Voice Of Taita Taveta

 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. ...