C&P
I have seen the script more times than I care to
remember. A spark is lit in an unpretentious
method in a far off outpost, just like Mpeketoni.
Two days later, the small embers generate some
heat. 65 dead turn to 100, then 300, before long,
thousands are dead. Massive rapes, wanton
destruction of property; the whole land is lit.
This is the fight on social media, “Kill them,
useless people,” “Hang all by the neck until they
die,” “Circumcise them with a blunt knife,”
“Washenzi wauawe wote,” “Somebody should find
reason to send a bullet into RAOs head,” “Uhunye
should burn in hell,” the vitriolic battle on
facebook is real.
Soon enough they generate enough heat, then hell
breaks loose. The first victims are far off. Then
the battle drums are beaten in your county, then
in your district before it reaches your
neighborhood.
Long before the battle reaches your village, you
soon realize that you cannot access the nearest
town, hakuna magari, hakuna unga in the dukas.
You cannot even get a Safaricom scratch card za
kununua internet bundles. So you are cut off from
the social media. The same one you used and
depended upon to “kill” your presumed enemies.
Before you know it, you escape death by a
whisker, but with a deep cut on your right
shoulder. No dispensary is open anywhere. No
hospital either. The fight for your community’s
right to be included in the Jubilee government
turns into a fight for your own life. The leaders
who egged you on are nowhere to be seen, or
heard. They are watching events unfold in the
safety of Sheraton Hotel by the Nile River,
Uganda.
Humanitarian organizations hurriedly put up
refugee camps. Maybe in a Catholic Church
compound. Maybe the UNHCR has erected tents
in Busia, Uganda. Or Moyale, Ethiopia. The UN
compound in Nairobi is turned into a huge
meeting place where all communities gather. And
you end up in one of the camps.
Fighting
for the few tents becomes the order of the day. A
few rations reach your perched throat three days
later. The gush on your right shoulder in
gangrenous. The overworked Medicines Sans
Frontier doctor is busy with a dying child next to
your bed in a stinking, wet, humid tent hospital.
There is wailing outside. You pray for death. But
it takes its sweet time.
Anderson Cooper and his trademark black T-Shirt
has made it to your camp. The wide view camera
catches you gnashing your teeth with high fever
and bloody bandages over your right shoulder.
Your picture is seen worldwide, thanks to
globalised 24 hour media.
Omondi meets with Karanja and Omar and
Werunga in the camp. They converse in low tones
in Swahili wondering where the rain started
beating them. They cannot remember when they
last took a bath. They share a lone cigarette
bootlegged in the camp by Mutiso.
In the meantime, in the Hilton Hotel, Addis Ababa,
the political leaders hammer a truce negotiated by
the Prime Minister of Ethiopia, Hailemariam
Desalegn and the AU. They share out government
positions.
But you cannot celebrate the truce. For you see,
three days before it happens, you, together with
43 others, are buried in a mass unmarked grave
12 miles outside the refugee camp. None of your
relatives will ever learn of your fate. Your
amputated right arm is food for the vultures and
hyenas in the refugee camp dump site.
Yes, my friend, war is real. It kills real people; it
leaves real women widowed, real children orphans,
real men maimed. Before you click ‘send’ that
bigoted, egotistical hate message on facebook,
twitter or whatsApp, think twice. Come on now,
burn Kenya with the “share” button. CNN and Al-
Jazeera will gladly cover you, for the whole world
to see you dying in a refugee camp.
WAR, MY FRIEND, BEGINS NOTHING, SOLVES
NOTHING, AND ENDS NOTHING!
By Peter Gaitho |
"When the pupil is ready to learn, a teacher will appear." -- Zen proverb