Voice Of Taita Taveta

 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...

It’s been a while. A moment of silence, reflection, and resilience. Lets start by wishing our readers HAPPY MADARAKA DAY!!! Sometimes, just being present—juggling life, parenting, work, and the chaos of social media—is a full-time job. Connecting with some of you over the past months has been one of the highlights of this journey. But let’s be candid—it hasn’t been easy. Learning to accept ourselves, and allowing others to do the same, especially in public spaces like this one, takes courage. And as we try to live, laugh, and love…people are dying. Yes—dying in our hospitals, more than is expected, more than is acceptable. We keep asking the same questions, raising the same issues. But it seems our leaders have grown immune to the cries of their people. Let’s talk about the audacity of it all—County Cabinet Secretaries willing to hand over county payrolls to the National Government. Is this not the same Constitution that gave power to the people through devolution? Now they want to cen...

 As a county, we know what we have— The Congo of Kenya! A land rich in resources, yet exploited and used. Our cries of injustice echo through time, but deep down, we know—our tears of exploitation are of our own making. We have forgotten a simple truth: a community must be built by us, not for us. Time and again, I am reminded of the smallest unit of a community— the family. If it is broken, if trust and structure within it cannot hold, then what hope do we have? What future do we build? Generations continue to be trapped in cycles of poverty and misery , not because we lack potential, but because we have refused to take responsibility for our own growth. The Rise and Fall of a Visionary I am looking for the founder of New Generation. A man whose name may no longer be spoken in pride, but whose impact cannot be erased. Despite the fall, he deserves a round of applause. Many know his story—how he built men, inspired businesses, and touched the lives of both men and women alike. H...

 I sit here surrounded by family—my pillars, my safe haven. The year's struggles fade for a moment, replaced by the comfort of the basic unit: family. It’s in this simplicity, this unity, that I find clarity. Parenting is no small task; it’s the duty of raising a generation that will carry the weight of what we’ve failed to fix. In the old days, boys learned from men, and girls learned from women. Lessons weren’t left to chance; they were deliberate, definitive, woven into the fabric of daily life. But that fabric tore when the Kaburus—colonial opportunists—introduced us to their way of life. We took their systems, their charades of democracy, and left behind something more sacred: Ubuntu . The idea that I am because we are. Now, it’s every man for himself, and we see the results—a fractured society where unity feels like a relic of the past. Take a moment to consider the impact of our choices. While we dream of national change, our cradle—the county—crumbles. How real is this figh...

 Over time, Voice of Taita Taveta has become a platform where we speak truth, no matter how uncomfortable, using humor to soften the blows and pain that remind us of what’s at stake. From corrupt county assemblies to the silent shadows of missing sons, we’ve explored the highs and lows of our beloved Taita Taveta. Yet, one theme that continues to stir emotions is that of the "King with Two Hearts." This metaphorical king, our leader, plays a game of contradictions: on one hand, his heart beats for the people’s promises, but on the other, it quietly pulses for personal gain. We’ve seen this duality in action as leaders champion change, but their actions betray the people they swear to serve. The story of Taita Taveta is one of unresolved promises. Our land, once fertile and abundant, is slowly being taken away, and we face a choice: to reclaim it or let it slip through our fingers, as we have seen happen time and time again. Teita Estate’s sale of 3,000 acres gives us an oppo...

 As I closed the heavy castle gate, I could still hear my head ringing. I turned my back and leaned on the gate; I could feel blood trickling down my left chest. The arrow was still stuck there. I looked at it and saw it moving weakly, just as my heart did. I closed my eyes, then broke the protruding arrow stem with my right hand, leaving the arrowhead buried deep in my left heart. As I walked toward my castle, I could hear the laughter of happy people within. I looked at the wound—it had healed, but the arrowhead still remained. I had to put on a brave face, but the pain was unbearable. Yet, I wanted that pain to stay, for I never wanted to forget what I had felt over the past two days. Two days earlier, I had been standing in one of my towers, gazing down at the forest. My heart was steady, my people contented, and I believed I had all I needed. But as I stood there, a figure moved through the trees, and suddenly, something stirred within me. I felt an unfamiliar pulse in the lef...