THE BATED DREAMS OF A STREET KID AND THE CHRONICLES OF SUFFERING

Whenever I see a street child, like I did today, I see not the kid sniffing glue but the bated hopes, the dreams deferred by the ugly scars of poverty and pangs and scars of indifference, the opportunity to grow with dignity nipped in the bud. I hear the cries of a kid who clings to the frail hopes that her/his woes would prick the teats of our milk of human kindness.

Yet in our endless search of prosperity and the pleasures that excellence portend, we forget the downtrodden among us. We toss coins to massage our guilt and think that will be worth a meal for a kid who has not eaten for days.

A cold chill sweep over my body more so when I imagine the pain of realizing and knowing then that homes are closed to practically every one of these children just because they are poor.

In retrospect, I see a people who can give, and assuage the perils of indifference. I see people who like a waterfall emanate from drops can give and shatter and dissolve the shackles of neglect. I see a multitude of philanthropists who can rekindle the dwindling fortunes of these kids.

I juxtapose our dreams and the harsh reality of the revised aspirations of these kids, and the lowered bar and their unending hope that their suffering will speedily go away, my eyes turn teary.

I amass the comfort of this song:

“Open my minds eye so I may see and feel Your shinning light presence close to me. Give me inner strength for my stumbling feet as I battle the crowd on life’s busy street. And widen the vision of my unseeing minds eye so in passing faces I’ll recognize not just a stranger, unloved, and unknown, but a friend with a heart and soul that is much like my own.

Still my pain can’t subside, more so when I think of the grandeur and opulence that describes our sumptuous houses(or dreams of our houses) and think of a kid crying to have a roof on top of his head. I imagine this chilly weather, I cast my eyes to the threads of giving that dwells in the heart of every man. I cry for the street kid. Theirs is a page, an odyssey from the chronicles of pain and suffering.

Surely, humanity can be more humane, we can help these kids.

WACHIRA

Today is International Youth Day. We have for long been branded as a recalcitrant lot, hell bent on disturbance and impatience! This is wrong. We need the youth to be informed about the Youth Policy, The Kenya National Youth Bill. When minds are open, you will discover you have wings. Our minds,  like umbrellas work best when open. Participate. If we all swept in front of our own doors, the world will be clean.

ONCE A ROARING RIVER, NOW A FEEBLE STREAM

I watched the four boys, certainly better swimmers than me don tired yarns and threads weaved for underpants. That week, my dad had bought me such cool Y front underpants (something to die for those days), and I couldn’t break a bone just by showing the other boys that I was a man (read: boy) of style. I took of my clothes, tantalizingly stared at the undulating waves and braved the gawking eyes to dive, wiggle my body and slither upstream to the amazement of the ogling girls that lined the banks. I was only six years old when I first swam in that river. It was a big river those days; often roaring and breaking its banks so viciously that it ate the foot of my grand fathers’ sloppy land in Nyeri. That river for sure, is a deep reservoir of some of my fondest memories. It was ‘hidden’ by a canopy of trees, a haven for beautiful birds that chirped melodically; oh what a beautiful country. Flash-forward: This weekend, I went to that river, now a seasonal stream feebly flowing from the Aberdares and enviously denying the kids the adventure of our time; all this, thanks to environmental degradation. People have cut trees, whither my river! We couldn’t afford a smile with my swim mates. A place where our adventure was hatched is now a pale shadow of its former self. People have cut trees. Folks, lets plant trees, we will bequeath nothing but doom to the future generation. By the way, how many trees have you cut….how many have you planted, if any?

Remembering Tom Mboya

…..Go and fight like this man….

I have plaques that I have embedded in my heart. Each plaque depicts the definitive trait of my hero. I allow you the privilege to wander in my heart, untangling the convoluted arteries to decipher my heroes.

Get to the first artery. Are you there? Cool. On your first stop, you will find a plague written ‘ambitious ’. This belongs to one Thomas Joseph Mboya, a man who had a knack to execute political strategies with ultimate precision. Then turn left, you will get another written ‘fearless’-by the way, Ken Saro Wiwa, Steve Biko and Aung San Suu Kyi reside here. Untangle one vein. Do you see a plaque written ‘selfless’? Cool. This is the home of Martin Luther King Jnr and Thomas Sankara. Then meander a little to the left; did you find gate 4? A closer look reveals a plaque inscribed ‘visionary’. Here you will find John F Kennedy. Just one more to go. Are we together? Notice a plaque written candid? Cool. Did I tell you that Robert F Kennedy has been a resident here for many years?

Now, would you mind if I took you where it all started?  How do you describe a man who became a respected trade unionist at 22? How do you describe a man who appeared on the cover of ‘Time Magazine’ (no other Kenyan has ever graced that cover) at the age of 23? As if that was not enough, imagine becoming the first African guest of Meet the Press at 23? Here comes the brain teaser. Give me the right superlative to describe a sanitary inspector who defeated  the likes of Patrice Lumumba, Gamal Abdel Nasser, Frantz Fannon to become the Chairman of All Africa People’s Conference at a the age of 28? Answer correctly. Pull one from your lexicon and describe a man who organised air lifts for brilliant students (now opinion shapers) to study in the US, courtesy of his camaraderie with one John F Kennedy? And don’t forget, that includes Barack Hussein Obama Sr, President Obama’s father. Did you say ambitious? Cool. His name was Thomas Joseph Mboya, or Tom Mboya if you like.

I hope you had an adventurous trip. Cool. Talking of trips, not long ago, I woke up with a craving to connect with my hero. I read all books I had about Tom Mboya. Still, this didn’t suffice to quench my thirst to understand this leader.

Did I tell you how I love escapades? Infact, more often than not, I usually ‘get lost’ in the Northern frontier, enjoying the tropics sun bathe and sipping wine in tented camps in the desert-not forgetting walking barefoot on the Kenyan South Coast beaches.

So this time round, I decided to go to Rusinga Island to spend time at the famous Tom Mboya Mausoleum. Remember, unlike others, this was not meant to be an escapade but an opportunity to connect with Tom. Well, it was a long journey interrupted by crispy, misty weather, meanders of the panoramic Great Rift Valley and the inviting spectacle that is Lake Victoria. I touched base at the mausoleum.

Inviting me was a bullet shaped structure standing majestically and chillingly giving my curious eye a stark reminder of how this gallant son of Africa met his fate. My heart pumped to crescendo. Seeing the suit that he wore exactly 40 years ago ‘soaked’ in blood was a hair raising experience for me. How on earth did someone decide to heinously kill this freedom fighter? His round faced countenance and sharp eyes well captured in the displayed photos gave me the impression of a man with requisite precision to craft and execute sessional papers that he selflessly wrote.

Yet his trajectory shows a man whose footprints covered half the distance. An envious barbarian extinguished the vision of one of the most respected politicians hatched in the plains of Kenya. Like a flower that wasn’t allowed to blossom, he was nipped on the bud. His candle glowed with unrivalled luminosity, yet as fate would have it, in a chemist tucked in the heart of Nairobi, a barbarian decided to kill him.

Suffice to add, as we mark 40 years since Tom Mboya was assassinated, I invoke the thought provoking words inscribed on his epitaph:

‘Go and Fight like this man

Who fought for mankind’s cause

Who died because he fought

Whose battles remain unwon

Thomas Joseph Mboya, even though God gave you but half a life, we feel grateful that you graced our land and that Kenya had a chance to benefit from your big mind. We celebrate you.

Tom Mboya

1930-1969

Wachira

AFRICA IS NO LONGER THE SICK CONTINENT

Long ago, Africa was considered a sick continent and the epicentre where all the negatives were manufactured. It was a dreaded part of the world, putting a blot to globalization when the world was registering massive advancement in space race, communication and media.

Malawi granaries are teeming with stocks of maize; it is set to be the second fastest growing economy this year. Rwanda has the highest number of women in parliament, beating the Scandinavians; the country is set to be an ICT hub. Kenya is an enviable outsourcing hub, with a vibrant middle class. Uganda has discovered oil. Ghana and Benin are models of democracy. Sierra Leone and Liberia like the proverbial phoenix, are rising from the ashes.

The tables seem to have turned. Trouble spots are now in Iraq, Iran, Honduras, Sri Lanka (recently). The credit crunch was hatched and nourished in the US. Swine flu, that has since reached Kenya traces its roots in Mexico. So you see, no country is insulated from epidemics.

You see, this reminds me of a Swahili saying: If you happen to see your colleague being shaved, make sure your head is ready for a clean(er ) shave. It can happen to anyone!

The other side of Kenya

There are two faces of Kenya. The Kenya that is bombarded with high sounding platitudes and policy statements like vision 2030 and Poverty Reduction Strategy Papers and etal and the other one that I am just about to tell you about.

Not long ago, I embarked on a journey to the other side of the country. Yes, the forgotten wild side. A forgotten corner where a driver who manages to wobble his 4 wheel guzzler through the paths with gawking rocks and alleys can embarrass Rhino charge seasoned drivers. Here I was, tucked in the plains of Pokot, surrounded by people who sat on boulders facing an acacia tree. You guessed it right. This is what they had known for a class room. When you fidget with your high school, college and masters assignment in a well stocked library remember Loriang-a lady who made me think of how far we have moved our footprints from the arc of fairness. She stood, bit her lower lip and stared at me. I knew hers was going to be a long story. A poignant one indeed. Loriang was soon to take me through a rather painful trajectory of how she was ensnared by the jaws of female circumcision and married off at a rather tender age. A community based organisation had rehabilitated her into the only available ‘classroom’-a tree with troops of red ants that occasionally fell from their comfort zones to bite us in the most heinous manner. She wasn’t alone. Hers was a story that epitomized other countless moving narrations that I heard….To be continued!

Yet we meet in the lawns of Ole Polos and other watering holes to imbibe litres of concentrated liquids, as ‘they’ meet in air-conditioned conference rooms to pontificate about vision 2030 and other buzz words…I hope we will all remember that there is a Kenyan out there, battering undulating winds, and stings from red ants under a tree. There are people tucked in forgotten corners craving for the barest necessities of life. MPs have no excuse not to weave a blanket that covers the toes of everyone when we have the most devolved budget in post colonial era.