The Diary of a Rookie Health Worker

When we closed school, I thought I could still manage to post weekly but am soon realizing that home is simply not an academic background .Am not of course claiming that blogging is scholarly but then the program used –Ms Word as opposed to VLC media player would surely make a brother think so. A lot of interesting things have happened of late, as you well know a week doesn’t go by without drama around me. The reason for that am yet to establish but the hypothesis have placed so far is that am rounded by crazy people. Crazy in a good way though.

The last time I posted, the future seemed so bright and it was like my life was finally taking off what with the attachment looming and finally an opportunity to be something and do something for somebody. The attachment of course did kick off and it isn’t a bed of roses as I initially thought. One would think that if some young bright hardworking student (in case I lost you thee am describing me) offered his services to an institution pro bono then it’s obvious that the answer should be yes.

However, it seems human resource managers don’t think so, if at all they do think in the first place. I won’t narrate to you though the frustrations of a second year population health student trying to entrench himself in the job market. Sometimes though I wonder how securing a job will be difficult especially with the noose of remuneration lurking in the background. One can only hope though.

I won’t narrate how you have to explain to any prospective employer how you have to conjure up some explanations as to what it’s all about, the differences between population health and community health or public health for instance. And it’s not that I don’t, it’s just that nobody asks nutritionists or reproductive health specialists what their program is all about. Surely it can’t be that difficult. Population health is simply health of the population.

The silver lining in this story is that every day I grow closer to earning my full names. I was born Robert Ouko son of Aseda named after Dr John Robert Ouko Seda, a former politician whose death at the hands of the powers that was still remains an open mystery. From childhood my mother always made an attempt to compare us, not just in our shared love for the politics of the day, our desire to influence others to take a certain path among others. Of course am not claiming am anything like him but he has always been my inspiration in life. I have always had this desire to topple his achievements, even though it’s such a toll order. So when an opportunity to pursue my degree course came, I took it with two hands because that was the closest I could ever get to doing medicine after all anybody who works in a hospital qualifies as a doctor right? Don’t ask me why I can’t just do MBChB.

Now that am talking about working in a hospital, I should probably mention a few things lest I forget. Whereas it’s sometimes prestigious to strut around like colossus in a clean, crisp and white lab coat, it can sometimes leave you with an egg in the face. If there is a skill I have perfected from my time in Mama Lucy Kibaki hospital is the craft of evasion. Sometimes a patient thinks so highly of you and asks you questions beyond your job description. Instead of rudely chasing them away, you pretend to listen while feigning attention and taking the first opportunity you get to get scarce. You are suddenly picking an important phone call or attending to more serious mattes never mind that you are probably rushing to sit on a bench somewhere facebooking. And it’s not for a lack of caring it’s just that telling a patient just how blank you are in that scope of study won’t endear you so much to them. You just conjure up some explanations and point to the relevant door and take your exit.

Another thing that am soon learning fast is that lunch isn’t as integral a part of meal as I initially that it was. It’s sometimes though ironic that I have to counsel patients on the importance of not skipping a meal and yet go ahead and do the same thing. One disadvantage of going to Kenyatta University is that it exposes you to cheap avenues for meals. Fifty bob for example would ensure that you treat yourself to a plate of rice, beef and some few chapatis or even ugali and beef. I guess that way am having a hard time coughing that amount of money for some dondoo in the KM of Kayole. Maybe I should just remain true to my Luopean calling and stop being stingy. One can see the effect bad company of half Luos likes Mchil and Ragen can have on a person.

I must admit though that the first time I heard of the name Mama Lucy it sounded like the name of some roadside kiosk or some famous mama in a neighborhood who was trying to cut a niche for herself in the food industry. I was right about one thing though that the Mama Lucy in this case is definitely famous. That it’s Level Four though doesn’t sound right. Among the most conspicuous characters in this hospital is one Mr. Mwangi, the District Public Health Officer or Mwas as the ladies of the joint baptized him. The first time I saw him he was wearing a blue suit though the trousers knots refused to touch the ground. I thought he might have overgrown the suit but seeing him every other day in similar suits, am beginning to think that’s just his unique sense of fashion.

Mr. Mwangi is a soft spoken guy, who one would definitely confuse for soft. He however, dispelled such rumors when we crossed his paths. It was a funny sight as he expresses his frustrations at us for going behind his back and assuming roles he had not assigned us to. He doesn’t have much work to do though as he just sits in his office with his phone I presume chatting on 2go.Am sure he can’t wait for free Wi-Fi to be instilled in the hospital to cut his boredom. Of course I would love to describe his fellow officer who just sits basking in the sun or making to a trip to Kwa Monica to treat himself to some nice chapatis way before lunch but one shouldn’t bite the hands that feed them. He is also on twitter, and he might be following my updates and I won’t wish for the baptism of fire again anytime soon.

If any one comes to Mama Lucy, probably the first guy you would get to meet is Jacques. One can’t really describe him because he is the typical good guy who occasionally likes to  embarrass his juniors for fun to remind himself that he is still boss. The second day I interacted with him would definitely stick in my brain for a long time. Due to the Nairobi jams punctuated with morning rains, I got to work at about ten and got him giving a health talk. As usual, I proceeded to my seat to begin my days work but Jacques it seemed had better ideas. As soon as he spotted me, he began shouting that I go back to whoever told me to come late .I wish I could explain to him that the matatu I had boarded that morning had probably left to God knows where. Maybe it’s what he did next that maimed and transfixed me into the ground.  

He then made as if to pull some imaginary trigger using his fingers as if he was some Jack Bauer and announced that he was Jacques. The women there stared at me in a strange way that for the first time I hoped I was invisible and invincible. He has however atoned for that patchy start with ensuring that we get some regular tea though. He may have confused me with our Luhya brothers, buts it’s still a gesture anyway. He calls everybody ‘my ndia’ and he even though he is a little biased for the female species, one can’t really blame him for that. However the demeanor of a guy who has made it in life has been replaced by the image of a caring man who goes to all extents to ensure that our welfare is looked it. One can only wonder what has changed within that short time. The answer to that won’t of course require rocket science.

I would be extremely incomplete if I dint mention Jane and Vane. These ladies are the perfect version of true African beauty; extremely blessed downstairs and not so flat on the anterior side either as well .there are some of the motivations for getting to work on those days, yes those ones. So if I take a few more weeks at the nutrition department and the cash area don’t think it will be purely for stamp purposes.

Being at the hospital has been a rollercoaster ride. It has its flurry of activities and there are those days that we just sit on a bench and wait for our dear Mwas to clear some meeting or finish processing some certificate for a food handler at Burma market. Other days though have a flurry of activities .There is this lady that we had to transfer her asphyxic neonatal born to KNH. That feeling of importance as we raced along the corridors of the hospital gathering the necessary paperwork and arranging the required paraphernalia is one that I haven’t had in a long time. As I pushed the oxygen trolley into the waiting ambulance, it however did return. It is slowly dissipating though.

My short stint at this convalescent home has definitely improved my vocabulary though. Normal conversation discussing non events the acquisition of a Belgian playmaker by some nondescript team who rode their luck to continental glory has been replaced by conversation rich in content. Words like Asphyxia, palpating ,date of delivery,-back rubs, stethoscope, foetoscope, Mid Upper Arm Circumference, anorexia bulimia, fractures among others is all that come out of my buccal cavity these days. In case I lost you there, don’t worry, they are just some of the basic terms I use every day in the discharge of my duties. Dr Gregory House would be willing to educate you on some and even add a few others to the list.

Am sorry, I can’t go on writing, there is a complicated case of anorexia nervosa that I need to take care of.  

Till next time!

Flying near the sun

You wrung my hands only to hung my heart

Smiled at me and piled me with hope

Made me dig

Even though you were out of my league

You flirted with me but filtered my heart

Dangled a carrot at a watching parrot

Ma heart smelt when I smelled you

Your scent sent me into trance

I buttered your heart only to get mine battered

In becoming your loyal cur I become your car

Hanging around running errands round you

Reciting any chore expecting to score

You just didn’t bit me a bit

Kicking is the reward I got from picking you

You shunned my sinister motives loving me only as a sister

I stuck with you when you just struck me

I emptied my pockets to fill my heart

You looted my coffers to get yourself loafers

A chance to glance at you is all I wanted

You put in me in a fridge even though I crossed many a bridge for you

Suitors with their pockets on the sockets is all that got your mortar running

Buyers of lockets is all your bias favored

You thus ducked the empty duct in front of you

I just hope you r self is safe with your new safe

Mzee Varaq

My poems

mzee-varaq@blogspot.com

just why is beautyfying kids necessary?

Jane is a charming miniature version of her mother. Her hair is beautifully done the ‘obama’ style. Her face is properly adorned with makeup, eyelashes; lip bum etc. she is spotting a white sleeveless top and a black pencil trouser. She is in high heel shoes making her look taller than her peers.   Her combination of natural childhood grace and grooming effects make her look way much mature for her seven years of age. Looking at her one would get the impression that it is all rosy on her until yesterday I experienced something that made me wonder why the society is holding kids to the same rigorous and almost untenable standards they hold themselves. Meet the modern child who spots piercings from the conventional to the most unconventional places like tongue, nose and even chest!

She isn’t playing with her friends and she cut the figure of a forlorn child. I can see from her eyes that she really wants a piece of the hide and seek her friends are playing today but something is really holding her back. Out of curiosity I walk to her and ask her why she is not playing and her answer does not surprise me strangely. Slowly she whispers into my ears ,”mummy atanichapa nikichafuka”.it is not difficult to get her mother’s logic but what is even more perplexing is why we as a society cannot just let kids be.

But that is not the only bit she has to deal with daily. Recently I went to a beauty parlor to get my hair done and accidentally bumped into her and her mother. She was at the verge of tears and winced in pain under the heat of the hair dryer. Her mother in mock anger was reprimanding her for being so weak while at the same time letting her genuine concern show. And even her best efforts to impress her mother and gain the lollipop she was promised could not help her from the occasional twitching of the face or even a muffled yell. After what seems like almost an eternity to her she heaves a sigh of relief and were I a face reader I could swear that her face said something, her excitement was exuberant and very visible. She couldn’t hide her disappointment when her mother spots a part not done to her standard and wants it redone. But this time it’s done quickly and the little angel can now go. The reprieve though is short lived as the beautician tells me that in two weeks time they will be back again.

This got me thinking about what our society has become, materialistic, very superficial and concerned more about the facial representation of facts as compared to the inner and deeper moral values our fathers believed in. Lest I be accused of being conservative let me clarify that I don’t subscribe either to the belief that children should be half dressed leaving their dry buttocks to the whims of the weather. Neither do I believe that they should not be smart and clean. My concern here is the methodology of arriving at the conclusions; the means justifying the end. Whilst it’s true that most parents are driven by the sacred love and the sharpest of maternal instincts, others on the other hand view their children as rods to achieving their ends. Mothers who dreamt of representing their beloved nations in beauty pageants in Rio or Johannesburg live their dreams through their children.

As much as I believe that beautiful and well groomed kids are a blessing and the pride of their parents, moderation should be looked into to ensure that no one gets the wrong deal. Piercings and other extrovert emblems of beauty I believe should be out of free will and voluntary consent which of course the children aren’t capable of. What if on growing up the child realizes that she doesn’t what the piercings anymore? Beauty is not merely the outward representation of glamour and correct facial construction or even the absence thereof it; it is what the person has inside, his or her attitude towards people and the demeanor or the lack of it towards members of the human race considered their inferior. That if instilled in children at tender ages can be what best we bequeath to them as parents as compared to the cut throat competition for misguided beliefs and scoring in the wrong post.

I am my aunts nephew

The middle aged man in a turban placed his left hand firmly on the young lad’s head. His face looked menacing and threatening as if he was facing some older and stronger adversary and not just the frightened lad who shivered and trembled with the least of jerks. As the prayer got more and more fervent, the jolts got stronger and stronger. These motions almost caused the boy to fall backward but the man of God was there to seize him, drag him forward and redo the circle again. His bushy beard the trademark of his religion was neat and well kempt and a few strands were bridled together at the end to form a knot. The clusters of hair were perhaps the greatest test of his unshakeable belief that the God he chose to serve would triumph over all the forces of evil. I don’t remember his name but his entire ilk were referred to as Japolo meaning a man from heaven.

The man of God admonished the devil inside the young lad sometimes confusing his quest to break free as a resolve of the devil to challenge his powers something he couldn’t accept just lying down. He had to respond, and to answer he did in style. He made a ball of fire and passed it around through the terrified boys legs and arms. As the fire hovered over his head the boy made one last desperate look at his aunt in an attempt to appeal to her to end this tribulation. He could see the pain in her eyes and for one second he was sure that he was about to be rescued.

 However the last shred of hope was blown when the man of God shouted to the young woman not to interfere with the fight, that the cool demeanor and feigned innocence in the boy’s eyes was the work of the devil. He intensified his movements and the boy realized that fighting it was proving futile. He therefore just let be and got resigned to his fate, whatever would follow, would happen. Japolo noticing this proclaimed defeat on the forces of evil in one last act of hurrah.

The young boy ran for his aunt and embraced her for what seemed like forever never wanting to be exposed to such acts of savagery again. He knew though deep that the ritual would be done again, and again. The reprieve was thus a temporary relief but one nonetheless that was to be welcomed with open arms. But how did he get here in Got Kagumbo? For that was the places name. You might be wondering where this anecdote is going or whether I changed my writing style. Nothing of that sought, I just remembered glimpses of my childhood that was characterized by such a rollercoaster experience that was exhibited by joy and pain, expectations and despair, calmness and agitation all in equal measure.

When I sometimes I hear my friends contend about who went  to boarding school the earliest I suppress an urge to laugh especially when they quantify that early to mean class four or thereabouts. I started boarding school before I learnt how to read and write. Heck, it was even before I learnt how to gormandize ugali properly. Am told it was just for a month but am sure I stayed longer. Nevertheless a month is still enough a stint, right? It’s not what you thinking-it wasn’t because my behavior was that bad or any of those reasons. It was more like pilgrimage. Just like the ones the Muslim take to Mecca only that I didn’t travel that far.

After all Got Kagumbo was just as holier (Got Means Mountain).I shared Damieno’s fate- I heard that an evil lady had cast a spell on me as well. So sending me there was to protect me from further harm and undo the damage that was already done. I can’t remember well how bad it was that it warranted this seclusion from family at such a tender age but to this day am grateful to my aunt who orchestrated it.

Most students remember their first time in school, a parent clasping your hand and dragging you like a bull to slaughter. Well, it was very much the same, only that as my aunt waved goodbye it hit me that I would not be seeing her for a long time! As the gate closed behind me the enormity of the situation hit me like a thunderbolt. I remember standing there helpless warm salty tears cascading down my visage. And every time she came to see me and just left me there my repulsion increased, I couldn’t understand why she would just leave me there, in that god forsaken place, with them!

I remember we had a school anthem back then and the words are still etched in my brain. It went something like:

“Kagumbo ku to iomo ang’owa?”

“Yesu e ma adwaro”

The soloist did the first line while the second line was a rejoinder. The soloist asks what we came to seek in that mountain and the rest of us replied that it was Jesus we sought.

If there is anything this assemblage taught well above everything else was how to eat nyoyo, a skill that was very useful especially in my high school years. This nyoyo was purely of boiled maize and salted to taste. I used to be repulsed by it but as hunger rose, I couldn’t remember more delicious a meal.

I write this piece because I remembered my aunt and just what she did to me, the days on the end that she spend transversing the regions seeking for a cure to whatever I suffered from then. I remember her carrying the plum child as she walked on foot. I remember the tribulations she bore as the child demanded food in the middle of nowhere. Long live Waya!

I would have gone on about Got Kagumbo it is just that it is difficult to concentrate on writing with so much hustling and errands to run. Maybe the holiday mood is sinking in or am just growing illiterate as our high school teachers used to prophesize if we went home and kept away from our books .

 Until next week!

exam sting

It’s been a while since I posted. You can lay the blame squarely at the feet of the exams that have reminded me just how average I am. Sometimes it’s funny how time flies away. Just yesterday we were registering units ready for the semester to begin; now the boisterousness of the first days has been replaced by a somberness that has become characteristic of campus exam time. That is not to say that the Student Annex-the official beer center in campus has been closed. Far from it, its doors remain open to comrades who wish to drown their sorrows in shots of liquor or those who albeit temporarily wish to exit this world and find solace in trance. All the university cares for is just their pass mark, how you get it matters less. That’s why the  first thing anybody would learn in school today is the art of multitasking-listening to loud music on headphones, a beer in one hand, your hands around some damsel who conveniently forgot her purse today and you guessed it right-a book on the other hand!

I remember just before I travelled to university for the first time, my uncles and grandma gave me advice on the importance of remaining true to oneself, shunning bad company and most importantly avoiding evil men. Looking back, I wonder which parent didn’t say that. But looking at it now, I don’t see any extremes the way they paint at. Of course we know paragons of virtue either. The mention of the name student in our televisions is not about some inventions they made or the picture of different tribes uniting for a common purpose. It’s usually the image of students on the rampage, looting and destroying property of much value. It’s about some student leader giving the government a two week ultimatum either to increase HELB funding or to resolve some mysterious murder. It’s about comrades barricading Thika Road or Waiyaki Way. Oh, I was talking about my exams. I just detoured to create the picture one has when coming here.

As is the nature of university students, I won’t feel complete until I complain about something. This week I will just have to complain about the good time tabler. In as much as he hit the nail on the head in the first week of exams, I bet he got exhausted. How would one explain an exam in Monday and the last on Thursday? It could have been on Friday, I guess. Maybe I should just be thankful to Good Friday after all! Now that I have helped perpetuate this whining stereotype, let me get back on track. But at least it gave me time to see those I had not seen throughout the semester among them my good friend Nyaikai. What a name, what tribe? Admit it that was the first question on your mind. Nyaikai was my roommate last year. The name evolved from his enormous nyoka that has been the reason behind the high number of cases of ladies fainting in Usambara Hostels .In case you are still not catching it, my official condolences. A man can’t go far without putting the posterity of his jaws in jeopardy in the process.

So upon successful completion of my exams my friends and I decided it was party time. We had to abolish our illusions of grandeur and settle for something feasible. So armed with thirty bob each we raided the gym-not to work out of course. Years of extensive research had proved that this was the place with the best uji in campus prepared using a secret recipe only known to select few. As I mentioned earlier, this is the place where sweaty muscled men with aura of the gods retire to mingle and share tips after a hard day of turning fat into muscle. One guy who was conspicuously missing was Sad News. Far from the implied meaning, his name stems from the Kiswahili words ‘mambo mbaya’ which can be loosely translated as invincible. Of course we had no option but to accept his excuse that he had to go to the library (after the exams I must add).After all none of us has ever had the opportunity to pursue a degree in medicine from an ISO certified university!

In a bid not to appear any lesser beings, Wekemeu started to dispense his two cents knowledge of gym and technical terms such as which training should precede which at times breaking into monologues of how dangerous unsupervised training  can be. The slight tremor in his voice was that of unmistakable passion. Looking at him we repressed a desire to laugh-he cut the image of an experienced sportsman even though three months on a hockey pitch and a month on the gym probably doing aerobics is all the sports experience that would make it to his resume. I could see men with big chests turn to listen to him and I learnt one important lesson- That in as much as muscles are important, guiles and a bigger mouth are of more vital significance. In case you are reading this, just know that ‘we ni mzee inspirati…….onal.”

Did I say that we were in the company of Mzee Default? The name Mzee just is coz of his wisdom and nothing to do with his age. Why default, well there is a wireless network in KU called Default .Let’s just say that he used to spend almost the whole day downloading the latest series and software save for the thirty minutes for meals and one hour for lying horizontally on his bed. Well, the reason I mentioned him is of his extreme love for uji that made me remember my late granddad. The only difference is that the old man used to drink his uji in an agwata- a sacred calabash that was not to be used for any other purpose and Default would use a 1 kg tin with a faded blue band colors on the surface. Just like my old man, Default believes that food shouldn’t be wasted so instead of pushing his tin away after consuming the content, he used his hand to lick the side of the container the traditional style.

Well, now that I remembered my grand dad, allow me to boast of a man who was extraordinary in his beliefs, approach to life and philosophies. I know everybody says this of their kin but he was an exceptional man who counted family among his most prized assets. There was always something special when we went home for the holidays something that made us look forward to going to shagz as we called it then .If it wasn’t ripe mangoes, then it was paw paws or boiled maize never mind that it was well past the harvesting season. His favorite dish was mudfish and he made an attempt to treat us to this delicacy every market day. If you see me carry fish in my hand with no polythene cover, don’t think it’s due to my strong environmentalist tendencies, its coz I learnt something from this great man. I remember there was a time he came home with a live fish .In our minds, it resembled a snake and we screamed as we receded deeper and deeper into the compound. I couldn’t remember the old man break into a heartier laugh. As we learnt later, he wasn’t a sadist, he just wanted us to learn important life lessons the hard way. Let’s just say that the next time he brought a live fish, we were better prepared.

Still about the old man, he used to have a walking stick that was multifunctional. Just as it could be used for our happiness, it could also be used turn out to be used for gloom. The stick could be used to point directions, used to fall ripe mangoes or paw paws from the trees. It could be used to point at chicken that was to face the butcher’s knife or even a goat for Easter! However, the rode could also be used as a tool to correct errant behavior. I remember on many occasions I fell victim for committing some serious crimes like playing ‘uki ‘with the girls. Real men don’t play with girls is a lesson I learnt only to well. Just in case I lost you there, uki is a game in which a rectangle is drawn and players have to run around the box stopping at the edges .The opponents can ask you the number you are in at any time. Any wrong number could lead to ‘death’. As we learnt later the hard way, the game was not won by those who panted and sweated the most but by those who were brighter in the divisibility test. It was not my intention to make you an uki expert but in case you are, you know who to thank. Forgive my detour, if I were to write about Bernadus Okombo, probably half his life would be enough for a complete book.

The end of semester is though not all rosy. At such times, the yoke of luggage storage and transportation hangs over the comrades’ head like a hangman’s noose. It’s during such times that you realize just how much clothes you have that you didn’t wear during the entire semester. Maybe next time all carry just a bunch of clothes-who am I kidding? If the annual wildebeest migration is considered a wonder of the world then maybe the flurry of activities around such times should be given some mention in the world records as well. What with the transportation of bed and tables to and from school every three months! Of course am not complaining, I would have hadn’t I whined about the good time tabler though.

So as I head to Oyugis Town for my long holiday, am suddenly hit with the reality that all be away from this crew for another six months! We toast and promise to keep in contact. Of course we will simply go back to the circle of friends we left at home and try and get cozy again after six months. Maybe forward a few funny SMS during those times. If the impending attachment would not help the time go away fast then I hope playing professional hockey on tuft under flood lights would do it. Sorry, I just had to mention that. Varaq is now a proficient player having signed for Vultures Hockey team for a staggering sum of nothing Kenyan shilling! Don’t laugh; you will soon see me on DSTV! Of course all miss my new mystery girl more but that’s a story for another day.

Baadaye! In case I lost you there as well, that’s among Sad News’ contribution to the linguistic community. It simply means till next time.

campus elections

It’s yet another week! Last week was ok. When I say ok I mean that it didn’t have any misfortunes worth writing about of course apart from being broke which is not news in campus during such times. The student mess just like the forgiving father of the prodigal son has opened its doors for the comrades who abandoned it and went and squandered their inheritance in exotic restaurants such as the Mugumus and the KUCC’s of KU. During such times people eat like chicken having eaten chicken and chicken products at the beginning of the academic semester. The dime in the pockets are accounted for to the last penny and in most cases restricted to the basic needs such as ugali and beans. In case you are wondering about the heartburn, don’t be. The good university understands this and provides free soup.

Another aspect of the comrades that is likely to baffle any outsider to the institution is the traffic to the post modern library, computer centre and reading areas. To an external observer this may appear as signs of an academically vibrant institution. However, the truth is not so quite flattering. In a bid to crash a semester’s work in a week, the students are just following the norms left by our forefathers. After all, one can’t read and understand without a tinge of pressure. It’s only when there is the threat of failure lurking in the background that knowledge start seeping in across the hard rocks of the skull. I know that coz am pursuing a unit in human psychology, just in case you thought am somebody like this like this, ‘mtu hivi hivi’ in Wiz’s mother tongue.

Sometimes though it’s like there are two different schools in one compound. Whereas one group is immersed in the sanctuaries of the books, others are burying their heads in the sand hoping the exams will just go away. This are the group that are hoping that the student elections follow the spectacle of the 2007 disputed polls and a strike occurs so that they can push away the danger albeit temporarily. What they don’t understand is that even a year to read for a unit will be hardly enough. Now that am talking about elections, if there is anything that I have realized campus elections are just more than ideologies and a great manifesto, there are other important credentials that you must be seen to possess.

If you wish to be a student leader, you have to be financially endowed. After all posters and banners are not picked in the trash cans. And when I say that don’t mean tens of thousands, I mean cash that you wouldn’t have qualms throwing away. a student leader must also throw caution to the wind-by that I mean one should be for example consider what he stands to gain in the event he is successful as opposed to what he stands to lose if he is unsuccessful. If for example your gross salary for the year in office is about fifty thousand, a campaign budget of about a hundred thousand will still be in order, after all in campus, influence and stature are of immense value.

YOU must also be a member of a tribe as tribe equation plays a big role in defining who the next crop of leaders are. Take for example Luo Galamoro a group that has been a dominant player in the elections for some time. (Galamoro is just a group of men who meet to discuss issues such as politics and women over drink)At the heart of this association is one man who goes by the name Odhiambo wuod Odhiambo. He is proud to say that he started leading this informal group long before I made it even to Maseno National School! He counters that that has nothing to do with retakes and failed exams. He is a guy endowed with immense knowledge in lexical items in Dholuo, firm and commanding the attention of his audience. What his slim physical physique denies him, he makes up for it in general boisterousness and a funny way of portraying seriousness. He is a compelling story teller and he tells his audience about his tribulations at the hands of the powers that be, you get the idea why he has been the official spokesperson for the Luo community all this years. He has the powers to summon presidents at will and force them to eat humble pie.

Today however, there is a group hell bent on snatching leadership from his grasp. There are claims that he accepted money for political endorsement. He however bridles through as he as always done-outthinking and outmaneuvering his way through. Sorry, I got swayed by his persona. What I wanted to say is that Odhiambo and his team believes that in as much as unity of a tribe is essential for progress; of equal importance is mutual agreement between tribes. The Luo community, the group decides, will vie for two positions and leave the rest for the other tribes. The candidates who are not approved by the Galamoro have to step down –a decision that they are not keen on embracing. However, if the events of the last five elections are anything to go by, they don’t really stand a chance. When Galamoro speaks you listen.

In case you were wondering how Galamoro makes its decisions, they pretty look for other candidates from other tribes who either have strong financial acumen or are stirring waves and include them in the lineup with the vetted Luos. As a result, the Luo candidates however financially poor or unpopular can hope to ride on the wave that comes with the lineup. I won’t speak more of Galamoro lest Kibunja and co came after me.

There are also those who will vote for a person based on the physical appearance of a person. The candidates have realized this and gone to great extents to Photoshop their pictures and make funny postures all in a bid to get noticed. Some for example think the ballot box is a runway or a project show where they strut their ways in like colossuses. In the last elections for example an aspirant lost a seat because his pictures looked like obituaries .he has learned his lesson though-he is spotting stunnas in this campaign poster. Beauty though sometimes go hand in hand with vision. Am not mentioning names like Hulton Odhiambo from Diaspora.

I hear some presidential aspirant snaked his way in school on top of a limo. One I hear, rode through the pavements on top of a white camel replicating Jesus triumphant entry to Jerusalem. We unto you if all you can manage is a bicycle. There is also the aspect of hecklers. Just like crowds can be bought in the rest of the nation, a bottle of Kibao and you’d earn yourself a multitude of followers chanting your slogans and digging jibes at your opponents for free! In case you are wondering what Kibao is, just ask any campus students. Leaders with strong Christian beliefs are not getting left behind as they delegate the drink crew to a trusted lieutenant. After all, in as much as they may not want some of their conservative voters to see them in such company, surely they could use their votes.

To succeed in Campus politics you also need the endorsement of who is who in school. I hear the guy who got elected president last time claimed he knew me. Too bad that I got wind of it after elections. There is also the aspect of the campaign crew that you maintain. A bevy of beautiful women in a guy’s campaign team is essential in wooing the male population. The same might not work for the female electorate though.

A little lie here and there won’t harm though. You just need to know where to draw the line. Promising internet in every room might have been sellable last year but no one however dumb is likely to swallow that again.

The elections are tomorrow and whichever way the results go, let’s just hope that we enjoy some tranquility and serenity at last. A school whereby is someone stops you and asks how your day was then they are genuinely considered about your welfare and not just your vote. If in any case, you are wondering who the peoples president is going to be, don’t be Tom Mboya is your man. After all wasn’t he endorsed by one Varaq Aseda?

Till next week!

just why i dont buy the disguise of gender affirmative action

I remember when we were in primary school; the emphasis was ever on the girl child. A girl, it was presumed was so much held back by the society that every attention needed to be given to her. Incentives were showered on the girl ‘who against all odds’ made it to the top ten. Never mind that there were conveniently no presents for the boy who topped the class. Back then all a girl ever needed to do to avoid punishment was to present her hands and like a clown swirl over the teacher while feigning pain. Of coz the men who tried that dint go far. We expected that without nagging not coz we considered it female empowerment as they called it but to prevent more damage on our sitting apparatuses.

The story dint improve when we graduated from high school .There were specially adjusted cut off points to make it to university coz of their extraneous factors that bedeviled them-just them. This was also influenced by the need for affirmative action to improve girl child education to improve stability and independence among the woman folk. The earliest effects of this are clearly manifested today. I remember the education officials would be in seventh heaven if a girl managed to beat the boys top the class. The teachers were congratulated for a good job well done. No attempt was made to explain the sudden shift –all that mattered was that the marginalized girl was at last securing a spot on the academic front at last! The dream of female liberation was finally getting realized. Nothing wrong with that you might be tempted to say.

Fast forward to today, the legislative assembly reserved fifty special seats for women! They are also not prohibited from vying for the other constituencies as well. It isn’t difficult to get the logic here. There is every need to increase the percentage of women lawmakers as dictated by our constitution.

You might be wondering why I trod you down this long history lane. My class recently held elections to elect the officials of the class’s benevolent fund. Due to the small nature of the class, the elections were held concurrently for the chair, treasurer and all the other posts. In a bid to ensure female representation, I presume, the results were hundred per cent female. It was only after the pole did we realize that it’s never about equality, it’s always about dominance. Lest I labeled a male chauvinist, I have nothing against improving the status of females in the society. They are our mothers, sisters and prospective significant others.

The underlying reason is that historically women haven’t been accorded equal opportunities as men. Nothing could be further from the truth. If these instances are anything to go by, extra attention has always been to them. In choice of toys and presents, jewellery, school shopping just to mention but a few, they have historically had the upper hand.

Shylock-a character in The Merchant of Venice-would have asked, ‘If you tickle us do we not laugh, if you pinch as do we not hurt, if you prick us do we not bleed?”The mantra of female enlightenment to rise against male tyranny is just but a ruse for female chauvinism. Yes, chauvinism! Chauvinism isn’t just limited to battery but all the other attempts to impose thoughts, feelings and way of thinking of on others.

Talking about battery hasn’t there been a surge in cases of domestic violence against men? Yes, I know it’s just in certain parts of this nation. What doesn’t strike me as a coincidence is the uncharacteristic silence of the ever vocal Maendeleo ya Wanawake. They haven’t publicly castigated their members for the sheer acts of barbarism and gross butchery, maiming, castration, scolding that have reached unprecedented heights. And even though the ladies from the good towns of Busia and Migori haven’t hit the limelight yet, they are secretly taking tips from the unfolding drama.

When I speak, I speak not only for myself but for the millions of men in this great republic who are hoodwinked by the’ niceness’ of the ladies every day. I speak for those who would rather save a damsel in distress than the man next door. I speak for the men in Nyeri who are forcefully being castrated at 50.

Am not of course saying we revert to the age old battle of supremacy where the winner is decided by a contest on the battle field. On the contrary, I believe ladies should be treated with the utmost respect and love. No gender is special than the other-there has to be a reason though why Adam was created first. And even though the females would like think they can do without men, the truth is that both sexes need each other. The only way females can be taken seriously is if they hold themselves to the same standards as everybody else and fight for their places. After all haven’t ladies like Sirleaf Ellen-Johnson done it before?

And when they finally use their numerical advantage to advance their course, let’s just hope that they will also accord men fifty special seats, you know just for being men.