By Peter Kimani
Even in his gold-rimmed seat, white turban sitting on his head, and rimless reading glasses and handlebar moustache dancing over a sneering nose, Sudanese President Omar al-Bashir fails to elicit the awe and dread that his picture is expected to inspire.
There is no sophistry in the photo-shoot, which appears focused on the watermark of the letter in hand: the black-red-green colours of our national flag. That’s the letter Prezzo is said to have sent him early in the week.
But rather than enhance the man’s authority, or even the import of the missive, the picture appears to diminish it: his fingers appear small and timid.
It’s as though the image is meant to illuminate his innocence over claims that he engineered crimes against humanity in Darfur.
Most powerful
I went there in 2004, to Darfur, I mean, and heard first-hand accounts of villagers who had escaped carnage in the casbah and smelt the smouldering ashes where houses stood days earlier. And there were the dead, surrendered to the scavengers because those who survived bore no strength to bury them. An estimated 12,000 people perished in state-sponsored terrorism that’s reportedly traced back to al-Bashir. I would have pleaded his innocence had I not experienced the brute force of his power when the military slapped a curfew over Nyala township where we had pitched tent.
This meant we could not fly home, although we were down to our last coin and I had a sick colleague.
How we manoeuvred our way home is the story for another day, but I do remember feeling powerless at this symbol of power in Khartoum, now a fugitive from international justice.
Available plane
On that score, the letter bearing our national flag is a vulgar display of al-Bashir’s profanity. He should have ordered the letter published on all state media, and commission analysts to synthesise the words.
Maybe even commission experts to study Prezzo’s signature, and see if he trembled while putting pen to paper.
But we shouldn’t speak ill of our neighbours, especially when they have the capacity to arm-twist the most powerful in our midst. Still, I feel al-Bashir was short-changed.
For him to feel and look presidential, he should have summoned Prezzo to Khartoum on the next available plane, instead of accepting his lowly minister whose appointment has been a subject of such great contestation, one wouldn’t be sure if he carries the full authority of his office.
Al-Bashir should have demanded to know what kind of judges Prezzo employs, and demand the immediate sacking of the offending judge, that Ombija guy who lives to the true meaning of the expression: serving justice without fear or favour.
I suspect even Weta could not shake at the sight of Bashir, turban or no turban, gold rings and all. There is a certain vulnerability about al-Bashir in that picture, which Weta confirmed upon his return.
Small fortune
Al-Bashir is demanding his pound of flesh, Weta said, because he buys our tea. How much tea can a man, irrespective of ego, really consume, in a day, week or month?
And what would happen to the Sudanese people who consume the tea we grow? The laws of supply and demand would automatically come into force, and the only tea available would fetch a small fortune. How would caffeine-addicted citizens react?
Most probably, they would seek to know who disrupted their regular tea supply and why they cannot afford what’s on offer. And that would be a perfect tea storm.
Dreams of home amid nightmares every new day
I dream of home a lot, like those mine workers burrowed in the bowels of the earth mining gold.
They yearn for the familiar sounds of home, the familiar sights of the animals returning from the grazing fields; the laughter of children in the hearth. That’s what inspired protest poetry from Angola, some of which is contained in a beautiful anthology, When Bullets Begin to Flower.
I would have written about my longings, but the stories from home are pretty scary.
Why, virtually everyone is on strike, the most recent threat coming from high school teachers who are supposed to be grading this year’s national exams.
News about doctors has been particularly disheartening. In his wisdom, Prezzo saw it fit to appoint two ministers to the Health portfolio, but in the hour of need, not a single minister is available. Apparently, both have sought medical attention abroad, no doubt because no medic is available to attend to them at home
Then I read somewhere that workers contracted to handle passengers at the airport have been on a go-slow, which is dangerous because pilots have not been taught to go slow when they are landing. All this while there is that man in the North who is threatening to use any means to ensure our planes do not encroach his airspace.
And should one survive the landing, I hear one needs camping gear because one might spend days on the road before making it to town.
Perhaps I should go on strike as well and fail to show up at home.
An abridged version of the Lord’s prayer for our nation
When I asked for Kenyans of goodwill to pray for our nation, I did not know my request would be answered this soon. Why, as one reader remarked, we seem to suffer come rain, come shine. I hear taps are already dry, although 15 of our compatriots have been swept away by flash floods.
Well, here is some cheer. This came in the mail this week. I’m told it is the "verbatim record" of the evolution of the Lord’s prayer, as interpreted by a little boy, itself, I’m told, a sign of his evolution in matters of faith, which appear to grow "by leaps and bounds."
Our Father who art eleven
Hallo be thy name
Thy kingdom have gum
They will be done on earth as sit in heaven
Give us this day our daily bread
And forgive our trespass
And see forgive those who trespass against us
Lead us not into temptation
But liver us from evil
For far is the kingdom, the power for the glory
Forever and ever. Amen
And everybody say, AMEN!!!
The prayer is copyrighted to Tumaini Kimani, dated December 2011, and certified by his dutiful grandmother, who solemnly "declares that this is a truthful and accurate testimony of the events."
