Wanawake saa hizi hata kushuka hatushuki . . . Hatuna muda hata wa kuenjoy na kina baba nyumbani, kwa ajili kila siku unawaza watoto watakula nini . . . kama baba ni dereva, mwenye gari ameuza (gari) kwa sababu mafuta imepanda bei. Kwa hivyo wewe mama ukabangaize ulete mboga, ukaokote mahindi yanayotoka border ya Tanzania ili ulishe watoto . . . Ruto, umetuumiza sana.Umetufinya, mpaka hatuwezi kupumua.”
These are the words of Naomi Kadari, a Taita Taveta vegetable vendor, or mama mboga, who plies her trade at Taveta Market in the aftermath of the contentious Finance Bill 2023 (now the Finance Act 2023) and the subsequent budget as delivered by Treasury Cabinet Secretary Prof. Njuguna Ndung’u.
These sentiments by a mama mboga should get President William Ruto and his deputy, Rigathi Gachagua, worried, given their campaign was hinged heavily on uplifting the wellbeing of the same mama mbogas and the so-called ‘hustlers’, going by their ‘bottom-up’ manifesto.
When people are not making love anymore in households, it shows the happiness index is way down there, at least according to the street barometer. And it makes sense too, because how can you make love on an empty stomach after a long day hustling on the streets with nothing to show for it? Psychologists will tell you that standing up to the occasion becomes a problem.
What the President’s ‘hustlers’ are doing when they come back to their hovels after a long day of kuhoya-hoya is eating the meager soup that their hustles for the day brought in, chasing it down with lots of water to deceive the intestines, then praying to God, turning out the light, and turning in for the night, curled up in the embryonic position they remember from their mother’s womb, arms tucked between their knees, facing the wall, and doze off, hoping that their roof will not cave in on them before the dawn. They know that if the crack of dawn finds them still snuggled up in bed then they won’t have even a scrap to
A Playlist For Every Grief
I shouldn’t be writing about this with such brevity – because it deserves a solid long read – but when my family’s matriarch, my stoic maternal grandmother who I’m named after died, my mother, being the practical planner that she is and having made peace with her mortality like every good Muslim should, bought an extra sanda – that delicate item of clothing, the one one is wrapped in in the final goodbye – and stored it in her closet.
I never wish to dwell on it, but the message was home. One day, like had happened to Bibi and would happen to every one of us, her day would come.
As if to make Bibi’s exit bearable, Mama said death and grief are always imminent, that one must not fear them – a philosophy that every Muslim is taught to carry. I remember trying to find a moment of solitude during Bibi’s funeral while listening to Bill Withers’ Ain’t No Sunshine about a million times on the small walkman I cherished more than anything in the whole empty world.
Withers’s words and voice and notes took me through a grief I had no words to describe.
I was sixteen.
Granted – and I wish I shouldn’t have had to say so, but life (and as you’ll get accustomed to sooner rather than later, here’s goes another potential future long read) – I had faced heart-shattering grief before, but maybe being sixteen and owning a walkman and being a certain kind of Nairobi young woman in a certain Nairobi high school gave me certain predispositions, certain languages, certain tools, certain playlists.
And so over the years, including during the lonely and scary pandemic, I’ve carried along songs to take me through these evolving emotions of loss and grief, fully immersing myself in them when needed – catching a feeling, as my sixteen year old self would have said – because Mama said I shouldn’t fear nothing, whether grief or death.
And so welcome to my grief-holy-of-holies, five songs which have particularly armored me against every bri
The First Kiss… (An Alliance Boys/Girls Love Story) By Njonjo Mue
The year was 1983.
I was a 16-year-old Form 3 student at Alliance High School. It was the year President Daniel arap Moi had called a snap election to rid his government of the sympathisers of my namesake, former Attorney General and Minister for Constitutional Affairs Charles Njonjo, following the unsuccessful 1982 coup attempt. The subsequent ‘Msaliti’ saga had dominated national politics and Michael Jackson’s hit ‘Thriller’ had stormed the airwaves with the hurricane force of Katrina.
It was late November and school was out, and my cousins and I had gone to Hospital Hill Primary School one Thursday evening to attend one of the year’s highlights – the annual barbecue. Just as the sun slowly sunk beyond the horizon, I took a quiet stroll to enjoy the evening breeze and get away from other boys who had found their opposites and were busy exchanging sweet nothings.
As Kool and the Gang urged us in song to Get Down On It and to Celebration from the loud speakers outside the hall, I spotted her, and the very sight of her just took my breath away.
Full story: https://debunk.media/the-first-kiss-an-alliance-boys-girls-love-story/
Tyre Nichols Was A Victim Of Systemic Racism
Parents of young Black men in the United States live with constant fear, wondering whether or when their sons will be killed by white police officers. As a result of this, African-American fathers and mothers must then have “the talk” with their sons, to ensure they do not antagonise a white police officer in any way to warrant a beating, an arrest or a shooting. Not only are young Black men in the United States more likely to be killed at the hands of a white police officer than young white men, but they are also more likely to be charged and incarcerated.
In his book Between the World and Me, the African-American author Ta-Nehisi Coates asks: “How does a black man live freely in his body when that body is under constant threat of being exterminated?” Coates describes white America as a syndicate arranged to protect white power and privilege, which are used to dominate and control Black bodies. “Sometimes this power is direct (lynching) and sometimes it is insidious (redlining),” he writes.
For decades, there have been protests in the United States against extrajudicial killings of Black men by police officers. However, it was the video of a white police officer kneeling on the neck of an unarmed and handcuffed black man called George Floyd that sparked the Black Lives Matter movement in 2020. Floyd’s death through suffocation led to global calls for racial justice.
But while every African-American in the United States can expect to be mistreated or even murdered by a white police officer, how does one explain the brutal torture and murder in Memphis of a 29-year-old black man by black police officers? The victim, Tyre Nichols, died in hospital from injuries inflicted by the officers. Although the officers have been suspended and face charges of murder and kidnapping, this particular killing has left many particularly dumbfounded.
However, those who have studied how racism works know that it is quite often the oppressed who turn out to the most
Mûrîithi John Walker: An Obituary In Seven Songs
“I first learned of Mûrîithi John Walker in 2020. It was after a conversation with my grandmother where I realised that my “language wires were crossed”. Whenever I tried to talk to her in Kikuyu I ended up speaking Spanish. It’s not my fault that the word for “what” is “qué” in Spanish and “kîî” in Kikuyu. So in my attempt to practise and uncross the wires, I decided to listen to Kikuyu music. A few songs in, I heard Nyau Îrîaga Mbîa and, forgive the hyperbole, my life was changed forever. I texted my friend the link to the song and the lyrics. Wendo nî ûrugarî wîingeraga ngoro / mûndû akahiûha mwîri wothe nî kûimangini (“Love is a warmth / that enters the heart / until one’s body is hot / just by imagining it”). “This is how I feel when I’m in love,” she responded. I was struck by the sheer brilliance of the song’s lyricism, its poetry, its power. I knew, right then that I wanted to know everything about this man.”
https://debunk.media/muriithi-john-walker-an-obituary-in-seven-songs/
A Rare Story Of Surviving FGM And Building Back The Clitoris
If I told you the lady stepping out of the Audi Q7 dressed in a floral sheer kimono and burnt orange palazzo pants is a survivor of FGM, you most probably won’t believe me. Like in Shakespeare’s Hamlet, the apparel oft proclaims Anissa*, a sculpted figure with a burnished chocolate complexion. I felt acutely underdressed as I watched her step out of the car, her weight balancing on the nude heels. Beneath the kimono was a peach turtleneck top matching her headgear. She had lost some weight. Either life or workouts must’ve happened.
Anissa had picked The Chatroom, a little hideaway in Nairobi’s Kilimani’s Wood Avenue for an impromptu rendezvous she’d asked for. Before the call, I had assumed Anissa was sashaying in London, where she’d moved four years ago. The last time I’d seen Anissa was in 2019, just before the novel coronavirus struck. Before that, we’d met on 23 July 2017. I remember the exact date not because it was the last time Anissa reminded me, as she always would, of the need to increase my tolerance (not of water, milk or soup). That date stuck with me because it was the first and last time Anissa visited me at my house in Mwiki, in the proper outskirts of Nairobi, where I had just started life. She had been driven for almost 30 kilometres from South C in a Mercedes to cry on my shoulder for more than an hour straight. Every time she tried to stop, a fresh stream gushed out. I felt she wasn’t trying enough. I didn’t cry with her.
As Anissa cried, I allowed my mind to wander into a different world to avoid plunging her onto the cushionless chair. Maybe I wasn’t being a good friend. I started thinking about a study scholarship I had secured in China and why I’d turned it down. I thought about my ex, who had joined the army. Had he not left, he would have returned to sing me a whisky lullaby. I did not trust this man long before he took the uniform, but I was more worried about what he would do if he discovered I only had one l
Every Move Into A New House Is A Reinvention
“Moving oddly excites me. I see it as an opportunity to start my life all over again. My favourite genre of movies is where the protagonist moves to a new city or country and builds a new life afresh, unencumbered by the mistakes and realities of their former existence. So as the main character of my life, every move into a new house is a reinvention of myself. An opportunity to leave behind what didn’t work and create something that does.”
https://debunk.media/every-move-into-a-new-house-is-a-reinvention/
Debunk Speaks To Rose Lukalo
Rose Lukalo is a seasoned journalist with experience in print, broadcast and digital media. She began her career in journalism in the late 1980s when being a free-thinking journalist or creative in Kenya was hazardous, if not life-threatening. Rose advocates for free expression, media diversity and inclusion, and has served as the Chairperson of the Association of Media Women in Kenya (AMWIK). In 2022, she was the recipient of the Media Council of Kenya’s Lifetime Achievement Award.
Rasna Warah spoke to Rose about her experiences as a media practitioner, and the many challenges that women journalists face, including new emerging threats on social media.
https://debunk.media/debunk-speaks-to-rose-lukalo/
“When people cannot afford therapy, or if they live in places where there is limited access, they need other solutions that work that are culturally grounded and accessible.”
https://debunk.media/7453-2/
"The new commissioners must regardless of prior affiliations, adorn the constitutional armour and serve impartially and professionally. Individual and personal agency whose conscience should be dictated by the Constitution should always prevail. Politicians, whether in government or opposition should also steer clear of attempts at controlling independent institutions. Their rhetoric should also engender public confidence and trust."
https://debunk.media/mischief-and-intrigue-behind-iebc-selection-panel/
Statehouse banquets: a mere meal or a Faustian deal? With long working hours and official business on their plates, journalists barely have time to eat let alone make deals. Or is it that they actually fall for the food & lose themselves?
https://debunk.media/when-state-house-feeds-journalists/
Kenya’s Underground: The Mist KE
Every Friday night, a basement in Westlands is transformed into a parallel universe hosting alternative artists & connoisseurs from all electronic music walks-of-life.
In this photo essay, Chia Kayanda paints a picture of one of Nairobi's favourite sonic spaces: The Mist.💨
https://debunk.media/kenyas-underground-the-mist-ke/
A message for urban planners and governments everywhere; not every day looking at pictures of Dubai, Singapore, and New York and just doing ✨aesthetics & vibes✨
Design cities with those living with them at the center of your plans.
Big fancy roads mean nothing if systems are not in place to ensure the safety of drivers and pedestrians. The presence of buildings is irrelevant when these are erected without the necessary safety checks in place, only for them to collapse later down the line and cost lives.
Your skyscrapers may look nice in the photos🌇, but to the everyday Nairobian, mean nothing when a lack of drainage submerges part of their home.
If you know a thing or two about Uhuru Kenyatta, you know that this former president loves his time in the sky. After all, he broke the record for most foreign trips as president.
From Pretoria to Kinshasa to Goma, Lilian Mutinda explores how Kenyatta is everywhere, but Ichaweri.
https://debunk.media/the-man-we-thought-we-sent-to-ichaweri/
