Classical Music, My Sweet Old Grandma and the Business Plan.

I just realized that I am not as old as I tend to carry myself. I just thought back a couple of years and realized that I was a teenager just a few years ago. Not too few though.

For the past three days, I have been sitting in this very chair that I am sitting at as I type this, reading a lot and writing bits and pieces of my business plan. Based on the research that I have done and the knowledge I have ingested so far, I strongly believe that I am investing in a good thing. To the part that am at, it has gone quite well so far. I even, finally, got the name for my company to be and was quite elated. I had some problem sleeping yesterday night and that was when the name came to me. I woke up, wrote it down on my small note book and went back to sleep. I am now thinking of the appropriate logo to go with it and then I will have my small bro Kevin who is getting better and better in design do his thing. He has too many design softwares on his comp and I am sure one of them can produce what I am looking for. And although I do not know what that will be yet, I bet you that I will know it when I see it.

I am eating yester night’s leftover food from the Sufuria as I type this because it is 2 PM and I am too tired to cook. I haven’t washed the dishes yet because my head was on its thinking spree and I have learned to make use of it when it does that because, too often, I have lost many a good an idea to memory loss merely because I did not write them down as they came. So these days, whenever a Eureka moment hits me, I write it down and then much later go over my small notebook that I always carry with me. I am usually surprised at what I find in there.

Anyway, I thought about my grandma today. She is a sweet old lady with a tough heart of gold. I saw her last a couple of years ago when I was there to burry her husband, my grandpa, a man I barely knew. I will dedicate a whole blog post to my grandma someday just to share with you what a wonderful soul she is. But today, I will tell you what she once told me and which just leaves me puzzled every time I think about it, like today.

I had gone to see her and help with the harvesting because it was that season yet again. She lives in the breadbasket of Kenya. The harvesting was cool and my stay there relaxing. But on the day that I was leaving, she walked by my side up to the gate and that is a big deal given the problems she has with her legs. I think its Arthritis though I have never heard my mum call it that. I gave her hug and as I left, she called me back, pulled my head down since she is short so that she could speak into my ears. Then she told me, “ukiwa na hawa wasichana, tumia mpira” translation “whenever you are with these girls, always use a condom.” I nodded but in my head I was thinking, “Where the hell did that come from?” You see, my eye did not wander while I was there. I am sure of that first because the bigger farm was where I spent most of the day time was really far from where she was staying and there were no beauties there, just men at work. Secondly because I am very specific about the kind women I date and that was not the place you would find them.

I wondered whether she thought of me a sly dog. I get that sometimes. I am not much of a talker and so usually say the right words when I speak. That can get you far in some quarters. I should know. Earlier during my stay, I was basking in the sunlight when she came out of her house and sat at her strategic sitting place. She was the manager of the place and from that point; she had an eye-line to all the houses in the homestead. She was sitting around 10 metres away from me and that was when she decided to give some grandmotherly advice. She doesn’t speak English but she will occasionally surprise you with word or two and sometimes sentence. That time. She spoke to me in Swahili, which she speaks immaculately. She was theatrical with her advice and people would stop and stare and laugh. She told me that when she was younger, she was very hard working. She would toil the land from morning till evening without breaking a sweat and that was the kind of girl that men were looking for. But the problem was that, as per traditions, she could not get married before her elders sisters were married off. And if you had sisters who were lazy bums, you would not get married in time.

I remember feeling embarrassed and looking for salvation when she told me things that mothers are no longer telling their sons because of shame or whatever. She said that girls would wait until their elder sisters were married off regardless of the number of suitors who showed interest in them. And for others, that was too long. This was the time she put her hands on her breasts and said, “wewe unafikiri kuna mwanaume angenioa kama matiti yangu imelala hivi?” translation “Do you think any man would have married me if my breasts were as flat as this?” She was shouting because of the distance and so everybody, even passersby were privy to our little chit chat. I remember people laughing out loud as they walked by. She was lucky that her elder sisters got married off quickly and that she soon followed suit and went ahead to have 11 children, the eldest being my dear mother. My mum is in many ways like her mother, but quieter. But the point had gone home; marry a girl who can toil the land from morning to evening without breaking a sweat, or complaining.

The only problem was that land as yardstick was no longer relevant in this day and age. In retrospect, I think I took to heart what she said more than I consciously knew. All the girls that I have dated to date first had to be respected in their own right by their peers. At times I wouldn’t know this until I was already in too deep but it has always been the case. I do not need them to toil any land but they have to have made headways, even if it is personal, to be their own person, set in most of their ways, knowing what they want from life, with life. It was as I thought of the things we had talked about in my stay there that I later realized where her advice came from. She knew that my being in town and later heading to campus and her understanding that townsfolk always test many waters before taking a dip into marriage meant that we were most at risk. At least I hope that was the reason. She might still be thinking that I am sly dog looking for bones. Whatever the case, it was strange but good to hear her at her age telling me about condoms. The Pope should be ashamed. Even mums had never told me that and she has never needed to.

But that aside, I have been able to read and write with relative ease these pat few days. I have grown tired of applying for jobs whereas I have a good head on my shoulder that I can make good use of and make some good money. I got an idea a while back, widely researched on it, and I am now learning the ropes of the business as I read and write the various aspects of how it will manifest itself in the end. I can credit my ease in doing this to the mellow neosoul music that I have been playing in the background. It has been good.

Today, I am playing classical music in the background and it just as beautiful. I can’t tell which is which from their names but there is something magical in classical music. I can see Gustav Mahler, Johann Sebastian Bach, Beethoven, Antonio Lucio Vivaldi, Wolfgang Mozart, Samuel Osborne, Ave Maria and Carmina Burana among others in the playlist. They were the best in the business. It has been a smooth ride because I have accomplished quite some workload until now. Now, the neighbour’s kid who is not really a kid but sometimes acts like one has put on the radio with crazy high volume, effectively destroying my mojo (do people still say that?) The volume is so loud that my door and windows are vibrating with the beats. He is playing that crazy kind of hip-hop in which all kinds of words that rhyme but do not make sense are given some beat and then sold to idiots who blindly blast it around like it can save a life.

I feel like walking there and punching his face in.

I don’t get what these fat ladies in the Orchestras are saying either but here I am listening to every magical sound that they are producing and feeling no need whatsoever to even look for a translation of what they are beautifully screaming about. What I get out it is enough for me and I do not go around playing it out loud for all to hear as if I am in recruitment campaign. That said, you got to love classical music. The violin, trumpets, drums, voices, and the way they take it up, bring it down, go silent, and the climax is yet to come. That is what I am listening to right now. I was told that it does some good to the brain. I do not about that. I may do an IQ test after listening to one and see whether there is any change in scores.

Hey! the bad hip-hop has stopped. I better get back to my Business Plan writing. And talking of the business plan and the nature of the business itself, I feel I should share with you a few lines of a document a friend sent me sometime back that is now proving invaluable to me today. On the last page, it says:

You see a gorgeous girl at a party and you say to her, “I am very Rich. Marry me!” That is direct marketing.

You see a gorgeous girl at a party and you get her telephone number. The next day, you call her and say, I am very Rich. Marry me! That is telemarketing.

You are at a party and see a gorgeous girl. She walks to you and says, “You are very Rich. Marry me!” That is Brand recognition.

You see a gorgeous girl and a party and say to her, “I am very Rich. Marry me!” She slaps you on the face. That is customer feedback.

And in that spirit, I felt compelled to add mine…

You see a gorgeous girl at a party. She picks up her phone and writes on her facebook and twitter profiles, “He is Very Rich.” And all her friends reply saying “Marry him!” That is Social Media Marketing.

Life and Death; and the life lessons therein…

I am sitting in a Mololine Prestige matatu near Ambassador waiting for it to fill so that we can be on our way to Nakuru. Then, as if on cue, I see one of my former high school teachers, then another one who comes over to say hi and to inquire whether I cleared campus. And then I see some students wearing that very uniform that I despised wearing in all of my years in that high school. The students board the car that I am currently sitting in. Naturally, this took my memory to that time seven years ago when I was last in this school.

As I wrote earlier, my time in high school was peculiar to say the least. Before I got there, I was a simple almost naïve little boy that thought people went to school to read and that alone. I was so disillusioned that I remember telling people to hush it because I was there to read. I was in form one and yet to learn the ways of the world, which I soon learnt, but maybe too fast. Later on, when my reputation as a good boy was almost wiped clean, people used that one instant against me.

Other than that single outburst, I was a quiet kid, and that served me well because people never knew where to place me, including the teachers. So when I was in form two, and some idiot kid crossed me, what I did became what I was associated with for the rest of my time in high school, and that was a curse in itself and maybe a blessing in disguise depending on how one chooses to look at it.

The kid was a form one student who was protected by this form four student who was the son of this teacher who also happened to be the brother to our school principal. I messed this kid up and he in turn turned to his protector, that form four student whom I also scared off without saying a word. He in turn turned to his father, the brother to the principal who on missing me, decided to take it out on my friend. On being told this, I followed them to the dormitory where they had gone too and told my friend to stop doing what he was ordered to do because this guy (teacher) had an issue with me and not him.

This teacher guy did not take that kindly and turned on me, asking me who the hell I was. I told him that I am the person he wanted and added that he cannot protect that kid or his kid forever, and that when he goes home, I will be there, waiting to pounce because as far as I was concerned, I was right and he was wrong. I still insist that I was right. This guy was now breathing brimstone but I held my nerves, staring him straight in the eyes. He thought I wanted to fight him, and he went ahead to clench his fists and urging me on. I told him how I so wished I could fight him. By this time, I was also mad as hell. Instead of knocking him out, I punched through a window, cutting my hand badly with glass. But the message was sent.

Even without asking, I told him my class, admission number, and told him that I will be waiting for a suspension the next day at 10 am. At exactly 10 am the next day, this guy was on my class door and called me out. I followed him to the office where I was formerly introduced to the principal – his bro who proceeded to give me a two weeks suspension – the first of many. That is how my relationship with the principal started and it was rocky throughout my high school life.

My Principal…

Mr. P. C. Kandagor is one of the most exceptional men I ever met and had the pleasure of interacting with. He made my life difficult and for that I thank him. This guy made me a man when I was still in my early teens. He made my life hell for as long as I can remember; and every time that I managed to crawl out of that hell hole he put me in, there was always one more reason for him to kick me back in. I went on so many suspensions than I would care to remember but I almost always had the last laugh (which never lasted.)

There were things I was guilty of and for which I never protested when suspended. There were things that I was guilty of aiding and abetting and for which I mildly protested when mentioned. There were other things that I was absolutely innocent and for which I vehemently protested, but I still got suspended. That however had come to be expected. When you have been suspended for so many other things, it is almost natural that one will be considered guilty of every other issue. That was my predicament and I suffered greatly for it.

Mr. Kandagor was therefore on my case even when I had no case to answer. There were times when he was fuming at me in his office, wondering what the hell is wrong with this kid! There were other times when he was merely pissed at me, begging me to act normal before telling me to get the out of his face. There were times when he was so mad at me we drunk tea in his office and talked about it. Whatever the case, all these usually ended with a suspended me. In the mean time, save for the suspension, mutual respect was developing between us. I was not a fan of BS and neither was he and hence the reason we got along when we did. In our frequent unpleasant encounters, we got acquainted with each other’s character; and that defined our subsequent interactions.

The reason that I was not expelled had to do with my performance in class. Even with the frequent suspensions, I somehow managed to remain among the top performing students as evidenced by the number of times I appeared in the top 20. I have always been a bright student and that may be one of the things that saved my ass. That and my Principal, Mr. Kandagor.

Mr. Kandagor was an exceptional man. He was the one principal who always gave everybody a second, third and fourth chance and would only on the extreme circumstances expel a student. And given what this man had done, extreme for him was not the usual stuff that people got expelled everywhere for. He used to call the police, have some students arrested before ensuring they are released and are back in class. This guy loved students and he only wanted us to learn. Even though our school was one of the 17 national schools in the country, this man still took in those students who had been expelled from other schools. He knew that no student can be too difficult for him and more importantly understood that being difficult was just a phase in most teens. Furthermore, this guy allowed many students to study even without fees especially if he understood their background.

Tough Love

Mr. Kandagor was a tough nut to crack. Late in the night, past midnight, as people snuck back into school after a night of drinking, they would come across him as he did his rounds around the school.  You could never be sure that he wouldn’t pop up. In the morning at 4 am when we slept in instead of going for the morning preps, he would just show up with some crude weapon and beat you senseless. People would jump from balconies and twist their ankles, risking broken legs, and limp to class just to avoid him. There was an unwritten student code that if anybody made the principle really angry, it was wise to run first and then approach him later in his office when he had cooled of. On the flip side, he would chase you if you ran, and boy! Wasn’t this old man in good shape? If you outran him, he was never shy to pick up a stone and hurl it at you. It wasn’t uncommon to see us running for our lives with him on the chase behind us and stones flying past us.

Those were the days…

When he wasn’t beating us with wires in the morning, or throwing stones at us, Mr. Kandagor had his own methods of punishing us. He counted on the element of surprise. He would be talking to you openly and the moment you thought you were safe, he would slap you so hard with both hands it sounded like a glock or a magnum. In the ensuing confusion, he would close in on your earlobes with his hardened fingernails. He would then talk to you as he dug into your earlobes and by the time he is done, one would be ready to order for earrings. These normally happened so fast such that the moment he lets you go, the pain sets in. But the pain would be preceded by heat. The ears would first feel like they are burning up and the heat would gradually travel to the whole head; this was where others started sweating. Keep in mind that the effect of the rapturous double slap has not worn of. That was why we ran…

Kandagor was not your typical principal. He had many cows which he would cater for regardless of the time. People usually knew that if he wasn’t in the office, he was out looking after the cows. Every year, when a certain percentage of students qualified for University, he would slaughter a bull for us. When our rugby team won the National championships, he slaughtered another bull for us. Twice a week, we would drink milk from these cattle. There was one time, at around 4 am in the morning when he came into our cubicle and found my roommate, R, sleeping while the rest of us were heading to class. He gave him the double slap I described above but it was only later that we almost died of laughter.

This guy had woken up early and prior to coming to our cubicle had been helping one of the cows give birth. And this is the kind of guy that was never afraid to get down and dirty and hence his hands were covered with blood and mucus and also that other nasty stuff that you see at birth. Too bad for R, he did not realized this until he felt his face feeling sticky and touching his cheeks, pulled of layers of sticky dried up mucus. Boy did we laugh! Our principal had not washed his hands after aiding the cow in giving birth and prior to slapping R. Now R had a sticky face full of that stuff… It was pretty hilarious. And there are hundreds of similar stories to tell.

Most of us who crossed this guy passed with flying colours and proceeded to the various universities across the country. When I was in my third year of University, this man Kandagor died and my heart sank.

We went for his burial which took place at some remote village in Molo district. This was a piece of land that they had bought but had not yet settled in. The burial said a lot about the man we were burying. There were hundreds of people present and on inquiring, it emerged that only a handful were not his students. The former president Moi was also present and commended this man Kandagor for being the man he was, a teacher whose students traveled from far and wide to pay their last respects. Amidst a heavy downpour, we buried the man, and got on the bus to leave but we got stuck…

The bus that I was in had Mr. Kandagor’s closest friends and also many teachers who had taught under him. Every car left, except for ours. We got stuck in the mud and then it rained some more. After the rain, we got out of the bus, and tried pushing. This bus was lying with one side buried in a shallow ditch on one side of the road. We pushed and pushed but this thing did not budge an inch. It was getting dark and the rain started again. We were high on some false hope that this thing might just move and in that rain, we tried all tricks to get this thing to move, but still nothing. The ladies, who were sitting pretty in the bus, urged us to get in as some guys took off to look for a tractor in the many adjacent farms.

The window at the back of the bus was not there and cold, freezing wind was coming through it like a tornado. Most of us were wet from the rain meaning that our clothes, instead of protecting us from the cold, exacerbated it. I have been so cold in my life and it was only at 9 pm at night. The weather got worse as we approached the dead of the night. We sat there in that bus, cold, hungry, tired as hell, waiting, hopeful that we would get a tractor to pull us out of that ditch. The tractor came at midnight and we got off the bus so that the tractor could have an easier time pulling it. After a few false starts, the bus was pulled out. The tractor driver said that he will pull it until some place further ahead where the road was not that bad. Meanwhile, we walked… in that cold night, me with only a wet t-shirt on.

Dig this; we get to the bus and get on board only for the driver to tell us that we were stuck again. We got off the bus again, and tried pushing again and this time round, the bus moved but just enough to knock the adjacent fence down. The watchmen from that place came out and we knew immediately that we will have to cough up some money to cater for that knocked down fence. But that was not the case, they came and asked the ladies amongst us to go and rest in the house while we men sorted out this mess. Close to an hour later, we had not managed to move an inch and that was when the watchmen came again to get the rest of us.

Touched…

This was a bus full of people and yet we all found a place to sit in that house. It was a 2 am in the morning and that was rural setting with various houses in that plot around the main house. I was in one of the house where the chairs were few and we squeezed into a Sofa and those plastic chairs which they provided for us. They also provided a fire which we almost ate. As if this was not enough, these guys brought us tea, and later food. After we were finished eating, we all got a cup of warm milk to wash down the food. Until that time, I had no idea whose house this was or who was making sure we taken care of this well. Then she came… a beautiful lady in her late thirties. She came into the house where some of us were. She apologised that she had only managed to get a place to sleep for the ladies and the elderly men, and that she was out of space in the various houses. I was touched… I told her that this was more than we had asked for and that we were good the way we were.

We sat there the whole night, talking about the old man we had just buried. He was not that old but that was what most of us called him, Mzae. We talked about the good times, the bad times, the times we would rather forget and each narrated how we were his victims whenever he caught us offside. As we talked and laughed, one of the teachers who were most feared in high school had already gotten one of the guards to buy him some spirits. He offered them to us and we chided him for offering alcohol to students. But he came prepared with an answer, saying that we were now colleagues. In that cold, the burning heat down the oesophagus that a spirit produces when taken dry was almost God sent. But this teacher made a statement that got me thinking on another level altogether. He said that Mr. Kandagor’s spirit could not allow us to leave before spending a night at the place he was buried.

My mum tells me that according to our traditions, I am a Kalenjin – Sabaot, if it rains on the day of your burial, it meant that the Gods had accepted you. On the days that we buried both my grandfathers, it rained massively and on both occasions, it was the first time in a long while that it had rained. Similarly, on the day that we buried Mr. Kandagor, it was the first time in the year for it to rain over there which in our tradition meant that the Gods had also accepted him. But more than that, it is expected that after the burial, people would sit up late into the night and talk about the life that the person had lived, the impact he had made etc. This was not the case for Mr. Kandagor; we had buried him in his land which he had not settled on yet and were going to leave him there, alone. It seems that Mzae had other ideas and hence the reason we got stuck.

In the morning, our hostess provided us with breakfast, and also her tractor to help dislodge the bus. But funny enough, even without much effort, the bus simply moved…

Before we said our goodbyes, we all congregated in one room to give our thanks and gratitude to our hostess.

You tell me; how many people do you know who after knocking down their fence at 2 am in the night would wake up, invite you and a whole bus full of people in, go to the trouble of cooking you tea, then supper, then a glass full of milk each, provide each one of you with a place to spend the night, cook you breakfast, give you a tractor to help you with the problem that made you knock down her fence, and ask for absolutely nothing in return. Did I mention that we were a bus full of people? Who invites a bus full of strangers into her house at 2 am in the night? She did and was gracious about it.

Our gratitude was therefore heartfelt. At that moment in time, I realized that there are indeed genuinely good people in this country. She became my symbol of unknown heroes in Kenya.

Before she bid us farewell, she introduced herself as the second wife of the late Minister for Roads, Kones. I will now head to my page of Kenyan (s)heores and add her there…

I hope you enjoyed this trip back memory lane…

The True History of Kenya; not that crap we read in school.

Knowledge is power, but like a knife in the wrong hands, it is dangerous to those without the mental capacity to process it well.

That said; I am here to set the record straight. Do you recall that at the height of the Moi era, all parastatal choirs used to sing songs that gave heaps of praise to the man, Mtukufu Rais Daniel Toroitich Arap Moi, reminding us the he was the commander in chief of the armed forces etc. etc. Despite all that was wrong with the country, the few Radio stations and the single TV station of the time never saw these and went ahead to proclaim that this man was faultless. Prior to that, Kenyatta was the ish and all those who did not see eye to eye with him were doomed, politically, financially or at worst assassinated.  That was expected but I am sorry to say that a country of intellectuals like ours should never have been so scared to the point that we wrote history in the way that the then political figureheads commanded but not as they happened. And then we feed that shit to the kids in school today in their history and geography classes.

I read that crap in school too and you can imagine my shock when I realized I was bright and dug deeper to uncover the missing pieces of the puzzle.  My digging did not reveal much since most people did not record in writing what really happened for their own reasons (fear or favour). Most of the state sanctioned books of the time reveal similar crap and that is one thing I will never let my children read. I must commend Hillary Ng’weno for his ‘The Making of a Nation’ documentary which is the most comprehensive effort at telling Kenyans what actually transpired. That is what my children will watch in their lessons of history.  They need to know the real truth about the history of their country and ENOUGH with the state secrets BS since too many thieves are shielded by it.

With that in mind, I will now tell you the history of Kenya as I have come to see it without the entire ‘sainthood’ ring to it that we have been fed in all of our classes. I will start with the perceived independence from our colonists…

Jomo Kenyatta;

The first president of this country has been perceived as the great liberator, the person who fought for the independence of the country – and from some of the praises he has received – you would think he did it single handedly. Yes this man fought for our independence, but so did many other people, some dead but celebrated, some alive but peasants, some alive but bourgeoisies, and some still in Government – I kid you not.

Back to Kenyatta; we got our independence when he was still in prison, but the honourable men of the time who had bled for our Independence refused to form the Government until Kenyatta was released from prison. What did Kenyatta do after he was released? He became the Prime Minister and then president after one man stepped down from the chairmanship of the party for him. Over the first few years, he systematically sidelined those who had fought side by side with him for the independence of this country. He put some in the very jail cells that they had shared with him, surrounded himself with newbies to the independence struggle, and went ahead to do the unthinkable.

Perhaps as a sign of an institutionalized mentality, he became like the colonialists themselves in most of what he proceeded to do. He changed the constitution and made Kenya a one party state. He went ahead to promote tribalism by surrounding himself with men from his tribe and home area as opposed to those who had the same vision of an Independent Kenya, and who actually fought for it. Remember, colonialists are the ones who pitted tribes against each other using the age-old psychology 101 principle of ‘Divide and Rule.’ Kenyatta could not see beyond this and went ahead to exacerbate it.

But what he did to the MAU MAU fighters and something which can never be said enough times is simply unforgivable. And that to me defines the whole of his leadership. After the MAU MAU left their farms to go into the forest to fight for our Independence, Kenyatta called them “a disease” because they wanted to be acknowledged. And four decades later, you still see these dilapidated old men and women still seeking acknowledgment and compensation. The compensation part is next on this list but first one question, which country in the world refuses to acknowledge beyond rhetoric those who put their lives on the line for the independence of their country? Only in Kenya, ama?

You probably think that these men and women seeking compensation is self serving and that sacrifices require no payment for that is the nature of sacrifice. Well, let me educate you on what I dug up as I tried to fill in the gaps. The MAU MAU left their farms for the forest where the fighting went on for years. Finally, Kenya got its independence and it was time to come back home. But to the shock of many, there was no home to come back to. The farms were gone, assigned to new people by Kenyatta as he sought to appease loyalists, and reward cronies. Have you heard the story that people were asked to throw a stone and wherever it landed on either direction, would be how far your land stretched. But maybe I exaggerate; it may have been as far as yours eyes could see. And you wonder why people own districts of land in this country while others are squatters.

Earlier, the colonialists had come and took over the most productive land in the country. They first rounded up the ancestral owners of the land and threw them in reserves. They tilled these land with mostly incidental crops which they exported back home. And back home in Britain, these settlers either paid their Government or were paid by their government to come here – not for Safari – but for the productive land. But after independence, these settlers had to vamoose so that this land could revert back to their ancestral owners. But their vacating was more organized compared to the Jua Kali way in which Mugabe evicted the settlers in Zimbabwe.

The Kenyan Government was given money by the British Government to buy out the settlers, which it did, but the likes of Karen Blixen, Lord Egerton, and Delamere etc. chose to stay. And from the ridiculously colossal tracts of land they own, you can imagine how much land these guys had between them. Now came the time to give back the land to the ancestral owners of the land who included most of the MAU MAU fighters and Kenyatta bolted; he bailed from the deal. He thought that himself, some friends here and there, loyalists and any other person who could be bought for leverage deserved it more. Can you spell NEOCOLONIZATION? His choice not to acknowledge freedom fighters across the country including the MAU MAU was one of the major reasons he fell out with his then VP, Oginga Odinga, who later resigned. And then he goes ahead to call the MAU MAU a disease when they demand to be acknowledged for the fight and compensated for their land.

Is it any good to read in the history books that the MAU MAU fought for independence without revealing that they were treated like dogs after independence? History books are not works of fiction with rosy endings the way we were taught in school; history is what it is, factual records of what transpired without bias, or as Kenyans like to say, without fear or favour.

That was merely land, now we get to the assassinations. Pio Gama Pinto was one of the first people to go. Why? You may ask. Well, Pio Gama Pinto had socialist ideals which automatically put him at crosshairs with the Kenyatta Government. But that was not what got him killed. It is said that Pinto was the brains behind all that Oginga Odinga – the biggest threat to the Kenyatta presidency at the time – did. He was shrewd, calculating, and an impeccable strategist who – if he had lived – might have rewritten the history of Kenya as we now know it. But with Pinto dead, it is argued that Odinga lost his way and hence got completely sidelined. Later, the brilliant Tom Mboya, the go-to-man who made things happen in the Kenyatta government was murdered for he had become too powerful for his own good. Then J. M. Kariuki was next; he was the only Kikuyu at the time with country wide appeal. That did not augur well with the wheeler-dealers of the time and he got wasted. He had become too popular too fast for his own good.

Put that in the history books then we can talk. And I understand the nature of writing and expect that perspectives will differ on how people will choose to see these things. I however will not understand the lack of perspective. I therefore ask that the least one can do is put the above facts in the books and let people argue on what the merits may be. Everything is open to interpretation, but only if all the facts are laid bare on the table, which is all I ask.

Daniel Arap Moi

You have heard the songs about the man which best represented the man’s propaganda agenda. His was a baptism of fire that came at a time when tribalism was rife with the GEMA intensifying their efforts to ensure that one of their own succeeded Kenyatta.  He became president all the same and instead of becoming better that Kenyatta, he proved to be another institutionalized person whose creativity as a leader was boxed in by tribalism, corruption, and dictatorial tendencies.

It is said that the man changed after the failed coup of 1982, before I was born. But I think this was just the excuse that he used to do what he did. Since then, the man clamped down on everything including democracy when he pushed for Kenya to go back to the single party state. I should say that Kibaki was one of the key point men who pushed this motion of a single party state through when he seconded it in parliament. I have said that so that Kenyans can learn to review the history of people both within and outside parliament before electing them. But that was it, the bill went through and democracy went out. Then the trouble started.

This was that time when universities across Africa were the birth place of ideas and especially revolutionary ones. Student leaders were true leaders and they made their feelings known to those in power at the time. Moi was not a pleased man on the showdown and hence the worst of his leadership came to the fore. Students who dared rise against the man were arrested and taken to Nyayo House where they were tortured by the Special Branch officers, today known as NSIS. This went on throughout the 1980’s where most of those who dared speak against Moi and his Government received the similar treatment. The basement of Nyayo house was the symbol that defined Moi’s presidency. People would be taken to Nyayo house and some went missing without a trace.

Those at odds with the Moi government included James Orengo, Paul Muite, Prof. Anyang Nyong’o, Martha Karua, Oginga Odinga, Mukhisa Kituyi, Kijana Wamalwa, Raila Odinga, Koigi wa Wamwere, Gitobu Imanyara, Gibson Kamau Kuria, Khaminwa, Alexander Muge, Keneth Matiba, and a few others whom I cannot recall now as I type this. But they are just that, few. There were others like Prof. Makau Mutua who were expelled from their respective Universities and Mutua had to study in Tanzania and then Havard in the U.S. These men suffered in one way after another under Moi, but that did not stop them from speaking out their minds to demand for a return to Democracy and we owe our democracy to them. It was during this time of increasing dissent that another brilliant personality was taken down. Robert Ouko was murdered in the most foul of way in what was seen as a Government sanctioned murder.  But Ouko’s murder was probably what fed the increasingly louder calls for democracy, so much that Moi finally gave in and Kenya returned to become a multiparty state.

There were other high profile Government sanctioned assassinations  to follow in the Moi Government.

‘It is our turn to eat’ is a phrase that defines Moi’s regime. Following the example of Kenyatta, he surrounded himself with people from his own tribe and proceeded to loot the country’s resources. I usually muse that Kenyatta cleared most of the land in the country – mostly stolen from peasants – and that by the time Moi got into the picture, most of it was already gone. And since Moi had to get land to grab from somewhere, he turned on parastatals. This was the time that parastatals were run like the personal properties of those appointed to run them. Moi’s people ran all parastatals down by taking billions of shillings in loans that were seemingly institutional but which ended up in the pockets of those manning these parastatals. Service to the people was not the issue in the corruption ridden government of Moi. It was service to self and hence the billions of debt that most institutions of Government still have to date. A promotion during Moi’s time was when someone was transferred or appointed to a ministry or parastatal that had the best potential for stealing or fleecing. And fleece they did.

After the parastatals were broke beyond reprieve, people had to steal somewhere, and that was when the Mau Forest saga began. The Moi government started allocating forest land to loyalists; people who today own huge ranches in a place that was once forested. In the same way that Terrorists and other similarly armed groups use civilians as Human Shields during times of conflicts; those MP’s and Ministers who benefited from the underhand Mau Forest deals are now using a whole tribe as civilian shields. Look beyond the façade and you will realize that these MP’s collectively own more land than the thousands of tribesmen that they are claiming to speak for. In that light, Moi enabled thieves to hide behind tribal cocoons when it is the character of the person and not the tribe that is in question. Subsequent suspects have picked up on this as was the case with Kimunya, Ruto, and now Uhuru.

But with the increasing democratic space, it became more difficult for Moi to work. IPPG, was the first major sign of changing times, the there was the constitutional review team and all these culminated to Moi leaving office in 2002. And boy did we sing when he finally left. For 24 years, this man had perfected his politics and to finally see him go was like a burden off our shoulders.

Mwai Kibaki

Then Kibaki came and suddenly both Kenyatta and Moi look like saints.

That said; I must commend the trend that is coming up today, where Kenyans from all walks of life are standing to be counted. We are challenging the status quo by daring to do things different. The blogs around are becoming more creative in advocating for certain things here and there and that for me is a start. The main stream media is also getting bolder but writers (especially those who record our history in books) are yet to follow suit because the only book that has tackled head-on by writing things the way they truly are – It is Our Turn to Eat – is by Michela Wrong, and she’s not Kenyan. We are still scared of our Government; too scared to even stock books that dare speak the truth to power. I hope those aged men who have nothing to lose can do this country a great favour by writing books on those lost bits of our history that have not been watered down to sound like nursery school rhymes; and which we then call history. Bullcrap!

I am sure that I am not the only one who has read those eternal words that read, “People should never be scared of their government. It is the government that should be scared of its people.”

Finally, please, let us not lie to our children by teaching them half truths and whole lies about the history of their country. How else will they learn if not from the mistakes of their forefathers? Do not lie to your kids; I surely will not lie to mine – when I get me a Tumbo Jr.

We owe that to them, to posterity.