THROUGH A TEEN'S EYES: INHERITING THE ANGER

 

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 measurable.

It either exists or it doesn't.

And yes.

Today I am angry.

Very angry.

I sit beside my mother's collapsed kibanda staring at her lying on the ground.

I don't even know if she is breathing.

I don't have the strength to check.

The yellow cabbages keep rolling down the dusty road. Billy the goat is happily eating the chopped ones from the uteo like he has personally been invited to a buffet.

If Mum wakes up and sees what happened to her vegetables, she might get another heart attack.

I should chase him away.

But honestly?

I don't have the energy.

Sometimes I wonder whether suffering specifically targets poor people.

The rich have problems.

The poor have consequences.

The other day I saw Tiff.

Well, Tiffany now.

Back in primary school we called her Wambugha.

Simple.

Traditional.

Human.

Now she is Tiffany.

Tiff.

Even the name sounds expensive.

Don't misunderstand me. A rose by any other name would still smell as sweet. It is not the name.

It is the life attached to it.

The moment her father became Mhesh, she disappeared into international schools where children speak English even when ordering water. The other day I saw her driving a beautiful car.

I hid my face.

Not because she saw me.

Because I saw me.

There I was scrubbing a dog kennel like my life depended on it.

Because it did.

Three hundred and fifty shillings.

Not for headphones.

Not for airtime.

Not for entertainment.

Three hundred and fifty shillings to help my mother pay remedial fees for my younger brother.

Funny thing?

I performed better than her in school.

A clean B.

She failed compared to me.

So I hear.

But she is headed abroad to study Civil Engineering.

Me?

My future is so dark even my parents have started looking for emergency exits.

I wipe my eyes.

The women around my mother are trying to wake her up.

Their mouths are moving but I can't hear what they are saying.

I remember the other day Dad managed to send one thousand shillings home.

For once things looked hopeful.

Then SHA remembered we existed.

Within seconds the money disappeared automatically to offset missed payments.

Just like that.

Mum never complained.

Never shouted.

Never cursed.

She simply accepted it.

Now she is lying on the ground and I honestly don't know which hospital will even admit us.

Who will pay?

Who?

These politicians have destroyed our parents' lives and now they are preparing to inherit ours too.

Government.

Opposition.

All of them.

The difference nowadays is like introducing Paul and expecting us not to notice he changed his name from Saul.

The packaging changes.

The contents remain the same.

So what options do I have?

If I protest peacefully, they send goons.

If I demonstrate, they send bullets.

Then hold press conferences and explain why I deserved both.

Their children are abroad.

We are just a statistic.

If I join the criminal world trying to escape poverty, I get shot.

This time they will even have a legitimate reason.

Maybe I should try forex trading.

Seems every unemployed Kenyan has a cousin who became a millionaire in Dubai after watching three YouTube videos.

Maybe that's the answer.

Or maybe it isn't.

All I know is that somewhere along the way we became so used to suffering that even corruption no longer surprises us.

We watch billions disappear and continue eating our ugali.

We hear of scandals and continue queuing for water.

We complain and move on.

Can we, the Gen Z generation, sober up?

Can we stop waiting for saviours?

Can we go back to our communities, our churches, our families and start passing a different message?

The leadership we have is not the leadership we need.

We need leaders willing to serve without expecting worship.

Cut their salaries to minimum wage.

Let them use the same hospitals.

Let their children attend the same schools.

Let them live in the same neighbourhoods.

Let them queue where we queue.

Who ever heard of employees earning more than their employers?

Because that is what leaders are.

Employees.

We are the employers.

Yet somehow we suffer while financing their lifestyles.

I stand up.

Because sitting here won't save my mother.

I have only one option.

I have to go to Mhesh.

Beg for a vehicle.

Beg for hospital fees.

Beg for help.

And if he helps, I already know what comes next.

Months of repayment.

Months of favours.

Months of obligations.

One more debt.

One more chain.

One more generation trapped in gratitude for things that should have been rights.

And that, my friends, is how the circle begins.

As Chávez once said, “Once you educate the people, you cannot make them unlearn.” We have seen the future, and the future is ours. They think we don’t see. But we are faceless, and yet, we see.

Gods of Taita Taveta, let’s make it in our own image. Next Saturday, stay tuned for our next episode. We are now on Facebook @Alve Mwaregha.

For any queries or information, reach out to us at Voice of Taita Taveta @doctalve or email doctalve@gmail.com.

— Voice of Taita Taveta