The Cradle Snatcher: A Society’s Anguish

Chilling reports about child abductions, child molestation as well as child trafficking continue to make headlines, sending terrified parents, the police and child rights organizations on high alert. More shocking are the profiles of the offenders, who would normally pass for ordinary law-abiding citizens; the people society would otherwise trust with their children: school teachers, church leaders, neighbors, relatives and even shopkeepers.

The abduction, molestation and even trafficking of children are cruelties that have existed for a very long time. A concrete solution is yet to be found and many children, guardians and parents continue to live in fear not knowing when or where the cradlesnatcher will strike next.

Many cases of child abuse, molestation or trafficking go unreported. Gilbert Onyango, the Deputy Director of CRADLE, a children’s legal aid service, says recently, Central Kenya has reported a lot of these criminal acts. Reports from Nairobi show that crimes against children have a prevalence in informal settlements

Chilling reports about child abductions, child molestation as well as child trafficking continue to make headlines, sending terrified parents, the police and child rights organizations on high alert. More shocking are the profiles of the offenders, who would normally pass for ordinary law-abiding citizens; the people society would otherwise trust with their children: school teachers, church leaders, neighbors, relatives and even shopkeepers.

The abduction, molestation and even trafficking of children are cruelties that have existed for a very long time. A concrete solution is yet to be found and many children, guardians and parents continue to live in fear not knowing when or where the cradlesnatcher will strike next.

Many cases of child abuse, molestation or trafficking go unreported. Gilbert Onyango, the Deputy Director of CRADLE, a children’s legal aid service, says recently, Central Kenya has reported a lot of these criminal acts. Reports from Nairobi show that crimes against children have a prevalence in informal settlements (slums). It is not clear whether this incidence of violation of children’s rights in the Central and Nairobi Provinces due to their proximity to Nairobi, or that the relatively high number of reports on crime against children in these provinces is attributable to citizen’s levels of awareness.

The more knowledgeable the people are the greater the possibility of reporting of child abuse is high because adults are motivated by their understanding of the importance of reporting the matter and seeking help from the police and child rights organizations. The high level of reporting is not an indicator of the absence of menace in other regions of this country.

CRADLE’s Gilbert Onyango reckons that poverty, unemployment changes in culture occasioned by emerging technologies and the degeneration and collapse of governance systems are to blame among other dynamics. Lack of jobs, he says, results in the desperation that drives one to abduct a child and demand for ransom.

Legislative factors may have also contributed to this rise. The slow pace with which court cases are handled could deter many guardians or parents of victims from reporting incidence of crimes against children. Other than the cost and time, there is also the risk on the psychological well being of the child. The effectiveness of the Government policies to protect children is subject of debate. “The law has fooled us. It is not enough. That is why we at CRADLE are currently lobbying for the Human Trafficking Bill and the Victim Support Bill,” says Mr. Onyango.

Who exactly is the sexual abuser? Can parents and members of the society easily identify potential threats to their children? While an ordinary criminal would be easily identified by their looks, mannerisms or even past criminal records, a pedophile at first glance could pass for an ordinary person. According to Onyango, an opportunistic abuser can be a stranger unlike the sexual abuser (pedophile) who is often times someone the victim trusts and knows from previous social encounters. Many of the abusers have turned out to be the victims’ relative, teacher, house-help, shopkeeper, and even next-doorneighbor. “Research by CRADLE indicates that 70 per cent of the victims’ abusers are known to them,” adds the advocate from CRADLE.

One thing the police and the citizens of this country can agree upon is that a solution be found. Onyango feels there is a need to first focus on changing people’s attitudes. In Africa a male child grows up with the notion that they should be strong; undignified actions against them, such as sodomy are shameful and a failure on their part to protect themselves. CRADLE confirms that in every 100 cases of child abuse reported, 90 of the victims are girls. Onyango says their organization has been on the forefront in making sure that the community is made aware of the existence of this problem, its extent as well as expressing hope that they can get legal help when they need it. Through its programmes, Onyango confidently says the impact is positive and many more Kenyans are receiving help. He, moreover, adds that parents need to be on their guard and report all cases to the police and the Directorate of Children’s Services (DCS) for investigation.

An ode to my soul-friend…

When I first met you in the coolness of that September afternoon, I thought to myself “He’s hot!” and for days I dreamt of your face and the sound of your voice. And then you spoke to me and I died and woke up in heaven floating with you besides me. You got me all jellied up inside and for the days that followed I stalked you literally; calculating my steps to coincide with yours and then saying hi! feigning surprise at how many times we met in one day; offering that surely it must mean something. You smiled at me and wished me a great day. I ran to the nearest washroom, looked at myself in the mirror and gave my reflection a hi-5. Such were the silly things you made me do.

A couple of weeks of “accidentally” bumping into each other later, we had our very first meaningful conversation. I knew it by heart, replayed it in my head a trillion times. And then we were friends, really good friends, best friends…
You were reliable, had by best interests at heart, called almost every day, we laughed and hang out, talked about nothing and everything, you shared your fears with me, I told you of my childhood dreams, you drove me nuts, we fought, we apologized and the laughter was renewed…and then I fell for you…hard…

Thoughts of you made my head reel; I traded in my sense of pride and common sense for a thousand moments of unabashed shamelessness where I’d perchance meet you, strike a conversation and fight to make it last if only a second longer, call you up just to say nothing, jam your phone with texts… You seemed unruffled by this display of affection; in fact you enjoyed it which made me even more excited.
Months grew into years and I bridled these emotions, hoping you’d be the first to say you loved me too and we would face the world together, get married, live in a house with a white picket fence and watch our chubby kids grow…and then you shocked me…u got yourself a girlfriend! Behind my back! I thought the feeling was mutual! You traitor! I seethed with rage and avoided you for days.

Then it dawned on me, I was just in love with the idea of you, not with you. You had been the most influential person in my life at that time; I hung on to your every word like it was my ticket to true happiness, you taught me a lot, gave me a peek into the brain of a normal male_something I’ll be forever grateful for. You helped me transform from an awkwardly shy girl into a confident woman. You gave me the gift of friendship, pure and selfless; the kind that does not demand anything. Every laughing moment unlocked the trust in me and in others; every hug, a confirmation of how beautiful I was. You helped me get over my obsession of the love I thought I had for you and reminded me that there was one out there; patiently waiting for this beautiful intelligent girl you had the privilege of meeting first and who’d blossomed before your eyes into a gem.

Not everyone can say that about their friends. In this lifetime, I couldn’t wish for more. You gave me more than I asked for and I can only hope that I am to you everything you wanted in a friend. Promise me that even in death we shall forever be friends, to support each other through thick and thin, to think of each other at least once in twenty four hours, to defend our friendship in the event that our better halves question it, to never forget what we are about and where we’ve come from, that you’ll name your daughter after me and I’ll give my son your name such that the legacy continues…

You are my best friend and I love you. Not the-I-love-u-and-I-want-to-marry-you kind of love. The kind that does not border on the physical, the kind that’s based on true friendship, the kind that you carry with you always and whoever you wind up going out with understands and respects it as just that, pure friendship.

Wake me if you like me…

I sit in the dark staring at a text message I recently got from you and as the glow from my phone slowly fades off I can’t help but wonder how you’ve been…And I smile shyly the memory of your voice so clear … You see it’s been ten days, three hours and round about thirty seconds since we last spoke and well…I miss you… Am allowed to do that right, besides we are friends right? And friends miss friends right? Ok who am I kidding! I am insanely impatient and my fingers are burning to press the green button coz I have you on speed dial, but I can’t think of a reason lamer than ‘I just called to say hi’ at a quarter to one AM… So I guess it can wait till tomorrow …or maybe never…

So as the morning charily steals into the night I lay in bed compelled to stay awake with questions, blank spaces and the jagged mystery that is you…Never before have I met one so calm and collected yet passionate about life, one so at peace with themselves yet humble and one so full of dreams bigger than themselves…and one so interesting yet so distant…

I chanced upon meeting you when I was familiar with the disappointings of the old and I wanted nothing to do with the new; and as our short messages grew into phone calls I realized there’s nothing quite like a seven-minute conversation, really. You know, the kind that doesn’t have much of a subject, it flows from the weather to my dream of making it big in fashion, from whether or not chicken soup can cure your cold to your favourite genre of music…spontaneity, unplanned delight.

So it is with my thoughts in the still of this night, random and scattered in your direction, with nothing much to base my liking on, other than the fact that your speech is refined…and you type words in full in your text messages…and your introvert laughter lasts only a couple of seconds…and you burble when your nervous…and you apologize even for the slightest forgivable gaffes…and you’re funny…
Forgive me if am being rush but I just want to know what you’re about, what that extra full stop at the end of your text message means, why you always answer your call after the fourth ring and why I am smiling while writing this…

Now that it’s out there that I might feel something for you and…I might want to know you better and…I might slightly hope that there’s a chance you’ll ask me out in the near future…text me if you just want to say hi, call me if you wanna go out for coffee and talk…best of all, wake me if you like me…

Salutational Quandary

Every day I wake up and walk through the campus gates I anticipate a totally ridiculous comment from expected quarters or an amazingly intelligent comment from unexpected quarters. Most times am not disappointed.
Daystar University is amazing. I don’t just mean it in the marvellous kind of way but in an astounding kind of way as well. Most times am not surprised but occasionally am thrown out of balance by the level of absurdities either in people’s speeches or in their mannerisms.

Today (and a hundred times before) as I was strolling down PAC court I was taken aback by the display of affection that unfolded right in front of my eyes. I say display of affection to mean greetings that do not only involve words but uncomfortable physical contact coupled with animal-like sounds. These two girls, these two beautiful and otherwise well-cultured girls bumped into each other on their way to class. They could very well be Lily and Donna. First, Lily lets out a high-pitched shriek in Donna’s direction and Donna follows suit and shrieks back at her. Now people normally shriek when they think they have seen a ghost or something equally scary. At this point my ears hurt so badly but more so my brain from trying to decipher this code of communication. Just then Lily and Donna throw their arms around each other and plant kisses on each others faces obviously glad to see each other for the umpteenth time.

The gentlemen, if I can call them that, have also been caught up in this theatrical insanity in the name of greetings. Now there’s is a more macho kind of handshake, followed by banging of the shoulders in a half-embrace and ended with striking each others back with a fist. I stopped trying to figure it out. It is simply aggressive in my eyes.

Salutations and greetings are probably the one thing I dread in Daystar University. I mean, I don’t mind the attention I get when I come back from a long holiday but if you are going to shriek and strike me on the back every time we meet then I might just stay away. I would like to feel my hands too after minutes of having my hand shaken, thank you very much and please go easy on the hugging. My back still hurts from our last encounter!

Whatever happened to old fashioned firm and less painful hand-shake? You know, the kind that you feel the hand but you don’t really feel it because it doesn’t last too long? If you ask me, I prefer simply nodding in your direction in acknowledgement especially when I am trying to get to class on time. If I have a bit of time to spare, I might just say hello and proceed to find out how you are doing; maintaining a good distance from you. Don’t get me wrong, this is not anti-social behaviour. It is simply one person honouring the other person’s need for personal space. Save the intimate hugging and kissing for people you genuinely care about and even then do it in discretion; people are trying to get on with their lives without the unnecessary distraction.

The Theatrics of Student Politics…

Daystar University students recently went to the polls to select their new team of Daystar University Students Association (DUSA) officials. Like with any election period, the air was heavy with expectations and promises were plentiful in the form of pledges from interested parties.

Every year the campaign methods and tactics become interestingly varied. More significantly the posters keep getting bigger and bolder with all sorts of overbearing font types and colour. The university grounds are literally abuzz with activity. There emerge groups of ardent supporters who make it their business to promote their choice of leader using all sorts of unorthodox means. Normally quiet bus rides are occasionally disrupted by aspirants’ disturbance of peace by momentarily shooting up from their seats and proceeding to remind the occupants of their now so familiar policies. Food is not the only thing consumed at mealtimes; the aspirants’ strategies and guiding principles are shoved down the electorate’s throats! Every single turn one takes there is an all too eager aspirant waiting to remind you that the future depends upon you voting in their favour. Even more imposing are the door-to-door campaigns off campus where aspirants and their publicity managers show up unannounced in the middle of dinner time and demand an audience going on and on about how they can make students’ life better.

While there is nothing off beam about campaigning, it is the method and the motives that are moot. A group of energetic and mouthy supporters going round campus chanting praise songs about their choice of leader are bound to be noticed more by the electorate as opposed to the quiet and modest supporters. Students seem to respond more to theatrics and drama than they do old fashioned speeches in the assembly hall. As long as there are raised voices, a bit of mudslinging and open discrediting of the administration and rivals then they are more than motivated to vote. And vote they will; for the most popular individual. The individual who is outspoken and aggressive in every sense of the word is often deemed fit to take up the role of “the administration’s worst nightmare”. They trust that their choice will not be cowed by the policy makers just because he/she exhibited a lot pride and overconfidence in their speech and their mannerisms during the campaign period. The soft-spoken and less articulate aspirant is often dismissed as “too soft for the job”.

The Daystar University electorate has been brainwashed into equating leadership capabilities to outward attributes. Such attributes as height, manner of dressing, gait, score on the popularity meter and speech pattern are inconsequential where management skills are concerned. Unfortunately, they still feature when students are mulling over such important decisions as choosing student representatives; leaders who will govern them for an entire academic year and influence their lives directly.

It is time students put a lot more thought into the voting process and give it the significance and value it deserves. Let us not allow ourselves to be sidetracked by the eccentric spectacles and thrill but rather focus on the goal; to select a team that will not only act in truthfulness and diligence but that will reflect true servant leadership, a trait that Daystar University so jealously guards.

Life In The Outskirts…

This morning I spent two hours on the jam and I must say it wasn’t the prettiest experience. I mean am 6ft tall and Nissans aren’t exactly built to accommodate all that fineness! I like them though, because they get you where you are going faster. When am not in a hurry I use the big buses. You know them, the ones where class and prestige is not a priority for travelers. What’s important is that you get where you are going, in one piece and at the lowest cost possible.

Sometimes they double up as mobile clinics where traditional doctors consult, examine and dispense medication all in one trip! Other times they double up as mini crusades; it has all the qualities of a church service only the duration matters depending on where you are alighting. The only thing that doesn’t happen is praise and worship, I guess because after a long day everyone just wants to get home. So, a couple of verses and interpretations later he announces that it’s time to offer sacrifice and proceeds to wriggle his way to the back of the bus and back to the front, coins and an occasional note safely in a clenched fist. He then gives a sort of vote of thanks to the driver and the conductor and he takes a seat or alights before anyone changes their mind about their offering. For some of us who live alittle, alright! a great distance from the city center the dust-filled journey continues.

By now the driver has pumped up the volume and the bus is now filled with sounds of some overly ambitious singers who need a couple of lessons in voice management. Not to downplay their talent, it’s just that in the evening when am going home the last thing I want to hear is some lovesick guy screaming his lungs out about some girl who supposedly doesn’t love him half as much!

I love traveling…in comfort! Sometimes it’s not possible unless you are paying more or it’s your personal car. I don’t particularly enjoy using those buses, but my physique does not allow me to even think about not to! So as I work my way towards my first car, my second house (the first one was a bedsitter!) and consequently my business complex or maybe even a beach house in Miami, I have decided to stick it out in those selfishly-lacking-in-space matatus and hopefully I’ll win the lottery….soon!

I just need time!!

Time…we all need it at some point. Some more than others. For a myriad of reasons; some flimsier than others. Time to heal, time to find myself. Time to breath, time to think about things. Time is probably the most sought after thing and it’s often so elusive!

I sometimes need it in bucketloads! When am under pressure to deliver and everything is threatening to go wrong…or when the husband is raiding the kitchen in the middle of the night (coz he’s hungry) and his wife wakes up, all he need is time to make it to the next room with the oh so juicy drumstick without having to explain himself, you know!

Is there such a thing as perfect timing? Think about it; is there ever a good time to deliver bad news? I mean, for instance if you had to fire one of your employees because..well, budget cuts for survival of the company…would you wait until they are in their office on the phone with a major client closing a deal, and then you pop your head through the door and say, “You are fired!” or maybe when they dutifully bring you your coffee, dark, two sugars, no cream just as you like it and just before they leave you say,” Well thank you (their name) and by the way you are fired!” Come to think of it there is just no perfect time, just say it and hope that the recipient of your bad news does not collapse and die and then you have to deliver this subsequent bad news to their family and other beneficiaries of their hard earned monthly salary!

Or maybe like when you have to break up with someone, then as if the universe doesn’t want you to, something else comes up, his or her cat/dog dies. Aha! Suddenly they are so dejected and ‘grieving’ and any more bad news would just throw them into an unimaginable emotional turmoil! What to do? Shut up and offer your support!

Am fascinated by the fact that time can be killed or even bought. It’s hard to imagine that one would want to kill time in this fast-paced world where every second counts in business, in the medical arena, in law courts, everywhere! But for some it comes naturally. You are in town, it’s too early to go home, so you check into a store and look around not really buying anything. Even worse and I absolutely abhor (the strongest term I could think of!) this habit; sitting in those seats all over town powered by Nairobi City Council, a public utility initiative or something like that. I can understand if it’s only for a couple of minutes but an hour, two hours, the whole day?! Walk up the staircase to the top floor of KICC and back down again if you must, walk around town but please do not be seen idly seated outside the bomb blast memorial or outside Tuskys pioneer!

            To be honest though I wish there was no such thing as time. Only the world would be chaotic, because then it would be hard to plan anything. But who needs a plan? Can’t we just be spontaneous? Plans are actually great, but only when you stick to them. But this does not necessarily mean we abandon all sense of adventure, spontaneity. It’s good to have a sense of direction, a focus point. This way there’s flow and reduced panic-attack instances where time which, is not even available at that time, is spent on trying to get a grip! Enough said, I feel like Dalai Lama, all these was written in free-verse by the way. Explains the typos (Madam Chief Editor is off duty!)

He’s No Romeo…

 

          MaryCelia was very fond of Mbuthia. You see he was the first man that ever paid attention to her and she promised herself to never forget the day they met.

            It was a cool evening in the middle of November when MaryCelia decided to visit the local pub just to see if Wambo and Atis made good their word to attend ladies’ night. She was curious about what happens in these places where people come out staggering and talking nonsense. She peered through the soot-covered lace curtain at the door and saw her two friends Wambo and Atis dancing to the tune of Maish, the local one man guitar. As she made her way to them, past the squeezed tables she took care not to knock anybody’s bottle down. The three friends exchanged high fives and Wambo grabbed MaryCelia, dragged her to the dancing floor and swirled around her in obvious enjoyment. But for MaryCelia, this was simply very new to her. Yes she had seen her father take her mother by the hand and make her twirl as he sang incoherently to a song he had heard over the radio. Her mother would however yank her hand away and storm to the kitchen in embarrassment.

            MaryCelia had never tasted alcohol. She grabbed a seat and shoved the half-empty bottles away from her wiping her hand with the edge of her green cotton skirt. The music is good, she mused as she let her eyes wander across the room bobbing her head as if to convince herself she blended in. And there he was. Before she could look away, he got up, started walking towards her and her heart stopped. She fidgeted and squirmed, frantically straightened her blouse collar and evened her wiry hair with the palm of her hand.

            Mbuthia was a shy man but he tried his best. They talked. MaryCelia giggled. Mbuthia teased. MaryCelia laughed some more and it was time to go home. They met the next day, and then everyday until MaryCelia became Mrs Mbuthia. Wambo and Atis were jealous. They reminded MaryCelia how lucky she was that she had a very romantic husband. She didn’t think so but she had no complaints.

            MaryCelia’s husband was no Romeo. The day they met, he had been brought to the pub by his friend Deno from the village across the river. Deno felt Mbuthia had no charm and had dared him to go and talk to MaryCelia. He never combed his hair neither did he iron his shirt. He didn’t care much for poetry and thought flowers were a waste of time. MaryCelia didn’t mind, though she secretly wished she could get flowers like the ones Atis got from her suitor. Mbuthia drank too much and when he came home he got into bed with his muddy shoes on. He would reach over and grab his wife by the hand, struggle to look at her in the eye, make as if to say something and then collapse into sleep. When he woke up he would find deliciously cooked beef stew and Mukimo and he would dig in, occasionally glancing at MaryCelia, stifling a smile. She would look away, her heart warm with content knowing he liked it, knowing he loved her.

            Mbuthia was a man of few words. He did not brag about his wife to his friends. He liked it that his wife was a good cook, that she never quarrelled him, that she took off his muddy shoes, that she warmed his bath water every morning, that she prayed for him every night, that she never told the neighbours he sometimes slapped her, and that he always found her home when he returned. That’s why he decided to stay sober on Valentine’s Day. He had heard about Valentine’s Day on the radio at Maiko’s shop and his friend Deno had explained it to him. As he was walking home, he saw a beautiful shiny green headscarf. He thought it would look good on MaryCelia and he bought it.

            His wife found the scarf among her clothes and screamed with joy. She prepared ugali and sukuma and they ate in silence. He looked at her, reached over and added some food onto her plate. She looked at him, adjusted the green scarf on her head and giggled. She understood what he was saying. That was her Mbuthia.

The brains behind Obama’s Speech…

Barack Obama’s inaugural address is no doubt one of the best pieces ever written. In my opinion it should be ranked at the top alongside the ‘I Have a Dream‘ speech by Dr. Martin Luther King or somewhere alongside Malcom X’s The Ballot or the Bullet speech of 1965. I say so because it not only tackled the core issues that Americans struggle with but it also invoked a sense of responsibility in ordinary people to take action.

I’m particularly in awe having recently found out that Obama’s inaugural speech was crafted by one Jon Favreau, a young man, barely 27 years of age but has rubbed shoulders with some of America’s high and mighty. A quick background check reveals that Favreau or ‘Favs’ as he is fondly known by his colleagues was discovered almost by chance while working on John Kerry’s failed presidential bid about four years ago. He studied Obama’s former speeches with the precision of a stalker and went on to draft some amazing pieces one of them the speech that helped to turn Iowa for Obama. He wrote it from a coffee shop!

Obama’s inaugural address was significant as this was the first time a black president was taking the most powerful position in existence. Somewhere, in the midst of the crowd stood Jon Favreau, probably saying the words by heart as Obama read them out. And thrilled he must have been for the speech was ‘perfect’. Obama is an accomplished writer in his own right and for Jon Favreau this was obviously not a hard act to follow. The message was delivered in the simplest language possible. The choice of words captured both the mood and importance of the occasion. He began with the pertinent issues and moved on to inspire and reming Americans that indeed th future was bright. Most Americans and indeed the entire world will live to remember this speech for one reason or the other.

Inspiring buks…

Am currently reading The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank. I know you are probably thinking its juvenile but seriously this book is quite fascinating.

 This is the story of a 13-year-old Jewish girl who went into hiding with her family and four other friends during the German occupation of the Netherlands in World War II. She recounts everything they went through while in hiding at the top floor of her father’s office They lived there for close to two years.

I don’t know about you but i was completely humbled when i read about the conditions they lived in. The constant scares from the bombs and gunshots, the fact that you couldn’t walk out in the streets without someone trying to shoot at you or getting arrested, they could not flush their toilets at some point lest someone hears them. The saddest part was when someone alerted the authorities and they they were taken to concentration camps. No teenager should ever go through what Anne Frank went through. She must have been very strong. I was completely amazed at her sense of maturity. She is very aware of the goings-on and she read alot therefore she knew all that was happening. She had a bad case of scabies and she died at the age of 15 soon after her sister.

It is a great book, i’d totally recommend it to anyone.