It's Our Turn to Eat Read Free

Moi’s legacy as worthless. ‘I am inheriting a country that has been badly ravaged by years of misrule and ineptitude,’ he told the crowd. He warned future members of his government and public officers that he would respect no ‘sacred cows’ in his drive to eliminate sleaze. ‘The era of “anything goes” is gone forever. Government will no longer be run on the whims of individuals.’ Then he pronounced the soundbite that would haunt his time in office, destined to be constantly replayed on Kenyan television and radio, acquiring a different meaning every time. ‘Corruption,’ he said, ‘will now cease to be a way of life in Kenya.’ Whenever I hear it today, I notice a tiny detail that passed me by as I stood in that sweaty scrum, smeared notebook in hand, mentally drafting the day’s article: Kibaki, always a laboured speaker, slightly fumbles the word ‘cease’. Lisped, it comes out sounding very much like ‘thief’.
    The speeches over, the various presidents headed for their motorcades as the security services heaved sighs of relief. The inauguration had been an organisational débâcle, but tragedy had somehow been skirted, as was the Kenyan way. For Moi, one last indignity was reserved. When his limousine drew away, snubbing a long-delayed State House lunch in favour of the helicopter that would whisk him away from the hostile capital and to his upcountry farm, it was stoned by the crowd.
    As I climbed down off the table, my bag momentarily became wedged in the mêlée, and hands reached out from the crowd. Remembering the little fingers at work earlier in the morning, I rounded my shoulders and gave my bag an aggressive yank. ‘Oh, no, no, madam,’ sorrowed a man, knowing exactly what was in my mind. ‘Those days are over now in Kenya, this is a new country.’ They were reaching out not to mug me but to help me, a member of the international press who had played a tiny part in Kenya’s moment of gloryby mere dint of witnessing it. ‘You will see, this will be our best ever government,’ chimed in a smiling student, sweat-soaked T-shirt plastered to his body, and I felt a spasm of shame.
    In the days that followed I would often feel ashamed, for my professional cynicism was out of step with the times. There was a tangible feeling of excitement in the air, a conviction that with this election, Kenyans had brought about a virtually bloodless political, social and psychological rebirth, saving themselves from ruin in the nick of time. Many of those who had represented the country’s frustrated conscience–human rights campaigners, lawyers and civic leaders who had risked detention, police beatings and harassment in their bid to drag the country into the twenty-first century–were now in charge. Mass happiness blended with communal relief to forge a sense of national purpose. With this collective elation went an impatience with the old ways of doing things. Newspapers recounted with glee how irate passengers were refusing to allow matatu touts to hand over the usual kitu kidogo –that ubiquitous ‘little something’–to the fat-bellied police manning the roadblocks, lecturing officers that a new era had dawned. There were reports of angry wananchi –ordinary folk–storming an upcountry police station to demand refunds of bribes paid over the years. In ministries, at City Hall, at the airport, only the very foolish still asked for the customary backhander. Backs were straightened, desks cleared in nervous anticipation of an incoming deputy minister or mayor out to show the TV cameras that he would have no truck with sloth and incompetence. Large signs–‘This is a corruption-free zone’, ‘No bribes’, ‘You have a right to free service’–went up in government offices, along with corruption complaints boxes, which swiftly filled up with letters