The life we lived

The entire house stank. An acrid smell permeated the air, a stench of ammonia and excrement from the overflowing septic tank outside the window, mixed with the smell of too many unwashed bodies co-existing in a space meant to be inhabited by one, at most two people. Stale deodorant. Sweat coated with dust and dirt. Down the narrow unlit corridor lay the kitchen, the door to the left stood ajar to let in some fresh air. Instead, every time I inhaled, I caught a whiff of vegetables that were no longer so fresh, and fruits that were in different stages between overripe and rotten. As I lay down on the thin mattress in our corner of the room, enveloped by all these smells, that to me signified the depths to which I had sunk, I was surprised by the wave of gratitude that filled my heart.

I’m afraid. Are you?

To all Kenyans: Be afraid, be very very afraid. The violence is spiralling beyond control, it seems to be getting out of the politicians’ control as well. As they dither and drink tea, the protesters who started out as spontaneous demonstrators are becoming organized gangs, out to cause havoc. The victims who were caught off guard are recovering, planning and executing revenge attacks. The people who were preaching peace above all else are becoming disillusioned and taking sides. War is not an event in itself. It is a series of events, ever growing in magnitude until all else disappears and all we have left are the victims. I’m very afraid for this country. I just wish I knew what I could do to change the course of these events. My heart is surely breaking. What should I do?

Where are the happy African stories?

I’m not what you’d call an avid reader. However, last year in November, I decided that I needed to read more African stories, preferably told by Africans. So I started on a journey that took me to nearby Uganda, not so near Rwanda, and distant Nigeria and Zimbabwe. Reading the stories, I felt drawn to those countries. I understood the people, the lifestyles, the landscapes. I found myself nodding and thinking, ‘true, that’s how it is’. I didn’t understand the violent conflicts though. I could not identify with that. Thinking back now, I may have been preparing myself for the unknown.  I must have been worried about my own country, as were many Kenyans, and wanted to understand something I was yet to grasp. Am hoping to find a happy African story soon, but I’d recommend these books to anyone who wants to better understand how individuals elsewhere in Africa have survived conflicts.

Stupid Kenyan

Stupid Kenyan
What are you fighting for?
Whom are you fighting for?
Justice you say?
Is your dead child justice?
Is homelessness justice?
Is ashes justice?
Justice?!
Stupid Kenyan
This is not justice!

Too much civic education, too little peace education?

One month before the elections, I participated in a series of strategy meetings. Also present was a friend who works in peace building. He came with one message, which he didn’t tire of passing on. Conflict sensitivity should be part and parcel of any programme planning that an organization does. By the second day of deliberations, he was beginning to sound like a broken record, and I could see that some of the participants were getting a little tired of it. We talked again in December, discussing some of the reasons why selling conflict sensitivity as a way of working was so complicated.