Voice Of Taita Taveta

  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 ...

  Today is Labour Day. But today… I don’t want to talk about jobs. I want to talk about workers. The real ones. Not the ones in suits making promises. Not the ones flying in choppers during campaign season. I’m talking about you. The voter. The man who wakes up at 5am… not because he wants to… but because he has to. The woman who walks to the market… balances biashara, watoto, and life… like a seasoned accountant of survival. The boda guy dodging potholes that were “launched” three elections ago. The mama mboga calculating profit with coins… while leaders calculate votes with lies. These are the people who keep this economy alive. Not speeches. Just Sweat. You pay tax. Directly… indirectly… painfully. Every time you buy fuel. Every time you buy unga. Every time you send money. Even when you think you have nothing… government still finds you. And yet… when it comes to decision time… the same voter who builds the economy… sells the future. 500 bob. A plate of pilau. A t-shirt. A ...

The power of the masses… is not in riots. Not in hashtags. Not in noise. It is in the ballot box . That Simple. Let mtoto wa Maumau do his protests alone. Me? I’m tired of the hypocrisy. But again… dunia ni mzunguko. Let Zakayo taste his own medicine. Me, I never voted for that man. Zakayo? Nope! That, I didn’t. Why? Because the lies were obvious. Ever watched True Lies ? Lucky you. We didn’t watch it… We lived it. Wahenga were not joking when they said: Mtego wa Panya huingia waliomo na wasiokuwemo, Did i get that Right? I wasn’t a rat. But here I am… feeling the pain of the hard times ahead. Hard times have turned Kenyans into comedians you know? We have laughed our way through pain. We’ve turned suffering into content.   Weka Maweee!!! Even Bwana Churchill would struggle today… because every Kenyan is now a stand-up comedian. But behind the jokes? Depression. Real. Heavy. Silent. And Kenyans… wueh… the depression has turned us ruthless, we are r...

 Today…  We learn. Because clearly… we have been confusing seats with chairs. Leaders not seats, it shouldn't be comfort. Let’s start with the big man. Governor. Huyu ndio CEO wa county. Not brand ambassador. Not chief guest wa harambees. CEO. He runs the county. Money comes… he decides how it is used. Projects start… he approves. Hospitals fail… he answers. Roads stall… he explains. Simple. If things are not working in the county… huyu ndio mwenye kalamu. But us? We vote a Governor because: “Ni mtu wetu” “Anajua kuongea” “Alitupa hope” “Alikuja na chopper” Then after a few months… tunaanza kusema: “Hakuna dawa hospital…” “Barabara mbaya…” “Miradi imekwama…” And I ask… ulipigia kura CEO ama MC wa event?  Ohh Yes!! Now let’s move to the other side. Senator. Huyu sio competitor wa Governor. Huyu ni mkaguzi mkuu wa county huko Nairobi. The defender. The watcher. The one who is supposed to sit in Senate and say: “Boss… hii pesa imeenda wapi?” ...

  Daktari Alves… Mimi niko kadi. The rebirth of this country… has taken longer than necessary. Too long. Our parents… the baby boomers, the Generation Z Ruled by tyrants, they accepted their fate The yes sir, yes mum generation. Information was limited They accepted. They endured. They survived… but they did not question. During the Moi era… when coffers were looted… they still sang: Nyayo… They didn’t raise voices. They raised fingers. And those fingers… tingisa kidole moja ya Nyayo… Zilitwerk kama nonsense. Yes — they twerked with fingers , not figures . That was their politics. And us… the millennials? We were born into it. We inherited the clapping. We stood in the sun. Singing. Smiling. Waiting.  Clapped and Danced as the Nyayo Motorcade was in sight Sometimes we clapped, for the likes of kina Kamotho not knowing that the old man was not in the motorcade. It was glorious, but for a moment. Then something shifted. Something Changed Technology evo...