Of Maseno Firsts and First Years- Part One

by Watiri Mwangi

So you made it to campus, sorry to burst your bubble but so did everyone else here. While ‘being called’ to Maseno University might have solicited mixed feelings, unlike the Lamu title deeds, it will not be revoked. You are starting the final cycle of your 8-4-4 education, probably if I add that up it’s also your age. Campus, rather Maseno University is deemed to be your newest and most interesting experience, ever! This is where you are expected to have fresh experiences, become more responsible, develop your career and achieve independence. Anyway I’ll save that speech for your pastor, parents, mentors, boy or girlfriend (make that EX once you step into Maseno).

There are a myriad of issues to expect when you are joining campus for the first time. So I will be to you what Angel Gabriel was to Virgin Mary, a guardian of some sort and tell you what to expect for your first. Firstly, if you are coming from far flung regions, with no flight or travel restrictions expect a very long and tiring journey. If you are not a travel enthusiast, its time you added it to one of your many interests. The comfort or the lack of it depends with how much you are willing to pay, ranging from flight, personal car, bus or even shuttle. If you chose what is considered cheap public transportation, then expect to be on board with ‘other’ passengers, ranging from chicken to goats and even insects jumping from your neighbor to you (more like a farm on wheels). The (dis)comfort sets in when the ‘buffet eating’ begins, to some people on-board it is luxury; clearly luxury is relative. There are multiple public transportation means en-route to Kisumu and Maseno, so you have the initial luxury of choice.

Expect long, smelly tiring queues on arrival. If you are probably accompanied by your family, friends or even spouses, they will be waiting, impatiently! This will also be the first sign that the only University situated on the equator is not so cool, literally. The queuing is a gruesome experience considering the all too familiar lack of respect for personal space, a lot of ‘kufinyana and rudging’ occurs.  The experience is worsened by the fact that you are all from overnight travelling and eating, the weird smells set in and all sanity is thrown out the window, if there is any left. The queues are the foundation of your campus life this is where you become acquainted with your comrades and the official enrolment commences. If those queues could talk, they would boast of creating life-long friendships, rivals, frienemies and even relationships. Cute dudes and chics are also spotted on those queues, the chase games ensue. Reality finally hits you when your parents leave you in the mercy of the university administration. Some will cry tears of joy parents and students alike, a mutual feeling. The parents are glad to finally get rid of you and (or) vice-versa, definitely a win-win situation.

Complete independence is the first thing you will claim ownership of, after scrambling for bed space of course. A majority of students come in completely covered in buibuis, long Akorino skirts/ dresses, head scarves leaving everything to imagination. Religious terminology, morning glory (whose meaning is completely defiled), bibles and ‘kushikilia dini’ are all too common for the first few days. With great independence comes great wealth, so you might think. Most newbies come in loaded with money acquired from both legal and illegal means: harambees, relatives, hustling, ‘kupanda mbegu,’ spouses, parents and even HELB if you’re lucky. The all too common feeling hits you that ‘unanuka pesa,’ so there is a sudden need to avoid people who give you that look or smell rather. Bank and M-Pesa accounts are also very loaded. If you are under 18, probably you’ll have to hide your money under the mattress (don’t) or in between what cannot be stated publicly due to its ‘private’ nature. However for personal security, others opt to walk everywhere with the money, clearly trust has not been earned by anyone, literally. Whatever you think protects your money, no matter how much it is, will be over before you say ‘chrometophobia.’

Bearing the fact that continuing students are not in school yet, it’s ‘Tujuane Time’. 

What Defines a Kenyan? By Watiri Mwangi

Former Safaricom CEO Michael Joseph once gave a description of Kenyans that almost sparked another Mau Mau rebellion.  Writer and columnist Sunny Bindra applies subtle humor to concur with Mike in his book the Peculiar Kenyan. When I decided to consult Dr. Google, I could not find a suitable definition for the phrase ‘Kenyan’. The definitions range from a country situated in the East African region to diversity of culture to Uhuru Kenyatta all the way to the lineage of Barack Obama. Hell, someone even started a blog titled Peculiarly Kenyan. Let’s just say Kenyan is global and ambiguous. A popular comedian once stated that you don’t need an ID or all five senses to spot a Kenyan anywhere across the globe, their habits speak for themselves.

So what really defines a Kenyan, is it citizenship, marriage, association, birth or even the peculiar habits? There are events and periods that bring out the best and worst in Kenyans. The ICC cases are one of those international headlines Kenyans are not proud of, so we plead sovereignty rather than sobriety. News of successful Kenyans abroad is the hallmark of nation-wide discussions. When the international media grants them another citizenship Kenyans claim ownership and throw tantrums. Case in point is Lupita’s birthplace Mexico; maybe they had confused her for a soap opera star.  Kenyans also have stereotypes that are difficult to demystify. Popular actor and rapper LL Cool J once gave an acceptance speech stating ‘... run like skinny Kenyans,’ (whatever gave him that idea, has he met us?)

Kenyans, I have to admit have hit the international headlines for all the right and wrong reasons. Hell, our engagement in the East African Coalition (EAC) of the willing has been tumultuous because Kenyan’s are defined as money-hungry, corrupt and over aggressive. So when Uganda was ranked top in the corruption index, Kenyans wonder where they picked that trait from (Were we kicking corruption out of Kenya into Uganda?). The Duke of Edinburg, Prince William was rumored to have dated Kenyan socialite Jecca Craig (Yes, she beat kina Corazon to him). Many would argue Jecca is white however; she is the daughter of Kenyan settler Ian Craig who founded a rhino sanctuary and fostered efforts for establishing the Lewa Conservancy. Very noble if you ask me, I bet she would have made Kenyans more proud if she joined the English nobility. Former Miss Kenyan Susan Onyango is half Russian half Kenyan, she is what people typically refer to as ‘pointie,’ this however, did not stop her from representing Kenya in the Miss World completion.  Nyambura Mwangi (STL) is a Kenyan-Norwegan musician who has made Kenya proud. Her music has been used in multiple platforms and films such as American Pie and the Eurovision contest. Interesting that despite living in Norway from childhood Nyambura is more acquainted with the ‘kiuk’ dialect than most native Kikuyus.

Marriage between individuals Kenyans and individuals of different nationalities is not rare. So does this make them any less Kenyan?  I guess once you go Kenyan, you never go back (just ask former US ambassador to Kenya Michael Ranneberger). Many individuals have forsaken their nationality and taken up Kenyan citizenship. Some of these individuals have undertaken multiple initiatives to protect and sustain Kenya’s efforts in conservation and development. They have even done more than most native Kenyans could do in their lifetime. Kenyans have failed to recognize their own; an illusion that you need global recognition first to win the admiration of your country men. Cane Prize winners Binyavanga Wainaina and Okwiri Oduor, Stanely Kamau and Boniface Mwangi are some of the victims of this ‘recognition-syndrome.’ Most Indians and whites who have been born and raised in Kenya or even trace their lineage to Kenya have an uphill task explaining the fact that they are Kenyan. They are considered to be foreigners despite never claiming citizenship of any other country comparatively, President Barrack Obama is considered more Kenyan. However, they continue to integrate themselves and learn the local dialect, some have even earned themselves names like ‘Kama’ and ‘Onyi.’

It is difficult to define Kenyan considering its wealth and diversity in culture. Kenyans have often complained about this diversity as an impediment for the definition of Kenya’s unique culture (however I consider it a strength). We can paint ourselves in the Kenyan flag, profess the national anthem, proudly support successful Kenyans, parade ourselves in the national dress (if it still exists, there was a quest for that a while back) and even shout proudly Kenyan. No one can revoke this and above all our citizenship from us, yes I also plead sovereignty. However, Kenyan is a verb not a noun. What you do as a Kenyan for Kenya whether born or peculiarly otherwise is what matters.

MUSIC OF A BROKEN HARP 
A short story by Florence Awino

Pinta sticks her chewing gum at the bottom of her coffee cup, removes her feet from the heavy mahogany table and puts on her Converse shoes. She rises to a thunderous applause and nods curtly at the board members and then raises two fingers as she pushes back her Director’s chair and steps out of the board room. Her sagging jeans trailing her behind. Suddenly, the board members turn to each other in animated discussions. The din in the boardroom reaches a crescendo then dies down just as suddenly as if everybody had their power of speech taken away from them. A few scattered giggles are heard and the din comes back again. This time they talk of the director’s bizarre sense of dressing. Pinta had just added another of the leading research pharmaceuticals to the growing list of her acquisitions.

Pinta is unbothered by many things. She could  buy any designer suit she wanted because she has all the money but adhering to dress codes is one of the things that Pinta remains spectacularly unapologetic about. She uses her left hand to pull up her sagging trousers a bit as the right reaches out to open the door of her range. She scratches her bare stomach, the part that is not covered by her low cut blouse as she clambers up the driver’s seat. The range’s tires revs away from the parking lot of Pinta Global Research Pharmaceuticals.

When she gets home Pinta will dive headfirst into piles and piles of correspondence. She works to exorcise the demons that torment her. Those that make her wake up screaming wildly and drenched in a river of sweat each time she manages to fall asleep. She is haunted. Pinta sees blood everywhere, gory scenes of scalpels, forceps, bloody silver bowls and doctors with overgrown stubs and bloodshot eyes. Then she sees dismembered tiny heads laughing evilly at her. She sees dismembered tiny fingers pointing accusingly. Everything around her screams of bloody chaos and she hears dogs barking loudly.  She tries to scream, but out comes no sound. She stands paralyzed, deeply rooted on the slimy surface and unable to move a muscle. The bloodied objects advance menacingly and she tries to scream again. No sound.

Ma Khuse is used to laundering wet bedding every morning. And every night she stays awake listening for the screams of her mistress. Ma Khuse knows her madam has ghosts tormenting her and she kneels by her bed, fidgeting with the rosary bead in her hand and says fervent prayers for her madam. She pays her a good salary so the Lord should save her generous soul.

Twice she had secretly gone to the seer who gave her holy water that she secretly surreptitiously sprinkled on madam’s bed and clothes when she was away. She had also smuggled the seer to madam’s bedroom to burn incense when the holy water had failed to chase away madam’s ghosts. When madam came back in the evening however, she had complained of the foul smell that emanated from her room and had reprimanded Ma Khuse for negligence. Ma Khuse had apologized and swore it was the fuse that blew up.

Madam had slept on the couch that night and Ma Khuse had prayed that madam would go back to sleeping in her room before the powers of the incense weakened but madam had slept on the couch the entire week till she was sure her room no longer was reeking of burnt matter. She had told Ma Khuse that she had allergies to particulate matter. Ma Khuse did not understand her but she had shaken her head sadly. Madam still cried in her sleep and wet her bed. Madam was beyond the gods now.

Uzi the gateman had come charging into madam’s house on his first night at the job when he had heard Madam scream her head off. He had held his heavy rungu in one and his mean-looking kisu on the other. He and Ma Khuse had run up the stairs to madam’s room. Despite his arthritic knees and asthmatic breathing, he had charged around fiercely looking for any culprit that had made madam screech like that. There was no one. Ma Khuse had known better then, for she had been with madam for a long time. She had held madam gently in her arms until her sobs had subsided and then led Uzi outside and told him all about madam’s ghosts. Uzi had spat a rich sputum on the ground and told Ma Khuse that madam just needed a man by her side who knew which of madam’s buttons to press to elicit a different kind of scream. Ma Khuse’s screams can also be heard some nights when the gateman cannot be seen at his post.

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The phone rings jolting Pinta from her reverie. It is the tenacious news people still. They have been hunting down Pinta for interviews for ages, harassing her PR team even after she had dropped some hints that she would not be taking any interviews from them any time soon. Media attention is one of the things Pinta does not care much about. Not that she would have anything to tell them about her success story anyway. She knew it would do more harm than good, throwing a carcass to the vultures; she would be torn asunder and pecked away within no time. Her drive comes from her need to punish herself ruthlessly for mistakes made in her twisted past. Pinta has no uterus and for her lack of the crucial woman organ, she compensates what she considers a handicap with tons of success. Her accomplishments are a vengeance to those who her dark fury forever will simmer against, unto the grave.

Pinta lies on a narrow bed violently clutching the edges of the stained sheets. She steels her gaze at the flickering light bulbs hanging overhead. She feels the death cold metal slowly prodding her insides, poking and shoving flesh. She clenches her teeth and growls but she remains still on the bed. The cold prodding metal has found its hold and she feels her insides being yanked out. Blackness. She comes to in the same musty room with the flickering overhead lights. A stout nurse walks in and hands her two red pills and a blue one. “Swallow. Two days and you’ll be ready to leave madam. But you will have to pay us more, there were complications.”Pinta’s gaze just remains impassive and the nurse shakes her head sympathetically at her. There had been many like her before but she was special, nothing like they had dealt with before. The fetus was fully formed and determined not to leave the comfortable insides of its mother. It was a baby boy and it had been yanked out with the womb.

Indeed Pinta had tried all means possible to get rid of her unwelcome stomach many times before she finally resorted to the shady underground “Dakari Hosiptals”. She had drunk a bottle of bleach and passed out but the pregnancy had persisted. She had gone to the cattle shed and fed herself loads of cow dung to no avail. She had ended up with excruciating stomach pains but just not without a pregnancy. Finally she had run up and down the hill many times and hit herself in the abdomen with crude objects but she still could not miscarry the burden she now wore fully in her belly. Then her mother had noticed the changes and had known. “There will be no fatherless children in this house. You cannot tarnish my good name.” and with that the door was shut on Pinta’s face. But Pinta’s father was not content having her outside the house. He wanted her purged of the family name and chased away like the elders would a bad spirit. He had set the dogs upon her and Pinta had sped away faster than the gold medalists she now watches on her 62” inch television set. Many are the times she had regretted not letting herself be mauled by the canines.

Judas had been no different. He had instructed Pinta not to show her face at his doorstep ever again and gave his watchman stern orders not to let the harlot in. The watchman had whipped Pinta away from the homestead. She had pleaded, cussed and promised to sue Judas’ savage ass. She had threatened the watchman with police action but all she could hear from the other side of the gate was just derisive laughter from Judas and his watchman. She had cried bitterly until the wells of her eyes ran dry. She had thought their relationship was real but she could have known better what to expect from a man with a name like that. Pinta had had enough. This had to be the end. It was dusk and she was cold. She stood at the edge of the highway and took a few steadying breaths then took a few steps to the middle of the tarmac lay down and waited.

The headlights took forever to appear. Pinta fervently said a prayer and tightly shut her eyes. “I think this girl is trying to kill herself.” Pinta slowly opened her eyes and saw two pairs of kindly eyes peering down at her. “Why don’t you just run me over and go away?” she whispered. The kind couple exchanged glances and lifted Pinta from the ground. Whatever love and warmth Pinta was deprived of by her folks and Judas, The Olives were never short of but Pinta could not accept all that affection. All she wanted was to be punished and she believed she deserved it. One cold night she had sneaked out to the more dilapidated parts to “Dakari Hosptal” and when she’d come back two days later, The Olives had asked no questions but had wanted to know if she was interested in a scholarship. Pinta did not have to think twice. Her mission was clear, vengeance. How? Success.

Of the Information Age and its Rage by Watiri Mwangi

Unknown Man is still the most extraordinary computer of all. John F. Kennedy

We are living in real time, digital transmission and the internet have reduced time and distance for information distribution across the globe. I must say, even Zinjanthropus (if he ever existed) never saw this coming. However, the greatest challenge of a growing internet community has been the level of integrity of information provided. Wars are being fought, governments have been overthrown, marriages broken, lifetime bonds created and revolutions succeeded on the online platform.

An artist's impression of fast super-fast internet

My lecturer has issues with blogs (sometimes I tend to think he’s talking about hogs, maybe it’s the way he pronounces it.) He views them as non-authentic and unreliable for academic purposes. While this is true, blogs aren’t all that bad, or are they? This is relative depending on the type of information you are offering on your blog. Volumes of information have been produced and reproduced for the online audience. Websites and blogs are doing everything, leaving no stone unturned to boost traffic to their sites.

Masaku sevens had been a hot trending topic recently, photos and stories were constantly posted on blogs and gossip sites. One photo caught many people’s eyes, a couple doing the dirty in their car, an alleged highlight of the Masaku Sevens. However, the site was quickly silenced when followers and readers revealed that the photo was from a club in Westy late last year, I wonder how many more lies had been circulated by the site. The ends justify the means, they would ultimately argue, and yes they still had a lot of traffic on their site.

Propaganda has also had its fair share of exposure in the internet. The protracted Israeli-Palestine war has been fought with armed warfare. However, the internet has become a propaganda warfront. While we understand the weight of the war and the value of the lives lost, we must device better ways of soliciting global support. Someone deliberately takes a photo from the Syrian war and posts its #PrayforGaza. Multiple letters have also been distributed incriminating Israeli P.M Netanyahu on a propaganda basis. Former Egyptian leader has been a victim of similar circumstances in the war. The racist letter from Netanyahu describing blacks and Arabs as an inferior race was a fake and a remake of former South African president P.W Botha during the apartheid period. The Arab Spring was one of the positive outcomes of the internet. The activists used multiple platforms to organize and solicit support towards a revolutionary change in the region.

Funtoo.com's illustration of how a joke may be received differently by internet users

Back home, the tribal warfare and negative stereotypes are always fought on blogs, Facebook and Twitter. While the 2013, elections were relatively peaceful on the ground, the internet was a tribal warzone, to date. It is not rare for a blog post to be turned into a tool for tribal critique and stereotyping. Internet nationalism has also fundamentally grown with KOT constantly telling off other countries when wronged. While I am proud to be Kenyan, the wars are fundamentally taken a tad too far. While it is wrong mistreating Kenyan players or secluding Kenya, the Tweefs end up being vicious exchanges of the different cultural and physical components existent between the countries.

Ultimately, the buck stops with anyone who is using the online platform. We are very quick to add our insights and comment on the issue at hand without due process of thought. We consciously make the choice to share, post, trend or make viral videos. The unlimited exposure and platform the internet provides is a double-edged sword. The fact is Big Brother (no relation) might be watching but lacks the capacity to control information. Control is the last thing we want anyway. So before you hit that post, share, send or comment button, look into the authenticity of the information and the rage it might create.