Huruma was and still is a mess. Lives have been lost , dreams have been shuddered, property has been destroyed, tears wasted and resources gone in response. In my humble view, that didn’t have to happen. Every aspect of the tragedy would have been averted had regulations been followed, enforced and the law followed and obeyed to the letter. I mourn with the families who have lost their loved ones and I pray those who have preceded find a restful and peaceful place by the place of the Lord.
However I have a few bones to chew.
We have had previous tragedies and everyone pulled together to help the victims mostly if the remaining family members belonged to the highest cadres of the Kenyan society. Hashtags were pulled on us, developed and pushed by the brands all over, the media taking the lead in calling for support and togetherness even though those affected had the means to fuel top of the range machinery.
Don’t get me wrong, in times of tragedy, we should all come together to support the affected and offer a cushion for those who have had their loved ones snatched from their hands ever so unexpectedly. In the process however, we have become so hypocritical, supporting those who really don’t need our support and neglecting those who really depend on it to move forward. The difference has been the depths of their pockets and their place in society.
Today I was standing on Peponi road, at the Kitisuru junction waiting for a “jav” to take me to work. From a distance came sirens disturbing the morning peace of the leafy suburb. Birds skipped branches, frogs from the stream by the road stopped croaking and all that could be heard was the sound of the siren. Someone’s life was hanging on a thread. Heavens’ doors were being opened with the devil peeping hoping to get one more tenant. I prayed for their well being. I prayed that God gave them some more time around.
As the onomatopoeia got closer, I almost closed my eyes in a last prayer only to see a sleek Mercedes S Class cruising so fast with two others close in hot persuit. The first one was causing the disturbance and the second had a flag by the left side of the bonet meaning a VVIP was passing and motorists had to give way. Everyone had to stop as the larger than life peraonality made his way to his corrupt government office.
I thought that if an accident happened and he passed on, Safaricom would open a paybill account number for donations, a blood drive would kick off, the media would give his demise the airplay it deserved and the poor and unable would give their last coins to support the mourning family. We would be forced to fly our flags at half mast and three days of mourning would be declared. The country would be given no option but to sulk in the demise but funny enough, the burial would be a “private” affair, an ‘invites only’ event after the country was forced to mourn for three days.
That’s the state of affairs. The poor and the rich separated by the Chinese wall.
As the “wananchi wa kawaida” are packed in matatus like biscuits in a 273 x 265 x 202 mm carton, death awaits at the corner. The police service is too compromised to correct such wrongs and as such the poor continue to die on our roads like flies. If they get lucky and survive, they are taken to Mama Lucy Hospital or KNH where they are killed either by the nurses’ attitude, the germs or the utter negligence of the medical personnel. If they survive that, corruption finishes the job. After all is lost, their bodies are taken to City Mortuary that’s too full with fellow peasants and the only resort is to have their final rest on the cold unforgiving floor.
The world forgets and Vera continues to spend more money on hair, nail polish and ambition than 3 families in Mukuru ever will in their lifetime. Playfields are grabbed, buildings built on road reserves and potbellies inflate as the wananchi sleep hungry or swept away by raging waters.
Wake up people!