Last night, I was a very lonely American. The United States lost to Ghana, and all of Africa went crazy. I turned off the TV and went to bed to the sounds of screaming and vuvuzelas.
The entire continent now is watching, rooting for, and has its hopes with the Black Stars of Ghana. For once, the country is getting its due.
African countries are often compared with South Korea as an example of how she has underperformed economically and politically while Asia has had immeasurable success. President Obama even stressed this in his speech to the Ghanaians last year. “Countries like Kenya had a per capita economy larger than South Korea’s when I was born,” he explained. “They have badly been outpaced. Disease and conflict have ravaged parts of the African continent.”
Yesterday, South Korea lost in the round of 16 and was eliminated, while Ghana beat the most powerful country in the world and will play in the quarterfinals. And it was no fluke.
While countries like Kenya have struggled with violence during elections, Ghana has had relatively peaceful national elections – with transfers of power – since the 90s. Yesterday, Ghana was the first African team to make it to two straight rounds of 16 in World Cup history. And they are not two-hit wonders: their under-20 team won the World Championship last year, signaling that Ghana is here to stay.
I thought about last year when I was in Ghana and President Obama visited the country. The entire capital city of Accra shut down for the 21 hours that he was there. Describing the terrible traffic during the day, one Ghanaian called it “Obama Traffic.” Hawkers yelled, “Obama biscuits. Come buy Obama biscuits.”
Most Ghanaians were thrilled that Obama chose their country as the site of his first sub-Saharan African visit as President. They designed kenti cloths with his face on it, political parties printed thousands of shirts with his picture emblazoned across the front, and hundreds of animated supporters greeted him at the airport. “Akwaaba (welcome) Barack Obama and Family” billboards spread the whole country, and the tro tro talk of the day was about why Obama chose Ghana. Ghanaians were surely proud of their democracy.
While Ghanaians remain in awe of America’s President, they were hardly in awe of the Americans on the soccer pitch. If anything, the Ghanaians were the more skillful team. Nothing like football to level the playing field.
France and Italy didn’t even make it out of the first round. South Korea faltered. South America looks as dangerous as ever.
Nobody even cares about today’s England-Germany match.
While Ghana shines on.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Democracy, Development, and Devolution in Nakuru
“We are moving from one stage to another,” the Rift Valley Provincial Commissioner explained to us about the new constitution. “We cannot stay in the same stage forever. We have been in Lancaster for far too long.”
The Lancaster House conferences were the meetings between 1960 and 1963 where the Kenyan constitution and independence was negotiated between the British and selected Kenyan elites. The legacy of the constitution has had disastrous consequences for social class formation after Independence, privileging certain groups of people over others. This, in turn, has led to violent political conflict, especially during elections. On August 4, Kenyans will vote in a referendum that could bring the country a new constitution – attempting to solve the deep-seated, structural conditions once and for all.
For the Provincial Commissioner, the new constitution is a sign of progress, a sign of moving beyond the horrific British colonial legacy. A stage of democratic growth.
For a group of young, well-educated Kenyans from the central Rift Valley, the new constitution is a cop-out. “You’re telling me, after all this fuss and years spent negotiating, this is the best they could do,” Samuel muttered in disbelief. “There is no mention of youth empowerment. This is supposed to be a people-driven process!”
Samuel fumed, “This constitution tells us nothing about how land disputes will be solved, and who should actually receive the land. Ancestral homelands? That is way too ambiguous. What does that even mean?”
The Provincial Commissioner was brought forth to discuss the draft constitution with this group of youth. As a peace initiative of the provincial government (with funding from international NGOs like World Vision and UNDP, of course), a group of 10 people met in the Provincial headquarters and talked about the document.
The commissioner was unlike any politician we had met in Kenya. His tie said it all: faded, with Mickey Mouse insignias printed throughout. He very well could have been a pediatrician. Much different than the bling-bling ministers that roam the streets of Nairobi. He knew the draft constitution well, and had examples of different groups and episodes to suggest how the document would help. He soundly and calmly countered Samuel’s claims.
“Conflicts have been here for time immemorial,” the commissioner explained. “We must look at ways in which the constitution is directing us. Society must be regulated. You cannot just be allowed to roam around. That is why we need government.” Although not ideal, he stressed that the constitution is the best attempt to regulate society and prevent conflict. Perhaps most importantly, the commissioner stressed the attempt to de-link land from politics.
Samuel didn’t buy it, and once again stated how the youth had been overlooked in the process. “There is nothing in this constitution to suggest how the youth will benefit from government. This is the same old story.”
~~~
While Nakuru is the fourth largest city in Kenya, it feels much more like a small town. It has the same street names as Nairobi – Kenyatta Avenue, Moi Avenue, and all the other usual suspects – but 3 million less people.
As in most small African towns, the minibus station is the center of industry and excitement; the epicenter for importing and exporting tourists, goods, and second-hand gadgets. Hustlers roam with nothing better to do. Young boys with no jobs, no homes and no families pick at the piles of garbage. A group of them burn it, while they smoke pieces of rolled up newspaper. Not sure what is inside. A few teenagers dance to the music blasting, entirely unaware of their surroundings. The glue that they recently sniffed has done the trick. “Welcome to our grocery” a man came up to the window of our vehicle selling cokes, biscuits and afia – Kenya’s Sunny D: sweet, tangy, and terrible. A man sold knives. Another wallets. A third belts. A woman had key chains, flashlights, and other “dangles” – everybody wonders if they sell any of this stuff.
Africa’s one-dollar store.
Since 2003, when Kenya implemented its new decentralization policies, small towns like Nakuru have had mini-resurgences. Residents hope that the promises of devolution in the new constitution will further develop the town.
“For so many years, all the money went to Nairobi,” a deputy director in the provincial Ministry of Lands told us. “But now they are starting to develop other areas. The CDF, LATF, LASDAP – there are so many different initiatives to put money in the hands of local communities.”
Interestingly, the devolution and decentralization policies span beyond monetary resources, and include professional and expert resources as well. For example, bureaucrats who have spent most of their lives working in Nairobi have been transferred throughout the country.
“I lived in Nairobi for many, many years,” the deputy director told us. “But I am so happy to be out here. I prefer the solitude of my rural homeland.” He explained how this has been the case with many of his colleagues, and how he thinks it is only going to be more pronounced with the new constitution.
The contemporary case of Kenyan ruralization.
For once, the development of Nakuru is not just about tourism. While it does have one of the largest game parks in the country, it also has a growing middle class, emerging agricultural industry, and lots of home grown talent.
And, of course, a bustling matatu station.
~~~
We interrupted Samuel, Winston and Maureen’s prayer session at the Merica Hotel in central Nakuru. While most of the customers’ eyes were glued to the television watching the England-Slovenia game, the three of them were singing psalms and drinking tea in the back.
The Merica Hotel is the nicest hotel in Nakuru and the hangout for rich ex-pats, aspiring politicians and big men themselves. Every large African city has a spot like this, and its arrival on the scene in 2003 put Nakuru on the map of importance.
One of the first questions Samuel asked us earlier after the discussion of the constitution was, “Are you a Christian?” He seemed disappointed when we told him no. “Well, there is still time,” he quickly responded.
We spent the first thirty minutes talking about religion until Maureen left to go home. The conversation immediately shifted to politics. Samuel and Winston asked us what we thought of the constitution.
“Something needs to be done,” my girlfriend responded. “And the constitution is far better than the current one.” She explained how the current constitution leads to a situation where land is the most important form of patronage. In theory, the new constitution will change this so that land is no longer used as a political resource.
“Of course the constitution is not everything,” I added. “But it is a start, and only so much can be asked of a piece of paper. Just because it is not perfect, does not mean that it should be rejected. Politics is inherently about conflict – not consensus – and nobody said democracy would be easy.”
Samuel was sick of the “baby steps” argument, and was not having any of it, “This constitution does not tell us anything about how we should govern our country. It simply creates more problems and gives us no clear way to solve them.”
One of his main concerns was that the shift from districts to counties was going to lead to massive instability. “People will lose their jobs, and now people will have to travel farther to get their services provided to them. We have districts now, why do we have to change them to counties?” He did not agree with the conventional wisdom that the new constitution would empower local communities.
Mostly, he did not trust that the politicians of the country would be able to handle the massive overhaul. And, while devolution was an important part of the constitution, the disbursement of money to the county level – rather than the more immediate district level – was insufficient. It would not pass into the hands of the youth. “What are these counties, anyway?” he complained. “Who will be in charge of them?”
“For this country to succeed, we need both peace and development,” Winston said. “We cannot have peace without development and we cannot have development without peace. And the youth must be at the center of this project.” The statistics are stunning: two-thirds of Kenyan residents are under 25 years old. The majority of the country is youth.
“The youth have not been part of the process. The devolution will not help the youth,” Samuel interrupted. “We need individual economic empowerment.”
I asked Samuel what “individual economic empowerment” is. He responded, “The youth of this country have nothing to do. So when a politician comes with an ‘opportunity’ or a little bit of cash, they jump on it.” In other words, the youth are taken advantage of by the more powerful politicians.
“So they need jobs and money,” I said, still unsure of what he meant by ‘empowerment.’ This is the new buzz word in developing countries today: empowerment. If you write a grant proposal, your project must ‘empower’ people. If you are a politician, you must ‘empower’ your community. Just like the word ‘sustainable’ in the 1990s, every political and social circle has adopted the term – without really knowing what it means. It remains ambiguous and overused; yet, it is a source of optimism for aspiring leaders like Winston and Samuel.
“The youth must have jobs and money, and the constitution does not provide any of this,” Samuel replied. I tried to think of a constitution that does provide the right to a job, and I could not think of any. Not even South Africa, who has one of the most progressive constitutions in the world.
“What about Cuba?” Winston asked me. “They seem to have done something right.”
“When I was in Cuba,” I told him. “I had a friend named James who had to decide whether to be a doctor or a bartender. He chose to become a bartender because he could make more money. Not only more money, but enough to get by. If he became a doctor, he feared that he would have no livelihood.”
He had secured a job, but I am not sure how empowered he felt.
Samuel mentioned the success of America’s constitution. He was impressed that it has withstood such a long period of time.
“Our country almost came crumbling down during the Civil War,” I reminded him. “It was not until 1965 that all blacks got the right to vote.” While the constitution offered important guidance, some of the most important developments in American politics occurred on the streets and the battlefields, not the courtrooms. This is making democracy work.
While we were exhausted, Samuel and Winston could have talked for hours. “While you are Americans and non-Christians, the one thing that we have in common is that we are all humans. This is the beautiful thing about language – we can all sit here and talk and learn from one another.” Of course, they had to learn English to do so.
I told him that on our next trip we would do this again in Swahili. Samuel said that it is not necessary. But, he continued, “Maybe you will be Christians by then.”
The Lancaster House conferences were the meetings between 1960 and 1963 where the Kenyan constitution and independence was negotiated between the British and selected Kenyan elites. The legacy of the constitution has had disastrous consequences for social class formation after Independence, privileging certain groups of people over others. This, in turn, has led to violent political conflict, especially during elections. On August 4, Kenyans will vote in a referendum that could bring the country a new constitution – attempting to solve the deep-seated, structural conditions once and for all.
For the Provincial Commissioner, the new constitution is a sign of progress, a sign of moving beyond the horrific British colonial legacy. A stage of democratic growth.
For a group of young, well-educated Kenyans from the central Rift Valley, the new constitution is a cop-out. “You’re telling me, after all this fuss and years spent negotiating, this is the best they could do,” Samuel muttered in disbelief. “There is no mention of youth empowerment. This is supposed to be a people-driven process!”
Samuel fumed, “This constitution tells us nothing about how land disputes will be solved, and who should actually receive the land. Ancestral homelands? That is way too ambiguous. What does that even mean?”
The Provincial Commissioner was brought forth to discuss the draft constitution with this group of youth. As a peace initiative of the provincial government (with funding from international NGOs like World Vision and UNDP, of course), a group of 10 people met in the Provincial headquarters and talked about the document.
The commissioner was unlike any politician we had met in Kenya. His tie said it all: faded, with Mickey Mouse insignias printed throughout. He very well could have been a pediatrician. Much different than the bling-bling ministers that roam the streets of Nairobi. He knew the draft constitution well, and had examples of different groups and episodes to suggest how the document would help. He soundly and calmly countered Samuel’s claims.
“Conflicts have been here for time immemorial,” the commissioner explained. “We must look at ways in which the constitution is directing us. Society must be regulated. You cannot just be allowed to roam around. That is why we need government.” Although not ideal, he stressed that the constitution is the best attempt to regulate society and prevent conflict. Perhaps most importantly, the commissioner stressed the attempt to de-link land from politics.
Samuel didn’t buy it, and once again stated how the youth had been overlooked in the process. “There is nothing in this constitution to suggest how the youth will benefit from government. This is the same old story.”
~~~
While Nakuru is the fourth largest city in Kenya, it feels much more like a small town. It has the same street names as Nairobi – Kenyatta Avenue, Moi Avenue, and all the other usual suspects – but 3 million less people.
As in most small African towns, the minibus station is the center of industry and excitement; the epicenter for importing and exporting tourists, goods, and second-hand gadgets. Hustlers roam with nothing better to do. Young boys with no jobs, no homes and no families pick at the piles of garbage. A group of them burn it, while they smoke pieces of rolled up newspaper. Not sure what is inside. A few teenagers dance to the music blasting, entirely unaware of their surroundings. The glue that they recently sniffed has done the trick. “Welcome to our grocery” a man came up to the window of our vehicle selling cokes, biscuits and afia – Kenya’s Sunny D: sweet, tangy, and terrible. A man sold knives. Another wallets. A third belts. A woman had key chains, flashlights, and other “dangles” – everybody wonders if they sell any of this stuff.
Africa’s one-dollar store.
Since 2003, when Kenya implemented its new decentralization policies, small towns like Nakuru have had mini-resurgences. Residents hope that the promises of devolution in the new constitution will further develop the town.
“For so many years, all the money went to Nairobi,” a deputy director in the provincial Ministry of Lands told us. “But now they are starting to develop other areas. The CDF, LATF, LASDAP – there are so many different initiatives to put money in the hands of local communities.”
Interestingly, the devolution and decentralization policies span beyond monetary resources, and include professional and expert resources as well. For example, bureaucrats who have spent most of their lives working in Nairobi have been transferred throughout the country.
“I lived in Nairobi for many, many years,” the deputy director told us. “But I am so happy to be out here. I prefer the solitude of my rural homeland.” He explained how this has been the case with many of his colleagues, and how he thinks it is only going to be more pronounced with the new constitution.
The contemporary case of Kenyan ruralization.
For once, the development of Nakuru is not just about tourism. While it does have one of the largest game parks in the country, it also has a growing middle class, emerging agricultural industry, and lots of home grown talent.
And, of course, a bustling matatu station.
~~~
We interrupted Samuel, Winston and Maureen’s prayer session at the Merica Hotel in central Nakuru. While most of the customers’ eyes were glued to the television watching the England-Slovenia game, the three of them were singing psalms and drinking tea in the back.
The Merica Hotel is the nicest hotel in Nakuru and the hangout for rich ex-pats, aspiring politicians and big men themselves. Every large African city has a spot like this, and its arrival on the scene in 2003 put Nakuru on the map of importance.
One of the first questions Samuel asked us earlier after the discussion of the constitution was, “Are you a Christian?” He seemed disappointed when we told him no. “Well, there is still time,” he quickly responded.
We spent the first thirty minutes talking about religion until Maureen left to go home. The conversation immediately shifted to politics. Samuel and Winston asked us what we thought of the constitution.
“Something needs to be done,” my girlfriend responded. “And the constitution is far better than the current one.” She explained how the current constitution leads to a situation where land is the most important form of patronage. In theory, the new constitution will change this so that land is no longer used as a political resource.
“Of course the constitution is not everything,” I added. “But it is a start, and only so much can be asked of a piece of paper. Just because it is not perfect, does not mean that it should be rejected. Politics is inherently about conflict – not consensus – and nobody said democracy would be easy.”
Samuel was sick of the “baby steps” argument, and was not having any of it, “This constitution does not tell us anything about how we should govern our country. It simply creates more problems and gives us no clear way to solve them.”
One of his main concerns was that the shift from districts to counties was going to lead to massive instability. “People will lose their jobs, and now people will have to travel farther to get their services provided to them. We have districts now, why do we have to change them to counties?” He did not agree with the conventional wisdom that the new constitution would empower local communities.
Mostly, he did not trust that the politicians of the country would be able to handle the massive overhaul. And, while devolution was an important part of the constitution, the disbursement of money to the county level – rather than the more immediate district level – was insufficient. It would not pass into the hands of the youth. “What are these counties, anyway?” he complained. “Who will be in charge of them?”
“For this country to succeed, we need both peace and development,” Winston said. “We cannot have peace without development and we cannot have development without peace. And the youth must be at the center of this project.” The statistics are stunning: two-thirds of Kenyan residents are under 25 years old. The majority of the country is youth.
“The youth have not been part of the process. The devolution will not help the youth,” Samuel interrupted. “We need individual economic empowerment.”
I asked Samuel what “individual economic empowerment” is. He responded, “The youth of this country have nothing to do. So when a politician comes with an ‘opportunity’ or a little bit of cash, they jump on it.” In other words, the youth are taken advantage of by the more powerful politicians.
“So they need jobs and money,” I said, still unsure of what he meant by ‘empowerment.’ This is the new buzz word in developing countries today: empowerment. If you write a grant proposal, your project must ‘empower’ people. If you are a politician, you must ‘empower’ your community. Just like the word ‘sustainable’ in the 1990s, every political and social circle has adopted the term – without really knowing what it means. It remains ambiguous and overused; yet, it is a source of optimism for aspiring leaders like Winston and Samuel.
“The youth must have jobs and money, and the constitution does not provide any of this,” Samuel replied. I tried to think of a constitution that does provide the right to a job, and I could not think of any. Not even South Africa, who has one of the most progressive constitutions in the world.
“What about Cuba?” Winston asked me. “They seem to have done something right.”
“When I was in Cuba,” I told him. “I had a friend named James who had to decide whether to be a doctor or a bartender. He chose to become a bartender because he could make more money. Not only more money, but enough to get by. If he became a doctor, he feared that he would have no livelihood.”
He had secured a job, but I am not sure how empowered he felt.
Samuel mentioned the success of America’s constitution. He was impressed that it has withstood such a long period of time.
“Our country almost came crumbling down during the Civil War,” I reminded him. “It was not until 1965 that all blacks got the right to vote.” While the constitution offered important guidance, some of the most important developments in American politics occurred on the streets and the battlefields, not the courtrooms. This is making democracy work.
While we were exhausted, Samuel and Winston could have talked for hours. “While you are Americans and non-Christians, the one thing that we have in common is that we are all humans. This is the beautiful thing about language – we can all sit here and talk and learn from one another.” Of course, they had to learn English to do so.
I told him that on our next trip we would do this again in Swahili. Samuel said that it is not necessary. But, he continued, “Maybe you will be Christians by then.”
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Mathare Undocumented
“You will make many friends here,” Chris told me as we walked through Mathare, “Because you don’t have a camera.”
Although not many white people visit Mathare, the ones that do bring cameras. They want pictures. The changa (illegal alcohol) brewers are afraid that they will be exposed. “Tell them you are a doctor if anybody asks you,” Chris told me. The others just don’t want to be bothered.
A group of young men walked by, and made a joke about me being an mzungu (white man). One of them asked me where I am from. “America,” I responded. He then asked me how I find Kenya. “I love it,” I told him honestly. He seemed pleased. I asked him the same question.
“This place is crap,” he seemed upset. “The government is so corrupt. They don’t do anything for us – they just steal.”
The big news of the day is that the electricity company came in the morning to disconnect the lines that had been illegally connected. They came a few days ago but the residents resisted, and would not let them through. Today, they came with police. The residents were nowhere to be seen: they fear the police in Mathare.
The MP of the slum was well-liked, but now that she is part of the ‘No’ camp, she probably will not be re-elected. The councilors do not matter much, and most residents do not even know their names.
We walked on one of the wider roads in Mathare, and piles of rocks had been recently piled there to rebuild the road. “The councilor brought these,” a shop owner told us. But no road was being built. Chris told me that eventually they would sink into the ground, making the road stronger. The councilor would then brag about all that he brought to the community. Rocks.
But the MPs bring the toilets, with fancy signs painted by downtown Nairobi sign-makers. The national MPs still have the symbolic authority – they are the symbolic Big Men in town.
The big men still must pay off the gangs. Not because they have moral authority – nor any real authority – but because they have guns. And because they live there. A year ago Russia burned down a group of houses over a dispute that started between some of the wives of the leaders. Hundreds of shacks burned. They were paid off by the slum elders right in broad daylight. Everybody saw it happening. The gang leaders took their 20,000 shillings and fled upcountry. One by one, they are coming back.
I asked Chris if he knew who the gang members are. “Everybody does,” he told me. “It is not a secret.”
Meanwhile, a group of turkeys picked at the pile of garbage, while a huge pig grazed on the little bit of grass in the slum. “That is the biggest pig I have ever seen,” I told Chris, and he laughed. A large group of women gathered at the water pipe and did their laundry. Two men with empty jerry cans jockeyed for position to fill up their bottles. Then they charge three shillings for 20 liters. The men began screaming at each other, as one cut the other in line. Just like the fights that break out on the floor of the Chicago Board of Trade. The women quietly laundered their clothes.
The pipe spews water non-stop, and it is free. While residents are supposed to pay for water in Nairobi, this water point is the lucky well that never stops. “Water should be free,” Chris told me. “There is no reason people should have to pay for it.” On the other side of the slum, Nairobi Water Company has taken control, and they institutionalized paid water points. The residents are not happy.
“How are you, how are you?” a group of schoolchildren yelled at me. “Good,” I responded. “How are you?” They stood dumbfounded.
As we walked through Mathare, we began talking about the new constitution. Chris is hoping that it will help Kenyans. “The government today does not care about the youth,” he told me. “They only care about themselves.” He is hoping that the new constitution will bring change, and focus attention on the youth of the country. I asked him what he meant by youth. He responded, “Those under 35 years old.” While so much attention is paid to the category of “youth” in Africa, it remains an ambiguous term. For Chris, it is solely age. For others, it represents those who are unmarried without a job. For many, it is a class distinction.
In his autobiography, Nelson Mandela writes, “A man is not a man until he has a house of his own.” For Mandela, it is about property and ownership. But he also needs a woman – or women – to live with.
In Mathare, the youth struggle to keep their homes. Few of them have any formal title, and ownership itself is a disputed concept.
We stood for a few minutes quietly in the area where the houses were burned down a year ago. You could not even tell that the disaster took place. The houses were reconstructed, and the structures were complete. Title or not, these were their homes.
“Let’s go,” Chris told me. “The World Cup is on.”
Although not many white people visit Mathare, the ones that do bring cameras. They want pictures. The changa (illegal alcohol) brewers are afraid that they will be exposed. “Tell them you are a doctor if anybody asks you,” Chris told me. The others just don’t want to be bothered.
A group of young men walked by, and made a joke about me being an mzungu (white man). One of them asked me where I am from. “America,” I responded. He then asked me how I find Kenya. “I love it,” I told him honestly. He seemed pleased. I asked him the same question.
“This place is crap,” he seemed upset. “The government is so corrupt. They don’t do anything for us – they just steal.”
The big news of the day is that the electricity company came in the morning to disconnect the lines that had been illegally connected. They came a few days ago but the residents resisted, and would not let them through. Today, they came with police. The residents were nowhere to be seen: they fear the police in Mathare.
The MP of the slum was well-liked, but now that she is part of the ‘No’ camp, she probably will not be re-elected. The councilors do not matter much, and most residents do not even know their names.
We walked on one of the wider roads in Mathare, and piles of rocks had been recently piled there to rebuild the road. “The councilor brought these,” a shop owner told us. But no road was being built. Chris told me that eventually they would sink into the ground, making the road stronger. The councilor would then brag about all that he brought to the community. Rocks.
But the MPs bring the toilets, with fancy signs painted by downtown Nairobi sign-makers. The national MPs still have the symbolic authority – they are the symbolic Big Men in town.
The big men still must pay off the gangs. Not because they have moral authority – nor any real authority – but because they have guns. And because they live there. A year ago Russia burned down a group of houses over a dispute that started between some of the wives of the leaders. Hundreds of shacks burned. They were paid off by the slum elders right in broad daylight. Everybody saw it happening. The gang leaders took their 20,000 shillings and fled upcountry. One by one, they are coming back.
I asked Chris if he knew who the gang members are. “Everybody does,” he told me. “It is not a secret.”
Meanwhile, a group of turkeys picked at the pile of garbage, while a huge pig grazed on the little bit of grass in the slum. “That is the biggest pig I have ever seen,” I told Chris, and he laughed. A large group of women gathered at the water pipe and did their laundry. Two men with empty jerry cans jockeyed for position to fill up their bottles. Then they charge three shillings for 20 liters. The men began screaming at each other, as one cut the other in line. Just like the fights that break out on the floor of the Chicago Board of Trade. The women quietly laundered their clothes.
The pipe spews water non-stop, and it is free. While residents are supposed to pay for water in Nairobi, this water point is the lucky well that never stops. “Water should be free,” Chris told me. “There is no reason people should have to pay for it.” On the other side of the slum, Nairobi Water Company has taken control, and they institutionalized paid water points. The residents are not happy.
“How are you, how are you?” a group of schoolchildren yelled at me. “Good,” I responded. “How are you?” They stood dumbfounded.
As we walked through Mathare, we began talking about the new constitution. Chris is hoping that it will help Kenyans. “The government today does not care about the youth,” he told me. “They only care about themselves.” He is hoping that the new constitution will bring change, and focus attention on the youth of the country. I asked him what he meant by youth. He responded, “Those under 35 years old.” While so much attention is paid to the category of “youth” in Africa, it remains an ambiguous term. For Chris, it is solely age. For others, it represents those who are unmarried without a job. For many, it is a class distinction.
In his autobiography, Nelson Mandela writes, “A man is not a man until he has a house of his own.” For Mandela, it is about property and ownership. But he also needs a woman – or women – to live with.
In Mathare, the youth struggle to keep their homes. Few of them have any formal title, and ownership itself is a disputed concept.
We stood for a few minutes quietly in the area where the houses were burned down a year ago. You could not even tell that the disaster took place. The houses were reconstructed, and the structures were complete. Title or not, these were their homes.
“Let’s go,” Chris told me. “The World Cup is on.”
Monday, June 14, 2010
Politics of Speculation
A somber mood filled the bus today. Silence. You could hear a pin drop, and the diesel motor churn. The silence was broken as we drove past Uhuru Park. The entire bus shifted their heads to the scene, where yellow crime tape marked off the roads and Kenyan army sergeants with big guns guarded the surroundings.
Then everybody started talking. It was times like these I wish I knew Swahili.
“Bloody Sunday” the headline for The Nation read. Five dead, over 70 people injured at a rally held by the ‘No’ camp of the constitution. On August 4, Kenyans will vote for a new constitution and the ‘No’ camp – also called the ‘Reds’ – is against the passage of the new set of laws.
I walked into the Assistant Town Clerk’s office at Nairobi City Hall and asked him about what had happened.
“This is normal in Kenya,” he responded, startled that such an event was on my mind. Business as usual at Nairobi City Hall.
The international news agencies felt the same way. Ethnic violence in Kyrgyzstan. Somali children carry guns. Iraqi blast hits city. The Kenyan attack barely made the regional page.
Business as usual.
~~~
Last night, however, the blast was breaking news. At 7 pm we were celebrating Ghana’s World Cup victory over Serbia, the first victory for an African club at this year’s Cup. Bringing euphoria to the African continent. Pride.
Somehow, the subject of Uhuru Park came up. “I love it,” I stated emphatically. My girlfriend and I loved walking through park. She loved seeing the schoolchildren on the boats. It reminded her of Central Park. For me, it was the sign of city life. Public space. Something I have not seen much of in African cities.
“It’s so sketchy,” our friend Melissa replied. “So many weird men just hanging out there. Creepy.”
Twenty minutes later KTN disrupted their daily programming for a breaking news update: two explosions in Uhuru Park, a grenade tore through the crowd.
The event was supposed to be peaceful. It was led by pastor’s and was on Sunday, for God’s sake. Plus, Kenya was supposed to be past this – supposed to have learned from the tragedy of 2007-8.
“Never again next time,” as a Kenyan intellectual said at the recent (Re)membering Kenya event.
Simon, our taxi driver was visually shaken. His sister called him and hour before to make sure he was okay. Just checking up on him. She is a nurse, and was working at Kenyatta National Hospital, where the victims of the blast were taken. “Four dead” she told him. She would not be going home anytime soon. The nurses would be working overtime.
The blogosphere was heating up. The KTN facebook page included: “4 all those sayin that it was a plan by Ruto n church leaders can u pliz write ur comments on a piece of paper 1st b4 putting it as a comment coz mayb u jst realiz u av commented with al stupidity in it.” “Poor fellow kenyans mai kondolenses.” “This must be a devilic work of YES camp!” “the terrorist tactics & blame game begins... is it Muslim fundamentalists, Yes camp, No camp, Maybe camp (read Yes/No camp)...? Who, we may never know, & their motives might actually deliver the opposite of what they intend!” “@Abuzaki we are going 2 search 4 u. Ur comments are fueling religious hate. We have evidence to catch and prosecute u. Watch out.” “I cn't rule out the work of radical Islam, no govn or christian can do such shit. Ppl somali is just near and big fear.”
In the cab, Kumbi joked, “Perhaps it was the ‘Yes’ camp making it look like the ‘No’ camp making it look like the ‘Yes’ camp.” While we laughed, anything seemed possible.
~~~
The “least important” secretary at City Hall was outraged. “This is demonic,” she told me. “The person who did this is not a real person. He is evil. The authorities must get to the bottom of this."
Meanwhile, the question of the day continued on the streets of Nairobi. Who did it? Was it to instill fear or garner sympathy? Was it the ‘No' camp or the ‘Yes' camp?
The debate raged loudest at the newsstands. Up the street from City Hall, six men were in a heated argument.
“Why would a ‘No’ person instigate this?” the youngest gentleman claimed. He was wearing a flashy, pinstripe suit with a bright purple tie and matching handkerchief. His cuff links sparkled, and he looked like either a hip hop producer, pastor, or politician. “They want to instill fear [he suggested of the ‘Yes’ camp], delegitimate us, make it hard for us to have our meetings.”
A gentler, older man responded. “We as Kenyans have nothing to gain from all of this. There are bad people on the ‘No’ side and bad people on the ‘Yes’ side. We just have to get to the bottom of this.”
“The ‘No’ people just want attention,” a third man chimed in. “This brings attention to their cause.”
A man with a flappers-era hat joined the circle and replied, “All of you are pointing fingers, speculating on who did this and who did that,” he fumed, as if he was above it all. “We should be praying for the injured and grieving for the lost ones' families.”
Everybody nodded, and it was quiet for barely five seconds. Then the men were back at it.
The flashy, young gentleman seemed to be practicing for a campaign speech, as he propped out his belly, “You are all entitled to speculate,” he told the group of men, who must have been 20 years his elder.
The entitlement of speculation – this is the one right that all Kenyans have.
The man continued, “We are all Kenyans. The constitution is not a political document, it is not a government document. It is a ‘National’ document.”
“Rubbish,” the eldest man said cynically. “Any document that tells us how to live, what land is ours, and how to govern is inherently political. Everything is political!”
One man, who silently stood in the corner and didn’t say a word through the entire conversation – nor did he show any type of emotion – vigorously nodded his head.
Suddenly, a man angrily turned to me and demanded, “What good have the Americans ever done to us? Whenever the Americans come, bad things happen.” Of course, he was referring to Joe Biden’s visit a few days earlier. “Things were fine before all of you came. I wonder what deals he made with the politicians. It’s the Americans' fault.”
“Come on,” one of the men interrupted. “This is a Kenyan problem. We always screw things up.”
The other man was not done. “What good has the white man done to us? First it was slavery, then colonialism. Now the Americans! Our politicians are just sycophants. Obama is not our president. He is just like all the rest. He is just…” and his voice trailed off into a climactic “Oomph.” Then he walked away angrily.
The flashy gentleman’s phone rang and he answered it and walked away. The quiet man continued eating his breakfast. A woman walked by and paid 35 shillings for a newspaper.
The day continued as usual.
Then everybody started talking. It was times like these I wish I knew Swahili.
“Bloody Sunday” the headline for The Nation read. Five dead, over 70 people injured at a rally held by the ‘No’ camp of the constitution. On August 4, Kenyans will vote for a new constitution and the ‘No’ camp – also called the ‘Reds’ – is against the passage of the new set of laws.
I walked into the Assistant Town Clerk’s office at Nairobi City Hall and asked him about what had happened.
“This is normal in Kenya,” he responded, startled that such an event was on my mind. Business as usual at Nairobi City Hall.
The international news agencies felt the same way. Ethnic violence in Kyrgyzstan. Somali children carry guns. Iraqi blast hits city. The Kenyan attack barely made the regional page.
Business as usual.
~~~
Last night, however, the blast was breaking news. At 7 pm we were celebrating Ghana’s World Cup victory over Serbia, the first victory for an African club at this year’s Cup. Bringing euphoria to the African continent. Pride.
Somehow, the subject of Uhuru Park came up. “I love it,” I stated emphatically. My girlfriend and I loved walking through park. She loved seeing the schoolchildren on the boats. It reminded her of Central Park. For me, it was the sign of city life. Public space. Something I have not seen much of in African cities.
“It’s so sketchy,” our friend Melissa replied. “So many weird men just hanging out there. Creepy.”
Twenty minutes later KTN disrupted their daily programming for a breaking news update: two explosions in Uhuru Park, a grenade tore through the crowd.
The event was supposed to be peaceful. It was led by pastor’s and was on Sunday, for God’s sake. Plus, Kenya was supposed to be past this – supposed to have learned from the tragedy of 2007-8.
“Never again next time,” as a Kenyan intellectual said at the recent (Re)membering Kenya event.
Simon, our taxi driver was visually shaken. His sister called him and hour before to make sure he was okay. Just checking up on him. She is a nurse, and was working at Kenyatta National Hospital, where the victims of the blast were taken. “Four dead” she told him. She would not be going home anytime soon. The nurses would be working overtime.
The blogosphere was heating up. The KTN facebook page included: “4 all those sayin that it was a plan by Ruto n church leaders can u pliz write ur comments on a piece of paper 1st b4 putting it as a comment coz mayb u jst realiz u av commented with al stupidity in it.” “Poor fellow kenyans mai kondolenses.” “This must be a devilic work of YES camp!” “the terrorist tactics & blame game begins... is it Muslim fundamentalists, Yes camp, No camp, Maybe camp (read Yes/No camp)...? Who, we may never know, & their motives might actually deliver the opposite of what they intend!” “@Abuzaki we are going 2 search 4 u. Ur comments are fueling religious hate. We have evidence to catch and prosecute u. Watch out.” “I cn't rule out the work of radical Islam, no govn or christian can do such shit. Ppl somali is just near and big fear.”
In the cab, Kumbi joked, “Perhaps it was the ‘Yes’ camp making it look like the ‘No’ camp making it look like the ‘Yes’ camp.” While we laughed, anything seemed possible.
~~~
The “least important” secretary at City Hall was outraged. “This is demonic,” she told me. “The person who did this is not a real person. He is evil. The authorities must get to the bottom of this."
Meanwhile, the question of the day continued on the streets of Nairobi. Who did it? Was it to instill fear or garner sympathy? Was it the ‘No' camp or the ‘Yes' camp?
The debate raged loudest at the newsstands. Up the street from City Hall, six men were in a heated argument.
“Why would a ‘No’ person instigate this?” the youngest gentleman claimed. He was wearing a flashy, pinstripe suit with a bright purple tie and matching handkerchief. His cuff links sparkled, and he looked like either a hip hop producer, pastor, or politician. “They want to instill fear [he suggested of the ‘Yes’ camp], delegitimate us, make it hard for us to have our meetings.”
A gentler, older man responded. “We as Kenyans have nothing to gain from all of this. There are bad people on the ‘No’ side and bad people on the ‘Yes’ side. We just have to get to the bottom of this.”
“The ‘No’ people just want attention,” a third man chimed in. “This brings attention to their cause.”
A man with a flappers-era hat joined the circle and replied, “All of you are pointing fingers, speculating on who did this and who did that,” he fumed, as if he was above it all. “We should be praying for the injured and grieving for the lost ones' families.”
Everybody nodded, and it was quiet for barely five seconds. Then the men were back at it.
The flashy, young gentleman seemed to be practicing for a campaign speech, as he propped out his belly, “You are all entitled to speculate,” he told the group of men, who must have been 20 years his elder.
The entitlement of speculation – this is the one right that all Kenyans have.
The man continued, “We are all Kenyans. The constitution is not a political document, it is not a government document. It is a ‘National’ document.”
“Rubbish,” the eldest man said cynically. “Any document that tells us how to live, what land is ours, and how to govern is inherently political. Everything is political!”
One man, who silently stood in the corner and didn’t say a word through the entire conversation – nor did he show any type of emotion – vigorously nodded his head.
Suddenly, a man angrily turned to me and demanded, “What good have the Americans ever done to us? Whenever the Americans come, bad things happen.” Of course, he was referring to Joe Biden’s visit a few days earlier. “Things were fine before all of you came. I wonder what deals he made with the politicians. It’s the Americans' fault.”
“Come on,” one of the men interrupted. “This is a Kenyan problem. We always screw things up.”
The other man was not done. “What good has the white man done to us? First it was slavery, then colonialism. Now the Americans! Our politicians are just sycophants. Obama is not our president. He is just like all the rest. He is just…” and his voice trailed off into a climactic “Oomph.” Then he walked away angrily.
The flashy gentleman’s phone rang and he answered it and walked away. The quiet man continued eating his breakfast. A woman walked by and paid 35 shillings for a newspaper.
The day continued as usual.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Slum Upgrading 2.0
It took us twenty five minutes to find the political science department at the University of Nairobi. First, we asked the young pair of girls. “Over there” they told us. Of course, they were wrong. We walked into another building that a gentleman advised us to, and the hallways were barred off. I saw a man through the bars and went up to the gates – as if I were in prison, grasping the bars to get out – and asked where the department of political science is. “Over there” he told us, pointing to the direction from which we came.
We finally found the department, but all the office doors were locked. Makes sense, considering school is out of session because of petty politics that led to a massive student boycott. The hope is that school will resume after the referendum.
The “real” department of politics was much more accessible. Or, at least, open.
We walked right into the Ministry of Lands. Sure, they asked for my passport, but my girlfriend’s outdated school ID did the trick. Even for me.
The staircases were packed. Off to meetings. Or to eat. Where most of the “work” gets done anyway. Lunchtime.
After stops on the first few floors to ask about available data (none of which seems to be available), and being told that the person to talk to was “at lunch” we finally found a Deputy Minister several floors up.
Bolton is quite the gentleman. He sat behind a big desk, and seemed delighted to speak with us. He was most excited about the department’s new project: Slum Mapping. He spoke very slowly and enunciated each phrase, after which he would give out a big, hearty laugh. He made sure to make it sound as if he were giving out classified information. He told me of the Kenyan Slum Upgrading Program and the World Bank’s Informal Sector Upgrading projects, as if I have never heard of important institutions. He continued, “We have a meeting at 2 o’clock today to discuss these urgent matters. That is why I know so much about what is going on in the slums.”
I asked him if he knew about the latest service delivery projects being carried out in these areas. “No,” he responded, “But I have a friend who does.” I asked him if he had access to the slum maps. “No, but I have a friend who made the maps.”
“Very few people will share the information that I am sharing,” he told us, rather pleased with himself. “They have such big egos. It’s people like me who have a lot of interest in statistics, and I can share them with you.” If he only had the information.
Bolton explained how people “know” certain things but will not share it. But Bolton is different – he will.
“I have made so many PhDs happen” after we thanked him for helping us. “I will only help you.”
Lesson Number One when dealing with Kenyan bureaucrats: Make them feel like a Big Man.
“You’re the man,” I told Bolton as I left, forgetting that he is 30 years my elder. But he liked it, and gave me a long fancy handshake, similar to the ones I used to do at summer camp. I felt like I was part of his club.
Bolton may have had the big desk and the flashy suit, but the World Bank calls the shots. I asked Bolton why certain slums were designated for slum upgrading. He answered that the World Bank have certain criteria. “But,” he continued. “The World Bank wants us to work together.” The World Bank led the 2 o’clock meeting. I asked him what the Ministry’s role in the project is.
“We provide the base map specifications,” Bolton responded. Kenya provides the slums. The World Bank provides the money. And the manpower. And even the “land tenure.” This was the process of formalizing the informal.
Gloria, who worked with the Ministry of Housing, was able to fill in the dots of the resettlement scheme. Everything is called a “scheme” in Kenya, dating back to the postcolonial resettlement “schemes.” A genealogy of the word would be extremely helpful. The pilot slum upgrading project was now being done in Kibera. People from Soweto East village of Kibera have been temporarily moved to high-rise temporary structures while permanent houses are being built in the village.
I asked Gloria why Soweto East was chosen. “Most of the villages have a big NGO presence. They have already been approached by many,” she said, enunciating the word ‘approached’. “They have already been promised services. Been lied to. Soweto is still new. Still fresh.”
Of course, it is also in Kibera, less than 20 minutes from City Center in the city’s largest slum. It is also on the West side of town.
“As the government, we have to have political goodwill,” she told me. “We have to negotiate to the last man. If you promise security of tenure, then the people are more receptive. We have done that.”
Gloria’s explanation of the process highlighted how political the process in fact was. In my conversation with international NGO representatives and development workers, slum upgrading was always described as apolitical. “We are just trying to help poor people,” one NGO leader told me. “We don’t want to involve ourselves in politics.” She continued that her funders would not approve.
But the process Gloria was describing was entirely political. They had to convince the councillors and MPs. They had to sweet-talk the chief. And they had to promise the people title. Something only the State could provide, because it was officially government land. The State must be involved for the slum upgrading to work. And it was the political promise of the land title that mattered most.
Gloria was proud of what the program was accomplishing. “New homes for slum dwellers,” she told us. “A better life.” Hopefully.
If the University of Nairobi were open maybe they could tell me if this is in fact the case. But they are not.
We finally found the department, but all the office doors were locked. Makes sense, considering school is out of session because of petty politics that led to a massive student boycott. The hope is that school will resume after the referendum.
The “real” department of politics was much more accessible. Or, at least, open.
We walked right into the Ministry of Lands. Sure, they asked for my passport, but my girlfriend’s outdated school ID did the trick. Even for me.
The staircases were packed. Off to meetings. Or to eat. Where most of the “work” gets done anyway. Lunchtime.
After stops on the first few floors to ask about available data (none of which seems to be available), and being told that the person to talk to was “at lunch” we finally found a Deputy Minister several floors up.
Bolton is quite the gentleman. He sat behind a big desk, and seemed delighted to speak with us. He was most excited about the department’s new project: Slum Mapping. He spoke very slowly and enunciated each phrase, after which he would give out a big, hearty laugh. He made sure to make it sound as if he were giving out classified information. He told me of the Kenyan Slum Upgrading Program and the World Bank’s Informal Sector Upgrading projects, as if I have never heard of important institutions. He continued, “We have a meeting at 2 o’clock today to discuss these urgent matters. That is why I know so much about what is going on in the slums.”
I asked him if he knew about the latest service delivery projects being carried out in these areas. “No,” he responded, “But I have a friend who does.” I asked him if he had access to the slum maps. “No, but I have a friend who made the maps.”
“Very few people will share the information that I am sharing,” he told us, rather pleased with himself. “They have such big egos. It’s people like me who have a lot of interest in statistics, and I can share them with you.” If he only had the information.
Bolton explained how people “know” certain things but will not share it. But Bolton is different – he will.
“I have made so many PhDs happen” after we thanked him for helping us. “I will only help you.”
Lesson Number One when dealing with Kenyan bureaucrats: Make them feel like a Big Man.
“You’re the man,” I told Bolton as I left, forgetting that he is 30 years my elder. But he liked it, and gave me a long fancy handshake, similar to the ones I used to do at summer camp. I felt like I was part of his club.
Bolton may have had the big desk and the flashy suit, but the World Bank calls the shots. I asked Bolton why certain slums were designated for slum upgrading. He answered that the World Bank have certain criteria. “But,” he continued. “The World Bank wants us to work together.” The World Bank led the 2 o’clock meeting. I asked him what the Ministry’s role in the project is.
“We provide the base map specifications,” Bolton responded. Kenya provides the slums. The World Bank provides the money. And the manpower. And even the “land tenure.” This was the process of formalizing the informal.
Gloria, who worked with the Ministry of Housing, was able to fill in the dots of the resettlement scheme. Everything is called a “scheme” in Kenya, dating back to the postcolonial resettlement “schemes.” A genealogy of the word would be extremely helpful. The pilot slum upgrading project was now being done in Kibera. People from Soweto East village of Kibera have been temporarily moved to high-rise temporary structures while permanent houses are being built in the village.
I asked Gloria why Soweto East was chosen. “Most of the villages have a big NGO presence. They have already been approached by many,” she said, enunciating the word ‘approached’. “They have already been promised services. Been lied to. Soweto is still new. Still fresh.”
Of course, it is also in Kibera, less than 20 minutes from City Center in the city’s largest slum. It is also on the West side of town.
“As the government, we have to have political goodwill,” she told me. “We have to negotiate to the last man. If you promise security of tenure, then the people are more receptive. We have done that.”
Gloria’s explanation of the process highlighted how political the process in fact was. In my conversation with international NGO representatives and development workers, slum upgrading was always described as apolitical. “We are just trying to help poor people,” one NGO leader told me. “We don’t want to involve ourselves in politics.” She continued that her funders would not approve.
But the process Gloria was describing was entirely political. They had to convince the councillors and MPs. They had to sweet-talk the chief. And they had to promise the people title. Something only the State could provide, because it was officially government land. The State must be involved for the slum upgrading to work. And it was the political promise of the land title that mattered most.
Gloria was proud of what the program was accomplishing. “New homes for slum dwellers,” she told us. “A better life.” Hopefully.
If the University of Nairobi were open maybe they could tell me if this is in fact the case. But they are not.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Kenya's Detroit
“I would not trust any Kenyan with money,” Jeff told me. “Not even me.”
Jeff was expelled from school because he could no longer make his school payments. An organization that he worked for was paying his fees, but the accountant was embezzling the funds. While a part of him was visibly disappointed, things always seemed to work out. “There are people with disadvantages and no opportunities,” he told Brian earlier. “Then there are those like me with disadvantages but make their own opportunities.” Jeff was sure that something would work out.
I liked him from the very start. When Brian told him that he was going to meet a friend with the same name, Jeff replied, “Good. My clone.”
I found a Kenyan I could trust.
~~~
Jeff lived and grew up in Mathare, the third largest slum in Kenya. Having been in Kibera for the past few days, Mathare was a breath of dirty air.
Kibera is a poor Kenyan’s New York City. It has everything. There is a reason a journalist recently titled his book Megaslumming. Kibera is huge, filthy, edgy, violent, and at times disgusting. It is the largest slum in East Africa, with an estimated half million people. There are twelve villages – or neighborhoods – with names like Kangwere, Soweto East, Raila Estate, Silanga and Maikina. Narrow alleyways merge with bigger, bumpy dirt “roads”, hardly suitable for cars. So very few come by, save for the NGO Landcruisers. Most of the roads are plastic garbage bags mixed with dirt. Rainy days are extra grimy. During the post election violence, conflict broke out between the rival political parties, leading to the destruction of homes, several people being killed, and the expulsion of most Kikuyu landlords from their homes. They have been afraid to come back. NGOs are everywhere – there are too many to count.
When a white person says that they work in Kibera, the response is “Wow, good for you.” When a Kenyan tells a potential employer they are from Kibera, they cannot get a job.
Everybody wants to “upgrade Kibera.” The CDC runs a clinic called Carolina for Kibera, one of the best health clinics in the country. Jill Biden visited the site yesterday. Obama brought his family on his last trip. The government – with support from UN-HABITAT and the World Bank – is carrying out its slum upgrading project in Kibera. The settlement sits 20 minutes from the City Center, and five minutes from Prestige Shopping Center. I can rent my executive suite and be there in 10 minutes.
Kibera is romantic. It is situated on a hill overlooking the Nairobi skyline, and the sun sets offering beautiful glimpses of the city. The roofs of the buildings shine a rusted tin, and the sounds of playing children narrate the valley. A famous European artist painted murals on the roofs of several Kibera shacks. The filmmaker of “Run Lola Run” shot his recent fantastical film there. There is a reason Nairobi City Council still claims the land as their own – it is every developer’s dreamscape.
~~~
Mathare – as Brian pointedly called it – is Kenya’s Detroit. Instead of Soweto East, one of Mathare’s neighborhoods is called Kosovo. Instead of slum upgrading, there are CDF projects that have been abandoned. Mathare is situated on the Eastern side of the city, where Africans were forced to live during colonial times. It is like Gotham’s underbelly. While the sun illuminates the Kiberan Hills, it seems to forget the East side altogether. So do most international NGOs, tourists, and the Kenyan government.
The matatu ride was only 10 shillings, and the tote seemed surprise when we tapped his shoulder at the stop for Mathare. It was the same reaction when I was in South Africa and I took the train to Kyaletsha Township and the ticket seller told me, “You’re the only white person I have ever sold a ticket to.”
There is nothing glamorous about Mathare. Brian and I walked with Jeff down the main road, full of shanty bars getting ready for the World Cup. Men stumbled out at 11 in the morning. Drunk. The children’s school outfits were filthy. I looked at some of the laundry drying on a line, and it hardly seemed clean. Dirty – but laundered – second hand clothing.
While Kibera was filthy, the dirt that stuck to my shoes dried like red clay. The Mathare dirt, on the other hand, clouded the air and simply captured the atmosphere like an Oklahoma dust storm. There was no industry in sight, except the illegal beer that is brewed every day, leaving a smell that becomes associated with the slum itself. “Sometimes they even put battery material in the beer to make it brew quicker,” Jeff explained to us as we saw a mini explosion – the result of the chemical reaction that is necessary during the alcohol-making process.
We stood on the third floor of a permanent structure that housed an NGO that gave cameras to slum residents to document their lives. Since the movie Born into Brothels, NGOs like this are all the rave. Giving a voice to marginalized communities through art. Every developing country I have been to has an NGO like this, and even my good friends in Chicago started a similar project in Uganda. If the government will not preserve a safe and creative space for human development, the idea is that somebody should.
It was a wonderful view of the slum. Brian, Jeff, his friend Tyson and I stood there and talked shop. Talked politics. The slum is surrounded by importance, even wealth, but it seems to be decaying, disintegrating to the ground. A perfect instance of slum downgrading.
A river runs through the middle, but there was no water flowing today. A newly built bridge covered the river, funded by recent government money to make the slums safer. Since 2003, the Kenyan government has made illegal settlements an important priority of their development strategy, and hundreds of projects have been funded across the country. The majority of these projects are small, simple public infrastructure projects like footbridges, toilets, and water points.
Tyson explained how most of the Luos lived on the far side of the river, while the Kikuyus lived closer to the main road. Before the post election violence it was much more mixed, but since then the river became the dividing line. Gangs like the Taliban and Russia terrorize the community. Tyson explained, “Russia has only seven members, but they are extremely dangerous. They have guns.”
I asked Jeff if the politicians came into the community. “During election time, but that is it. Then we never see them again.” He explained that there was not even campaigning for the YES campaign (to pass the draft constitution), and that people would not even wear party t-shirts or hats anymore. There are very few political posters or banners. “Since the post election violence, people are extremely scared. They seem to live in fear of what might happen again.” Tell a Mathare resident that democracy is about consensus and they probably won’t believe you.
While most of the buildings are small shacks made of tin, two big buildings stood out, and were only a few hundred meters apart. “Those are the new toilet structures that the government is building us,” Tyson told us. “We may not have any food to eat, but we will have a place to shit.” Tyson has lived in Mathare for twenty years and that is the first thing he has seen the government do for his community. “Fucking toilets.” Oh, and the bridge too. But people don't feel safe crossing it.
But the toilets were not even operational. One was almost completed, and the other was on its final stage. The toilet wars had already begun. The almost-completed structure was currently operated by gangs, and was not registered by the government. It would not have water until this process was complete. The other structure was run by a community organization – or steering committee – and had the okay by the government to begin its operations. But the gang wants to control both structures, and they have been in intense negotiation for quite some time. The area chief has already bought off members of the gang, but the dispute continues.
Meanwhile, people keep shitting in bags and disposing them in public spaces – a process called “flying toilets.”
~~~
Directly across the main road from Mathare is Eastleigh, a predominantly Muslim immigrant community from Somalia and Ethiopia. “The houses there are extremely expensive,” Jeff told us. Multiple-storey flats, mosques, banks and supermarkets line the neatly-organized streets. “Open 24 hours” signs were posted to many of the buildings – a self contained market in the middle of Nairobi. “These people have tons of money – they work very hard. And they have lots of money coming in from the diaspora and from the pirating.”
The dirt roads were wide, and they even had street names and signs. Jeff told us how the businesses wanted to pave the roads, and they even came together and agreed to pay for it themselves. But the Kenyan government would not allow it. They did not want the Somalis becoming too powerful and taking over the city.
My hometown of Minneapolis deals with similar issues, thousands of miles apart.
Jeff was expelled from school because he could no longer make his school payments. An organization that he worked for was paying his fees, but the accountant was embezzling the funds. While a part of him was visibly disappointed, things always seemed to work out. “There are people with disadvantages and no opportunities,” he told Brian earlier. “Then there are those like me with disadvantages but make their own opportunities.” Jeff was sure that something would work out.
I liked him from the very start. When Brian told him that he was going to meet a friend with the same name, Jeff replied, “Good. My clone.”
I found a Kenyan I could trust.
~~~
Jeff lived and grew up in Mathare, the third largest slum in Kenya. Having been in Kibera for the past few days, Mathare was a breath of dirty air.
Kibera is a poor Kenyan’s New York City. It has everything. There is a reason a journalist recently titled his book Megaslumming. Kibera is huge, filthy, edgy, violent, and at times disgusting. It is the largest slum in East Africa, with an estimated half million people. There are twelve villages – or neighborhoods – with names like Kangwere, Soweto East, Raila Estate, Silanga and Maikina. Narrow alleyways merge with bigger, bumpy dirt “roads”, hardly suitable for cars. So very few come by, save for the NGO Landcruisers. Most of the roads are plastic garbage bags mixed with dirt. Rainy days are extra grimy. During the post election violence, conflict broke out between the rival political parties, leading to the destruction of homes, several people being killed, and the expulsion of most Kikuyu landlords from their homes. They have been afraid to come back. NGOs are everywhere – there are too many to count.
When a white person says that they work in Kibera, the response is “Wow, good for you.” When a Kenyan tells a potential employer they are from Kibera, they cannot get a job.
Everybody wants to “upgrade Kibera.” The CDC runs a clinic called Carolina for Kibera, one of the best health clinics in the country. Jill Biden visited the site yesterday. Obama brought his family on his last trip. The government – with support from UN-HABITAT and the World Bank – is carrying out its slum upgrading project in Kibera. The settlement sits 20 minutes from the City Center, and five minutes from Prestige Shopping Center. I can rent my executive suite and be there in 10 minutes.
Kibera is romantic. It is situated on a hill overlooking the Nairobi skyline, and the sun sets offering beautiful glimpses of the city. The roofs of the buildings shine a rusted tin, and the sounds of playing children narrate the valley. A famous European artist painted murals on the roofs of several Kibera shacks. The filmmaker of “Run Lola Run” shot his recent fantastical film there. There is a reason Nairobi City Council still claims the land as their own – it is every developer’s dreamscape.
~~~
Mathare – as Brian pointedly called it – is Kenya’s Detroit. Instead of Soweto East, one of Mathare’s neighborhoods is called Kosovo. Instead of slum upgrading, there are CDF projects that have been abandoned. Mathare is situated on the Eastern side of the city, where Africans were forced to live during colonial times. It is like Gotham’s underbelly. While the sun illuminates the Kiberan Hills, it seems to forget the East side altogether. So do most international NGOs, tourists, and the Kenyan government.
The matatu ride was only 10 shillings, and the tote seemed surprise when we tapped his shoulder at the stop for Mathare. It was the same reaction when I was in South Africa and I took the train to Kyaletsha Township and the ticket seller told me, “You’re the only white person I have ever sold a ticket to.”
There is nothing glamorous about Mathare. Brian and I walked with Jeff down the main road, full of shanty bars getting ready for the World Cup. Men stumbled out at 11 in the morning. Drunk. The children’s school outfits were filthy. I looked at some of the laundry drying on a line, and it hardly seemed clean. Dirty – but laundered – second hand clothing.
While Kibera was filthy, the dirt that stuck to my shoes dried like red clay. The Mathare dirt, on the other hand, clouded the air and simply captured the atmosphere like an Oklahoma dust storm. There was no industry in sight, except the illegal beer that is brewed every day, leaving a smell that becomes associated with the slum itself. “Sometimes they even put battery material in the beer to make it brew quicker,” Jeff explained to us as we saw a mini explosion – the result of the chemical reaction that is necessary during the alcohol-making process.
We stood on the third floor of a permanent structure that housed an NGO that gave cameras to slum residents to document their lives. Since the movie Born into Brothels, NGOs like this are all the rave. Giving a voice to marginalized communities through art. Every developing country I have been to has an NGO like this, and even my good friends in Chicago started a similar project in Uganda. If the government will not preserve a safe and creative space for human development, the idea is that somebody should.
It was a wonderful view of the slum. Brian, Jeff, his friend Tyson and I stood there and talked shop. Talked politics. The slum is surrounded by importance, even wealth, but it seems to be decaying, disintegrating to the ground. A perfect instance of slum downgrading.
A river runs through the middle, but there was no water flowing today. A newly built bridge covered the river, funded by recent government money to make the slums safer. Since 2003, the Kenyan government has made illegal settlements an important priority of their development strategy, and hundreds of projects have been funded across the country. The majority of these projects are small, simple public infrastructure projects like footbridges, toilets, and water points.
Tyson explained how most of the Luos lived on the far side of the river, while the Kikuyus lived closer to the main road. Before the post election violence it was much more mixed, but since then the river became the dividing line. Gangs like the Taliban and Russia terrorize the community. Tyson explained, “Russia has only seven members, but they are extremely dangerous. They have guns.”
I asked Jeff if the politicians came into the community. “During election time, but that is it. Then we never see them again.” He explained that there was not even campaigning for the YES campaign (to pass the draft constitution), and that people would not even wear party t-shirts or hats anymore. There are very few political posters or banners. “Since the post election violence, people are extremely scared. They seem to live in fear of what might happen again.” Tell a Mathare resident that democracy is about consensus and they probably won’t believe you.
While most of the buildings are small shacks made of tin, two big buildings stood out, and were only a few hundred meters apart. “Those are the new toilet structures that the government is building us,” Tyson told us. “We may not have any food to eat, but we will have a place to shit.” Tyson has lived in Mathare for twenty years and that is the first thing he has seen the government do for his community. “Fucking toilets.” Oh, and the bridge too. But people don't feel safe crossing it.
But the toilets were not even operational. One was almost completed, and the other was on its final stage. The toilet wars had already begun. The almost-completed structure was currently operated by gangs, and was not registered by the government. It would not have water until this process was complete. The other structure was run by a community organization – or steering committee – and had the okay by the government to begin its operations. But the gang wants to control both structures, and they have been in intense negotiation for quite some time. The area chief has already bought off members of the gang, but the dispute continues.
Meanwhile, people keep shitting in bags and disposing them in public spaces – a process called “flying toilets.”
~~~
Directly across the main road from Mathare is Eastleigh, a predominantly Muslim immigrant community from Somalia and Ethiopia. “The houses there are extremely expensive,” Jeff told us. Multiple-storey flats, mosques, banks and supermarkets line the neatly-organized streets. “Open 24 hours” signs were posted to many of the buildings – a self contained market in the middle of Nairobi. “These people have tons of money – they work very hard. And they have lots of money coming in from the diaspora and from the pirating.”
The dirt roads were wide, and they even had street names and signs. Jeff told us how the businesses wanted to pave the roads, and they even came together and agreed to pay for it themselves. But the Kenyan government would not allow it. They did not want the Somalis becoming too powerful and taking over the city.
My hometown of Minneapolis deals with similar issues, thousands of miles apart.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Nairobi on the Defense?
City Hall was bustling. Polyester suits staggered through the hallways while workers sat at their desks, role-playing “important”. Keeping the city afloat. Apace.
I had a meeting with Defense, quite the name for the woman who was in charge of public records. Defense. When the gentleman at the archives told me to call her, he told me not to be intimidated by her name. Upon meeting here, she gave me a warm smile and a healthy handshake.
“What can I help you with today?” She asked me kindly.
Above her was a sign that read “My positive job values or virtues.” What makes a good public worker, a good bureaucrat. Then the list: Honesty. Trustworthiness. Loyalty. Courage. Firmness. Steadfastness. Impartiality. Principled Behavior. Hardworking. Just like the virtues of a good Athenian citizen or Roman Statesman.
The virtues of a Kenyan bureaucrat.
I told her I was interested in slums, or informal settlements.
She responded plainly, “Sure, we have those here.”
I silently laughed. No official cover up. No reason to pretend that she didn’t understand. In fact, the newspaper reported a fire in a nearby slum just this morning: 100 shacks burned to the ground. The firemen did their best to respond.
Defense then explained to me the way the city was managed. 16 decentralized departments, like Social Services and Housing, City Planning, Education, Legal Affairs. They had the information I needed – she promised – and advised me to write letters to each director. I asked for their names, and she told me that names didn’t matter. Titles did. Make sure to address them as “Director.”
Defense was very interested in my project and eager to help. She told me of how she used to work in the Archives, and about her Master’s degree at a local university. She had an itch for research. Her eyes glowed when I discussed the puzzles of urban politics – why some urban communities are better governed than others. Why some communities could hold their leaders accountable while others fail miserably. I could tell she wanted to help me, and wanted to know the answers herself. Our time was too short.
She walked me to the staircase and stood at the top as I descended back to everyday Nairobi. She walked back to her office and sat back in her chair. She spent the rest of the day stamping the “important” documents that rested on her desk.
~~~
City Hall embodies Nairobi as a city. Organized, but out of date. Educated, but under-utilized. Bustling, but a little bored. A “grasping for more” attitude I haven’t seen in other African cities. A desire for more – a better life – progress, development, and the newest iPhone.
But very cosmopolitan. Wonderful Somali restaurants, full of tall Arab men with their robes, caps, and flashy cell phones. Amazing Ethiopian cuisine that caters to foreigners and Kenyans. Chinese restaurant owned by families that have been doing business in Nairobi for several years. The Westgate Mall could be in Tokyo, and the 3G internet service allows for broadband anywhere in the city.
But behind all of this, Nairobi still has its secrets. The matatus, or minibuses, are still run by the Kikuyu gang called the Mungiki. On our way home from the game reserve last week, we had a shady driver with a huge slash across the back of his head. He harassed every passenger who got on for a ride. And it definitely didn’t help to be white. Every once in a while we get a glimpse of the nasty undertones – how seemingly normal Kenyans could immediately shift into machete haters. There is still a huge fear that the post-election violence of 2007 is brewing under the surface of cosmopolitan life. Each morning the newspaper documents another story of corruption, murders, and sob health stories. Misogynist anti-abortionists still have a healthy voice in the national newspaper.
The paradox of Nairobi is that there is the sense that a better Nairobi awaits, but is still constrained by the past. The big, yellow colonial building still houses City Hall.
Defense comes to work each day and finds her 1950s desk awaiting her. As much as she wants to be on the offensive – create new things, improve her city – she remains “loyal” and “impartial” to the way things are. The way they have always been. Like a good Kenyan bureaucrat.
After all, her name is Defense.
I had a meeting with Defense, quite the name for the woman who was in charge of public records. Defense. When the gentleman at the archives told me to call her, he told me not to be intimidated by her name. Upon meeting here, she gave me a warm smile and a healthy handshake.
“What can I help you with today?” She asked me kindly.
Above her was a sign that read “My positive job values or virtues.” What makes a good public worker, a good bureaucrat. Then the list: Honesty. Trustworthiness. Loyalty. Courage. Firmness. Steadfastness. Impartiality. Principled Behavior. Hardworking. Just like the virtues of a good Athenian citizen or Roman Statesman.
The virtues of a Kenyan bureaucrat.
I told her I was interested in slums, or informal settlements.
She responded plainly, “Sure, we have those here.”
I silently laughed. No official cover up. No reason to pretend that she didn’t understand. In fact, the newspaper reported a fire in a nearby slum just this morning: 100 shacks burned to the ground. The firemen did their best to respond.
Defense then explained to me the way the city was managed. 16 decentralized departments, like Social Services and Housing, City Planning, Education, Legal Affairs. They had the information I needed – she promised – and advised me to write letters to each director. I asked for their names, and she told me that names didn’t matter. Titles did. Make sure to address them as “Director.”
Defense was very interested in my project and eager to help. She told me of how she used to work in the Archives, and about her Master’s degree at a local university. She had an itch for research. Her eyes glowed when I discussed the puzzles of urban politics – why some urban communities are better governed than others. Why some communities could hold their leaders accountable while others fail miserably. I could tell she wanted to help me, and wanted to know the answers herself. Our time was too short.
She walked me to the staircase and stood at the top as I descended back to everyday Nairobi. She walked back to her office and sat back in her chair. She spent the rest of the day stamping the “important” documents that rested on her desk.
~~~
City Hall embodies Nairobi as a city. Organized, but out of date. Educated, but under-utilized. Bustling, but a little bored. A “grasping for more” attitude I haven’t seen in other African cities. A desire for more – a better life – progress, development, and the newest iPhone.
But very cosmopolitan. Wonderful Somali restaurants, full of tall Arab men with their robes, caps, and flashy cell phones. Amazing Ethiopian cuisine that caters to foreigners and Kenyans. Chinese restaurant owned by families that have been doing business in Nairobi for several years. The Westgate Mall could be in Tokyo, and the 3G internet service allows for broadband anywhere in the city.
But behind all of this, Nairobi still has its secrets. The matatus, or minibuses, are still run by the Kikuyu gang called the Mungiki. On our way home from the game reserve last week, we had a shady driver with a huge slash across the back of his head. He harassed every passenger who got on for a ride. And it definitely didn’t help to be white. Every once in a while we get a glimpse of the nasty undertones – how seemingly normal Kenyans could immediately shift into machete haters. There is still a huge fear that the post-election violence of 2007 is brewing under the surface of cosmopolitan life. Each morning the newspaper documents another story of corruption, murders, and sob health stories. Misogynist anti-abortionists still have a healthy voice in the national newspaper.
The paradox of Nairobi is that there is the sense that a better Nairobi awaits, but is still constrained by the past. The big, yellow colonial building still houses City Hall.
Defense comes to work each day and finds her 1950s desk awaiting her. As much as she wants to be on the offensive – create new things, improve her city – she remains “loyal” and “impartial” to the way things are. The way they have always been. Like a good Kenyan bureaucrat.
After all, her name is Defense.
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