THE KENYAN INITIATION - HELL IN A CELL

Forget circumcision. Forget the removal of six lower teeth. Forget the fancy body tattoos. Heck, forget killing a lion. In Kenya, a man is not a man until he has spent a night in a Police cell. Ask me, I have been there. Nothing in this world prepares you for adulthood more thoroughly than a night in a Kenyan Police Cell.

Not that I ever saw it coming. But then again, neither do the thousands of others who also have a certificate of initiation courtesy of Utumishi kwa wote like me. Raise the topic in any group of hobnobbing Kenyans. Chances are that four out five have had a brush-up with the cops, and probably two of them ended up jumping into the dreaded Mahindras in the 90s, Lorries or Land Cruiser pick-ups of the latter years, and eventually spent a night that could be well be the theme of a proper Riverwood script.
Speaking of Mahindras, they must have been one of Baba Moi's biggest practical jokes on Kenyans. Now, I was not old enough to be a police target when they were in operation, but I understand that the The Indian Version of the Jeep was so slow a suspect on foot could actually outpace police cops driving one! That might be an exaggeration, but they weren't the fastest or most efficient of police-vehicles. I do remember the Mahindras being as noisy as a posho-mill, meaning criminals could actually hear police approaching from a mile away, giving them more than ample time to take off. In the present world, Mahindras would be the cross-breed of a Probox and a Tuk Tuk- Ugly as hell and durable as Sandak.

But that is a story for another day. When I was ferried to a cop station to be a guest of the state, it wasn't via a Mahindra or a Maria. It was via a Datsun 120Y, owned by the then OCS of Oyugis Police Station. The events that followed would leave me with a permanent emotional scar, but which I now carry proudly as the badge of a most unconventional initiation into Kenyan adulthood.

It was one evening in Oyugis town. I was spending my post-KCSE and pre-college days as an actor, with a group called YOFAK. Youths Fighting AIDS in Kenya. Ours was a noble cause, doing HIV-AIDS-related theatrical pieces to attract crowds, and then our sister organization, the good people of Tuvumiliane Senta, would give real-life testimonies about their lives as people living with AIDS. We were agents of behaviour change. I believed in this cause so much that I walked 8 kilometers thrice a week from my Gamba Village to Oyugis town, where we did our rehearsals ahead of weekend performances.
After rehearsals I'd normally take a matatu back home, since it's an up-hill journey back. Our Village is virtually part of Kisii Highlands and the landscape is very good for practicing marathoners, not actors.

So, one such evening after rehearsals, I walked to the bus-stage and boarded a mat. At that time they were the face-me-propers. You know, those ones that have passengers seated on two rows either side, you sitting while facing a passenger opposite, literally forcing you to look into that face which could be unfriendly, callous, ogling at your cleavage (if you are a woman) or which has saliva vaporing from the side of the mouth. When the mat moves, the passenger next to you is likely to outstretch a hand to hold onto the metal rail in the middle for balance, exposing an armpit as bushy as Maasai Mara in the rainy season and consequently unbottling an odour that would make Dandora Dumpsite smell like Galito's.

So I boarded this mat, which happened to be the last for the day. It was already full. But you surely remember the matatu golden rule of the Pre-Michuki rules- matatu haijai. I sat on the edge of one seat, the driver unleashed the hand gear, pressed the accelerator, then made an emergency brake. The force squeezed all passengers towards the front and voila! There was space for one more! I fit in snugly.
A few men climbed up the body. Satisfied that we were overloaded enough, the conductor whistled. It was time to head home.

But wait. One more potential passenger happened by. It was an elderly woman, in her mid-seventies probably, trudging along with the help of a walking stick. Obviously we had to make space for her. Now, African tradition demands that young people show respect to the elders, and that includes giving up your seat. I happened to be the youngest passenger seated, and from the corner of my eye I spotted several pairs of eyes giving me that "simama mama akae" look. The woman also looked up at me imploringly. I did not need any other cue. I alighted.
" Ero kamano nyakwara, nyasaye biro gwedhi," she muttered in Luo. It means "thank you, my grandchild, God will bless you,". And with that I climbed up the body and perched myself with the luggage and passengers on top.

How I wish God heard her prayers immediately. I wouldn't be writing this now. But things did go differently, God was probably in a closed-door session with Agnes Gonxha Bojaxhiu. Don't Wikipedia her, you know her as Mother Theresa.

Up top, I had just turned a sack of sweet potatoes into a seat when I spotted the ubiquitous Datsun 120Y some 100meters away, driving towards us in patrol-mode. Slow But Sure. I knew that was the OCS approaching. And I guessed he wasn't just going to drive by. My first instinct was to jump off the mat and Usain Bolt myself to safety. My second instinct was to jump off the mat and Houdini myself in the shop corridors by the roadside. My third instinct was to pretend I hadn't spotted the Datsun, calmly get off as if I had only gone up to inspect my luggage, and then mingle with the bystanders nearby. I chose the latter.

As I was about to jump down with a semblance of innocence painted all over my face, I saw an out-stretched pair of hands, and a voice spoke to me, "shuka pole pole tu, usiumie, acha nikusaidie".
It was a plain-clothed policeman. About four of them had walked ahead of the Datsun, and surrounded the mat. We were cornered. He duly helped me down, and politely asked me to walk with him to the Datsun. I was in a spin. One second I am headed home, the next I am under arrest.
There were about seven of us atop the matatu. We were all huddled into the pick-up. I looked pityingly at the driver, then at the conductor, who incidentally wasn't arrested. I was hoping against hope that he would follow us to the station and bail us out, or even get arrested on our behalf. He sped off, of course.

On our way to the station, one policeman verbalized a litany of charges they would file against us. Half-dazed, I couldn't hear anything. All I heard was what he said at the very end, "Total fine ten thousand". I had a whopping 100 shillings in my pocket. I knew I was fried.

At the station, we were ushered into the reception, and our names duly written in the occurrence book. One policeman whispered that whoever had two thousand shillings would be set free. Then he said, 'kama hauna bond, toa belt na viatu!"
Two had the money and were set free. Another one negotiated his freedom down to the entire 600 bob he had in his pocket. I was the richest of the four of us who remained behind. 100bob wasn't gonna cut it. I took a glimpse at the crowded, poorly lit men's cell jus behind the OB desk. I could have sworn I saw expectant eyes lighting up at the prospect of 'fresh meat'.
With belt and shoes off, alongside other valuables we had, the cell door cranked open. And the policeman said, "karibuni nyumbani"

I slowly stepped in, one hand holding my loose trousers. Suddenly a repulsive smell hit my nostrils like a wave of Tsunami hitting the poor coastline of Sendai, Japan. I actually nearly fell. It was the smell of decaying human waste, akin to the unattended City Council toilets of old. I took two more steps, and my soles felt something sticky. The entire floor was sticky, and needless to say, they were not breadcrumbs on the floor.

There was hardly space to manoeuvre. I thought I'd sit next to the cell door for fresh air. Then a booming voice commanded us, "Ingieni huko ndani bwana! Mamono hukaa karibu na choo.".
I looked in the direction of the voice. It was a solidly-built, mean-looking unkempt ruffian, pointing towards the darkest corner of the cell. We did not argue, and made our way there, amidst warnings from the seated cell-mates, "mad inyona, ibiro yie", which means step on me at your own risk.

The toilet at the corner that the cell prefect was referring to was actually a black 200 litre water storage container that acted as the urinal and dumper rolled into one. It had no cover, and its sides had those tell-tale marks of its function. My digestive system instantly malfunctioned. There was no chance in hell that I was gonna help myself there, so help me God.
I made sitting space for myself some 2 meters away from the crapper. I could hardly breathe by now. As an asthmatic, my chest started filling up. I was sure I was gonna die. I struggled, I heaved a little. I cant remember how I eventually settled down. But I somehow did.
In a cell, newcomers normally spend the first one or two hours cowering. What with all the stories out there of bullying, beatings and, in some cases, sodomisation. Thankfully in my case, all I did I was introduce myself, my residence, my clan and explain why I was there.

By nightfall all was calm, except for the occasional joke from the regulars. I got to know about a few of them. But I remember two outstanding cases. There was this man who had wounds on his soles. He lay on his back all along, and was the only one with a mattress (once inch) and blanket that had seen better days. He had been there two years, I gathered. He was a murder suspect who's case seemed to drag forever. He was shuttled regularly between Oyugis and Kisii, where the High Court was. He winced every moment someone as much as grazed his soles. He cried that he had been tortured all day to "confess", and demanded for more space get some undisturbed rest in readiness for what he called another day of torture. The prefect saw to that.

The other case was this man who kept talking to an invisible wife and daughter. One minute he would be singing her wife's praise, the next he would be castigating the woman for her inability to maintain the homestead well.
"Ma dhako mofuwo manade, nyaka ne ichak tedo nyuka no pok ochiek? Be ing'eyo ni adenyo?'
Essentially the man was rambling about this woman who was apparently taking too long to serve him porridge. He would then threaten to kill this woman if she didn't pull up her socks. I asked what was wrong with him. A cellmate told me he had indeed murdered his wife and daughter, and then went bonkers after that. His hallucinations were as pitiful as they were funny.

Deep into the night, probably close to midnight, I had adjusted by sheer willpower. I was at home seated among these men, innocent and guilty alike.I couldn't smell the pungent odor anymore- I was part of it. We were a family brought together by justice or lack of it, and as we heard one another's stories, laughed or empathised accordingly. In between conversation, a few men went and helped themselves at the corner. One was a long call. We all behaved as if nothing was happening. The night was becoming bearable. But trust nature to throw a sadistic spanner in the works.

The poor men right next to the makeshift latrine jumped up with a start, shrieking. The bloody tank was leaking, one of them yelled. Their behinds were all wet. They wanted to move. But where were they to go? They were the 'form ones". The cell was full. The best they could do was stand, right there.
Within minutes a quarter of the cell was buzzing. Apparently the effluent had seeped slowly thru the cell unnoticed. I rose a little and felt my behind. It was wet. I cursed and squatted. My ass was so numb I hadn't realized my trouser was absorbing fresh sewage. My calmness left me.
In no time people were shouting at the police woman on duty. We demanded for a new container. Then we asked for a new container. Then we begged for a new container. The police woman simply laughed. Some three cellmates were however relentless, and begged the policewoman to show her motherly side. She coldly reminded us that we she wasn't our mother, and threatened to pour water in the cell if we didn't keep quiet. The three didn't listen.
They were still loud when suddenly, the policewoman appeared by the cell-door with a bucketful of water. Before we could yelp "Oh NO!', she had hurled the contents into the cell! No doubt we all raised our voices in disapproval and anger. She responded by refilling the bucket and splashing the water on us again. She dared us to continue talking. We all shut up, shell-shocked.

Now I was wet not only on ma behind, but half my body, The water also moistened the sticky floor surface. I might have as well been thrown into a latrine altogether. I wondered how I ended up here in the first place. It all came flashing before me. I recalled how I was looking forward to going home. I recalled how I had secured a seat. I recalled the haggard woman who I left the seat for. What was conceivably an innocent act of compassion had rewarded me with my darkest day on earth so far. I felt the huge lump in my throat growing by the second. Tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn't take it anymore, I broke down.
Now, you don't just break down and cry in a cell full of testosterone. You are a man, and such an act could have repercussions. I sat back in the sordid muck, tucked my head between my knees and let the tears flow, heaving uncontrollably while letting out as little sound out as possible.
Fives minute later I relented. Then I looked up. In the partial darkness I caught the fixed gaze of the cellmate seated opposite me. We stared at each other for about ten seconds, then he looked away. I knew he understood.

Tears have such a soothing effect. My entire body relaxed once again. I was at one with my environment once more. Somehow i caught some sleep.

I was woken up sometime later by the mad man in the house. He was hungry, and demanding food from his wife. Some naughty character was convincing him that his porridge was ready a long time ago, all the while pointing to the crapper at the corner. If you are weak hearted, please skip the next two paragraphs. The naughty character then offered the mad man a cup and told him to go ahead and take a sip. At that point I found my voice and shouted, "no!'' Other dissenting voices joined me. But the hungry mad man was convinced that the crapper in the corner was indeed a pot of porridge. He moved there and scooped it. I looked away in disgust. I heard two people urging him on. Many others told him to stop. But no one moved in to stop him. Then I heard the familiar sound of a sip.

I didn't want to look. I felt like vomiting but couldn't bring myself to. I prayed my ears were pulling tricks on me. But then I heard the mad man say,"it is not ripe enough yet.' I knew he had indeed taken a sip of semi-solid human waste.

The rest of the night was largely uneventful. In these surroundings you learn to readjust fast, and by six AM were were ourselves again. Hell, I was hungry! The only thing that was gonna keep me from feeding was if the breakfast was anything close to the descriptions i had heard before on prison food. But when it did arrive at about six thirty, I was pleasantly surprised. It was pretty well-prepared porridge and two slices of buttered bread. I gulped down my share with gusto. The cops on morning shift were kind enough to allow contraband; a few of us even smoked.
After breakfast there was time for one more drama session. The plastic latrine had to be emptied. As is customary, that task is always done by freshmen. One cell-mate pointed at me. I said I'd rather pay them money. It was my lucky day. Two hapless freshmen were then cuffed to the container, which they carried outside and emptied. They then brought it back uncleaned.

By nine, the cell started emptying as friends and relatives bailed us out. I wasn't even sure my people knew. When I was arrested I alerted no one. In the year 2000 mobile phones were as common as Ferraris on Kenyan roads. I could only pray and watch as the cell-door opened and shut repeatedly.

Then at 10AM, my name was called out. I literally flew to the cell-door. Then I saw my grandfather at the OB desk. That familiar lump returned to the throat, but I fought back the tears. He asked whether I was ok, I could only nod. Then the cell-door cranked open again. I was free.
I put my belt and shoes back on. But I couldn't get my 100 shillings back. Suddenly the policeman who kept our money could not be traced. We left my receipt with the OCS and walked away; I couldn't stand the sight of Oyugis Police Station any more.
My mom, who had also come to have me released, explained to me that one of the men who bailed himself out the previous night delivered news of my arrest. You see, in the village, teachers are held in high regard. My mother was a celebrated teacher, and everyone knew her family. I was lucky. I would otherwise have been ferried to Kisii Remand Cells that very morning, a much nastier place to be, she said. I wondered just how nastier it could get.

I got back to the bus stage with mum. This time we found a mat in a hurry to fetch passengers from the village since it was market day in town. we were thus the only passengers, plus a boy. As we sped away, I enjoyed the fresh air beating my nostrils. For a moment I forgot my troubles, until the conductor started hurling insults at the boy.
"unanuka sana kijana, kwani huogangi?'
all the while he cursed and cursed, insisting that the boy smelt like a toilet. Then it hit me, I was the one smelling like a toilet. I confessed, and explained where I was from. The manamba could only say, 'pole sana'. But he couldn't help lifting his nose in all directions looking for the elusive fresh air.

Eventually I got home. The first thing I did was throw the long trouser and underwear into the latrine. Those could not be saved. However, the shirt I was wearing was one of my favorites, and I soaked it. Then I took several bucket-fulls of hot bath.

The smell of that cell would haunt me for months. But I found solace in the words of a friend, who told me after hearing my ordeal,
"Worry not my friend. By spending a night in a police cell, you have finally become a man."

THE PARLIAMENTARY DEBATE THAT NEVER WAS

QUESTIONS BY PRIVATE NOTICE
THREAT BY SPECIAL PROGRAMS MINISTER ESTHER MURUGI TO STRIP NAKED



Mr. Shabeer: Mr Speaker, I beg to ask the Justice Minister the following question by Private Notice.
(a)
Why hasn't the Special Programmes minister been compelled to strip naked as she promised
(b) If she wont do it, why has she not been arrested for giving false information and misleading Kenyans?

Justice Minister Mutula Kilonzo: Mr Speaker, Sir, I beg to reply. As we all know, the honorable Minister For Special programs promised, or threatened if you like, to strip naked if the ICC confirmed criminal charges against Uhuru Kenyatta. Well, the ICC called her bluff and did exactly that. But it has only been a week. I propose we give her one more week to see whether she will come good....

Mr Khalwale: On a point of order, Mr Speaker.

Speaker: What is it, member for Ikolomani?

Mr Khalwale: Is the minister in order to give Esther Special treatment in the house? it is not like the ICC will reverse the decisions.

Mr Khalwale: Order, Mr Khalwale! The ICC may in fact reverse the decisions. The member for Gatundu South has indicated that he will appeal the decision to confirm the charges.

Mr Khalwale: Mr Speaker Sir, to end impunity in this country, Murugi must strip. To teach other loose-mouths in the government a lesson, Murugi must strip. to reassure the public who were misdirected into buying big-screens for the strip-tease without adequate information, Murugi must strip!
Speaker: Order, Member for Ikolomani! Proceed, minister for Justice.


Mr Kilonzo: As I was saying, Murugi should be given one more week to come good, failure to which I will appeal to the President to appoint a tribunal to investigate her conduct.

Health Minister Prof. Anyang' Nyong'o: May I ask what measures the government has put in place to ensure that the health of Kenyans is not compromised if and when the Member for Mathenge decides to strip? Kenyans could get traumatized....

Speaker: Order, honorable minister! You are the minister for Health, and indeed an integral part of the government structure, shouldn't you be asking yourself that question ?

Medical Services Minister Beth Mugo: Mr, speaker, I have put all government ambulances and and clinical officers on standby, should the people of Kenya get shocked by the sight of her nakedness, and in case some Kenyans faint in the process.

Finance Minister Uhuru Kenyatta: My ministry has also dispatched 12.5 million shillings to Murugi's Ministry. As the minister in charge of Special programs, she has initiated an operation-badilisha-wardrobe for her naked stunt. Mr Speaker, we have approved her proposal to overhaul her underwear. She shall replace her old Mothers' Union panties with sexy lingerie, at a cost of 400 000 shillings per g-string.

(applause)

Karua: On a point of order, Mr Speaker.
Speaker: What is it, member for Gichugu?
Karua: Mr Speaker, is the Finance Minister in order to use public funds to overhaul the wardrobe of a Murugi? This is a private affair!

Odhiambo: we also have our privates....
Speaker: Order! Order honorable Millie, you are out of order! Minister for Finance, you may proceed.

Kenyatta: Mr Speaker, the Honorable Murugi is a government minister. she represents the image of the government. therefore, her actions are a direct influence on the government's image and the government must take responsibility and act decisively.

Speaker: Is 12.5 million decisive enough? I though the government would be more sufficiently philanthropic.

Kenyatta: I have also set aside 5 million shillings for the hire of a secure and decent place for her to strip. Mr Speaker, we propose that Murugi conducts her strip-tease in Liddos' Discotheque, to be aired live on KBC. We have also contacted a popular porn website (name withheld) for space...

(uproar)

Speaker: Order! Order honorable Members! Can we please calm down and air our views one by one. Member for Ugenya, what is your problem?

Orengo: Mr Speaker, this is an outrage! ODM was never consulted in this matter. PNU must recognize that we are equal partners in the coalition. This is very disrespectful.

Mr. Musyoka: Will I be in order to ask for funds for round 3 of shuttle diplomacy? The international community needs convincing that this is indeed a noble act and not in any way meant to spite the ICC...

Speaker: Mr Vice President, that will not be in order. You will need to file a motion to ask for funding.

Khalwale: And how did the Finance Minister arrive at the decision to award Liddos the lucrative contract? How was the tendering done? What is the problem with other strip-clubs, for example Apple Bees or Tahiti?

Kajwang: Yes, Mr Speaker, there is no strip-o-meter! How did he arrive at the conclusion that Liddos is the best place to strip?

Kenyatta: Mr Speaker, this is an emergency. A special program. Tendering will take weeks, within which time she may be arrested for providing false information.

Mbuvi: Point of order, Mr Speaker.
Speaker: Yes, Member for Makadara?

Mbuvi: Ni aje vijanaa hawako kwa hii plot. Manze mkibuy mangodha za ngiri soo nne bila kuinclude vijanaa kwa mpango, hizo ngodha tutachoma! Vijanaa ndio majority, tunajua kustrip poa baada ua kupractise na zile song ya bend-over, get down, wezere, kila siku wasee kuchips-fungana kwa club, twitter na Facebook, experience tuko nayo kushinda wazae despite age yetu....
Speaker: Order, member for for Makadara! A point of order is not a debate!

Bifwoli: Endi why has chender palance noti peen consiteret in this tepate! iko wanaume wengi wanawesa kutoa suruali pwana!

(laughter)

Speaker: Order! Order, honorable members! Member for Bumula, you are out of order! You know the standing orders well, at this juncture you can only speak on a point of order or point of information. No one gave you permission to speak.

Bifwoli: I am chust tellingi the truth. Hata sisi wanaume tunawesa kutoanga suruali. Wakoli Bifwoli can also wear underwear worth 400 000. Mupunge msima kama mimi hawesi shinda amefaa kaptula za Gikomba! Hata uchi nitatembea, kwansa nimenyoeko....

(loud laughter....applause)

Speaker: Order! Order member for Bumula! You are out of Order!

Bifwoli: In facti nikisimama uchi, na Muruki asimame uchi apo kando, am sure nitapendeseko kumshinda.

(more laughter and applause)

Speaker: Order! Order Honorable members, order! member for Bumula, you have gone too far. That's it. I order you to leave the floor of the House immediately. Sergeant at Arms, could you please escort Wakoli Bifwoli out of this House!

Bifwoli: (walking out) Uuuuuwi! Uuuuuwi! Marende Pooole! Pole! Marende is a tikteta!!!




LATER THAT NIGHT ON PRIME TIME NEWS.....

Anchor 1. And so, on our opinion question tonight, we ask:
Anchor 2. Should Esther Murugi strip naked? I repeat, should Esther Murugi Strip naked?
Anchor 2. SMS your yes or no opinion to 6-BLONDE-QUESTIONS-6 and we shall sample some of your responses at the tail-end of this newscast.

I hereby step aside to allow for further investigations.

HERE WE GO AGAIN

Politics, it seems to me, for years, or all too long, has been concerned with right or left instead of right or wrong.  ~Richard Armour

It is that time of the season. Our beloved politicians (please take that word 'beloved' with a pinch of salt and glass of vinegar) are at it, 'repositioning' themselves ahead of the forthcoming general elections.
Which is alright. Problem is, I cannot remember a single period since the last elections when the entire August House, the crest of politics as it were, was ever in position. That bunch has been offside from the moment one Samuel Kivuitu announced controversial election results in an even more controversial manner - while hidden at a bunker like a state witness mouthing out sensitive confessions under armed guard, with the promise of witness protection.....
What followed was a showdown between two people, promptly dubbed 'protagonists' by Kenyan media, a showdown which eventually led to the loss of at least 1000 lives, displacement of many more, a side-hustle for Koffi Annan (read peace-broker as head of Eminent Persons) and eventually the formation of a very uneasy coalition government. Well, we all know how well that government coalesced.
The coalition government brought to the fore a hitherto under-appreciated term, very familiar with civil servants but otherwise secondary to the others- protocol. The closest many Kenyans have come to appreciate the significance of protocol probably at school, where dramatic presentations were always preceded with a mandatory rendition thus; ' The Guest of Honour, honorable adjudicators, distinguished guests, ladies n gentlemen,...''
Or, for those who attended the public holidays of the Nyayo era, the timeless MC, Sammy Loui, would croon out a chronology of names and portfolio, starting from the Honorable President and his accompanying titles- EGH, MP, Commander in Chief of the Armed forces, bla bla bla, down to the common mwananchi roasting under the scorching sun on the open terraces of Nyayo Stadium, otherwise referred to as 'ladies and gentlemen'.
The significance of the noun 'protocol' made no much sense to Wanjiku, until the standoff between Vice-President and Prime Minister made it a monolith in the coalition government. For so long protocol placed the VP right behind the President. Suddenly there was a Prime Minister, who according to the Peace Accord was equal to the president in stature. The bureaucrats were left scratching their bald heads, careful not to rock the boat, the Kibaki Camp insisted Kalonzo was above Raila, the Raila Camp regarded Kalonzo as an opportunistic nonentity who should not have been part of the government of national unity in the first place.
come to think of it, Kalonzo 'alipita katikati yao'. He was not involved in all the Pre and post-election Chaos, he finished a distant third in the presidential race, became vice President by design, and lay low as the tigers fought his war. Good times.
Eventually Raila won the protocol standoff, and some semblance of peace was restored. But the loose strands of the coalition were further stretched by the acrimony generated in the post-referendum of August 2010. William Ruto's big NO to a document fronted by a government in which he was a Minister created the first real cracks. Then came the ghosts of the Post-Election violence. A mysterious envelope nicknamed 'Waki" which until then hung over the powers that be like the Sword of Damocles, was the last straw as Luis Moreno Ocampo opened the Pandoras Box. It was no longer a crack. It was a glacial movement that separated the various continental entities in government.
As is wont in Kenya, The ICC pre-trials were politicised and their main objectives dumped in the cellar. Suddenly the entire process was all about the 2012 succession. One enigmatic man was using the process to secure a highway to the House on the Hill, a politician would intimate. People who lost loved ones in the 2008 violence and whose souls were crying for justice were forgotten. The Internally Displaced persons, who lost their property, dignity and lives were only mentioned in passing. Even "Men of God" joined the fray, praying for the accused, while cursing their perceived 'enemies'. Dear Pastor/Bishop/Reverend, There is a fine line between an intercession and a loud, lop-sided opinion blared through the speaker in the format of a prayer. God have Mercy on you.
These are but some of the Litany of issues that bedeviled the coalition government. Don't even get me started on the 'fight against corruption.' That ship pulled a Costa Concordia eons ago.
And so, here we are again. General Elections are back, or around the proverbial corner as it were. I will assume that the protagonists will have the presence of mind to give us the elections in December. Political wheeler-dealing has started. New parties, or 'political platforms', are being formed right, left, and centre. The politicians are regurgitating the old promises from five years ago, and, sadly, some of us voting folk are swallowing their cud.

Take our politicians:  they're a bunch of yo-yos.  The presidency is now a cross between a popularity contest and a high school debate, with an encyclopedia of cliches the first prize.  ~Saul Bellow


Everyone is already dreaming and strategising on how to take over State House once Kibaki retires to his goat-farm in Othaya. Meanwhile, IDPs remain unsettled. The repugnant smell of corruption and impunity is still emanating from every nook and cranny of the political class. Past injustices remain unaddressed. I wont event mention that the very 'repositioning' taking place is a clear disregard of the new constitution, which they promise to protect while they are already flouting it!
It goes without saying that we will dutifully vote back the same people we are chastising now. One reason is that its unlikely that a new, deserving face will prop up and win our trust in time for the ballot.
But the real reason is that at the end of the day, we will always vote for the politician we dislike the least, or who serves our interest most, however short-sighted. Oscar Ameringer, dubbed the 'Mark Twain' of American Socialism, aptly said that Politics is the gentle art of getting votes from the poor and campaign funds from the rich, by promising to protect each from the other. 
Be not fooled with a new political party. What we need is a new politician. Politics is too serious a matter to be left to politicians. Stop complaining and do something about it. I laud the likes of the late Prof. Wangari Maathai, PLO lumumba, Ringtone, John Kiarie, Mdomo Baggy and Councillor Mongolo for stepping up. It is these baby-steps that will eventually deliver a full walk. And be warned, there shall be stumbles and fumbles, a la Simon Mbugua and Mike Sonko!
Kenya needs a political revolution. However, a revolution in the political class can only be attained by an evolution of the political players. It is time for new faces to step up and challenge the status Quo. After all, it was Che Guevara himself who asserted thus; The revolution is not an apple that falls when it is ripe. You have to make it fall.
I rest my case.

HONEY, I'M (BACK) HOME

Cough! Cough! Choke! *clearing throat*. A sneeze here. Eyes tearing there. Handkerchief swats the stuffy air. The guest takes off, probably never to be seen again in that dust-infested enclosure, or hopefully to be seen again....

And that, my friend, is my imagery of what visitors to my blog have been subjected to, thanks to a tweet and Facebook comment I received from two friends, bearing an eerily similar jibe, "Feddy, your blog has gathered dust...."
And who can blame them? The last time I wrote on this blog, Africa was still reeling from Asamoah Gyan's painful penalty miss that saw the Black Stars miss out on the chance to become the first African team to make the FIFA World Cup semis. Last time I wrote this blog, Luis Suarez was only hated for the handball that denied Ghana a direct ticket to the semis in the first place. Last time I wrote this blog, Wikileaks was all the rage....
All that was back then in 2010. Since then, Gyan is no longer Africa's most talked-about striker. That, in my humble opinion, is one Demba Ba who has almost single-handedly made Newcastle United genuine Europa League Contenders. (I'm sure followers of the French League will beg to differ. Indulge by all means.) Since then, Luis Suarez is twice as hated, and this time not just by Africa, but an entire legion of dark-skinned Homo Sapiens, as well as a good number of those who do not entertain racism in any form. (thank you, Patrice Evra, for complaining. You will never walk alone...)
And is wikileaks the hot topic of the moment? Your guess is as good as mine. At this time I don't see any earth shaking discussion of the moment that matches the proportions of wikileaks. But America has its Republican Presidential Nomination campaigns, North Korea is still mourning Kim Jong-Il, China has added a ban on any form of 'western' entertainment (no, seriously. check it out) on top of Facebook, and Kenya has just released a sequel to the 2000 blockbuster "The Way of The Gun", featuring one Nancy Barasa. Ok, I might be exaggerating the latter. And as I write this, Sumatra has just been struck with an earthquake measuring 7.3 on the Richter Scale.
Since 2010 there has been so much to blog about- my transition from the Sports Desk to my exploits around the country in NTV's weekly news magazine the County Edition, The referendum, The ICC process, Railamania/Railaphobia (depending on which side of the horn you are blowing), The 'Ugly Car' showdown pitting the Vitz against the Probox, Fernando Torres, Gor Mahia, Mike Sonko, Twitter, Miguna Miguna.......the list is endless.
But what did I do all this time? I thought about it, I compiled it in my head, slept over the idea, woke up the next day to blog, made no time for blogging, witnessed another event which I'd think about, compile in my head, sleep over the idea, wake up the next day to blog,... ah well, you get my point.
That paragraph can be summed up in one word- Procrastination. It is probably why I haven't bought my own house yet. I have wasted time, which is essentially money, whose loss eventually leaves me still paying a lot of rent to one Kahiga Muigai.
As the year 2011 drew to a close, a good friend of mine, a Norwegian-based gentleman going by the name Oguda, launched his blog. I was among those he asked to comment on his debut post. Apparently he was very impressed with mine, after braving all that dust as he sifted through the archive that is feddylicious.blogspot.com. That was November 29th. Since then, has five posts already. Talk about fast off the blocks!
An avid reader in every sense of the word, Oguda's enthusiasm relit a dying ember within. I will not let this man become an avid writer too as my blog gets mummified. I am the journalist here, for chrissake!
I do not make many resolutions at the turn of the year. But this time I have three realistic ones, two inspired by this man Oguda.

1. Dust my blog. If not for me, but for the daily visitors who stoically come back hoping that this (insert noun) will wake up from his slumber and spew out another good read. 9 views today (and counting) before i posted this, 93 last month, 1,464 since I went AWOL. Never again.
2. Read more books. I earned my language stripes by reading widely, albeit novels and story books forming the bulk of my literature. Addiction for movies robbed most of that enthusiasm. I wish to start over with a book a month. Or a chapter a week. Or a page a day. Cue Joel Osteen.
2. Cut down the procrastination. Heck, mummify it altogether. If I achieve that, 2012 will bear more significance to my future than it already is. Much more significance than starting this year single again. Much more significance than my expected new contract, now that I am saying goodbye officially to the sports desk. Much more significant than the fact that this year I attain a very, very important age. Richard Branson says"screw it, let's do it". Ditto.

The process has begun, with a post that clears the dust off this blog. Long may the momentum remain.
Feddylicious is back.

WORLD CUP 2010 MEMORIES

The naysayers and Afro-pessimists had a field day in the run-up to the World Cup, doubting the country's capability to host a succesful tournament of such magnitude. But from the Opening Ceremony, down to the moment Iker Casillas lifted the glorious trophy, South Africa delivered a blissful 30 days. The Opening match was a fitting thriller topped up by Siphiwe Tshabalala's screamer that set the first record-The first world cup opening goal scored by an African.
It was the same match that brought to the fore what will be remembered as one of the tournament's most discussed topics-the Vuvuzela. That little plastic horn drowned out all songs in the stadium, and all that could be heard was one monotonous sound akin to the rhythm of a million bees. So controversial was the Vuvuzela that some losing teams blamed it for their loss, claiming it hindered communication on the pitch. FIFA even contemplated banning it. But it has now become a multi-million shilling industry, with a foreign manufacturer setting up a Vuvuzela factory in- you guessed it- China.
When the Vuvuzela wasn't in the dock over losses, referees came under the spotlight over major decisions that cost several teams their places in the tournament. The most notable was Frank Lampard's disallowed goal for England when they were 2-1 down against Germany in the second round. The referee somehow failed to spot the ball which crossed the line at least a foot in, sparking fresh debate on the need for goalline technology. Other controversial decisions were Argentina's opening goal against Mexico, where Carlos Tevez was clearly offside, and USA's disallowed goal against SLovenia which would have won the game. Malian Referee Couman Coulibaly was struck from the FIFA list for remaining matches at the tournament and wasn’t seen again. Kinda reminds me of Kenyan referees.

When the whistle-blowers (no pun intended) behaved well, the Jabulani ball took the blame. The World's first truly round ball as claimed by makers Adidas drew a lot of flak for the way it swung mid-air, and lots of evidence could support the claims. England goalkeeper Robert Green somehow spit the ball when he could have done better, and so did Algerian keeper Faouzi Chaouchi who must still be wonderin how it slipped off his arms and into the net. Many shots that seemed headed on target somehow flew skyhigh, while some goals also appeared to be aided by the Jabulani Swerve.

Off the picth, one Octopus was stealing the show. Paul as he was named, predicted accurately all of Germany's matches. He went ahead to predict the winner of the 3rd place playoff and and the finals. Western Media glorified it as psychic, but one cant helped but wonder what it would have been called had the Octopus been in Africa. Witchcraft and voodoo comes to mind. Paul has since taken a well-desereved summer holiday off the limelight.

But the ultimate memory will be from the 2010 champions. Spain won their first ever world cup in a tournament held for the first time in Africa. It was also the first time that they had ever qualified for the finals, adding a juicy twist to a dramatic end of a very memorable tournament, and in more ways than one, a victory for beautiful football.

AND A SPECIAL MENTION FOR THE BLACK STARS........

For Many Africans, though, Ba-Ghana Ba-Ghana will forever be our source of pride and encouragement. They may have been the youngest squad in South Africa with an average age of 23, but the Black Stars lit up the tournament in every match they played and doubled the drone of the Vuvuzela. Their achievement on the pitch brought Africa together in a way no other, er, thing would.

Goalkeeper Richard Kingson emerged from the shadows of an unused third-choice at Wigan to emerge as one of the best, or the outright best counting by the number of saves.

Defender Jonathan Mensah, at only 20, stood like the Rock of Gibraltar and literally risked his life against the assault of experienced world-class strikers.

Playmaker Andrew Ayew borrowed the football blood of his legendary father and terrorised defences as the World witnessed the birth of a future Michel Platini (if he can keep his head). Ayew Junior was good enough to keep Sulley Muntari at the bench, enough said.

Kevin Prince-Boateng shunned the nation of his Mother Catherine, where he grew up, and joined his fatherland's squad. He showed why Coach Milovan Rajevac wanted him so baldy, forming an almost telepathic chemistry which Prince and forming a key part of the beautiful football Ghana displayed.

The lone Ranger, Asamoah Gyan, was the classic number 9. Hustle, bustle, create chance, get chance, score. He led from the front-line like a soldier and was duly rewarded with a nomination to the Golden Ball. His missed penalty at the death of the quarter-finals against Uruguay denied Ghana a chance to create history by becoming the first African side to make the semis. But I'll reserve the vitriol for Luis Suarez, whose blatant handball blocked Dominic Adiyiah's goalbound header in the first place.

Bottom line, make way Brazil 2014, the Ghanaians are coming with fire in their eyes!

NEW YEAR SOJOURN DE OYUGIS- PART ONE

It's amazing how diverse we celebrate the Christmas and new year holidays. I for one have had all manner of celebrations, from the traditional Church overnight 'keshas' to spending the eves in night clubs, literally drowning my money on frothy substances courtesy of a Sin Factory along Thika Road, to house parties laden with food and friends, to the one I'll always want to forget- sitting pensively day and night over the Christmas period of 2009 in Oyugis awaiting progress reports on how my dad was doing in a Hospital ward back in Nairobi. When the progress report finally arrived on December 30th, it was quite progressive- Daddy had progresses to Heaven. How I spent that new year is anyone's guess.

Anyway, enuff of sentiment. I've decided to put on record the little detail I remember of this past 2008 Festive season. I choose to filter some of the detail for obvious reasons- this is the internet!

Christmas was what a journalist would describe as a normal day at work- long and tedious. Satusfying at the end of the day, but they key word here is work. I was working. Enuff said.

The real story starts when I took my new year holiday vacation. As a family of four siblings(our parents are in heaven, booking front row seats for the entire family on judgement day, bless them), we decided to come together for the first time in 2 years and jus be together. Anyone who knows Kenya's travelling patterns will attest to the fact that travelling up-country during the December festive season is as delightful as getting caught in a mid-moring Jam along Thika Road.

My own sister was visiting me here in Nairobi tried to travel to Oyugis on the 24th. The normal cost is normally 600 shillings. She was charged 1800. She came back and used that extra money demanded to make me a sumptuous Christmas dinner!

Did I mention that on 24th, 25th and 26th December, I arrived home a little past 3AM on all occasions? Dont ask. Suffice it to say that on 24th night I started by going for the Church Service as IT REALLY SHOULD BE THE CASE. After giving to God what belongs to God, Caesar came calling....

But I digress. My turn to travel came on the night of 30th December. I had to use guerilla tactics to avoid paying 1800 bob to Oyugis. This I achieved by using a two-way travel system- Take a Homabay-bound Akamba Bus which maintained its fares at 800 bob, alight at Kisii town, then pay 70 bob to Oyugis. Savings- 930 bob. Hail the Economist!

You know you are bound to Western Kenya when you are carrying an oversize travelling bag whose weight is pulling you down with lots of shopping that ranges from Unga ya Chapati to Bar Soap. I had bought a new travelling bag( thank you Royal Media for the Shopping Vouchers) whose tow-wheels cracked under the weight of its content within 10 minutes of leaving the supermarket. I should have realised that even pavements have potholes.

Anyway, I realised that prejudice in society is so deep its been accepted as the norm. While Akamba buses bound for more 'prestigious' destinations like Kisumu or Kampala were relatively new and well maintained, Homabay-bound buses are always KAL or older. Ours bore all the details of a bus that has seen better days- from its torn, smelly curtains that must have last seen the launderer on Fools Day of 1999, to the creaking windows that couldnt lock properly- and, wait, did I just feel some wetness on the Chair?

Turned out that more luggage than passengers were travelling in that bus that nite, and the extra luggage,my suitcase included, enjoyed the luxury of the empty seats once the luggage lockers beamed red for overloaded. Apprently everyone else wanted to travel on 31st, hence the empty seats. And we wonder why 600 bob routes eventually end up charging 3000!

Thankfully, the shock absorbers were still as good as new, and the now permanently reclined seats helped me snooze through most of the 8-hour journey. If only the windows would shut properly- the cold night wind seeping in was seething cold!

Thus the 30-minute stopover in Nakuru was most welcome. Some hot coffee and mandazi. Have u noticed that of late, the mandazi has graduated from its fixed 5-shilling price tag? Before, the price of mandazi would always stick at 5 bob as the size consistently reduced. But there comes a time that further reduction in prize would reduce it to a (find your own noun), so I respectfully paid 25 bob for mine.

The rest of the journey was pretty uneventful, and we duly arrived in Kisii a few minutes after 5.30 AM. A pub adjacent to the Akamba Bus Booking office was blaring tunes from the latest Ohangla Sensation, Osogo Winyo. The motorbike bodabodas had increased fourfold since my last visit almost a year ago. And look at that Safaricom Billboard- they are still advertising the Saasa Tariff!

I get into a hotel and order a hot cuppa and- u guessed it- two mandazis. Citizen TV is clear as dvd up-country and is the number one Choice in 95% of the joints here. I stare at the Body-n-Soul programme airing as I sip and wait for the dusk to pave way for brother Sun. Once I'm done, the bill comes to the table- 30 shillings! Welcome to rural Kenya.

Daybreak. i get a quick ride to oyugis, and that too with no big story to tell. I arrive at Oyugis by 7.30 AM. The newspapers havent arrived yet, and the one i brought from Kisii attracts a huge crowd. The KCSE results are out and they are always a must read. Too bad only pupils are ranked this time- who cares about obscure names save for those who know or associate with them?

10 minutes later, after they are satisfied that a substancial number of pupils with the 'O' prefix are in the top 100, they reluctantly hand the paper back(chief, there were no form-16 As used in the tallying of KCPE...). I head to the bus-stage that will take me to my village, Gamba, 7km off Oyugis town towards the border with Kisii District.

I find there's no ready transport because it is not a market day. Thankfully, the motorbikes have faithfully invaded this route as well. But they charge 100bob. For 7 kilometres. Bah! But who can blame them, the pot-holes are laden with murram road.

A few grunts later, I arrive home. My dog Pinto died last year, so ma sis will lead the welcoming party this time round. Louis ma kid-bro takes over the bag( Oh, the good ol times) and we walk home, where more tea is waiting. Why on earth isnt Ketepa making billions?

The maize harvest will be the worst in recent times. Rains failed and the stalks have no cobs to sing home about. The stalks shall be fodder for our hybrid cattle, which have also suffered a little from disease but survived to tell the tale several vets later. But the guavas are thriving! Boy, did I miss the indigestible fruit. No wonder every bush in the village has a guava seedling sprouting proudly among the otherwise choking shrubs.

Tea, shower, snoooooooooooooze till 3pm. Lunch. Omena. I hadnt taken that for over a year. I love home. Snoooze some more till 5.30. Wake up to catch up with family. Then the cash starts disappearing from my wallet.

The shamba boy asks for 100 bob so he can go hire a car battery to power his humongous speaker for the entertainment of his Christmas guests, read us. I do not have that so I produce a 500bob note. Suddenly it emerges that the heifer had not finished its anti-worm dose, the spotlights need new batteries, the generator needs fuelling so we can watch TV, I forgot to buy juice, everyone wants sugarcane...before i know it the 500 bob is actually less!

We spend the better part of New year's eve chatting, catching up on the latest gossip- who got married, who died, who illegally sold off land, which villager is now a sworn thief, who has become an irreversible cheap-liquor drunk, how early we need to start planting next season...all this as the boys diminish the sugarcane as big sis sets about preparing the template Festive dish- chapati and chicken. Oh, free groundnuts in plenty too here.

A few of my friends back in Oyugis town who knew I was up-country send me text messages, urging me to find ma way to the Meeting Point Bar (how apt), where they are 'cleansing ourselves of 2008'. I politely decline, for I am not about to walk seven kilometres into the darkness to drink beer. the village pub 400 metres away is probably littered with rowdy peasant youth wasting their hard earned and saved farm wages on cheap rum. They can smell a ja-Nairobi (a guy from Nairobi) from a mile away, and the notion that we are always loaded leaves them with no choice but to sing your praises for as long as it takes till you throw them a round, like it or not. I choose to stay home.

The clock strikes midnight. All the radio stations are cheering. Hundreds of fans calling in to wish loved ones happy new year. i get out to shout HAAPPPY NEEEW YEAAAR! My lone voice reverberates into the darkness. No fireworks. Just fireflies. Good riddance 2008. Welcome aboard 2009.

-END OF PART ONE-

DEBUT BLOG

I JUST OWNED A BLOG!
NOW I BECOME A BLOGGER.
WITH THIS BLOG I SHALL FREELY BLOG
WITH MY THOUGHTS I WILL NEVER DITHER
IN EXPRESSING MY THOUGHTS I SHALL NOT WAVER
AND IN DISPENSING MY OPINIONS I WILL NOT FALTER

WELCOME TO MY WORLD
WHERE MY WORD IS MY WAND
AND MAY THE INTERNET BAND
FOREVER KEEP US A-BIND