Ghururi Ya Mutula Verdict: It’s ok NOT to mourn him - Pt 1

Nairobi. 30th April, 2013 |

I wrote this post in the dead of the night, perhaps hoping that I could publish it in said ungodly hours. Partly because my significant other, aka consort, disclosed to me how she thought my blog was becoming rather “sudden” lately. Translation: it has gone Ghafla. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that mheshimiwa Senior Counsel (SC) Mutula Kilonzo’s hardly gone cold yet, which in Kenyan and African circles decrees that thou shalt not speak ill of him. Let alone suggest that he not be mourned. 

It also might explain why I opted out of entitling this piece “How to write about fallen heroes”  [though scumbags would be the actual term I circumvent in this case, depending on whose story you’re reading.] 

Which is precisely what I want to get into today: the scumbag/ hero that was Mutula Kilonzo, a concept otherwise referred to in political discourse as an “if-by-whiskey.” This is the subjectivist fallacy – meaning a claim that something is true for one person but not the other – supposing that a response to an inquiry is contingent on how it is made; is it made using strong negative connotations, or using strong positive undertones? That is to say, ‘was Mutula Kilonzo a scumbag?’ or ‘was Mutula Kilonzo a hero/saint?’ This is the same ideology that would have you pointed at the MAUMAU* or South Africa’s ANC (African National Congress) as terrorists on the one hand, and freedom fighters on the other. Ditto the Taliban, the Afghan Mujahedeen, Iraq, Iran, Saudi Arabia…oh, sod it! the Middle East.

The same creed can be applied in doublespeak, thereby seeming to assert both faces of the matter at hand, and acting on the listener’s subjectivity to concur with whichever part he or she supports. In essence, when well-executed, the if-by-whiskey allows skilled politicians to take a position without taking it. Listen to Obama often and you’ll pick up on this nifty little trick.

In its original context, the if-by-whiskey draws this name from a speech delivered during a trial in 50s America, as to whether alcoholic beverages should continue to be forbidden or legalized. In essence, it was a reversal of Kenya’s Mututho Laws, seeing as liquor was illegal, and the lawyer who made the speech was looking to have it authorized:

“My friends, I had not intended to discuss this controversial subject at this particular time. However, I want you to know that I do not shun controversy. On the contrary, I will take a stand on any issue at any time, regardless of how fraught with controversy it might be. You have asked me how I feel about whiskey. All right, here is how I feel about whiskey:

If when you say whiskey you mean the devil’s brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster, that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean the evil drink that topples the Christian man and woman from the pinnacle of righteous, gracious living into the bottomless pit of degradation, and despair, and shame and helplessness, then certainly I am against it.

But, if when you say whiskey you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and laughter on their lips, and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer; if you mean the stimulating drink that puts the spring in the old gentleman’s step on a frosty, crispy morning; if you mean the drink which enables a man to magnify his joy, and his happiness, and to forget, if only for a little while, life’s great tragedies, and heartaches, and sorrows; if you mean that drink, the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions of dollars, which are used to provide tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitiful aged and infirm; to build highways and hospitals and schools; then I am certainly for it.

This is my stand. I will not retreat from it. I will not compromise.”

-         Noah “Soggy” Sweat, Jr., lawyer, State of Mississippi

Now, let’s ignore the obvious political incorrectness of some bits and pieces of the speech – it was, after all, 1952; blacks and women still had no tangible rights in the good old US of A. The 19^th Amendment to the US constitution, establishing women’s suffrage in 1920, was still in its youth, and it would be another 13 years before the Voting Rights Act outlawed the prejudiced practices accountable for the pervasive disenfranchisement of ‘niggers.’ All that overlooked, was that a great speech or what? It had everything so well orchestrated and maneuvered that I could picture the jury nodding in agreement. As were you, possibly, and I, certainly.

Remember how I mentioned the listener’s subjectivity, though? Well it would seem that “when [the jury] said whiskey [they meant] the devil’s brew . . . that topples the Christian man and woman from the pinnacle of righteous[ness]” and not “the ale that puts a song in their hearts and laughter on [good fellows’] lips.” It would be a long 14 year wait before this legislation came to pass.

I hear you want to think, “Why the extended analogy?” Well, here’s why:

i.                    It’s an analogy from the legal canons, for one, one that fits SC Mutula’s first love, one that he so thrived in.

ii.                  It allows me to make use of my “if-by-Mutula” relativist fallacy.

Now if-by-Mutula you mean ‘the dead object that does not agree with my living spirits,’ the University of Nairobi lawyer who persecuted innocent ‘student leaders who served a decade or so ago at the height of Moi's KANU rule,’ arguing that they should be suspended for 55 years; if-by-Mutula you mean the scumbag who ‘spent the better part of his illustrious career entrenching the skunk that today pervades so many sectors in the Governance of Kenya,’ minting his firm billions while at it, or the ‘late newcomer in the reform process who was part of the brains that negotiated a heavily imbalanced power-sharing accord leading to a rancorous Grand Coalition Government in which he was rewarded with a ministerial position;’ if-by-Mutula you mean the man who ‘was very much a pro-establishment intellectual care-giver,’ the man who, had he ‘chosen to advance the rule of law and positive jurisprudence on certain cases in this country’s history, Kenya would have made massive leaps in the manner those in government handle public properties and human rights,’ then ‘in all fairness, let those who mourn him wipe their tears in somber ululations, but let those of us denied the luxury of shedding crocodile tears by knowledge and appreciation of the checkered past of the fallen legislator toss champagne (if you can afford it) and breathe a sigh of democratic relief, knowing so well that nature has rebalanced the earth.’ 

If-by-Mutula you refer to this despicable man, then ‘as to whether he deserves to be remembered as a reformist, I leave such niceties to his pack of irrational mourners, and people who lack the core to put his past in the political context it belongs,’ because ‘this is a sad week with spasms of celebration by true revolutionaries, and as they say at the University, "a comrade is always right"!’ If this be your Mutula, then like my Alma mater comrade and Facebook friend Dikembe Disembe, quoted extensively in the last two paragraphs, ‘I will not mourn Mutula Kilonzo. Period.’ I acknowledge that ‘it is indeed shocking that I remain indifferent even as the "country as a whole" is engaged in mourning,’ and I will accept the insults ensuing from the partisanship inspired by my labeling him thus

Continue to part II

* MAUMAU - Mzungu Aende Ulaya, Mwafrika Apate Uhuru, literally translates from Swahili to White Man Goes [back] Abroad, African Gains Independence. Note how MAUMAU sounds waaaay cooler than WMGAAGI. It was the freedom fighter/terrorist organization that fiercely opposed British rule in Kenya.

Ghururi Ya Mutula Verdict: It’s ok NOT to mourn him - Pt 2

Continues from part I

But if-by-Mutula you mean ‘the consummate Wanjikus' Katiba (Kenya’s constitution) and rights advocate and defender of recent years,’ a man whose mantra can be equated to “thou shalt not kill nor sit in the council of conspirators planning the death of another man;” if-by-Mutula you mean the defender of the justice system so rigorous he believed that ‘our duty is not to do justice; the fundamental duty of a criminal defense lawyer is to zealously represent his client within the bounds of the law, and to defend the justice system which is hinged on the principle that no man shall be found guilty of a criminal offense unless the prosecutor proves his case beyond any reasonable doubt;’ the man who believed that ‘to do otherwise would be to invite anarchy in the justice system,’ because ‘many innocent people may be condemned to death or imprisonment if the standard of proof was to be lowered below "any reasonable doubt," and would advice that ‘in contrast, the duty of a prosecutor is not to simply prosecute, but to do justice.’ 

 If-by-Mutula you mean the ‘vintage’ legal mind ‘under whose able tutelage’ his daughter, Kethi Kilonzo, ‘many years later had the audacity to stand in court and pursue what her father opposed in 1992 and 1997: the petitioners' case to have the results of a presidential election annulled on the basis of "glaring electoral malpractices";’ one in whom the law coursed his veins so much that ‘as a defense lawyer in a criminal case he would, as required, discredit the witnesses, facts, assertions, evidence, or whatever the prosecutor presents against his client, "within the bounds of the law", even though he may know or believe it to be truthful or accurate,’ and dutifully ‘present any viable defense, no matter his personal feelings about its true merit;’ if-by-Mutula you mean the defense lawyer who would we never knowingly present false testimony, but would use true testimony to whatever benefit he could for his client, no matter how horrific the crime or evil the defendant,’ because ‘factual guilt plays no role whatsoever in the duty of a defense lawyer to zealously defend his client, and there should never be a moral dilemma once a lawyer assumes the duty to defend.’ 

If-by-Mutula you talk of the defense lawyer whose ‘brief was to use whatever tools were available under the law to obtain an acquittal, dismissal or the best possible outcome, whether based upon fact or law, whether capitalizing on a tactical error by the prosecution or advantage offered to the defense,’ and whose ‘function as such was not to judge, or impose his sensibilities or morality, but to defend his client,’ because ‘that is as it should always be if the justice system is to have any credibility,’ then by all means, like this separation of law from moral dilemma quoted extensively from Wanjiku Revolution Kenya’s post, I too ‘hope that as we prepare to inter the bones of Snr. Counsel Mutula Kilonzo, we will understand his roles during the KANU days and in the recent years. That he was simply a good lawyer, who did his duty according to his education and training. And so may the Lord rest his soul in eternal peace!’

Yet like @WanjikuRevolt goes on to ask, ‘how can we reconcile ourselves with Mutula the tax evader who earned over 1 billion from a single case representing a Wanjiku tax-/pensions-funded institution?’ 

And right here is where the entire fallacy falls apart. In the past 15 months, Kenya has seen 4 high-profile politicians perish, among them John Michuki, Njenga Karume, former Vice President (VP) George Saitoti, and now Mutula Kilonzo. The first two died naturally, a cardiac arrest and cancer respectively cancelling them out rather quietly. The last two, however, died rather mysteriously, with the former VP – then Internal Security Minister – and his then assistant minister Orwa Ojode, crashing and burning in a contentious helicopter ‘accident.’

Now a lot has been said about these four men, and particularly about how they acquired their vast wealth; I will not delve into that. Even more has been said about their double-edged political personalities, pro-status quo before the end of Moi’s era, yet somewhat effective and ineffectual in almost equal measure during Master Kibaki’s reign. I will avoid getting sucked into that easy wormhole just as well. What is more interesting to me is the plight of the Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs) and their equally very dead compatriots; that these 4 ‘Good, Bad & Ugly’ men have been more equal in mourning than the 1000+ who died in the 2007/08 Post Election Violence (PEV); that they deserved multi page-spreading obituaries and state-funded ads reminding us that they have died.  Never mind the little ignominious detail that the families which survived them have more money to better lick their wounds with than the 600k+ who survived PEV, but died as citizens to be reborn as refugees in their own land (IDPs). 

A sickening development I noticed on my Social Media timelines was the prevalence of universal condolence messages to Mutula’s bereaved from Kambas and Luos, while Kikuyus and their consorts seemed universally cynical. I feel the need to remind you of your lanes, people. You belong in that lower echelon of many that died during the PEV and went by unnoticed. Not in the upper stratum of creamed crops whose death becomes a national event and tragedy.

One death is a tragedy; the death of a million is a statistic

                             –       Joseph Stalin 

The Kikuyu and the Kamba have, in my mind, coexisted rather well in the past, and it was only in the run-in to the elections that there emerged differences. How reconcilable is yet to be seen, but it was rather telling that old Kikuyu people I know, for the first time in my life, shared the little-known ‘fact’ that the Kamba were the most ruthless Home Guards during the colonial Emergency period. That may well be so, and the fact that the Kamba collaborated with the British is hardly a secret. Neither is the fact that some of the most rewarded collaborators were from the Kikuyu community. That it was used as a deriding fact to demonstrate the general population of our Kamba people’s affinity to “collaborate with the oppressors,” or cross over to the dark side, if you like, was rather telling of my people’s contentment to subsist upon a microcosm of the crutches of the very same dirty tribal linen that so paralyses them.

When the news, quickly captured in images distributed transversally on Social Media, that Kalonzo Musyoka had broken down as he relayed the news of Mutula Kilonzo’s death to the people gathered at the funeral he was attending when he received the news, the first responders disparaging his act as a campaign maneuver were from my tribe. Now I’m not one to rush into the defense of ANY politician’s intentions, and certainly not one as convoluted by double standards as the former Vice President. I am equally not one, however, to let tribal bigotry – however nuanced – simply slide.

Mutula Kilonzo admittedly separated ethics and emotion from his practice of law in life; in death, we should not be expected to be ethical or emotional in our analysis of his passing either. But we should be logical. No one man is all good or all bad: he defended the despotic Moi and made a trailer-load of money while at it, but was instrumental in the constitutional reforms, and depending on who you choose to believe, was a humanitarian – a Rotarian – with the reform agenda etched deeper in his heart than any of our remaining crop of August House(s) bosses. 

Not only is it ok, however, NOT to mourn him. It is also in one fell swoop ethical, legal and hardly a moral dilemma NOT to. It's a choice, like everything else.

Post-Election Insolence: Same Script, Same Cast, Different Lanes (Part I)

April 26th, 2013: 

Under the influence of an inspired State House PR team, and a brilliant presidential speech-writer, I find myself in the unfamiliar position of becoming President Kenyatta’s unofficial fan-boy. And going by my Social Media timelines, it would seem that I’m not the only Kenyan above the ignorance of tripping over myself at what must be this president’s burliest mascot – his smoke, pun unintended, and mirrors.

There was the YouTube video of bloopers from the campaign trail, aired live on Citizen TV – among other nationwide visual couriers of new agendas. What self-respecting PRO could in their right mind have passed up on that kind of marketing? A nice touch you’ll find available for download at Image-improvementfordummies.co.ke and cleanasababysbottom.com. 

Characteristically much later came the Cabinet Secretary announcements, anticlimactically revealing only four of a possible eighteen nominees. The images depicting UhuRuto with their sleeves rolled up with the red, blue or matching ties could not have been lost on us either, a leaf copy-pasted straight off President Obama’s playbook; as was the setup of the presidential platform at the foot of the pillars of State House, and the “brotherly love” approach to handling the media.

The immediate hullabaloo over this delay in cooking up a cabinet was counterbalanced by equally loud calls for patience, since the process of selection would only do Kenya good, hence requiring diligent input by the two Jubilee leaders. Opinionistas were quick to delve into the matter, adding the fact that it allowed Parliament to begin the vetting process on the four, notably the nominee to the National Treasury. A road sign was quickly erected, reminding us of the immediacy of the budget reading, and pointing directly at President Uhuru’s ingenuity in prioritizing that appointment. Even more pedestrian crossings allowed us to cross the reality that department of state appointments in democracies such as the motherload United States are also conducted in similar fashion. Hail the dapper UhuRuto for style, they said.

After ascertaining that we’d had enough time to mull over this perceived letdown, yesterday happened. The now sixteen member council of nominees’ credentials have since been turned into fodder on massive multi-page spreads in the National Press: a young and virile team of technocrats with the résumés, frequent flier miles and Varsity qualifications – read Diaspora education – to back them. It would be difficult to dig into a good majority of these consummate professionals before they’ve had the onus of a Cabinet track record to look back on; and so for the most part, Kenyans chose to eyeball the two final nominees, who had the ignominy of a hangman’s noose in the form of their past performances hanging over their heads.

It was indeed a masterstroke distinctive of this new regime’s style when the two final nominations came. The execution was flawless…introduce the less-maligning Balala first and fast as Mining Secretary, and what with Kenyan women’s obvious goo goo gaga reactions to both Andrew Kenneth and then-President Elect Uhuru’s son, it was hard to disagree with that logic. Much especially so when one of the bigger stains in Kenya’s conscience – if she had one – was announced next as Lands, Housing and Urban Development Secretary. A fellow blogger went as far as inaugurating the indelible ink used by the IEBC to mark voters’ pinkies as ‘the Ngilu’, aptly summarizing her hard-to-be-rid-of hard-as-nails Die Hardness. 

  

In the interests of being fundamentally unKenyan, however, let’s spot and point out the obvious flaws in this action by the president, and the equal and expectedly opposite overreaction by the public. First off, if the past 7-odd years of Mr. Kibaki’s governance have shown us anything, it’s that we the duly submissive wananchi have an impressively sturdy level of BSc, aka Bullshit compliance. After an initially quasi-smooth beginning to his term, Señor Kibaki’s government began experiencing hit after hit of graft allegations on a grand scale. Cabinet Ministers who would go on to survive both terms in cabinet were at the heart of these scandals, and no less than the Prime Minister, at the time, as well as the current President and his Deputy have since had their fair share of the corruption allegation cake.

Our national ego however quickly massaged our national conscience into submission, cushioned by echoes of a booming economy that peaked at 7 percent+ growth in 2007. Secondly, even after the election violence slammed the brakes on this impressive trajectory in the eve of that year, our precocious National Accord did precious little to bring to account all the evils of the 3-odd month chaos that rocked the country, preferring instead to lock them up in a cabinet of faux peaceful oblivion. I will hereby declare my silence on the awkward little topic of how far up that cabinet’s annals the matter of the two Suspects-in-Chief’s involvement is filed. 

Fast forward through Mr. Kibaki’s second term, right past the fact that the economy has never quite recovered to its pre-07 election pregnancy glow, police brutality caught live on tape, Ngilu’s ‘Kusema-na-Kutender’ government contract policy for her family, and arrive at the fact that these four politicians that will possibly make up Cabinet are a precipitate remnant of the systemic cancer that permeates Kenyan politics. The fact that we’re reacting so strongly to two cabinet ministerial appointments belays the beleaguered truth that the President and his Deputy are not saints either. Their power is so much more potentially weary for Kenya’s economy than a couple of Secretaries could ever be. 

Moreover, there is also the little matter of the illusion of transparency – a cousin to the delusion of maturity that was peddled regarding our peaceful elections. Mock transparency concerts have become a favorite national pastime for us. Initially given to the impression of them simply being a little passing crush, I am wont to keep that false hope up given the vetting committee that awaits this panel of preeminent secretaries. A committee that itself wrought down the Integrity bill to its bare bone to escape vetting. Yet the same institutions that have been vetted include the IEBC (Independent Electoral & Boundaries Commission), the SCoK (Supreme Court of Kenya) and the SRC (Salaries and Regulations Committee) among myriad others. And look how far ahead of the imaginary pack that has taken us! 

Vetting is a superficially pointless attempt at presenting us sanctimonious facades, behind which still sit the deep-seated structural flaws we are yet to take off our collective feet.

So as you and I continue to exercise in our national training grounds for BSc, it would behoove us to continue upgrading our UXp (User Exercise in patience) coz it’s gonna be a long ride. If UhuRuto really wish to preside over a nation devoted to balancing the historically set up equation of inequity, they might want to start by cutting their flair for the dramatic and convincingly turn their images on their heads, and with that, all the attendant melancholy their half-baked policies could inflict on Kenya.

How much BS is too much BS? Kenya is the perfect case study establishing that there is simply no answer to that question. Hopefully in Part II remember to bash the insidious Cord leadership, but for now, this seems sufficient.

    On a sidenote: 

      Of course I too thought the appointments yesterday represented one region, and part of one region alone. Runda, Nairobi. Or Muthaiga et al. The nominees have a lot in common with President UK, not least in their overwhelming affinity for the Queen's language, and an inescapable half Kikuyu + Kalenjin composition. And before you jump on my throat, I am a Kikuyu, so by stereotypical thought I readily admit to being a thief and first cousin to the president. 

That being outta the way, what I'd like to add is the fact that we need a rollerskating kinda cabinet, not a credentialist/ tribalist kind. Credentials follow the set norm. As does tribalism. Rollerskating needs you to practice being on the board - and granted, fall off it as many times as Edison's light bulb moments anti-orgasmed - till you find a way to stay on top of the board. And begin to muster it.

The Heartbreak Warfare - #OccupyParliament [Part I]

Anyone who takes a cursory glance at my Digital Timelines may already know that I suffer from an advanced case of foot on keypad syndrome. I think it... I tweet or update it. No forethought, and sometimes, if left to my own devices, no afterthought either.

Such was the case on Tuesday; a case that has taught me to question. To ask. To be patient in my resolve to neither ignore nor be ignored.

And upon some rather impressively mature – not so common in my book – reflection, some notions I expressed after leaving #OccupyParliament shamefully missed the big picture. I will now attempt to elucidate it. A swipe or two unavoidable ones will be taken at some ass-wipes, but otherwise, this time I quite fully agree with Bonnie's way. We're in a war, and it's about time we choose a side and stick with it.

Lightning strike… dreams of ways to understand my pain. Clouds of sulfur in the air, bombs are falling everywhere... it’s heartbreak warfare. Disappointment has a name [no one really ever wins] in heartbreak warfare… 

I swear to God we’re gonna get it right, if you lay your weapons down.

-          John Mayer

 Stop and Join

We left Freedom Corner at Uhuru Park, or as I call it, FC President Park, after about an hour of morale boosting chants and speeches from the likes of the revolutionary Reverend Timothy Njoya. It was quite an honour meeting the man, by which I mean being within 5 feet of him. 

His arrival, with the stripes he earned from the Nyayo regime’s boots, added more ‘legitimacy’ to the protest for me. In that there was a certain intangible euphoric patriotism his presence evoked for me; and, I’m sure, for many more.

As we left the corner, with press cars holding up traffic behind the procession and policemen walking by us, it was hard to ignore their palpable show of nuanced intimidation. They did, after all, while ‘protecting us,’ have tear gas canister guns in hand, and full riot gear to boot.

Yet, I was impressed to find some Kenyans joining the procession, one they seemed to have no idea was planned to happen. They read the placards. They agreed with the message. They joined. Idle Kenyans, some who sit on benches in the day, others who sleep on these benches in the night; but not idle of their own doing, I would posit. If anything, they embodied the very injustice we were there to protest.

40 million, held at ransom by a mere 4 hundred.

Stop and Stare

We beat a path through Kenyatta Avenue, into Moi Avenue; drumline a-timed, heading up the drumlin towards the symbols of impunity erected on Harambee Avenue, percussions a-costumed, lungs a-wailing as we headed on to Parliament Road.

Kenyans stopped; and stared. Being my first proper protest march, I mused, almost amused. Were they stopping, standing by the side of the roads in their droves, sitting in the various Coffee stalls that litter the CBD, Central Business District, because they were scared? Afraid to join us? 

Or were they giving us a guard of honour? 

If so, were we dignitaries? Or heroes fallen in war?

Perhaps, however, they were just disgusted enough not to join us, but still curious enough to stay and watch; hoping to witness the battle go down, when, inevitably, the long whip of the law cracked on our hides.

Standing to gaze or seated to watch us, they personified the struggle within our ranks. Passive passengers in the accident we call a justice system. I mean, you can watch. But you can’t join?

There is no failure. There is only feedback.

Hear and Jeer

The windows in every building the procession went by served as big screen reality TVs, connected real-time to a world just within reach, not quite within touch. We do love our reality shows, our Kard- and jubilated CORD-ashians. 

The voyeurs filled up every space on every opening, to watch the world beneath them. On rooftops. On illegal ‘smoking zones’ in the way of mezzanines.

Some seemed overly bemused, somewhat appalled in their disagreement. Particularly those employed on the government’s Avenue, Harambee. The same kind of people who 24 hours later, upon hearing that I was at the protest, sneered and asked, ‘Kufanya nini? - Doing what?’

Fighting for MY and mine's rights. YOURS too, by extension, but mine and mine's first.

Hear and Cheer

Then there were those who heard us, and took an early lunch break to ‘join us,’ waving and cheering us on from within their offices. 

I salute you all. 

I understand that unlike me – unemployed to some, self-employed to me – you could not join the struggle. Your thoughts mattered, as did those of the many Kenyans not working within the CBD or Nairobi, or Kenya even, who resonate with our slight forbearance on Kenya’s loan, owed to the justice sector.

Stay and Bicker

I may be alone on this one. I enjoyed my participation in the ‘democratic right’ to protest. 

I chanted. 

I also could not help but note. Note that we focused a little too much on the negatives. Chants of ‘wasaliti – traitors,’ and ‘mapambano – conflict (in the context used)’ as well as ‘Kanyaga – crush them’ echoed through the city. I have little qualm with that.

I do, however, believe that we should not ALWAYS protest against…it’s an easy ride to get on board, a bandwagon that focuses on the problem. Protest, chant, let us, for something. I did manage, with a certain degree of success, to pass this message across to some of my fellow protestors. The chant I asked for, was ‘Kenya yetu – Our Kenya.’

Simple. Effective. We rocked Harambee Avenue, reminding the Treasury, the Central Bank, Judiciary and the KICC among other buildings who cared notice, that it is, is Kenya – ours.

Just as we went past the Office of the Deputy President, a sobering moment came to pass, and in quick succession precipitated a chain of events that teed me off; saw me leave the protest livid and seething fire through my pacifist nostrils. This was where the poetry ended, and the dull prose began.

•  Two General Service Unit (GSU) trucks came cruising at break leg speed, pummeling a hole straight through our stand against the system, as we scattered to avoid being barreled down.

• Then, as we approached the roundabout onto Parliament Road off Harambee Avenue, the chant turned from the constant against mindset to a for mindset. What was the chant for, you ask? ‘Manguruwe, chinja. Manguruwe, chinja chinja! – Slaughter the pigs!’ 

I began to ask myself if that, really, was what we were for. Slaughtering.

MPs are only symbolically pigs, meaning a symbolic slaughter. 

But yelling that Pigs should be slaughtered, in a nation that has yet to heal from the 3 months of slaughter we went through post-2007 elections, was a message that could be easily misconstrued. I quickly noted the same to my friend Aficionado (who, incidentally, had taken the black and white dress code and run with it in true style); she too had noticed it and stopped chanting.

• When we got outside parliament, things went south relatively fast. There was a vuta nikuvute (tag of war) between the protestors at the frontline and the riot police, about putting banners up on Parliament’s perimeter fence. The protestors made their first mistake. Perhaps for the aesthetic value the banners would have in the evening News, they persisted. 

And won.

Strike 1. You do not win, against the riot police and their battle-reinforced egos.

• Some loose cannon then decided to hurl a bullhorn (megaphone) into parliament. There were parliament personnel standing near where the speaking-horn fell.

Strike 2. You do not give the riot police any excuse to attack you.

• The organizers, Bonnie and Gaceke among others, to avoid provoking the riot police any further, requested the protestors to sit down, on the tarmac. 

They read out Article 37 of the Kenyan constitution:

"Assembly, demonstration, picketing and petition.

37. Every person has the right, peaceably and unarmed, to assemble, to demonstrate, to picket, and to present petitions to public authorities."

All well and swell, were it not for the fact that some overzealous protestor(s) went round, intimidating fellow protestors by threatening to ‘beat them down’ with their placards if they did not sit down. 

Continued in Part II

Calling all Assholes - Will the Real SLIME Shady, please stand up?

As we reel in the aftermath of a year long campaign binge laced with the typical sentimentalist sycophancy that characterizes Kenyan politics, as well as a new and mainly middle-class magical thinking that embodied Peter Kenneth's dream of State House, it takes a strong stomach to watch the fairly horrific scenes that have been these past 50 odd days since the election.

From the reactionary barbs that followed President Uhuru's number-crunching win on March 9, there was only one consensus on the nation's direction since then; downhill. For a while, however, there had seemed to be something so completely soothing about keeping the peace and making history while at it. Two of Kenya's bastards, conceived during the colonial twilight hours and birthed despite - if not because of - the near fatal labour pains of anarchy and despotism, had at last triumphed.

We seemed to have forgotten that for over half a century, their skull-like faces had kissed millions of dying children goodbye, after having bludgeoned their fathers to death and raped their mothers as they watched. Mere statistics at this point. Because in one fell swoop, Fisadi and Kabila had conspired to give their country the vainglory of a 'world record' in voter turnout at an election.

That kept the jubilation mobs occupied for a moment. But just as the dynamic duo finished their beers, picked up the shovels and returned to the pile of pungent human mulch at their feet, former Prime Minister Raila immediately declared war his intent to file a petition against the IEBC at the Supreme Court. Cue social media madness, as the tribal groupthink encouraged by both of the top candidates during the campaigns knocked up their cyborgs counsel during the trial.  

The average Kenyan has often been referred to as Wanjiku - or Atieno, Mueni, Chebet, whatever your preference is. But along with the reforms that have seen the e in Kibera deemed surplus to requirements and dragged off to the vowel museum, I suggest we rename Wanjiku. A good literal name for her would be Britney Spears, what with her once iconic invitation to 'hit me baby, one more time.' The only difference between the two being that in Kenya's case, the hits just keep on coming.

Our Supreme Court declared the IEBC's conduct of the elections free and fair, seemingly ignoring what seemed to have been emergent incidences of human error's bias against a bewildered Raila. Kibaki retired to his 6 million-dollar playboy mansion cushioned by a bloated pension, and passed on the baton to Uhuru in a pomp-laden, bowel-moving, taxpayer-funded 3 million-dollar+ inauguration. The combined total, approximately 9 million dollars (KES 800 million), being the exact amount that the Chinese government promised to invest in 2011 to improve Pumwani Maternity Hospital's infrastructure, but that seems not to quite have been delivered yet.

Exit statesman Kibaki stage left from the murky world of politics to celebrate 10 years as Vice President, 5 years as official leader of opposition, 10 years as president, and 50 years of sitting on the fence with a KES 1 million monthly pension, KES 25 million in lump some gratuity, 100 acres of land, and a KES 500 million retirement home. For a man billed as an economic genius, the remuneration figures seemed oddly simplistic in their derivation.

Meanwhile, Raila and co. pulled a diva move, the jet-setters jettisoning their vanquished behinds off to South Africa to "visit" an ailing Madiba. Why we tolerate these assholes - collectively, not just the Cord trio - I would not understand, were it not for the fact that within days of the inauguration, KTN's Jicho Pevu published their tabloid version of 'investigative' tele-journalism, complete with a sensational clip of Ciku Muiruri, who served as their Page Three girl. And what did we do? Like a pack of marauding zombies, we missed the fact that nothing new was aired in the 'epic' episode they aired, and went baying for Ciku's blood instead.

And now, when we're not busy ogling our socialite fashionistas' nudes on Ghafla!'s black trash trailer park, we're busy whetting our gluttonous appetites for bullshit with various opinionistas' drivel, as peddled by the daily rags. All the while we practice our poker faces in the mirror - lest we expose our tribal allegiances out there in the real world - and reserve our damn faces for display as we chide UhuRuto derisively and remark at their oh-so-genuine on-screen chemistry in equal measure. Ok, maybe not exactly equal; perhaps more like in a ratio of "50% + 1 is to others."

A couple days ago, the CIA revealed that Kenyan shoppers have a near religious faithfulness to familiar brands. The CIA, here, meaning Consumer Insight Africa, not Conspiracy International America. If it were the latter, one would only hope they'd go a step farther and correlate that belief in brands to the masses' disregard of their brains in favour of toeing the tribal line. Cord and Jubilee being the brands that command the biggest chunk of that deified belief.

"Honourable" Mithika Linturi vowed to see to it that the constitutionally protected Salaries and Remuneration Commission members are removed, for slashing MPs' salaries (from USD 122,000 to USD 79,000 annually)

In his first speech to parliament, our new president and supreme surveyor went on to talk about opening up a million acres of Kenyan land through irrigation. I half-expected him to mention the 500,000 odd acres rumoured to be in his family's possession - and remarkably, none of it anywhere near a road reserve, where it can be Syokimaud. But that nusu mkate expectation was deluded at best. Parliament quickly set about contorting its body, displaying a staggering level of flexibility as it stuck 290 feet in its mouth, so deep that it could only speak out of its arse. Talk about increasing salaries is unconstitutional, not to mention that this premature ejaculate - directed at a public that is already paying the world's highest rent - is aimed right at our faces.


Uhuru campaigned on a platform of sovereignty, arguing that the international community should not attempt to undermine our right to choose the supreme idiot-in-chief to govern the rest of the idiots in Miss Independent Kenya. And by overwhelming the ballot with votes cast for him, we sanctioned this idea of sovereignty. Which is why it's a bit of a shame that despite the e in Kibera having enjoyed - and still enjoying - massive support in Kenyan lingo (undoubtedly more than 50% + 1), the sovereignty of that e has not been fought for nearly as much. We might want to tighten security for the few other remaining vowels, maybe get them two bodyguards each, lest we end up having to buy mutras and samsas in the streets of Nairbi as we drive our flag-less Subrus and Toytas to work.

Finally, a parting shot to Raila and co. I realize that when your girlfriend of many years dumps you at the altar and marries another abusive guy whose guts you detest, it's only natural to want a rebound girl. What's unnatural, though, is going to your married pregnant ex-girlfriend's house and demanding that her husband surrender his conjugal rights over to you, on account of you having a bigger dick.