Singing for the Motherland (Patriotic Songs since 1963)

It’s that time in Kenyan history again
Independence

A rugby win, a marathon gold

Bloodshed or famine or terrorism
Tears that bring the country to the edge of despair 

And sometimes hope
The edge, not the end

Till it brings forth an ode:

The National Anthem by Thomas Johnson Kuto Kalume (1963)

Kenya Nchi Yangu by Kakai Kilonzo (1979)

My Land is Kenya by Roger Whitaker (1983)

Daima by Eric Wainaina (2001)

Coming Home by Nameless (2011)

Kenya We Pray by Varied Artists (2011)

We Are One by Varied Artists (2013)

What does it mean for a society if common tragedy is the unity force?

In the days following the terrorist attack on Westgate mall, Kenya witnessed a rise in patriotism. Simply browse the major newspapers and social media sites to see this outpouring of Kenyan-ness. We are united by common grief. As a researcher and a Kenyan, I am attuned to such expressions of unity, because more than showing us how we react, they show us the context in which we react, and why we react as we do. While writing for Africa Youth Journals, a Kenyan doctor, Paul Bundi Karau, summarized his observation as follows:

Amazingly, neither tribe, nor party, nor riches or poverty transcended the unity of Kenyans during this trying moment. Everybody became a brother, sister, mother or father. Any enemy became everybody’s enemy. Any friend became a friend for all. 

Kenyans reacted with unity. Some of my friends remind me that what we are/were experiencing is not unique. A similar phenomenon erupted in the US following 9/11, when all Americans (who like finding ways of dividing along party lines e.g. recent US government shutdown) banded together in solidarity against a common threat.

And indeed, this phenomenon is not unique to Kenya either. In 2011, during our worst famine yet, we started the initiative Kenyans for Kenya and raised over 600 million to support Kenya Red Cross efforts. This year, we have done the same. We face our common tragedies with patriotism, as evidenced by the messages and acts of goodwill, and the millions raised through the #WeAreOne campaign. We face our common tragedies with patriotism. I underline common because the same can’t be said for all tragedies that happen in Kenya, especially the ones that occur along ethnic/tribal lines, read 2007-08 post-election violence. What does it mean for a society if common tragedy becomes the uniting force, if some tragedies become less important than others?

I’d love to hear your thoughts.

http://www.kenyan-post.com/2013/09/some-creative-photos-that-show-united.html

http://kenyastockholm.com/2013/10/02/kenya-we-are-not-one-no-we-are-not/ 

Stereotypically Kalenjin?

I am in Java, in Nairobi, we are drinking coffee then he tells me:

I like Kalenjin chicks like you you know, there’s something about you girls, you understand family you know, community. There’s no way I’ll expect you to be wearing a top that’s showing your cleavage, there’s just something about the way you’ve been raised.

I am in Oasis, in Eldoret, my favorite restaurant from my childhood days, and I’m taking pictures of the surroundings, remembering the corners and crevasses, the hideout spots, when she sees me, and asks me where I am from:

Are you Kale?

I think for a second.

I laugh.

No…hapana…

Ama wewe ni Mkikuyu?

I laugh again.

No…hapana…niko na damu nyingi. I say. I am mixed.

Ei kweli? She asks. Her colleague is seated next to her, and she looks at my skin then she says, Wewe ni Mkale.

Mimi ni mixed. I insist.

Anyway, wewe ni msupuu. You are beautiful. She says finally, and I turn away, amused. So this is where the conversation was going.

I am in Kisumu, I am panicked, I have just lost my purse and I think I dropped it in a tuktuk that I boarded from Oginga Odinga street, so I rush there and meet the tuktuk men and explain my angst, and the chairman assures me that he’ll get to the bottom of it, meanwhile he invites me to seat on a green Kenplast chair under the shade as he works on my case, calling the driver who carried me John Brown, and speaking in rapid fire Luo, then he later seats next to me, facing me:

Wewe hutoki hapa. You are not from here. He says.

Hapana. No, I reply, my mind elsewhere.

Wewe ni Mkalenjin.

Ndiyo. Yes, I reply, my mind elsewhere. I think of my purse. I think of my Kalenjin mother who speaks fluent Luo.

Usijali, sisi tuko organized sana. Hiyo kibeti yako tutaipata saa hii, halafu lunch utatununulia leo…Don’t worry we’ll find your purse right now, then you’ll buy us lunch.

I am still in Kisumu, I am looking for the County Commissioner’s office when he sees me looking around, looking lost. He’s an AP officer and I ask him where the Customer care desk is, so he points to a room that I have already passed, and when I turn to leave he stops me:

Naweza pia kukusaidia. I can also help you.

I tell him I am looking for the County Commissioner’s office, so he points to a tall building at the end of Jomo Kenyatta Highway with a mast on top. Across hapo ni ofisi yake, he says. I will find the building right across.

But before I leave he asks where I am from in a Kalenjin dialect that I barely understand, but I still understand. I say Eldoret. He prods further. Eldoret ono?  Eldoret where? So I say Iten, down there near Iten. Then he says he comes from around there too. And I try to move away, and he points me down again to the building I am now walking towards, and I say kongoi, thank you in Kalenjin, and I walk away quickly.

An everyday story about the ethnic identity markers. Sometimes we don't realize how much we scrutinize each other, or maybe we do and it's so ingrained in us that we no longer notice the many ways we other and categorize each other. This is an everyday story, a common experience. What is yours?

A little bit of reflexivity

There are stories that I will tell, then there are stories that I will never be able to tell. In the past three weeks, my informants have reminded me that Kenya is an unequal society, with the rich living apart from the poor, and the growing middle class constantly yearning for the trappings of the good life. I have met informants who straddle both sides of the divide, who have very different ideas of what it means to be young in Kenya – for some it means having the world as your oyster, for others it means learning to hustle and hustle until you make it.

Like every good anthropologist, I hope my research will spur me into introspection, into looking within my own life to understand the biases that have shaped me, and the experiences that inform my being. Two weeks ago, I met someone who often goes to bed hungry, and it hit me for the very first time what it truly means to go to bed hungry. I have participated in all manner of drives to raise money for starving Kenyans, yet there I was, trying to write about someone whose experience I had only imagined then filed away for another day. I was honored to have met this person, and I shuddered when I imagined that I would never have met him any other way if I had not bothered to undertake this research project. I would never have known the struggles he faces in his daily life, or the great hope that he has in changing his circumstance in life.

Today as I walk into the IDP camp in Nakuru, I am walking with a different understanding of what privilege means in this country, and a deep appreciation of the experiences that continually shape the environments of the young people that I am meeting. There’s the urban life of the movies, the fast life and food, the fancy people with their smartphones and their cars and their Java coffee, then there’s the urban life of the urban poor, the ones whose stories of resilience and friendship I hope I will be able to tell.

What is your urban story?

Making Exceptions

I was sitting down with one of my close high school friends recently, sharing with her about my research project. She mentioned how most people make exceptions when it comes to social relationships. We may dislike entire ethnic groups, but then we single out one person whom we crown as our friend. That one person does not embody the vices that we point out in other people from the said-ethnic group. Instead, we invite him or her into our inner circle, and they become the exception.

Naturally, I know that we can’t make friends with everyone. Each one of us “makes exceptions” based on our values or goals. And even though we uphold a constitution and a shared human ethos that abhors discrimination on a set criteria (depending of course on your geographical location), we still inadvertently (or even deliberately) decide on the people with whom we form tight bonds.

Kenyan society, due to its foundation on ethnic bonds, has grown into one that makes exceptions largely, I believe, because of patronage. Patronage, in the sense that individuals expect to receive favoritism from the big-man in their ethnic group. On a smaller scale, this could translate to receiving favors when you are deemed as mtu wetu, one of our own. This belonging suddenly allows us access from small circles of friendship, to political parties, to business deals, to bonds that stretch entire lifetimes. One of my advisors asked me once to consider the prospect that patronage may indeed be good, for example, when it doesn’t cause discord in a society and allows each one to have access to the national treasure. In such a scenario, I suppose, making exceptions along ethnic lines becomes vital to ensuring that resources are distributed fairly.

In an intimate relationship like friendship, does this scenario also come to play? What do you think about “making exceptions”? Does it feature in your everyday life?

Why Friendship?

I grew up oblivious to Kenya, oblivious to the inter-personal interactions that edged towards inter-ethnic conflict. I am told that my family was caught up in the clashes of 1992, and that I lived with my grandparents in the time that chaos overwhelmed the dusty town of Nakuru. But even then, I was too young for the memories to lay hold of me, to remind me that I could not grow up oblivious to Kenya.

My coming of age moment came in high school, quite late I must admit, perhaps it was also the time that it happened for many people, at least people who fall in my age category, 18-25. I was in Form Four at the time that the 2007-08 post-election violence, and I remember all to well the whispers in the corridors of Bruce House, the prayers offered up to God during 4 a.m. devotions, the observations from my friends, the fears and hopes that engulfed a nation. Everyone, I think, has a story about that time. Everyone who cares about Kenya, who has lived in Kenya, who knows someone close who claims to be from the country. I did not directly suffer any losses. I was safe for the entire period, and I am painfully aware what a privilege that is in this country. Months before, I had talked with a few young children in the area about the politics in Kenya. One child told me how he hated Raila Odinga. This shocked me, and since that day, I have kept wondering how our education has taught us to be Kenyan citizens, how friendship has taught us to look beyond the outer covering to the inner soul. I participated in drama and music festivals in high school, and such experiences filled me with great pride in the beautiful cultural make-up in Kenya. It sounds cliche, I know, but I fell for the narrative, the one that espouses Kenya to be a diverse landscape of peace and tranquility. Until my coming of age moment became coming to terms with this paradox: How we can take pride in both our ethnic and national identities yet live in the midst of great tension?

I have used my time in university to think about this paradox, to view it from all corners that I can, from the lenses that education has allowed me to explore. One of my professors told me to use my life to answer the question that keeps me up at night. I want to answer this question. I want to think and ask and research and explore, use my curiosity to engage friendship as a means of questioning my society, of understanding the place that I have called home for the last twenty-two years. I want to learn about friendships, because I have gained so much from my own, because friendship has sustained me, has allowed me to love someone who could look beyond me, could accept me just as I am, without the ethnic baggage, with the questions that keep me up at night.

I want to learn about your friendships. How has your experience been?