Posts Tagged ‘ICC’

Being Kenyan

Posted: November 2, 2015 by ketihapa in Kenya
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Being Kenyan, who can complain?

“Tao ngapi?”


“Niko na mbao!”

“Hiyo mbao yako peleka choo ya kanjo labda utaendesha!”

“Ok, mbao ndio pesa loose nilikuwa nayo…”

“Huna pesa ndogo?”

You proceed to fold up the Ksh 1000 note into four…

“Haha! Kijana uko funny! Dere shukisha huyu hapo mbele!”


I have come to accept that being Kenyan is no longer about citizenship. And chances are, you would never trade being Kenyan for anything; not for a second. I have come to realize being Kenyan gives you an identity- a sense of being; a sense of purpose. It gives you the chance to be legally screwed up. Being Kenyan allows you to fuck up, get taken to court- perhaps even the ICC and still get away with it- trust me, my president has set an exceptional example. We can even ignore court orders. It allows you to set up a church and go about deflowering women because God told you to. And the said women will appreciate it. Hell, the news will find it funny and you will feature on headlines; especially if the said women paid you Ksh 310 to get deflowered. I foresee being Kenyan being a movement.

Case 1: Police

Being Kenyan affords you the right to walk in Nairobi. But also affords you the right to be stopped by armed policemen (who or may not be actual policemen) and being told you have to produce a receipt for the bag you are carrying- they won’t bother to check whether you’re carrying weapons. But even if you are, all you will need is a receipt. But that has to be accompanied by an ETR receipt intended for KRA. But let us assume you won’t have either of those; you will be forced to produce tea- chai, rather- and imagine being Luhya! We all know Luhya people would rather go to jail than give up chai. You will be faced with a host of atrocities against the country though. Staring at government buildings suspiciously, idling with the intention of bombing a government statue, impersonating a government officer, spitting harmful substances on a public pavement, disturbing the public with smelly sweat, soliciting for sex from unwilling members of the public… The list is endless. And so are the possible charges you will be charged with.

Case 2: Elections

Being Kenyan means you can basically vie for a leadership spot. And it doesn’t matter whether you lose; You will be the man. You will be accorded the title mheshimiwa. Even if ants will not stop for you when you come across them on the road- actually, you will stop and wait for them to pass- especially if you will be high on weed like most of our elected leaders. You will be a millionaire in six months after the said elections. And you will despise Tanzanian elections for being transparent. In the six months, you will instigate a construction worth Ksh 200 Million, even though the said building will have half a wall. You will also convince the people who voted you in that a wheel barrow is worth Ksh 109,000, even though the teacher with whom you trust your child will be paid Ksh peanuts. And you will somehow convince the people that voted you in, who have lost confidence in you already, that the devil told you to lie to them. You will invoke the spirit; even though your liver will have suffered more from the spirits than your citizens.

Case 3: Music

As a Kenyan, you will be entitled to hours of bad music; riddims they call it. You will dance and perhaps do bend overs if you’re lucky- to music you don’t even understand, whose lyrics probably mean you are an idiot. But you will love it. You will laugh at people that don’t listen to riddims. And for those that will find riddims distasteful, they will tune into Matatu FM each morning to report how they cannot get laid to someone who probably doesn’t even like women in the first place. You will ignore good music; people who try to come up with good music like Eric Wainanina and Elani will be ignored- unless they come up with a sex video like Sauti Sol. And every major TV or Radio station will endorse it. Your life will be reduced to music the lines of “Girl With The Biggest Behind’ or ‘Una jump, una ruka… shida zina shuka…”

Case 4: Food

Being Kenyan means you will get to taste the best variety of food. You will get to taste boiled animal intestines that you will later come to call mutura. You will do the math in your head and decide that mutura is worth more than airtime – which at this time is imperative we refer to as kadi za kujikunakuna as the Tanzanians say- to call the butcher and tell him to reserve some steak for you. And woe unto you if you end up marrying a Kikuyu woman; you will have pizza full of soup and potatoes.  And if boiled miraa if you’re Meru. Or worse, nothing if you’re from Kitui.

I just can’t understand why anyone would hate being Kenyan. We rock!!!!!


Posted: September 16, 2013 by ketihapa in AIDS, Rape
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Vera Farmiga, who plays the character Norma Louise Bates in the TV hit series Bates Motel in the episode where she was assaulted.

She sweeps across the room, her gaze tilted at an angle of 90 degrees; you see, she’s lying on the cold, hard floor. She breathes softly, calm, waiting for the inevitable. She’s too weak to lift her already bloody hands now, but she can feel her fingers twitch. In the distance, she hears the wailing sirens of police cars as they quickly approach. She knows she’s slowly losing the fight, but hey, she wants it this way. No pain, no regrets. She’s lived the best she ever could…

********** 1 hour earlier****************

The cup of coffee in her left hand, she picks up the remote control of her 32 inch TV and turns it on, and lets herself fall into the embracing arm rests of her couch. Slowly, she flicks the channels till she comes across something she likes. In this case, BBC News Channel. She takes a sip of her warm, soothing coffee, listening carefully to the beautiful female news anchor. She’s talking about the crisis that faces Kenya if her two principles do get convicted by the International Criminal Court, and the African Union’s efforts in intervening to plead with the ICC to let the accused miss some of their court days in order to carry out their executive duties in the country.

Personally, she could care less. She knows it is probably going to destabilize the country if the president and his vice are convicted by the court, but hey, she knows Kenya, her country has always got through her obstacles. Her Black Berry phone beeps once; a text message from work. Her boss is reminding her of her presentation to the board tomorrow but she knows she’s ready for it. She texts back a single line, “I am ready sir, don’t worry.” She knows how much her boss hates shortened words in texts. All the same, she promises herself to go through her prepared presentation before she goes to bed, as well as take her meds.

She now shifts her attention to the hissing noise in the kitchen, which alerts her that her dinner is ready, or almost ready. Lazily, she drags herself up and towards the kitchen. She’s almost halfway when her dog starts barking. She assumes he’s hungry, as usual, when it stops barking after 20 seconds. She lifts the lid of her brass cooking pot and immediately the smell of a meal that promises to be sumptuous hits her nostrils. She takes a spoon and tastes it to check whether she put in the right amount of seasoning. She smiles to herself; boy does she love cooking for herself. She decides she’ll eat it later after taking a shower.

That is when she hears the scratching noise on her front door, followed moments later by a window crashing, which alerts her of an intruder. Her dog has resumed with its barking. Never the type to panic, she calmly dials the police hotline and requests for immediate assistance, before she picks her kitchen knife. She walks towards the kitchen door, swiftly, in order to lock herself in. Really, she doesn’t care whether the intruder takes any of her valuables; she doesn’t care jack shit about any of those things. She knows that her life is more precious.

Now she’s at the door and firmly but quickly, she shuts it, but she’s a second too late. Her intruder is already at the door pushing at it to force it open. In the end, her frail arms give in and she curses herself for not being strong enough as she sprawls towards the floor from the sheer force; she lets go of her knife in the process. Less than a minute later, a hand is grabbing her and she barely has time to reach out for the knife nor to see her assailant’s face.

“Please, take all you want, just leave me alone,” she says, turning to her assailant. Then she sees the muzzle of the gun facing her face and terror rips through her face.


She starts sobbing.

The man, she’s figured out that much now, lifts his fat palm and slams a slap that easily makes Kidero’s to Shebesh look like child’s play.

“What-do-you-want-?” she manages to say amidst her sobs, but it only seems to make him angrier.

Now, he shoves the gun further in her face and orders her to lie still or he’s going to shoot. Vaguely, she has an idea of what she wants but she finds herself praying that it isn’t it her assailant wants. Her fears are confirmed when he pins her face up on the kitchen table, his huge hands urgently grabbing at her skirt. She starts to scream, but the man fires into the air. He rips apart her panties as he methodically opens his fly to reveal his erection.

“Please, you don’t have to do this….” She begs, but the man proceeds to rip open her blouse and in the process her bra, to reveal her tender breasts; she is now fully aware what the man wants to do to her.

His gun trained on her forehead, the man forces himself into her, as pain spreads through her almost instantly; he has no condom on. She closes her eyes and prays a prayer to God, not for him, but for herself. The man has absolutely no idea what he’s done to himself. She feels the tears trickle down her face, as the man’s sweat drips on her nipples, which seems to get the man even hornier and her grabs at her breasts. It’s too late for her to scream out now, she decides, and waits for an eternity for him to finish.

It doesn’t take very long. She feels his seed splash into her vagina; amidst a moan that would make any porn star jealous from the man. He pulls out, leaving fluid dripping out of her; a mixture of blood and sperm. Still pointing his gun at her, he proceeds to dress up, as she sobs softly, tasting her bitter tears in the process.

When he’s done, he takes one look at her and starts walking away. With every strength left in her, she brings herself to sit up on the table, holding herself.

“Sir, if you’d listened to me when I told you to stop I wouldn’t have to tell you that you’ve just contracted HIV,” she says, once again calm.

Her assailant stops dead in in his tracks and in a spur of anger and shock, fires a bullet that connects with her upper body, puncturing her left lung. He takes to his heels as sirens scream in the distance and as she force of the impact from the bullet sends her to the ground. She is clutching desperately at her wound.

The police arrive just in time to see cough blood, as a medic desperately tries to hold on to her dear life for her. Maybe this is not the end after all, she decides, as she slowly fades into unconsciousness.

Sam Childers, the real Machine Gun Preacher, whose character is played by Gerard Butler in the 2011 film, The Machine Gun Preacher.

The baby wasn’t so ugly that both his parents feared to show up for his birth. He wasn’t deformed either. With every fiber of her being, the new mother lifted up her newborn baby and said a quick thank you to her God for the boy before she passed out from exhaustion. In the years that followed, the young boy was perceived as a blessing; he truly had a bright future laid out for him. Both his father and mother were farmers in the little Ugandan village of Odek, but that didn’t stop him from dreaming of great heights. He wasn’t the typical classroom genius per se; in fact, he was more popular for his humor and excellent dancing skills. And his dark side.

The boy slowly gained a reputation as a violent but charismatic person, who could use his tongue to sway the masses. Sooner or later, he expressed his desire to be a leader and the easiest way to do that would entail a little more training. He enrolled as an apprentice for a witch doctor and his mentor was none other than his brother. Then disaster struck when his fellow tribesman was ousted from the presidency by an aspiring Ugandan called Museveni and his aunt Alice Auma a.k.a. Lakwena , who led an occult neo-political movement known as the Holy Spirit Movement, was killed in a protest against the new government.

His life was never the same. He soon declared himself a prophet of his people and he built upon his aunt’s former movement to come up with his own in a bid to regain control of a world that was fast spinning away. Once a naïve boy and now a full grown man, he found himself the center of attention and it wasn’t long before his movement was outlawed when he started hitting back at the government. He turned against his people and began raiding them when he realized the declining state of the resources at his disposal. His people, the Acholi, turned against him in bitter and equal response.

A few months later, he claimed the Spirit of the Lord spoke to him in his dreams and ordered him to kill people and marry 88 wives. Yes, kill people who stand in your way, including those that eat and rear pork. Also, rape the women and force them into prostitution. If you can’t convince them, confuse them; he brainwashed people with his ideals and they followed him. He started raiding villages on a large scale, the beautiful women he took for his own, while the ugly ones were shit out of luck. Those were either killed or forced to be his prostitutes. The kids, he had other plans for. The girls were sold off as sex slaves while the boys, he handed Kalashnikovs, rather, AK 47s. His newly recruited soldiers, the young boys, he sprinkled holy water on to convince them of divine protection from bullets.

That man, if you still have no idea who I’m talking about, is Joseph Rao Kony, one of the ICC’s most wanted criminals responsible for abduction of 104,000 children, displacement of over 2,000,000 people and the cold murder of about 1000 people per week. He is the outlaw the USA has used to invade Uganda on the premise of humanitarian aid. And the movement he formed is now the terror group known to many as the Lord’s Resistance Army. Most importantly, he is villain in the movie, the Machine Gun Preacher, a movie based on true events that tells the story of a criminal who is turned into a preacher who devotes his life to protecting and rescuing young African kids from people like Kony.

A long, fairly intense movie if you ask me, although  the Machine Gun Preacher doesn’t contain lots of computer enhanced grotesque images like its counterparts ‘Hotel Rwanda’ and the original ‘The Exorcist’- the one shot in Kenya. No, it builds its plot from empathizing with kids who have lost everything who look up to a former convict for hope in a land where chances of dying from a land mine explosion are higher than chances of dying from AIDS. It is in fact based on the true story of Sam Childers, a man who fought Kony without ever actually having met him. For me, the kid that had to kill his mother to save his little brother before being abducted to serve as a child soldier did it for me.

For those that haven’t watched it, I’d hate to be a party pooper so I will not ruin it for you. That is hardly my style. On the whole, the movie tells of a man who is released from prison and is faced with the daunting task of rebuilding his family; he is married to Lynn, a former stripper, with whom he has a young daughter but his care-free thug life and drug addiction are his biggest challenges. All this changes when he coldly murders a man, no, slaughters a man and he finds himself pulled closer to God courtesy of his conscience. On a voluntary trip to South Sudan, he encounters pain and terror first hand, especially when he witnesses a young boy blown to bits by a land mine. On realizing his calling is here, he starts a church back home and an orphanage in war-torn Sudan for the kids he intends to rescue from Kony’s grip with the help of a handful Army Officers on his payroll. It earns him a visit by the late Dr. John Garang and eventually, a handsome bounty on his head offered by Kony.

This isn’t deja moo; no you haven’t heard this bull before. I may not envy fatherhood, but that movie made me realize I love kids; it depresses me to watch kids suffer or know that they will never get the same opportunities afforded to me by God through my parents. Sometimes I’ll walk through the streets and see a kid in dirty, badly stitched remnants of clothes with a bottle of glue on his mouth and it will take every fiber of my being not to do anything. Deep down, I want to walk over, lift him up, get him cleaned him up, buy him food, take him for a medical checkup then put him in school so as to give him a decent chance of making something of his life; but I don’t. I hope somebody who sees the situation as I do and has the resources to do it does what I cannot do.

The real question is what can or have you done to make a difference? For my part, I will devote a day per month to visit a children’s home and anyone of you reading this is and wants to tag along, please feel free. No matter how much the cost of living goes up, life will always remain popular, even to those kids that struggle to make it through life without the support or guardianship of an adult. The least we can do is making it a worthwhile experience for them. I have accrued enough bad experiences arising from multiple bad judgments to know that for once, I will be doing the right thing. To those that think it is a waste of time, please support bacteria; I fear it may be the only culture people like you and Kony have.

(Watch Video below on Sam Childers)