Human Wrongs?

Frogville is tedious!

2011-06-11T15:19:00.006+03:00

Frogville is getting old AND boooooooring (as my nephew would say)!!!

Just how many of these damn frogs does a girl have to kiss before he turns into a prince?? Yeeeech! *swipes her backhand across her lips in an effort to wipe off the taste* They are leaving a taste so bad even chocolate digestives can't mask it anymore.

My conclusion? It is the magic ingredient that's missing: chivalry - it died a quiet lonely death in some cold dark corner. It fought a valiant fight and even tried to reinvent itself as sheer good manners, but selfishness was much more readily available and easier to swallow. So no, chivalry? No sparkles and no poof! Frog sadly remains just frog!

The modern day fairy tale is more likely to end with Frog Charming showing up to the ball spotting the shirt you bought him and some other princess on his arm!!!

"How ridiculous that water ran out of your eyes when your heart hurt"

2011-05-08T22:40:00.007+03:00

Cornelia Funke couldn't have said it better! As it is, I can't seem to run out of water from my eyes. It doesn't help that my head is full of unspoken words knocking about, further blurring what little visibility I have left, through my swollen eyelids.

Words! Words I fear, but still just words. I'm damned if they are spoken and I am damned if they are not. But they are still just words! Words that cannot change what is. Words cannot change what I feel... so strongly and deeply that my heart trembles at the mere thought...

Wait!! What am I even talking about? What heart? I don't recall putting that back together again! Last I checked it was nothing but blood spurts mopped up into a bucket, awaiting reinfusion!

So what is that aching so much it's making it hard to breathe? Could it be that heartbreak is not just a single incident but a series of excruciating explosions, each sequence deliberately starting before you have a chance to forget the pain of the last?!! A pain that gets worse and worse with each sequence, because now it is mixed in with fear and anticipation of pain which, judging from the last, will be just as bad as you fear it will be...

I was forewarned: "this will not end well"! But the heart wants what the heart wants and now it must pay the price. Only my eyes are suffering too... and Coelho was soooo wrong: the suffering does feel much worse than the fear!!

What sound does a breaking heart make?

2011-05-02T13:56:00.003+03:00

What sound does a breaking heart make? It seems unjust that such an excruciating moment should pass by without a bomb-like earth-shuttering explosion... or maybe the Universe programmed it so you feel enough pain to make the appropriate noise yourself. Except... it feels like if you started with sound you would never stop!

So instead you just lie there in silence, letting your heart crumble around you, like a big bright brilliant red fireworks display... simmering in tiny pools of blood at your feet! And when its done, you get up and mop it all up, wring it into a bucket awaiting reinfusion... and then get on with the urgent business of your life!

Why the dress will never go out of style

2011-03-29T22:20:00.012+03:00

Bonding with my mum does have its perks beyond the cared-for feeling. My poor mum who has had to bear endless frustration over why she had me trained as a lawyer when I insist on dressing like a hippie, got her way by tempting me with this lovely red silk-blend dress, which I obviously could not resist. Like the good daughter that I am... ahem... I actually wore the dress and boy! did I discover why the dress will NEVER go out of style!

What I did discover (though as more of an epiphany than eureka)? Men are generally insecure creatures who respond very well to visual stimulation. So it IS true what the self help manuals say. I always thought they were being simplistic and generalising a little too much. I know men who are sophisticated and intellectual and... I can count them on my hands. The folly I suppose, of working in the human rights realm is that you interact with men who have been trained by the profession, who cannot help but live by the values they espouse, but sadly they are but a small minority. Most men are just... men. I now understand why the what-men-think-about-besides-sex book has such high sales... well, incredibly high sales for a blank book.

How did I realise this? I wore a slinky dress. It is amazing how differently men treat you when you are in a dress. They open doors for you, they are kind and attentive, they carry your bags, etc. I guess if you look like you could wrestle them to the ground, they treat you like you could. Throw in a little bit of femininity and voila! I guess they feel less threatened or maybe... I read somewhere recently that men just want to be with someone who will treat them nicely, and the macho feminist looking girl (read as the girl who prefers comfortable practical dressing) just doesn't seem like the type.

So my current note to self? Buy more slinky dresses :)

WE the people...

2009-12-16T18:50:00.020+03:00

As I read Kenya's harmonised draft constitution, I am reminded of a tenet by a great Indian Scholar and architect of the Indian constitution-Dr Ambedkar-which was plastered on the wall of my university. He said "however good a Constitution may be, it is sure to turn out bad because those who are called to work it, happen to be a bad lot. However bad a Constitution may be, it may turn out to be good if those who are called to work it, happen to be a good lot". I later discovered that it was part of a famous speech he gave defending the Indian Constitution back in 1949. In the speech, he added that "it is, therefore, futile to pass any judgement upon the Constitution without reference to the part which the people and the parties are likely to play".

I recently had the privilege to attend a function where a dignitary stated, off the record, that the current problem was that everyone was looking to the Constitution as a panacea for all of Kenya's ills. I agree with him that it is not. What it is, is an instrument which sets out the fundamental values, principles and goals by which our country should be governed. And it lays the responsibility for upholding those principles not just on our leaders, political or otherwise, but also on "WE, the people"! S. 3 states that every person has an obligation to respect, uphold and defend this Constitution, while s. 24 lists our responsibilities as citizens which include respecting, upholding, defending, understanding and promoting the Constitution.

I wonder if we are up to the task...

As I read through the elements on secularism (s.10) and freedom of religion and belief (s. 49), I can't help but see the irony in beginning the preamble with an acknowledgement of an "Almighty God". Are we then saying that those who do not share this belief are not part of the "we" or are not people? It reminds of the meetings I have attended in the not too distant past which automatically begin with a Christian prayer, one of which had a Muslim guest of honour, who had just broken a fast. Does it show what good Christians we are, or just how insensitive we are to difference and diversity? Recognition of diversity is one of the pillars of this Constitution (s. 13).

When I read the sections on non-discrimination which is essentially a theme that runs through various provisions, and which specifically in s. 37 applies to individuals as well as the State; I am reminded of a number of recent articles spewing vitriolic against gay people. One of them branded gay people as agents of the devil's infiltration into this Christian nation. Again I ask, is it a Christian only nation? And does that render anyone who is different or a non-adherent to Christianity, not part of the 'we' or 'people'?

I read the provisions guaranteeing social security and wonder if those employers out there, even of domestic workers (of which most of us are), consider our employees as deserving of an economic safety net - NSSF will only cost you 10% more. Consumer rights leave me wondering if those greedy (in my experience) shop owners will care about providing me with quality goods and services, and compensation for any loss and injury caused by defects thereof.

Are WE, the people really ready for a new Constitution? And moreover one that requires us to change our mindsets and attitudes towards each other? Does the new non-discrimination provision mean that the next time I go to Java, the waitress will not give my change back to my white guest? Or that I, as a single woman, can have a drink alone in a pub without being considered of ill repute? Are WE, the people, a good lot or a bad lot?

I look at the Constitution of a stable democracy like Botswana. It is fairly basic and not as well elaborated as that of their more illustrious neighbour to the South. Calls from citizens for its review have not been heeded, yet in spite of and despite this, they have succeeded in not making a mess of their country as we have ours. Does it say something about the people and their values and attitudes towards each other, or about their Constitution?

So we have a new Constitution elaborating in over 300 provisions on everything from citizenship to rights to land to governance systems to public service and finance to National Security... So what? Will WE, the people have the courage and wisdom to truly uphold, respect and defend it?

How to catch and keep a cash cow

2009-08-31T16:11:00.021+03:00

Sorry sisters, this isn't another of those handy how-to-bag-a-millionaire articles (note the use of the word COW); it's more of a how not to get bagged yourself (which is infinitely more useful). People say that with changing times, women are becoming more independent, earning higher salaries, etc. But I look at certain people of our parents' generation and I know that this is not a modern day phenomenon. It's just a certain type of man!

Now don't get me wrong, I am most certainly not dumping on house husbands. In fact, I would like one myself. The kind of man who is honest about himself and what he is, great with the kids, accountable and diligent with my money, truthful and thoughtful... (no, no, not the Easter Bunny). I would happily feed and clothe him for the rest of my life.

What I certainly can't stand is the lying, cheating, thieving milkers of this world. The guy who pretends to be self-sufficient except you never quite see his money or the effects of it. Instead he wastes a lot of your money on nothingness. They assume a certain standard of living on your tab. They are sweet talkers and love to talk big financially. They pretend to be employed with your hard-earned sweat going towards maintaining this farce. This is the kind of man you need to run away from, far and fast.

They target women who are comfortable and independent, and who are acutely aware of the loud ticking (more like thumping) of their bio clocks. That, coupled with the possibility that they might have finally received that 'blessing' they have been waiting for all their lives in the form of Mr Knight in silvery armour (which he probably bought with your money), makes for the degree of guillability that is just right for the milking leaches to attach and entrench themselves.

If you are lucky, you will discover them under your skin before they have done too much damage to your finances or your sanity.

How to tell if you are a cash cow:

Your salary which used to be sufficient suddenly does not last till end month: remember one and one make two, not half!
Your savings are depleted on: a. another hair-brained scheme; b. his needy/dying relatives; c. his financial obligations; d. his demanding lifestyle; e. all of the above.
He never gives you breathing room. This is the best way in which he controls the information you receive and ensures he always has the upper hand. Remember, if you feel smothered, you are!
He gives vague responses like "I've taken care of that, honey!"
His stories always have loopholes and you can never really pin him down on any one thing. If you push too hard or ask too many questions, he plays the guilt card and accuses you of lack of trust which is essential for any/your relationship.
You sometimes doubt your own sanity cause you could have sworn....

Some tips for milkers

Do...

milk her everyday in every sense of the word
tell her ad nauseum just how beautiful she is and how much you love her
be worth your salt in the sack or she won't give you the time of day
propose immediately and get her pregnant as quickly as you can
be a convincing liar

Don't...

bring your other girlfriends to the house when she is away/travelling. Work hard to hide your infidelities.Thats the one thing she won't stand for
eat too much money too soon. Wait until the ring is on her finger before showing your true colours.

Evolving Standards of Decency…??

2009-08-26T11:03:00.009+03:00

On my flight back home I couldn't sleep and so I decided to put on some old country music which I hadn't heard in a while... which is probably why I really listened this time round. I was shocked at my realisation that the tunes I familiarly hummed, actually described egregious acts, many of which would incur criminal prosecution in present day.

Lucille is actually about desertion, starvation of children and commercial sex work. Coward of the County talks about rape, assault, grievous bodily harm, and extols the need for violence. The Gambler is on addiction and alcoholism.

I had to wonder if I'd let my kids listen to this music. I mean I delete rap music off my podpod for far fewer offences... like the continued reference to a female dog. And then I had another thought... would I be so trigger happy on the delete button if they used the "female dog" euphemism instead of the more graphic b*tch? Though one must admit that the tunes would not be quite as catchy with: "...yo! yo! female dog..."

Then I had to question my commitment to free speech and expression. Music has always been a means with which to express things that mere words did not do justice to. It has been a means by which to reflect the realities of society.

I look at the list above and I think that the reason why the words come easily to me is because the actions are still very present in the world around me today. Little has changed for the better since Kenny Rodgers took us down that road... so much for the myth of evolving standards of decency!!

Najivunia Kuwa Mkenya...

2009-02-26T03:22:00.002+03:00

Oops! I think I missed my cue. That's the part when I was supposed to stand up and be counted wearing my biggest best smile, my Kenya t-shirt and patriotically waving a Kenyan flag... Right?! Right after I finish with the immigration official who's looking at my passport under a purple flourescent light. Good Lord! As if I don't already get enough of that nonsense when I get to Europe.

Out of necessity I bear the humiliation of being treated like a criminal before I've committed any crime in those other lands, but back home?? By my own??

I think these immigration officials have amnesia about where their bread is buttered. Last I checked, I was the one paying taxes... Blueband galore! Unless of course, there has since been an arrangement I don't know about (which wouldn't be news for Kenya) where the Europeans are making a special contribution to immigration officials salaries. If not then they should spare me the indignity while I am still on home soil to gather my strength for the tons I'll be facing out there.

...and before I can jivunia again, let me first finish filling my Kenyan landing card. I am still trying to figure out what I should put under "reason for entry" - home? Life? The day I'll stop having to give reasons for coming home, will be the day I start believing that I can be anything more than a third class citizen in my own country.

My name is Achieng…

2009-01-09T21:10:00.000+03:00

So this is me standing before the gathered AA-type group confessing to my addiction: “Hi everyone, my name is Achieng and I am a workaholic”. How else can I explain the flow of relief and delight when I finally opened my e-mails today after nearly a month of post-op recovery. No, I’m not out of the woods yet, but checking my mails made me feel like a million dollars, like I could conquer the world (or just Israel will do for now).

I did the customary head-titled-backhand-on-forehead sign of agony while saying, “oh my gosh, 400 unread emails”, while I waited for the page to load. Meanwhile, I was doing the subconscious somebody-missed-me-while-I-was-gone jig. I then mentally embraced each e-mail like a long lost friend. The so-slow-it-could-be-moving-backwards dial-up connection did not allow me to do much more than read a few select e-mails before bumping me off, but I am entirely grateful for those few precious moments back in the world of intellectual thought.

Just this morning I tear-illy confessed to my mum just how much I was missing it all… being there, being part of it… wait a sec! Am I actually talking about work? Now that I think about it, could be I’m just suffering from too much bad tv!!

Nabbed by my Underwire

2008-11-14T08:45:00.005+03:00

Once again, my underwire was the cause for mass attention and embarrassment. For the uninitiated, underwire is the metal thingamajig on the lower part of the bra that props "them" up against gravities extra special pull. The choice in bras my size is really between satiny lacy underwires and crisscross grannies - I tried the grannies for a while cause I just hated the way the wire starts to poke out after a while right into your side, but then vanity took over.

Now I am back to hating underwires but for entirely new reasons - the attention me and "them" get at airports. Addis in particular. They set their human scanners so high that my underwire sets them off. First time it happened, I frustratingly walked back and forth through the scanner several times stripping down to less and less - my jacket, my belt, my shoes, my bracelet, my watch, my earrings, my ring, even my spectacles - with security officials looking increasingly suspicious. Finally after it became rather evident that I couldn't very well strip down much more in public, they applied the hand held scanner to me which beeped furiously at my bust. So I had all the security officials and passengers staring at "them". Poor girls couldn't duck or shrivel with the all the attention - at least not with underwire in place. I calmly bore the humiliation of having the security officer grope my chest trying to figure out the cause of my beeping.

This time I preempted the inevitable by loudly announcing that it was my bra that was the cause of my beeping and that they should just get on with the hand held scanner biznez. This at least had the effect of having people turn away in embarrassment and unable to witness the grope. But I still wasn't saved the stripping rigmarole. I guess it would otherwise be quite boring to be a security officer at Addis airport or any airport for that matter. Hmmm... I wonder if voyeuristic tendencies is one of the qualifying traits for getting that job?!

ICC IS PLASTER NOT PANACEA

2008-10-29T17:42:00.001+03:00

I keep hearing people say “wakikataa, tutawapeleka kwa ICC” [if they refuse, we will take them to the ICC]. The International Criminal Court or ICC has become in Kenya, the symbol of the daddy you go to when mummy doesn’t take action against the errant brother. I think we Kenyans need to be more realistic about our options and expectations.

Let’s for one moment take stock of this ICC that we are so keen to peg our entire Country’s history and future on. After ten years of existence and several millions of dollars, the five year old (in service) prosecutor has brought one case to Court which ended up being bungled. There are only four situations under investigation and one still in waiting, interestingly enough, all in Africa, i.e:

Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC)
Darfur, Sudan
Northern Uganda
Central African Republic (CAR), and
Côte d’Ivoire

DRC was the site of the bungled case. Need I say more? Despite the situation in Sudan having being referred to the ICC in March 2005, more than three (3) years later, the ICC still has not managed to even arrest the persons they have charged, and continue to be denounced by the Government of Sudan as “absolutely nonsensical” and portraying “moral and professional bankruptcy”. A situation not helped by the probably ill-advised indictment of the Sudanese president. In Northern Uganda, the arrest warrants against three members of the LRA are all that stand between communities which have been facing two decades of conflict and their ability to leave the poverty and wretchedness of the squalid camps they have been living in and return home. And even if you might be tempted to argue that justice needed to be done in order to curb impunity, you would have to seriously rethink your notions of justice, particularly if you were the one explaining to the communities, why the UPDF (government army) isn’t receiving its fair share of arrest warrants. The official ICC position is that the crimes committed by the UPDF do not meet “the stringent gravity test” which is needed to ensure that the ICC only goes after the most serious of criminals.

CAR referred a case to the ICC in April 2006, but it was not until May 2007 that the ICC decided to open an investigation there. Côte d’Ivoire, despite having accepted the jurisdiction of the Court in April 2003 over violence which erupted in the Country in the politically instigated conflict in 2002, is still waiting for the ICC to make a pronouncement. The ICC is yet to send an assessment team on whose report the prosecutor would then make a decision about whether or not to initiate an investigation.

So then, where does that leave us? I will repeat - we Kenyans need to be more realistic about our options and expectations. Even if the ICC does take up our mantle, the ICC is merely a plaster, band-aid! It is not a panacea. It will not solve any of the problems that got us here in the first place. Yes, there were lots of bad things that happened to mostly good people just trying to get by, and there needs to be a reckoning. I believe that it was opportunists making worse of an already bad situation. For that, they most certainly need to be held to account, but at what cost and to whom?

I am not purporting to have any answers or solutions. But I am cautioning against the perception of a one stop shop solution. There will have to be a lot of give and take, compromises made and hard choices. Which is why we wananchi need to take back the power and change the discourse which has now become about politicians. This is not about them, it is about us. Whatever decisions are made, we are the ones going to have to live with the consequences. An expensive special tribunal, a plush 5-star cell in the Hague, an encounter in Kamiti or a stay on prosecution, will hit us hard in our already stretched pockets (diverted revenue) or our appeased or outraged senses of justice. There are still many victims of the violence that continue to be re-victimised over and over again. They should be the ones deciding what is most important to them. Politicians are not the ones who should be holding talks, wananchi are!

A Day in the Life of a Single Girl

2008-07-19T10:50:00.001+03:00

I had one of those days at the end of which I want to belt out the lyrics of Chaka Khan/Whitney Houston’s “I’m Every Woman, It’s All in Me”!

I’ve had a full day at the office complete with handover notes (I am going on leave tomorrow), minutes of my last meeting with the Governor and contingency plans should the sky decide to fall while I am away; with in between charming humorous conversations with workmates, relationship advice to a lovelorn girlfriend, birthday wishes to ex-classmates and sorting out my travel and admin leave arrangements.

After just finalising my shortlist and raison d’être for recruitments in my team, I dashed home to make mashed potato (we have a cook but he doesn’t do mash) and interesting conversation with my housemates about life and world politics. Skirting the dishes, I went up to pack a suitcase I was filling with all the “I don’t needs” to take to leave at home. I finished just in time for the pick up by the vehicle I had ordered, to take me to a girlfriend’s place for some wine, gossip and office talk.

When I got back home, I somehow still had energy to cook a rather delicious (if I might say so myself) chicken/pineapple/coconut stew and pasta salad for the ladies pot luck lunch at the office tomorrow (my flight leaves after lunch).

As I write this, standing at the kitchen counter looking up at the washed and neatly stacked cooking utensils and clean surfaces, I’m smiling and humming the “it’s all in meeeeeee…..” part. I really have been every woman today… well every single woman. I wonder if there had been a ‘he’ in my bed tonight… would he have been disappointed? Hmmmm…

The first thing we do, let's kill all the 'lecturers'...

2008-05-19T20:36:00.003+03:00

I never thought I'd say this, but having sat through a whole day of induction training lecturers, I am convinced - even when I dig deep down into my human-rightsy-tree-hugging psyche, I am still convinced - that the person who said that knowledge should be imparted through long tedious lectures, should be taken out and shot!!

Don't training *'lecturers' know that after 10 minutes of droning half the audience is lost and at 20 minutes only the die hard most ambitious participants are still on the 'same page'? I keep awake by looking around the room and laughing (inside) at those who have succumbed to the anaesthetic droning and are spotting glazed looks or slowly slipping off the hand supporting their heads or in extreme cases their chairs.

And who on earth created the myth that somehow pacing the room or showing pictures and words across a powerpoint screen will detract from the infinite boredom of a single droning voice? The absolute worst is when the pictures in the presentation are stretched or skewed into distortion... when the point-out-the-sleeper game gets boring, I spend time turning my head from side to side trying to figure out what the distortions could possibly be. It certainly doesn't help if the 'lecturer' keeps pacing infront of the screen!

The fact that these particular trainers did not take into consideration that they were doing an induction for people who'd already been in the mission for many months meant that we were having to listen to many things we already knew. The purpose of training, particularly on-the-job training is to equip workers with information that would assist them to better perform their duties. In order to achieve that purpose the training should be adaptable to the changing needs and abilities of the participants. Moreover, adult training should take cognisance of the fact that we are adults and in more need of guidance than spoon-feeding. Some things must be imparted by lecture but the thumb rule is to stick to 10 minutes and 15 at the top most. The more complex the subject the shorter the lecture should be. The same and probably more effective results can be reached through quizes, roleplays, Q & As and other more interactive methods.. at least that is the law according to Achieng!

*This opinion does not apply to classrooms or lectures in institutions of learning and I mean no disrespect to dear friends and colleagues who are accomplished in those areas. Its scope is meant to apply only to training. I am a firm believer in things being suited to particular times and places. The method of lecturing does have its value when utilised appropriately!

The Corkscrew

2008-05-05T13:28:00.007+03:00

Today, I bought a corkscrew, the most expensive corkscrew I’ve ever bought in my life. Why? Two reasons really. One, the only shop I could find that had one was an expensive designer kitchen shop. I probably could have found one easier by asking but I’ve always found it hard to ask especially because I often do not get the answers I want to hear and so end up doing things the hard way. The only thing I credit myself with is the ability to accept that there were probably better or easier ways of achieving the same result and not justifying my way as the best and only way. I try hard to resist my human nature to justify my actions by completely discrediting those of others. And then of course there is my penchant for always doing things the hard way… what can I say? If there are two ways up the mountain I would be most likely to chose the most difficult. Freud would probably say my fear of things done with ease has more to do with a deep distrust of my abilities, and then again, maybe he wouldn’t…

But Freud was not the second reason I bought the corkscrew, which had little to do with the metaphysical, and more to do with the very real bottle of wine sitting on the desk in my hotel room. As we waited at the airport on arrival for our luggage to appear on the carrousel, my interest was peaked by a nearby duty free shop and seeing others from my flight loading up on alcohol I too indulged in a box of chocolates and a nice bottle of South African red. Intending to treat myself to a tub soak with chocolates, wine and a good book, you can imagine my disappointment when room service informed me that they had no corkscrew in the entire hotel. Learning just after I’d bought the corkscrew that the hotel used to have its own disco, I realise that I probably should have pushed further, but my usual response to a negative answer is to slink back into the darkness from whence I came. Try as I might I cannot fight the urge to start my questions with an apologetic prefix, like “sorry to ask, but..”, “sorry to bother you, but…”. I must acknowledge that my brother is responsible for my first realisation about my difficulties with asking, but it hadn’t really been a point of awareness until now.

Now for the best part – armed with my new expensive trophy I got back to my room and immediately reached for this bottle of wine I had been staring fondly at since I arrived. I reached for the new shiny corkscrew and paused only to read the inscriptions on the cap which said: “twist to open”… I did and voila! No corkscrew was required after all. What was that I said about doing things the hard way? Sometimes I feel quite like my life is like that. I’ve determined that I do not have the proper tools to enjoy the contents of the bottle of wine that is my life, when all along I have exactly what I need right before me. All I need is the wisdom to see it and the courage to grab on to it!

Heli horror...???

2008-05-03T22:06:00.004+03:00

I had my first helicopter ride today. I can now happily cross it off my 'things to do before I die' list. I can tell you, it certainly wasn't like they show in the movies. The noise was deafening and I was grateful for the mufflers even though they were sweaty in an icky kind of way and moved whenever I turned my head causing a squeeshy sound of air squeezing past my skin. I always thought a heli took off upwards but we had some runway time. I guess to get away from all the obstacles. This heli was an old russian one, different and much larger than the ones on tv, complete with signs in Russian all over the interior and poor English translations. The one on the window next to my seat which I spent a lot of time looking out of, said "seats for medical personals"... I'm guessing that they intended to stack the seats with a bunch of personal medical histories? The one on the window across from me said "survival kit" conjuring up images of 'Lost' (I couldn't bring myself to imagine the flesh-eating Andes stories).

The scenary was the best part of the ride. Since the heli couldn't go as high as an aeroplane there was lots to see. I tried to write but probably the altitude made the ink from my pen leak in corpious amounts. In danger of drowning in blue ink, there was nothing more to do but stare at the scenary or doze off for the three and half hours it took. The worst part was the cold. The non-pressurised cabin did nothing for us against the freezing altitudes. We came from a sweltering 32 degrees C to a freezing 5 degrees (it must have been) in under an hour and spent the next two plus hours trying hard not to think about the cold.

Although the heli was large, all five of us were squeezed in two benches up front, since the rest contained large crates of the equipment being transported back and forth - which were the reasons why we were in the heli in the first place. New and old equipment needed to change hands between our station and HQ. They therefore commissioned a helicopter which can support much more weight, and some smart alec had the bright idea of saving pennies by sending us all back with the cargo.

Since the flights for free anyway and I haven't yet become enough of an institutional 'creature' to complain about free rides, I decided to think of it more as an adventure than torment. In my part of the world, you'd have to fork out a fortune to go on a heli ride. So forgive me for thinking: "I wore the wrong shoes for this privilege! I should have won my knee-high boots instead!!!"

Honour your mother and father…

2008-02-22T00:40:00.001+03:00

…it is said, so that your days on this earth may be long… or some such like thing. I checked my Oxford dictionary – it’s never really mattered what it actually means to honour, because I have always known instinctively what to and what not to do to ensure that I never crossed that line. But now I find myself in doubt and in a quandary, fundamentally disagreeing with my darling mum about, of all things, a job.

Try as I might to make it trivial, it isn’t. This is really important to my mum, so important in fact, that she completely refuses to talk about it, be a part of it, or engage with it in any way. Meanwhile I can see from her face and hear from her sighs how much I’m breaking her heart by going ahead to do what I want to do, against her wishes.

So my guilt-laden lawyerly schooled mind went back to the basics of definition, in a last ditch effort to assuage my conscience for this disaffection. My dictionary unfortunately doesn’t come to my rescue. It lists ‘high respect’, ‘adherence to what is right or a conventional standard of conduct’ and ‘magnanimity’ as some of the meanings of this heavy word of honour. What I could have done with is a one on one with God to find out if this ‘honour’ means I must pay obeisance to her every wish. Surely this cannot be.

So again my lawyerly skills come to the fore prompting me to apply a basic reasonability test. But I can’t do that because she won’t even discuss it with me, I don’t know if her refusal to give me her blessing is based on instinct, fear, logic, a combination of all three or more… I can’t dissect it and so I can’t determine if it is reasonable.

My spiritual self has me wondering if perhaps there is a hidden cosmic warning in her refusal that I’m arguing away with my head and not listening to with the necessary acuity. After all, my mum has always given me unwaveringly support in every major decision in my life and this would be the first time she refused to. Could this mean that my days on this earth will be incredibly shorter? Even if this were the case, I’d say, I’ve lived a good life. I’ve loved some really good people and if this is the way it is meant to end, then so be it. The most I can pray for is that in the end, my life and not my death, meant something to someone.

Kenya's woes did not begin this year

2008-02-15T13:52:00.004+03:00

You know you read about and watch people burning other people in churches and houses and hacking each other to death and you can’t believe that this is the Kenya we call our own. It’s funny how after such stories have been replayed over and over again in the media, people who’ve known you for a long time scrutinise you a little more closely almost as if they can tell if one day you won’t be the one hacking them to death.

I’ve always felt for my Rwandan colleagues as you see a light of recognition light up each time they introduce themselves as being Rwandan, followed by the inevitable Hutu-Tutsi question. But I never could have imagined how bad it could actually feel, and how much tragic death and atrocity is a great conversation starter… blood and gore seems to whet human appetite just as much as sex, I guess. No wonder movie-makers have minted millions from combining the two.

Anyway, I’ve completely strayed from the purpose of this writing. Which is to toss in my two sense worth of considered opinion along with all the other analyses and opinions out there. For me, at the root of it all is the fact that we have become a society so easily able to dehumanise each other. In Botswana, they have a rather complex concept of ‘botho’ (similar to South Africa’s ubuntu) embodying many things, but fundamentally, the recognition of the human-ness in each and every person. In Kenya, we are a nation without botho and this is the costly price we have to pay for it.

I had a lovely evening with my mum last night where we sat and talked for hours mostly reminiscing about our life in Kenya, growing up, surviving... My mum was telling me how sometimes she would be without a single cent in her pocket with three kids to feed and clothe and school. How she, a whole doctor, at one time head of her department at the National Hospital was forced to repeatedly brave the worst of Kenya’s matatus in order to ensure we never bared the brunt of life’s inequities. I'm sure there are many mothers who could share similar stories.

Anyway we reminisced on about the matatu days, when the touts packed people in like sardines, forcing upon women and men the indignity of having a total stranger’s body literally glued to yours from all sides and sometimes between your legs. We recalled how the touts would ensure there was no air between passengers by pushing onto the other passengers and squeezing another body into any available crevice so that the entire mass of bodies moved as one with each twist and turn of the driver’s reckless dash mostly on pavements and panya routes, in an attempt to outsmart the traffic. And if you had the misfortune of having been pushed in front of the blaring speaker, it was left only to God to have mercy on you. The music was on so loud the entire matatu vibrated to the beat of the song. She said that on days she had the misfortune of being in front of the speaker she would emerge from the matatu disorientated.

I in turn shared stories about how I fell flat on my face because the driver did not have the decency to come to a complete stop, so I stepped out of it and the ground shifted. I also told her of how I once alighted from a matatu in my bra and panty when, after forcing my way out elbows first and feet on other feet because any stepping space had been filled by the tout, one of the rivets down the front of my dress hooked onto someone or someone’s something pulling all the rest open and leaving me standing outside the matatu with only my sleeves on and the rest of my dress still inside. To make matters worse, the driver started to drive off. Needless to say it was the last time I wore that particular dress to town.

What more could I do? It wasn’t as if there was a place I could go to to complain or protest. There wasn’t a place anyone could go to to complain or protest the daily indignity and degradation in matatus. The tout’s word was law. He could haul you out of the vehicle, harass you, abuse you and double the fare from one minute to the next and you just had to bear it because you needed to get home. And even if you chose not to bear it, what really could you do and where really could you go?

Do you remember the way the Police would go around town at night arresting people from discos and making them walk round town all night. Police, plainclothes police, special branch and other security forces could arbitrarily stop you, arrest you, search you, abuse you, beat you, torture you, throw you off a building… do just about anything to you with little recourse to justice. My recent experience travelling from Kampala to Nairobi by bus indicated that little has changed, perhaps only in degree, but the Police continue to freely employ the same old tactics of harassment and abuse to get you to pay a bribe.

That juxtaposed against the ubiquitous insecurity - you never know from one day to the next whether you’ll still be alive or be gunned down by a carjacker. Or beaten to a pulp or indeed have your head cut off by a marauding gang of terrorising thugs or get caught in a police shoot out with the latest bunch of bank robbers. Having lived in Botswana where thuggery incidents are still few enough to make headlines, I’m generally considered to be a security risk in Nairobi because I’m not alert enough.

People keep saying Kenya was such a peaceful country, but was it really? Can you call it peace when you have no joie de vivre, no food or physical security? Even if we take peace in its most stringent definition as the absence of armed conflict, I would say we’ve lost as many people to the ills of poverty, crime and disease as if there’d been gun-totting monsters on our streets. Needless to say, there were gun-totting monsters on our streets.

One difference we happed on between Kenya today and Botswana was that in Botswana, wherever you go you repeatedly greet the people you find there, right from the gardener at the gate to the cleaner by the door. I used to find it quite tiresome until my previous boss explained it to me. You might go inside and find the office locked or the receptionist out to lunch forcing you to come back and ask for help from the person you snobbed by the gate/door. And (the reason I like most) it’s a simple recognition that you’ve come into contact with another human being.

What really does a ‘hello’ cost you? In Kenya it costs me looks of suspicion and grumbling. I am so used to the habit, I inevitably find myself greeting shopkeepers before asking for my wares, a practice they clearly find unnerving. They glare at me as if I’m about to pull a con or rob them of their hard earned money. There was a time I could walk along the streets of Nairobi and never fail to smile or be smiled at by complete strangers simply because they looked like someone I once knew or vice versa. What kind of a country have we become if we find it so hard to recognise the humanity in each other?

I say, one that can unflinchingly hack a neighbour’s arm off. That exacerbated by the hardships and indignity of poverty and injustice. Can you really not imagine how the people who form the human train to industrial area from ungodly morning hours or those who dodge flying toilets in the night, could have become hardened and indifferent to cries of misery and hope/helplessness?

Kenyans, it is my humble opinion, have faced many many years of systematic degradation, indignity and dehumanisation. My examples are merely illustrative and I would leave it to those more adept at historical research to trace a clear line of the progression of this to the point where we are now, where we view our neighbours as the enemy, as less than human, thus making us capable of inflicting the worst.

As things got progressively worse in Kenya, people’s circle of care got progressively smaller. When life is so hard, you need to focus your attention on those who absolutely matter. This means that out of necessity you have to lock away that part of you that imagines anyone beyond those in your immediate concern, as having any feelings, nerve endings or dignity. How else could you throw your shit out of your window and not care where it lands? How else could you turn you eyes indignantly away from the hungry, tattered, smudged street faces of little children? How else could you swish past the obvious poverty in your luxury vehicle? How else could you grab large tracts of land when so many have none?

It’s easy to blame the politicians and their hunger for power, but we are all part of a system that has created what Kenya is today. For me, Kenya has always been a fuse waiting to be ignited and that’s all this election did.

Yes, we all want peace, but peace doesn’t lie in the hands of any one politician or in the conclusion of closed door discussions with a UN diplomat. He can only help to lay foundations but the real bulk of the work will have to be done once he is gone. The root causes of the violence will have to be addressed as a matter of priority if we are never to have it happen again.

Of buds and buddies

2008-02-14T21:16:00.016+03:00

A male (because it’s important) friend of mine recently did something to me which definitely falls under “unforgiveable” in my friendship ledger. He has said he will apologise but I suspect he wants to do it the guy way of inviting me out for a drink, patting me on the back and saying “sorry, I f**ked up!”

I want him to do it the chic way of sending me flowers, notes, e-mails and texts all begging for my forgiveness because he can’t imagine what he’d do without me in his life, until I capitulate and agree to forgive his folly – okay that’s more like the Achieng way, but why not? After all, my back doesn’t feel very pat-able right now, I don’t want a drink and I can’t even punch him to help make me feel better.

But I guess on this auspicious occasion of the one day a year we get to celebrate love and all the good things it brings to our lives, a gift of forgiveness is not out of place. So I will forgive my sorry ass of a lousy friend… there! I can’t give a physical punch but nobody said anything about a verbal one. Actually I feel a little better and can better enjoy yesterday’s leftovers for today’s lunch.

I made a rather delightful meal for my mum yesterday, also in honour of this auspicious day. I’m even feeling better enough to want to share this mouth-watering recipe so here it is: tantalise your loved one(s) with this easy bud-sizzling recipe this valentines. After all what says “I love you” more than a delicious home cooked meal? Okay, okay, forget I asked!

Ingredients:

Chicken pieces – 6 to 8

Streaky bacon – 1 packet

Rosemary (preferably fresh but dried will do where fresh not available)

Thyme (preferably fresh but dried will do where fresh not available)

Parsley (dried)

Garlic (powder or crushed)

Coriander powder – 1 to 2 teaspoons

Salt

Pepper

Grated cheese

Dry red wine – 150mls

Method:

Mix together the garlic, rosemary, thyme, parsley, coriander powder and add salt and pepper to taste. Use a bit of the wine to make into a paste. Smear the paste onto each chicken piece before wrapping it with bacon strips.

Place in baking dish in oven and cook on 200˚C for an hour or until cooked (cooking time may vary), making sure to turn once midway through cooking. Once cooked, pour remaining wine over the roasted chicken pieces and sprinkle grated cheese on top. Bake for an additional 10 minutes. Serve while hot.

NB: Quantities of rosemary, thyme and garlic depend on individual taste preferences but 2-3 teaspoons of fresh or 1 teaspoon of dried herb is recommended and 1-2 teaspoons of crushed garlic. Feel free to vary ingredients and quantities depending on personal taste and preference.

Over the Hill...

2008-01-06T08:27:00.001+03:00

You know I’ve been wondering if I am, trying to console myself that I was just starting to climb the hill… but now I know for sure, I’m right over the peak. What brought about this Eureka? Well I was at a party last night filled with sweet somethings near sixteen. An old family friend’s son was getting married and I was invited to the wedding and party. I admit, I only made it for the party… and a great party it was… right up until I went for a refill and found these sweet somethings harassing the bar person for some shots, and this barely legal girl to my right turned to me and said “come on auntie, have a tequila”. Took me a while to register the ‘auntie’ and only because she kept repeating it over and over… yup! Definitely Oooooover the hill. I’m now a qualified ‘auntie’ and my chic/chickydee days are a silent whisper of the past. But as is my human nature, I sought to prove this sweet nothing ignorant and naïve and took to the dance floor like duck to water. You should have seen me go, reminiscent of my sweet something or the rather days. You should have heard the conversation I had later, in the lonely comfort of my room, with my knees and back which was, to say the least, enlightening.

But like I said, it was a great party! It was one of those hook-up or drink-till-you-die parties. The food was good, the booze was flowing and did I mention free? The entertainment was free too, in the form of social human interactions. As I sat in the corner living out my auntie legacy while trying to floss on the sly, my claws came out (I haven’t sharpened them in a while) and enabled me to see: speedy Gonzalez consistently dancing in advance to the next song causing much angst to his date who insisted on giving him fruitless dance lessons. And Miss long legs who stringed Mr young and eager along then ditched him for Mr older looking player. Mr player then ditched Miss long legs for bigger boobs in the form of the-one-who-called-me-auntie. But player missed out on the real prize Miss Boobs who certainly took the biscuit in that department and hang out (in nature’s cosmic balance) with young and eager… until of course her two-bid, cheapskate boyfriend pitched up – complete with cheap chain linked from his back to front pocket and the I-so-do-not-know-what-to-do-with-this-wow!-chic-and-it-shows aura. Then there was Mr Reactive and Mr Proactive who got the number of the chic Reactive had been courting half the night.

No great party would be complete without the guy who gets drunk enough to hit on the other guy’s wife; or without the theft… yes, they, whomever they profess themselves to be made off with my mobile phone. It was old and coming apart with several cracks in places, but we’d come a long way together… I’ll miss all the numbers it stored for me… sniff! sniff!

Disaster doesn't last that long!

2007-10-05T13:20:00.000+03:00

So I learned or rather I realised something this morning: Disaster doesn't last THAAT long! At least not in the mind.

A week or so ago, I was appalled at how my kitty looked after I took her for spaying. I looked at her this morning and was amazed at the complete lack of that shake and guilt-ridden shudder I'd been feeling ever since I brought her back from the vet. She's getting better, her stitches are out and her hair is starting to grow back so the gash doesn't look so nasty. And she looks infinitely brighter... or is it just my human capacity to absorb? She still looks bad, but because she doesn't look quite as bad, she doesn't shock me anymore. The initial shock has numbed me and has altered, even if subconsciously, my shock-a-metre.

Is that how the world has become? That we are so used to death and violence, that if it isn't a whole village getting massacred in a bloodied gory fest, then it's "not that bad"? Unless the key gasping words of 'genocide' and 'crimes against humanity' are uttered, then its okay? We simply shake our heads and get on with the business of living? Hugh loves to say that its about time African's became angry about what is happening on this continent. We have become much too complacent, and that "if you are not jealous of your freedom, they will take it away from you when you are asleep; and when you wake up the next morning, you will find yourself where you were before you were free!”

We watch, read or hear the news and we shake our heads, silently thanking God that it's happening somewhere else, to somebody else. And we go on, like the proverbial frog, you know?! They say that if you put a frog into hot water it jumps right out but that if you put it into a pot of cold water and heat it up slowly, the frog will just keep adjusting... we just keep adjusting! We need to stop adjusting and get outraged! We need to re-adjust our shock-a-metres back to the level where we cry when when we see our real and biblical neighbour crying! Where we wail and moan as loud as we can because the bereaved has no strength or voice to wail him/herself. Where we are pushed to say "Enough! No more!"

For now, my heart goes out to all those who are facing disasters, natural and man-made, because I realised this morning, as I looked at my kitty, that disaster doesn't last that long! At least not in the mind!

Is Ok really OKAY?

2007-09-20T11:47:00.000+03:00

So I took my pouchy doupchy kitty cat to the vet the other day. Only after having her and her four (4) kittens eat me out of house and home did I get round to doing what I should have done seven (7) months ago – had her spayed! It really was more ignorance than reluctance – I thought cats couldn’t get pregnant until they were adults which I thought only happens after they turn one (1). I only realised my folly when kitty started to thicken around the waist four (4) months too early.

Anyway, I left her at the vets for the procedure and went to pick her up yesterday. When I called the vet prior to getting there he had assured me that “everything is okay” – his precise words. Which he repeated before I took possession of my kittle-doop’s cage. You can only imagine my horror when I got home and took her out of her cage and she had this NASTY stitched gash at the side of her tumtum or when I put her on the ground and she began to hobble (cause she couldn’t walk) backwards in circles! Actually in reverse!

I am not sure if it was good sense or the fear of looking totally stupid that kept me from driving back to the vets and cuffing him while he explained exactly what it was he had done to my kittle-doop! My lesson for the day being “is ok really OKAY?” When the vet said “everything is ok”, what exactly did he mean by ok? I don’t think my kitty is ok. My housemate doesn’t think so either judging by her horrified gasp when she saw kitty!

I recently had an interesting job offer in a place someone said to me was “ok”! I wonder just what he meant!

Breakfast with Hugh

2007-09-11T16:54:00.000+03:00

Yes, that would be Hugh Masekela, the jazz legend, maestro, musical genius... oh, I forgot, he hates labels.. as he said on the radio interview we went to together - yes, I am Hugh Rampolo Masekela, all the rest of that is your additions. Humble, kind, gentle... if I sound like a Hugh advert right now, that's probably because I admire the man much more now than I did before I had the opportunity to interact with him.

Where you ask? SADC Summit in Zambia, Lusaka to be precise. We brought Hugh to play at a solidarity concert for Darfur to coincide with the Summit. The tough bit about being organiser is that you don't get to pose for photos with Hugh or grab autographs until the very last minute (I got mine at the airport when he was leaving). I mean you don't want to be the one hassling him instead of protecting him from the throngs of fans. I still did however manage an autograph and a somewhat off-focus picture. As if to deliberately awe me even further his autograph read:

Dear Achieng,

Thank you for your friendship, generosity and goodwill, you are the engine of our voyage. May the gods of Africa smile on all your dreams.

Love, learn & teach

Affectionately,

Hugh Masekela

It's just the thing he would say. I am not sure which thrilled me more, sitting across from Hugh at breakfast watching him make faces at this three (3) year-old darling of a girl who responded in rib-cracking chuckles which brought her to her knees; or the progue before the concert - a harmony of singing, chanting and dancing that leaves you practically and metaphorically breatheless! I really don't do the entire experience justice in this short note. I don't think I'd be able to adequately reflect what I observed, felt, thought... being around Hugh and the individual members of his band, even if I did write a book about it.

Khaya with his trumpet (which got him most offended - my calling it a trumpet - as I reminded him, I am a lay person), Fana with his... ahem! and of course his guitar and his face when we dared to suggest he'd got his flights wrong and wouldn't be seeing his family that day! Oh my! Thank God we were wrong. And Sweet, sweet Sello who gave me his Hugh Masekela t-shirt, Freddy whose birthday we had the privilege to share, Francis with his percussion drums and his charm that could melt the entire arctic circle, John with his amazing smile and Eugene who is much too young to be doing what he is doing (I saw his passport, he doesn't just look it), Arthur on the keyboards! It's so funny how different everyone looks on stage when you've met them in person, you stand there thinking, "oh my! I didn't know he could do that!" Okay, I think it's time for me to admit: I was a groupie in my previous life!

Lending my 'voice' to Zimbabwe

2007-07-16T12:40:00.000+03:00

It makes me so angry every time I hear people hailing Mugabe as some sort of African hero. There is nothing African about him and I see no trace of our any of our cultures and values in him. If he is what this continent stands for then woe unto us all. He is a tyrant and the colour of his skin does not exempt him from being named for what he is.

It is such propagators perpetually pitching Zimbabwe as a racist white and black problem, that make it so very hard to find a resolution to the woes of that country. When will people wake up and smell the roses? I worked in Botswana for a bit before and a good part after Zim’s woes began. Throughout that time, I never did see a white Zimbabwe suffering the effects of the political policies and machinations of this regime. In fact, the only stories I read about white Zimbabweans were that they had been granted citizenship in the UK and given land for farming in Mozambique where they had been welcomed with open arms. I do not mean to diminish the hurt, loss and in some instances death, experienced by some, but not in a scale that could be compared to the amount of suffering I saw of our black Zimbabwean brothers and sisters epitomised by the pitiful dehumanisation and exploitation of a desperate people!

The heartrending stories you’d hear from people coming to Botswana seeking relief, as it was (still is) easier to get into Botswana than South Africa who promptly closed her borders with stringent visa requirements. The tales one read and heard of the hundreds of thousands of Zimbabwean brothers and sisters engaged in odd jobs and trading in flesh, crafts and anything that could be sold, sleeping in half built houses with little protection from the elements and predators, human or otherwise, praying each day that they’d succeed in keeping away from Botswana authorities. I heard from the woman who risked life and limb to cross into Botswana, shelter at night in half built houses, just so she can make her P100 ($20) to buy essential groceries and medicines to take to her children and ailing parents. I nearly cried when she told me about the dehumanisation of not being able to buy sanitary pads in Zimbabwe, even if she had her P100, they were just not available and neither was bread or oil. From the woman who begged me to clean my house, wash my clothes, cut my grass, lick my shoe, any small thing so she could get some food for the baby on her back and her one meal for the day.

Then there was the story of the Zimbabwean man who got shot in the foot – the military on patrol said that they shot him because he was trying to flee, but their military must be such well-trained sharpshooters to have shot the foot of a man fleeing in the opposite direction, in the dark. Or the story of the two women whose were lured off with the promise of work, permits and wages, but once arrived at their so-called benefactors house, found conditions of slavery where they were locked in the house and not allowed to leave, their passports confiscated, worked tirelessly for long hours, never received pay, slept on the cold hard floor and despite cooking for the family were forced to share the dogs’ food. Of course once they came public with their story they were promptly deported, nothing every happening to the woman who had so dehumanised them. But then the prevailing attitude had little condemnation for what she did, only pity for the women, but not enough to actually do something about it. After all, they were Zimbabwean.

In all this time, since 2000, Mugabe has done his worst, to his own and it is downright unconscionable and a betrayal of our Zimbabwean brothers and sisters for people to continue to laud such atrocity. Every dictator has his sycophantic minions who will paint the rosiest picture and consistently provide tons of misinformation. I read an article recently that said that since Lonrho a UK company was increasing its investment in Zimbabwe it meant that the Country was flourishing and that reports in the media of the situation in Zimbabwe was a misinformation of the ‘West’. It was very disappointing for me that the author had forgotten that there is always great profit where there is no rule of law and that an increase in investment was not a sign of progress, but simple a sign that there is money to be made from people’s suffering, poverty and humiliation. There always is, look at every conflict on the continent and tell me if foreign investments never thrived even in civil wars. South Africa did try to get some of those multinationals to give back some of what they made out of the suffering of apartheid.

I was in Zimbabwe in 1999. It was a beautiful country with beautiful, open and kind people, thankfully, the people haven’t changed. At the time Zim was competing with South Africa for regional and economic superiority, a competition played out quite nicely in Botswana markets. We drank milk from Zimbabwe, ate their cheese and yogurt, especially when South Africa had its foot and mouth problem. We cooked with oil and vegetables from Zimbabwe. It was hard and sad to see it fall and fall so hard. So much so that the Zim dollars I kept with intention of going back the following year, were worth next to nothing by then. Mugabe embarked on a policy of deliberately impoverishing and disempowering his people as well as dismantling the governance structures like the judiciary and the constitution that were an obstacle to his hold on power. His worst, for me was his infamous operation murambatsvina which was a move to do nothing more than clear disgruntled citizens from the cities into rural areas where his people had tighter controls. How can you ‘clean up’ your own people as if they were garbage? Is this the man people hail in the name of African-ness?

None of the multitudes of casual labourers or ‘piece job’ people as they were commonly known in Botswana, I spoke to had anything good to say about Mugabe. Not because they were opposition supporters or because they thought white people were the best thing since toast bread (not that they’d have the privilege of using such an analogy), but because he destroyed their country, their economy, their livelihoods, their education, their families, their beliefs and everything that the Great Zimbabwe stood for. There was a man contracted to dig holes behind our house who had a degree in Business Administration. Before he dug those holes he was working as an unskilled labourer in a construction site nearby, ferrying the sand and cement. Yes, he had a well paying job before but now had to keep his family from starving. We had great conversations about world politics before the police picked him up. There was another boy who was in form one when his father was killed by so-called war veterans or was it Zanu PF youth, he wasn’t quite sure. He became the breadwinner at fourteen. There are just not enough people who cared enough to make much of an impact, but those of us who did, did what we could. Who was it who said that to judge a society, you need only to look at its most vulnerable; they bear the brunt of it all.

Yes, the North (or West as it is more popularly called) is two-faced. Yes, they have inconsistent policies and positions when it comes to the global South. Yes, there is neo-imperialism and you can spot a crooked Northern hand in many situations on the Continent, but if our African leaders are doing nothing to curb it and are in fact perpetuating our suffering, then what hope do we the African peoples have. What happens to our aspirations? What happens to our dreams for a better tomorrow? It’s like saying it is not okay for my neighbour to burn my house but that somehow it is okay for me to burn it with all my children inside and nobody should say nothing, about it. But who cares what my neighbour says or thinks, it is after all, my house and I am the one with a responsibility to my children - not to burn them!

And I thought it couldn't get worse...

2007-01-12T11:17:00.000+03:00

My source of disconnect? I finally figured it out – my chi (for those who didn’t read Chinua Achebe, it’s a personal God) has gone on vacation or on strike. I suspect she is on strike. She must have started with a go-slow and when I didn’t notice or respond, she just took off. If I needed any convincing of her absence, my mango-juice-puke filled morning should be evidence enough. How is it that I am the one who got to sit next to the sick puky kid?

The way I woke up should have been a clear indication that my day was going to be a chi-less day. I woke up with a severe attack of hives and a dry itchy sore throat that felt quite like someone was welding something in all night. As I contemplated what manner of plague had befallen me and for what reason, I heard the loud ‘pang!’ of the metal saucepan lid. Two seconds later it hit me that that must have been the sound of my little kitty stealing food from the kitchen – not good! So I got up and dashed to the kitchen, but she was long gone from the scene of the crime. Worse still, I didn’t and still don’t have any clue as to what to do about it, to curb this bad behaviour before it gets out of hand.

Anyway, as I stood in the kitchen the God-awful stench of cat urine wafted gently towards me. Those who’ve had cats as pets can feel me on this one. “Wow! A litter box that needs changing? How much worse could my day get?” I thought. Little did I know! So off I go in search of dry non-grainy sand/soil. Come back quite pleased with myself and refreshed from the crisp air outside. I decide then that the hives could just be an allergic reaction to an insect (or a couple of hundred of them) sting and not a bout of some unpronounceable medical condition, and that I should therefore clear out my beddings just in case. Off I whip my duvet and hear the dull thud of a meaty bone on the ground. That *&^%^$#$% of a kitty brought a stolen bone to bed with us. I admit to a moment of extreme weakness when I wanted to send her back to wherever it is my roommate got her from and demand another Christmas present. But then I took a deep breath and the moment passed.

Sore weldy throat, kitty troubles and hives… and all before I even get to work! What a morning! But I must admit, the puky kid took the biscuit. I was one of the first ones to get into the matatu (public transport). There were lots of seats, but God (or maybe my chi) only knows why I chose that one. As matatu fills, mama comes in with crying baby. I think “poor child… who doesn’t look so well”. So mama tries to comfort baby who only seems to be whelping even louder in steady competition with the blaring radio. Eventually, seemingly reluctantly, mama pulls out a 250ml box of mango juice and hands it to baby who exchanges the tears for the straw. Slurp! Slurp! Slurp! Goes baby and Slurp! Slurp! Slurp! Some more. And I’m thinking that maybe that’s enough slurping for the moment. I mean 250mls is quite a bit of juice. So baby is quiet, everything seems peachy (or mango-ey) and I can hear the radio again – not that I was paying much attention to the Luganda language station but it was a good distraction trying to figure out what they must be talking about. Then all hell breaks loose with a tiny little cough from baby. Which develops into a much bigger cough and several successive ones. I can see mama shielding baby’s mouth and I wonder why. That should have been my cue to take cover. No sooner had the thought occurred in my mind than the yellow, sticky, slimy mango puke came bolting out of baby’s mouth. Have you ever seen puked mango juice? Trust me, you are better off not having done so. I can’t get it out of my mind.

Anyway, what could I do except sit there and watch in horror. There was nowhere to run to, I was at the end seat of a moving vehicle. Mama pulled out a bed sheet and before I could even think that that was a bit much, there was loads and loads more coming out from where the one before came from. Baby just kept coughing and puking and coughing and puking till there was nothing left to puke. I felt so very sorry. I thought that maybe poor baby’s chi was on vacation with mine at the chi-city beach resort. Though it looked much like his chi had been on a rather very long vacation and had decided not to come back.

Eventually we got to my stop and I got off, mango puke and all. I am quite embarrassed to admit that the biggest worry of my bigoted hypochondriacy self was not how I must smell and look, but what I might have caught from the poor child. His cough did quite sound whoopy and considering my achy throat and steadily developing flu symptoms, I am like a germ magnet!

Chiengy Chi where are you? Now would be a really good time to be getting back, don’t you think?

Universal discord

2007-01-10T13:48:00.000+03:00

Today is one of those days when I feel a particular disjoint in the world around me. Much like the mythical beings in Ben Okri’s Famished Road, who have noses on their foreheads. The universe just seems to be out of harmony, like a clock with a loose or missing spring… and worse still I can’t quite put my finger on the reason for this feeling. I’m not sure if it is in the politics – like when I look around and see the state of the roads and the hunger in people’s faces and then look the other way and see the glaring headlines announcing 60 million car packages for MPs. Or maybe it’s just that unsettling feeling of changes in the workplace, things not quite right with friends, or the fear of consequences from a questionable action… or a combination of all these. Normally I feel I am right where I should be doing exactly what I should be, but today…sigh! Something is clearly amiss. I feel out of balance and you know how important balance is to a Libra.

My dear friend who's steadily growing very famous on my blog, recently told me that at times like these I should pray and give it all up to God to iron out, to work out the chinks - I think I might just do that!

Everyone matters

2006-10-25T10:52:00.000+03:00

My very profound friend, sent me a very profound message last night. We were discussing by sms, the people who love us and those who just plain misunderstand us. I was of the opinion that there was still a good handful who did in fact know and love us for who we are and that those were the only people who mattered. In his infinite wisdom he retorted thus:

"Everyone matters. We can't only do business with people that like or agree with us. We're often made better humans by learning lessons from those that have no need to like or agree with us and make it clear they don't. Such people hold our feet to the fire and challenge us to work hard to become better human beings."

Why the World Needs a Superman

2006-10-13T14:45:00.000+03:00

You don’t have to watch the news twice to appreciate why the world so very badly needs an extra-strong, gravity-defying, one man or woman army, who eschews the principles of justice and truth, and delivers the bad guys all neatly wrapped direct to the prison centers. Just imagine what s/he could do for Darfur/Sudan, Nigeria, Zimbabwe, DR Congo, Cote d'Ivoire, Afghanistan, Iraq, Lebanon, Palestine… the list is endless.

Unfortunately, the tragic reality of our world today is that s/he would be so overworked and underpaid, that her/his health wouldn’t account for much and might even end up with a nervous breakdown. If s/he was African, half her/his constituents would be dying of disease or starvation, another quarter would be in conflict or detention for having stood up for something, with most of them living on less than a dollar a day. Her/his leaders would want him silenced, dead or alive and her/his relatives would probably want to cash in on her/his superhero status in the never-ending rat race for the quick buck. The bad guys with mega-bucks would be buying their way out of the prison system or obtaining presidential reprieves to keep themselves out. It is likely that our gravity-defying superhero or heroine would him/herself be offered vast incentives to look the other way or killed off if s/he refused. If s/he was in a Country with the ingeniousness of some of our African leaders, s/he would be charged with treason to keep her/him too busy minding her/his personal court and prison affairs to be bothered minding those of her/his calling.

Yes, a dire thought indeed! But it would be inimical to the cause to have me talk of superheroes without mentioning the real living and breathing ones we already have on the Continent. Ordinary people without gravity-defying antics, who make themselves extraordinary by dedicating their lives and times to the continued pursuit of peace and justice. Who, through their perseverance and undying unwavering commitment to the cause, keep battling ahead despite and in spite of repeated persecution for what they do. Many of these people are unsung heroes and heroines. We do not see them on BBC or CNN, they don’t make movies about them or grant them Nobel prizes. Often nobody knows their names outside the circles of people who continually benefit from their dedication and hard work… sometimes not even those…

It is these faceless, nameless, tireless, relentless supermen and superwomen, without whom this world would be so much more unbearable, that I honour in this note.

I salute you all, wherever you are, in the hopes that you will keep up the good fight!

Aluta continua!

Kids Learn What They Live With

2006-08-13T15:12:00.001+03:00

I was having my hair braided the other day. I was travelling and as usual, left it to the last minute. So I had to opt for the fast track – which basically entailed me squeezing my eyes and other unmentionables shut to keep me from crying and peeing, while five (5) women tagged at my head from every direction. It reached a point I couldn’t bare to consciously keep track of who was pulling what – the price we pay for beauty!!! Though for the unmanageable crop on my scalp for which I blame my father entirely, it’s more of a necessity than pure aesthetics… but that is a story for another time.

In between the plaits when I could let go of my eyes (and nothing else), I would catch glimpses of the daughters of one of my plaiters. Soon they became my point of focussed distraction. I watched the two girls shuffle back and forth through the salon in between directed foreign language (to me) instructions from their mother – harsh, commanding, chastising tons to the older girl not a day above 5 years; and cooing, calming, lovey ones to the younger 1½ -year old. It didn’t take a genius or translator to figure out most of them based on the 5-year old’s reactions, which varied between instant action, scared downcast glances towards her mother and silent defiant anger whenever her attempts at an explanation were shouted down.

What I admired most about her was the way she relished each task cast her way, from carrying her little sister to keep her from crying, to mopping the floor decorated with food from hands not quite used to directing it into the mouth. Even the eagerness with which she sang her sister to sleep or repeatedly fed her with bread upon motherly commands which were emitted as soon as a whelp arose from the little one. Though I suspected from the smell that the crying had more to do with a need for changing than hunger; but the bread was a pacifier and it was working to keep baby quiet while mama worked. As I watched the rotund child, I wondered what it would mean for her in the future, if she was learning this early to calm all ills with food.

I also wondered what sort of lessons Beryl*, the 5-year old was learning. They say children learn what they live with. Was the constant yelling and haranguing teaching her that she could never do anything right? Or was it building her character as claimed by her mother? For a moment I thought she had heard my silent thoughts but it was in response to another plaiter who had disapprovingly asked if she was going to pay Beryl for mopping the floor. “I’m teaching her, she’s the only first born I’ve got!”. “Sure,” I thought, “except, what exactly are you teaching her?”

Two hours later, the fast track option paid off (though I’m not sure I’d ever do it again) and they let go of my head, with a friendly little jiggle from Mama Beryl who had the privilege of plaiting the last braid. Several times during the plaiting it occurred to me to insist that she let go of my head and attend to the girls, but I wondered how that would affect her share in the proceeds. My concern for the girls could be defeated if she missed out on a share which would probably go towards a meal or two for them. The additional thought that I was not qualified to inform anyone’s parenting skills, helped keep my mouth shut.

When I was leaving, Beryl had curled in the corner on a mat as if a precursor to sleep, amusing herself with songs learned… in school perhaps? The little one seeing her sister so enjoying her stance, in true sibling fashion, made a beeline for where her sister lay and let out a complaining whelp. This was immediately followed by a harsh command from mama who seemed to always have one eye on the girls. Beryl quickly jumped up to let her sister lie down, after which she covered her with a towel. My last image of Beryl was her playfully hitting and chastising her sister for throwing off the towel which was covering her. “So that’s what she’s learning,” I thought as I walked away.

*Not her real name.

Slokering Slokiness!!

2006-07-10T10:50:00.000+03:00

Is what I'd call my not blogging as often as I should. A friend of mine, after our rather harrowing trip to Banjul (the Gambia) a week ago, developed a new vocabulary: "sloking" - the equivalent of "zubaring" in Kenyan slang or "indolence" in legalese (my two immediate points of reference). If you were sleeping and missed your flight, we'd say you were "sloking". If you missed the very funny joke, we'd say you "sloked". Very similar to "sleki-ed" another Kenyan slang word. But honestly speaking, given our experience with Slok Air, a Gambian based airline, we could be forgiven for coming up with a whole new dictionary.

Like "slokerred" to describe that feeling of utter astonishment to discover that a confirmed ticket does not equate to a confirmed flight. That flights are provided solely at the discretion of the airline staff. I can just imagine the conversation would be something along the lines of:

"Hey Bob, do you want to slok this morning? We sold a couple of tickets."
Bob the Pilot: "Nah not really, I haven't had breakfast yet! I think I'll just slok out at home today."
"But what about the passengers who were nutter or desperate enough to buy tickets for the flight?"
Bob: "Oh don't worry, they'll sort themselves out when they get to the airport. If they are really angry, just ignore them."

Or how about "slokerring" for when you do something absurd, like the safety demonstration in French only when coming from a non-French speaking Country. Or maybe "sloker-punch" for the elbow that hits you in the haste for sitting on a first come, first served basis. Or "slok-air" for the emptines of your stomach from the lack of even a sweet from the airline, which by the way was two (2) hours late. And this was the replacement flight for the 8.30am flight that never was. So technically we'd been waiting for the flight for eleven (11) hours of which four (4) were spent in the most unfriendly, hot, humid and toilet-flavoured transit lounge I've ever been to. Or maybe "slok-air" would better describe the apology we never got.

Try "slok-eyed" for the look of envy exacerbated by my dry throat, that I gave to the business class passengers behind the porous curtain, who did get a snack and drink. Or "slok-attack" - I am not quite sure which of the two deserves this title - the vicious mosquitoes or the vicious way the air-hostess tells you that you can't use the overhead baggage compartment because "that one is reserved for business class passengers", of which they had none at the time. Besides, if it was so reserved, they shouldn't have put half of it in economy!

I could think of so many more slokky things to say about the airline which by the way, tries to dignify itself with the use of the term "international".... gosh! Such slokiness!! Thank God my slokerred ride to Dakar was only 25 minutes long. Slokerring delight to those who dare to go to Connakry or even Abidjan. For me, thank God I'm done with this slokerring mess of an airline. Blessed blissful touchdown!

Valentines

2006-02-14T11:38:00.000+03:00

Just when I was getting caught up in the Valentines' Day fever and was lamenting my lack of anyone to get all feverish with, I received the most interesting sms from a good friend. Okay, I was right first time round - good things are worth waiting for!!! His message said:

"Beware of Valentines more likely to leg it than they are to agree or pledge that love is entirely unglamorous. [Love] is sharing entrails and their contents, insecurities, vulnerabilities, cramps, painful periods (pun intended), headaches, difficulties, hurts, crassness, (and my all time favourite) figure-altering bodily fluids; and, for those who are gluttons for punishment, lots of wrinkles and teeth lost to the march of time..."

Well how about that!!!

Dying to Mingle...?

2005-11-28T11:31:00.000+03:00

To use an age-old jingle – “I’m 31 and single and dying to mingle”… if only to get the pressure of my back. If I hear one more snide remark about marriage and children or my lack of them, I think I will just puke. What brought this on? You got it! - another snide remark, this time from a maternity nurse who happily reminded me that she would be available for me once… and ended her sentence by suggestively tapping an imaginary distended tummy. My mind’s reply was “you mean when I have severe kwashiorkor?” Outwardly though, I pulled my mouth into the widest smile I could conjure in a brave effort to accord her due respect as my mother’s peer, as a well brought up African girl should.

So what now? I’m only worthy if I have managed to snag and snare some guy down the aisle and/or given him offspring for free? I have a master’s degree and I like to think that I am pretty well into my career. No one can tell me that that accounts for nothing. I’ve worked mighty darn hard to get where I am today. So why should I be made to feel like I’m missing two front teeth? Even if I was, I’m sure my smile would still be beautiful. Point is, I am complete on my own. Marriage and children do not define me. I know that. But how do I get the society I live in to know that too? Short of being just downright rude and aggressive - cause that’s where I’m off to next in shame of all my mother’s breeding and grooming.

Thank goodness my mum doesn’t have the ‘itch’. She doesn’t bug me about it and I suspect that it is not really because she believes I am complete as I am. Deep down inside I know she’d loooove to be guest of honour at my wedding and frolic with her grandkids via me, but I think she knows better than to rush a good thing. In this day and age when one can very well die while trying to mingle, it doesn’t hurt to take one’s time to do it right.

Green

2005-06-09T01:40:00.000+03:00

Green, new, fresher with no clue what's expected of me. I've heard one or two people talk about Blogs but I didn't think it was for me. However, a friend sent me a link to a blog which was on a topic I really wanted to comment about. In order to post my comment I had to get a blog account. So here I am... and keen to make the best out it...

What to write about? Ohhhhh!! Now my fingers are itching. There is so much I have wanted to write about but never had the time or the inclination to have it published, or even the opportunity I guess... hmmm... let's see, relationships... blase, uhmm... men... don't get me started... travel... nah! Maybe it would make sense to write my first article on what influenced my blog title: human rights. Yeah, you figured, I am one of those go-shout-my-lungs-out about human rights - often the object of derision. If I could have a dollar (a US one) for all the times I have been verbally attacked about human rights, I could virtually quit my day job (and go into singing which is what I've always wanted to do ;O). I once was asked "what's human rights in your mother tongue?" How on earth would I know? But then I don't know what sustainable agriculture is in my mother-tongue either. That doesn't mean it doesn't exist in traditional societies. Crop rotation and multi-cropping (e.g. growing maize and beans together) are practiced in many traditional societies but certainly not called that. The same applies to human rights, simply because there is no term for human rights in my mother tongue doesn't mean the concept or practice does not exist in many traditional societies.

The common rhetoric that human rights is a 'western' concept always has me growling with rage. Have people so bought into the 'primitivity' of African culture that they are unwilling to accept that basic tenets of human dignity and respect for humanity existed in our societies? I find this inconceivable. While western societies are moving towards adopting concepts like restorative justice from our traditional practices, we are moving towards perfecting the barbaric ones they long abandoned like corporal punishment and the death penalty. I'm at a loss on how to reconcile these trends. We are so quick to throw away what is ours and good in exchange for the illusory greener (than me) grass on the other side. Our Leaders in government are quick to raise their voices against the injustices of slavery and colonialism and very slow to acknowledge their own injustices against their own people. They are happy to scribe wonderful documents with lovely ideals about meeting the 'aspirations of the African peoples', but not very eager to follow or implement them. They are keen to claim an African renaissance but not willing to restore the values and traditions of the African culture which require them to be accountable and democratic.

Yet, who, if not them, will meet the aspirations of the African peoples... The developed world has no interest in our aspirations. After all, "Africa's place in the global community is defined by the fact that the continent is an indispensable resource base that has served all humanity for many centuries…" (SARPN) who would want to let go of that? And besides, who will be left to look down upon and feel sorry for? Who's starving children will they watch on TV while shaking their heads as they reach for tomato sauce and who's interest will they earn in never-ending debt repayments? If the world will do nothing, if our leaders will do nothing, then maybe we can do something. Maybe, we, the people, can make the change. But it has to come from inside. How can we demand values and principles from our leaders which we are not willing to impose on ourselves? If our own children have no space to speak in our houses, how then can we legitimately demand space to speak? How do you expect our children to allow such space when they become tomorrow's leaders? Its the little things... Its the way we interact at work, at home... its our mindsets. That's what enslaves us most of all. If we want human rights, we must do human rights.

I am constantly enthralled by the definition of 'botho', a Botswana version of the South African 'ubuntu'. Botho inculcates human dignity and is defined to mean "the concept of a well-rounded character, who...realises his or her full potential both as an individual and as part of the community to which he or she belongs". Ain't that something? Now for all the critics who don't think much of traditional African culture and practices, and are quick to list all the bad things about it, no doubt, a lot of the cultural rites and rituals left over tend to be harmful. Unfortunately, because we had oral traditions, colonisation broke the chain and few traditional practices were passed down. As is human nature, we tend to adopt only the aspects of it which justify the evil things we do. But we use religion for the same purpose anyway, so in that sense African culture is not unique. However, there are values and tenets in our culture which are good and useful and which have trickled down despite the interruption. Some can be even be inferred from existing rites and historical accounts. The long and short of it is, my humble belief that human rights is more a part of us that we would like to acknowledge. I would argue that they've been a part of we Africans longer than most religions have. Yet we do not embrace them with the same fervour. Paradoxically, they are the way out of our cyclic poverty and violence.

So there! I have said it. I hope I am now brave enough to refer all my critics here and maybe give them some hope... (that I am not looney ;O))

Charity begins at home

2005-06-08T20:01:00.000+03:00

Before I've even given my first message a chance to be read, to see if I'm doing it right or not, here comes a second message. This one inspired by an article sent to me by a good friend who is constantly sending me useful information, I am much to lazy to dig up for myself (yes, that is a sheepish look of shame on my face :o).

Anyway, I've attached the article below which is a New York Times article (the article is long to read so I'll just restrict my comment to one issue) hailing (Kenyan) Minister Ngilu for establishing nationwide health insurance. A move which must be acknowledged for its sheer bravery in the line of fire. It would be unfair if I did not applaud the perserverance and strength of will on the part of our Minister.

However, (oh come on don't groan so loudly), I have never believed that any means justifies even very good ends. No pun intended when I use the old age adage that 'charity begins at home'. She talks about the lack of a connection between policy and people, "total disconnect between policy and people", to quote her directly, but where does that start? In exactly what she did, lack of consultation! Consultation is a core component of the kind of participatory democracy to which Kenya aspires. This is an illustration of my point in blog 1, that if we want human rights, we need to do human rights... this is what it boils down (or up) to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

June 4, 2005
In Kenya, a Woman Called Charity Takes On the Establishment
By HELENE COOPER, NAIROBI

The rich world is searching for ways to help Africa. At the meeting of industrialized countries in July, there will be pronouncements about how to funnel money to Africans beset by poverty, disease and wars. There will be talk about modalities, measurements and criteria, and how to bypass corrupt officials and get help to where it's needed.

What the rich world should be talking about is how to give money to Charity Kaluki Ngilu. One year ago, Mrs. Ngilu, the Kenyan minister of health, was visiting a rural hospital when a woman outside stopped her. The woman held in her arms her son, 9 years old, sick with swamp fever from bad drinking water. The unconscious boy was covered in blood boils. The mother had brought him to the hospital but had no money, so the doctor refused to treat him. On most days, her story would end there: the boy would die, like thousands of other children who die every day in Africa of preventable and treatable diseases. But luck was with her. After confirming with the rural hospital's sole doctor that he indeed had turned the boy away because of money, an angry Mrs. Ngilu put the boy and his mother into the ministry car, ordering the driver to take them to the large regional hospital two hours away. "I held the boy in my arms," Mrs. Ngilu recalled. "His blood was all over me." That night, the health minister boarded a small plane back to Nairobi. The plane flew into a storm, buffeted by high winds. Convinced that everyone aboard would die, the passengers started talking about what they would do differently in their lives if they lived. Mrs. Ngilu said: "I would want to die knowing that I changed something. That while I was health minister, I actually changed things."

Two days after the plane landed safely, Mrs. Ngilu made an announcement that took the entire government, including the president, by surprise, since she had not bothered to consult anyone. Kenya, she said, would offer health insurance to every Kenyan. Across the country, a firestorm erupted. President Mwai Kibaki asked her to withdraw her pledge, Mrs. Ngilu said. She refused. Members of the cabal of ministers who backed the president clashed publicly with Mrs. Ngilu, as did much of the local business lobby, who fretted they would be forced to provide health insurance for their workers. The complaints were justified: how in the world could a country like Kenya provide universal health insurance when 56 percent of the population lives below the poverty line? Some nine million people are so poor they can't even afford food every day. Mrs. Ngilu pressed on. Appearing in villages, she urged people to demand care when they showed up at their rural hospitals. "Just defy them," she said. "Don't wait until you die. Carry your voter card and demand that they treat your children."

Clearly, much of this is bluster. Hospitals can't provide what they don't have. But Mrs. Ngilu wanted to establish the principle that hospitals should never turn away dying children. She also wanted her country's government to accept responsibility for a service that voters had not realized they could demand until then. Mrs. Ngilu was able to get her bill passed by Kenya's Parliament. All that's needed now is the money. Donors have shied away from financing ambitious projects in African countries where the government is corrupt.

The Kenyan government is far from perfect. President Kibaki, who took office amid high hopes after the disastrous reign of Daniel arap Moi, has squandered much of that good will, among both the Kenyan people and the international community. There is reason to worry that if the government got enough money to drastically expand grass-roots hospital service, much of it could be misused. But Africa will never overcome poverty if the developed world waits until every country is corruption-free. When a government is unreliable, donors should find ways to concentrate on specific departments that are well run, like Mrs. Ngilu's. The health minister is a leader of the reformist wing of Mr. Kibaki's cabinet, and is one of his strongest critics. "My own government went wrong a long time ago," she said. "Every time I see my colleagues I get angry. There is a total disconnect between policy and people."

Donors can also protect their money by demanding measurable improvements. They can track how their money is being spent, from hiring more nurses and doctors to training community workers to go door to door and talk to villagers about using condoms and about using treated bed nets to prevent malaria. And they can make the money contingent on specific government behavior. Born in the village of Mbooni in rural Kenya, Mrs. Ngilu was one of 13 children. She helped her mother haul buckets of water on her back every morning, while her father, a preacher, traveled. What disturbs her, she said, is that life is worse in rural villages today than it was back then. On the road, she encounters hundreds of families where both parents have died of AIDS and 13-year-old girls are left to raise their brothers and sisters. Some 1.5 million Kenyans have died of AIDS, and another two million are infected with H.I.V. She said she had not been invited to the Group of 8 summit in Scotland. "If they invite me," she said, "I will go and tell them that the obituary pages of our newspapers are filled with pictures of young people."

Copyright 2005 The New York Times Company