Voice Of Taita Taveta

 Sometimes I sit quietly and wonder just how little everything really matters. They say it's all vanity . Yet every morning we wake up chasing it. Money. Status. Bigger cars. Bigger houses. Bigger titles. Strange creatures we are. We know we shall leave it all behind, yet we spend our entire lives collecting things we cannot carry. Then again... maybe it makes sense. Back in the day, owning a television was luxury. Today, internet bundles are a necessity. Yesterday's dream is today's basic need. Change is inevitable, whether we like it or not. I've been sober for two straight days now. Not because the wallet is empty. No. I just needed clarity. Needed purpose. Needed to hear my own thoughts without Johnny Walker translating them into Kamba. My liver deserves annual leave too. Age has a funny way of teaching you things. It introduces you to disappointment until disappointment becomes an old drinking buddy. You stop expecting miracles and start looking for patterns. Take ...

There are politicians who are born into privilege, and there are those whose lives are shaped by struggle. Sitting across from Hon. Peter Shambi, popularly known as Chakwanye, over a cup of tea during a relaxed afternoon conversation, one quickly realizes that his story belongs firmly in the second category. Currently serving as the Deputy Minority Leader in the Taita Taveta County Assembly, Hon. Shambi has officially thrown his hat into the ring for the Taita Taveta Senate seat. Confident, reflective and deeply rooted in the history of the county, he speaks with the conviction of a man who believes his moment has arrived. But away from politics, who exactly is Peter Shambi? “I am a human rights defender with a special interest in gender issues, governance, land and land-based resources,” he says. “I am passionate about community sensitization and human rights education. I am also a farmer and an entrepreneur with interests in real estate, transport and tourism.” Yet the journey to whe...

 The pain we highlight here has never been about politicians. It has always been about the ordinary mwananchi. The men and women who wake up before sunrise, sweat through the day, pay taxes, and keep this economy moving, hoping tomorrow will somehow be better than today. The past few weeks have been painful for every Kenyan. We have watched schools burn. We have seen children turn against institutions that are meant to shape them. Then came the heartbreaking tragedy at Utumishi Girls in Gilgil. Young lives cut short. Dreams buried before they even had a chance to grow. No parent deserves that kind of pain. Not the parents who lost their daughters. And even for the parents of those responsible, no mother or father ever wishes to discover that the child they raised is capable of such destruction. So who do we blame? The parents? The teachers? Society? Or have we all become spectators, waiting for someone else to fix what belongs to all of us? Raising children has become one of the ha...

  I have been branded many things for simply being me. Disrespectful. Rebellious. Ungrateful. The problem is I live in my own skin, not yours. You see life differently. You hear things. We see things. We grew up in a world where proof matters more than promises. You tell us to trust leaders. We ask for results. You tell us to respect them. We say respect is earned. Work for it. Our older generation has spent years trying to turn us into them. Maybe a few things about us need adjustment. Maybe we spend too much time online. Maybe we type "Mrw" instead of "tomorrow" and confuse you completely. But one thing is certain. Our future in your hands? No way. Not again. Let me explain. The promises of our politicians stink because they all smell the same. Every election cycle they arrive with new slogans wrapped around old failures. We no longer listen to what they say. We look at what they have done. Integrity is no longer a speech. It is evidence. It is visible. It is meas...

  I have never been an angry woman. Not because life has been kind, no. Life has tested me enough. But I have always chosen optimism. Even on the gloomiest days, my husband has never given me a reason to doubt him. Poor maybe. Struggling definitely. But a good man? That one I know. Yesterday was market day. The little cash I had saved for stock disappeared into household needs. Call me a bad businesswoman if you want, but when children are hungry, profit margins become stories for another day. I stood outside my kibanda staring at the few cabbages and bundles of managu I had brought from the market. The three hundred shillings Baba Gabu sent the other day was barely enough to buy maize flour for porridge. I am not blaming the economy. I am not blaming fuel prices. I am just telling you what life looks like from where I stand. By the way, Gabu tried calling his father yesterday. The call never went through. A small worry crossed my heart, but I brushed it aside. Optimism is a stubbo...

 The alarm rings but I don’t want to get out of bed. My back still remembers yesterday. Every bag of cement. Every lift. Every bend. It sits there like unpaid debt—right between my shoulders—vibrating every time I breathe. It rings again. I hear it. Ignore it. Rings a third time like it pays rent in this room. Why should I wake up? Why should I? The work and the reward have refused to know each other for years. I work for a private individual. Minimum wage on paper. Less in spirit. Fifteen Thousand Five hundred is what am paid. Sounds like money until deductions happen and reality clocks in before you do. By the time everyone takes their share—government, levy, deductions I don’t even understand anymore—I remain with thirteen thousand and a headache. My wife and five kids are back in ushago.  Recently I took a loan to lease a small piece of land and plant maize. Rain looked at us, laughed kidogo, then never showed up. Still—I wake. Not because I want to but because i have to....

I have not been in touch with Jamo for sometime, but recently the man showed up at my doorstep. No! My allegedly daughter was not in tow. Her too… a face I haven’t seen in quite sometime. But something was different. No car. Jamo came on a boda. I saw him through the door, quickly took my coat and met him outside. Hakuna story ya kukaribisha mtu ndani aisee!! Mafuta imepanda you know. These days fuel prices have become the excuse for everything. Recently I visited our local distillery. Palm wine being harvested live in our presence. We are seated there chatting peacefully, A few minutes later mama pima tells us “Dabali ni Mia mbili!” I froze. Jesus Christ!!. 200 bob from sixty shillings?? How dare she!! Before I could even protest… it came. “Mwajuwa mafuta inpanda!” Mwikali Aka Mama Mwajuma says in her coastal Kamba accent diluted with suffering and palm wine economics. Now explain to me carefully… what exactly does locally sourced palm wine have to do with Dizo prices?? I literally sa...

  As I sit in my old rocky chair… a glass of Johny Walker in hand… I wonder. Who might we become? I keep reminding this new generation something simple: Trying matters. It Does really. Fear destroys more dreams than failure ever will. And now in my old age… when I look back at my scars… I smile. Because it is in those scars that we win. But wueh… these are hard times. Economic turmoil has hit everyone. Even the famous “Tutam!” slogan has suddenly taken a tea break. You cannot keep singing harmoniously when unga prices are rising like unmanned drones. As a parent… the pain is real. Fuel hikes today mean hunger tomorrow. And the coming rise in basic commodities is something we cannot ignore anymore. Where is the relief we were promised? This pain… Back in 2020. 'Huyu Jamaa amewacha mafuta imepanda, wanainchi wanumia' Ruto back then to Uhuru. How the table have turned. But for me it feels like what Lazarus must have felt after being raised from the dead. An...

 I have made my stand. And I stand by it. Bad politics and ignorance have driven our county to where it is now. For years we have voted with one thought in mind: “Mtu wangu.” “Wetu.” Not us. Not the county. Not the future. Just stomach politics wrapped in tribal songs and handshakes. The spirit of Ubuntu our forefathers lived by has slowly been killed by selfishness and greed. I am because we are. That was the African way. Before the colonialists enslaved our people, they first destroyed unity. Because they understood something simple: You cannot break a clenched fist. So what did they do? They opened the fist. Separated the fingers. And the political class today does the same thing. They divide us enough that when they finally break one finger… you only feel the pain five years later. Sometimes I wonder about this young generation. What kind of country will they inherit? Because they have something our parents never had: Access. Power. Information. But ...