I bought this book for the title. I had never heard of the author even though he has won several literally awards. The book is very well written but quite sad. It speaks of the war in Sierra Leone & Liberia from the eyes of a child soldier. Today a friend remarked that the reason Africans get awarded the Nobel Peace price is because we are good at creating wars. Reading this book made me understand why Ellen Sirleaf-Johnson was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. The situation in Liberia & Sierra Leone was at the verge of bringing down the entire West African coast. Birahima is from neither two countries but he fought wars in Sierra Leone & Liberia as a child soldier.
Two themes are repeated severally in the book. On the one hand "Allah is not obliged to be fair about all the things he does here on earth..." & on the other "Allah never leaves empty a mouth he has created". The latter reminds me of a song by Sauti Sol losely translated "When God brings a child, he brings plus his plate (provision)".
Often times I ask - with regard to my circumstances - "Why Lord?" & I am reminded that Allah is not obliged to explain himself. He is not even obliged to accept my sacrifices, offerings & complicated prayers. My best song is "My God is Awesome, He can move mountains, My God is mighty save". He can move mountains but He may chose not to. So that is the situation Birahima the child soldier found himself in. He isn't bitter, he doesn't ask many questions...He understands that it isn't worth it to second guess the will of Allah. Just live & let live.
I have completed this book and added to the arsenal of books I have read on the war...I still do not understand the reason the tribes rose up one upon another. Really it cannot be because of the blood diamonds...or because of politics or even the difference between the American African returnees and the Indigenous populations. I have Liberian & Sierra Leone friends - I need to ask them. Or perhaps like Kenyans they have accepted and moved on.
Maybe the best thing is to recall that "Now we know in part but one day we shall know fully"....
Monday, October 12, 2015
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Ted Malanda - Pray tell, why does God protect the White Widow?
God knows I am not the most religious of men. As a matter of fact, when you hear street preachers raging against sinners, it is me they are referring to.
I partake of the evil brew with unruly enthusiasm. I smoke like a chimney. I swear like a sailor. I lie without batting an eyelid. I have on more than one occasion coveted my neighbour’s donkey. I worship money. Like the next man, I have evaded tax, pinched this and that and fornicated ravenously.
Of the Ten Commandments, I have probably only stopped short of murder. But that is not because I am a good, God-fearing man. It is just that guns are illegal and I am far too windy to strangle the numerous irritants that I bump into once in a while. Plus, I hear nasty things happen to men at Kamiti, and I am straight.
In short, it would be extremely difficult for me to go to heaven. To paraphrase the Bible, it is easier for a camel to squeeze through the eye of a needle than for me to discover myself in heaven, burping on milk and honey and humming boring gospel songs with the enthusiasm of the young Biblical David stringing the harp for that scoundrel King Saul.
Which is why each time I read Psalms Chapter 68:5, which I must confess is not too often, and see the words “God is a father of the fatherless and a judge for the widows,” I am overwhelmed by cynicism.
These words make me think of the ‘White Widow,’ the British ‘Jezebel’ Samantha Lewthwaite who bedded a terrorist or two and rightfully and quickly became a widow.
In these parts, Samantha, who has again been fingered in the murder of 142 Garissa University College students, would have become a plaything for an army of men shamelessly creeping into her lonely hut in the dark with a kilo of sugar and promising enduring love only to vanish at first light never to return.
Has God elected to be a father of Samantha’s fatherless children and the judge of the good men and women who have chosen to make it their life’s mission to destroy her?
Each time she is scheming to kill kids, turn wives into widows and children into orphans, the White Widow probably prays, mumbling a version of the Christian verse, “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”
Perhaps that is why security forces have never gunned her down and why she slips through security cordons like a ghost.
Maybe that is why she hides in some foxhole undetected by all the sophisticated security agencies of the world, executing heinous murderous attack after another.
The way things look, she stands poised to live into ripe old age, blubbering like an idiot, drooling at the mouth and pleasuring herself in some dark, cobwebbed cave.
Would be nice for her to die in an evil jihadist mission, and find 72 starved male virgins queuing with wolfish grins on their faces, huh?
I partake of the evil brew with unruly enthusiasm. I smoke like a chimney. I swear like a sailor. I lie without batting an eyelid. I have on more than one occasion coveted my neighbour’s donkey. I worship money. Like the next man, I have evaded tax, pinched this and that and fornicated ravenously.
Of the Ten Commandments, I have probably only stopped short of murder. But that is not because I am a good, God-fearing man. It is just that guns are illegal and I am far too windy to strangle the numerous irritants that I bump into once in a while. Plus, I hear nasty things happen to men at Kamiti, and I am straight.
In short, it would be extremely difficult for me to go to heaven. To paraphrase the Bible, it is easier for a camel to squeeze through the eye of a needle than for me to discover myself in heaven, burping on milk and honey and humming boring gospel songs with the enthusiasm of the young Biblical David stringing the harp for that scoundrel King Saul.
Which is why each time I read Psalms Chapter 68:5, which I must confess is not too often, and see the words “God is a father of the fatherless and a judge for the widows,” I am overwhelmed by cynicism.
These words make me think of the ‘White Widow,’ the British ‘Jezebel’ Samantha Lewthwaite who bedded a terrorist or two and rightfully and quickly became a widow.
In these parts, Samantha, who has again been fingered in the murder of 142 Garissa University College students, would have become a plaything for an army of men shamelessly creeping into her lonely hut in the dark with a kilo of sugar and promising enduring love only to vanish at first light never to return.
Has God elected to be a father of Samantha’s fatherless children and the judge of the good men and women who have chosen to make it their life’s mission to destroy her?
Each time she is scheming to kill kids, turn wives into widows and children into orphans, the White Widow probably prays, mumbling a version of the Christian verse, “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”
Perhaps that is why security forces have never gunned her down and why she slips through security cordons like a ghost.
Maybe that is why she hides in some foxhole undetected by all the sophisticated security agencies of the world, executing heinous murderous attack after another.
The way things look, she stands poised to live into ripe old age, blubbering like an idiot, drooling at the mouth and pleasuring herself in some dark, cobwebbed cave.
Would be nice for her to die in an evil jihadist mission, and find 72 starved male virgins queuing with wolfish grins on their faces, huh?
Saturday, March 7, 2015
Barrack H Obama - SELMA
As I listened to President Obama’s Speech at Selma so many things went through my mind....Some trivial and others fundamental. On the trivia I could not help musing about Kenya's loss for had Obama Snr returned with his young wife and son perhaps Barrack would have thrived and become Senator of Siaya or perhaps even President...He would have been protesting Sugar issues and having his fingers bitten.
Here is the full text of Saturday’s speech, as prepared for delivery
"It is a rare honor in this life to follow one of your heroes. And John Lewis is one of my heroes.
Now, I have to imagine that when a younger John Lewis woke up that morning fifty years ago and made his way to Brown Chapel, heroics were not on his mind. A day like this was not on his mind. Young folks with bedrolls and backpacks were milling about. Veterans of the movement trained newcomers in the tactics of non-violence; the right way to protect yourself when attacked. A doctor described what tear gas does to the body, while marchers scribbled down instructions for contacting their loved ones. The air was thick with doubt, anticipation, and fear. They comforted themselves with the final verse of the final hymn they sung:
No matter what may be the test, God will take care of you;
Lean, weary one, upon His breast, God will take care of you.
Then, his knapsack stocked with an apple, a toothbrush, a book on government – all you need for a night behind bars – John Lewis led them out of the church on a mission to change America.
President Bush and Mrs. Bush, Governor Bentley, Members of Congress, Mayor Evans, Reverend Strong, friends and fellow Americans:
There are places, and moments in America where this nation’s destiny has been decided. Many are sites of war – Concord and Lexington, Appomattox and Gettysburg. Others are sites that symbolize the daring of America’s character – Independence Hall and Seneca Falls, Kitty Hawk and Cape Canaveral.
Selma is such a place.
In one afternoon fifty years ago, so much of our turbulent history – the stain of slavery and anguish of civil war; the yoke of segregation and tyranny of Jim Crow; the death of four little girls in Birmingham, and the dream of a Baptist preacher – met on this bridge.
It was not a clash of armies, but a clash of wills; a contest to determine the meaning of America.
And because of men and women like John Lewis, Joseph Lowery, Hosea Williams, Amelia Boynton, Diane Nash, Ralph Abernathy, C.T. Vivian, Andrew Young, Fred Shuttlesworth, Dr. King, and so many more, the idea of a just America, a fair America, an inclusive America, a generous America – that idea ultimately triumphed.
As is true across the landscape of American history, we cannot examine this moment in isolation. The march on Selma was part of a broader campaign that spanned generations; the leaders that day part of a long line of heroes.
We gather here to celebrate them. We gather here to honor the courage of ordinary Americans willing to endure billy clubs and the chastening rod; tear gas and the trampling hoof; men and women who despite the gush of blood and splintered bone would stay true to their North Star and keep marching toward justice.
They did as Scripture instructed: “Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer.” And in the days to come, they went back again and again. When the trumpet call sounded for more to join, the people came – black and white, young and old, Christian and Jew, waving the American flag and singing the same anthems full of faith and hope. A white newsman, Bill Plante, who covered the marches then and who is with us here today, quipped that the growing number of white people lowered the quality of the singing. To those who marched, though, those old gospel songs must have never sounded so sweet.
In time, their chorus would reach President Johnson. And he would send them protection, echoing their call for the nation and the world to hear:
“We shall overcome.”
What enormous faith these men and women had. Faith in God – but also faith in America.
The Americans who crossed this bridge were not physically imposing. But they gave courage to millions. They held no elected office. But they led a nation. They marched as Americans who had endured hundreds of years of brutal violence, and countless daily indignities – but they didn’t seek special treatment, just the equal treatment promised to them almost a century before.
What they did here will reverberate through the ages. Not because the change they won was preordained; not because their victory was complete; but because they proved that nonviolent change is possible; that love and hope can conquer hate.
As we commemorate their achievement, we are well-served to remember that at the time of the marches, many in power condemned rather than praised them. Back then, they were called Communists, half-breeds, outside agitators, sexual and moral degenerates, and worse – everything but the name their parents gave them. Their faith was questioned. Their lives were threatened. Their patriotism was challenged.
And yet, what could be more American than what happened in this place?
What could more profoundly vindicate the idea of America than plain and humble people – the unsung, the downtrodden, the dreamers not of high station, not born to wealth or privilege, not of one religious tradition but many – coming together to shape their country’s course?
What greater expression of faith in the American experiment than this; what greater form of patriotism is there; than the belief that America is not yet finished, that we are strong enough to be self-critical, that each successive generation can look upon our imperfections and decide that it is in our power to remake this nation to more closely align with our highest ideals?
That’s why Selma is not some outlier in the American experience. That’s why it’s not a museum or static monument to behold from a distance. It is instead the manifestation of a creed written into our founding documents:
“We the People…in order to form a more perfect union.”
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.”
These are not just words. They are a living thing, a call to action, a roadmap for citizenship and an insistence in the capacity of free men and women to shape our own destiny. For founders like Franklin and Jefferson, for leaders like Lincoln and FDR, the success of our experiment in self-government rested on engaging all our citizens in this work. That’s what we celebrate here in Selma. That’s what this movement was all about, one leg in our long journey toward freedom.
The American instinct that led these young men and women to pick up the torch and cross this bridge is the same instinct that moved patriots to choose revolution over tyranny. It’s the same instinct that drew immigrants from across oceans and the Rio Grande; the same instinct that led women to reach for the ballot and workers to organize against an unjust status quo; the same instinct that led us to plant a flag at Iwo Jima and on the surface of the Moon.
It’s the idea held by generations of citizens who believed that America is a constant work in progress; who believed that loving this country requires more than singing its praises or avoiding uncomfortable truths. It requires the occasional disruption, the willingness to speak out for what’s right and shake up the status quo.
That’s what makes us unique, and cements our reputation as a beacon of opportunity. Young people behind the Iron Curtain would see Selma and eventually tear down a wall. Young people in Soweto would hear Bobby Kennedy talk about ripples of hope and eventually banish the scourge of apartheid. Young people in Burma went to prison rather than submit to military rule. From the streets of Tunis to the Maidan in Ukraine, this generation of young people can draw strength from this place, where the powerless could change the world’s greatest superpower, and push their leaders to expand the boundaries of freedom.
They saw that idea made real in Selma, Alabama. They saw it made real in America.
Because of campaigns like this, a Voting Rights Act was passed. Political, economic, and social barriers came down, and the change these men and women wrought is visible here today in the presence of African-Americans who run boardrooms, who sit on the bench, who serve in elected office from small towns to big cities; from the Congressional Black Caucus to the Oval Office.
Because of what they did, the doors of opportunity swung open not just for African-Americans, but for every American. Women marched through those doors. Latinos marched through those doors. Asian-Americans, gay Americans, and Americans with disabilities came through those doors. Their endeavors gave the entire South the chance to rise again, not by reasserting the past, but by transcending the past.
What a glorious thing, Dr. King might say.
What a solemn debt we owe.
Which leads us to ask, just how might we repay that debt?
First and foremost, we have to recognize that one day’s commemoration, no matter how special, is not enough. If Selma taught us anything, it’s that our work is never done – the American experiment in self-government gives work and purpose to each generation.
Selma teaches us, too, that action requires that we shed our cynicism. For when it comes to the pursuit of justice, we can afford neither complacency nor despair.
Just this week, I was asked whether I thought the Department of Justice’s Ferguson report shows that, with respect to race, little has changed in this country. I understand the question, for the report’s narrative was woefully familiar. It evoked the kind of abuse and disregard for citizens that spawned the Civil Rights Movement. But I rejected the notion that nothing’s changed. What happened in Ferguson may not be unique, but it’s no longer endemic, or sanctioned by law and custom; and before the Civil Rights Movement, it most surely was.
We do a disservice to the cause of justice by intimating that bias and discrimination are immutable, or that racial division is inherent to America. If you think nothing’s changed in the past fifty years, ask somebody who lived through the Selma or Chicago or L.A. of the Fifties. Ask the female CEO who once might have been assigned to the secretarial pool if nothing’s changed. Ask your gay friend if it’s easier to be out and proud in America now than it was thirty years ago. To deny this progress – our progress – would be to rob us of our own agency; our responsibility to do what we can to make America better.
Of course, a more common mistake is to suggest that racism is banished, that the work that drew men and women to Selma is complete, and that whatever racial tensions remain are a consequence of those seeking to play the “race card” for their own purposes. We don’t need the Ferguson report to know that’s not true. We just need to open our eyes, and ears, and hearts, to know that this nation’s racial history still casts its long shadow upon us. We know the march is not yet over, the race is not yet won, and that reaching that blessed destination where we are judged by the content of our character – requires admitting as much.
“We are capable of bearing a great burden,” James Baldwin wrote, “once we discover that the burden is reality and arrive where reality is.”
This is work for all Americans, and not just some. Not just whites. Not just blacks. If we want to honor the courage of those who marched that day, then all of us are called to possess their moral imagination. All of us will need to feel, as they did, the fierce urgency of now. All of us need to recognize, as they did, that change depends on our actions, our attitudes, the things we teach our children. And if we make such effort, no matter how hard it may seem, laws can be passed, and consciences can be stirred, and consensus can be built.
With such effort, we can make sure our criminal justice system serves all and not just some. Together, we can raise the level of mutual trust that policing is built on – the idea that police officers are members of the communities they risk their lives to protect, and citizens in Ferguson and New York and Cleveland just want the same thing young people here marched for – the protection of the law. Together, we can address unfair sentencing, and overcrowded prisons, and the stunted circumstances that rob too many boys of the chance to become men, and rob the nation of too many men who could be good dads, and workers, and neighbors.
With effort, we can roll back poverty and the roadblocks to opportunity. Americans don’t accept a free ride for anyone, nor do we believe in equality of outcomes. But we do expect equal opportunity, and if we really mean it, if we’re willing to sacrifice for it, then we can make sure every child gets an education suitable to this new century, one that expands imaginations and lifts their sights and gives them skills. We can make sure every person willing to work has the dignity of a job, and a fair wage, and a real voice, and sturdier rungs on that ladder into the middle class.
And with effort, we can protect the foundation stone of our democracy for which so many marched across this bridge – and that is the right to vote. Right now, in 2015, fifty years after Selma, there are laws across this country designed to make it harder for people to vote. As we speak, more of such laws are being proposed. Meanwhile, the Voting Rights Act, the culmination of so much blood and sweat and tears, the product of so much sacrifice in the face of wanton violence, stands weakened, its future subject to partisan rancor.
How can that be? The Voting Rights Act was one of the crowning achievements of our democracy, the result of Republican and Democratic effort. President Reagan signed its renewal when he was in office. President Bush signed its renewal when he was in office. One hundred Members of Congress have come here today to honor people who were willing to die for the right it protects. If we want to honor this day, let these hundred go back to Washington, and gather four hundred more, and together, pledge to make it their mission to restore the law this year.
Of course, our democracy is not the task of Congress alone, or the courts alone, or the President alone. If every new voter suppression law was struck down today, we’d still have one of the lowest voting rates among free peoples. Fifty years ago, registering to vote here in Selma and much of the South meant guessing the number of jellybeans in a jar or bubbles on a bar of soap. It meant risking your dignity, and sometimes, your life. What is our excuse today for not voting? How do we so casually discard the right for which so many fought? How do we so fully give away our power, our voice, in shaping America’s future?
Fellow marchers, so much has changed in fifty years. We’ve endured war, and fashioned peace. We’ve seen technological wonders that touch every aspect of our lives, and take for granted convenience our parents might scarcely imagine. But what has not changed is the imperative of citizenship, that willingness of a 26 year-old deacon, or a Unitarian minister, or a young mother of five, to decide they loved this country so much that they’d risk everything to realize its promise.
That’s what it means to love America. That’s what it means to believe in America. That’s what it means when we say America is exceptional.
For we were born of change. We broke the old aristocracies, declaring ourselves entitled not by bloodline, but endowed by our Creator with certain unalienable rights. We secure our rights and responsibilities through a system of self-government, of and by and for the people. That’s why we argue and fight with so much passion and conviction, because we know our efforts matter. We know America is what we make of it.
We are Lewis and Clark and Sacajawea – pioneers who braved the unfamiliar, followed by a stampede of farmers and miners, entrepreneurs and hucksters. That’s our spirit.
We are Sojourner Truth and Fannie Lou Hamer, women who could do as much as any man and then some; and we’re Susan B. Anthony, who shook the system until the law reflected that truth. That’s our character.
We’re the immigrants who stowed away on ships to reach these shores, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free – Holocaust survivors, Soviet defectors, the Lost Boys of Sudan. We are the hopeful strivers who cross the Rio Grande because they want their kids to know a better life. That’s how we came to be.
We’re the slaves who built the White House and the economy of the South. We’re the ranch hands and cowboys who opened the West, and countless laborers who laid rail, and raised skyscrapers, and organized for workers’ rights.
We’re the fresh-faced GIs who fought to liberate a continent, and we’re the Tuskeegee Airmen, Navajo code-talkers, and Japanese-Americans who fought for this country even as their own liberty had been denied. We’re the firefighters who rushed into those buildings on 9/11, and the volunteers who signed up to fight in Afghanistan and Iraq.
We are the gay Americans whose blood ran on the streets of San Francisco and New York, just as blood ran down this bridge.
We are storytellers, writers, poets, and artists who abhor unfairness, and despise hypocrisy, and give voice to the voiceless, and tell truths that need to be told.
We are the inventors of gospel and jazz and the blues, bluegrass and country, hip-hop and rock and roll, our very own sounds with all the sweet sorrow and reckless joy of freedom.
We are Jackie Robinson, enduring scorn and spiked cleats and pitches coming straight to his head, and stealing home in the World Series anyway.
We are the people Langston Hughes wrote of, who “build our temples for tomorrow, strong as we know how.”
We are the people Emerson wrote of, “who for truth and honor’s sake stand fast and suffer long;” who are “never tired, so long as we can see far enough.”
That’s what America is. Not stock photos or airbrushed history or feeble attempts to define some of us as more American as others. We respect the past, but we don’t pine for it. We don’t fear the future; we grab for it. America is not some fragile thing; we are large, in the words of Whitman, containing multitudes. We are boisterous and diverse and full of energy, perpetually young in spirit. That’s why someone like John Lewis at the ripe age of 25 could lead a mighty march.
And that’s what the young people here today and listening all across the country must take away from this day. You are America. Unconstrained by habits and convention. Unencumbered by what is, and ready to seize what ought to be. For everywhere in this country, there are first steps to be taken, and new ground to cover, and bridges to be crossed. And it is you, the young and fearless at heart, the most diverse and educated generation in our history, who the nation is waiting to follow.
Because Selma shows us that America is not the project of any one person.
Because the single most powerful word in our democracy is the word “We.” We The People. We Shall Overcome. Yes We Can. It is owned by no one. It belongs to everyone. Oh, what a glorious task we are given, to continually try to improve this great nation of ours.
Fifty years from Bloody Sunday, our march is not yet finished. But we are getting closer. Two hundred and thirty-nine years after this nation’s founding, our union is not yet perfect. But we are getting closer. Our job’s easier because somebody already got us through that first mile. Somebody already got us over that bridge. When it feels the road’s too hard, when the torch we’ve been passed feels too heavy, we will remember these early travelers, and draw strength from their example, and hold firmly the words of the prophet Isaiah:
“Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not be faint.”
We honor those who walked so we could run. We must run so our children soar. And we will not grow weary. For we believe in the power of an awesome God, and we believe in this country’s sacred promise.
May He bless those warriors of justice no longer with us, and bless the United States of America."
Here is the full text of Saturday’s speech, as prepared for delivery
"It is a rare honor in this life to follow one of your heroes. And John Lewis is one of my heroes.
Now, I have to imagine that when a younger John Lewis woke up that morning fifty years ago and made his way to Brown Chapel, heroics were not on his mind. A day like this was not on his mind. Young folks with bedrolls and backpacks were milling about. Veterans of the movement trained newcomers in the tactics of non-violence; the right way to protect yourself when attacked. A doctor described what tear gas does to the body, while marchers scribbled down instructions for contacting their loved ones. The air was thick with doubt, anticipation, and fear. They comforted themselves with the final verse of the final hymn they sung:
No matter what may be the test, God will take care of you;
Lean, weary one, upon His breast, God will take care of you.
Then, his knapsack stocked with an apple, a toothbrush, a book on government – all you need for a night behind bars – John Lewis led them out of the church on a mission to change America.
President Bush and Mrs. Bush, Governor Bentley, Members of Congress, Mayor Evans, Reverend Strong, friends and fellow Americans:
There are places, and moments in America where this nation’s destiny has been decided. Many are sites of war – Concord and Lexington, Appomattox and Gettysburg. Others are sites that symbolize the daring of America’s character – Independence Hall and Seneca Falls, Kitty Hawk and Cape Canaveral.
Selma is such a place.
In one afternoon fifty years ago, so much of our turbulent history – the stain of slavery and anguish of civil war; the yoke of segregation and tyranny of Jim Crow; the death of four little girls in Birmingham, and the dream of a Baptist preacher – met on this bridge.
It was not a clash of armies, but a clash of wills; a contest to determine the meaning of America.
And because of men and women like John Lewis, Joseph Lowery, Hosea Williams, Amelia Boynton, Diane Nash, Ralph Abernathy, C.T. Vivian, Andrew Young, Fred Shuttlesworth, Dr. King, and so many more, the idea of a just America, a fair America, an inclusive America, a generous America – that idea ultimately triumphed.
As is true across the landscape of American history, we cannot examine this moment in isolation. The march on Selma was part of a broader campaign that spanned generations; the leaders that day part of a long line of heroes.
We gather here to celebrate them. We gather here to honor the courage of ordinary Americans willing to endure billy clubs and the chastening rod; tear gas and the trampling hoof; men and women who despite the gush of blood and splintered bone would stay true to their North Star and keep marching toward justice.
They did as Scripture instructed: “Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer.” And in the days to come, they went back again and again. When the trumpet call sounded for more to join, the people came – black and white, young and old, Christian and Jew, waving the American flag and singing the same anthems full of faith and hope. A white newsman, Bill Plante, who covered the marches then and who is with us here today, quipped that the growing number of white people lowered the quality of the singing. To those who marched, though, those old gospel songs must have never sounded so sweet.
In time, their chorus would reach President Johnson. And he would send them protection, echoing their call for the nation and the world to hear:
“We shall overcome.”
What enormous faith these men and women had. Faith in God – but also faith in America.
The Americans who crossed this bridge were not physically imposing. But they gave courage to millions. They held no elected office. But they led a nation. They marched as Americans who had endured hundreds of years of brutal violence, and countless daily indignities – but they didn’t seek special treatment, just the equal treatment promised to them almost a century before.
What they did here will reverberate through the ages. Not because the change they won was preordained; not because their victory was complete; but because they proved that nonviolent change is possible; that love and hope can conquer hate.
As we commemorate their achievement, we are well-served to remember that at the time of the marches, many in power condemned rather than praised them. Back then, they were called Communists, half-breeds, outside agitators, sexual and moral degenerates, and worse – everything but the name their parents gave them. Their faith was questioned. Their lives were threatened. Their patriotism was challenged.
And yet, what could be more American than what happened in this place?
What could more profoundly vindicate the idea of America than plain and humble people – the unsung, the downtrodden, the dreamers not of high station, not born to wealth or privilege, not of one religious tradition but many – coming together to shape their country’s course?
What greater expression of faith in the American experiment than this; what greater form of patriotism is there; than the belief that America is not yet finished, that we are strong enough to be self-critical, that each successive generation can look upon our imperfections and decide that it is in our power to remake this nation to more closely align with our highest ideals?
That’s why Selma is not some outlier in the American experience. That’s why it’s not a museum or static monument to behold from a distance. It is instead the manifestation of a creed written into our founding documents:
“We the People…in order to form a more perfect union.”
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.”
These are not just words. They are a living thing, a call to action, a roadmap for citizenship and an insistence in the capacity of free men and women to shape our own destiny. For founders like Franklin and Jefferson, for leaders like Lincoln and FDR, the success of our experiment in self-government rested on engaging all our citizens in this work. That’s what we celebrate here in Selma. That’s what this movement was all about, one leg in our long journey toward freedom.
The American instinct that led these young men and women to pick up the torch and cross this bridge is the same instinct that moved patriots to choose revolution over tyranny. It’s the same instinct that drew immigrants from across oceans and the Rio Grande; the same instinct that led women to reach for the ballot and workers to organize against an unjust status quo; the same instinct that led us to plant a flag at Iwo Jima and on the surface of the Moon.
It’s the idea held by generations of citizens who believed that America is a constant work in progress; who believed that loving this country requires more than singing its praises or avoiding uncomfortable truths. It requires the occasional disruption, the willingness to speak out for what’s right and shake up the status quo.
That’s what makes us unique, and cements our reputation as a beacon of opportunity. Young people behind the Iron Curtain would see Selma and eventually tear down a wall. Young people in Soweto would hear Bobby Kennedy talk about ripples of hope and eventually banish the scourge of apartheid. Young people in Burma went to prison rather than submit to military rule. From the streets of Tunis to the Maidan in Ukraine, this generation of young people can draw strength from this place, where the powerless could change the world’s greatest superpower, and push their leaders to expand the boundaries of freedom.
They saw that idea made real in Selma, Alabama. They saw it made real in America.
Because of campaigns like this, a Voting Rights Act was passed. Political, economic, and social barriers came down, and the change these men and women wrought is visible here today in the presence of African-Americans who run boardrooms, who sit on the bench, who serve in elected office from small towns to big cities; from the Congressional Black Caucus to the Oval Office.
Because of what they did, the doors of opportunity swung open not just for African-Americans, but for every American. Women marched through those doors. Latinos marched through those doors. Asian-Americans, gay Americans, and Americans with disabilities came through those doors. Their endeavors gave the entire South the chance to rise again, not by reasserting the past, but by transcending the past.
What a glorious thing, Dr. King might say.
What a solemn debt we owe.
Which leads us to ask, just how might we repay that debt?
First and foremost, we have to recognize that one day’s commemoration, no matter how special, is not enough. If Selma taught us anything, it’s that our work is never done – the American experiment in self-government gives work and purpose to each generation.
Selma teaches us, too, that action requires that we shed our cynicism. For when it comes to the pursuit of justice, we can afford neither complacency nor despair.
Just this week, I was asked whether I thought the Department of Justice’s Ferguson report shows that, with respect to race, little has changed in this country. I understand the question, for the report’s narrative was woefully familiar. It evoked the kind of abuse and disregard for citizens that spawned the Civil Rights Movement. But I rejected the notion that nothing’s changed. What happened in Ferguson may not be unique, but it’s no longer endemic, or sanctioned by law and custom; and before the Civil Rights Movement, it most surely was.
We do a disservice to the cause of justice by intimating that bias and discrimination are immutable, or that racial division is inherent to America. If you think nothing’s changed in the past fifty years, ask somebody who lived through the Selma or Chicago or L.A. of the Fifties. Ask the female CEO who once might have been assigned to the secretarial pool if nothing’s changed. Ask your gay friend if it’s easier to be out and proud in America now than it was thirty years ago. To deny this progress – our progress – would be to rob us of our own agency; our responsibility to do what we can to make America better.
Of course, a more common mistake is to suggest that racism is banished, that the work that drew men and women to Selma is complete, and that whatever racial tensions remain are a consequence of those seeking to play the “race card” for their own purposes. We don’t need the Ferguson report to know that’s not true. We just need to open our eyes, and ears, and hearts, to know that this nation’s racial history still casts its long shadow upon us. We know the march is not yet over, the race is not yet won, and that reaching that blessed destination where we are judged by the content of our character – requires admitting as much.
“We are capable of bearing a great burden,” James Baldwin wrote, “once we discover that the burden is reality and arrive where reality is.”
This is work for all Americans, and not just some. Not just whites. Not just blacks. If we want to honor the courage of those who marched that day, then all of us are called to possess their moral imagination. All of us will need to feel, as they did, the fierce urgency of now. All of us need to recognize, as they did, that change depends on our actions, our attitudes, the things we teach our children. And if we make such effort, no matter how hard it may seem, laws can be passed, and consciences can be stirred, and consensus can be built.
With such effort, we can make sure our criminal justice system serves all and not just some. Together, we can raise the level of mutual trust that policing is built on – the idea that police officers are members of the communities they risk their lives to protect, and citizens in Ferguson and New York and Cleveland just want the same thing young people here marched for – the protection of the law. Together, we can address unfair sentencing, and overcrowded prisons, and the stunted circumstances that rob too many boys of the chance to become men, and rob the nation of too many men who could be good dads, and workers, and neighbors.
With effort, we can roll back poverty and the roadblocks to opportunity. Americans don’t accept a free ride for anyone, nor do we believe in equality of outcomes. But we do expect equal opportunity, and if we really mean it, if we’re willing to sacrifice for it, then we can make sure every child gets an education suitable to this new century, one that expands imaginations and lifts their sights and gives them skills. We can make sure every person willing to work has the dignity of a job, and a fair wage, and a real voice, and sturdier rungs on that ladder into the middle class.
And with effort, we can protect the foundation stone of our democracy for which so many marched across this bridge – and that is the right to vote. Right now, in 2015, fifty years after Selma, there are laws across this country designed to make it harder for people to vote. As we speak, more of such laws are being proposed. Meanwhile, the Voting Rights Act, the culmination of so much blood and sweat and tears, the product of so much sacrifice in the face of wanton violence, stands weakened, its future subject to partisan rancor.
How can that be? The Voting Rights Act was one of the crowning achievements of our democracy, the result of Republican and Democratic effort. President Reagan signed its renewal when he was in office. President Bush signed its renewal when he was in office. One hundred Members of Congress have come here today to honor people who were willing to die for the right it protects. If we want to honor this day, let these hundred go back to Washington, and gather four hundred more, and together, pledge to make it their mission to restore the law this year.
Of course, our democracy is not the task of Congress alone, or the courts alone, or the President alone. If every new voter suppression law was struck down today, we’d still have one of the lowest voting rates among free peoples. Fifty years ago, registering to vote here in Selma and much of the South meant guessing the number of jellybeans in a jar or bubbles on a bar of soap. It meant risking your dignity, and sometimes, your life. What is our excuse today for not voting? How do we so casually discard the right for which so many fought? How do we so fully give away our power, our voice, in shaping America’s future?
Fellow marchers, so much has changed in fifty years. We’ve endured war, and fashioned peace. We’ve seen technological wonders that touch every aspect of our lives, and take for granted convenience our parents might scarcely imagine. But what has not changed is the imperative of citizenship, that willingness of a 26 year-old deacon, or a Unitarian minister, or a young mother of five, to decide they loved this country so much that they’d risk everything to realize its promise.
That’s what it means to love America. That’s what it means to believe in America. That’s what it means when we say America is exceptional.
For we were born of change. We broke the old aristocracies, declaring ourselves entitled not by bloodline, but endowed by our Creator with certain unalienable rights. We secure our rights and responsibilities through a system of self-government, of and by and for the people. That’s why we argue and fight with so much passion and conviction, because we know our efforts matter. We know America is what we make of it.
We are Lewis and Clark and Sacajawea – pioneers who braved the unfamiliar, followed by a stampede of farmers and miners, entrepreneurs and hucksters. That’s our spirit.
We are Sojourner Truth and Fannie Lou Hamer, women who could do as much as any man and then some; and we’re Susan B. Anthony, who shook the system until the law reflected that truth. That’s our character.
We’re the immigrants who stowed away on ships to reach these shores, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free – Holocaust survivors, Soviet defectors, the Lost Boys of Sudan. We are the hopeful strivers who cross the Rio Grande because they want their kids to know a better life. That’s how we came to be.
We’re the slaves who built the White House and the economy of the South. We’re the ranch hands and cowboys who opened the West, and countless laborers who laid rail, and raised skyscrapers, and organized for workers’ rights.
We’re the fresh-faced GIs who fought to liberate a continent, and we’re the Tuskeegee Airmen, Navajo code-talkers, and Japanese-Americans who fought for this country even as their own liberty had been denied. We’re the firefighters who rushed into those buildings on 9/11, and the volunteers who signed up to fight in Afghanistan and Iraq.
We are the gay Americans whose blood ran on the streets of San Francisco and New York, just as blood ran down this bridge.
We are storytellers, writers, poets, and artists who abhor unfairness, and despise hypocrisy, and give voice to the voiceless, and tell truths that need to be told.
We are the inventors of gospel and jazz and the blues, bluegrass and country, hip-hop and rock and roll, our very own sounds with all the sweet sorrow and reckless joy of freedom.
We are Jackie Robinson, enduring scorn and spiked cleats and pitches coming straight to his head, and stealing home in the World Series anyway.
We are the people Langston Hughes wrote of, who “build our temples for tomorrow, strong as we know how.”
We are the people Emerson wrote of, “who for truth and honor’s sake stand fast and suffer long;” who are “never tired, so long as we can see far enough.”
That’s what America is. Not stock photos or airbrushed history or feeble attempts to define some of us as more American as others. We respect the past, but we don’t pine for it. We don’t fear the future; we grab for it. America is not some fragile thing; we are large, in the words of Whitman, containing multitudes. We are boisterous and diverse and full of energy, perpetually young in spirit. That’s why someone like John Lewis at the ripe age of 25 could lead a mighty march.
And that’s what the young people here today and listening all across the country must take away from this day. You are America. Unconstrained by habits and convention. Unencumbered by what is, and ready to seize what ought to be. For everywhere in this country, there are first steps to be taken, and new ground to cover, and bridges to be crossed. And it is you, the young and fearless at heart, the most diverse and educated generation in our history, who the nation is waiting to follow.
Because Selma shows us that America is not the project of any one person.
Because the single most powerful word in our democracy is the word “We.” We The People. We Shall Overcome. Yes We Can. It is owned by no one. It belongs to everyone. Oh, what a glorious task we are given, to continually try to improve this great nation of ours.
Fifty years from Bloody Sunday, our march is not yet finished. But we are getting closer. Two hundred and thirty-nine years after this nation’s founding, our union is not yet perfect. But we are getting closer. Our job’s easier because somebody already got us through that first mile. Somebody already got us over that bridge. When it feels the road’s too hard, when the torch we’ve been passed feels too heavy, we will remember these early travelers, and draw strength from their example, and hold firmly the words of the prophet Isaiah:
“Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not be faint.”
We honor those who walked so we could run. We must run so our children soar. And we will not grow weary. For we believe in the power of an awesome God, and we believe in this country’s sacred promise.
May He bless those warriors of justice no longer with us, and bless the United States of America."
Monday, February 16, 2015
Ted Malanda - The grass is not growing, Your Excellency
Dear Governor Oparanya,
I was at a place called Emaraba, near Shianda, over the weekend and noticed that fishponds that were dug under the rapid economic results initiative when you were Planning minister have been abandoned.
When I asked why, I was told farmers got discouraged when thieves stole all the fish.
Now, although Security is not a devolved function of County governments, I think you need to take a very keen interest in it and shake things up a bit. The level of petty theft in most villages in Kakamega County is frightening.
People can no longer keep chicken because the louts brazenly break into chicken houses at night and go away with everything.
They harvest people’s crops and even cut people’s trees at night. This is stifling development. In many homes, anything metallic, including barbed wire fencing, has been stolen and sold as scrap metal.
The ironical thing about this is the thieves are well known but victims hardly report to the authorities because the culprits are kinsmen. Chiefs and assistant chiefs have lost their muscle and the police stationed at rural markets seem keener on shaking bribes from suspects than enforcing the law.
At Harambee Market where I come from, there is a spot where young men smoke bhang in the open. There is even a street called “Koinange”. The level of alcoholism, especially, among the youth is shocking.
It is a deep reflection of social and family breakdown whose origin can be traced to illiteracy, unemployment and lack of viable economic activities. Nearly every family has a son who is a thief and, or, addicted to alcohol, bhang, or both.
At the root of this is failure of agriculture. Our people are too beholden to sugarcane, which is a failed crop, to realize that they can grow food crops and keep livestock for cash. That is why, for instance, our vegetables, maize, fruits and chicken are sourced from other counties.
In the face of gross unemployment, we must seek ways of making farming sexy for these young people who are too busy wasting their lives on alcohol and drugs so that their only recourse is to steal people’s property to fund these habits.
For instance, and here I am making comparisons with other counties where pressure on land is more acute such as Nyeri, the tree cover in our county is low. If encouraged and facilitated to plant fast growing trees, these young men can harvest and sell firewood (lack of which is reaching crisis levels in many parts of the county).
In fact, Bw Governor, it would be excellent if you personally rolled out a tree planting exercise all over the county at the onset of the rains. There are no trees for timber in our County.
Because we are Kenya’s second most populous county, we must discard the old subsistent ways of doing things and embrace a more commercial approach. We insist on growing maize yet simsim, groundnuts and millet fetch better prices.
There is absolutely no justification, for instance, for us to continue raising chicken in the manner our forefathers did, when reality demands that we produce more for our tables and for sale.
Our uptake for high grade dairy goats, fish farming, irrigation, agroforestry, zero grazing, green housing and other aspects of ‘smart’ and intensive farming are pretty low.
You and other leaders must drive this change or we will be doomed.
Ni hayo tu, Bw Governor
Ted Malanda - Journalist/Environmentalist/Educator.
I was at a place called Emaraba, near Shianda, over the weekend and noticed that fishponds that were dug under the rapid economic results initiative when you were Planning minister have been abandoned.
When I asked why, I was told farmers got discouraged when thieves stole all the fish.
Now, although Security is not a devolved function of County governments, I think you need to take a very keen interest in it and shake things up a bit. The level of petty theft in most villages in Kakamega County is frightening.
People can no longer keep chicken because the louts brazenly break into chicken houses at night and go away with everything.
They harvest people’s crops and even cut people’s trees at night. This is stifling development. In many homes, anything metallic, including barbed wire fencing, has been stolen and sold as scrap metal.
The ironical thing about this is the thieves are well known but victims hardly report to the authorities because the culprits are kinsmen. Chiefs and assistant chiefs have lost their muscle and the police stationed at rural markets seem keener on shaking bribes from suspects than enforcing the law.
At Harambee Market where I come from, there is a spot where young men smoke bhang in the open. There is even a street called “Koinange”. The level of alcoholism, especially, among the youth is shocking.
It is a deep reflection of social and family breakdown whose origin can be traced to illiteracy, unemployment and lack of viable economic activities. Nearly every family has a son who is a thief and, or, addicted to alcohol, bhang, or both.
At the root of this is failure of agriculture. Our people are too beholden to sugarcane, which is a failed crop, to realize that they can grow food crops and keep livestock for cash. That is why, for instance, our vegetables, maize, fruits and chicken are sourced from other counties.
In the face of gross unemployment, we must seek ways of making farming sexy for these young people who are too busy wasting their lives on alcohol and drugs so that their only recourse is to steal people’s property to fund these habits.
For instance, and here I am making comparisons with other counties where pressure on land is more acute such as Nyeri, the tree cover in our county is low. If encouraged and facilitated to plant fast growing trees, these young men can harvest and sell firewood (lack of which is reaching crisis levels in many parts of the county).
In fact, Bw Governor, it would be excellent if you personally rolled out a tree planting exercise all over the county at the onset of the rains. There are no trees for timber in our County.
Because we are Kenya’s second most populous county, we must discard the old subsistent ways of doing things and embrace a more commercial approach. We insist on growing maize yet simsim, groundnuts and millet fetch better prices.
There is absolutely no justification, for instance, for us to continue raising chicken in the manner our forefathers did, when reality demands that we produce more for our tables and for sale.
Our uptake for high grade dairy goats, fish farming, irrigation, agroforestry, zero grazing, green housing and other aspects of ‘smart’ and intensive farming are pretty low.
You and other leaders must drive this change or we will be doomed.
Ni hayo tu, Bw Governor
Ted Malanda - Journalist/Environmentalist/Educator.
Thursday, February 12, 2015
JMAW - A WALK OF DETERMINATION
When I told my friend Sam about offering children with no school fees a lifeline, he wondered whether we were aware of the much touted scholarship schemes. So tonight, I tell him the story of Kelvin.
Kelvin lives with his grandmother in rural Butere after his parents abandoned them. I am not sure of the circumstances that lead a mother to abandon a child she carried for nine months in her womb but that is a subject for another day. Kelvin scored 391 points & was the best candidate at his public school in rural Kakamega County & the 13th best in his sub county, Butere. I haven't visited Kelvin's school but I wager it is a far cry from St Andrew's,Turi or Makini School, Nairobi. I bet it isn't even like Loreto Convent, Mombasa or St Anne's, Mumias - my two alma maters. I highly doubt it has a school bus which means kids from the catchment area walk miles to school & prepubescent girls risk being raped by leering men on their way to & from school. This might explain why secondary school heads now add 100/- for pregnancy tests for form 1 pupils.
Kelvin's admission letter to Nairobi School (www.nairobischool.ac.ke) was just a mockery (the kind you throw into the three stone fire & suck your teeth while at it) because Kelvin's grandmother could not - in her wildest dreams - raise the funding required for fees and shopping. Most people can afford transport but Kelvin & his grandmother walked 17 km from Butere to Mumias for the "wings to fly" scholarship. Although he had not been short listed, he persisted & 'in faith' presented himself for the interview. Equity chased him away as he had not been preselected. Kelvin walked 39 kms from Butere to Kakamega for KCB sponsorship but was not fortunate. He went to the CDF but was told to wait until June as the coffers were dry. He tried his luck with Palm foundation but this too did not yield fruit. Thankfully Palm foundation gave Kevin and his grandmother fare for transport back home. As a last resort his teacher Nyabs George decided to post the issue on Facebook. Josephine Ayiera Muluka analysed the case and concluded that it met the threshold for support. The TWKC committee responsible for Butere Sub County proposed him for sponsorship but there was no sponsor as most of us had already taken one or two other children.
The furthest I have walked in recent times was during the 10 km Kakamega Green Walk and Run. Before you ask me if a teenager can walk those distances, let me tell you for free that I remember my dad telling us how he walked (his disability notwithstanding) with his future brother in law, Elkana Mbati from Mumias to Butere to catch the train to Maseno School where they were students. But I digress...
This week, Kelvin and his grandmother were hosted by Ms Rosemary Okwara who graciously opened her home in Nairobi and paid for the shopping which any parent can tell you is daunting. Kelvin had never seen the bright lights of the city nor the tuktuks of Kisumu fighting for space with ramshackled matatus. I wondered insensitively to Rosemary why Kelvin hadn't been in music or drama for then he could have travelled extensively around the country during music & drama festivals. Upon confirmation from me that fees had been settled, Rosemary dropped Kelvin at school and made a trunk call to inform that the mission was accomplished. Rosemary will mentor Kelvin and provide him with a place to call home during half term.
Now, I can't tell Sam why Kelvin did not benefit from the scholarships he walked Kilometres to apply for in nearby towns. Maybe the print on the forms was too small that he did not fill the forms right; maybe being 13 in his sub county was unlucky as we all know the number 13 is jinxed; perhaps he was overawed by the officials he met with fake accents & fancy suits; most probably CSR budgets are too stretched now that Mumias Sugar Company is on bended knee; I cannot explain why someone would hand a 2000/- cheque to orphans when a laced shoe needed for secondary school costs 1800/-; I am puzzled about why my best friends - as if to add insult to injury - would send me articles of Villa Rosa Kempinski suites that cost 2.3 million for Valentine's night; I can't explain what CS Kaimenyi is thinking as he releases results & waxes lyrical about equity in school selection; I can't tell why my friends in the media do not find it in their hearts to cover Kelvin's story so that perhaps a Mr Shah might ask himself from the comfort of his 3 million Mahogany desk & swivelling leather chair IF Kelvin's case is 'genuine'; I can't tell you why media houses did not fall over themselves or inundate us with calls regarding Kelvin. Honestly, I do not know whose Africa is rising or why Kenya is donating 91 million to Malawi flood victims when our children cannot afford post primary education. I have no idea what they do with the bursaries they tell us about at rallies. I cannot even explain why I drain a bottle of wine on a good evening or why I buy so many Kitenge fabrics or why I feast on gourmet meals each time the spirit leads me. I cannot even fathom why kids brought up under harsh circumstances score more marks than some of their counterparts brought up with bronze, silver & gold spoons in their mouths. I can't understand why the parable of the good Samaritan is not preached often enough at the pulpit. I don't even know whether the palatial Vice President's home in Karen is still unoccupied. I beg you, my friends, please not to ask me these questions...for I do not have the answers...
All I know is that it doesn't really matter for now....for I prayed fervently for another pair of shoes until I met a lad with no school fees.
Kelvin lives with his grandmother in rural Butere after his parents abandoned them. I am not sure of the circumstances that lead a mother to abandon a child she carried for nine months in her womb but that is a subject for another day. Kelvin scored 391 points & was the best candidate at his public school in rural Kakamega County & the 13th best in his sub county, Butere. I haven't visited Kelvin's school but I wager it is a far cry from St Andrew's,Turi or Makini School, Nairobi. I bet it isn't even like Loreto Convent, Mombasa or St Anne's, Mumias - my two alma maters. I highly doubt it has a school bus which means kids from the catchment area walk miles to school & prepubescent girls risk being raped by leering men on their way to & from school. This might explain why secondary school heads now add 100/- for pregnancy tests for form 1 pupils.
Kelvin's admission letter to Nairobi School (www.nairobischool.ac.ke) was just a mockery (the kind you throw into the three stone fire & suck your teeth while at it) because Kelvin's grandmother could not - in her wildest dreams - raise the funding required for fees and shopping. Most people can afford transport but Kelvin & his grandmother walked 17 km from Butere to Mumias for the "wings to fly" scholarship. Although he had not been short listed, he persisted & 'in faith' presented himself for the interview. Equity chased him away as he had not been preselected. Kelvin walked 39 kms from Butere to Kakamega for KCB sponsorship but was not fortunate. He went to the CDF but was told to wait until June as the coffers were dry. He tried his luck with Palm foundation but this too did not yield fruit. Thankfully Palm foundation gave Kevin and his grandmother fare for transport back home. As a last resort his teacher Nyabs George decided to post the issue on Facebook. Josephine Ayiera Muluka analysed the case and concluded that it met the threshold for support. The TWKC committee responsible for Butere Sub County proposed him for sponsorship but there was no sponsor as most of us had already taken one or two other children.
The furthest I have walked in recent times was during the 10 km Kakamega Green Walk and Run. Before you ask me if a teenager can walk those distances, let me tell you for free that I remember my dad telling us how he walked (his disability notwithstanding) with his future brother in law, Elkana Mbati from Mumias to Butere to catch the train to Maseno School where they were students. But I digress...
This week, Kelvin and his grandmother were hosted by Ms Rosemary Okwara who graciously opened her home in Nairobi and paid for the shopping which any parent can tell you is daunting. Kelvin had never seen the bright lights of the city nor the tuktuks of Kisumu fighting for space with ramshackled matatus. I wondered insensitively to Rosemary why Kelvin hadn't been in music or drama for then he could have travelled extensively around the country during music & drama festivals. Upon confirmation from me that fees had been settled, Rosemary dropped Kelvin at school and made a trunk call to inform that the mission was accomplished. Rosemary will mentor Kelvin and provide him with a place to call home during half term.
Now, I can't tell Sam why Kelvin did not benefit from the scholarships he walked Kilometres to apply for in nearby towns. Maybe the print on the forms was too small that he did not fill the forms right; maybe being 13 in his sub county was unlucky as we all know the number 13 is jinxed; perhaps he was overawed by the officials he met with fake accents & fancy suits; most probably CSR budgets are too stretched now that Mumias Sugar Company is on bended knee; I cannot explain why someone would hand a 2000/- cheque to orphans when a laced shoe needed for secondary school costs 1800/-; I am puzzled about why my best friends - as if to add insult to injury - would send me articles of Villa Rosa Kempinski suites that cost 2.3 million for Valentine's night; I can't explain what CS Kaimenyi is thinking as he releases results & waxes lyrical about equity in school selection; I can't tell why my friends in the media do not find it in their hearts to cover Kelvin's story so that perhaps a Mr Shah might ask himself from the comfort of his 3 million Mahogany desk & swivelling leather chair IF Kelvin's case is 'genuine'; I can't tell you why media houses did not fall over themselves or inundate us with calls regarding Kelvin. Honestly, I do not know whose Africa is rising or why Kenya is donating 91 million to Malawi flood victims when our children cannot afford post primary education. I have no idea what they do with the bursaries they tell us about at rallies. I cannot even explain why I drain a bottle of wine on a good evening or why I buy so many Kitenge fabrics or why I feast on gourmet meals each time the spirit leads me. I cannot even fathom why kids brought up under harsh circumstances score more marks than some of their counterparts brought up with bronze, silver & gold spoons in their mouths. I can't understand why the parable of the good Samaritan is not preached often enough at the pulpit. I don't even know whether the palatial Vice President's home in Karen is still unoccupied. I beg you, my friends, please not to ask me these questions...for I do not have the answers...
All I know is that it doesn't really matter for now....for I prayed fervently for another pair of shoes until I met a lad with no school fees.
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Mario Puzo - The Godfather
The funeral services held in honour of Fidel Castro Odhiambo Makarios Odinga led me to pick Mario Puzo's Godfather from that special place on my bookshelf.
I juxtaposed the events of the funeral service at all Saints Cathedral on 8th January 2015 against the wedding of Constanzia Corleone. This was a funeral service where all and sundry (friends and foes) not only attended but had to be seen to attend. Not consoling the bereaved did not seem like an option. It was amazing seeing the top political elite rush to console the bereaved family irrespective of party affiliation. All media houses covered the services for close to four hours on live television on the day of the church service and offered extensive coverage before & after the burial. Mainstream Print media and tabloids dedicated their top front page stories for Fidel Castro Odinga as no editor dared to be found wanting. Accolades were poured on the departed Fidel in a messianic manner that seemed surreal especially for a person who - for all intents and purposes - was not a wheeler dealer in the political or business circles. Everyone struggled to be counted as a friend or acquaintance of the deceased. Raila Odinga - fondly referred to as Baba (Godfather) - reminded me of Don Vito Corleone and the country stopped to condole him in his time of grief and misfortune.
The death of Fidel Castro Odinga at the age of 41 is reminiscent to that of Santino Corleone. Santino Corleone was heir apparent to the Corleone empire just as Fidel Castro was for the Odinga dynasty. That Fidel had fallen prior to fulfilling his destiny was described as a blow below the belt comparable only to the murder of Santino Corleone. Speaker after speaker from the family side indicated that Fidel Castro had been fingered by unseen forces. As in Santino ' s case, the Odinga family and friends vowed that no stone would be left unturned in determining responsibility, apportioning blame and perhaps avenging the death. Don Vito Corleone - in a meeting calling for a truce following Santino's death - indicated that he was a superstitious man. That if anything should befall his younger son Michael, even if he were hit by a bolt of lighting, he would blame some people around that table. The Odinga family reaction that someone might be responsible for Fidel 's death is understandable, for otherwise healthy people do not just depart to meet their maker without appropriate notice. Whispers of alcohol poisoning are theoretical and sacrilegious because Fidel wasn't the only Kenyan who partook of alcohol or whatever substance on that fateful night.
As I watched the various 'Godfathers' come to console Baba beamed on the airwaves, I looked out for who would fit the role of Barzini or Tattaglia - the men who ordered the hit on Santino Corleone . For I am without doubt that the suspected person (if such a one exists) was among the many mourners who attended one of the many services in Fidel's honour. Having concluded that the gods had not conspired against Baba, then among those partying with Fidel on that fateful night, was one who like Carlo Rizzi fingered Santino for Barzini.
I juxtaposed the characters and roles of Kay Adams (Michael's wife) & Sandra Corleone (Santino's wife) to Lwam Bekele, Fidel Castro Odinga's widow. Kay Adams, non Italian & protestant, is referred to as 'the washed out rag of an American girl' not worth much attention in the big scheme of things. The Corleone surname is not appended to her name throughout the book just as Lwam goes by her maiden name. Like Santino's wife, Lwam's role at the funeral was simply a footnote. Indeed she did not have a say on where Fidel would be buried and neither understood much of what took place in Bondo as many of the interventions were in Luo and the crowd that came to mourn her husband was alien to her. Like Kay Adams, Lwam was very much the 'outsider' and many mourners omitted to refer to her as they condoled with the family. Lwam's achievements being that she had played her role as an Odinga wife as expected and provided the continuation of the lineage by bearing a much needed son. Families and friends need to be forgiven for consoling Don Vito Corleone more than they did Sandra Corleone for the Godfather had lost so much more.
My favourite passage in the Godfather remains "She {Kay Adams} emptied herself of all thought of herself, of her children, of all anger, of all rebellion, of all questions. Then with a profound and deeply willed desire to believe, to be heard, as she had done everyday since the murder of Carlo Rizzi, she said the necessary prayers for the soul of Michael Corleone." Kay Adams accepted her fate and submitted to her destiny part of which was to assure Michael a place in heaven.
I juxtaposed the events of the funeral service at all Saints Cathedral on 8th January 2015 against the wedding of Constanzia Corleone. This was a funeral service where all and sundry (friends and foes) not only attended but had to be seen to attend. Not consoling the bereaved did not seem like an option. It was amazing seeing the top political elite rush to console the bereaved family irrespective of party affiliation. All media houses covered the services for close to four hours on live television on the day of the church service and offered extensive coverage before & after the burial. Mainstream Print media and tabloids dedicated their top front page stories for Fidel Castro Odinga as no editor dared to be found wanting. Accolades were poured on the departed Fidel in a messianic manner that seemed surreal especially for a person who - for all intents and purposes - was not a wheeler dealer in the political or business circles. Everyone struggled to be counted as a friend or acquaintance of the deceased. Raila Odinga - fondly referred to as Baba (Godfather) - reminded me of Don Vito Corleone and the country stopped to condole him in his time of grief and misfortune.
The death of Fidel Castro Odinga at the age of 41 is reminiscent to that of Santino Corleone. Santino Corleone was heir apparent to the Corleone empire just as Fidel Castro was for the Odinga dynasty. That Fidel had fallen prior to fulfilling his destiny was described as a blow below the belt comparable only to the murder of Santino Corleone. Speaker after speaker from the family side indicated that Fidel Castro had been fingered by unseen forces. As in Santino ' s case, the Odinga family and friends vowed that no stone would be left unturned in determining responsibility, apportioning blame and perhaps avenging the death. Don Vito Corleone - in a meeting calling for a truce following Santino's death - indicated that he was a superstitious man. That if anything should befall his younger son Michael, even if he were hit by a bolt of lighting, he would blame some people around that table. The Odinga family reaction that someone might be responsible for Fidel 's death is understandable, for otherwise healthy people do not just depart to meet their maker without appropriate notice. Whispers of alcohol poisoning are theoretical and sacrilegious because Fidel wasn't the only Kenyan who partook of alcohol or whatever substance on that fateful night.
As I watched the various 'Godfathers' come to console Baba beamed on the airwaves, I looked out for who would fit the role of Barzini or Tattaglia - the men who ordered the hit on Santino Corleone . For I am without doubt that the suspected person (if such a one exists) was among the many mourners who attended one of the many services in Fidel's honour. Having concluded that the gods had not conspired against Baba, then among those partying with Fidel on that fateful night, was one who like Carlo Rizzi fingered Santino for Barzini.
I juxtaposed the characters and roles of Kay Adams (Michael's wife) & Sandra Corleone (Santino's wife) to Lwam Bekele, Fidel Castro Odinga's widow. Kay Adams, non Italian & protestant, is referred to as 'the washed out rag of an American girl' not worth much attention in the big scheme of things. The Corleone surname is not appended to her name throughout the book just as Lwam goes by her maiden name. Like Santino's wife, Lwam's role at the funeral was simply a footnote. Indeed she did not have a say on where Fidel would be buried and neither understood much of what took place in Bondo as many of the interventions were in Luo and the crowd that came to mourn her husband was alien to her. Like Kay Adams, Lwam was very much the 'outsider' and many mourners omitted to refer to her as they condoled with the family. Lwam's achievements being that she had played her role as an Odinga wife as expected and provided the continuation of the lineage by bearing a much needed son. Families and friends need to be forgiven for consoling Don Vito Corleone more than they did Sandra Corleone for the Godfather had lost so much more.
My favourite passage in the Godfather remains "She {Kay Adams} emptied herself of all thought of herself, of her children, of all anger, of all rebellion, of all questions. Then with a profound and deeply willed desire to believe, to be heard, as she had done everyday since the murder of Carlo Rizzi, she said the necessary prayers for the soul of Michael Corleone." Kay Adams accepted her fate and submitted to her destiny part of which was to assure Michael a place in heaven.
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