KENYAN JUSTICE LEAGUE

I've said over and over that I was brought up by television. Most people think it's a joke but it's actually the truth. As soon as I was born my parents dropped me in front of a television set and gave that dusty Greatwall the work of turning me into a human being. The sarcastic, sociopath here today is the result of that process. 

Anyway during that whole process, I was completely enamoured by the idea of the superhero. The world through their eyes was so simple. Good always fighting evil and winning. I wanted to be part of Gotham City and watch Batman beat up The Joker or be a citizen of Metropolis where I would chill for Superman to fight bad guys and bring balance to those chaotic streets. I think the only place where I didn't wanna be was Spiderman's New York because I think webs are kinda gross.

If you think back, there was never an African superhero. Ok I don't know if we can count Kwame from the Captain Planet. For those of you who don't know he was one of the planeteers who came together to call upon Captain Planet. He was from Ghana but he doesn't count because he doesn't even count as a side kick. In fact he was a ring bearer. Anyway spurred by jealousy, I imagined these superheroes in the Kenyan context and  tried to figure out how they would fair. It recently just hit me that it would be an absolute disaster. Our society is simply not made for them. With the help of some tv junkies we figured out how they would totally be screwed by our version of reality.

RUSSIAN ROULETTE: THE KENYA ELECTIONS

Two months left to the elections and I am already completely and utterly tired of the word itself. I feel like the country has been in campaign mode for the last five years. Everyone promising change from the current ways while the whole legislature sits in the cabinet and they sit in the middle of the night to mutilate our words and our aspirations as a nation. Now they want Ksh. 9.3 million, state funerals, diplomatic passports and armed guards. 

The bottom line is that they are way better than you. Yes you. Every single item on that list is to make them better than you are. The money? So that they never have to eat or live next to you. The only place they want to see you is at a political rally where you are waving their placards and screaming yourself hoarse. If you manage to breach that holy perimeter then the armed guard is there to put you back in your place. If things do go awry then that's what the diplomatic passport is for. They can always settle somewhere far away from where people were fighting in their name. And finally even in death they are to be remembered as better than us.

It gets rather tiring. Extremely so. Are you at work right now reading this? Well thank heavens for you because you are doing that so your honourable member can get all of that stuff. But I digress. We were talking about the elections. The posters are up already and billboards have politicians smiling at us like they are being interviewed by a singles' column. And it's bound to get worse. Two months left on the clock. The only way I can think in which we could make the election of the next bunch of thieves would be to make the process a bit more fun.

So how do we replace the tried and tested secret ballot?  Firstly for councillors or county assembly reps, this would be the most entertaining bit. These are hardy individuals who are used to the vagaries of life. We could have a version of Hunger Games for them. The name would be like the Crazy Games. Then in each county they would be released from a cage into a bush and the last one to survive becomes the rep. Of course they wouldn't kill each other (sure that would take some of the fun out of it. After all these are people who throw chairs at each other.)  so maybe incredibly painful paintballing minus all the protective gear.

DESPERATE TIMES...

The gloves came off a while ago. It became a two horse race and then donkeys joined and then donkeys became the good guys and vice versa. The very foundation of this presidential race continues to befuddle many Kenyans daily. It's never politics as usual in this great, sovereign nation of ours. Presidential campaigns involve a whole lot of ass kissing. You head to a new place and promise the people a whole lot of things you know you will never ever deliver while they scream their hopeful little lungs out. Then you kiss babies and dance to weird traditional music and sitting on low stools to be installed as an elder or watchman or deity.

A Bouquet Of Miraa For Your Consideration

But the trend is changing and this wind of change is being brought on by the opinion polls. They keep showing a pretty tight race so all 1,965 candidates have shifted their game to accommodate smaller groups and more specific niches. This was all kicked off by the rather disturbing image of the Right Honorable Prime Minister reaching into his jacket to retrieve a wad of miraa and proceed to chew it court the Meru vote. After all when in Rome.....

So to keep up we might see new things on the news for the next couple of months. I can imagine some random politician dressing up in a watchman's attire and walking around with a huge torch and black mamba for a photo opportunity. This would obviously mean he/she understands the plight of the lowly security agents    and would thus make pledges about heated cubicles for those cold nights, coffee makers for that adrenaline rush and obviously zero rating of mosquito repellents, torch batteries and bicycles.

HOW TO GET ARRESTED IN NAIROBI: PART III

The sniffing had us scared for a while. The swarming was uncomfortable and the smell was getting much worse. I picked out the biggest guy I could find in the cell and made a beeline for him. This was going to be my protector...my guardian angel. Well a guardian angel who had been mugged by a bunch of drunk sailors and nibbled at by a hungry cat.

Pulling up my pants (boy was I missing my belt) I stood next to the guy. Lets call him Killer. Why? Check your dictionary. His mugshot is under the word killer. Killer was just staring at the wall. Barely moving. If he wasn't on his feet I would have assumed he was asleep. I inched closer and his eyes strayed from the wall and landed on my shoes then then travelled up the length of my body to my face.

"Una fegi?"

He asked it like it was the most logical thing to ask. The question caught me so offguard that I actually reached into my pockets to check. Nothing. Then I remembered. I don't smoke. I tried to figure out what to start with in terms of conversation. Hmmm. What would Killer's mind be stimulated by. What would he find palatable in terms of jail small talk.

"Ulifungiwa nini?"  My less than perfect translation of every prisoner's pick up line: "What are you in for?" I swear this was the translation of his reply. "I was robbing this woman and she wouldn't give me her bag. So I beat her up. And the cops found me beating her up." The tone of his voice made him out to be the victim. Like somehow the woman didn't understand the etiquette that goes along with the mugging. Like she was just a complete lunatic for not going through with the process. Like she owed him. I took a step back. Killer was crazy.

A few minutes later the cop in charge started calling people up. One by one, they would walk to him, whisper furiously outside the cell and then they would disappear and not return. The hawker was first. Then a steady stream disappeared. He called my name and, completely petrified, I walked to him. He said something incredibly complicated in Kikuyu and I stared back at him. He repeated it and the same blank look stayed on my face. Despite everything my first impulse was to laugh. Why would this man naturally assume I understood him. Exasperated, he threw me back in the cell and finished with everyone who spoke the lingua franca.

THE KENYAN TERRORIST: A GUIDE

Since the terrorist activity started in the country we have become accustomed to the constant checks by the security apparatus. It's become a way of life. A manner in which we all give up a bit of our privacy so we can get felt up for the greater good. Kenyans are actually happy to go through this inconvenience if it means making their country a bit safer.

That said though the security guards over the last couple of months have painted a rather interesting image of what terrorism is like.If you have no idea what I am talking about then  I will ask you to recall your last pat down or car check as you were entering a public building. Remembered? Ok. If you have watched any of those detective or crime shows you will know that they come up with a psychological and physical profile of the unsub (suspect to you lesser mortals). From the actions of the Kenyan security guard we are able to draw a fairly conclusive image of what the Kenyan terrorist looks and acts like. Join me as we descend into this murky world.

1) The Kenyan terrorist only drives crappy cars. He is never seen in flashy cars because that will obviously draw way too much attention to himself. That's why when the Range Rover drives up to the security guards they salute and wave him through while the guy in the old Peugeot has his jalopy checked from hood to exhaust. You can never be too careful with these people.

HOW TO GET ARRESTED IN NAIROBI: PART II

There we were. A bunch of misfits all squeezed up into the back of the pick up. There was an eerie silence. Like the first day at school and everyone was trying to find their place on the pecking order. Everyone seemed terrified. Well except the hawker who just looked like this was his original weekend plan. He sat in the corner and quietly counted his money. Then after a few minutes he took a wad of cash and stuffed it down his pants. Yeah that was the look on my face too. I thought he was bulking up his junk to look more impressive in jail. Misplaced priorities. But I was wrong.

I was by far the youngest law breaker...well if you don't count the crying toddler. But I am pretty sure he hadn't been nabbed on his own. That said I wouldn't put it past the City Council to arrest a 2 year old for jay crawling.The silence persisted while we drove around town picking up more people. They had the same confused look every time they would get forced into the back of the truck. Why am I here? I have a date/child/wedding/class to attend to. 

My friends kept calling to figure out where we were. We were everywhere. The City Council were basically being Noah and this filthy little truck was their ark. They were determined to get at least one of everything. When we left town the conversation suddenly picked up. It's like somehow some volume knob had been replaced and everyone found their voice. Topic of conversation? How innocent we all were. The charges ranged from the ludicrous to the laughable. They all involved potted plants, alleged littering or breathing on the wrong side of the road. Or as kanjo would refer to it: CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY. In fact the only person who looked completely guilty was the hawker.