masquerading in thinly-unveiled misandry.

One particular incident springs to mind. A bikini bash I went for, liked and was liked, particularly by this one woman’s drunken tongue. Four months later, she was seating across the table from me, next to the male CEO of the company and his female second in command, who turned out to be her friend. 

There I was, being interviewed for a job under the direct supervision of a woman I was not sure I wanted to be under.

Much more recently, I got back into employment in a Consultant capacity, under an open-minded trio of women. With more than enough experience in the sado-masochistic world of femdom that is many of this kind of scenario, I vetted them as hard as they vetted me, before deciding to work with them. I should actually be signing that contract by end of this month, fully 2 months after I agreed to start working with them.

On the other hand, one particular woman I got involved with recently – in a corporate, not corporeal way – is quite the epitome of what’s wrong with misguided feminism; the kind that ignores the very fundaments of itself, assumes that being manly equals being feminist. A Kenyan living in Diaspora, a South African tired of having to be Kenyan. 

Choices, it has been said, have consequences. Whether in the unions or communions, matrimony or testimony, beds or leads. The pervaded scent of ‘quotidian violence’ as one Keguro Macharia calls it, is fast becoming an epidemic.

My argument, if it ever was one, is not that women “submit for examination and judgement” by men. It is not that they “copulate with them; often vulgar.” It is not that they silently lay back as the fists are laid to their noses. It is that they prepare, personally, to be well-laid; to be contrived, not misconstrued.

It is, in fact, an argument that as a woman is, so is a man; human. If we are to continue to lay each other equitably, it will have to be under each other, laying our respective businesses before each other with our intentions clear, our attentions bare.

Before we can call ourselves ‘we’, let us first define the ‘I’ that makes ‘us’. This, however, is my truth.                                                         

Only mine...

^1-4 Various definitions of the word ‘lay’

Uongozi: Same Script, Different Words... Pt III

When Intentions meet Choices, Lasting Consequences are borne

Leadership, in my book – written by a life wrought with diverse experiences, observation, interaction, and experimentation – is the art of influencing oneself or others, through conscious or subconscious thought, speech and action.

It is also the science of knowing what one wants in life, and accepting it regardless of any perceived or real consequences; insofar as the individual stays true to themselves, and to their principles.

Leadership is open to constructive critique, and ready for detraction. It must never cower; leadership is not about being afraid of making mistakes. It never embraces failure.

Good leaders look at situations with as objective an eye as the subject of one’s self, or others, can be. They take any mistakes they make in their stride. True leadership, however, also entails never ignoring mistakes made; it is about learning to take them as negative feedback, and using this feedback to better – or completely remodel – the thought, speech and action processes that get one to the point of collision with unforeseen realities.

Leadership is simultaneously the pursuit of abundant – and specific – lessons to learn from, and the sharing of these lessons with others through action or speech. It is the relevant use of these specific lessons learnt, over time, in a holistic sense as per the attendant situation. 

However, leadership does not entail blazing a path for others to follow. This is to say that good leadership, in its purest form, is not a conscious effort, but a lifestyle. It is a lonely road; interconnected with narrow boulevards that do not require justification or solicit compliments. These streets are ideas spoken in action that seeks to complement its surroundings, not clash unnecessarily with them.

Leadership is important because whether applied inwardly or outwardly, insofar as it is applied properly, it seeks to identify salient issues and find equitable solutions for them; even if we, personally, emerge to be the problem in hand. In fact, by recognizing that we have a choice to make in every situation we are faced with, and that we have the ability to deal with these choices’ consequences, we are at peace with ourselves.

While global issues such as world peace remain within the dynamics of our day to day lives, eventually, it comes down to a simple truth: we come into this world alone; we leave it alone. If we are not at peace with ourselves, it follows that it is simply impossible for us to be truly at peace with our environs, and their inhabitants.

A true leader is cognizant of the fact that they, as well as their community’s world, are influenced by their environment; be it national, regional or international. They will remember this, even as they feel the pain their people live – if not merely exist and survive – within. While Emotional Intelligence, defined as ‘the ability to identify, assess and control the emotions of oneself, of others, and of groups’, is a necessary facet of leadership, it must be complimented by a realistic and wider perspective view of the factors that prevail on any individual or community, for them to be prepared to coexist with others, as well as each other.

This is why I believe that it is essential for any leader to be at peace with their inner selves first. To lead themselves first, before they think of leading – or, arguably, before they are allowed to lead others. The truism goes that we should ‘be change that we want to see’; and while altruism is an admirable quality when applied thoughtfully, including all stakeholders in every step of the thought, speech and actions on the way, the aforementioned truism can hardly be ignored.

Only when the public has become a collective of self-led individuals can development truly be sustainable. Responsibility ceases to be a burning ball to be tossed around; leadership disengages itself from the idea that it is a ‘hot seat’; it becomes a series of personal choices, ones that we learn to embrace and be liable for. When Emotional Intelligence is guided by a holistic perspective, on an all-inclusive path, pathological altruism can arguably be avoided.

Pathological altruism is defined as ‘behaviour in which attempts to promote the welfare of another, or others, results instead in harm that an external observer would conclude was reasonably foreseeable.’ ^[1] Instances of misguided altruism would include tribalism, nepotism, racism, classism, and the culture of giving handouts in the name of social responsibility.

Numerous practical examples exist to demonstrate the fact that the handout culture is as much a part of the problem – in Kenya particularly, Africa and the world in general – as it has tried to be a solution. 

One of the most widely read and visited urban cases in point would be Kibera slum, in Nairobi. Ironically, many residents of the new Kibra constituency in Kenya may never read a book, or visit any place beyond their own microcosm of life in the slum.

Whereas the hardware is important to any solution, it is essential to remember that the software is just as crucial, if not critical, to its sustainability. This is to say that any leader who throws money and assets at a problem, without putting in the necessary man-hours in thought, is heading blindingly fast on a collision course towards failure. Real value can only be adjudged on equitable exchange of significance, where both parties – the leadership and the people led – emerge satisfied. Good leadership is conscious of this balance in the exchange of value.

The most important quality a leader should have is that of confident thought and action. Indecisiveness, however subtle, is a sign of weak leadership. This is not to say that a leader acts rashly, or worse, brashly; careful thought, drawing from specific lessons learnt in the past, should be applied in the making of bold yet calculated risks. The process must be as expedited and expedient in manner as each presented scenario requires.

Further, leadership, in the socio-political context, entails the making of leaders. By this I mean that a good leader does not simply lead themselves, or others. Their confidence is infectious, and they engage themselves in the process of showing – not telling – others, how to lead themselves; this sets off a chain of choices for the rest: to lead themselves and others, or not to. Confident leaders lead; others make choices, become leaders, by observing them.

In the global context, leadership also entails realizing that while problems are diverse and situational all over the world, solutions are practically always possible when discourse towards progressive action is encouraged.

As of 2013, there are 39 states in the world recognized as the Heavily Indebted Poor Countries, HIPCs. A Joint Initiative designed by the International Monetary Fund, IMF, and the World Bank, it ‘ensure(s) that no poor country faces a debt burden it cannot manage.’ ^[2] 

Of the 36 HIPCs whose debt reduction package has been approved, 30 are in Africa. By many accounts, there are between 195 and 205 countries in the world. Including the newest – the Republic of South Sudan – Africa, both continental and islanded, has 54 of these countries.

Are we, as Africans, satisfied with having 30 of our own classified as both ‘heavily indebted’ and ‘poor’ countries, in a worldwide list that features less than 40 countries? Should the Pan-African agenda be proud of this damning statistic? Should we, as Kenyans, be happy that we do not feature in this list? Forget that over 50% of Kenya lives below the poverty line; a line that is as physical in class separatism as it is real in the pain of watching a child go hungry.

Granted, the poor and the hungry – usually one and the same – made certain choices that have brought them to the point where they are passengers in their own lives. Or have they? Do slums exist more in their inhabitants’ minds than they do in the murky drainage systems, and systemic hygiene cancers standard to slums? 

Do slum inhabitants consider their surroundings ‘poor’ ‘murky’ or ‘unhygienic’? Perhaps most debatable is this question: whether in the mind, or in the environs, who has put the slum in the man?

Finally, ‘a good and lasting legacy’ is my parting shot: it is what true leadership, whether personal, interpersonal or communal, means to me. That when you, as a leader, are gone, those who are left behind are better for your having been; that they have learnt to always be as they were when you were, even when you no longer are.

Should your leadership’s intentions be true to all stakeholder’s needs, your choices made based on these intentions be purely good, then the consequences would be the right legacy; and one that can stand the test of time.