REHANA BLOGS

As Barack Obama made history by getting elected the 44 th president of the United States , they yelled. They shouted. They cried. They laughed. They sobbed. And they sung. They clapped hands and hugged as Obama was proclaimed the winner. I’m not talking about the African- Americans. Nope. I’m talking about the Africans. The Kenyans. Those chaps who take pride in the fact that Obama is a son of Kenya . That Barack Hussein Obama Sr. was the one person in thirty million who sired the first black president of the United States : the seat of top power. It seems to be somewhat of an irony that the first black president of the US isn’t someone whose family has suffered at the hands of the land or whose ancestors were once slaves but one whose whole life wasn’t governed by the concepts and dynamics of racism and whose roots are firmly entrenched in a small country on that vast continent that was once in the hands of the same white folks who applaud the coming of Obama to the highest s...

Ever since we’ve moved into this house; which is apparently in a residential area even though its half jungle, we’ve been surrounded by all sorts of animals, mostly of the normal domestic variety such as the goats that wander around eating off most of the lawn outside the walled garden, to the cats that try to get into the kitchen from atop the walls thereby getting themselves electrocuted, to the strange mongrel breeds of dogs that sometimes see fit to keep our security man on the alert. To a family that has never seen the use of pets of the animal sort in the house, apart from a rat-catcher in the early nineties, which was thrown out for having kittens and eating them; the concept of being an animal magnet is a strange one. When one observes the types of fauna to be found in the vicinity of man, one is almost certain to discount the presence of camels and monkeys. And yet, these are the very animals that seem to have found a home in us. When we first moved to the new house, it...

When Kenya first became a republic, in the year 1964, a freedom fighter, Jomo Kenyatta, came to the fore, and was declared the first president of Kenya . He sat on the throne from 1963 to 1978. He had been a war veteran, involved in the MauMau uprising, and consequently, had spent a lot of time in prison. He was the pioneer of political leadership in the land, and unfortunately for the Kenyans, managed to wear the mantle of leadership very fixedly upon his shoulders. The ashes of the British Empire in Kenya had not yet begun to settle when the first rumbles of discontent were heard. Crime was high. Birth rate was high. Poverty levels continued to ascend, as slums began to rise up from previously prospering areas. Why was this great country bowed so low? At the time of independence, the economic status was at par with most of the Asian countries. Ten years later, Kenya was just another third world country. The world was laughing. What had happened? Ignorance had its uses, a...

I sometimes volunteer to sit at the shop, and be a sales-girl when life becomes too mundane for me. In this case, having volunteered for a stint at the shop, I had to leave from home at 2.00 pm, along with Sam, the other sales-girl, so that we could get to the shop and open it by three. This was during the time of the post-election riots, but since we sell bread, which is essential to most of the living in Mombasa , staying at home like sane people do was never an option. We called up one fellow called Richard, who happens to own a tuk-tuk asking him to come and pick us. In case you’re wondering, a tuk-tuk is a Thai word which means Auto-Rickshaw. In Swahili slang, the word tuk-tuk is substituted for piki-piki . By now, you must be coming to the conclusion that in Swahili, syllables are oft repeated to make the word; which is a rather hasty conclusion to be making of this language, for no other words have repeated syllables. Richard, unfortunately, had left for his village, ...

After everything that has happened in this country, the election of the Speaker for the Parliament and Legislative council was a bit of an anticlimax. The rich ones are still in the fight of the High Seat, and the poor are in the fight for their lives. And yet, the two seem to merge, in that their needs can be considered to be quite similar. If by similar, one can equate life with power. Or food with influence. It is laughable, really, that the president of a democratic country has lost the respect of his people, his subjects. For what else can one call it, when the members of parliament refuse to pledge allegiance to him. Let us start off with the scenario that took place when a lawyer by the name of Ababu Namwamba was sworn in. He had to make the pledge three times. The first time, he said that we would be a subject of his president, Mr. Raila Odinga, and of the democratic republic of Kenya . Now why he would mention Mr. Odinga, when the president’s name is Mwai Kibaki, is beyo...

In the early dawn, the sun rose, the rooster crowed My people woke up, and greeted me with blood They wiped their eyes of sleep, and followed the river Of mankind, that swarmed the cities To quench their thirst, and their appetite They took their pangas, and mshales To rid my people of their life’s blood They burned houses, killed, maimed, And then they called it ethnic cleansing. I ask of them, Am I of one tribe? Am I Kikuyu, or Luo? Kalenjin, or Kamba? Do I not harbour all of you? Then they know the answer, and they think I am a fool Is not my earth red enough, from the previous bloodshed? Did the loved ones buried in me die in vain? Those fighters, those lovers; did they not spill the red in their veins, so you could have a better life? What makes them think that violence is the answer? Have they not learnt, from the past? Have they forgotten what the red stands for, in my flag? Who will remind them? Who will make that effort? I pick...

I am a prisoner. I live a life of shadows; of untold drudgery, and unimaginable woe. It is a life that does not let go; the harder you try, the harder it keeps a hold on you. The more you struggle against it, the more firmly it binds its arms around you. And then, it smothers you. Kills you. My mother was a strong woman; a brave one. She lived alone, and died in a cell full of people, watching her take her last breath. I was born in those last seconds, I’m told. I don’t know where she’s buried. Someday when I get out of this place, I’ll look for her grave. I’m twelve years old. In my short life, I’ve experienced many sorts of feelings. Hate, anger and regret. Mostly regret. In different circumstances, I would be a normal boy, going to a normal school, playing with other children. I dream of them, these other children. Would they look like me? I want to see another child, and compare him with myself. Maybe then, I would discover my shortcomings. He used to say that it’s always...

I sit at the edge of the garden, and I wonder. I wonder at the breeze, playing softly with my hair. I wonder, at the flowers, of different hues and shapes, that smile at me. I wonder at the weeds which are growing, that seem to have taken root, which threaten the flowers I adore. I wonder at the palm in the middle of the garden, that seems to symbolize my life, this life. I wonder at the lamp-posts, whose strategic setting is meant to improve upon the aesthetic beauty of this garden at night. And finally, I wonder, at the stars that are supposed to be doing this job. And then it strikes me. There are no stars. And there is no life. These flowers, this garden; do not exist. They represent a place which once was. A place of beauty, a place of joy, a place of freedom. A place where love lived. Without constant nourishment, the plant dies. The baby wails. The earth cries. The moon hides. Human beings have the pity of all nature's bounties. For we have free will. We have the will to...

The Indian Auto Rickshaw (pronounced ‘Riksha’ in South India ), is typically a dull yellow conveyance with a two cylinder engine and excessive exhaust fumes. Having never sat in one before, I watched with some trepidation as a passer-by hailed one, harangued over the price with the driver, got in, and braced himself for the ride. When it started moving, I understood why. I was standing outside Chennai International Airport , on my first trip to India . The air was different, the people were different, the language was different. But it didn’t take me long to notice, that of the all differences, it was the difference in transport that was truly different! Gone were the ‘matatus’ that are so abundant in Kenya . Gone were the clear streets, and the greenery in the cities. Gone were those red metro buses that have fixed rates. In fact, a fixed rate for transport is a design that is not only not common in India , but sometimes if you mention it, you’ll be the cause of a few good laughs!...