18/09/2022
NOT MY PRESIDENT
I want to write about grief but I won't. I used to think the 2007 loss was the worst and nothing would hurt ever again. But the 2022 has been the most funereal loss.
In 2007, I watched with my brothers Kibaki being sworn in at night like a thief(see what I did there) and I remember my elder brother, twitching in anger and fury such as I have never known. He said,
"Not my president." He actually mumbled but the pain in his voice was surreal. I was rather young to understand the enormity of what Kibaki had just done and the post-election violence did shake me out of my teenage stupor and stupidity.
We lived with it, reluctantly accepting the prime minister position and all the its discontents.
Fast foward to 2022.
On the day he lost, I called a special friend and told him, this feels like a funeral. He said, "it is a funeral of an old man." More like the end is expected, but it leaves you empty nonetheless.
Loss never makes sense on the immediate. That is why we are benumbed.
Who the hell said women cannot be political? My female friends have mourned this loss the most. And it is real grief. It is palpable. It is sinking.
See, a presidency in Kenya is owned by a tribe. And that is why tribes that win, when they win, talk down to everyone else. Even us, if we won, we would have been arrogant as f. I remember how Someone Nyachae galvanized my community on 2002, and weirdly we thought we would win. So I totally understand why the two communities that choose the presidents for us always speak arrogantly about the presidency. Out of necessity. And each election reminds half the country: you are not good enough. You can't measure up. You will always be led. The presidency will always be a prize of the two. Until 2042, it is locked for now.
There is a hole in our hearts. Nothing will ever fill it. We just need to retreat to our backyards, adopt some bit of insularity, and make devolution work. The only saving grace for me has been my governor Simb