Voice Of Taita Taveta

 Today Jamo and my Echo are not on my mind sana. It’s mid-morning. Niko tu hapa,  just staring at the iron sheet roof. Sina form kabisa!!!. And I don’t like that feeling. No cash, Sober, just thoughts making noise in my head. I keep thinking of a story I read recently. The story of the mouse, the cat, and the glass jar. A powerful story. A clever story. But like all stories… it depends on who is telling it, and why. In the version I read, the mouse hides inside the jar to escape the cat. The cat circles outside, patient, hungry, confident that sooner or later lunch will come. The lesson being pushed is simple — for the cat to get the mouse, it must fast get into the jar. Alaa!!. But as I kept looking at that iron sheet roof, I asked myself a different question. Why is the mouse hiding in a closed glass Jar? What if the jar is not protection… but a trap? Because in politics, especially in Taita Taveta, we must stop pretending that every move leaders make is str...

Being a father is not easy. You can be a Father and be just a father. Same as you can be a Voter and just a voter. It's the bother of raising kids that made me absent. Like an absent voter who doesn't make an effort to impact the future. Your vote counts. I look at her again. For a long moment I say nothing. Because the truth is… The future rarely arrives as a stranger. Sometimes it arrives carrying your own blood. And suddenly my mind drifts back. Back to a different time. A younger version of me — long before the tumbler, before these conversations with Jamo. Back to the day I met her mother. Because if we are to understand the future standing at that door… we must first understand the past that brought it here. The past was easy. I remember growing up playing Chobo uwa , times when the president would just decide to extend school holidays and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Times when the president visiting an area meant we would miss school and line up along the...

I once talked about the Butterfly Effect. That small flap of a butterfly wing in Africa — insignificant as it may seem — causing a tornado in Brazil. Small action. Massive consequence. One vote. Your vote. We keep pretending it is small. It is not. It is the tornado. I am appealing to the youth. We need your votes in large numbers. Not noise. Not hashtags. Votes. Can we, just this once, be the generation that forces change? Can we educate our people on the consequences of bad political choices? Because bad choices don’t disappear. They mature. They knock. As I sit here with my pal Jamo, still a bit hesitant about this “new leaf” he wants to turn, I can feel something brewing in him. An eruption of change maybe. Or indigestion. Hard to tell with Jamo. We make our order and sit. The music fills the air — quiet, cold ambience. Classy. Elegant. The kind of place where mistakes are made politely. We take small sips of this tasty whiskey. I feel it burn my tongue. That raw barrel feel. For a...

 Have you ever wondered what happened to the New Generation brothers? The mall stands like a sore thumb. A reminder that all is vanity. A reminder that even giants fall. Goliath did. And when he fell, the Philistines were ruled by the Israelites. That’s how David became king. It’s past midnight and I’m burning the proverbial midnight oil. I hear the sound of my buck intimately trying to ride the does… the sound of kids bleating. I have always wanted to own a ranch. I have watched Yellowstone from season one to the finale. The last episode was a kicker. I nearly shed tears. It pained me how they killed John Dalton. It was not how I envisioned it ending. And it happened in the first episode. I nearly stopped watching the damn series. But I felt I owed it to my Mr. Dalton to see it to the end — and with that curiosity, I learned something new, something so profound that it made me smile. That was just an imaginative dream I have when I haven’t had a pint. So where were we? Jamo h...

 Lately I’ve been wondering what I should dream about. Maybe I should have become a teacher. Because there are lessons that clearly need to be taught. And retaught. And drilled into thick political skulls. I never liked politics. Still don’t. But it is what it is. No pain, no gain. And politics is my pain. A pain I share with over 350,000 people in Taita Taveta — according to the last census. Yes. 350,000 of us. And for those 350,000 souls, we receive roughly 5.4 to 5.5 billion shillings annually as equitable share from the National Government. Billions. Let that sink in. And before the Tutam choir begins warming their vocal cords — relax. It’s not about how much you receive. It’s about how you use it. From that 5.5 billion, over 2 billion goes to salaries. And when I say 2 billion, I haven’t even added the decimal points. Meaning it’s more than that. Shout “2 terms!” all you want. Facts don’t bend. Wakujaa has failed this county. And Mwaruma is not a spectator. He is inside it. ...

 So I have this friend — let’s call him Jamo. Yes, Jamo, not Jemo. Ghetto names, Msee wa Kayole -Eastlands edition. The kind of guy who didn’t chase women; women chased him. Not because he was trying too hard — the man just existed. Worked with an NGO as some data analyst wizard. Money ilikuwa mingi. Resources zilikuwa pletty. And as good friends — let’s be honest — we helped him “manage” those resources. Never benefitted him much, come to think of it. We mined his life like a quarry and built our own castles elsewhere. Not proud of it… but he never seemed to mind. Then came 2013 or thereabout — the day my boy Jamo shocked me. He called me: “Bud, let’s meet at our favorite water spot.” We weren’t goats, so I knew exactly where — Class 3. Found him there with a bottle of Yohana Mtembezi, the black one. We celebrate roots — not red coz we ain't Red Indians, we are black men with stories. A drink or two after, is then he drops the bomb. “I’m settling down… I’m devolving.” Damn!...

 I was reading a post on X the other day. Or rather—I started reading it. I can’t even remember the exact wording now, but let’s not dwell on my memory. I hear 50 years is a proper kick in the nuts—even upstairs. You lose some things. Hair included. My mind isn’t as sharp as it used to be. Jeez… I’ve even forgotten where I was going with this. Ah yes. The daughter. So this daughter comes home from school, excited—bubbling over about something that happened during the day. One of those moments parents pretend to be listening to while mentally checking tomorrow’s bills. Then the mum asks, casually, without malice: “Alikuwa wa kabila gani?” And the daughter answers, confused: “Aii Mum, si ni Mkenya?” That innocence. That clarity. That generation of my dreams. Why can’t we just be that? Kenyans. Funny thing is—even in small societies, the disease survives. Take us here in Taita Taveta. To an outsider, we are one people: Taita Taveta . Simple. Clean. If only they knew. ...

 I woke up this morning with a dangerous thought. If I were the only voter that counted—just me—would my choices be based on personal benefit, or on what is good for the community? That question refused to leave me alone. Just the other day, I was walking past a station in Voi town when I found a group of women crowded outside. Curious, I asked the attendant what was happening. “Wametoka kwa mkutano wa siasa, wanangoja pesa.” Ah. Sonuts started playing in my head. But as I walked on, I passed another group. This time the tone had changed. “Kwani hawatoi kitu hawa?” And pa! —or was it wa! —the light in my head switched on. We can’t keep lying to ourselves anymore. We are the problem. I am the problem. You are the problem. I recently watched a video making rounds of the incumbent governor, Mheshimiwa Andrew Mwadime. Funny thing—the video speaks only about how calmly he talks, how he listens, how he helps individuals. I don’t disagree. Helping matters. But let me ask a painful questi...

 So here I am—another year older, seated quietly, celebrating the little joys of life. A gift from God, of course. Who am I not to be grateful, even when times are tough? Ni January, my friend. Much has been said about me. But what about you? My Taita people. Is it WANTAM… or have we quietly slipped into TUTAM? Across the country, there’s a thick fog in the air. Smoke everywhere. You can’t see the fire, but you can feel it—burning slowly, deliberately. Campaign fires have been lit once again. And though my eyes are teary, I can still hear. I can still sense. The blindness that covered us in previous years—madongo gha funywa—is lifting. This time, something feels different. For once, we are saying—in one voice—that those who know must educate those who don’t. That ignorance is no longer an excuse. That change is not optional. It is necessary. But for change to come, we need clarity of purpose. I hear names being whispered loudly now. Mwashako of Wundanyi. Senator Mwaruma. They are s...