Last Updated on 16 February 2019 by Gertrude
The land our forefathers bestowed on us. The land which they united to fight for. Hoping we would enjoy bliss and wouldn’t be taken from us. They thought they had done justice for saving us from the creamy man. They that had fought with their might, strengths and will. They had drawn hope and inspiration from their sleepless nights in the forest. When all they had were pangas and bows and arrows. Them they had toys that emitted smoke and fire, like the clouds. It was a deadly experience.
Uniting to fight regardless of where they came from, so they would weed out the cream. 1963 dawned when the flag was given back to her rightful people; Kenyans. Ululations and celebrations echoing the land from East to West, South to North. The birds of the heavens dancing in rejoice. It’s the day, we will live to remember. From then, there was dire hope for restoration, dire hope for peace, love and unity. The events following, marking the important day of our lives.
A human being is just a human being, always a human being. Promise after promise, promise meant to be broken. Stealing our hope, our rejoice and restoration. The start? giving to her people; her generous supporters. Dividing Kenya into tribes, grouping them according to their loyalty Luo; not to be trusted, Kikuyu; the loyal fighters, Mijikenda; who are they?. Kicking in, with our might. Land, belonging to the crÃ¨me; the rulers, that one who braved the cold highlands, sleepless nights. Even if the land was rightfully mine, singularly and truthfully mine. It got subdivided among loyal and royalties. Since then, one owning thousands of land became norm, one missing to own land became even norm. That’s when we realised there was tribe, that’s when we realised enmity among us. That’s when strange names popped, strange ones like squatters. The cream came to us with fumes never to be extinguished, that which emitted black cloud of chocking smoke. It was the fume in the form of a black cream, mixed with inexhaustible source of petrol in their streaming bodies. It was jittery, causing sleepless nights, all in the name of ; afraid of others who never fought to benefit. All in the name of becoming the strongest and most powerful in the world. Sorry, it became so. Sad, we leave all that, behind us, behind our backs, where others will strongly want it. Of course, we will use methods to defend it, right? That which we believe is ours because it’s ours!
Years later the son of a son ruled, like them leaders from dictatorial world, the son of son, having no mercy. The son made it an almost unbearable place to live. The son made the ‘treasured’ economy dwindle. The son of son came with force of employing and highly regarding one’s tribe. The son of man made the rulers royalties. Op-posers taken to the chambers to be fried. He made them scared because the ruling royalty was never and must never be spoken about, against. The gods of the land must be accorded high respect like the Supreme Power Himself. We got in the jaws of each other, others found themselves in soups hotter than the cooking pot; the burning sufuria fried them, alive. Accosting them silently and stealthily as they approached their vast compounds. Slowly the smoke and fire, advanced, ran on them, silently and viciously. Making sure those who spoke badly about the gods were no more. Falling to their knees. Their short lived legacies became tragedies to be told by their families. Their families not understanding what their lives meant, left to decipher the ever long codes. Silently, the deciphering disappearing without answers. Because even them felt humiliated and frightened to be fried to nothingness.
Days turned into months and years became a clichÃ© trying to prevent the happenings of a dying nation. There was silence in all quarters, the media became a tragedy in itself. Tragedy because they were not allowed to tell the nation the truth. There were to lie to small undeserving fish, tell us the world we live in is so very peaceful without war. It was considered the most peaceful nation; harmony, unity, peace and love. Oh, it was a beautiful time at the time. Others, were slowly turned to useless pieces in a place called The Nyayo Torture Chambers. Traitors knew where they belonged if not there, in jail, like the likes of Raila Odinga, who were thrown into the pit with hope for tomorrow. All hope crushed and disorganised, all hope turned into fight and fight. Treason was their charge. Slowly, we braved on until we reached a point when all we said was, ”no single party”, we are tired of a dictator, an authoritarian. ”We want change” becoming slogan, remember in 1992 when multi ‘patyism’ was adopted?. When we thought of liberation from a colonial black African would be a gone dream?. From a tyrannical daddy. We got tired, she got tired of it. We thought by multi ‘partyism’, we would embrace a new Kenya.
No, no, no. Ruthlessly ambitious fellows ran for the biggest seat in the land, in the name of ‘doing away’ with the daddy of the time, with oppressive ideologies. What we didn’t know, they were political scientists and Professors who would use their education to cover for very very ambitious ways. Their ways, we, who hadn’t reached in America didn’t know how were played. We were swayed and like dirt in the river, taken to lands, unaware. Suddenly, we were lost with no tide to take us to the sea shore. It became their song of their tidal wave we carried to â€“ . That year, there was political violence. Alleging thuggery of votes. Alleging bribing of voters. Back then, we wouldn’t know. It was mlolongo style of voting, we queued from morning to evening to ascertain our rights. Even so, they marred the country with hatred from the creamy god. It was measuring of superiority and seniority, it was the measure of the haves and have nots, with the gap widening more dangerously that year. Becoming apparent that Ujamaa was and is long dead. Same thing again in 1997 driving the country to the dogs of selfish crafted political ambitions. A serious game which again cost the lives of Innocent and others Kenyans. Slowly, we crumbled to our knees, our shilling dipped, it became next to nothing. We didn’t study our economics back then, so how would we know?.
2002, they promised changes. Not one, many, many changes. Finally, we breathed in the same direction. We sucked our breaths and together we sung, like one family. ”Hatutaki Moi, Tunataka Kibaki”. That’s when we made famous the Unbwogable song. We flew like birds, soaring the skies like eagles. We thought it was a global village. We knew new blood, new things, new spirit. What did we get instead, political daddies came forward. Even the more, with too much goals for a common Kenyan like me and you to see. We were still blinded by the cataract, making us unable to see. Choosing to shut our eyes, willingly. We heard their voices. This time, we heard with our might. And the result? We know, we all lament. Where are we to begin?