"No other (ethnic)nation in Kenya
is washing its dirty linen in public, why are all of you emerging young
Kikuyu writers doing it?" the email correspondence began.
I offered to
respond in a well argued essay in public. My correspondent would have
none of it. "...I hope you see why that would be similar to the whole
2005-2007 ‘outing of Kikuyu culture and issues'.
"Like I keep saying, if I
wanted all this out in the public sphere, I'd put it up on my blog. I'm
not saying I'm not a fan of putting it all out there and hashing it
out. I just don't think some things, and some points in history, lend
themselves to this mode of resolution," she responded. "But
I am a public intellectual," I insisted. "And that mantle of public
intellectualism is not handed over to us by society, we earn it by
going public with our thoughts, experiences and opinion; by refusing to
engage each other in winks and nods (couched in the esoteric language
of academia) at the ignorance of the masses, from ivory towers and
speaking out loud in address of societal issues."
I
have spent the last couple of years evaluating my place as a
card-carrying member of the Gikuyu nation in relation to my citizenship
in another nation called Kenya.
I have found no incompatibility at all in belonging to both; I have
found that the two nations are not mutually exclusive. What I have
taken on is dual citizenship: Kikuyu and Kenyan. Gikuyu
to me is a primary identity, the acceptance of which is to be bound by
kinship to a people; to a shared history, language, values and
traditions. The blood that runs in me makes me a Gikuyu by default. But
what is a bloodline worth when, ten generations from now, frequent
miscegenation will render my descendant a United Nations of genes? The
blood, I say, means nothing to me; it is the culture that counts.
In
the old days, intermarriage between the Maasai and the Gikuyu was
rampant. The patriarchal order (an aspect of my culture I am opposed
to) governing both the Maasai and the Gikuyu dictated that a woman was
given away to the man and his people. My
ancestor, for instance, took a Maasai girl from Matasia in Ngong and
made her his wife. Immediately and irrevocably, that girl earned
citizenship in the Kikuyu nation. Even her name was changed, but the
new one they gave her - ‘Nyokabi' , which means ‘one from Maasailand' -
still referred to her roots; she had become a Mugikuyu but her Maasai
bloodline was still celebrated by the allusion.
Her
children were raised in the Kikuyu district of Kiambu and, having been
taught the ways of the tribe and undergone all its rituals and rites of
passage from circumcision (irua) to offering of the ceremonial goat
(kuruta mburi), they grew up as Kikuyu Karing'a. But their mother
remained a Maasai. Her primary loyalty was now to the Kikuyu nation
that had adopted her, but Maasai was an immutable part of her heritage.
So every evening, when the goats had been brought home and her
yet-to-be-circumcised sons gathered around her hearth, she told them,
in the language of her childhood, the only stories she knew: the
folklore she had been raised on.
One
of her sons was my grandfather. He grew up speaking Gikuyu in the field
and Maasai in his mother's hut. But the world beyond was changing. A
new nation, bigger than the Kikuyu one that claimed his loyalty, was
born. This nation was called Kenya.
He did not choose this new nation; he had no option within his ability
to not be a part of it. All that was left to him was to find ways of
navigating this emergent nationality with its new-fangled social and
economic frameworks; its demand that he learn another set of languages,
English and Swahili, or perish.
My
grandfather learnt Swahili. A smattering of it, at least. English he
just could not - he was a first-born son, he needed to take care of the
cows and support the family while everyone else went to school.
When
my grandfather was old enough to take a wife, he got himself a nice
Kikuyu woman. They settled down and had several children. He was a good
man, my grandfather - teacher, provider, protector. He raised his
children as best he could, and taught them all he had learnt from his
parents. Well, not everything. My grandfather refused to teach his
children Maa, a truly unfortunate decision. He was the last link to our
cultural diversity but he shut one road into the past and thrust us,
his progeny, into a singular space. A space that he thought preferable:
Gikuyu. All that was left of our rich heritage, our travels through a
vast gene pool, was a name. But even that name, rendered in Gikuyu (In
the process of wading through to the Gikuyu end of the linguistic
barrier, Matasia became Matathia) became merely an oddity: ‘Are you
from Matasia?', ‘Where in Kikuyuland is that name from?'
Looking
back, his choice gains lucidity. The new nation offered him a chance to
move and settle anywhere, maybe because the colonial land policy that
the new nation inherited rendered ancestral land rights redundant. My
grandfather, cynical as ever, stood on the side of ancestral land
rights. But first, he and his offspring had to be Gikuyu,
unconditionally. It was his only way of defending his right to land in
Gikuyuland. It is true that the new nation's birthday gift was a
promise of the freedom to own land anywhere within its boundaries, but
am I now, seeing the travails of those who believed it, meant to feel
lucky that my grandfather did not buy into the new nation?
I
choose to retrieve my Kenyan flag from the garbage heap I had cast it
into two months ago. I want to return to seeing no irony in my dual
citizenship of the Gikuyu and Kenyan nations. I want to go back to that
time when I could stand before a multi-ethnic, multi-cultural and
multi-national audience and declare myself ethnically proud but not
tribalistic. That is where I invite you to join me, but how can you
understand how I got there without my presenting you the journey -
dirty linen and all?
Trackback(0)
|
I find anyone who wants to claim, even in these most trying times that their primary identity is ethnic to be a very difficult person to deal with.
I understand why we would want to hold onto these, sexy, romantic yearnings for a blood-link stretching back into the past, but I cannot at all tolerate that we fail to see that our choosing to self-identify primarily as Gikuyu, Luo, Maasai, Somali, etc precludes national unity, even trans-national unity.
One must now ask, what makes us Kikuyu, or Luo or Bukusu, and are these identities at all necessary? Is there something to be lost, something useful and dear and irretrievable if we declare these our secondary identities? Is there a pressure on us to be Kamba or Kisii first and not Kenyan? Is there a habitus unique to the Luo that makes them different from other Kenyans? Is this the reality or something forced on us by our political leadership. Put another way, do not the Luo and Kikuyu workers living in Nairobi's slums have interests, passions, desires and needs completely at variance with those of the Kisii and Meru farmers living in rural Kenya? Does the Somali business-class colonising our city centres share much with nomadic herdsmen roaming the former NFD? There is a real need, I believe, to run away from these essentially divisive cultural identities, to weaken them and put more emphasis on crafting a common identity where our competing interests are based on our everyday lives and experiences, which cut across the tribal landscape, with representatives who are not necessarily of our ethnicity and outcomes that will be beneficial to more than just watu wetu.
Now as for your conversation with your friend, I believe there is nothing wrong with airing the dirty laundry, but there is a problem with context, and again with efforts that reinforce difference and stereotypes. The lamenting Kikuyu 'intellectuals' would serve Kenya best by not seeing themselves as martyrs but as public servants, not bravely going against the grain, but bravely speaking the truth. The lamenting Kikuyu would do well to ensure that their message is not useful to the likes of Lesotho Balala or Adui Odinga as they craft their schemes of hate. Washing your linen in public does not mean taking a seat, even a reluctant one, at Wannsee. Now, when you write about 'my people' you are speaking ODMese and not Kenyanese (criticism directed at your grouping formulation and not at the article itself), when Maina Kiai for example or Muthoni Wanyeki deny the ethnic cleansing of Kikuyu folk from the Rift Valley they are speaking ODMese and not Kenyanese, they are actually denying a section of Kenya their core human rights. These choices, though couched as truth positions and the courage and wisdom of the public intellectual, serve instead to enforce difference and rivalries, and to empower those who want to rule over the Kenyan will with a fist, and against the public good. The true virtue would be to come out guns blazing against particular positions, ethnic-baiting for example, or political violence, or corruption, to speak always for the oppressed and the voiceless, to speak for the long term good, rather than to promote ethnic arguments (whatever their fashion). One must try to use that stage and the voice you have to tell that which does not come as obvious to the wananchi, the masses as some put it. Question, as an example when you tell us about Beasts from the West being unfit to rule, etc, are you trying to make out that there is an equivalence between this statement and the violent desire in the ODM to bring the Kikuyu crashing to the ground? Have you really read the extent of the detail and depth of malice in the ODM? Do you not think that promoting ethnic violence is really the last straw?
Stephen Wanyama is a humble man, one who has long ago binned his Bukusu flag. He never carries the Kenyan one either and is a proud to be unpatriotic. He strives instead to speak and act for universal rights, for the weak and for the long term good of all men, not just those with whom he shares some bond. I suppose that is what they once called the Left.