A Christmas Carol, Part 1

Sambo started reading:

“A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!” cried a cheerful voice.

It was the voice of Scrooge’s nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach.

“Bah!” said Scrooge, “Crap!”

“At this festive season of the year, Uncle, ” said the gentleman

“It is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the Poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessities; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, Uncle.”

“I wish to be left alone,” said Scrooge.

“ I don’t make merry myself at Christmas and I can’t afford to make idle people merry. If they would rather die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population”.

Scrooge went straight to bed, without undressing, and fell asleep upon the instant.

Ebenezer Scrooge

Sambo stopped, for a minute, and looked at Zole.

She was seated at the green couch, lovingly rubbing her baby bump. She was very fond of doing this, and took smiled her charming Nubian smile whenever she did so. Feeling Sambo’s stare, she looked at him and shot:

“I don’t get it Sambo, who is this Scrooge guy, and who is his nephew?”

Sambo, liked such questions. He was fond of explaining things and learning along the way too. It was partially how he had come to speak all the languages he could. He touched the scars on his forehead, his gaar, as if counting them one by one. Then, he responded:

“This Dickensian story is a classic tale of redemption, how a man can redeem himself of his sins. In our case, however, Scrooge is not just a man. No, Zole, Scrooge is the government. And he is sleeping on his job.

And his nephew, those are the well-meaning citizens. As for the poor, they are the many Kenyans in need of food and jobs. These are the basic necessities and comforts of life we all desire…

…These Christmas festivities they are talking about, that’s agricultural research. While everyone else, other governments are in a festive mood and investing in it, our government would rather sleep, Zole.”

Zole resumed patting the bump and asked him to carry on. She was listening, she said.

He moved away from the bookshelf and sat at his brown couch.

“Only one thing Sambo, how can a person such as Scrooge be redeemed?”

He took a deep breath before answering:

“As you know Zole, I like the Japanese people. They have this wonderful saying that, ‘Unless an idiot dies, he won’t be cured'”

She responded:

“I guess that is what must happen to Scrooge then. I remember what you told me about the ghastly ghosts of Gedi Ruins“.

“Yes, Zole, only death will redeem him. Let me tell you something about the 3 ghosts that come afterward”:

He then flipped a couple of pages, and resumed his reading:

When Scrooge awoke, it was so dark. The curtains of his bed were drawn aside. Scrooge, still half asleep, found himself face to face with the unearthly visitor who drew them:

It was a strange figure—like a child: yet not so like a child as like an old man, dwarved to child-like proportions. Its head was flaming, and its body looked like a candle stick.

“Who, and what are you?” Scrooge demanded.
“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”
“Long Past?” inquired Scrooge:

“No. Your past.”

The Ghost of Christmas Past & its Extinguisher Cap.

At this point, Sambo stopped reading and looked at Zole. She stared right back, intent on hearing what he had to say next:

“You see Zole, we come from somewhere. Scrooge has not always been as anti-Christmas festivities as he is today. That ghost, will take him to a past in which Christmas still meant something to him. To a past where the agricultural R&D meant more.”

She beckoned him to read on:

“Rise! and walk with me!”, the Ghost of Christmas Past said to Ebenezer Scrooge.

“I am a mortal,” Scrooge responded, “and liable to fall.”

“Worry not, for I am with you,”

As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood upon an open country road, with fields on either hand.

“Good Heaven!” said Scrooge, clasping his hands together, as he looked about him. “I was bred in this place. I was a boy here!”

They stood in front of a gate labeled: “Kenya Agricultural and Livestock Research Organization”.

They walked within the compound and then the the Ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door and asked Scrooge if he knew it. “l Know it!” said Scrooge. “I was fed and watered it myself. In return, it educated, and fed, and clothed me!”

They went in.

Note: In the 80s KALRO was still known as Kenya Agricultural Research Institutute (KARI).

The sight of an old man in a lab coat and sitting behind a grey microscope stirred Scrooge. He cried in great excitement:
“Why, it’s old Agro Researcher! Bless his heart; it’s Researcher alive again!”

The Old Researcher stood up, and went towards a chart which indicated all the varieties of crops they had isolated at the center. He, then, went towards an old CRT screen and switched it on. In it, between continuously moving horizontal lines, were pictures of smiling farmers in the then productive cotton and sugar industries. The economy was growing.

He switched it off.

Then, he waltzed back to near his microscope and opened a folder whose cover was written: The Kenya National Bureau of Statistics. It was dated sometime in the 1980s. The Kenyan population was around 20 million. The funding for agricultural research, extension and promotion as a portion of the national budget was around 11%.

That was quite respectable compared to the less than 5% it presently is, against a population fast approaching 50 million.

“Spirit!” said Scrooge, “show me no more! Conduct me home. Why do you delight to torture me?”

“Spirit!” said Scrooge in a broken voice, “remove me from this place.” “I told you these were shadows of the things that have been,” said the Ghost.

“That they are what they are, do not blame me!” “Remove me!” Scrooge exclaimed, “I cannot bear it!”

“Leave me! Take me back. Haunt me no longer!”
In the struggle, Scrooge observed that the Ghost had an extinguisher cap. By sudden action, he grabbed and pressed it down upon its head with all his force.

The ghost was vanquished, and Scrooge fell back into a deep slumber.

Scrooge extinguishes the Ghost of Christmas Past.

Sambo stopped reading. He was now sweating, as if the ghost in the book was haunting him too. Then, he started speaking to Zole:

“Dementia! Selective amnesia! Scrooge is willfully extinguishing the past. He does not want to look back at what our agricultural research once was. He does not want to explain himself as to why these industries have collapsed. And, dear Zole, that is the Christmas as KALRO alone. I haven’t touched JKUAT and Egerton”.

Zole, turned her face towards him and asked:

“What about the Ghosts of Christmas Present and Christmas Future?”

He closed the book, stood up, and took her hand again. Then, he led her back to the balcony:

“It is too late for that now, let’s go watch the Christmas lights first, shall we?”

The Man from Kakuma

“Ooh Sambo, can you believe it? It’s Christmas already!”

Zole stated, as the two of them stood side by side on the balcony of their house. It was almost midnight and the full moon reminded Sambo of that day Death sent Nagini to pick him up. It now seemed like a very distant past, a memory to be forgotten.

But how could he?

The things that Death and Dementia had shown him in those journeys were too traumatic to be forgotten. They had to be acted upon. And this was coming from a man who had his fair share of bad memories he always wanted to suppress.

But these were not among them. There had to be solid, tangible agendas on how to resurrect the agricultural industry. He saw the danger that lay ahead if that was not done. And here he was, thinking of his second agenda.

“Sambo dear, kindly elaborate, You had told me that Agenda 2 was research and development”. She started.

“Yes I did, sweet Zole, and I will tell you in a moment!”

He took her hand and led her back inside the house. It was warmer here. The radio had long stopped playing the songs that scored his ideas. After she sat down, he went to the bookshelf and bent. He started moving his fingers between the books.

Sambo is a very tall young man.

His father was a Nuer who came into Kenya to escape the civil war in the then Sudan. His mother is a Burundian Tutsi who came into the country under similar circumstances. They met at the Kakuma refugee camp in mid-1994. He was 20 and tall. She was 18 and taller.

A shared trauma joined them together. Both had experienced the deaths of all their immediate family members. They also somewhat shared a culture. They were both from some of the proudest long-horned cattle-rearing communities on the continent.

They would talk about the cows their families once possessed. What the names of their favorite cows were. They cried and laughed in each other’s arms, reminiscing about their homelands. As the ghost of Egdar Allan Poe said, they loved with a love that was more than love.

On 24th December 1996, Sambo Lera was born.

His parents came from the tribes with some of the tallest people on the continent. He naturally, inherited this and was well over 6 feet tall by his 15th birthday. That was 2011. That was the year Nilotic South Sudan finally won its independence struggle from the Arab North.

It was also the year that his father took him back home for his long-overdue scarification ceremony. The rite of passage that year was unlike any other, for it coincided with the birth of a nation.

His ancestral land was finally free, so they say. The 3-striped flag indicated its birth into nationhood. The 6 parallel lines, the gaar, on his forehead, indicated his birth into adulthood.

Sambo

Sambo Lera has never been to Burundi. All he knows about his other homeland are the stories told to him by his mother. The only thing that closely links him to the land of his mother is his name.

His mother named him Sambolera in honor of the song by her compatriot, diva Khadja Nin. It is said that the nurse who did the entry did not hear it correctly and instead wrote it down as ‘Sambo Lera’. And that way, it stuck. At the refugee camp, everyone knew his as Sambo

To Sambo, Kenya has always been his home.

This is where he had born. This is where he had grown up. This is where he has been schooled and socialized. He was particularly gifted with languages.

Apart from speaking his native Kirundi and Nuer, he was fluent in the national Kiswahili and English. On top of this, he could converse in Turkana, Kisomali and Dinka. He fiddled with some Arabic, learnt from the Muslim Somalis.

Coupled with his sharp wits, and huge frame, Sambo easily stood out among his peers. This caught the eye of aid workers. That is how they were able to organize for him a scholarship that landed him at Upper Hill Secondary School in Nairobi.

He was there on a basketball scholarship.

That was in the year 2009.

It was his first time in the city, and he loved it. For someone who until then had known nothing other than the tents and tents and tents that dotted Kakuma, this was a breath of fresh air.

He enjoyed his time in school and would spend days sharing his experiences with his parents and younger sister whenever he went back to the camp for holidays. His grades were also up, and generally, life was good.

Soon after Sambo’s scarification and the independence, his father started making plans on how to move the family to South Sudan. In his view, there were more opportunities there compared to living in the refugee camp.

His mother saw the sense in this too, and in August 2012, he bid them farewell.

He was on holiday from school and helped them pack their few belongings. he hugged his small sister, Usha, and said goodbye. His mother gave him the bearded necklace he always had on, and said goodbye. His father ran his hands over his gaar, and said goodbye.

That was the last time he saw them, forever.

Sambo completed his high school studies in December 2012. Thereafter, he was employed by the aid agency as an untrained teacher at the camp. It was a great time, and he was able to save some money, but not enough to fund his travel back to South Sudan.

Nine months later, he was accepted into the University of Nairobi on a scholarship funded by the same aid agency. He enjoyed his first semester, running from September to December of that year. On December 14th, 2013, he was readying his bags for the long journey to Juba. He was excited at the thought of seeing his family once again.

Then, just as he was heading to the bus station the next day, a notification popped up on the screen of his Ideos Phone. Another civil war had broken in his ancestral land. This time it was not between a united Nilotic South against an Arab North.

It was between a divided Nilotic South.

The Dinka and Nuer were at war.

Sambo tried calling home, but no one answered. He waited for a day and called again. Nothing. He waited for another two and called. Nothing. He tried some three days later. Nothing. The line was dead.

So was his family.

He only learned of this weeks later after heading back to the Kakuma Refugee Camp. Through the aid workers, he discovered that his family had been gunned down in their Juba home. The house was burnt to the ground. By their fellow Nilotic countrymen. Such is life.

These are memories that Sambo always tried to suppress. Just like his past criminal life, he hated thinking about it. But how could he not? Right now, he was focused on Zole and his unborn child. He was more focused on the future following his journeys with Death and Dementia.

He was more focused on locating the book he needed to explain his second agenda on how to pump life into a dead or dying agricultural industry. After some ten minutes of searching, he finally located it.

He stood upright, showing his wife the book.

“Here it is Zole, let me sing you a Christmas Carol!”

In his hands, he held Charles Dickens’ ‘A Christmas Carol’.

The Kakuma Refugee Camp.

The Great Farmer King, Part 1

“Nakamua ka farmer saa zingine ka Kidiss

Kanyari mbegu pesa ngapi nipande family tree?

Haujaskia the best things in life are free..?”

The tune playing on the radio had switched from Damian and Nas’ “Patience” to the gritty Sheng’ raps of King Kaka. Zole, still standing, stared at it and started speaking:

“No Sambo, that’s not it. I know you’d like to see the Promised Land, Sambo. But, have some Patience, won’t you? Please press for me the next button”.

Without speaking, Sambo turned around and moved the green-covered book from his left hand to the right one. Then, slowly, he pressed next:

” Sijawai get comfortable

Hii sio kitambi nimestomach issues

My prayer tu ilikuwa niweze kugrow up

Hawakutunyunyuzia maji basi hatuwezi komaa

All along wametushow sisi ni others, sisi ni etc

Na huyu politicians ni mjinga, ndani ya SUV anajificha aje?

Ile panya inauma ikipuliza si imepatikana

Actually sisi ndio wajinga aje?

Na kura bado tutapiga aje ?”

Sambo’s body started shaking, he clenched left wrist into a tight first. The right one tightly squeezed the green-covered book he was carrying. Zole moved towards him, and placed her right hand on his shoulder and pat-pat-patted it.

“I know Sambo, I know you are angry. I know what stomaching issues feels and looks like. Those malnourished kids with their drum-like stomachs always portray it. They are just round enough to look perfect on those posters seeking donations”.

What ‘stomaching’ issues looks like.

She stopped patting him and stood akimbo, starting to shake in anger too. Now it was his turn to pat-pat-pat her shoulder. Still, she continued speaking:

“Yet the people who were supposed to feed, and ‘water’ them in the first place are hiding behind tinted SUV windows. These children’s stunted growth is a result of these beasts’ actions and our lethargy against calling them out. I know the anger, Sambo, but this is not the time for that…”

Sambo had just stood there the whole time, watching her chest rise and fall as she expressed her thoughts. These words, he thought, came straight from the heart. They had experienced no delays at a roadblock where a certain organ asked them to part with some fifty shillings.

No, they skipped that blood clot and the threat of a stroke that accompanied it.

They flowed through her rich Nubian blood uninterrupted and lept out her mouth in quick blasts. But now, she had relaxed, she looked at him, and said, calmly:

“Sambo, please press next”.

He did so, without asking speaking a word.

King Kaka started rapping again:

“Bad times hukuja, na believe me bila warnings

So najipanga for the weather, jua tua ya jioni”

The moment this verse started playing, Zole started moving around excitedly. She walked towards the green wall with a yellow door leading to the kitchen, stopped for a minute, and then went in. From afar, Sambo heard her slurping the soup, tasting it.

“Aaah!”, she said, voicing her satisfaction with its taste.

A moment later, she came back, still holding the black, wooden spoon. It was ornately carved in the old Yoruba style. It’s handle portrayed a feminine figure, blessing the food which shall be served using it.

Before reaching Sambo, Zole stopped under her grandmother’s portrait, looked up and smiled. All this while, she was absentmindedly, lightly, striking her left palm with the spoon.

She thought of how her grandmother always told her that in this land of beasts hiding inside tinted SUVs, commonly known as “East kwa Mabeast”, one needed an extra pair of eyes just to survive.

Then, she came back to where he was standing, and spoke:

“That’s the song Sambo. That’s the tune that speaks of illustrates the necessity of that agenda you want to tell me about!”

Her husband, just stood there, looking at her. He wondered. Yes, he had told her that he had a Big 4 Agenda on how a dead or dying agricultural industry such as Kenya’s could be brought to life. But, he knew, he had not mentioned any of them to her. How did she know what he was about to speak about?

“Hawaamini spider Web zikishikana zinaweza funga simba

Kaka Sungura laundry tunableach ukabila na ufala…”

The tune kept playing and playing.

She had read his mind. He knew it, she was too good at this. After a year serving as his psychoanalyst and two years of intimate relationship, she could almost always predict what he would say next. He loved it. And hated it. And then loved it some more. Damn her, sweet Zole.

She spoke first:

“I know it’ll be perfect Sambo. And no, I have not read your mind. I just read the book.”

She said, while pointing at his right hand.

It was only now that Sambo remembered that he had been standing there, carrying the green-covered book for nearly 30 minutes. He remembered that he had declared that the first of his 4 agendas was contained within its covers. he looked at it.

“The Adventures of Thiga”, read the title.

He flipped a couple of pages and landed at what he had been looking for all along. But before reading from it, he spoke to Zole in a voice she had never heard before.

It was as if he had been possessed by an otherworldly force. Those journeys with Death and Dementia must have really affected him, she thought.

He spoke:

“My dear Zole, you won’t believe what Death told me the first time we met.”

She stepped back a little and went back to the seat that she had previously occupied. then, she gestured at him to go on.

“ I am nothing if not fair. I am not violent. I am not malicious. I am a result.”

Zole looked at him, dumbstruck. Still, he continued speaking:

“Those were his exact words, my dear. You see, King Kaka is also right Zole. Bad times come, without any warning. No one wishes for them, but everyone feels their impact.”

He held his breath, for a minute. Preparing for what was coming next. She held hers, too. He went on:

“We have seen many bad times Zole. We have seen famines. We have experienced flash floods. We have seen agro-industries collapse before our very eyes, Zole…

… But, like Death, they are a result. Maybe, like the rapper says, they had no warnings. But, when you think about it Zole, does anyone need to tell you that the sky is blue for you to see it?”

She shook her head?

“Then, Zole, like Death, these bad times are a result.”

This time, she chipped in:

“A result of what, Sambo?”

 

“Well, that’s easy. You heard King Kaka say that he prepares for bad weather, didn’t you? That’s exactly the point, these bad things are a result of a lack of preparation. They are a consequence of poor planning and leadership…”

Zole was now lovingly patting her baby bump, listening. Then, she spoke:

“So, what’s next Sambo, what’s your this Big Agenda of yours?”

He opened the book and started reading:

For a long moment, mother and son stood in silence. Then Thiga’s mother spoke:

“Look at the land below us as far as you can see. It’s very beautiful. There are pastures and forests, lakes and rivers. The country is very rich. It is a land which produces good crops and fine, fat cattle. What would you do if you were the king of that country?”

As he was about to read the next line, Zole suddenly jumped up and started running into the kitchen. He threw down the book and rushed after her.

This Agenda 1 of his could wait.

Till, till after he knew what was going on in the kitchen…

A screengrab from King Kaka’s ‘Swahili Shakespeare’.

Sambo Lera’s Big 4 Agenda

Sambo Lera felt good being back home.

It had been weeks since he left, riding on the shoulders of Nagini. He had missed the warm smile of his wife, and her warm laughter. And the warmth of her fond hugs the moment he stepped on the threshold. And her warm, well, he did not share more than that.

He had missed the warmth of his home. It was a one-roomed apartment in Buruburu estate, that which was once a leafy suburb of Nairobi. This was no longer the case, and it was mainly the abode of wannabe mid-class Kenyans like himself. Still, a home where the heart is.

And he enjoyed every moment he was there.

The gate leading to Sambo’s home.

He had missed the warmth of the food in his home. Spending time with Death, and later on Dementia, had  eaten a part of his soul. He knew it, something in him had died. he wanted to, so badly, resurrect him. The sweet aroma coming from the kitchen would do the trick, he thought.

Zole, his dear wife, was a pure-blooded Nubian woman.

She had the features of her ancestors and held on strongly to most of their cultures. Especially the culinary ones. She sat across the glass-topped wooden table, staring at him. Pity was wildly roaming all over her face, jumping from one eye to the next. He stared past her, avoiding her pitiful stare.

Their marriage had been a contentious issue between their families. It was especially the case, with her family. It was a respectable Muslim one. He had been raised a Christian, but was mostly known as a heathen these days. He had once even been baptized and christened John Sambo Lera.

It is known, that on the day of his baptism the charismatic televangelist declared:

“From today henceforth, you shall be known as John, for I see a future in you. Like the disciple of Christ, you shall prophesy to men of all nations a revelation. I see the spirit in you John! Arise, and be born again!”

She, on the other hand, was born and bred a Muslim in the slums of Kibra. She, was expected to marry from her own. ‘

“This was the norm”, his father stated. His goatee, dyed red with henna, shone as he demanded her to honor tradition. Her mother begged her to reconsider, even threatened a curse. So did her aunts.

Her three brothers promised him a broken jaw. And a shattered hip, or two. And crushed balls, for having the balls to seduce their only sister.

Still, she married the reformed criminal.

A couple of months after his baptism, John Sambo Lera started veering off his faith and within a year was back to his old ways. He went back to the old life of thuggery. In his view, there is only so much that a young man like him can try his hands on before being drawn in by the allure of quick money.

He was almost killed by a mob, twice. That’s why he had no left eye. That’s why he had a limp. The only thing that saved him was prison.

That is where he met Zole, his wife..

A potrait of Zole’s grandmother as seen on their wall.

That was almost 2 years ago, in a past he often chose not to remember. But she did, her brilliant mind never forgot a thing.

She was a psychology student at the University of Nairobi at the time. She was sent on assignment at the Kamiti Maximum Security Prison as part of her training. She was in her final year of study. He was serving his final year of his 5-year prison term.

She served as his counselor, and hence a friendship was born.

You see, convicts at the Kamiti Prison often have cell phones.

No one knows how they get in, but some reliable sources claim that they go through the ‘middle passage’ located in a valley Sambo Lera did not care to share.

They often use these phones to call ‘lonely’ members of the general Kenyan public and  get ‘tokens of appreciation’ from unsuspecting citizens in form of money transfers.

But, that was not the case with Sambo. His phone was dedicated to calling and texting Zole. Despite the professional boundary that was being crossed, she cared not. They kept in touch for a year, and was there to receive him on the day of his release.

He had been trained as a carpenter within those high walls, and soon got a job through her connections. And that is how he rebooted his life. He was yet to reacquire his faith, and wondered how different his life would have been if he had never abandoned it.

But that was the past, and he liked thinking about the present. And the future.

He stared at Zole, his wife, she looked exactly like her grandmother- whose potrait was hanging on their corrugated iron sheet wall. The only thing that she was missing was her grandmother’s gold-coated, large nose ring.

She wore it, once, on the day of their wedding a year ago.

He looked at her  growing baby bump, and stated:

“I missed you, Zole, did you receive my letter?”

She, glad that he had finally spoken since arriving a day before, smiled, her warn Nubian smile, and said:

“Yes Sambo, I got it. I, and the baby, missed you too”.

She said, while rubbing her the bump on her purple dress with yellow stars.

“You must have seen a lot of Death in your journeys, I’d like to hear what it taught you”.

“Patience, my dear Zole”, he began his speech.

“I will tell you soon enough”.

The lyrics are quoted from ‘Patience’ on this album.

He stood and went to the Sony Radio, placed on top of a cupboard that also doubled up as a bookshelf. He pressed it on, and an instant later Damian Marley blasted off the speakers:

Some of the smartest dummies…can’t find food for the starving tummies
Pay no mind to the youths…cause it’s not like the future depends on it

He listened for a bit and fast forwarded the song a bit, till Nas jumped in:

I held real dead bodies in my arms, felt they body turn cold, oh
Why we born in the first place if this is how we gotta go? Damn !

He allowed the playlist to go on as he bent forward and skimmed through the shelf. He spotted ‘Duniani Kuna Watu’ by Said A. Abdula, but skipped it. He saw Marjorie MacGoye Oludhe’s ‘Coming to Birth’, but left it alone.

He saw Ngugi’s ‘Njamba Nene and the Flying Bus‘, but ignored it this time.

He saw the Bhagavad Gita, stacked alongside a the Bible and the Quran, but couldn’t touch any of them at that moment. He saw ‘Mzimu wa Watu wa Kale‘ sitting beside ‘Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows’.

He run his fingers over ‘Walenisi‘, that which he had been gifted by Dementia, but stopped himself from picking it. He stared at it for a minute, still tempted.

Finally, he got to small children’s book with a green cover and a murderous ogre drawn on it. “The Adventures of Thiga”, read the title.

He then, declared:

“Dear Zole, if my journeys and that song taught me something, it is that we were not just born to go this way. There is a way to feed the starving tummies…

There is a way to cater for the youths who no one cares for, as if the future does not depend on it. We can resurrect the agricultural sector…

I have a manifesto for it, Zole”.

She stood up, and looked at him, in awe. Her eyes shone with anticipation.

A halo seemed form around his clean-shaven head. Maybe the charismatic preacher was right after all. He was destined to make the Revelation.

He raised the book over his head and said:

“Call it Sambo Lera’s Big 4 Agenda, and the first one is right here!”

 

The Raven & The Book Thief

I never thought I’d ever meet Death, at least while I was alive and kicking, buckets.

Of course, I have heard of other people meeting him, or is it her? I’m not sure, so let’s just call her him.

I have been told tales of people who saw Death passing by their window at night. A friend told me of how she saw him swimming against the current along a dark river.

I have heard stories about people who met with him face to face. Many of these claim that he has a shadowy appearance and you can never really see into his eyes. This is the impression I have always had of his appearance.

He only appears at night, they say, in dark cloaks made darker by the dark night. A very very very old red priestess one told me that such nights are dark and full of terrors. And as we all know, the fear of such terrible nights is quite contagious.

On his thoughts, not many are available. To many people, Death is the most vile creature to ever roam the earth. He robs us of our loved ones, and makes others suffer between his realm and this one for years.

I tried to ask those who have met him once what his thoughts were, but they were too scared to respond.

The few that actually tried trembled at the very mention of his name, and shut their doors on my face. Some I pressed further, pushed a little. But even they, simply shouted:

“Nevermore!”

Fear is extraordinarily contagious, they say.

In my thirst for knowledge about him, I tried reading a little but not many books yielded what I was looking for. It seems that even paper pages are afraid of telling his story.

I was at a loss, until I came across “The Book Thief”.

I generally have an aversion to stealing, but I did that one time. It’s title was too tempting to ignore. I thought it would be interesting to steal a book about a book thief.

I felt that it might tell a story that I was interested in. And it did so, for it gave me an impression of how Death thinks:

Here is a small fact-you are going to die.

Does this worry you? I urge you- don’t be afraid.

I am nothing if not fair.

Please, be calm, despite that previous threat.

I am not violent. I am not malicious.

I am a result.

I read and read that book for almost a month, discovering all of Death’s interests, aspirations. I learnt of what he disdains and what he is empathetic about.

All these came as a surprise, but none was more surprising that learning of his fears. That was some seven years ago. Thus, this desire to know him more subsided for sometime.

Well, that was until I attended that Nigerian Funeral, earlier this year.

Upon coming back to the country, the tide of thoughts about him came back strongly. The waves were sky high, chasing after the bloody full moon.

I tried stopping the thoughts, but they kept coming back. Night after night I fought the nightmares. The day dreams were even worse. I feared, in the words of Edgar Allan Poe, that remaining too much in my head would make me lose my mind.

I did not lose it, I think.

I kept pondering over what Death must be like after all this years. Like humans, did he change over time? Did he age? What did it feel like, the first time he took a soul?

Was it like breaking one’s virginity? Did it feel good, or was he filled with guilt afterwards? Was he Satan’s relative? Who were his assistants?

Who or what is killing Agriculture and her children?

The more I tried stopping this tide of thoughts, the more king waves I attracted. Especially at night.

I resigned to my fate. I gave up, and thus:

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “Only this, and nothing more.”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Giant Raven of the saintly days of yore;

“Nevermore!” The Raven, sitting lonely on the placid stair, spoke.

Only that one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

“Wretch, Prophet!” I cried, “thing of evil!, said I – prophet still, if bird or devil!

And the Giant Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid stair, just outside my chamber door;

“Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”

Never, for a moment, had l thought I would be one of those people who were unlucky enough to encounter Death.

But, strange things happen to everyone. And, mark you, I have had my equal share of strange ones, but nothing compares to the events of that night.

Despite my inner protestations, the word that Giant Raven muttered reminded me of those termed by people who had met Death.

I decided, despite my fears, to climb atop its soft, black feathers.

A moment later, it took flight.

I did not know where this journey would end, but I took it anyway. The icy midnight wind froze my face as it flew upwards, into the dark clouds.

The bloody moon shone on. It was July 27 2018, that night of the eclipse.

“Nevermore!” The Raven shouted.

We flew on, towards the Lang’ata Cemetery.

To meet Death.

Standards Bodies for Agriculture in Kenya

He stood out from all the other executives.

It was at the Panari Hotel, off Mombasa Road in March 2017. Before presenting the awards, one of the top executives at the Kenya Bureau of Standards (KEBS) stood up to make the keynote speech. I was seated on the front row, among the other contestants of that year’s edition of the KEBS National Standardization Essay Contest.

I thought he was a Congolese Sapeur.

He has ‘fried’ hair and his eyes were hidden behind pink-rimmed designer shades. It was matched with a pink three piece Ozwald Boateng suit atop a gold-colored shirt and tie of the same hue. Perfect.

A Sapeur in action.

I look further down and spotted heavy sharp-toed shoes made of reptilian skin. A hint of pinkish checkerboard socks can be seen here and there as he moves, slowly, toward the microphone. As he does so, the DJ, instinctively, starts playing Papa Wemba’s Rail On:

Machozi yangu yote namalizika
Mie nitalala na nani
We unaenda
Mie mpaka ni mawazoo ooh ooh
mie mpaka ni kuwazawaza
we unaenda
unaenda
kama ile njia yako enda
kama ni maisha yako fuata
wee dada
rail on…..

The executive, intentionally, walks so slowly that it takes the entire two and a half minutes of the song before he reaches the microphone. He grabs it with the left hand, revealing a thick silver ring adorned with a green ruby. Perfect.

Watching him, one would never have guessed his marital problems.

He reaches into his right pocket, takes out a brown wooden pipe and places it in his mouth. Its metallic rim glows as he, slowly, lights it. It reminds me of Opiyo’s pipe. All this time the entire hall is silent, holding its breath. He puff puff puffs away, and blows up a cloud of smoke. Then he starts speaking, in a deep voice:

“Bless you DJ, Bless you…” He makes the sign of the cross as he looks at her, smiling. She, smiles back, coyly. He speaks on…

“You must have read my mind. That is our Papa, may he rest in peace. As a proud member of the Society of Atmosphere-setters and Elegant People, I am really happy to hear his voice. Bokul lives on…. ”

He pauses for a minute. Now he faces us, the crowd. He puffs once again and blows the smoke upwards before speaking some more:

“You know, Papa Wemba always said that to be a Sapeur one must have standards. La sape is not easy, you must have an understanding of what the rules are. You have to be well-shaved, have well-styled hair, be nicely scented and well-dressed. Perfect.”

I was beginning to wonder what his fashion tendencies had to do with our being here. He puffs soundly than ever before and blows a ring of smoke upwards. He then removes his shades, and puts them into his right trouser pocket.

Legendary Rhumba musician and The OG among Sapeurs.

He also puts the pipe back into his pocket and starts speaking again:

“Listen carefully, most of you are here for the award ceremony. I therefore won’t take much of your time, I just have a few things to say. As most of you know, the agribusiness sector is surging and hence some of you might be interest in entering it at any point in the value chain. Even my own wife, I think, did so”.

The people looked bored now.

They had become accustomed to his showmanship, even enjoyed it. He ignores the blank stares and removes a piece of paper from the inner pocket on the left side of his coat. He starts reading it, in a louder voice than the one he spoke in earlier:

“There are several Kenyan standards bodies in agriculture too. These have been established to ensure that the food that reaches the consumer is safe for consumption. I will tell you what these are and briefly describe what they do. I challenge you to look up after we are done here:..

1. Kenya Bureau of Standards (KEBS)

Naturally, we have to be in the picture. We are the overall standards organisation and offer 4 Standardization Marks of Quality that food manufacturers especially need to be aware of: The Diamond and Food Fortification Marks are meant for agro-processors to authenticate the validity of their products.

The Import Standardization Mark is relevant for those who intend to import machinery or chemicals that they need for agricultural operations. Furthermore, one has to acquire the overall Standardization Mark in accordance with the Standards Act, Laws of Kenya.

2. Kenya Plant Health Inspectorate Service (KEPHIS)

This is a government parastatal whose mandate is quite straight-forward: To assure the quality of agricultural inputs and produce to prevent adverse impact on the economy, the environment and human health. If you intend to import inputs such as seeds or export produce, then these are the people you need to visit.

3. Pest Control Products Board

This is another government body that plays a vital role in the agricultural sector. It works closely with the Agrochemicals Association of Kenya to regulate the importation, exportation, manufacture, distribution, transportation, sale, disposal and safe use of pest control products and mitigate potential harmful effects to the environment..”

As he concludes the speech, he wraps his paper and puts it back into the pocket from which it came. He takes out the shades, puts them on, and walks away. As he does so, the DJ, instinctively, starts playing Papa Wemba’s Rail On:

Leo mpaka ni mawazo ooh
Hapo unaniacha ohh
kama we unaenda
we unaenda
we unaendaaaaa

Rail on, Rail on, Rail on
think thats the way x4

Rail on
think that’s the way.

Coutersy: https://www.mattlumine.com/?lang=it/

Courtesy: http://epokal.com/

 

The Business of Breeding Beans

Entomology was my first love.

Over the years, I have had many other love interests. Other than Kiswahili, there is no subject that I loved more than Biology. I easily scored a straight A in it on my final exams. Even then, I knew that I would either end up as a Linguist or a Biologist focusing on insects.

But as a certain Beatle said, life is what happens to you while you are busy making other plans.

I somehow ended up in an agricultural engineering course. Along the way, I became a blogger too and was part of the Media Team for the recent CGIAR Big Data in Agriculture Convention. After the event, I went to collect my dues at the International Center for Tropical Agriculture (CIAT) in Nairobi’s Kasarani area.

It was exciting for me.

You see, CIAT offices are located within the International Center for Insect Pathology and Ecology (ICIPE) headquarters. The site is a lasting reminder of the pioneering work done by my village mate,  Prof. Thomas Odhiambo.

I arrived at the gate last Friday at around 10 AM and was immediately drawn in by two wrought iron statues of rhinoceros beetles.

I have a small collection of these insects and if I ever become an Entomologist, I will focus on them. Or butterflies, I was feeling them in my stomach.

Damn first loves, you never forget them.

Soon after, I was at the CIAT offices. Instead of going away after collecting the cash, I chose to hang around and discover what they are up to. During the convention, I never really got to attend any presentation by someone from the organisation and so I thought this would be the perfect opportunity.

I moved from office to office until, all of a sudden, I bumped into the Peruvian.

“It’s good to see you once again amigo!”

He spoke with a heavy accent, while patting my back with his tiny, plump left hand. We had met the week before at the gala dinner and quickly became friends.

All I had to mention was that my all time favorite book was originally written in Spanish. He, at the time, told me that he’d been working on a bean project at the institution.

“Come, friend, let me show you what we are up to…”

He is a short man with a plump stomach and probably in his mid 40s. Juarez walks rather fast and I have to keep up despite having longer strides. We pass three offices a narrow hallway with lime colored walls and a grey floor tiles. Throughout the stretch, the walls are filled with technical charts and pictures of CIAT scientists on the field.

I see one with Juarez holding a bag full of pulses, bursting with life.

“Here we are my amigo, come in!”

He jovially says as he opens the door into his office. The black desk is in a mess with only two things visible from the mountain of papers: A picture of his wife with their two daughters and a small Madonna covered in blue-white veils with a pink rosary thrown over it.

He asks me to go stand beside him as he settles on his brown swivel chair. It squeaks a little as he does so, crying from all the weight it has to bear. He laughs at it, and opens switches on the computer. The screensaver is an imposing image of Machu Picchu.

“You know what amigo, mis abuelos built this majestic thing, I’ll take you there when you visit Peru! Before that, though, let me tell you about the business of breeding beans”

He opens a several PDF reports and quickly takes me through each one, while speaking in a more serious tone:

“There are many reasons why crop breeding is done. Many times, it is to create new varieties that can generate higher yields in the face of environmental issues. Often, a certain taste is desired. At times, is for the sake of aesthetics especially in high income economies…”

He reaches into his navy blue pants and takes out a white handkerchief. He squints his large eyes and wipes sweat off his brown, plump face. As he does so, I notice that the hanky has an image of the Powerpuff Girls fighting Mojo Jojo.

I, strenuously, hold my laugh as he puts it away and continues:

“At CIAT, we focus on developing new varieties for increased income, nutrition and resilience. This is particularly important for our home continents given that Africa and S. America are the highest bean consumers and among the poorest regions…

In the past 20 years alone, we have facilitated the release and uptake of more than 500 different bean varieties” .

Courtesy: International Center for Tropical Agriculture (CIAT)

He holds his breath to let it sink in. The chair squeaks again. He laughs at it, then finishes with:

“It is all about business, mi amigo. The breeds are meant to meet market demands. High yielding breeds allow farmers to produce more and generate more income. At times, some of these varieties are specifically designed for canning, fast cooking and certain nutritional needs such as iron deficiency.”

He stands up and tells me to think about it.

I do so, and conclude that crop breeding is advantageous to farmers. When availed with the right varieties, they can be able to generate facilitate food and nutritional security.

At the same time, they will grow their income levels, one bean at a time. One breed at a time.

Keep breeding!

The Man Who Bred Bread

It is almost 2 AM and we are at the rooftop bar of the Trademark Hotel, off Limuru Road.

After a hectic week at the 2018 CGIAR Big Data in Agriculture Platform Convention, the after party was a welcome relief. I was seated on a comfy blue couch, overlooking a calm infinity pool.

Beyond it, the Nairobi skyline shone in all its glory.

Courtesy: Mutua Matheka

A little tipsy, I was just seated there smiling sheepishly at the dark sky and brilliant lights. Just as I’m about to slip into a stupor from all the free-flowing drinks, she stands in front of me. There’s just something about a charming young woman that sobers one up.

“Do you know that we have a wheat shortage to thank for all this?”

She asks, while pointing at the beautiful cityscape. She’s wearing a yellow kitenge dress with silhouetted motifs and a fishtail curvature that sensually grabs her figure. I’m still not listening as she repeats the statement.

I am focusing more on her cute, tiny eyes. They are what drew me to her at the gala dinner a couple of hours ago. I want to say something, but the stupor returns, I fall back on the couch.

My father always warned me and my siblings against alcohol. Now I know why.

She walks away. As she does so, she shouted, in her mellow voice:

“Go and find out who bred bread!”

I woke up the next day tired, recovering from a hangover I should never have had in the first place. Its around midday and I am at my place, with no memory of how I even got there. My near-empty stomach is crying, wailing, for help.

Quickly, I jump out of bed, stumble a little, but find my balance and head to the kitchen.

The moment I saw that a loaf of bread on the kitchen table, all the memories came trooping back. The hunger somehow disappears and I rush towards my computer. Her last statement made no sense given that bread cannot be bred. I wanted to find out what she really meant.

A couple of clicks later I came across a name: Norman Borlaug.

It was surprised that I had never heard the name before. This is despite the significant role the American agronomist has played in plant breeding. It is impossible to speak about the science of it without mentioning his name.

I was even more excited given that the blog series I am currently on is entirely about breeding. Opening several other web pages revealed a ton of information about the Nobel Laureate.

Through what is often termed as the Green Revolution, he was able to save an estimated 1 billion lives. That is not an easy feat, and it takes a special kind of person to pull it off. That got me even more psyched up and I went to YouTube to view a couple of documentaries on him.

So, how did he do it?

Borlaug on a field visit.

Wheat, alongside maize and rice, are the three most important food crops. They serve as the staple foods all over the world and a shortage in any one of them is of great concern. The East African famine of 2011 was due to maize shortage. The Great Chinese Famine of 1959-61 was due to a severe shortage of rice.

In the 1940s, Mexico was heading towards the same direction. The wheat production was extremely low and farmers could not manage to produce enough to even feed their own families. A combination of factors including fungal diseases and land degradation led to low produce that left the country in a precarious situation.

He moved to Mexico in 1944 and took charge of a wheat improvement program jointly funded by the Mexican Government and the Rockefeller Foundation. Dubbed the Cooperative Wheat Research and Production Program, it served as a precursor to the International Maize and Wheat Improvement Center (CIMMYT).

Borlaug quickly set to work and created a team that was focused on achieving the three primary objectives of breeding: Disease resistance, robustness, and high productivity. In under five years, they were able to breed a variety of wheat that met all these characteristics.

Furthermore, they further refined it by breeding for semi-dwarfism which made the stalks stronger and hence capable of holding more produce. This lower height also made it suitable for mechanization of wheat production. Within some 20 years, Mexico became self-sufficient in wheat production, and soon began exporting.

He replicated this success in Pakistan and India which were also facing similar situations. Most of the wheat that is farmed commercially these days bears characteristics that are the result of his work. Production of wheat products, therefore, still heavily relies on his pioneering work.

This means that, in a way, he is the man who bred bread as we know it.

Alongside the International Rice Research Institute (IRRI), CIMMYT became among the first agricultural research centers brought under the umbrella of CGIAR (Consultative Group for International Agricultural Research). The event that she and I met in was one organized by CGIAR.

Turns out she was right about this, too. We did have a wheat shortage to thank for that beautiful night.

One Banana, Years of Solitude

Ursula did warn them, she really tried.

All of her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren knew about it. She never ceased to warn them, till the very day she went into the moist soils of Macondo.

She always told them that those who inbred will give birth to iguanas. If not, their children will grow a pig’s tail.

But they never listened.

One of them even asked a soldier, “Can a man marry his own aunt?”.  He responded with, “… We are fighting this war against the priests so that one can marry his own mother!”

And that is how it went on, despite Ursula’s warnings.

Love and desire, like they always do, plotted against logic.

From one generation to the next, they bred with one another. The mistakes of one generation were repeated in the next as brothers married sisters and aunties conceived with their nephews.

Eventually, the last child among the Buendias of Macondo got a pig’s tail. His name was Aureliano, son of Aureliano Babilonia and his aunt Amaranta Ursula.

It is not her family only that she told about the dangers of inbreeding, though.

When the Banana Company first set foot in Macondo, she did warn its agronomists. She told them about it.

She made it clear that if they were to focus on only one variety of the plant, then they will face the same fate. At some point, the plant will have certain limitations, especially against diseases.

Profits and convenience, like they always do, plotted against logic.

They, like the members of her large family, never listened. The Banana Company built a railway line and cleared large tracts of land.

They planted thousands and thousands of hectares of mono-culture Gros Michel bananas. The demand in North America and Europe was the key driver.

This makes some sense since cross-pollinating one banana plant with another was out of question. Their flowers do not allow for that.

Therefore, the company chose to focus on a variety that gave the most yields, and hence returns.

On top of this, they exerted the massive influence of their home government and extensive capital to achieve their business objectives. That included elimination of other cultivars.

They even massacred thousands of Macondo people, just to prove a point.

Thenin the 1950s, forasium wilt (the Panama disease) began its rampage.The fungus destroyed almost all plantations owned by the Banana Company.

In the face of this threat to their operations, the organisation started to look into a new variety that they could produce. And that is how the Cavendish cultivar became the most commercialized banana.

With a massive marketing campaign, the company popularized the variety and pushed up demand. To ensure uniformity of produce, the company continued with its practice of extensive monoculture plantations.

This was bolstered by the fact that it was more powerful than most governments of the time and controlled 90% of the banana market.

This, from an economic point of view, was a genius move. Having a uniform plantations means that you can manage them more efficiently.

This made the whole enterprise more profitable and over time the practice was spread in banana plantations all over the world.

From a genetic point of view, however, it is exactly what Ursula warned against.

The bananas that were planted from one generation to another were essentially ‘inbreeds’ of one another.

Almost all the Cavendish bananas that are stocked in supermarkets today are clones of those cultivars first propagated in Latin America by the Banana Company.

And that is where the danger lies.

As Ursula said, inbreeding strengthens the bad genes in the family, exposing it to dangers such as growing a pig’s tail.

Now, bananas cannot grow tails. However, they are susceptible to certain diseases. A new, stronger strain of the Panama disease is on the rise and can wipe out all Cavendish bananas.

A bunch of Cavendish bananas

This one banana cultivar has enjoyed years of solitude as the mainstay in the fruit market. Since they are all clones of one another, the disease is likely to make them go extinct.

Already, some plantations in Africa such as those in Mozambique and others in the Middle East have already been destroyed by this aggressive fungus.

That is why inbreeding is discouraged not only in humans but also in plants. The gene pool is weakened by such measures.

In the chase for profits, however, this is unlikely to end anytime soon.

As for the banana however, scientists are in a rush against time to identify or breed a new cultivar that is both resistant to the fungus but also commercially viable.

There are hundreds of banana varieties to choose from, but it is a tough job nonetheless.

In the near future, bananas could look very different from what we are used to now. So, enjoy the Cavendish while it lasts.

A Mozambican Plantation ravaged by the disease (CNN)

Bonsai: The Art & Craft of Breeding

 

Other than my own, there is no culture that I appreciate more than the Japanese.

I am particularly fascinated with a certain creation of theirs: Bonsai plants. The first time I came across bonsais was in my second year of University. It was during the second semester and I was almost giving up with my studies, I found it frustrating.

You see, I have never been particularly fond of Math and Physics. It is weird that I chose an Engineering course thinking that it will have more to do with Botany and Chemistry- which I preferred, and still do. I also desired some Art.

The only problem was that the curriculum was full of Math and Physics units which I could barely comprehend. I needed something that was more in line with where my preferences lay. There was some fast internet at the institution and so I went searching.

One of the first results to pop up was a Japanese name:

Chiako Yamamoto

Yamamoto with her 100+ year old Bonsai

I quickly followed the link on the minuscule screen on my Ideos phone. People often refer to this phone as ‘Idiot’, but the battles it has fought for me, only the Lord knows. I soon learn that Yamamoto was one of the few Senseis in the art of bonsai growing.

A few more clicks later, I located a video of her in her work studio.

She is the proud owner of two greenhouses sitting side by side a few meters away from a main artery in the Japanese countryside. As the first and thus far only female bonsai master, she has been honing her craft for decades.

When the camera zooms in, it finds her hanging a green, square flag in front of her studio. From my limited knowledge of the language, I read out the white Hiragana characters  at its center and conclude that it means “Bonsai shop”. The camera follows her inside.

Instead of focusing on her though, the cameraman, decides to take me on a virtual tour of the store. He moves it around the studio, revealing hundreds of plants. The wooden shelves are neatly arranged and each is filled with all kinds of bonsai trees.

There are curved ones and straight ones; some are on round pots while others sit on oval and square vases. The variety is dazzling, and the colors are simply breathtaking. There is a burst of yellow here and purple there. Reds and greens fill the studio, as do the scents. It is like visiting the rain forests of Congo, only that the trees have been dwarfed to varying heights and twisted into different shapes.

One of her creations

Just when I am about to forget her presence, her voice is heard in the background:

“I can work on bonsai all day long, I can do it endlessly. Time flies by. Bonsai is an art I enjoy doing. To understand its power is to understand the essence of plant breeding”.

Her voice man, its like the sound of glassy water flowing, flowing, flowing along a calm stream. It speaks of wisdom and experience, I hold onto my headphones tighter than before and increase the volume:

“Bonsai is an art form that’s much akin to traditional plant breeding. They are two sides of the same coin. Whereas breeders select varieties based on their nutritional value, appearance, quantity of produce, and environmental endurance. We also do so, but primarily focus on the aesthetics”.

The camera has by now shifted its attention to her and I can see what she is up to. For a woman who is presumably in her 70s, she is quite strong. She, effortlessly lifts a pot containing a green Japanese maple tree whose trunk is beautifully bent.

She pulls it out of its pot and start chiseling its roots as she speaks.

“These tree was planted by my grandfather during the Meiji Period. I have been watering it since I was a little girl. By pruning its roots, I am helping it grow new ones and gain vigor. I have to be careful though, only the unnecessary ones can be eliminated, otherwise the plant will die…

…It is just like what crop breeders do when by selecting more productive varieties and propagating them. They are careful not to eliminate the unwanted ones entirely for there is a day that their characteristics might be needed. The craft of selecting the right varieties and preserving the others is a craft that must be developed by all breeders”.

I check the time bar and notice that the 5-minute video is almost coming to an end, yet I yearning for more. She responds in kind:

“Time flies by, I can do it endlessly. And I think I can feel the importance of time. You can’t grow or breed plants without a sense of ritual or spirituality. It is something all artists have. So when you die, your bonsai or crops will survive you. That is your legacy.”

The credits start to roll as her, her voice,  ebbs like the sound of cold glassy water flowing, flowing, flowing away along a calm stream.