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Kenya At War: “Have We Already Lost?”

Posted on by 3CB
21

On my way to work this morning, I glanced at the paper and two stories caught my attention. One was about Paul Muite suing someone on Facebook, which I thought was hilarious. I don’t remember the details, but Muite was demanding an apology from someone who claimed he coached ICC witnesses. According to the story, if the apology doesn’t come in 7 days, things will go to court. I found the whole thing hilarious and wondered why I hadn’t seen it on Twitter. Apparently, the story did break online. Last week.

The second story that moved me was the one about the war. Yes, in case you haven’t heard, we’re allegedly at war with Somalia.

I didn’t want to write this piece, because it’s a weighty issue, and I don’t like approaching weighty issues with a lack of knowledge. I don’t have all the statistics about the number of troops, the reason behind the war, the ideology at work and all that. But as I trawled my timeline, I felt everyone was missing the point. Continue reading →

#RIPMarkMuturi

Posted on by 3CB
55

I don’t know why this story has affected me so much. I suppose it’s because I feel like it happened while I watched. It started this morning with a tweet from an old school pal. I didn’t think that much about it. I was just glad that Twitter was being used for good. Lately, the Kenyan online community has gained mass, and the world is noticing. We’ve had several worldwide trends, and YouTube even gave us our own page! But too often, Kenyan Twitter Trends [or TTs] are used for malice, jokes, and mischief. So it was nice to see us RTing for good.

Throughout the day, there were updates and more RTs, punctuated by a silly Twitter beef. A group was formed on Facebook and the search continued. Life went on pretty much as usual, and I hoped this little boy would be found. Yes, I know he was 28 years old, but he was @njerimaina’s kid brother, and he was somebody’s son.

About an hour ago, the TT changed. It suddenly read #RIPMarkMuturi. Continue reading →

I’ll Just Keep My Money Here, Under My Mattress

Posted on by 3CB
14

In a previous life [read Dar] we were paid in cash, and we were paid early. So every month on the 25th, I could be seen lugging around a sack handbag with millions of red elephants. Exchange rates are a beautiful thing. Since the money never went through the bank, I had my piles of cash literally under my bed. They’d stay there for a few days before I traded them for a much smaller pile of brown elephants and handed them over to Western Union – with a reason why I was sending ‘their money’ away.

Allow me to translate my gibberish. I worked in Tanzania for four years, and because of the exchange rate, my salary ran into millions, literally. I sent most of my earnings home, but I had to send it home via Western Union. The procedure involved providing a copy of my passport, my work permit, and giving a valid reason why I was sending money out of Tazania. I hate banks.

When I got home, I opened two Barclays accounts because my cousin worked there. I later opened a third one, and merged the other two. Both accounts have no ATM and withdrawals cost 300 a piece, so they’re strictly for savings. Not that there’s much in them to save – last I checked the balance was barely over a thousand. Still, it’s the thought that counts. I have two other accounts – one at KCB for Paypal and one at NBK for everything else. And this is where my trouble begins.

Sometime last month, I needed a withdrawal to buy a good friend lunch. I decided to lump all my errands together and take out enough for  a few other things. I was late for my 9 o’clock meeting, so I was pretty pissed when I got to Pesapoint and found it surrounded by mean-looking men with big guns. Yep, they were loading the machine. I hung around for maybe ten minutes then decided to leave and come back later. Fortunately, my lunch date agreed to take the tab. I love my friends.

Later, I came back to make my withdrawal. I should mention I’m a little bit afraid of ATMs. See, I first used one when I was 12. My cousin had sent me to get 2K out of her account. I stood in line for half an hour … then panicked … and somehow left the booth with her entire salary. I sprinted out so fast the watchman almost stopped me! Of course my cousin thought it was hilarious, but to date, I still shake a little at the ATM.

Pesapoint itself is a trial. It always tells you take out your card and put it back in, and whenever it does that, I expect to hear buzzers and see flashing lights and have SWAT guys crash through the windows! Anyway, I got through that part okay, but while I waited for my withdrawal, the machine … well … it took a lot longer than it should, which was upsetting. Then, it said my bank had taken too long to respond and asked me to take my card. Okay…

I put the card back in and tried to re-do the withdrawal, but it claimed I had exceeded my daily limit. Weird. I still needed the cash, so I crossed the road and tried a Barclays ATM. The VISA transaction would cost me 250, but I needed to pay stuff fast. Barclays informed me that my balance was 20,000/= less, since I had – apparently – just made a withdrawal. WTH? In a panic, I called @TheMacharia, my friendly neighbourhood Financial Adviser, who calmly suggested I call the bank and they would reverse the transaction. I said okay, but in my mind, I was already seeing nightmare scenarios like this.

I got home and hunted down all my bank documents, trying to find a phone number. I checked my ATM card, waiting card, envelopes, bank slips … I even rummaged in the bin for old ATM receipts … but nada. How does bank stationery not have a phone number!?! In the end, I Googled it and got the number. Phew! I called the bank and a nice man said they’d get in touch with Pesapoint and that I’d get my refund in two days’ time. And no, I wasn’t allowed to make another withdrawal before midnight. Sigh.

Two days later, I went to another ATM – still Barclays [it was closer than my NBK, and I was still wary about Pesapoint]. No refund. I called NBK the next morning, and the lady was surprised that I hadn’t been refunded yet. She transferred me to the same nice man who said since it was a weekend, interbank transfers weren’t on. He advised me to call on Monday at noon and talk to Lilian. Okay.

Come Monday, I waited until 12.30 to call. Lilian was very polite. She looked at my account, told me the money hadn’t been refunded yet, and suggested I call the next day, which I did. At this point, I was mentally running through my list of ‘soft loan’ targets because my budget was ruined and the debtors were calling. I was put on hold for 4 minutes, which is no fun when you’re using a cell phone to call a land line. At least the holding music was fun.

I hung up and called again. They apologized and put me through immediately, but the lady couldn’t help. She said when things like this happen, the bank reconciliation process will note that the money is still in the account and refund it immediately. However, she says, Pesapoint has issues with this, and customers have waited as long as a month for the money to be refunded! A month! That soft loan just got a whole lot harder.

I mentioned the saga to a cousin who banks at CBA, and she said when it happened to her [via EcoBank] her money was refunded within 24 hours. Conversely, a customer at Barclays had to wait a month, and that was only after he spoke to 69 supervisors … and blogged about it. Personally, I can’t afford to wait a month for 20K, but it looks like I don’t really have a choice. So the next time any cash checks in – no pun intended – don’t be surprised if I take it out over the counter and keep it safely under the bed. I’ll keep a shotgun there too. I don’t want all my savings being gobbled up by rats.

Crocodiles, Hippos, and Boosting Local Tourism

Posted on by 3CB
1

You know those articles that start with breathtaking sunsets, cascading hills, innocent native smiles and tropical drinks? This isn’t one of them, though it very well could be. When Heritage Kenya asked DR to scope a ranch tour, we were fairly excited. And by we, I mean me, because I’m the one that got the golden ticket. Yay! Preparatory literature mentioned game drives, tents, volcanic lakes, and watering holes, and those are all pretty high on my bucket list, so I was psyched!

The trip was … different … in a good way … and it included alcohol, UFOs, and … artificial nails. The crew consisted of a poet, a journalist, a man, his wife, and me. We started out in a Pajero, but then we insulted a donkey that was trying to cross the road, and in a fit of vengeance, The Universe made our car break down. We tried to push the car about 500 200 75 metres before we gave up and called a tow-truck. The rest of the day was spent in a bar in Loitokitok as we waitied for a new car to arrive. They sent us a silver Rav, and we spent much of the trip berating it.We got to the resort after dark, just in time for a romantic candlelit dinner graced by antelopes, though I was well distracted by the items on the menu.

... um ... crudities ... ?

On Day 2, we visited Gicheha Farm, which was the primary focus of the trip. The farm runs commercially, and it produces seed maize and seed beans. They also breed Galla goats and Dorper sheep on a professional level. Note that seed maize is not the same as maize seed. See, on an ordinary farm, part of the harvest is set aside for replanting. But seed maize is specially grown and bred to give you high quality … um … produce. It’s a long story, but basically, as a farmer, you’re better off using seed maize.

The cool thing about the Gicheha Farm is it doesn’t rely on rainfall. There is a complex system of dams and canals that is tapped to make sure the plants are watered all year round, so droughts have limited effects on produce levels. The animals are also raised in a planned, systematic way so that each month, the ranch managers know exactly how many animals will be born, how many will be slaughtered, and how many will be bred. Male and females animals are kept separate except during the ideal mating time, and young animals are preselected fairly early in life, so you can look at a lamb or kid that’s a few weeks old and know which one will be killed for meat and which one will be kept for breeding. This leads to a consistent, high quality stock that ensures profitability. All animals are organically kept on free range, and they make a mean nyama choma.

The idea behind the ranch tour is to show people the little tweaks they can use to make farming a profit. Nicholas Karanja, the Cowboy of Ziwani, is a mine of information, and he makes it all sound fun. If he had taught me agriculture in high school, I’d probably have ended up in farming. And no, it’s not just because he wore a red checked shirt and Rayban sunglasses. He actually does know his stuff. I asked him why they plant the maize in black cotton soil instead of loam – which is all I remember from my agriculture classes. He explained that the soil was actually vertisol, a kind of black volcanic loam that swells when it’s wet and cracks when it’s dry, and that there are 12 different categories of soil. The red soil I was referring to is oxisol. Yes, I managed to keep my brain out of the gutter. Barely.

In the evening, we visited the Sniper Tree, which has an interesting legend around it. A German woman nicknamed Mama Sakarani dug out the tree, got inside it, and sniped British soldiers for revenge. They had killed her man during the war. Next we had some choma by the campfire and saw the transformation of Stephen Lekatoo, our resident naturalist…

Early Sunday morning I took a nature walk with Stephen. It was a perfectly ordinary stroll, you know, pointing out elephant tracks, spying on a herd of impalas, stopping when some animal roared, standing right next to a crocodile, having staring contests with a hippo – ordinary stuff like that. It was easy to be casual because Stephen was right next to me with his spear, and when you’re watching a massive crocodile and it’s lying there not three feet from you, it’s easy to forget that it can … you know … kill you. Again, the man with the spear helps. A lot.

Voyager Ziwani is arguably one of the prettiest places in the world. We were the only African group there, and I felt very touristy sometimes. I was amused when the Maasai dancing began, and one of the dancers tugged me into the mix. It was fun though. I used my Turkana moves from high school and even remembered the Maasai way to ululate. The dancer that grabbed me was shocked I had done it so well, and said a whole lot of words in Maa, words that may or may not have been a proposal. *shrug* But the thing that really stood out is the tourists. They were mostly Italians with some people from UK, but they all looked so … normal. They weren’t high class or royalty. They were ordinary people doing ordinary jobs, and they had spent all year saving for this holiday. I was really quick to argue that a typical Kenyan can’t afford a resort, but when you think about it, if you really wanted to go, you could save up for the trip. If you can save up for a SONY, a Mac … or a goat, you can save up for a chance to stand this close to a real crocodile …

I guess you’re wondering about the UFO. Well, when we were driving, we hit … something. It had stripes and wings and moved really really fast. It migth have been a bird, or a plane, or even a little bat. Ndeithi thought it might have been a  bwat #NoTypo. Also, on the artificial nails … well, when were chilling at the Rock Villa Pub, this guy walks in with long brown nails and a weighing scale. He said he could give us instant manicures, acrylics, and … um … weight. I was too shocked to take his picture.

I didn’t get my game drive, but we drove through the park as we went to the farm, so I saw a lot of animals. I learnt about farming, and I realized if we implement those lessons, we never need to have cases like this. Oh, and apparently, if you’re ever being chased by a hippo, you should jump over a log. It can’t jump, so it’ll leave you alone. Ndeithi said that, not me, and no, I have no plans to prove it. I went to Voyager Ziwani because I think it’s important to develop local tourism [and because iCon let me.] With the ranch and tented camps being right in the middle of nowhere, it’s a great excuse for some off-road driving. Just remember to check your car before you leave, carry a coolant, and don’t insult the donkeys.

What Would Ruto Do?

Posted on by 3CB
6

First, let me just say this post has very little to do with William Ruto. I saw him on Citizen TV a few nights ago, and he was giving a very passionate defense. I could almost swear the man was crying. He kept listing all his neighbours from ‘that community’. Turns out his sister is even married to ‘one of them.’ In conclusion, he said he can’t possibly have organized to have ‘them’ killed because they’re all so close to him.

And before you accuse me of anything, my little girl is from ‘that community’ and my dad is from ‘that other community’. As for me, well, I do speak a little French.

Anyway, I watched Ruto for a few minutes and ended up deeply confused. I mean, I know politicians are really good actors, and given what’s at stake, he’d have to act really, really well, but I have to say, he had me doubting the ‘hate speech’ I routinely hurl in his direction. I wouldn’t be surprised if sometime soon, he’s sitting in the State House.

But that’s not why I named the post after him. The real reason is.., well.., I’m confused. There are certain situations in life, like these ones, for instance, where you know the thing is wrong but you’re not sure what to do about it. I mean, what’s the appropriate response? That’s how I felt while watching Ruto, and that’s what puts him at the centre of this story.

A few weeks ago, I was walking home from work. It was about 8.00 p.m. and I was walking behind Kenya Archives. I don’t like being in town at night, because there’s too much to pay attention to – cops, loud makangas, blaring horns, lost children, potential muggers – and of course my own thoughts. It’s a well documented fact that I can’t multitask. Of course my pal thinks I can’t possibly be mugged since I have purple dreads and I walk like a guy, but that’s a story for another day.

I always have a backpack with me, and it almost always has a laptop in it, so every once in a while, I’ll look over my shoulder to make sure no one is trying to pluck it out. That’s how I first noticed the guy. He was walking uncomfortably close to me, and it was all I could do not to turn around and ask him to respect my personal space.

But before I could do that, it happened. The guy just sort of .., tripped. Of course I reached for my bag before I turned to see what was going on. As often happens in Nairobi, the crowd had parted for a second to let him fall, then everyone had gone on with their business. I looked just in time to see him take a few steps back and pick a brown envelope. I assumed he had dropped it when he fell, so I didn’t pay much attention. But when I resumed walking, I saw that he was still walking unusually close to me.

I decided to make a sudden stop to see if he was tailing me. [Yeah, I know, I'm paranoid like that.] He bumped right into my backpack, and as I started to give him a withering look, two things happened. He moved into the light, near a matatu, and slowly put the envelope into his pocket. At the same time, a girl in a pink sweater and high heels rushed past me.

I tried to figure out what had happened, but then he came and started talking to me. He said the girl had dropped her ‘mzigo’ and that he was running after her to give it back. As he said it, he took out the envelope, and I saw that it was a tight wad of thousand bob notes. There must have been 300K in there! I gave him a look – I’m not sure what look exactly – and walked away. After all, I was wearing headphones, and it was easier to assume I hadn’t heard him. The man followed me for a few more meters then disappeared in the crowd. I tried to spot the pink sweater lady, but she was gone too.

The incident bothered me all the way home. Who was that woman? Why did she have so much money? What was it all for? Did she know she had lost it? What would she do when she found out?

The girl had looked quite young, though all I noticed were braids, nice legs, heels, and a short skirt. She seemed like a regular Nairobi girl. I felt sad for her because I know how I feel when I drop even a hundred bob, so what about a hundred thousand? What is one supposed to do in situations like that? Grab the man by the collar and take him to a cop? Stand on a pillar and yell, ‘Stop the girl in pink!’ Ask the dude to split the money with you? Incite mob justice then grab the loot and walk away?

I didn’t give the situation much thought until today, when I found 500/= in the office bathroom. I could have used the extra money, but for some reason that I don’t quite understand, I took it to the receptionist instead. After all, if anyone had lost money, she’s probably the first person they’d ask. Well, either her or the office cleaning staff, and they were all standing in reception when I got there, so yay!

I don’t know if whoever lost the money knows they lost it, or if they thought to ask the cleaning staff about it. For all I know someone got a free chicken dinner, and maybe that’s exactly what the universe wanted. After all, I can’t argue with a force that reconnected me with my old friend simply by sending me into panic when the ATM swallowed my money. But I still wonder what we’re supposed to do in situations like this.

It was easy for me to hand over the money and forget about it because it was payday and I had a lot more than 500/= in my wallet. But what if had been mid-month? What if my prepaid meter had been beeping and the baby needed milk? And what about that tightly bundled envelope? What if it had been me that saw the dropped ‘mzigo’ instead of the shifty little man? Would I have picked it up? Would I have given it to the cops? Would I have counted it as a blessing from God? Would I have given it back to charity [after I had used it for profit, of course] or ignored it, pretended I hadn’t seen it, and walked on? I saw a sock in the ladies’ room  once, back when I was an intern. I gave it to my supervisor, thinking he would find out who it belonged to. Instead, he slipped it into his pocket and walked away. Would I have done that with the several hundred thousand?

In an ideal world, everybody would be honest. Lost money would be returned to its owner, lawyers would protect the innocent, cops wouldn’t ask for bribes, and nobody would be killed because of their race, height, or mother-tongue. But we don’t live in an ideal world, and I don’t see what good can come of guilting myself to death. So while I don’t have any answers myself, I leave you with this: What would Ruto do? And.., what would you do?

The Cycles at Sheria House

Posted on by 3CB
17

About a year ago, I tried to get my business name registered at Sheria House. On my fifth visit, the lady at the counter said I couldn’t register the name because ‘Writing and Editing’ is not a real business, and neither is ‘Freelance Editorial Work.’

This year, I had to go to a different wing of Sheria House – the birth certificate section. I’ve already told part of this story here, but I never quite concluded it.

I was trying to add a name to my baby’s birth certificate. I started at Sheria House, and I was told to go to the tent at Uhuru Park. All birth certificate matters are handled there. I got there at 8.45am, and there was a queue but no staff, so I did a few laps and came back at 9.15. The queues appeared and disappeared … which means people stood in line until somebody broke off, then they’d scramble to the counter until the staff struck [striked?] and made them queue again. I was given a form, which I filled , then went to the cashier. He told me to go to Counter 2.

I should mention, by the way, that the counters are just four giant half-open tents with desks in them. It’s way less stuffy than government offices. There’s plenty of good ventilation, lots of grass to sit on, vendors with sugary stuff and cold drinks, and if all else fails, you could just fall into the nearby lake. Continue reading →