Leave Radio Amani alone, it has done its work...*

I have heard a number of Catholics in Nakuru complain that Radio Amani is not worth its salt. They always compare it with Waumini Radio and say Radio Amani is not 'Catholic enough.' 

And I have always wondered what exactly being 'Catholic enough' is and how a radio station is supposed to be so. 

But deep inside me I am convinced, since it went on air in 2009, Radio Amani has done its role, and done it right, in being a 'Catholic Radio' and being 'Catholic enough.'

When I first heard about Radio Amani, I was a final year student at the Njoro Campus of Egerton University. One day the then head of Communications of the Catholic Diocese of Nakuru, David Omwoyo came to talk about the project that was to give birth to the radio.

It was dubbed 'The Bishop's Radio Campaign. He sold us book marks with the Karl Marx's message that religion is the opium for the poor. But he went on to explain that religion ought not be so. He said that they were in the process of setting up a radio that would celebrate religion in the practical sense of life. That was in 2006, around June, if my memory serves me right.

In September 2009 when I finally joined the radio, the message had not changed, at least in him. Mark you, those of us who pioneered Radio Amani had more interaction with Omwoyo than any other person in the Diocese in terms of what the radio was supposed to achieve.

So when Omwoyo introduced Radio Amani not as a "Catholic Radio" but as a "a Community Radio run by the Catholic Diocese of Nakuru" we took that and implemented the goal. 

Our mandate was to 'preach peace' in a region that had known a history of ethnic and political violence for decades. We were to talk to everyone, even the atheists, since peace is a cross cutting issue. It has as many stakeholders as it has victims once it is lost.

Within a short time, we had brought so many people on board. We hardly had any resources to pool an audience apart from the on-air-talk. But we managed to have a cosmopolitan audience. These became our ambassadors of peace. 

We even had Muslims in our fan base. Not that they didn't know the radio was 'Catholic run.' In fact the Muslim Community was so 'cool' with us reporting their issues. 

I remember leaders of Protestant churches would call in during a 'purely  Catholic show' I used to host on Sunday morning, remind their members to go to church and request for a Catholic song. 

By the way even Muslims called in to request for a Catholic/Christian song. And in town I always met political party fanatics who would always ask about "our radio."

That to me is the very embodiment of peace. And I bet 'The Prince of Peace' after whom the radio is named would have loved it that way. 

However those who felt we were not worth it always asked why we were not reciting the rosary all the time? Or why we were not having preachers all the time? Or why we were playing secular music? But mainly, why we were not like Waumini Radio, the radio which is run by the Conference of Catholic Bishops in Kenya, and based in Nairobi.

They felt we were not fulfilling the mandate of the radio. They wanted us to ooze Catholicism, yet our mandate was to demonstrate it. To live it. 

Look, the real Catholic is a sinner. He is an inciter. He is an ethnic monster to say the least. He is the one who killed Fr. Michael Ithondeka in the 2007/2008 post election violence. And he killed him with his rosary hanging on his neck. 

This is the Catholic I have met in a disco several times in Nakuru on a Saturday night. We danced Ken wa Maria's song 'Wakatimba Kumbafu.' And we did it in the presence of our Parish Priest. But on Sunday I found him in Church. Singing in the choir. Leading in the 'Matega' procession while our Priest stood with the gait of Jesus himself to receive the gifts. The real Catholic is not 'Catholic enough.' 

In essence then if Radio Amani was not Catholic enough, then it was 'real Catholic.' Because real Catholicism is not 'Catholic enough.' 

So leave Radio Amani alone. It has done its work. But, should the diocesan administration feel it wants to change its identity, it can do so. 

*I no longer work with Radio Amani. I work with Egerton University as a  journalist and media trainer.

A Short Sentenced Piece

My mum was a beach boy. She used to sell wood work pieces on the sea shore. It was this that made me know the Akamba Hand Craft in Changamwe. I would accompany her to buy stock. She also sold mtandio. Some silky coastal fabrics that are good for women.

Her station was Shelly Beach Hotel. If you have gone to the Coast then you know how to go. That's after crossing the ferry. You turn left and drive not so far. And even at the hotel you turn left from the main road. So it's a turn left, turn left place.

There were so many people who worked with her. Some sold hand craft like her. Some sold mtandio like her. Some sold the Kisii stone artifacts. Some only worked as tour guides. Some took tourists on boat rides.

Some beach boys did not know how to speak English. But they needed to speak with tourists. One man did not know how to ask "what is your name?" He said, "what you collo?" He was my friend. He used to tell me to read hard and go to the university.

What you collo had his brother. His brother was not a beach boy. He used to sell tea leaves. In packets. The two loved the local brew. So much. But one day we woke up with a word. That the brother had been sodomized. Under his drunken stupor. But that was not even it. Some other day we woke with a word. That What you collo had passed on. 

My mum made so many friends from the beach. She brought them to the village. When she brought them she owned them. And we owned them too. We said they are ours.

One day my mum came with her Kenyan-Briton friend. She had a flowery name. Jasmine. She was a bit the age of my mum. Then I made a mistake. I asked her, "how old are you?" She said it was rude. I was an adolescent. She didn't know why I was asking about her age. I will not ask about the age of women any more. I was told it is rude. By Jasmine. I expect no woman to ask me my age. It is unkind. 

One day my mum came from the beach with a swollen ankle. She said she had been stung by a sea urchin. She thought it will go away. But it didn't. 

Then she got an ulcer. At the ankle. Or is it "on the ankle?" I don't know the language. Exactly.

She thought it will go away. But it didn't. Then people said bad things about her. Even those who got sweets from her visitors. Our visitors. These days the people have stopped. The bad things they said about her. 

The ulcer is still there. Some doctors think. It is varicose veins.

One other day we woke up with bad news. Shelly Beach Hotel would never accept guests. It was going to shut down. For renovation. 

Then it shut down. Then we waited. Then our village did not have money in circulation. I did not have school fees. Mum was no longer a beach boy. Her Kenyan-Briton friend was not coming to visit her any more. Or the Jamaican couple. That was her friend too. She was not receiving any seasonal greetings cards. There was no reminder that they would visit next winter. It was that bad.

That is how her dream of going to the UK died. Her dream of ever flying died that time too. Then recently. In 2011. I took my maiden flight. To Johannesburg. And I dedicated it. To her.

Shelly Beach Hotel remained closed. It is to date. There was no renovation. There is no money in our village. From the hotel. Many beach boys have gone back up country. I don't know what they do. My mum is still in our village. But she is no longer a beach boy. She is a charity woman. She cooks food. For the children. In our village.

And that is. My short. Sentenced. Piece.