Parable of famished land in times of great famine

Peter Kimani

After many trips across the famished farms in our beloved country, I think our elders’ wisdom is finally sinking in.

There were those who believed in the colonial wisdom that Kenya and other African states might not have been "ready" for independence 40-something years ago.

In our youthful insolence, we threw our arms up in protest and said this was ukoloni mambo-leo (neo-colonialism).

Yet others said, with such artful delivery that the words gained some truth, that the leaders of tomorrow had to be prepared as they were too young for the task.

Some group emerged and dubbed themselves as the Young Turks, although they were greying, rotund middle-aged men. They jumped onto moving vans and shouted themselves hoarse about their turn to lead.

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Taste for good life

I think the police tear-gas coloured their hair jet black for when they left the vans, the white hair had somehow changed colour.

The elders gave in, mesmerised by these chameleons. Much more changed, too, from the Young Turks’ ravenous appetite for food so that many outgrew their robes, and were soon in designer clothes.

Another season later, the Young Turks were joined by Younger Turks, with crew cuts and all, who spoke English in such alien accents, some thought it bubbled from the nose.

The Younger Turks were leaner and so hungry it showed in their eyes. They secretly desired the lives of the elders they had castigated.

"Who doesn’t like a harem of women," they giggled when they gathered in the House of Shame, where they met three days every week to sit and laugh at the loudest fart.

They were not ashamed by their conduct because, they said, whatever goes in has to come out, unless of course someone was unwell.

Some did get unwell – allegedly from the images in newspapers and television that they found nauseating, showing women with dishevelled breasts feeding bony children as if there was no food to eat.

Soon, many of them spent time abroad, their countrymen couldn’t tell whether their leaders lived in their midst or had adopted other lands as their own.

Dearth of leadership

They went on so many such trips, their subjects couldn’t tell whether their leaders lived in their land anymore, or had adopted other lands as their own while, living large off thier peoples toils. From their trips abroad, Young and Younger Turks wore even shaper designer clothes and crew cuts, accompanied by women with flashier cuts on their dress and body.

If this story bears any resemblance with real people or events, it is only because I watch too much television, and the notion that some politicians have been maize milking from national reserves and selling it elsewhere can’t quite leave me.

And some inner voice keeps warning that the hunger in our midst is only symptomatic of famine of a worse kind – that of leadership. There is ample proof of that.

Tall tales from the ‘bundus’

From parable, let’s offer a riddle. A number of gentlemen hibernated in Nakuru for a season, whatever the reason; all came back with compelling stories.

One, who reported having stomach troubles that had nothing to do with the lair, said he had found a tadpole in his bed.

Another said he felt something warm and furry in the dark, and got into full flight, shouting at his neighbour to come rescue him as somebody or something was sharing his bed.

Some hysterical lodger threw a tantrum when he came into contact with the furry, warm thing, and hurled it out of the window without looking.

The last gentleman reacted with surprising calm and ease. He felt the furry thing carefully, gave it a squeezed till it squeaked, and shook with so much fear he passed water.

"Oh, sorry I should have warned you," an apologetic Sarova Lion Hill attendant said in the morning. "We stash bottles of warm waters in every bed because nights are pretty cold here."

Special thanks to lodge manager Ken Korir for his warm welcome, for the unexpected gift of cake and generally taking very good care of us. Ahsante.

Union of

a different kind

Ghana’s founding father, Kwame Nkurumah, was also the father of African Union, or its precursor the Organisation of African Unity, where his dream was snuffed out.

Freshly independent nations just did not want to give up the flags symbolising their sovereignty and be under "another African flag," as some cynics put it.

But Nkurumah still dreamt on, taking an Egyptian bride who spoke no word of English for a wife, no doubt a symbolic gesture of his unvarnished hope in unity of Africa and Africans.

Some European diplomat also in the business of regional federation, they call it "Union" or something, I believe, was seen in the wilds of Nakuru last weekend trying to do a Nkurumah.

Well, sort of. He was in company of a black beauty that might smugly, I mean, smartly, fit within the broader framework of his continent’s scheme of integration.

Now that’s what Martin Luther King, Jnr called "a beautiful symphony of brotherhood."

How nice, even though the pretty girl was young enough to be the man’s daughter.