NOW
THESE ARE WORSE THAN TERRORISTS
In May 2003, I lost a very dear aunt
that I loved a lot, but the grief was made worse by the ‘ambulance chasers lawyers’
who tormented her in her death bed. My aunt had been in an accident which had
left her with some sort of internal bleeding and some internal injuries, what
made me angry about these ambulance chasers is that the money they received
from the insurance companies never gets to the victims; they take advantage of
accident victims…people at their worst, when they are most vulnerable. I was
only a teenager and that incident opened my heart and eyes to the evil that
existed in this world, how in the world do you rob a dying woman and feel
nothing and go on to rob others. Then there were the very good neighbors who
robbed my aunt of household items as soon as they heard she was dead, they
broke into her house. The thoughts of these kinds of people has never left my
mind over the years, it has always been with me. It all seems to come back in
the light of the Westgate incident, the fact during the security operation some
security forces members were caught looting shops. Here were the ‘good’ guys
who had been sent to rescue and save the day, the super heroes who were going
to fight the villains, who ended up adding insult to the injury. That only
added to the grief that most Kenyans were experiencing, I am interested in
finding out what will happen to these people who looted, when they are
sentenced their fate must be known to the entire country, because they are
indeed a national embarrassment.
That also reminded me of the people that
rush to accident scenes not to help the injured but to steal from them,
opportunists who rush towards fire scenes so that they can loot. It’s hard to
imagine that someone entered Westgate not because he felt there were hostages
that needed saving but because they were high value goods that he could help
himself with.
Such people are worst than terrorists,
or maybe there are no different from the terrorists because they do not assist
the situation in any way, they only add to the pain, confusion. Now the shop
owners of Westgate suffered double tragedy, if it was not the fire that
consumed their goods, it was looting that saw their hard work disappear into
thin air, not forgetting the incomparable loss of their workmates and colleagues.
Maybe while wanting to figure out why a person would become so indoctrinated
with falsehood, the first step might to understanding these vile looters and
enemies of success as my younger brother calls them. In Westgate we saw the
good and the pure hearted whose aim was to save the lives of all the innocent
people who were stuck inside and that brought tears and humaneness in our
hearts, it reminded us that we are people indeed with feelings, but the tears
were also brought by the terrorists who massacred people for no good reason in
this world or even the next, and the looters who added insult to injury. The
image of the son of the former defense minister will forever remain in my mind,
he was to me the face of the rescue operation, the KDF soldiers who died in the
operation will never be forgotten, because they died for a worthy cause, but also
these looters and their inhumane behavior leaves a lot to be desired because
they are no different from the terrorists.
The
High Cost of Corruption…
A story is told, one day the people of a
certain area in Nairobi decided that they had had enough of the matatu’s
increasing fare for no good reason, and they dared the matatu to drive into the
police station which they did, only for the police men to side with the matatu
and to rub insult to injury all passengers were ordered to alight and were left
at the police station stranded while the matatu was ordered to go back to town
and pick more passengers. Another story is told of a matatu that was car jacked
and after the ordeal they reported to a police station only to be ordered to
report to another police station in another area, they gave up and went home,
it was late, and they risked being robbed again with no police protection
offered they knew they were fighting a losing battle.
Another story is told a young woman who
was arrested because she told off the police she saw while in a matatu she was
in receiving bribes. She was later released but she was the unsung hero no one
really cared about. In the place where I stay, over loaded matatus are the
order of the day, they pass through road blocks at times two but the power of
the fifty shillings note is pretty amazing. These policemen are not only
failing to protect the people they were mandated to, but they are indeed
signing the death certificate of many Kenyans by allowing unroadworthy vehicles
and overloaded PSVs on the road. But also many a times the passengers
themselves would rather ride in an overloaded matatu than wait in an empty
matatu. My dad once tried to tell the matatu driver to ignore the policemen
asking for bribes but it was in vain. The handing out bribes culture is so
common in Kenya that it’s no longer a secret, at times the driver requests a
passenger with a fifty shillings note to give it to him to be refunded later. It’s
sad because not only are public officials willing to receive bribes but the public
is only to eager to hand over the bribes to them, it’s a way of life that we as
Kenyans have become so accustomed to.
I have heard stories, watched on telly
how easy it is for foreigners to become Kenyan citizens, all they need is
money. In so many places ordinary Kenyans have become so accustomed to buying
every day services. Its seems, it’s always somebody’s time to eat in Kenya.
Lastly I remember a time when some
women, in Mombasa were complaining that their sons were being recruited to join
the Alshabaab, also remember that one of areas affected by drug abuse is the
Coast region, the saying goes like ‘what goes around comes around.’
I suggest that Kenya will always be a
soft spot for terror attacks unless ordinary Kenyans ask hard questions and our
leaders legislate better policies to handle corruption and the safety of all
Kenyans, until then I doubt as a country we will ever be safe. Kenyans expect
change to come from the top, but the best change will always be bottom up.
Corruption is a huge monster that should make us rethink about the change we
need in this country and realize that we as Kenyans have let our country down,
always caught up in petty tribal politics that will never bring us change in
this country, let go of that, unify and take collective responsibility for the
grand corruption that will ultimately be our down fall.
Posted by
Social Matters
10:29 AM
The
High Cost of Corruption…
A story is told, one day the people of a
certain area in Nairobi decided that they had had enough of the matatu’s
increasing fare for no good reason, and they dared the matatu to drive into the
police station which they did, only for the police men to side with the matatu
and to rub insult to injury all passengers were ordered to alight and were left
at the police station stranded while the matatu was ordered to go back to town
and pick more passengers. Another story is told of a matatu that was car jacked
and after the ordeal they reported to a police station only to be ordered to
report to another police station in another area, they gave up and went home,
it was late, and they risked being robbed again with no police protection
offered they knew they were fighting a losing battle.
Another story is told a young woman who
was arrested because she told off the police she saw while in a matatu she was
in receiving bribes. She was later released but she was the unsung hero no one
really cared about. In the place where I stay, over loaded matatus are the
order of the day, they pass through road blocks at times two but the power of
the fifty shillings note is pretty amazing. These policemen are not only
failing to protect the people they were mandated to, but they are indeed
signing the death certificate of many Kenyans by allowing unroadworthy vehicles
and overloaded PSVs on the road. But also many a times the passengers
themselves would rather ride in an overloaded matatu than wait in an empty
matatu. My dad once tried to tell the matatu driver to ignore the policemen
asking for bribes but it was in vain. The handing out bribes culture is so
common in Kenya that it’s no longer a secret, at times the driver requests a
passenger with a fifty shillings note to give it to him to be refunded later. It’s
sad because not only are public officials willing to receive bribes but the public
is only to eager to hand over the bribes to them, it’s a way of life that we as
Kenyans have become so accustomed to.
I have heard stories, watched on telly
how easy it is for foreigners to become Kenyan citizens, all they need is
money. In so many places ordinary Kenyans have become so accustomed to buying
every day services. Its seems, it’s always somebody’s time to eat in Kenya.
Lastly I remember a time when some
women, in Mombasa were complaining that their sons were being recruited to join
the Alshabaab, also remember that one of areas affected by drug abuse is the
Coast region, the saying goes like ‘what goes around comes around.’
I suggest that Kenya will always be a
soft spot for terror attacks unless ordinary Kenyans ask hard questions and our
leaders legislate better policies to handle corruption and the safety of all
Kenyans, until then I doubt as a country we will ever be safe. Kenyans expect
change to come from the top, but the best change will always be bottom up.
Corruption is a huge monster that should make us rethink about the change we
need in this country and realize that we as Kenyans have let our country down,
always caught up in petty tribal politics that will never bring us change in
this country, let go of that, unify and take collective responsibility for the
grand corruption that will ultimately be our down fall.
Posted by
Social Matters
8:34 AM
‘The food is almost ready.’
Benta said to her husband, stretching out wearily, revealing her overgrown pregnancy
belly. At any moment her bundle of joy would arrive into the world. It wouldn’t
be her first bundle of joy…at times though they were a blessing…they were a big
burden for a poor struggling young couple. Otieno did not say much as he
shifted uncomfortably on the small round three legged stool, their two roomed
mud house had no much furnishings apart from two small stools and the mat for
the children to sleep and sit on.
‘Baba Cristabel.’ She started,
hands rested on her tired lower back. ‘I am really tired.’ Her weight
shifted to one side.
‘She should have given birth
already.’ He thought to himself. ‘This seems to be taking longer than all
the other ones.’
‘Do
you mind finishing cooking the ugali?’ She shifted on the small stool
rather uncomfortably.
Otieno cast an angry look at his
wife, her face seemed rather old and creased, she did not resemble the woman he
had married a mere fifteen years ago. ‘Am I a woman?’ he asked her
angrily. ‘Mama Cristabel you are surely not the first woman to give birth in
this village.’
Benta was rather too tired to
argue, she turned to the simmering ugali over the stone jiko. She bent on her
side uncomfortably, so that she could push the firewood closer before standing
up to adjust the old worn out leso around her waist.
‘Benta!’ Otieno started. ‘I
thought by now you should have given birth.’ He paused. ‘Why
are you still like that?’ He finally asked the question that had
weighed heavily on him the entire evening.
She rolled her eyes as she turned
to the ugali, Otieno seemed to listen to the sound of the mwiko as it hit the
sides of the sufuria.
‘Baba
Cristabel!”
she stopped suddenly rejuvenated. ‘This is not a disease.’ She pointed
at heR round belly. ‘You did this to me, remember.’ She
turned the Ugali a bit. ‘I did not wake up one morning and find
myself like this.’
Otieno turned to face the mud wall,
it was almost crumbling. ‘You speak too much woman.’ He
muttered under his breath. There was silence in the tiny little mud hut with
grass thatching, seemingly lying isolated far away from the shores of the Lake
Victoria, in the middle of the dark sky filled with billions of little stars that
shone like burnt out firewood in the
three stone jiko in the dead of the night in a dark little mud hut. He was a
fisherman, without a boat but heavily relied on his friend’s boat, but at times
the catch could not sustain his large family even for one evening.
‘Well mama Cristabel, I will leave
for the city tomorrow first thing in the morning.’ He got up and let
out a tired yawn. He needed money to fix the leaking thatch roof; he could
afford another of his children falling sick again.
‘The food is ready.’ Benta
said finally.
“I will eat at my mother’s hut.’ He walked
out into the darkness.
Benta barely touched her food as
she carelessly tossed the pale green plastic near the fireplace as she
struggled to lay her tired body on the wooden bed which badly needed repairing.
Having sent the children to stay in their grandmother’s hut a few nights ago,
so that they did not have to see her going into labour like in the past, at
times it felt like she had the worst childbirths ever. Her second child got
stuck and they had to pull her out, the child that followed caught malaria a
few weeks later but managed to survive, and the fourth pregnancy she had malaria
throughout. At least the last one had been relatively easy, though she did not
want her children on the way on the onset of labour, a terrible feeling of
loneliness filled her heart.
She managed to fall into an uneasy
sleep, only to wake up in the middle of the night in excruciating pain which
cut across her stomach, making her to let out a shriek that cut across the dead
of the night. Immediately she knew it was time, but the intensity of the pain
seemed to overwhelm her tired body and she rolled off the bed, falling to the
ground with a thud. She let out another shriek, with her right hand clutching tightly
on her womb. She managed to drag her body a short distance outside the hut
before collapsing in a heap, her contractions eased as she gazed at the sky in
amazement of it beauty, strength and the still effect it had on her unborn
baby.
‘Benta!’ her
mother-in-law, an old rather frail looking woman, rushed to her tripping on the
dusty yet wet with dew dark brownish clay soil, landing on her back awkwardly.
Now instead of one woman in distress there were two, one freshly injured old woman
and the other younger one, on the early stages of labour.
‘Mother!’ Otieno dashed
out of his hut. He was bare-chested with the half cut trousers barely hiding
his manhood.
He helped both women back into
Benta’s house.
‘It is time son.’ His mother
said. She had hardly slept; one ear always tuned in to Benta’s hut to make sure
she was not alone when the baby made its way into the world.
‘What do I do?’ He asked, he was now a confused man.
‘Get me to the clinic right away.’
Benta said in between clenched teeth as her sharp nails sunk into his arm. ‘How
comes you did not ask silly questions when you did this to me.’ She
said angrily at him. ‘Ati what do I do?’
‘Go to your brother’s Otoyo’s
house.’
The Older woman started. ‘And see if you can borrow his vehicle.’
She seemed rather composed.
Otieno headed first to his hut
where he emerged fully dressed before rushing to his brother’s house, only to
return half an hour later.
‘Where is the car?’ a
frustrated Benta asked.
‘It’s in my pocket.’ He pointed
out to his trousers turned shorts rather agitated.
‘Is he coming with it?’ the older
woman asked in a composed voice.
‘It has no petrol mother.’ Otieno
answered rather meekly. ‘What do I do now?’
‘Otieno!” Benta
screamed in pain, clutching to the worn out blankets on the bed. ‘Why
are acting like a foolish man?’ she struggled with some contractions. ‘This
is all you’re doing.’ She screeched. ‘Did you not do this?’
‘Why are you acting like a teenage
girl about to give birth Benta.’ Otieno pretended to retain his
cool. ‘Is not your seventh child? Seventh…’ he emphasized.
‘Hmmm…’ Benta
suppressed her contractions which seemed to be coming fast and furious.
‘Go to Mildred’s house.’ His mother
instructed him. ‘She will take you to the traditional midwife’s house.’
Otieno turned to leave, Benta had
insisted on giving birth at a clinic, after very bad experiences from the
untrained midwife, though she had assisted hundreds of women in delivering
healthy babies if not thousands.
‘Hurry my son, the pain is coming
all too fast.’ She advised in a worried tone. ‘At this rate your son will be
born before the break of dawn.’
Almost two hours later Otieno
returned to his wife’s hut only to find his daughters gathered around their
mother sobbing. She seemed faint and her cries were almost inaudible. Dread
mixed with guilt filled his heart as he approached the wooden bed. ‘She
traveled to the next village.’
He noticed his mother was preparing
a traditional remedy for Benta. ‘Our neighbor Mzee Bartholomew has a
wheelbarrow.’
Otieno dutifully obeyed, noticing
the thick sweat on the face of his wife he hurried of Bartholomew’s house who
lived a long way off. He found the old man seated outside his hut, gazing at
the night empty sky. ‘Is all well at your homestead?’ he
asked, worry written all over the endless thin lines on his forehead.
‘It is well.’ He
approached the old man. ‘Women issues.’
‘Your daughter woke us all up, they
had me worried Otieno.’ He seemed to breathe in more easily.
Any other night, an old man seated
outside in the middle of the night could have easily be mistaken for a night
runner or a witch doctor, but it was a special night, where good and evil were
allowed to mix.
‘My two wives Judith and Mikaela
are on headed to your homestead.’ He informed the younger man.
‘This time Otieno a great warrior will be born to your household.’
Otieno smiled for the first time
that night. ‘She is in a lot of pain mzee.’ He said in a confused but in a
matter of fact kind of way.
The old man nodded and then let out
a wide grin, revealing the gaps in between his large brownish teeth. ‘That’s
a good sign.’
Otieno felt confident for the first
time that night.
‘My son Otieno let us go in.’ the old
man got up and picked his three legged stool and walked into the mud hut.
Otieno followed the old man, all
too gladly, happy to escape from the painful world of childbirth.
‘Otieno, is that you?’ his mother
called out anxiously.
‘It is I mother.’ He
responded not too keenly.
‘What took you so long?’ she limped
to the fireplace where Otieno was busy removing the green plastic bag from the
fireplace, it was beginning to smell. ‘The dawn is just about to break.’
‘I am here now.’ He
remained rather calm. ‘Why are the children crying?’ for the first time he realized
he could hear his daughters crying but there was no sound of Benta ready to
give him a tongue lashing or a newborn baby.
‘It’s their mother.’ The old
woman began. ‘She collapsed.’
For a moment Otieno seemed to go
into shock, he wiped his hands on his little blue shirt.
‘Where is she?’ he asked
quickly looking for her in the bedroom. ‘Where is she?’ he studied the faces
of his daughters all huddled together in a corner wiping their tears away.
‘Bartholomew’s wives carried her
off to the hospital.’ She leaned on the wall rather painfully.
He started running towards the
gate. ‘Otieno!’ his mother peered from the door. ‘They
might need that!’ she pointed at the wheelbarrow at the very corner of
the compound.
Up the ridges Otieno pushed the
wheelbarrow, across the river he carried it, though the huge torrents could
have easily carried him away but it was the easiest way to catch up with the
women on the dusty path that led to the main road. Where the women readily
placed the unconscious woman on the wheelbarrow and Otieno quickly led the way.
He pushed with all his might, the
sun was raising, it seemed beautiful but rather insignificant to Otieno,
arriving at the clinic when the sunrays were beginning to show though a bit
lazily. But the gate was locked. ‘We do not open until 8am.’ The
guard informed them giving Benta a quick glance.
“she in labour!’ Mikaela
said.
‘Please help us.’
He gazed around, he seemed to think
really hard as he listened to their story of what had happened, like he was in
no hurry, or maybe he could not notice the pain and anguish written all over
their faces.
‘I will see what I can do.’ His voice
seemed to be full of promise, only for him to return and declare that there was
nothing he could do.
Otieno visibly angry realized that
his only hope was the district hospital which was almost an hour and a half
away. When they got there the emergency was full as usual, the patients seemed
to be having worse problems than he could dream of. But Benta was admitted
immediately, as they carried his wife away the image of a five year old boy
drenched in blood occupied his thoughts, he seemed to have been involved in a
very bad accident.
He seemed to wait for hours, such
that his aging mother joined him. ‘The maternity ward is no place for a man
like you.’ But he wanted to stay. Mzee Bartholomew’s wives stuck to
him, they seemed to share in his anxiety.
‘Baba Atieno.’ Cristabel’s second name was used.
He jumped up anxiously; it was
Judith, Bartholomew’s first wife, freshly from consulting with the doctors. ‘I am
afraid they could not save the baby…’ she refrained from telling him
that it was a boy, the whole village knew that he longed for a male child. The
news would have crushed his spirit all the way.
‘She shall bear many more.’ His mother
consoled him. ‘One does not cry when one egg breaks, the hen can easily lay another
one.’
Otieno seemed consoled.
Benta had lost a lot of blood, but
her recovery was swift and was discharged after two weeks, on the third week as
she prepared breakfast for her household at the break of dawn, she collapsed
and died.
