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The Perils of Political Transformation: William Ruto's Journey from "Opposition" to Power

In the theatre of political dynamics, there exists a recurring narrative where figures ascend to prominence by vociferously opposing a prevailing order, only to embody the very principles they once denounced. This phenomenon, starkly observable in contemporary Kenyan politics, reveals a troubling trend that transcends mere political theatre, implicating fundamental issues of governance, integrity, and national identity. The Ruto Paradox: From Anti-State Capture to the Heart of Power William Ruto’s rise to political prominence was rooted in a fervent opposition to the concept of “deep state” and systemic state capture. His campaign resonated with many Kenyans disillusioned by entrenched corruption and elite manipulation. Ruto positioned himself as the champion of the ordinary citizen, a beacon of reform against the opaque machinations of entrenched power. However, upon assuming office, the very principles that propelled Ruto to power seemed to erode. His administration, initially celebr...

The One Resolving A Long Standing Conundrum

Aha charonyi ni wasi / Viilambo vose ni igome / Kakunda mufu ni igome / Kakunda mnavu ni igome / Machi ghenywa ni igome / Kila kilambo ni igome / Ni wasi! Ni wasi! Ni wasi! / Ni wasi! Ni wasi! Ni wasi!

By George, I think I’ve bloody solved it!

Wadawida call them “Mboga za majani”, which obviously implies several different types of mboga. Now I’m reminded of a time when I lived exclusively with my dear and much beloved little brother Oscar. Our parents had just immigrated back to Kendu Bay; our awesome big sister Olivia was long married and, gone and with her, our sweet baby Chichi; second-in-line Alvas was also married and off to begin a new life in holy matrimony; and my immediate follower, Kodhé, was in uni; which left Oscar and I in that big house, along with the perpetual house help, ‘Susu’, carried over from the previous Administration. We called her that because she was fairly elderly, and also that is how she preferred to be referred to, which I suspect must be a close relation to the Kikuyu ‘cũcũ’, but for my fledgling Bantu; I don’t know, but  you Bantu speakers can fill me in me on another day, perhaps another post.

Anyway, one day Oscar and I get home, fresh from our daily travails, when we find Susu at the gate departing. “Mpoka iko kwa kas na mjele iko hapo kwa microweff,” she proclaimed as she strutted off; it was month-end and my then incongruous employer hadn’t yet deposited my wages for the month’s labours into my bank account, which in turn presaged that I hadn’t salaried Susu. (It was my turn to pay her, alongside covering shopping, utilities and drinks for the month.) So I completely understood her diva-ing; whereupon I ventured into the kitchen only to find two sufurias sitting pretty on the gas cooker. Assuming that she had somewhat messed up the serving instructions, possibly on account of fatigue (it really was a big house, occupied by two bachelors), Oscar and I proceeded to the living room to watch The Gladiator, firm in the conviction that we were staring at rice and sukuma wiki or some other variant of vegetable on the evening’s menu (us Nairobi-borns cannot countenance a meal sans beef, you see).

Well, some 149 mins. (approx.) later (we always got the DVD box sets), as our collective tapeworms began a fervent push for nourishment—mostly on account of Oscar somehow remembering to accompany himself home with a bottle of Courvoisier (yep, it was around that time: “Pass The Courvoisier!”)—which we chivalrously imbibed as we witnessed, with mouths agape, Russell Crowe yelling “Are you NOT entertained????”, we called it a loss and streamed, in a file, to the kitchen where, to our collective pleasant surprise, we found one sufuria of beef and another of sukuma wiki atop the gas cooker, and yet another of rice in the microwave.

And so it transpires that the Luhya nation was right all along: ugali si mboga!

Annexe 1
If you’re in my age group/set, then I suppose you can tell that I’m listening to Charonyi Ni Wasi by Maroon Commandos (#RIPHabelKifoto) on my iTunes Zilizopendwa playlist, and I’m fucking missing home! This song instantly takes me back many decades, to my first day of school and possibly long before that, when I spent many happy salad (pre-school) days with my favourite cousin Amongs—my other favourite cousins were either too old to play with me or much further adrift—and younger sister Kodhé while minding baby Oscar, all in the company of our cruel distant cousin, at once babysitter and general household factotum, Atieno Nyar Akola (she of the thrash-children-black-and-blue-with-slippers-and-don’t-tell-mother fame), when all life had to offer was waking up to the soundtrack of my life on VoK (Voice of Kenya National Service to the uninitiated) and coming back home to the same music because yes, I’m fucking old and my body is fucking weary; I’ve done all a brilliant writer can do in this fuckéd advertising industry and kicked colossal arse in the process. But I miss home, the familiar things and familiar people, connecting with familiar memories and my salad days. And mummy! The Flying Spaghetti Monster knows it’s been a fucking long time! #HomeSick #MaroonCommandos #WasiMdu

******

Thing 1
In light of what looks like a classic meltdown up there—so you may think, or might have been led to believe, apparently— I will mitigate with one of the more inspirational quotes I have come across in this life, one I find captures my worldview on any given day and keeps me grounded on this cold, dark road, the way of the writer (not to be confused with The Way of The Samurai):
"The mind of a writer can be a truly terrifying thing: isolated, neurotic, caffeine-addled, crippled by procrastination, consumed by feelings of panic, self-loathing, and soul-crushing inadequacy. And that’s on a good day!" – Robert De Niro

Mind you, I’m not one of those self-help, Think-And-Grow-Rich types. So, there.

 

******

Thing 2
It’s pitch season inUganda and as you all zero in on the hallowed hallways of corporate Uganda, hearts on sleeve and more contrite that Saint Augustine (C.E. 354-430)—although let’s not lie to each other: some of you will ‘approach the Bench’, as per well-honed tradition, with brown envelopes or backpacks full of brand new money and the rest, like a lost ball in high wheat, with empty hands and meticulously prepared and carefully stacked tomes of bid documents (in quintuplicate)—I thought I might chip in with some timely advice on this whole pitching business. Provided, of course, that you are not inclined to bribe your way through the entire affair; in which case, open a new tab and proceed to Twitter. But we all know that you’re too obtuse to collect your thoughts in 140 characters, which is probably why you resort to ‘inducements’ to begin with.

Moving swiftly onwards, below is a meme I found online which, it transpires, is precisely how I would go about the bloody thing:


Annexe 2
“...Perhaps the finest copywriter of his generation...” Nice touch, if I say so myself! So I will just leave this here also; I think it speaks for itself. Do come through and let’s have a candid yak about this whole pitching business, shall we?


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