I want to be a Mutiku

It is right at the foot of this canopy in Msulwa - Shimba Hills, that Mutiku once lived as a hermit. He died childless.

Mutiku was not your everyday man. With no woman to call his own, he went to bed with land and with it he sired many products. For this the whole of Msulwa village respected him partly because although he did not have a child he found it in his favor to serve every child as his own.

He stood at about six ft tall with a medium body build. But he was strong. Very strong. Each planting season he cleared virgin lands and planted the best of his grain from the previous harvest. Maize was his main crop.

When he worked in his farm we would always read one word on his face - dedication. Then one would ask, why was he working so hard yet he had no dependants? But you would realize that the village was his dependant - especially for maize.

When he drank water you would stand by his side to see how he gobbled it. He would drink about three liters at once. And his Adam's apple would dance with every gulp while the veins on his neck would bulge out as if to say they were enjoying the cooling effect.

Mutiku lived as a hermit. One time he decided to live in a cave. He looked around for one of the largest rocks in the village and there he found a hideout. He only cleared its entrance and made a hearth to ward off snakes and other wild animals. Then word went round that he was losing it. But he wasn't. 

Actually after this caving incident he stayed around for about a decade farming and feeding Msulwa. Then one day we woke with the word that he had passed on. We felt sad that we would never harvest at his farm. 

One young man said of his death, "he died like a cashew branch." That he had left no trace was what this young man derided of him. Yet as I remember him today, I wish his spirit of dedication to Msulwa and to my people, would light and burn in me every day.

I wish I would realize within me just this simple thing I can exemplary do for my people and do it with dedication. 

I want to be a Mutiku.

TRIBUTE TO DAMARIS MBUTHIA

I will not pretend that I was close to the late Damaris Mbuthia the nominated Member of the County Assembly of Nakuru (MCA), who died last month. But I must say I followed her politics, perhaps not closely, and in a way I became her critic and admirer in equal measure.

When I first got to know her she was the Deputy Mayor in Nakuru a seat she used to rise to fame as she out did the then Mayor Mohamed Suraw. Suraw, a man who had difficulty sometimes even in introducing himself just lacked the awe and flow that one would expect of an occupant of a mayoral seat. He was slow and just never seemed to understand issues. 

And here was Damaris, a well built lady of tangible beauty, both physically and intellectually deputizing him. She came with the executive poise that her boss lacked and marched it with exemplary wits. Sometimes I wondered whether it was out of design or default that she represented Suraw in all the meetings in the county. And for sure every comment she made turned out to be well thought and fitting each occasion. Never mind some of the things she said were never implemented thereafter. Its politics Kenyan style.

That should tell you how I viewed Damaris. So when I received news of her death I was saddened. I had for long looked forward to her contribution on debates at the Nakuru county assembly as I knew she had the intellectual muscle to wrestle the men who mostly dominate the floor.

So then I will miss her. 

But I will not miss her because she was a 'great leader'. I will miss her a 'great politician'. Above all I will miss her journalistically - she was a good news source. Damaris was one of the few women made of stuff that makes news. She was easy to notice. She was robust and stylish and in several occasions she was involved, either as a villain or victor, in dramatic scenes that fit the cliché of man bite a dog.

For instance in August 2012 she was allegedly involved in a scuffle where together with other five councilors assaulted Mayor Suraw during their Municipal annual general meeting and elections.

A woman who is ready to do that makes news almost standing out and above all the men who may be involved in the scuffle with her. The reason is, the Kenyan political scenario has been made dangerously patriarchal. Men have used every element of their masculinity to throttle women politicians. To be a woman, and to be ready even to fight physically, and literally doing it, within political circles, is to counter masculine political imbalances. It is to talk back. It is to demand to be seen an equal. It is to be an equal.

But it is also to fail drastically as a leader so much so that although Damaris may score highly as a 'politician,' and that within our local context, she scored poorly as a leader. At least on that aspect.

Every day Kenyans long for sanity in the country's politics and when someone rises to contribute to making the situation even murkier then the person kills the very dream we have conceived. It's very unfortunate that this responsibility is always seen the burden of the women in Kenya less as it is on men. But again, that's our context.

Damaris thus had this reason to rise above the occasion when faced with such challenges and intelligently order the situation to amicable solutions. However she must not be stoned on that only. She did many other things that her a darling among us.

And that's my tribute to Damaris Mbuthia. In her we lost a politician, one who had slowly discovered how to play it the Kenyan way, and who had great potential. In her I also feel the Nakuru media lost a good news source.

For that I will miss her. May her soul rest in peace.

#BabaWhileYouWereAway

Baba while you were away, I read the Animal Farm. I read to establish how it can be used as a case study text for teaching organizational behavior. And Baba, I realized it can work. 

Baba I plan to use it soon, looking at Manor Farm as an organisation that is going through leadership change then analyze the different opportunities and challenges it goes through.

But Baba I must say, as I read it, I felt like you and Snowball are one and the same. I felt like you were there when Major dreamt of the revolution, or perhaps you dreamt it with him. I have no doubt you were one of the most intelligent of the pigs and that even as Major was dying he was not disappointed to see you pick up the baton.

Baba, I must say, you and Napoleon were doing a good job after Major's death. Actually Baba, I give you tribute for dreaming about the windmill. That was your idea, and it was a perfect one. 

But now Baba let me tell you where you have been failing. You have been lacking tactic. Either for the present or the future. For instance, let me ask you, how could you not see that as you were dreaming about the windmill, Napoleon, was thinking about how to oust you for being a worthy competitor. Behold he fed the puppies, as you continued dreaming. When they were fully grown beasts, he used them for the second revolution - against you. 

Baba, you should have thought of practical leadership tactics. Not dreaming only. 

Now Baba, and this is where I think you are Snowball proper. Everything that goes wrong at the Animal Farm, it is you who has caused it. Oh my, I want to laugh. Even when the female gender can't conceive because the male gender isn't playing its role at the farm, it is you. 

Baba, you are such an enigma. But look, you don't go beyond that. Enigma. Baba, think a little bit smatter. Think tactically. Learn how to look for your own version of the puppies, feed them for heaven's sake and use them to gain control of the Animal Farm.

Mean while, Animal Farm is on its way to becoming Manor Farm, where it started. I would have wished to see you in control. But again, you are Snowball. You are nowhere. You were ousted a long time ago. What we live with is the fear of your ghost.

Still, welcome back, Baba. While you were away, I read Animal Farm.

If the world gives you a lemon, don't pick it...

I am sure you have heard of the statement, "if the world gives you a lemon, make lemonade out of it." So wrongly overused is this statement that I am of the view it has contributed to the crash of a number of us. 

So today I am talking to you requesting for your support to trash it. After all it should have no place in our lives.

When life gives you a lemon, you should not make lemonade out of it. You should give it back its lemon, and demand for something better. Demand for an orange or an apple. Or just anything, even a water melon, but don't accept the lemon. It is not what you deserve.

I am of the view that accepting to make lemonade out of the lemon is to resign to fate. It is to say either consciously or unconsciously, "oh poor me there is nothing I can do about it. Let me accept and move on." 

Well, I am not talking about denying reality. To do so would be to refuse that in life "shit happens." And we all agree that it happens.

What we therefore need to realize is that when the above happens it falls us from our revered position. It takes us a scale or several scales down from the glory that we are. Once this happens life then feels superior in giving us lemons and by accepting them we accept to do nothing to return to our previous positions.

I am writing to ask you to refuse those lemons. I repeat, you don't deserve a lemon. You deserve an orange or something better. Even a pawpaw. 

By refusing to pick the lemon, for the lemonade, you are asking yourself, "what did I do for the world to think I deserve a lemon?" You are asking yourself, "what can I do to go back to my original position?" Ultimately, you are reminding yourself of the need to pick up your pieces and going back to your original position.

A number of us have been resigning to fate every time we are faced with challenges in life. We keep on accepting lemons and consequently we have been making gallons after gallons of lemonade. This is not good. It needs to change.

I am writing to light up your recovery path. I am writing to wish you something better than a lemon in your life. 

But I implore you to remind the world you don't deserve a lemon. If it gives you one, don't pick it, hit it on its face with it and ask for what you deserve.   

My Name, My Heritage

Among the Akamba, Kioko is a name given to a baby boy born in the morning

This piece has been inspired by what Kalonzo Musyoka recently told a journalist in a press conference that the Coalition for Reforms and Democracy (CORD) had called to give their assessment of a myriad of topical issues in our country.

The country was stunned when Kalonzo refused to answer the journalist since his name of Kikuyu origin had allegedly 'betrayed' him.

Kalonzo fell short of saying that he could tell the political leaning of the journalist the moment he heard his name, read, his tribe. With this he gave us the best case study from a leader of his stature of looking at issues in a pathologically stereotypical way.

 

Our names are cultural artifacts

Now, to say 'pathologically' is to say, naturally. It is saying if I wereto appear before Kalonzo today and I said my name is Kioko wa Kivandi, then he would conclude, naturally, that from my birth I have supported all that Akamba leaders have said including him, because my name identifies with the Akamba. 

It is also like saying if Barrack Obama were to meet Kalonzo today then Kalonzo would say, "aah, I see, your name is Obama, you are a Luo. I am in a coalition with Odinga so we can talk." 

For this reason I am writing to argue that pathological stereotypes are what have killed us as a nation. And Kalonzo is not the only person who may exhibit such. You saw Prof. Anyang Nyong' laughed, almost in approval of what had been said. Yet, I cannot even attempt to teach him, the writer of the famous poem Daughter of the Low Land  about these issues. He is more learned than me. He knows better.

Kenya has been crushing out of the negative narratives that we have told our offspring about the 'other tribe.' And we have told them in such a manner that they appear to have been so since creation.

That is why our names are no longer gems of a heritage, but the sources of our betrayal. You introduce yourself in a forum and kaboom, "your name betrays you" and "I cannot say more."

No name is chosen in a vacuum, its part of a culture

In 2007/2008 post election violence and throughout the history of negative ethnicity our names have betrayed us. Many a times they have defined our destinies, especially negative ones.

But our names are our heritage. They are part of our culture. My name Kioko means a boy who was born in the morning. Your name also has its meaning. It was not picked in a vacuum. 

Behold, we need to retell narratives about ourselves and those about our neighbors, and more so in instances where we have painted images of neighbors who are ogres when in real sense they are true replicas of us as the holy books say.