They shot a man last night. Just on our street, I even heard the gunshot. I’m a Kenyan. A “Nairobian†even, so gunshots and tear gas and water canons and especially bodies lying around by the side of the road are nothing novel.
What is new though, are the presumptions of guilt made on the basis of appearances and labels. The gentleman reporting the story said “the man was sporting attire characteristic of the members of the Rastafarian movement, but it has not been confirmed whether he was a sworn member of the Mungiki sectâ€. Attire? I saw that man. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt and one of those “cat in the hat†knitted toques you can stuff your hair into on a bad day. And even if he was a “Rastamanâ€; a “Ganja Planterâ€; a “Buffalo Soldierâ€-proclaiming the teachings of Jahoviah, conveniently omitting Isaiah’s “white as snow, and black as soot†clause-was he also automatically Mungiki? In my life I have ran from the Mungiki, but I have ran faster and farther from the police. I am tall and of stunted glutinous development any biological positivist might argue for my being a prime candidate for female delinquency. Thus I avoid the police not because of what I am, but because of what they expect I should be given my “differencesâ€. These days I know all the rules.   | |  bracelet | If you’re driving at night wear your glasses; otherwise they’ll take you in for having “glazed eyesâ€. DUI. Never, ever, carry a condom that’s a definite “loitering with intentâ€. Intent to what? Prostitute of course! Never mind that there are no laws against that. Don’t wear an anklet. Or beads. Or shells. Hell, unless you’ve got diamonds just lose the ornaments or they’ll hit you with the Witchcraft Act. Have you thought of carrying cigarettes? Think again. Even if every leaf of tobacco has a BAT stamp on it, it miraculously transforms itself into some rare species of “Cannabis Sativaâ€. If you’re diabetic, drop the syringe. If you’re asthmatic, drop the Ventolin. If you’re prone to dry lips, mislay the fruity flavors and stuff the Vaseline into your boots. Unless you’re vegan then just do without. It’s not about conforming. It’s about surviving. Why they shot that man was not because he had done any harm, yet. It was because he simply didn’t “look rightâ€. They shot him because he looked like a sane young man, of the age of majority, who happened to be “dressed like a Rastaâ€. And a Rasta might be Mungiki. And Mungiki might shoot at the police. If they had a gun that is. The man they shot was carrying a “plastic water gunâ€. Something I might buy for my children someday if I though children should play with any kind of gun. His friends, who probably didn’t make the mistake of looking singular and wielding their children’s toys, got away. I wasn’t there. I don’t know if that man intended to use his plastic gun to murder anyone, at 9pm on a busy well-lit street. Our justice system is calculated so that that will never matter. All I know is that because I wear my hair in strawberry red dreadlocks and because I refuse to wear a padded bra, every time I walk home at night the cops will go “kijana wapi kitambulisho?†and proceed to feel me up. All this despite the fact that I have served them tea at my mothers house more than once and as soon as they’re done pat, pat, patting they suddenly recognize me (lo!) as the daughter of “that Luo woman†(she’s not Luo) and send me along with a jovial “salimia mama!â€. Maybe if I cut the dreads and wore one of those mass produced “kenya uniform†dresses I’d get into less trouble. My mother agrees. Never going to happen! Conceivably then, it is my vocation to court trouble because I will by no means ever look like anyone, or dress like anyone, or be anyone other than who I want to be. Just me. It’s not my fault that the word “me†is not synonymous with the words “everyone elseâ€. Or that that which I am is so different from that which everyone supposes I should be. The Mungiki, like the police, are fierce and violent, but I fear them less because I know that they are just like me, searching for someone they can comfortably be. We’re in the same tree. Sawing off the branch we’re sitting on. So I will wear my dreadlocks. They are the best for me. I simply do not have the olfactory ignorance to examine some lady’s armpit hairs for hours on end while my face is stuck between her breasts. Inoffensive as they are-my dreadlocks- I know that I will be stopped at every police check. They will ask me only after they have “looked†for my gun, if I would prefer to be searched by a female officer. It is because I look dangerous. I am not a militaristic sort. I have very little desire to fight, but this will be my war because being me is the only battle I could ever win. The only difference thus between me and the Mungiki is that I will never behead anyone. And I don’t know anyone in government.
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But lets be a bit realistic, with the insecurity around Nairobi right now, its better to be safe than sorry. If you treasure your dreads as much as your life then please go ahead and keep them, love them, take care of them, keep them clean and pray that our trigger happy cops dont confuse you for one. Especially now that one of their own was killed. And make sure you keep off the slum regions.
But if ur life means a lot to you, and u cant stay away from mathare, or any of the affected areas, I know its very painful, but....PLEASE CUT THEM....SORRY