Agenda 4: Value Addition

Sambo and Zole had been standing in front of Nairobi River for sometime now. It was just a few minutes past 7 PM, the darkness having swallowed the sky. Lucky for them, there were those high mast streetlights Kenyans call ‘Mulika Mwizi’ to aid with visibility.

Zole often found that name quite strange, as if the whole intent of having street lights was to illuminate potential thieves, to get them out of their hideouts. Such a bleak way to view life, she thought.

Both of the rickshaw pullers had left by now. Only the man distilling the river’s water to brew the popular Chang’aa drink was left behind. The light from his fire supplemented that from the streetlight, revealing what the two rickshaw pullers had left behind:

On one part of bank, the thick, stinking paste of stool indicated that one of them was involved in the rudimentary exhauster business. They provide an essential service, and extract sewage from the few toilets around the slum, and dump it into the river.

Next in line was the pile of rotting and rotten produce. Most of it was fruits: Bananas, mangoes and avocados. There were also some vegetables, most;y kale and spinach. Houseflies were hovering all around them.

The river’s waters, full of plastic from upstream, struck the paste of stool violently, and started washing it downstream. The pile of organic produce met the same fate, and fruits started flowing along the river.

The waters went, to somewhere where Zole knew they’d be used to grow those thick-leafed vegetables sold in the local markets. Those same greens that are brought to the markets every morning.

The same vegetables that will feed the nation.

The thought of it nauseated her.

She knew, that all she was seeing in front of her was a consequence of zero value addition. And not just the agricultural value addition Sambo had mentioned. She remembered the exact words he had, earlier that evening, used as the vegetable cart pusher moved past them:

“You challenged me on what I’d focus on if I were The Great Farmer King. And so I told you the first three. The fourth agenda, put simply, is value addition. I would support an ecosystem that encourages agribusinesses to tap more into this vital area.

As Death, our long lost friend, told us while observing the river of mangoes and avocados, agriculture is a principal component of a majority of African economies. Agro-processing is one of the industries poised to offer job opportunities to the bulging youthful population and meet demands for processed food.

The continent heavily relies on aid and is a net importer of food despite having the most arable land and hence a viable multi-billion dollar processing industry. Despite potential challenges such as water and energy consumption, it is still one of the most viable solutions to the poverty and employment facing not only Kenya but also other African countries.”

But that was not enough as far as she was concerned. That was Sambo’s dream, if he were the Great Farmer King. And they were noble ideas, she believed in them, and their potential to generate tangible change.

But she also had her ideas, if she were The Great Farmer Queen.

To her, value addition went far beyond just passing produce on conveyor belts, creating pulps or formulating flour. These, she believed, had already been talked about, and there was no need of repeating them.

To her, value addition was something a bit more intimate, something whose lack had created the murk of a river that was flowing in front of them. She often wondered, would deifying the river, as the Indians had done with the Ganges and Yamuna, bring more attention to the need for its reclamation and value addition?

Bathing in the holy waters of the Ganges.

Would it precipitate the required sense or urgency?

The foetus kicked.

“What’s the matter?” Sambo finally broke the silence, while, lightly, rubbing her upper back.

“Walk with me, it’s getting cold. Mother will be worried”.

And so they started their journey back toward her home. The alleys had now grown darker, and they grasped their way for a few minutes before Sambo remembered that his phone had a torch. He took it out of his right trouser pocket and lit the way as Zole spoke on:

“You see Sambo, whenever I step here and see what is happening to Nairobi river, I tend to think that it is the people who need more value addition before we can even think of the agricultural products.

Say, what would lead one to dump raw sewage into a river? What would make another one grow food using those same same waters,while being fully aware of its consequences? Don’t you think, my dear husband, that there is something missing?”

Sambo nodded his head, as they approached a pool of muddied water in front of them. The house was now just a few meters away. She had grown in this area, and easily knew which step stone was real and which one might be a sponge placed by naughty boys.

She laughed, thinking of the day Abdul, her elder brother, plunged into one such pool. The laughter was almost immediately replaced by a somber expression, remembering their childhood prankster of a friend, Mageto.

Courtesy: The Elephant

He would have been 28 today. That was, had his body not been discovered at the City Mortuary 2 years ago. With 7 bullets pumped into his body at close range. The police said he was a hardened criminal, but no one ever came forth to prove it. His sweet 18-month daughter will never know her father.

Well, as the saying goes, “Mazishi kwa wote”.

Such is life, they said, for those with no value worth adding to.

She quickly discarded this thought and spoke on:

“If I were The Great Farmer Queen, Sambo, I would first focus on adding value to the people. Anything else, including adding value to agricultural products, is secondary. You know Sambo, you gotta create a society that gives people the opportunity to achieve their potential.

Without this, your idea of feeding the nation is in vain. It will, at some point, collapse right under your nose. You see, if, say, you, my dear Great Farmer King, provided good sanitation services, no one would have to dump their shit into the rivers.

This, especially, the Athi is the same river whose water you intend to grow crops that you will value add, isn’t it?” Sambo nodded in agreement, ashamed that he had overlooked such an important thing.

By now they were just ascending the last hill and onto a wider space. All along, he had been walking behind her, lighting her path from the back. He caught up with her after two giant steps.

“You need to add value to the people Sambo, that’s the first step. Value addition starts with the people, that’s what The Great Farmer King would do, isn’t it?”

Zole’s home was now visible.

On seeing it, she started humming a familiar tune. They trudged on, she hummed some more. Sambo tried to make sense of the of the song but could not. She saved him from the mental torture as she started voicing the lyrics:

Who can say where the road goes
Where the day flows, only time

They approached the door, and Zole continued humming the song. She loved, it she once told Sambo, because it tells one simple truth of life. That only time can really tell what will really happen: Whether The Great Farmer King will deliver on his 4 agendas or not.

Even as the door opened from the inside, she kept on singing:

Who can say if your love grows
As your heart chose
Only time

The opening door revealed her father, standing in front of it ready to welcome them. He was dressed in a white kanzu beneath a black coat. On his left hand, he held a brownish Misbaha. His henna-dyed beard shone a brilliant red as the light from Sambo’s torch touch it.

He switched it off and placed the phone back inside his pocket. Excitedly, Zole approached her father and embraced him warmly. Then, he stretched his hand towards Sambo and shook his hand firmly.

As the two men walked towards the living room, Zole stared out into the vast, dark slum that is Kibra. Finally, she started closing the door. Slowly, the light started receding as the darkness took over. Even after completely closing it, she, in her mellow voice, could still be heard singing her song:

And who can say where the road goes

Where the day flows, only time

Who knows?

Only time

Only time

Only time.

Tales from Toi

It was around 5 PM now.

The number of customers, which had peaked just a moment earlier, was starting to reduce. Like a receding tide, the women and men and children and stray dogs and carts which had flocked the dirt road between her kios and the opposite row of kiosks was ebbing.

Darkness was coming. A good number of people typically started closing shop by six in the evening, when the last rays of sunlight were bidding them farewell. Zole’s mother, commonly known as Sakina by the market folk, couldn’t wait for that. She needed to prepare her daughter and son in law a meal.

“Here, help me place those tomatoes inside the wooden crate! No, no, not you Zole, sit down and watch out for the baby, let my son here handle this for me” She declared, while standing up and starting to remove vegetables from the display shelves.

Sambo left the stall and started heaping the green, green-red, reddish and red-red tomatoes into the crate, in that order. He moved fast, trying to match her speed. They were soon done and he carried the crate inside the stall.

They removed what was left on the shelves, onions, coriander, ginger, garlic, and an eclectic mix of ground spices bursting with colors and full of aroma. By this time, Zole had left the kiosk was waiting for them outside. Mama Zole removed the apron as Sambo left.

A minute later, she joined them and the three of them walked towards home.

As they walked, Mama Zole reminisced:

“Toi market is a closely knit circle. Everyone knows everyone. A majority of the traders have been there since its inception almost 30 years ago. I know them by name. We have braved the fights for the land on which it sits. They have braved the police raids, the fires, the bad weathers, the the illnesses, and the deaths- together.

As you know, my dear Zole, land is a thorny issue in Kibra. The traders have felt this pain for years, but still we stand. I know the blood, sweat, and tears that have gone into setting up.

This market, they say, sits on land that does not belong to us traders. In the past, the chief used to say that it belonged to the government. But then, the people are truly the government, aren’t we the rightful owners? And so we fought for what’s ours.

The first eviction notice expired on the same day, you my daughter turned a year old. It was at midnight, on 14th June 1996. I can never forget the heavy police presence here on that cold morning. Our stalls were demolished. We lost property, everything.

But, never forget, Zole, we are a people. This was just another hurdle to be overcome in our pursuit of happiness. We resisted the notice, and defied the chief, who had been colluding with land grabbers. But they built up. As we say here, no one can stop reggae. We kept on with the struggle.

That is how, Sambo, we ended up forming Muungano wa Wanavijiji (Confederation of Slum-dwellers). We have members from all over the city. Disenfranchised people from Mathare and Huruma. Others came from Kingston and Soweto. Others from the two Mukurus- kwa Jenga and kwa Ruben. Still, others came from Korogocho and Maili Saba.

By pulling forces, we approached Kituo Cha Sheria (The Center for Law). Finally, we obtained the legal representation we needed to wage the battle. And fight we did, for years. We still do, Zole, we fight on, the soldiers are strewn all over this market…”

“Sakina! Sakina! Njoo!” A woman’s called out.

Mama Zole stopped her soliloquy. She had not realized how far they had walked this past couple of minutes. She looked at where the voice was coming from, and smiled. She led the two of them towards the ancient woman who had called her name.

Nairo was her name. A Maa name that meant Wife, which was ironic as none knew of her husband. At more than a century old, she was the oldest living member of the federation. She arrived in Nairobi in 1954, just 2 years after the onset Mau Mau Uprising. She had seen it all.

She had also experienced pain, lots of it, and her wrinkled face told some of it. Her only child, a son, was swept away by flooded waters into the Nairobi River. Zole was excited to see her, the sweet old lady who always gave her a fruit whenever she came to her stall.

‘To lose a child is not easy’, she stated calmly, ‘Take good care of the unborn one’.

After a quick chat, they walked on. This time they stopped at Regina’s stall. She was another old woman that Zole had known her entire life. Even in her mid-70s, she was still as jovial as she was back in the old days. Back when she run a Busaa club in the depths of the slum.

“I used to sell this traditional beer. We sold it outside and people came together to drink. There was lots of singing and dancing. Musicians would come and play music, everyone had fun. Men, women, young people, old people, girls, boys, it was very social. It was in the slum, but it was fun. Never fighting! Only fun! Fun!”

A Busaa-drinking Session.

They walked on, and met two men.

One of them was an old man almost as tall as Sambo. They, whoever “they” was, called him Mala, for in the distant past he used to sell fermented milk. These days, he run a laundry shop. “It is hard work getting the stench of poverty off these clothes. My secret is hard rubbing with bar soap, Jamaa soap!”, he told them, gesculating wildly while at it.

His companion was the the relatively slender Maina wa Mwangi, but no one called him that. At age 25, he was almost 40 years younger than Mala, and had grown up with Zole. They used to and still, call him ‘Mtoto wa Shida’, for he had a troubled upbringing.

On seeing them, he had jumped up, excited to see his childhood friend once more. He greeted them, respectfully, and Mama Zole asked him about the rumours of his secret wedding to an uptown girl. He laughed her off, and declared: “Am still single but I hope that I will one day meet a beautiful girl from the ghetto”.

By now they were almost near Makina, where Zole’s home was.

They met Margaret, a huge fish monger who was one of the founding members of the Federation. Mama Zole and her were good friends age-mates, having been both born in the early 60s. Zole was familiar with all her 12 children. Her best friend was a daughter of hers, it is though her that she had learnt the language.

“I’m so proud of you Zole, continue working hard and live a better life. The congestion here is a health hazard. When someone gets sick, we all get sick. A fire in one structure gets to all of us. I have always wanted my kids to live in a better environment. I fear for the security of my girls.”

They rounded the corner and stopped in front of Zole’s home. As her mother went in, she asked Sambo to follow her. He obliged. They went behind the house and passed some narrow, muddied paths. They brushed shoulders with smelly drunkards.

They walked for a few minutes before the stench hit him.

It was the sewage Kenyans pretend is still Nairobi River. They stood at a vantage point overlooking it. To their left, there was a silhouette of a man distilling the rivers dark water using an oil barrel.

A little downstream two men were busy tilting a rickshaw. The smelly contents inside the plastic tank it held flowed into the river. Raw sewage it was, Zole had seen it happen countless times.

Dumping of raw sewage into the river (Associated Press).

Further downstream, a solitary man was unloading a another rickshaw. Sambo remembered him from the market. His package was something less sinister, but sinister still. Bang! Splash! Poof! They went. He was pouring rotting and rotten fruits into the river.

It was a river of mangoes and avocados all over again.

“That, Sambo…” Zole said while pointing at the figure, now pushing his cart towards them.

“…Is why that fourth agenda, on value addition, is so important”.

NB: The characters from the market are based on ‘Voices from the slums’, short bios on the members of Muungano wa Wanavijiji. Here’s the original text: https://www.muungano.net/voices-from-the-slums/

Agenda 3: Extension Services

“Welcome, my children, welcome!”

Zole’s mother declared, as she rushed leftwards, and out of the shackle of a kiosk towards them. She, was dressed in the garb of many a market woman on top of her black hijab- a brownish apron with a front pouch akin to a kangaroo’s.

That’s where she nurtured 10 shilling coins into 100 and eventually a thousand shilling notes. Zole had known this apron all her life, its ragged nature told the story of the effort it had taken to raise her and her two brothers.

Where would she be without her mother?

Zole rushed towards her and the two women embraced her for what seemed like an eternity.

“My girl, how is my grandchild doing? Are you feeding it well? Have you been to the clinic? What did the doctor say? Have you seen your father already? ” As usual, her questions came fast and furious.

Zole tried to keep up and answered as much as she can, while still in her tight embracing grasp. Eventually, they let go of each other and her mother proceeded to embrace Sambo, too. His mother-in-law teased him for his great height, as she usually did. He blushed, as he usually did.

Then, the three of them went inside the kiosk. Zole’s mother is a huge mother, and she seemed to occupy three quarters of the room. She stood at the center and pulled from beneath a huge, raised wooden tray and pulled two white plastic chairs. They were old and beaten, after years of use.

Like the apron, Zole had known them her entire life.

“Sit, my children, please take a seat, we have much to talk about”. They did as she asked of them, Zole to her right and Sambo to her left. Then, she proceeded to take sit on her own chair: A green plastic one stacked on top of an older, stronger one made of reeds.

From it, she could reach on the shelves in front of her and arrange any of her products as she wished to. That’s what she did. Stacking a couple of tomatoes on top of one another, moving a few onions from one point to another. Picking up a shriveled carrot and throwing it into the bin beside her. Sprinkling some water on the coriander bunch.

This  went on for a while, until she broke the silence:

“It is a slow afternoon, the customers will start streaming in at around 4 PM. That means we have just about 2 hours to ourselves. I wanted to take a siesta, but here you are now…”

She burst out laughing before finishing her statement, her heavy chest moving up and down, up and down in the process. They joined in, and the three of them laughed and laughed and laughed, until, once again, she broke the ice:

“My son, I heard you were to tell us about this issue of agricultural extension services. I heard you telling my lovely daughter right now that it was your third agenda, do you mind sharing it with me too?”

She winked at Sambo as she concluded her short speech.

He was now more excited than ever. He started touching the garr scarification on his forehead while rocking his left left leg. He looked straight ahead and perceived the ongoing activity:

A pickup laden with maize cobs moved slowly. On it was written the message, in red, “Hang at your own risk”. Four boys chased after it, and hanged on. A girl carrying a bag of charcoal jumped aside to give way to a rowdy boda boda rider carrying a man carrying a live goat. A woman in torn clothes and a toddler on her back walked on, staring blankly ahead.

“Zole challenged me on what I would focus on if I were the Great Farmer King. She asked mw what I would do to prevent the agricultural industry from generating more Poe-like Tales of Death and Dementia. She told me to tell her what my agendas would be. And, mother, I have told her two already. One of these was development of supportive policies. The other one was research and development.

The third one, this which I want to state, is having effective Agricultural Extension Services”.

“Go on…” The two women said, simultaneously.

“There is a great gap in Kenyan Agricultural Extension services. In most counties, the situation has worsened after the agricultural function was devolved. I asked farmers such as Mutio what the issue was and they claimed that before, extension officers from the national government used to visit them frequently.

That no longer happens. I read, and understood that most of the money meant for extension goes into recurrent expenditure instead of extension. ”

He brushed his brow, and went on:

“This needs to change, we need to have a multi-thronged approach that links farmers to ongoing research, however little there is of that. It is what used to sustain the sugar and cotton industries. It is one of the things that sustains coffee. I would set up such facilities for a wider array of crops. It is the only way farmers can tap into the vast economy, particularly the largely ignored yet high value chains such as horticulture, aquaculture and fruits.”

Zole jumped in, and asked him what approach he would take to achieve this. Without breaking a sweat, he went spoke some more:

” We need more Farmer Field Schools, Demand-Driven Extension programs, and Farmer-to-Farmer Extension services. These need to have a broad objective and an equally wide coverage to serve all types farmers all over the country. I would ensure that the extension staff are well-trained, motivated and supplied with the tools they need to perform their services. I will require them to be professional and accountable for their roles.”

“What of the farmers, Sambo, what will they be taught?” His mother in law asked.

He went on:

“The farmers will be professionally trained, according to their needs. Our agriculture at present is very informal and unable to meet the demands of a modern economy. The extension services would train them on, among other things: Efficient water use; integration of technologies and mechanization; improving produce to meet local and international demand and prevent issues such as the emergence of orphan crops; running an agribusiness, and production of applied knowledge”.

He looked ahead once more before switching his gaze to the two women, and concluded the objective of his third agenda:

“The largely top-down approach we presently have will have to be diluted. The extension officers and farmers will act as collaborators to accelerate production and uptake of applied knowledge. The extension services will place an emphasis on facilitating social and economic benefits not only to the farmers but to the general public too”.

By the time he was done, it was almost an hour later and the market was starting to teem with activity. Zole and her mother were still absorbing whatever he had told them. Sambo, on the other hand was still inside his head, thinking about his 4th and last agenda:

Value Addition.

Feed The Nation’s Soul

They were now at Toi Market.

They had come to Kibra to visit Zole’s family. Her brothers had never gotten over the fact that she had chosen to marry a non-Muslim. A self-professed heathen. A convicted felon. A mere carpenter. A man kicked out of the university for criminal behavior.

A man whose guts they hated, but loved how he treated their sister. The hate had dissipated a little, and now he was welcome to their home.

Time opens doors.

And they had many more years to come. After all, she was nearly 22. He was nearly 21. It was a strange marriage, for to many they were far too young to even be thinking of such things.

“This is too rushed.” Many had said.

“Who are they you to decide for us the flavor of our soda?”

They had shot back.

They had been formally married at the Attoney General’s Office on September 17, 2018. That was just three days after Zole’s graduation from the University of Nairobi’s 59th Graduation Ceremony. It was just six months after his parole from Kamiti Maximum Security prison. His probation officer was one of their witnesses.

But now that was in the past, and all he had to think of was the present.

And it was chaotic.

“Mayai boilo! Smokey rojorojo! kachumbari haupimiwi na mtu!” One trader chanted.

“Ua mende, ua panya, ua chawa, chinja umaskini! Dawa ipo!” Shouted another.

A mellow-voiced female one jumped in front of them, saying, “Sasa sistee, hii inakaa size yako!”, while presenting Zole with a cream, second-hand brassiere.

They walked on, without speaking a word.

“Na hakuna mtu hakosangi minyoo..!” The male voice of a recorded advert blasted from a loudspeaker atop a parked Toyota Probox packed with medicine.

A purple matatu featuring a grafitti of Octopizzo and a “Bila pressure kama puncture” line on what was supposed to be the emergency exit moved slowly on the narrow road.

Octopizzo, aka Mr. Ohanga.

Zole loved her homeboy’s music. Sambo related to the song that blasted out of the vehicle’s speakers. Husband and wife, walking side by side in the chaotic Toi market, bobbed their heads away.

Octopizzo rapped away:

“Nikispit, Ebola! Kwenye streets mi Baller!

Ki-E-Sir Hamnitishi, na tena hamnilishi!

Daro niko mabangi, ita Mr. Matiangi!

Noma ni watanicopy, coz boss mi ndio chopii!

Noma ni mi ni refugee lakini sai joh siko kwa kambi!

Noma ni very. Soon. Kikoroboi, natoa kitambi!”

They didn’t even realize how closely they were walking beside the now packed vehicle. The tout was now busy calling for passengers. All they did was hold hands and rap along, at the top of their voices. Like little schoolchildren, they glowed.

“Do you realize how witty those lines are, Sambo?”, He nodded in agreement.

She didn’t stop there

“In just one line, he paid homage to the legendary E-Sir and thumped his chest. Notice how he rhymes the word bhang with the name of the Internal Security minister who is supposed to enforce the unfortunate ban on the medicinal plant…”

Dr. Fred Matiang’i. Cabinet Minister for Internal Security (formerly for Education).

She laughed as she spoke, exposing a perfect set of milky teeth:

“…To rub it in, he claims that despite smoking it in class, he is still the most brilliant in the rap class, and all others copy his sick, Ebola-infested flow. It’s almost as if he is teasing the same minister, who was formerly in charge of Education and hence preventing cheating as well as smoking of bhang in schools. When you think of it, his name is almost specially designed for Sheng’ punchlines, Matiang’i”

“It’s beautiful rap Sambo, it really is. Beautiful man, beautiful. The wit.”

She quipped it with the Italian Chef Kiss. Perfecto!

Now Sambo, excited as ever, also jumped in:

“That’s true dear, it is amazing!”

They were now past the long gone matatu and were going into a narrow side street, towards the area where the fresh produce sellers were displaying their fruits and vegetables and all manner of spices. It was a party of colors.

“Saidia aki! Saidia!”, begged a weak, trembling voice

The old man, brandishing a grey-green, old bowl was wheeled towards them. It was strange, Zole thought, that the one pushing the wheelchair was a healthy-looking young man. A man capable of working, somehow.

But who was she to judge?

They avoided eye contact, and walked on.

“Mahindi choma! Mahindi safi! Sio ya Mexico! Tamu kabisa! Onja kamami, mtoto ataipenda!”

The maize roaster beckoned them. They, like moths to a light bulb, approached. Zole giggled a little.

“What’s up Zole, what’s so funny?” He inquired.

“Nothing much. It’s just that our being here together now reminds me of that ‘Tom and the maize cob story’. Remember it? From ‘Hallo Children?’ It was amazing, Sambo”

He nodded in agreement, though he had long forgotten the story from that epic, classic children’s book. Maybe they should get their unborn a copy, he wondered.

They walked on.

The song they’d listened to earlier was still playing in Sambo’s mind. Then, he spoke once more.

“I once met Octopizzo at Kakuma you know. He performed there. I love the work that he’s doing with my fellow refugees back there. It’s what happens when you empower a person by supporting them. They grow others, and the economy along with it.”

This is a story she had heard countless times before, but she listened still

“You know, Zole, with such great artistry I’m always surprised when some claim that there is a lack of good Kenyan music. That it’s not worthy to be played on the airwaves”.

“Crap!” She swore, spitting while at it.

By now in the middle of the food section proper. The color splash was now all around them. The rickshaw pullers pulled tons of produce in all sorts of directions. Others hewed overstuffed gurney bags on their backs.

A brown, scrawny example of a dog limped past them. A drunkard lay on the dusty ground in front of them, pee flowing from underneath his blue, black, or were white trousers? They did not have an answer.

Excessive alcohol clouds much.

“Sambo hun, the issue that Kenyan musicians have been crying about is pretty simple. They just need the support of the media to push their music to reach the market. Do you remember how great it was when the likes E-Sir and the Ogopa Records camp alongside Jua Cali and the Calif Records camp first emerged?

The support of the media heavily contributed to it…

…And, that issue of it lacking content, that’s crap, dear. There’s amazing talent out here, all they need is support. Haven’t these guys ever listened to Patricia Kihoro’s Afro Central show? Haven’t they ever listened to the awesomeness that is Taabu by Phy? Are these the people who have ears but do not listen that the Psalmist spoke of? ”

The late, great E-Sir.

They approached the stall they had been looking for.

“You know, Zole, it almost reminds me of the plight of Kenyan farmers. Why is it, like music, we are importing so much food despite our potential? It’s only silly of us to emtirely import both the food for the soul and that for the body. We need a healthy mix of local and foreign cuisines. Feed and nourish the nation’s soul as we work on doing the same for the body”.

She knew where this was heading, so she pressed:

“And what do you think we can do about it Sambo, how do we support our farmers?”

He smiled, and started rubbing his scarified forehead.

“Extension services, Zole, extension services.”

They were now beside the stall. The lady sitting on the other side smiled, broadly. Zole rubbed her baby bump. Sambo spoke on:

“Agricultural Extension Services, Zole. That has always been the third of my four agendas. Let me tell you about it…”

Agenda 2: Research & Development

As Zole went to take her seat, Sambo remembered what she had asked him at exactly 12:15 AM, on 1st January, 2019:

“You’ve explained to me all these ghostly affairs Sambo, it’s quite clear that we need a more comprehensive approach to research and development in the industry. I know you are not an expert, but neither are you a layman. With that in mind, Sambo, what would you focus on, if you were The Great Farmer King? ”

 

 

He sat back on his chair, as if in deep thought and looked at the window. The thick, yellow curtains were drawn, preventing him from seeing what was going on beyond them. But, he was sure that it was dark outside now, and thought that this conversation had dragged on for too long.

He weighed his thoughts for several minutes.

They sat in silence, for the radio was now silent. Zole treasured such moments. There were conflicting explanations as to why people who were just chatting a minute earlier would suddenly become silent and remain that way for long.

Some said it was the sign of a demon passing through the room. However, she preferred the more positive one she had captured in the book she was currently reading: Trevor Noah’s ‘Born a Crime’. It said ‘Relationships are built in the silences. You spend time with people, you observe them and interact with them, and you come to know them.’

And she had spent enough time with her husband to know that he was just about to say something that had been bugging him for long. He’d also read in the book how black South Africans often possessed strange names, due to the parents’ limited knowledge of history.

She remembered the tale of the dancer whose actual name was Hitler. Performing at a Jewish school in Johannesburg, his crew kept chanting, “Go Hitler! Go Hitler! Go Hitler!” They, unintentionally deeply offended the Jewish crowd they were supposed to entertain.

She thought, what if she named their unnamed baby in such a manner? She, realizing what a silly thought it was, quickly discarded it.  She knew her history, and so the child would have a name rooted in it. If female, her grandmother would be reborn. If male, Sambo’s father would be resurrected.

That was the agreement.

“I was thinking, my dear wife…” Sambo started speaking.

“If I were The Great Farmer King, if I were in charge of this nation, if I were the one given the responsibility of feeding the nation, I would focus on a few areas. As you have seen from my two other stories, the first and second Christmas Carols, our research and development is in a very poor state.”

Zole nodded, while patting her growing baby bump.

“That is why, Zole, my second agenda after establishing sound and supportive agricultural policies would be facilitating research and development”.

“And what approach would you take?” She responded.

He, now excited by the thought of pushing his second agenda, started rubbing the ceremonial scars on his forehead. It is a habit that he always did whenever he was excited or anxious.

Right now, he had an idea in mind, and he started explaining his the second of his four agendas:

“The first thing would be to create a university ecosystem that is specifically designed for the support of agricultural research and development. Right now it is claimed that JKUAT and Egerton Universities are the leading institutions in this domain. I think not, Zole, how come in all these years they have not helped prevent the famines that continually strike the country?”

Zole looked on, as he continued speaking:

“Our universities need to be specific and modelled around the approach taken by, for instance, the Dutch Wagenigen University. Zole, I am not an expert in higher education, I have barely graduated myself. But, I think that a scenario where the university is closely interacting with the industry players to drive its operations would make more sense…

…I would create institutions that are specific in their mandate to feed the nation. To feed it with food and raw materials. To feed it with experts in all sorts of agricultural fields. From Agronomy, Engineering, and Geology, to Data Science, Economics and Rural Sociology. All these have to be closely aligned with each other and working towards the common goal of feeding the nation.

…The institution must align its goals with national ones, not just on paper but in its teaching approach. I, sadly, know of agricultural engineering programs that teach nothing other than theoretical models. They are out of touch with everyday realities on the ground…

…The technologies that are taught are stuck in the 80s. How else do you explain thousands of agricultural ‘graduates’ and ‘experts’ walking around in a country ravaged by famine? None of the emerging technologies are not mentioned, or looked into. It is partly why our agricultural industries are dying. Cross-departmental collaboration is almost non-existent. Tell me, Zole, does this make sense to you?”

He went on:

“It is partly why we cannot feed our own. Our universities are doing next to zero in terms of research and development. I know there are strides being made by the likes of Prof. Abukutsa, but they are in the minority. The undergraduates, who are the most energetic and least inexperienced, are not continually, intentionally involved in the few research activities that do take place…

…Ours is a system that kills this creativity and by the time they leave the institution, their ability to innovate is shuttered. And that, Zole, is how nations fail. If I were the Farmer King, I would encourage their involvement in creating homegrown solutions. Building a massive agricultural industry. Protecting our natural resources from the ongoing destruction…

..I would provide them with the tools they need, material and moral, to succeed in helping feed the nation.”

He continued touching his gaar-covered face as Zole chipped in:

“That’s too idyllic Sambo, it’s almost stupid and naive. I gotta be real with you, we are not in an ideal country. Those things are good, but how would they work? How would you shatter the establishment that frustrates such measures?”

He, visibly disturbed, spoke his last statement:

“It seems you’ve forgotten your own mantra, Zole, remember that quote from the Shawshank Redemption?“.

She nodded, and understood, as Sambo prepared to explain his third agenda.

The Lady From Kibra

Zole stood up.

As her husband kept on rubbing the scarification on his face, Zole stood up from her seat. She walked slowly, to the tune of the jazz song playing in the background. She walked methodically, as if on a runway, careful not to bump her tummy on anything. As she approached the radio, she removed her phone from a pocket under her green hijab.

She stood in front of it, and a minute later, a Mandarin-accented female robotic voice blasted from the radio, in English:

‘Ze vluetooth zevice has succesfurry connected!’

“There!” , she thought, now she could play her playlist too. Whereas her husband liked rap, though she suspected he liked no music at all, Zole was drawn more toward Soul and Jazz.

It is not music that first connected them. It was a shared pain. And a shared past in the same university, even though they never met while they were both there.

What really connected them, on top of the pain, of course, was their shared multilingualism. He could play around with 7. She was comfortable with 5 or 6, depending on what you were talking about.

She taught him some Nubi and Luhya, sometimes Kikamba. Living in such a multicultural slum had taught her much.

He taught her some Nuer and Kirundi, sometimes Somali or Oromo. Growing up in a multinational refugee camp had taught him much.

They loved switching effortlessly from Kiswahili to Arabic. From English to Sheng, and back. They loved listening to songs in all these languages, it was beautiful.

She often wondered, which tounge will their baby speak first?

They, like an isiXhosa word, clicked the first time they met. She was glad to meet a convict who could match her intellect. Whereas at first she was dejected, She started looking forward to her rounds at the Kamiti Maximum Prison where she was doing her internship.

Psychology students, the dean said, must be able to confront the realities of prison life. And what that does to one’s mind. She always remembered the movies that time a lecturer played for them Shawshank Redemption.

This was a movie she had watched countless times before that day, alongside her grandmother no less. However, the memory of the sadness that engulfed the lecture hall when Brooks, that sweet old librarian, killed himself never left her. Institutionalized, they called it.

But this was not the time for such thoughts, the ones she had were more personal. Sambo knew too, that at such times no word in the multitude of languages he could muster would work magic, so he watched, silently.

She had to play that song which always uplifted her in such times.

“Bluetooth connected!”, the radio lady repeated.

Zole pressed play on her phone:

I was born by the river in a little tent
Oh and just like the river I’ve been running ev’r since
It’s been a long time, a long time coming
But I know a change gonna come, oh yes it will.

Sam Cooke’s long dead ghost breathed again through the speakers. Zole sat down, on the floor, right beside the book shelf on top of which the radio sat. This song, she knew, communicated the aspirations of her people, the Nubi.

From that position, looked at the portrait of her recently deceased grandmother. She missed her so much, she’d understand this pain tormenting her.

Zole was, in the year 1995, born by that open sewer cum flowing dumpsite that Kenyans like to call the Nairobi River. It was not always like this, her grandmother had told her oonce. It was once teeming with life, she said, they had learnt to swim in its waters in her younger days.

In reality, who Zole called her grandmother was actually her great grandmother. Like other Nubians living in the Makina B area of Kibra, they lived in a closely knit extended family set up. Their houses held up to 5 generations, ensuring that their collective culture, knowledge and history passed on unadulterated from one generation to the next.

A family of Nubians (Courtesy)

But Zole, like the river has been running ever since the day she was born. She has been running from not from the culture, no that is too beautiful to run from. She loved the cooking, what tastes better than Nubian biriani? And what of their gurusa, or lebere? Nothing competes with that, for sure.

She loved the dancing, and the singing, too. She loved the Sunni Islamic tradition passed learned in the local Madrassas. She loved the dressing, and the henna tattoos during the weddings. And all the stories her grandmother narrated to her and her cousin-siblings.

No, that was too beautiful to be washed away.

What she has been running away from is her history, at least some of it. The past one was glorious, for sure. After all, who doesn’t know of Amarineras, the one eyed queen who made the Roman Empire surrender on her terms after five years of war?

Who doesn’t know of she who wielded two battle swords and rode on elephants into battle? Who, I ask, doesn’t know that she fed Roman captives to her pet lions, and decapitated Emperor Augustus’ statue for good measure?

Courtesy

No, that was too glorious to ignore.

The painful history she was running from was fairly recent. Every time she saw a fellow Nubian denied of a national identity card, she saw the pain. It was cousins, and people she had schooled with, denied of an identity. People who had known no other home other than Kibra all their lives.

A people who, due to their apparent statelessness, could not access formal jobs. Even in the face of the high unemployment rate in the general population, Nubian youth were faced with a double tragedy. She counted herself lucky for being the few that got this right that was clothed as a privilege before their 2017 formal recognition by the Kenyan government.

Whenever she passed by that Askari Monument on Nairobi’s CBD on her way to the University of Nairobi, she felt this pain. The centerpiece of this statue is a Nubian soldier, who her grandmother always claimed was her long dead grand uncle. Zole thought she was just demented.

A Closeup of the Askari Monument.

But now, looking back, she did have a point.

BIt was a Nubian and it told the story of how her people ended up in colonial Kenya as part of the King’s African Rifles. Their history was tied to this country’s. A few generations back her people had been allocated this forested land that they named Kibra. But like the people themselves, this was being erased from the Kenyan psyche.

First, they renamed the place Kibera, a corruption which stole the original meaning. And value. That which was once a rich forested area and hence the name Kibra, became Kibera, the biggest slum in Africa.

A fluent Luo speaker, Zole understood her grandmother’s disgust when she spoke of how Lomle was renamed Ayany, a Luo word meaning “insult”. A slight Gikuyu speaker, Zole felt her grandmother’s pain when she spoke of how Kathirkher which meaning “plenty of blessings” was corrupted into Gatwikira, a Gikuyu word who’s meaning she was not interested in.

This is the history that Zole was running away from. She knew that a change would come someday. That her people would someday live freely in their land, but she did not know when. She chose to run away.

She often passed as a Luo due to her fluency in the language and fittingly dark complexion. She was never interested in answering the questions that came with being a Nubi in a society that was largely ignorant about them.

SShe, now, looked at her grandmother’s portrait. She remembered the last words she told her on the night before that fateful morning in May 2013:

“You can’t run away from your destiny, Zole”.

That dawn a fire broke out in a nearby household. This was a common occurrence in Kibra, and is still the case today. Though unburnt, her grandmother’s 110-year old lungs were too weak to recover from the bout of smoke that went into them. She died of smoke poisoning, and was buried the afternoon.

As she tearfully walked away from the Kibra Muslim cemetery, Zole remembered that time she and her grandmother watched the Shawshank Redemption together. She thought of what being institutionalized can do to a person. How it made Brooks hang himself.

Maybe, she thought, the Nubi were imprisoned in this state of statelessness. She wondered, what does this do to our collective psyche? Is it the reason why I am running away?

And, that is the day that she decided to pursue a degree program in psychology.

She had just completed her high school education at State House Girls school, largely funded by bursaries and well wishers. She had scored high marks, was among the top five at the institution and was as of that point still undecided on what to do in campus.

Now she knew. This was the destiny her grandmother had been talking about. She would dedicate her work for the mental health of the members of her community.

The last verse in the song, which had been playing all along, woke up Zole from her deep thoughts. She stood up, and walked towards Sambo, who was now readying himself to narrate his second agricultural agenda.

As she walked away, the song played on and on:

here have been times that I thought I couldn’t last for long
But now I think I’m able to carry on
It’s been a long, a long time coming
But I know a change is gonna come, oh yes it will.

As she walked on, she remembered a quote from the movie, and knew that for sure, she had to be hopeful that the Nubians will reclaim that which is theirs. That, maybe, through her work, she will help address the mental health issues there in. She had hope for….

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!”