Tag: Kenya

Towards freedom: Somali pirates in a Kenyan prison

Once upon a time, they terrorised the Indian Ocean, seizing dozens of ships every year, extorting millions of dollars in ransom money, and eventually drawing a military response from the international community.

Now the pirates of the Horn of Africa are in danger of becoming extinct. It’s not just that warships patrol the waters with a 30-minute response time and that many target vessels now carry armed guards. It’s that many of the pirates are currently enjoying a transformative stint in jail.

There are more than 100 convicted and suspected pirates incarcerated at the Shimo la Tewa maximum security prison on the Kenyan coast. “They like it here,” a warden says.

The residential quarters of the prison’s piracy wing is behind a heavy metal door. The 111 convicted and suspected pirates don’t call themselves pirates; they prefer “fishermen”. Of them, as many as 30 have never had their cases heard in court, according to prison staff. Some have been on remand since 2009. Asked whether they feel abandoned or dissatisfied with the legal system, most said no. “It’s fine here,” said one.

Suspected Somali pirates wait for the start of their trial on June 24 2010 at the Shimo la Tewa maximum prison  in Mombasa. (Pic: AFP)
Suspected Somali pirates wait for the start of their trial on June 24 2010 at the Shimo la Tewa maximum prison in Mombasa. (Pic: AFP)

The objective at Shimo la Tewa prison is that inmates leave with the means to earn a living and do not fall back into piracy, the warden says. Inmates are taught to read and write, given free healthcare and adequate food, and taught new skills. They are encouraged to retain links with their families in Somalia through regular phone calls. When it comes to recreation, they play football and sing. The prison feels more like a technical college. There are classrooms, a barber, a furniture workshop and a paralegal service run by volunteers. The walls are painted in bright blocks of colour reminiscent of primary school. “Most [Somali inmates] were illiterate. Some now have even taken exams,” says the warden, who preferred not to be named.

The UN Office on Drugs and Crime has poured funding into counter-piracy measures such as this one.

“We are extremely careful to ensure that our support also benefits the rest of the prison population and the staff of prisons holding Somali pirates, to ensure that the Somalis are not resented,” says Shamus Mangan, a maritime crime expert. Mangan has assisted with the repatriation of a number of Somalis and notes that the provision of education, food and healthcare is no substitute for freedom. “Each time I go to the prison in the Seychelles, all the Somalis there ask me when they will be able to transfer to Somalia,” he said.

The UNODC says that, ultimately, the problem needs to be remedied on Somali soil, addressing the root causes and not the symptoms.

Somalia expert Mary Harper warned recently that the pirates are “sleeping”, but have not gone away. Speaking at a maritime security event, she said: “Somalia is becoming more politically fragmented with many different groups seeking to gain dominance, which potentially creates a favourable environment for piracy.” Risk factors such as high youth unemployment and a lack of alternative livelihoods prevail. The UN’s Development Programme runs rehabilitation programmes in Somalia. One former piracy suspect who spent three years in jail, Mohamed Ahmed Jama, took classes in business and social skills. “I believe now I have a chance for a brighter future,” he says.

The former pirates are in sharp contrast to other inmates at the prison. “The other inmates escape,” says Samuel Tonui, acting head of the Shimo la Tewa prison. A handful of Kenyan inmates have given prison guards the slip this year. Last month, two inmates escaped, using a homemade ladder, the second prison break in four weeks at the facility. There is an escapee wall of shame where the faces of a dozen men are displayed. None are Somali pirates.

Jessica Hatcher for the Guardian

Senior citizens? No, senior students

At 5pm every day, the streets of Nairobi are flooded with people spilling out of their offices and queuing at the nearest bus depot to catch their buses and matatus home. Joyce is one of them but she’s not rushing to get home in time for her favorite soapie or a glass of wine. She’s rushing to get to class. Joyce is a part time MBA student. Big deal, you think?  Well, it sort of is.

A mother of three adult children, 56-year-old Joyce is four years away from retirement. She is employed as a secretary at a government ministry in Kenya. When she started working thirty years ago, her certificate in Secretarial Studies from the Polytechnic of Kenya was enough to get her a job and enable her to house, clothe and feed her children. But, as it happens, times changed, and Joyce had to change as well. A certificate will not get you very far in Kenya today, and anything less than a university degree is not considered a worthwhile qualification. At her age, Joyce is not trying to get a promotion – the time for that has passed. She’s trying to learn as much as she can now, to prepare for her retirement. Joyce, who is also a part-time farmer, always loved business. At the age of 50 she decided to enrol for a Bachelor of Business Administration (BBA) degree. She studied, farmed and worked part time, and five years later she graduated with her BBA degree. Why stop now, she thought. In 2012, Joyce enrolled in an MBA program at Kenyatta University.

“I don’t want my life to stop when I retire, I want it to start,” Joyce says. She had to take a loan out to cover her tuition fees but she is confident that her time and effort will pay off once she is a full-time, successful farmer.

(Pic: Flickr/rnav1234)
(Pic: Flickr/rnav1234)

Her choice to continue studying may be unusual but she’s not alone. Thousands of older Kenyans are enrolled in part-time undergraduate and post-graduate programs, all of them wanting to make their dreams of a tertiary education finally come true. Take Juliet for example. By day, Juliet is a nursery school teacher, rhyming out ABCs to restless four-year-olds, but by night and weekend, Juliet is a Psychology of Childhood Development student at a college in Nairobi. There is also Claire, a corner kiosk owner. She runs her business fulltime but takes accounting courses over the weekend.

All the women I have met and spoken with are not just students. They are mothers, grandmothers, wives and caretakers and their student status does not exempt them from their other traditional domestic duties. Culture is still largely unforgiving to the Kenyan woman that doesn’t cook, clean and keep an organised household. By any standards, these women have at least three jobs, but for them, their student status is one they wear with pride because it is a choice they made for themselves.

From as early as I can remember, I was taught that a good education was what would make all my dreams come true. My parents often told me to get better grades or suffer a beating. At some point during my pimple-popping teens and great depression over my nonexistent hips, my mother told me quite bluntly that my looks would get me nowhere in this life, but my brain would get me everywhere. The power of the book is preached fervently to all children in Kenya, and academic competition is as bloodthirsty as a boxing match. I always just knew that after high school I was going to a university and that I was going to get a degree. This was never something I questioned, as far as I knew it was a fact.

This was not the case for our mothers and fathers. In their time, tertiary education was for the extremely bright and well-to-do. Only so many people could get scholarships, and at that time, only a select few had degrees. Now that tertiary education is no longer a luxury but a necessity, our parents’ generation is taking every opportunity available to obtain those degrees that were been denied to them so many years ago.

I’m fortunate to be doing what I always wanted to do: write. I doubt that Joyce wanted to be a secretary, or Juliet a nursery school teacher. But luckily for them, they have a second chance to do what they have always dreamed of doing. Despite the challenges – time, money, late nights – sitting in that lecture hall and feeling that your life’s purpose is finally coming to fruition is the price Joyce, Juliet and Claire are willing to pay.

Sheena Gimase is a Kenyan-born and Africa-raised critical feminist writer, blogger, researcher and thought provocateur. She’s lived and loved in Kenya, Tanzania, ZimbabweZambia, South Africa, Botswana and Namibia. Sheena strongly believes in the power of the written word to transform people, cultures and communities. Read her blog and connect with her on Twitter.

Kenya: All a-Twitter about everything

A few weeks ago, I walked into a friend’s house to find a raucous argument going on. I didn’t know what the exact topic of the argument was, but the bottles of wine and beer on the table indicated that it had veered off course a long time before. The argument reached an impasse and could only be resolved in one way: Google. As the only sober one in the room, the task befell me. I asked for a phone. Tap. Tap. Tap. We had the answer. The argument was over. All was well in the world. The gods of the internet had spoken through the high priest of the smartphone.

The internet-enabled phone has changed many Kenyans’ relationship with the internet. According to the Communication Commission of Kenya, 99% of the country’s 16 million internet connections are on mobile devices. Advertising campaigns by the mobile network operators coupled with low-cost smartphones such as the Intel Yolo and the Huawei Ideos and declining costs of data have seen mobile data consumption grow at 75% year on year.

Increased access to the internet has had some very interesting results and opened some doors into the Kenyan psyche, thanks especially to Twitter.

(Flickr / Slava Murava Kiss)
(Flickr / Slava Murava Kiss)

Kenya is Africa’s second most active country on Twitter. The microblogging service has provided the perfect tool for Kenyan youth wanting to be heard and seeking validation. It offers the option for anonymity and has a numeric metric for validation in the form of number of followers. We will often put out an update, then keep checking out mentions, waiting to see how many retweets and favourites we have garnered. Just like in any society, there are people at the top of the ladder. On Twitter, they’re the bigwigs with over 10 000 followers (as of the last informal definition). These users are regarded as trendsetters and opinion influencers.

Kenyans on Twitter – #KOT as they are known – are quick to weigh in on everything and anything. They’ve even achieved global recognition on several occasions. It started with #Makmende, a campaign that resulted in Kenya’s first viral music video and the country’s own Chuck Norris.

Shortly after that, there was #RutoPlaylist which  Kenyans used to suggest songs for deputy president William Ruto to listen to on his iPod during his trip to the Hague for his ICC trial. In March this year, they used the #SomeoneTellCNN hashtag to mock the television network’s election reporting. Most recently, Kenyans went to war with Nigerians, using #SomeoneTellNigeria to vent about how the Kenyan football team was being treated in Nigeria. So mighty are #KOT that at the peak of Nigeria-Kenya tiff, Kenya was producing tweets at 6 times the rate Nigerians were even though Nigeria’s internet population is over four times greater.

Kenyans on Twitter have also done some inspiring things. In November 2012 when Nairobi’s public transport providers went on strike, #KOT started #CarPoolKE, an initiative which saw car owners give rides to stranded commuters for free. Another initiative that has enjoyed success on Twitter is Wanadamu (meaning “We have blood”). This service puts out calls for blood donations to supplement Kenya’s overstretched blood banks in cases of accidents, surgeries and blood shortages.

On the downside and as can be expected, there’s some not-so-pleasant activity. Cyber bulling and trolling is on the rise and #KOT often latch on to on a trending topic, throwing acerbic jabs to seek validation from the bigwigs through LOLs, retweets and faves. As funny as their insults may be, they actually cause significant damage to the recipient. In some cases, the “victims” commit twittercide (delete their Twitter accounts for good).

Kenyans’ use of the internet is not just limited to Twitter, though. One dark, rainy evening I caught a taxi driven by a 60-year-old fellow who knew very little English. When I gave him my destination, I expected to see him furrow his brow and ask me to direct him. Instead he picked up his phone and started tapping away.

“Nini hiyo?” (What is that?)

“Ngoongoo Maps! Hata mimi ni ndingito!” (Google Maps. I am digital too!)

Sure enough, he got me to where I was going without any problems.

Joel Macharia (@themacharia) is the founder of the online consumer finance publication pesatalk.com and the agribusiness start-up Sagana Farms. He is one of 10 young Africans shortlisted to be a One Young World delegate at this year’s summit. At this event, the M&G’s Trevor Ncube will be chairing a session on African media and what Africans think of their journalists. To share your views, complete this short survey.

 

 

Jesus Inc: Paying for miracles to happen

A man wobbled across the podium leaning heavily on his crutches as the preacher beckoned to him with outstretched hands. The mammoth crowd at the Kamukunji grounds in Nairobi fell silent in anticipation. The preacher asked the man a few questions and then boomed into the mic: “In the name of Jesus I command you to walk!” The man immediately threw down his crutches and trod unsteadily around the stage. The crowd burst into delirium. Some people fainted.

My colleague who was standing besides me shook with quiet laughter. He knew the “disabled” guy, Joel, since they both live in the Kangemi neighbourhood. Joel is a hopeless drunkard. To finance his drinking habit, he takes on casual jobs – like this one.

Kenyan worshippers are seeking divinity in “miracle” churches and dubious pastors who’ve sprung up all around the country. They command a huge following and are raking in money – millions, even – through, among other things, their claims of miracle healing. One session can cost as much as R300. In addition to this and weekly donations from congregants, the pastors sell anointing oils which cost between R15 to R50 a bottle. The oils have a short shelf life – anything from a few days to a month – so believers have to stock up on them regularly to keep “miracles” flowing in their lives.  No wonder, then, that these religious leaders can afford posh mansions and Range Rovers – and that they make the news for the wrong reasons.

(Graphic: Kenny Leung)
(Graphic: Kenny Leung)

Take Pastor Michael Njoroge of Fire Ministries, who reportedly slept with a prostitute last year and then hired her for R200 to attend his Sunday mass service with a disfigured mouth. With a cloth covering her mouth, sobbing because of her shame, the woman performed like a pro in front of cameras. Njoroge, who has a slot on a Christian TV station, prayed for her at his service. The next day she was back in his church with a perfect mouth, giving testimony of the miracle in front of a transfixed crowd. Soon after the incident Njoroge was exposed by Kenyan news channel NTV but his loyal congregants stood by him.

Then there’s the billionaire businessman, politician and pastor Kamlesh Pattni, who was charged with conspiracy to defraud the government of Sh58-billion in the Goldenberg scandal. He was cleared of the charges in April 2013 but not of his notoriety.  Pattni has established his own church and provides a free lunch to his growing congregation every Sunday. Who doesn’t want a free meal?

Pattni could soon be receiving a hefty Kh4-billion of taxpayers’ money after winning a legal tussle over exclusive rights to duty-free shops in two Kenyan airports. The hefty award, however, is being challenged.

Let’s not forget Pastor Maina Njenga, the former leader of Mungiki, a criminal gang known for extortion, ethnic violence, female genital mutilation and other horrific crimes including the beheading and skinning in its strongholds in Nairobi and central Kenya.  He spent a long stint in jail and was released from prison in 2009. Njenga then became a born-again Christian, and set up Hope International Ministries. He professed that he changed his life around but few believe him

Like many Kenyan pastors, he was quick to enter business and politics too. Last year he threw his hat into the ring for the presidential race but quit due to a lack of funds.

Money troubles are not something Bishop Allan Kiuna and his wife Reverend Kathy have to worry about. The influential, doting couple run the Jubilee Christian Centre in Nairobi which has an ‘international media ministry’ with video and music production and book publishing. They’ve come under fire for their luxurious lifestyle on social media, but Reverend Kathy makes no apologies. “We serve a prosperity God,” Kathy said in an interview with True Love magazine. “God wants us to be prosperous in every single way. His desire for us is to walk in abundance. I am praying for church people to show the likes of Bill Gates dust!”

But the gold prize for the miracles business goes to Kenyan Archbishop Gilbert Deya, who was previously based in Peckham, UK. The evangelical pastor who has been photographed with European royalty, prime ministers and presidents engineered a miracle babies scam, claiming to be able to make infertile women fall pregnant. British women travelled to Kenya to “give birth”, but were actually given babies that the pastor and his wife Mary had stolen or abducted. Suspicions were raised when a woman claimed to give birth to three ‘miracle’ babies in a year, prompting an investigation. DNA testing also revealed that there was no genetic link between the women and the babies they’d apparently given birth to.

Gilbert Deya arrives at Westminster Magistrates Court in central London on 1 November 2007 to fight an attempt to extradite him to Kenya to face child theft charges. (AFP)
Gilbert Deya arrives at Westminster Magistrates Court in central London on 1 November 2007 to fight an attempt to extradite him to Kenya to face child theft charges. (AFP)

Mary was eventually arrested in 2004 for stealing a baby from a Nairobi hospital and passing it off as her own. She is currently in prison for child-trafficking.  Deya was arrested in 2006 in London and has since been fighting his extradition from the UK to face charges of child theft in Kenya. He has denied the charges, but this particular quote stands out –  of course, it was all God’s idea: “I have been judged by the media as a child trafficker, which is a slave trade, but miracles have happened. God has used me and I tell you God cannot use a criminal. They are miracles.”

Given the numerous scams orchestrated in the name of God, it’s no surprise that a generation of young Kenyans is becoming increasingly sceptical about religion. However, it’s a pity that there are still plenty of desperate and ignorant Kenyans around to keep the Jesus Inc industry flourishing.

Munene Kilongi is a freelance writer and videographer. He blogs at thepeculiarkenyan.wordpress.com

Viva my village madman

I grew up in the sometimes green, sometimes beige rolling hills of Ngong, near Nairobi. When I was a kid, Ngong was so remote and so far away from everything that very few people knew where it was or what happened there. Today, people lovingly refer to Ngong as ‘the diaspora’ because on a good day it can take you two hours to get from Nairobi’s city centre to the heart of the town using public transport. Yet it’s a journey many of my friends blatantly refuse to make even if I am offering them free beer and internet bundles. They will not come here unless they have to. But I digress.

Having lived away from home for over a decade, coming back was, of course, interesting. Everything had changed. Ten years ago Ngong looked like the set of a 1950s western. The whole town consisted of just a bank, a post office, a police station, a supermarket, a slew of watering holes, a barber shop and a salon. Fast forward to 2013. Ngong has grown and expanded and morphed into a bustling town with more than one bank and a taxi rank. I was overwhelmed with all the changes. For years I had lived in small, simple, modern and organised Windhoek, which is nothing like what Ngong is now.

The streets of Ngong (Pic: Sheena Gimase)
The streets of Ngong. (Pic: Sheena Gimase)
The streets of Ngong. (Pic: Sheena Gimase)
The streets of Ngong. (Pic: Sheena Gimase)

It upset and overwhelmed me how everything had changed seemingly overnight, and that I wasn’t there to witness it. I needed familiarity, I needed to remember what Ngong was like before it was transformed. A month into my visit, while trying not to look like a tourist in my home town,  I saw him. And just like that, there was peace once more in my familiar-turned-strange town. He is the village madman. When I call him that, I don’t mean it disrespectfully. Every village has one, they tend to be the mascots of the place. I never knew our village madman’s name while growing up in Ngong, but I could never forget his face.

Now that I think about it, the village madman is who I have to thank for helping me find the courage to live my life on my terms. You see, he is the first adult cross-dresser I ever encountered. It was a Saturday morning and I was probably all of nine years old. As was routine, our house-help Habiba and I trudged to the market bright and early to get the fresh pickings of the day. As Habiba haggled over the price of a cabbage, I saw a man, dirty, disheveled and agitated, walk across the market speaking to his invisible friends. He looked like a man, but he wore a dress and sandals. I think I even saw a hint of a bra strap showing through his floral frock.

“Well, what do you know, do men wear dresses too?” I asked Habiba.

She said simply that he’s mad, and because he’s mad he gets to dress whichever way he wants to. Being a bit of a tomboy myself and not liking dresses and frilly things at that age when all my mother wanted to do was put beads in my hair and wrap me up in something lacy, I thought to myself: “I wonder how mad I have to be to get away with wearing what I want.”

The village madman offered me a different perspective on life and people. Despite the vicious verbal attacks he made at his imaginary companions, no one at the market seemed scared of him. I saw one vendor toss him a tomato and another a banana. He was welcome there, and accepted, and allowed to express himself as much as his energies could allow. At nine years old this was fascinating to watch. The community that let him roam around freely also fed him and kept him clothed. When it was cold he had a warm coat and warm socks. When it was raining, market vendors would let him sleep under their stalls at the close of business. I cannot ever remember encountering him drunk and disorderly anywhere, or sitting idly. He always had somewhere to be and something to do.

In an uncanny way he taught me that we all have a place of acceptance in this world. A safe space. For the village madman, that safe space was the market and Ngong itself. When I realised that my strong feminist views were not commonplace in Kenya or in many of the other African countries I’ve had the opportunity to live in, I sought out such a safe space; a space where I could be a feminist and find acceptance. I found that space in my work at Sister Namibia, and just like Ngong did for the village madman, my job kept me fed, clothed and safe.

When I saw the village madman again that day, ten and some years later, I was so excited. I wanted to wave, but I settled for a smile. He looked blankly at me and went on his merry way, still wearing a dress but much older, still busy and still talking to his invisible companions. Since seeing him, Ngong feels like home again. So here’s to my village madman, whose name I will try and learn, for giving me home back and teaching me that we all can find a place to belong, no matter how odd, different or just plain weird we are.

Sheena Gimase is a Kenyan-born and Africa-raised critical feminist writer, blogger, researcher and thought provocateur. She’s lived and loved in Kenya, Tanzania, Zimbabwe, Zambia, South Africa, Botswana and Namibia. Sheena strongly believes in the power of the written word to transform people, cultures and communities. Read her blog and connect with her on Twitter.