Wishful thinkers, chewing the proverbial meat of contentment, have been head over heels on blogosphere and e-groups with a somewhat mundane argument, that President Mwai Kibaki won the 2007 elections. How surprising even in this century, people still delude in the myth of “a lie told a hundred times becomes the truth.” Kibaki has on the contrary never won an election. A two-time loser, one election delivered to him and the burglary of another, make this opportunist.

I disagree with this lame argument for two reasons: one, it has become largely irrelevant and two, it is fair and square; Kibaki won the 2007 polls yes, by the bullet, not the ballot. The other beneficiaries of this reckless arm-twisting and stifling of democracy include, and are not limited to, George Saitoti, Moses Wetangula, Danson Mungatana, and former Nairobi Mayor Dick Wathika as well as Uhuru Kenyatta’s cousin, Beth Mugo.

By end of day on Dec. 28, 2007, the Party of National Unity (PNU) intelligence had reported that the gap between Raila Odinga of Orange Democratic Movement, and Kibaki of PNU was simply too huge to bridge. The maths indicated that even if the unreported Kibaki strongholds delivered 100 percent turnout, the die was cast- Kibaki was leaving State House. This was unbearable news to insiders. They mooted a quick idea- just inflate the numbers- which they did without controls. The result was that Juja, Molo, and the entire Meru reported in excess of the registered voters, yet the tally still left Kibaki trailing Odinga by about 500,000 votes, which looked better in comparison to the earlier one million-plus deficit.

At some point the stress level was too high for the vote rustlers such as Martha Karua and John Michuki. They crafted a further plan- make electoral commissioner Samuel Kivuitu disappear and stay incommunicado. This gave them time to manipulate both the vote count and tallying at the KICC- a feat they pulled all night long. The tallying took what looked like a lifetime- we were being stretched into boredom and exhaustion.

Kibaki had lost the election. Fortunately for some of his ministers like Saitoti, Wetangula, and even the now estranged Mungatana; Kibaki needed to shore up his numbers in their constituencies, and they benefitted by default. That is how they made it back to Parliament.

By Dec. 29, there was a high security alert, knowing that poll results would not be acceptable to the majority, then Police Commissioner Maj. Hussein Ali (thank God for his sacking), warned Kenyans of dire consequences should they appear at the KICC for the announcement of poll outcome. That was quite a contrast to 2002, when Kenyans thronged the conference centre in anticipation of a Kibaki win.

Before Kivuitu announced the results, which he later accepted he had no faith in, both Mutahi Ngunyi, a seasoned political analyst and Cardinal John Njue, a Catholic prelate, appeared on national television. Mr. Ngunyi’s prognosis was that nothing short of Kibaki’s concession can save the country from turmoil. The archbishop on his part urged Kenyans to uphold peace regardless of the results. The common denominator between the two is that they are both Kibaki insiders. We ought to have taken them very seriously, for they knew exactly what they were talking about.

As Kivuitu pronounced the outcome of the “bullet” that placed Odinga some 200,000 plus votes behind Kibaki, all media houses were kicked out save for the government controlled KBC, which sparked rumors that what was being aired was a recorded broadcast, and that Kivuitu had been made to record the announcement earlier. Well, whichever way, balanced reporting was not possible, so we took the grapevine and ran with it. But the rumor was corroborated by the swearing in that was literally underway at the time Kivuitu declared Kibaki the winner.

As soon as the illegitimate results were broadcast, hell broke loose from the Coastal city of Mombasa to the shores of Lake Victoria, and the hills and mountains of the Rift Valley, even the plains and ridges; it was pandemonium. It was instant. Everybody was enraged. Those favored by the results thought the “losers” were unreasonable whereas those who were assigned the unfavorable result by Kivuitu saw arrogance and theft, and boy! Didn’t they fight? Almost 1,500 lives and hundreds of thousands destitutions later, the accord was born, and that is how Kibaki won!

Instead of us saying Kibaki lost the election like it will help in anyway, we should just say yap he won, not by the ballot, but by the bullet.

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Mwananchi hockey players. Photos by Carey Bwana

Once revered as field hockey powerhouse, Kisumu is slowly dwindling into just another city with no specific sports discipline to be proud of. Gone are the days when sports headline would barely pass without a mention of Kisumu in the hockey circles.

Even though there was only one active hockey club in the town – Kisumu Simba- the influx of players didn’t seem to overwhelm it because most players easily found their spot in most clubs in Nairobi, or joined clubs such as the Kenya Police or the Armed Forces.

Those were days when an inter-estate hockey tournament in Kisumu was likened to the once famous inter-parastatal KECOSO games. During the tournament, players from different clubs linked with their companions from the same estate, to battle it out with other estates. They were grueling matches symbolic of a division one league. There were more than 80 players participating, out of which 60 percent played for various clubs and the rest for their schools. One of Africa’s greatest players who also became Kisumu Simba coach and owner, Parminder Saini “Kake” used the forum to tap some of the best players to join his club.

It was in those days- the 1970s, 1980s and early 1990s- that inter-municipality primary sports was still in full gear. Talent in soccer, track, field, netball and hockey, were discovered at a prime age and groomed to perfection. If you look back in history, you will appreciate that those were the days when Kenya was ranked among the top in the world map in hockey and other disciplines.

John Owuor

In the Olympics of 1984 and 1988, Kenya was ranked 9th and 12th respectively in hockey, where more than 85 percent of players in those teams were either members of Kisumu Simba, or resided in Kisumu. Just for records, Kenya’s all time best world record was in 1971 when it was placed fourth. Some of the players who represented Kenya at the Olympics and resided in Kisumu, included Emmanuel Oduol, Eric Otieno, Jitender Sing Panesar, Julius Akumu, Michael Omondi, Peter Akatsa, Parminder “Kake” Saini, Charles Oguk, Eluid Okoth, Paul Omany, Samson Muange, Samson Oriso, Victor Owino, Simi Goyal, Amit Goyal, Cliff Odendo, Eric Odingo, Clement Omany, Denis Nyamosi, Raymond Ocholla, Meshack Senge, Lusiro Gona, Brian Aduda, John Owuor, Tom Bello, among others. Needless to say, those days are gone.

Nostalgia is what remains in the minds of hockey players who idolized some of Kenya’s greatest. These groups of players- both old and young- however, have not been able to restore Kenya’s glory in field hockey in their era. They attribute this to politics, lack of incentives and few clubs, especially in Kisumu. Interviews of a cross section of players, who once either represented the country internationally, or played at a higher level in clubs or schools, reveals a disheartening state of mind.

Comments in Facebook, now one of the world’s largest Internet sources of old friends reconnection, and reminiscences, reveals the length some of these players went through as youth growing up in Kisumu, in an effort to build their skills using some of the most rudimentary ways, but it did the trick.

Victor Owino

During the schools hockey nationals, the last four teams standing, had a majority of players from Kisumu. Kisumu Boys, Cardinal Otunga, St. Patrick’s Iten and Kakamega High School, all had a large array of players from the potentially rich town of Kisumu. When these schools collided in the semi-finals and finals of the schools nationals, it befitted club hockey standards. As a matter of fact, the Kenya national team scouts used this forum to tap talents to represent the country.

In the United States of America, a group of these players residing in New Jersey, New York and Washington DC, have grouped to form a team called Wananchi. The team has created a lot of wave with their numerous wins in almost every tournament they participate in. Some of the former national team players in this team include Aduda, Owuor, Owino, Victor Machoka, Joyce Agunda, Odendo, Odotte, and Carey Bwana Most of these players however believe they can restore Kisumu’s lost glory. However, it will take more than believing to realize that glorious dream.

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Residents of Nairobi's crowded slums have been particularly hard hit by spikes in the price of food. Photo by Flickr Creative Commons.

NAIROBI, Kenya – Violet Tinah, 40, a resident of Korogocho slum in the Kenyan capital, Nairobi, is living with HIV and was recently diagnosed with tuberculosis, but her biggest problem today is not disease – but hunger.

“When I went for the results that informed me that I had TB, I was very hungry; I’d had no breakfast and lunch and could barely walk,” she told IRIN/PlusNews. “I had to be supported and put in a wheelchair to collect the drugs.

“Often I go without food and during such times I feel dizzy and nauseous after swallowing the [TB and HIV] drugs,” the formerly prosperous carpenter added. “Putting food on the table is like a dream.”

On the day she spoke to IRIN/PlusNews, Tinah had had only a cup of black tea for breakfast and no lunch; a concerned neighbour has brought her some porridge “to help me swallow my drugs”. Tinah was hoping her unemployed nephew would pass by later with a little food.

Many of the slum’s residents live on food salvaged from a nearby rubbish dump and sold on the streets of Korogocho.

According to a 2009 World Bank poverty assessment, the poor in Kenya spend 70 percent of their income on food on average – those in the poorest 20 percent of the population spend 77 percent. Sharp increases in the price of staples in 2008 – maize flour rose by as much as 130 percent between 2008 and 2009 – and a national food crisis in 2009 mean poverty has been on the rise.

The urban poor, most of whom do not farm, have been particularly hard hit.
Korogocho location chief Rebecca Balongo told IRIN/PlusNews that many programmes supporting HIV-affected households had collapsed. “It is not unusual to have a family share only a plate of food in a day,” he said.

Little help

The Kenya Network of Women with AIDS, which until 2009 provided food assistance to about 4,000 HIV-positive people in slums in central Kenya, has had to shut down its feeding programme due to lack of funding.

“We are no longer giving food at our drop-in centres in Korogocho, Kiambiu, Soweto and Mathare slums in Nairobi, Kiandutu slums in Thika and Kiawara slums in Nyeri town,” said KENWA advocacy programme officer James Ndung’u.

“KENWA is only providing highly nutritious porridge to the very weak and bedridden clients.

“The slums have high HIV prevalence rates and without food there are challenges; our nurse has reported clients failing to collect ARVs on schedule – they say they are busy looking for work to buy food,” he added. “ARVs require one to have a proper diet, but on an empty stomach, there is a tendency to default and consequent risk of drug resistance.”

A few programmes continue to provide support in the form of food or cash transfers. Concern Worldwide has started a cash transfer programme in Korogocho to provide food subsidies of about US$20 per month to 2,000 extremely vulnerable households, including bed-ridden HIV-positive people.

However, Concern’s programme is due to end in June, after which the government is expected to take it over. Slum residents and officials are not optimistic; chief Balongo says the government did not send any food support to her area in 2009.

Employment is scarce for the slum’s residents, especially if they are weak. Frederick Egesa works as a watchman, earning about $47 a month. He walks to work, has no days off and is docked two-and-a-half days’ pay for every day he misses work.

“Look at my many dependents – I spend 1,000 shillings [$13] on rent and have 200 shillings [$2.60] daily for food, so we have to skip eating at times,” he said. “When I collect my ARVs I am advised to eat well, but how do I manage a balanced diet?”

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Mr. Ayumba looked anxious as he sat watching his wife narrate his story. For some reason, he seemed unable to express himself. When I asked the wife why he was unable to talk, she said his voice was hoarse, so he preferred not to talk. Since he looked rather ill, I asked her to continue:

“Anakuanga na shida ya tumbo, na roho ina pigapiga saa ingine. Ametibiwa mara mingi lakini hajapata nafuu. Tena, anavidonda kwa mdomo. Saingine hawezi kula,” she said. [He normally has abdominal problems, and get palpitations of the heart sometimes. He has been treated many times with no improvement. Also, he has sores in the mouth. Sometimes he can't eat].

“Alianza kuugua lini?” I asked. [When did he start displaying the symptoms]?

“Unajua Daktari, mimi nimekaa na yeye miezi tatu tu. Bibi yake alikufa juzi, alafu baada ya mazishi, tukaanza kukaa pamoja. Lakini mwenyewe anasema anakuanga tu mgonjwa tangu zamani. Akitibiwa, ana pona kidigo, alafu ugonjwa inarudi. Lakini sasa, amezidiwa. Hakuli. Na halali vizuri. Saa ingine anasema anaumwa tumbo; saa ingine anaharisha, sana sana akikunywa chai ya maziwa,” she said. [You know doctor, I have stayed with him for three months only. His wife died recently, and after burial, we started staying together. But he says he has been sick for long. If he gets treatment, he improves a bit then the sickness recurs. But now he is getting worse. He doesn't eat. He doesn't sleep well. Sometimes he says his tummy is paining. Sometimes he gets diarrhoea, especially when he takes tea with milk].

It took a long time to get Mr. Ayumba’s full medical history. The ‘marriage’, it turned out was really an association of convenience. She needed somewhere to stay, and he needed somebody to help look after him, and his kiosk. Increasingly, he was getting too weak to go fetch fresh supplies for the kiosk twice a week. He in turn helped look after Nancy’s 2-year-old baby when she went shopping for her mitumba [second hand clothes'] kiosk.

He had left his own two children with his mother in the village when he went to bury his wife. He couldn’t look after them on his own after his wife died unexpectedly. His wife had bled excessively after going into labor at night. It had taken too long to get a taxi to rush her to the hospital. And when they arrived, they were denied immediate assistance at Pumwani Maternity Hospital because she did not have a clinic card. She gave birth in the waiting room, and both mother and baby died soon after. It had taken more than one month to collect enough money in order to go bury his wife in the village as is expected. But since coming back, his health had taken a turn for the worse.

So he allowed Nancy, who had recently come from upcountry the use of the extra room, until he was strong enough to look after his own business. His biggest problem now was that he felt very weak. Also, he had no appetite, and the sores in the mouth prevented him from eating. He couldn’t taste the food and when he swallowed, he felt pain as the food went down. He got abdominal pains on and off. Sometimes he got diarrhoea. Occasionally he complained of headaches. He did not sleep well some nights. Sometimes he got a bad cough. A chest x-ray done at Kenyatta Hospital last month was found to be normal. Mr. Ayumba had carried the antibiotics he had been given for his cough. He admitted that his mouth problem had worsened when he had started taking the antibiotics. He had also been given a gel for the mouth sores, but it didn’t seem to be working.

I gave Mr. Ayumba a though medical check up: He weighed 65 kilograms and was 7 feet 5 inches tall. His blood pressure was 150/90, and he has a pulse of a 100 beats per minute, with an irregular heart beat. It seemed that potentially, he was a big person, but now he looked moderately wasted and bent, like an old man. Yet he was only in his early 40s. The skin on his face, arms and feet looked dry and much darker than his trunk. His nails appeared colorless, with dark longitudinal lines on some of the finger nails; often, such lines signify amino acid deficiencies. He had several deformed nails on his toes because of what looked like a fungal infection. His lips were patched and excoriated in some areas, a sign of anaemia and vitamin B deficiencies. His parotid glands were mildly enlarged, but generalized gland enlargement was not detected. Parotid enlargement is common in protein malnutrition, even in children.

When he opened his mouth, there was a perceptible odour-  the pellagra odour- which has been described variously as garlicky, putrid, or simply ‘the smell of poverty.’ His tongue was heavily coated with a thick sticky whitish mass of candida yeast. When scraped with a spatula, the skin below was inflamed and sensitive. The tongue had a few dark patches near the tip that are said to be characteristic of pellagra. Both the tongue and the buccal (cheek) mucosa had small, round superficial ulcers which were tender when poked with a spatula. This sign is important because it enables us to differentiate stress (nutrient deficiency) ulcers, and the ulcers that can arise from serious diseases such as syphilis. The latter tends to be painless.

The rest of the examination did not reveal much else. We therefore sent him to the laboratory for a blood count, sexually transmitted diseases screening and a malaria parasite test. We did not bother to check for Gastro Intestinal Tract (GIT) infections such as typhoid at this stage because he was already on antibiotics. We also deferred the HIV test until his system had stabilized, maybe three months later. As we waited for the initial results, I talked to him about how he perceived his illness. He had no hesitation, and in fact for the first time since contact, he seemed animated. He used one word to explain his condition: “Chira,“  meaning he had been bewitched.

According to him, they had an uncle in the village with whom his family had a land dispute. The uncle had killed his father in the same way. Now he was next. Mr. Ayumba came from Western Kenya where maize diets and malnutrition are endemic. Before HIV/AIDS appeared on the scene, pellagra was viewed as an illness arising from witchcraft [chira]. Today, confusion reigns: while most hospitals view most wasting conditions as arising from HIV, some villagers have started doubting this, at least for some of the patients, who they still consider to be bewitched.

The initial results came back 30 minutes later. According to the blood count, his white cell count, including the platelet count was low. This is expected in both pellagra and HIV/AIDS. His CD4 count was borderline at 300. He did not have malaria parasites, and his screening for syphilis was negative. He was told to come for the rest of his results after one week. But armed with the initial results, we were in a position to make the following conclusions:

Mr. Ayumba had full blown pellagra as evidenced by his weak wasted frame. The dark patches on his tongue were diagnostic. Even experimental pellagra in dogs produced the same dark patches. His swallowing difficulties were related to the involvement of the esophagus (gullet) with candida.

The enlarged parotid glands in the presence of a low blood count were also suggestive of pellagra. A study in Egypt has made a causal association between niacin deficiency (protein malnutrition) and parotid enlargement in adults.

The yeast infection on his tongue was indicative of lowered immunity; yeast is a common opportunistic infection whenever immunity weakens. The strong antibiotics he was taking could also exacerbate this problem. This is because strong antibiotics tend to kill off both the good and bad bacteria in the GIT; and this allows the flourishing of candida species.

His anxiety and lack of sleep could be because of two factors: Stress related to the grieving for his wife that he had really not had opportunity to undergo; and secondly, it could also be an early sign of pellagra dementia. Mr. Ayumba could also develop significant heart disease, especially if he fails to adapt healthy eating habits and over indulges in alcohol.

Chronic digestive disturbances are common in pellagra. The diarrhoea can be very debilitating and expensive to treat. It is common to find patients who have variously been diagnosed and treated for typhoid, amoeba, ecoli, brucellosis, and stomach ulcers with limited relief. As this happens, their immunity continues to weaken.

Based on the above criteria, we reached a decision that Mr. Ayumba needed to get treatment for his pellagra problem as soon as possible. He was in danger of his immune system weakening further and exposing him to other opportunistic infections, including HIV. To boost the immune system, Mr. Anyumba would require in addition to B (among other) vitamins, immune minerals and trace elements such as selenium. Yeast infection of the GIT often worsens the already weakened digestive function tipping the balance against the immune system quite quickly. Mr. Anyumba already had problems swallowing food, an indication that the yeast had already affected the oesophagus, and probably his whole digestive system.

We also put him on anti-fungal tablets, which are usually more effective when the infection is widespread like in Mr. Ayumba’s case. We advised him to complete his antibiotic course, but warned him against misuse of antibiotics. Lately, people have gotten into the habit of getting over-the-counter antibiotics every time they get a fever, cough or some other illness they are not sure about. This is a very harmful practice and should be discouraged. Apart from contributing to Mr. Ayumba’s problem, unnecessary use of antibiotics helps create germs that are resistant to antibiotics.

Dr. Nelly’s journal continues next week.

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These diary entries form part of IRIN’s extensive multimedia coverage of the humanitarian impact of conflict in northern Uganda. Lord’s Resistance Army rebels are no longer active here – they have moved their operations into neighbouring countries – so millions of people have left the crowded camps where they lived for up to two decades to return to their home villages. These are the stories of people who have made that journey and are now trying to overcome the trauma and dislocation of war to rebuild their lives, and livelihoods, from scratch.

George Oringa is a human rights activist and youth worker

Sharon, 4 Godfrey, 11 Florence, 25 Kizito, 2. Photo by Euan Denholm/IRIN

December 2009

“I can’t believe I am no longer living in an IDP camp in Pabbo although the bad memories are still there. It is a different life now where people are living freely in their villages. All my brothers and other relatives have moved back home to Techome and Teturu and are working in their gardens. I visit them but I can’t move to the village with my family. I am still volunteering as a paralegal with the Justice and Peace Commission in Pabbo; the work is okay but not so intensive as in the previous years when the people were living in IDP camps and there was still war.

Whenever cases of abuse arise, I register and advise the victims and make referrals to human rights agencies and to the sub-county authorities. Following up cases has become challenging because most people are no longer living in IDP camps, they have gone back to their villages and reaching them has become very difficult because of the bad roads.

I monitor and report issues of gender-based violence that is very common among the returning IDPs.

I have had the opportunity to undertake a human rights training course, and have obtained my certificate at Gulu University in Secretarial and Information Management. I passed the training well with a second class, upper division. I am working with Norwegian refugee agencies implementing a youth education programme.

These war-affected youths are being trained in carpentry, tailoring, brick-laying, designing clothing, business skills and other life skills. I am teaching them English, mathematics, physical education, peace and human rights. It’s a two-year contract and the work ends this year.

I have been selected as a member of Child Protection Committee in Pabbo; we are supposed to help the community ensure the rights of children are protected and children are taught their responsibilities. The programme is being supported by [the UN Children’s Fund] UNICEF through Concern Parents, an agency working in Amuru district.

My family is doing well with the exception of my younger daughter who is suffering from sickle cell anaemia. I can’t return to the village because of my child’s health; I need to stay near a health centre. I have also decided to remain at Pabbo because in my village there is no school.

I am being accommodated on mission land in Pabbo centre. There is a primary school and health centre nearby. I am trying to work hard to acquire my own land in the centre but it has been very difficult because I have to spend my savings treating my daughter.

Plans

I want to continue with my education, I want to enrol for computer science at Gulu University. It’s a good area of study because it’s marketable. The only challenge is paying the tuition fee, it’s very costly. I am encouraging my brothers and other relatives to educate their children so that they can learn how best to put to use the available resources they have in the village.

Dealing with trauma

The hardest times were living in the camp where cases of human rights abuse were so high. Some of the cases were so frightening and horrible, at one point my life was threatened if I continued reporting abuse but I decided never to give up.

Last year I lost a newborn; that death still hits my mind and my wife is struggling to recover from it.”

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May 2008

I am still working as a paralegal in Pabbo internally displaced people’s camp in Amuru, northern Uganda. This is my eighth year working as a paralegal, helping to refer cases of abuse to human rights agencies in Gulu. We have registered close to 100 cases, such as domestic violence, child abuse, and land conflicts resulting in violence. Fortunately no one has been killed but the situation is alarming, especially with the return of displaced people to their villages.

As paralegals, we are sensitizing the community to the need to respect human rights. A lot of people visit me for counselling. The level of trauma is still high. The conflict inflicted a lot of damage on the minds of people in northern Uganda and it will take time for people to heal.

I am also teaching war-affected and formerly abducted children at Pabbo youth education learning centre. We teach them skills in carpentry and joinery, brick-laying and building, tailoring and agriculture. The programme is supported by the Norwegian Refugee Council and we have enrolled 100 students for this year’s programme. We are teaching them to read, write and do simple arithmetic. All these students were abducted by Lord’s Resistance Army rebels and they missed out on a formal education. It is a catch-up programme to impart skills to these war-affected children so that they are able to earn a living and live a sustainable life.

We teach them modern agriculture and farming to improve their food productivity and food security as they resettle in their homes. The students are also taught environmental conservation and the need to plant more trees.

We need to conserve our environment and plant more trees for fuel in the future.

Life in the camp

I am still staying in Pabbo main camp. Life in the camp is difficult because of poor living conditions and poor sanitation. So many people have returned to their villages. Three-quarters of the camp is empty and most people are heading back to their homes while others are still moving to the transit camps nearer to their homes.

I always visit my home in Teturu village 2.5km from Pabbo main IDP camp. I have cultivated millet and ground nuts there. I have about 2ha of crops. The food will help feed my family. I have built a small hut in the village to help us provide shelter when we work in the garden.

My brothers are coming home next year when we build more huts and when the crops are harvested to help the family.
They are also preparing shelters for goats and chickens at home so that they are safe. The only fear is armed robbers and unexploded ordnance that might harm people in their fields.

People are busy digging to harvest more food. The food prices are so high at Pabbo IDP camp. People from Juba, Magwi and Nimule in Southern Sudan are flooding Pabbo and other places in northern Uganda to buy food. Food is scarce in Southern Sudan and they depend on supplies from IDP farmers in the region and other places like Kampala.

A kilo of rice in Pabbo costs 2,000 shillings [about US$1.50] and 1kg of beans costs 1,500 [about $1]. The demand for food is high and prices are increasing. The high demand is good for IDP farmers; they are planting a lot of crops. People are going to harvest a lot of crops and this will increase food security.

Two children diagnosed with sickle cell

I cannot go home because two of my children – Sharon Lapica, 6, and Abalo Teddy, five months – were last week diagnosed with sickle cell anaemia. Both of them at times develop swelling in their joints and Sharon cries so much, complaining of pain all over her body when she is sick.

The doctor says we should take care of the children so that they do not fall sick with malaria. We are giving them quinine and folic acid tablets every three days.

I cannot risk going back home where there are no health services because my children will die. The doctors at Pabbo St Mary’s hospital say we should be near a health unit in case the children fall sick.

These four children are enough for me and my wife and I agreed not to have any more.

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December 2007

We have been seeing a lot of changes here in Pabbo. In October and November people really started to move back. The dry season was coming up and that meant it was possible to build huts because the grass would be ready.

People are building one or two huts so they can store food and sleep in them even if they haven’t properly moved back. The only people staying in the camp are those who have land very nearby and the elderly and disabled.

People are trying to get the grass before it is burnt. I think probably about half the people have gone now. But many of those will still be keeping a house and have some of their relatives staying here.

Over the last two or three months people have started to worry about the peace talks because of the rumours that [Joseph] Kony [LRA leader] has killed [Vincent] Otti [deputy LRA leader]. People are saying this Kony is not serious.

People from Pabbo went to the peace talks in November and they said they’d forgive Kony if he was sincere.

But he must show real sincerity and people are worried that he is now just joking. They’d like to hear him tell the truth about what he’s done to Otti – not just tell the truth but show it, invite journalists up to Garamba so that our faith is restored.

Then in the talks he needs to be clear and open and say honestly what he wants. At the moment he just seems to be complicating things, moving the goal posts, and that isn’t helping anybody.

So hopefully if Kony is sincere next Christmas we will not only be eating food from the land but celebrating on the land.

Human rights

Earlier in December Pabbo was chosen to hold the district’s Human Rights Day event. It was a very deliberate choice.

For a number of years Pabbo was notorious for human rights violations. Local government officials would harass and bully those who disagreed with them. They would accuse you of being a rebel collaborator, have people beaten or taken away to the barracks. They had a network of spies.

These days things are getting better, the civilian police are around and so the thugs can’t go too far.

When they held the celebrations the district authorities said that all the intimidation had to be a thing of the past.

Booming business

The road up to Sudan has been trouble. When the rain came many lorries got stuck – there were over 40, bumper to bumper.

The road was a complete mess; in some sections the road had sunk so deep cars weren’t visible, in other areas it had tripled in width as people tried to avoid the mud. The road was effectively closed and so we lost all of our business to the other route up via Arua.

Now we are in the dry season the road is at least passable and so the business people are back.

And people in Pabbo are earning.

The business people are stopping and buying rice and maize.

We have a lot more shops than before. They have moved from the inside of the camp to the main road as the camp shrinks and the business comes from the travellers passing through.

Pabbo is changing from being a camp to a trading centre. We now have about 15 shops on the road.

They have started building some big buildings, including a couple of warehouses and hotels. One is even called the White House because it looks so smart.

Malaria threat

Our youngest son Kizito caught malaria and started having convulsions, so we took him to a branch of Lacor, the local missionary hospital, here in Pabbo. But they said he would need to go to the main hospital, so I’ve been spending a lot of time there. One of our family usually goes down with malaria every two or three months.

But it is worse for a child because they don’t have the resistance, they are weaker. Apparently he had a very strong form of malaria and they kept him there for five days but he’s made a good recovery and is now smiling again.

I’m going to start making sure that the children sleep under mosquito nets. They use them but we are a little lax at making sure they are tucked in. That is going to change.

I’m also going to make sure that we don’t have any water near the house where mosquitoes can breed. And then I want to keep some medicine nearby for when this happens again.

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July 2007

I work as a paralegal in Pabbo camp, the largest in northern Uganda, helping people by making them aware of their rights. Things are slowly getting better with the talks taking place in Juba but I don’t think I will be leaving here any time soon.

I was born two-and-a-half kilometres from Pabbo and so my land is in easy reach of my new hut here in the camp.

A lot of people here don’t want to return yet. It’s a big risk. Pabbo was a sub-county that suffered most in the war and now people really won’t believe they have seen the last of the fighting until they see the rebels come back from South Sudan.

People fear that rebels will be in the bush hiding up on the mountain near us or near the Nile and that there could be more trouble. There are worries about unexploded ordnance.

Most people in the camp are going to dig their own land anyway. What people are saying is that if they can reach their land from the camp, it’s a waste of time to go to a resettlement site which they see as just another camp. They’d prefer to wait and then go straight there.

That’s what I think – until then I’ll go and dig my own land from here.

I know in parts of the north people have started to go home but you have to understand what people have been through around here.

We moved from the village to the camp in October 1996.

They were terrible days. The rebels were crossing near our house and the government would fire mortars indiscriminately. The rebels would come and beat us. They would take the food but not us, thank God. We didn’t know where to turn.

One day we decided to leave and come to the camp but that didn’t mean we found any peace. The rebels would come into the camp – every night you’d hear shooting. People would be killed or taken away, never to be seen again.

Slowly, slowly we started building the huts but we couldn’t sleep in them. We’d all go and sleep in the main church, young and old alike. Everyone would take a basin for going to the loo, or if they couldn’t afford that, a tin. It would smell terrible but with the gunshots people knew what would be waiting and wouldn’t dare go outside in the night.

I can’t forget that place. It will always be there with me.

In 1999 it started to cool down a little bit. Government security got tighter. People could sleep at home. Some people would go and dig but you’d go late and come back early and sometimes you couldn’t go at all. Everyone was dependent on food aid.

Our culture has really been destroyed in the camps. When we were at home the elders would talk to us around the fire and teach children, telling them proverbs and stories.

The elders could keep an eye on their children. But in the camps there weren’t the open places. People are squeezed together in small spaces but then they are also separated from their family because there isn’t the space next door to build a hut when the family grows so they end up being scattered and yet living on top of each other at the same time. There was no use of prostitutes before the camps but now it’s commonplace.

When so many people couldn’t dig they just went to the bar to drink. They lost their dignity. And now some are finding those habits difficult to change.

But now Pabbo is much better than it was. It used to be 67,000 living here and now it’s about 42,000 – so 20,000 have gone to resettlement sites. They may still be like camps but people want to be where they can reach their land and, besides, they have more space. So now we have a little space to breathe.

When we had cholera in 2004, people were vomiting everywhere and had white diarrhoea. There were about 2,000 people who went down with it. It was hellish. Everywhere smelt very bad until Médecins Sans Frontières came with disinfectant for us to spray. After that we set up a health and sanitation committee and when you don’t have a clean hut it gets knocked down.

So now if we walk around today you will see spaces with the remains of huts – some which have fallen down because their owners have left and some that have been knocked down because these days we won’t risk uncleanliness.

I used to work in Pader as counsellor for the soldiers who had come back from the bush with Father Carlos, a well-respected Spanish missionary.

They needed a lot of reassurance. We had to be friends to them and talk to them very simply. They had lost hope, they were alienated, very demoralised and they needed to be persuaded that they could make a future.

Most of them thought they would be killed by the government or that they would go back and be punished by the community.

What was true of individuals in Pader is now true for all those soldiers in South Sudan. We don’t want them to feel cornered. If they are going to come out then they need to have trust.

And they have expectations. They will want food, pay and protection from the government and NGOs. We have to make sure they aren’t left disillusioned and that they re-integrate.

But there has to be a balance between meeting the expectations of the returnees and those of the general population. It’s difficult.

I’ve been a paralegal since 2001 when there were some terrible things done by the UPDF – the Ugandan army – as well as the rebels. My role is to explain their rights to people and what they can do if they are violated.

We’ve had people beaten very severely by the soldiers, or by the local defence units. There were women raped by soldiers, sometimes even killed by them.

But the paralegals make these things known to the bosses and try to get them put right. Sometimes they take them seriously, sometimes not.

In March they started to introduce civilian police to the camp – before it was just military – and since then the situation has started to get better. I think crime has fallen since they arrived. People feel safer.

Pabbo is becoming a little more normal but we still have a lot of cases of domestic violence.

There was one little girl who had been taken out of school by her parents; she was being beaten regularly and then the father raped her. He is in prison now. That is very extreme but often children are beaten and abused.

I think that’s the next big human rights issue that we need to address here in northern Uganda.

Pabbo was famous before the war because the land is so very fertile. If you plant rice or ground-nuts here they just grow so fast – it was the food basket of northern Uganda.

People would come from miles around to buy food here.

When I was very young I did not even know how to use the money I made from the rice I grew. Now we have South Sudan opening up, so we Acholi need to use the land well.

We are hard-working people – we don’t want to be dependent on food aid – we’ve only taken it because there was no other way but it’s not nice or good for us.

In Acholi culture we eat so many greens; we like sim-sim [sesame] and ground nuts, smoked fish and meats – olal – and we eat millet, not the maize the World Food Programme gives us.

We are used to the millet bread and rice and it will be good to get back to them, especially for the young children. They are too used to free things but when we return they will quickly learn.

Some people have become lazy and drink rather than work because of the camps but the Acholi are not a jealous people and when the time comes to return we will look after each other and make sure that people can find their way back.

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Hi. My name is Jessica but my friends (who are very few) call me Jezzie while my enemies –a constituency of them – call me Jezebel. I am 25 years old and HIV-positive. I am a mother of 4 -year –old twins – David (Didi) and Terry (Titi). This is my continuing story.

Week 7

Wednesday

Trust Mariam to make my life miserable through such temptations. I have slept over the whole saga and decided to take a risk, after all one only lives once. Three million shillings? Yes, I will risk my neck for that amount of money. Who knows, I can also end up owning property in Tudor 4 and join the Balalas and Dhanjals as neighbours. Who says that I have to be condemned to a life of perpetual hustling?

This morning I feel good about myself. Finally I seem to have hit on the right combination of ARVs as my body has not gone on strike. Furthermore my CD4 count is a high 432, though I am aware that the same count can plummet depending on my circumstances. Though cumbersome, the new drugs have worked wonders in my body. Plus I am behaving in terms of dieting and drinking. Good girl, Jessica. Now let’s see how long it will last.

The kids’ excitement lasted the whole night with stories, presents, and surprises extending late into the night. This morning they are still full of energy talking incessantly.

“When is our next birthday?” Titi asks innocently. I know the feeling my daughter.

I notice Jonah’s kids peeping out of the window, definitely waiting for more goodies. They must have had a good fill with the richly baked and decorated chocolate cake and sweets yesterday. How easy it is to please kids. I wonder when Jonah will take them to school, if ever. The eldest girl, almost seven years old, is definitely within school going age.

I drop my kids off at school, the ride punctuated with more singing and anecdotes of who does what in class. I have a problem keeping up with the names that easily roll off their mouths.

I reach the office early enough to beat Teresia. I walk past Jumah, wondering what he has in store for me. “Good morning boss,” he whispers. I acknowledge his greetings.

I am hardly seated when Abdul bundles into the office unannounced. “Young man, you’ve finally remembered me!” I chide him. He does not smile and his tanned skin seems to get darker. He removes his shades and takes a seat. His eyes are fiery red, either from lack of sleep, excess drinking or both. Abdul takes a deep breath and then instinctively looks behind his shoulders.

“They are coming for me! I need somewhere to hide,” he starts and again he glances furtively behind his back.

I have never seen Abdul like this. He is one man who is always full of life, positive energy and a real encouraging spirit.

“Who is ‘they’?” I ask.

Another pause followed by a deeper sigh and another cautious look behind before he lowers his voice. “Please lock the door,” he tells me. I obey, get off my seat and lock the door.

“It’s my eldest brother, Amin, who has run amok. He has already shot and killed one of my uncles and now he is coming for my two brothers and me,” Abdul continues, the looking behind not stopping.

“Two brothers? Where is the third one and where is your father?” I ask, remembering that Abdul has four brothers.

“My other brother, Salim, and my dad are out of the country on a mission,” he replies.

Abdul does not need to tell me about the mission, but I know that his dad and brother have gone to sort out some consignment of drugs from Nicaragua.

“So what is the problem with Amin?” I ask.

“Control of the empire, suspicion and general insecurity. I need to get away from here and from Mombasa,” he tells me. He looks very awful, the fear in his eyes making him look twice his age.

I open my f-bag and remove a black full bui bui that has come in handy a couple of times when I am found in a tight corner. Abdul quickly dons it and his transformation is instant. He looks cute. A knock on the door startles him, and he abruptly stands up wondering where to go.

“It must be Teresia,” I assure him as I go to open the door. And sure as rain, it is Teresia.

“Good morning my sister,” Teresia tells Abdul, who smiles and just nods as he bows his head. He walks out, and I follow him from a distance.

“I will be back in five minutes,” I tell Teresia as I see Abdul off to the car park.

“Take my car and leave it at my place. I will use a matatu today,”  I tell him. However, I know that Abdul’s restlessness will force him out of Mombasa.

“Okay, but can you book me a plane to Dar-es-Salaam?” he instructs me. “Tonight please.”

I nod as I escort him to the car. Despite the disguise, the nervousness exhibited by the darting eyes and the occasional glance behind almost gives him away. I watch as he drives the car that was once upon a time his. My payments for the car are almost complete. With the restaurant picking up, I should be able to even buy a fancier car. Thanks Abdul. I owe you much.

Abdul and his family have fallen into the eternal greed trap: whatever you have is never enough until everyone else is out of the way! What a useless way to live! I think I am a million times happier than Abdul and his multi-millionaire family.

Back at the office, I call the local Kenya Airways office to inquire about any flights tonight.

Pamba has not been to work for the last three days. It is time to make a decision about him, and I can’t wait for Mr.Kombo to come and sort the issue out once and for all.

It does not take long and three smartly dressed gentlemen walk into the office. They produce a letter which bears the company’s logo with the signature of Mr. Kombo. I can straight away tell that the signature is forged and so is the letter head.

“These were done before I joined the company,” I tell them. “So please let my boss come then I will call you. But why do you dish out loans without following the proper channels?”

The men have no reply to my questions, and I look on as they walk out of the office. The men are immediately replaced by an agitated looking Jumah, who is breathing fire.

 “Where is Pamba?” I ask him. He either does not hear my question, or he chooses to ignore it.

“My daughter’s husband is coming to pay dowry on Saturday,” he informs me, his gaze not meeting mine.

“And what does that have to do with me?” I ask well aware that all this has to do with me and money.”

“I need a loan,” he whispers, his gaze still on the window behind by desk.

I weigh the situation to judge whether or not it’s genuine. I decide to throw the gauntlet down and take him on his game.

“How much do you need?” This catches him by surprise, and I can see the cog of the wheels in his brain churning into action. He must have been expecting a negative answer.

“Ten thousand shillings,” he finally says his gaze still on the window sill.

“When?”

“Today!”

I open one of my drawers and count ten crisp notes of Kshs.1,000 each. I offer him the money.

“Count it,” I tell him. He does so twice before I show him where to sign out for the money.

“Juma?” He turns to look at me, fear spread that I might take the money back. “Increase your daughter’s dowry by Kshs.10,000 and give me the money back in a week’s time!”

To be continued.

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“By the grace of the owner of ostriches, I have completed my relocation plans, and will depart on Sunday,” said Baba Soni, to friends and relatives who met at his condor in Billerica, Mass. Finally the curtain of his 25 years living and working in United States was falling. I was busy trying to read the faces of those gathered in the small, but well furnished living room. I managed to categorize the audience into three.

Category one asked, albeit silently, “are you crazy to go back to that corrupt, crime ridden, jigger infested, potholed, matatu cultured, dusty and poor apology of a country? Please, give me a break!” I could read this by the way they looked at Baba Soni, and rolled their eyes, and when they spoke, the disdain in their voice was unmistakable. They also assumed a fake Boston ascent by calling me “Pee-ra” even though I am “Pee-ta.” Occasionally, the Nyeri ascent betrayed them, and they would say, “watch” when they meant “wash.”

There are Diaspora Kenyans who believe that Kenya is a perfect embodiment of hell on earth. When they boarded their flights to America, it was akin to the descendants of Jacob leaving Misri to the Promised Land. To them, Kenya is a geographical misnomer. Well, yours truly will not judge anyone.

Each Diaspora Kenyan is a story to be told. Some years ago, especially during the Nyayo era, life was unbearable in Jamhuri. It mattered most who knew you in high places, to access the national cake. Those who made it out of the country have unpleasant memories. A lot of water has since passed under the bridge. There is a silver lining in the Kenyan cloud at the moment.

The other category were those whose hearts were wailing. Each one was saying, “I wish I was in your shoes, Baba Soni. How I would love to smell nyama choma in Kia Maiko market again, or ride in the noisy but beautiful Buru Buru Matatus?” For them, every day in America brings more agony to their lives. The American dream they were chasing ended in a terrible nightmare.

For example, Sarah Wendo came to the USA as a student 12 years ago, now she is wanted by the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services for extending her stay illegally. Sarah would love to go back to Kenya, but she has no college degree, and hustles from one part time job to another, working under pseudonyms.

Since coming to America, Sarah’s dear father passed on followed in a quick succession by her mother. Because of her status, Sarah did not attend the funerals. The 5-year-old daughter she left behind is completing high school, and all Sarah has are pictures of her fast growing daughter. Sadly, prospects of legalizing her stay diminish by the day.

Many of Baba Soni’s guests crossed the Atlantic as visitors to weddings, graduations, seminars, what have you. The six months visitors visa was extended to a couple of years. One can say of America like Mombasa; Kuingia Marekani ni vigumu, kutota ni vigumu zaidi [coming to America is hard, leaving is harder].

In the third category were Baba Soni’s two sons and daughter. Finally they will have the fully paid condor to themselves. Despite having Green Cards, and therefore eligible for American citizenship, Baba Soni and his wife long decided that America was not for them, under what Baba Soni called a long-term “exit plan.”

“I am not planning to spend my last day in a nursing home,” Baba Soni once told me when I enquired why he wanted so badly to go back home. “I want to be surrounded by mooing cows, cockling chicken, barking dogs, and bleating goats. Kuna maisha nyumbani bwana [there is ‘life’ at home],” he would say. And what is life by Baba Soni’s standards? “Kenya is paradise, our weather is the best. Socially, we are miles ahead of any society.”

“But what about service provisions like good hospitals, smooth roads, efficient government services plus all the good amenities available here?” I asked.

“To tell you the truth, I do not give a hoot about all that. I wish we measured our development like the Kingdom of Bhutan.” Baba Soni became philosophical. Apparently in Bhutan, they do not measure their growth in Gross Domestic Product. “They measure their development in terms of Gross Domestic Happiness,” he explained.

“Did you know Kibera residents are happier than their more affluent neighbors?” I did not know that. “Whatever little investment and property I have acquired, is enough to see me through retirement,” Baba Soni said.

As for me, all I thought as I enjoyed the company of Wakenya was in agreement with Shakespeare: “All the world’s a stage, and all men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.”

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Kenyans voted for Mwai Kibaki and his NARC brigade in 2002 because they promised to deliver a new constitution in 100 days of power, and to clamp down hard on the monster of corruption. There could have been a barrage other reasons, but these two held sway to the huge euphoria. Five years later, these had come a cropper, and are why a disgusted and failed Kenya largely voted Kibaki out of office in 2007- truth be said. Today, to add insult to an already cancerous wound, some quarters speak of sacrificing politicians, and Kibaki is not one of them!

Mwai Kibaki

A good number agreed with Ngunyi more than two years ago, when it appeared as it were, that his analysis of Kibaki’s presidency was a prophecy, considering that the present constitution would make a “toad king” out of him. Today this “prophet” has shouted himself hoarse, how Kenya does not need a new constitution. He also says that Kenyans did not kill one another in 2007 because of the same broken constitutional order. What a whirlpool?

Kenyans will gleefully vote out any regime that does not keep election promises; this is a new country. They will fight again in 2012, and that is if the constitution is still tyrannical and demigods are still shielded from prosecution their crimes notwithstanding.

Politicians should not play the tribal card with our lives. Addressing corruption has degenerated to child play. Not surprisingly, today innocent sufferers pour into streets to demonstrate, all in the name of tribal response ready to “protect” one of their own. We all must make sacrifices if this cancer is to be rooted out. Those sacrifices have to do with independent minds, and the notion of everyone carrying their own cross – that is accountability.

Do not be fooled by the few goons bought by Kenya’s stolen money, who jeer on streets whenever “one of their own” is indicted on charges of corruption. The massive majority of Kenyans want the clamp to come down, and if it is not done now, they will do it at the ballot. This begs that we collectively respect the gains Kenyans have made politically.

Those imagining how President Kibaki can dissolve Parliament and rule for another term, or that he can claim a war situation and lead forever, are in a maze. They have no respect whatsoever for this great country- neither do they have any appreciation of our resolve. For heaven’s sake, the President even today is there out of outright thievery. Several lives were sacrificed for Kenya to be where we are today.

The coalition business was nothing, but a means through which hungry people conspired to legitimize their theft of Kenyans’ mandate and voice. Love Kofi Annan or hate him, but the truth is, a neighbor comes into your house when you yell and show you are in trouble, that is what we did and a neighbor came running, let us respect the accord born out of our own virility. The banter going round Kenya is a show of some stranglehold by a section deluded in the thought that they wield a sacred title to the highest office. Anything short of this is anathema to them and must be thwarted, that is another lie.

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Bishop pauses for some time and decides to let go of Sister Tata, he turns round in huge rage to be confronted by Mother Inda, carrying a wad of notes. “Counterfeit. Fake….all useless money,” she says with a face twisted in dire pain. The last few hours have been chaotic to say the least, even Sister Tata is taken aback, she wonders what is happening and out of impulse retorts, “sham. Liar. Liar.”

Bishop will not hear of it, he walks past Mother Inda, stops, sneers in agony and then turns towards the two ladies. “Out of my sight, all of you,” he orders and dashes to an isolated corner. Only God knows what the Bishop is envisioning. Out there Hasho has been running loose, combing every hideout for Macho, as she designs the demise of the Bishop hegemony. When Macho has parted with Fora and Sadaka, he heads to the streets where women and young men struggle to sell their vegetables to an agent from Bishop’s residence.

That these have been the conduit for the handling of restricted drugs, is something Macho and Hasho have shared. They have the determination to scuttle this trend and in the wake of this shared spirit, they bump into each other. They conspire to hoodwink the agents, infiltrate the heart of this rot as championed by Bishop, until what remains is the spark for the eventual explosion.

Back in the cells where Sister Tata banishes her girls, she is furious to the brim, she feels the girls have designed to embarrass her, and she is teeming with venomous vindictiveness. She enters the room and closes the door tightly behind her. She proceeds to ask them to account for their day. “You brutes will tell me what you mean sabotaging my department,” she screams out. The innocent girls hardly understand what is happening. Nonetheless Sister Tata admonishes, and taunts them further, “look at them and I feed them. Free food, clothing, everything!” 

She pauses, looks hard at them and blurts out, “Get out of my clothes you homeless vagabonds.” The poor girls think it is a mere taunt, and look miserably back at her. “I said get off the clothes you imbeciles,”  she ordered? When they begin to crawl towards her in remorse imploration, Sister Tata unleashes from under her skirting a long black whip lash, she senselessly begins to lash at the helpless and subservient girls.

The girls run helter skelter in the small cell unable to exit, meanwhile she proceeds to vent all her anger at them, many of them are hardly clothed and are bleeding profusely when she stops. She leaves the room and locks it behind her, the girls painfully wailing for mercy from the heavens. Sister is out in time to respond to Bishop’s frantic commands, “Someone let Sister Tata bring out Hasho, the hour is now, and the ceremony must go on, congregation or not.”  Bishop takes his position and call in the hands.

“The cassock, the alb and the meter, in that order quick!” and the hands fall over one another as they heed his command. They bring in the alb and the meter, and the Bishop is furious. “I said cassock alb and the meter, in that order,” his voice is unusually husky and blaring, and the hands are confused, they ransack the vestry to no avail. Meanwhile Bishop is still barking his orders, “Cassock. Cassock, I said cassock?” And the hands are more exasperated.

Then Bishop decides to step his angle higher, “Where is Father Zamisha? Cassock! ask Father Zamisha?” But the whole household is one huge ball of confusion, people tumble over one another as they take conflicting and panic motivated instructions, nobody notices that Hasho and Father Zamisha is out of the scene until it is too late.

Father Zamisha has been banging the inner door in Hasho’s room in a desperate attempt to get out, and call it quits for embarrassment. Nobody would in the remotest imagination thought he would be in Hasho’s bedroom. Father Zamisha is discovered by a distraught Sister Tata, out to get to Hasho in a bid to prepare her for the “ceremony.” Just as she decides to announce Hasho’s disappearance, a desperate banging attracts her attention to a feint male voice from within, the puzzle is intimidating; it is Father Zamisha!

Bishop and his team now know there is a conspiracy, and they decide to take it to Macho’s origins-the slum dwellings of the street urchins from where he was fished. Bishop leads a venom spitting mission armed to the teeth, with all force of intimidation and rancor. They turn upside down every shack in their way to catch up with Macho and Hasho, the trail is augmented by a barrage of hired guards, police and goons on the pay roll of Bishop; after all his empire has thrived on money power, and the interplay between manipulation and intimidation.

They are deep in the muddle of the slums when an orchestrated counter force emerges, a bloody scuffle ensues that reminiscences a full scale war, before Macho emerges to come face to face with Bishop. “Stop it!” he says. Every eye rivets towards Macho and Bishop. Macho has behind him all the forces of the slum and street urchins, hitherto used by Bishop to perpetuate his hegemony. “Spare the innocent souls. Give them a break. I am here. Go on, do what you want with me,”  he says. Macho boldly dares Bishop who turns round, and is handed a whip lash, he menacingly charges towards Macho as the crowd stares in pin drop silence.

Bishop reaches Macho who has not moved an inch; he looks him from head to toe before declaring, “I will teach you how, you motherless brute.” Macho does not butt an eyelid, which unnerves Bishop; he makes a step backwards and heaves the whiplash over his head, before letting it land on Macho who does not flinch for it. Bishop lands several lashes on Macho without a response from him, although he is all blood and his clothes are in shreds, the crowd in equally undecided on what to do; until in one moment of this orgy, Hasho comes from behind Bishop and grabs the lash before it lands on Macho.

This is when pandemonium breaks; Bishop is quickly aided by his entourage of Father Zamisha, Sister Tata, Mother Inda and the hired security detail. Prompted by Hasho’s action, the crowed on the side of Macho is spurred, and a melee ensues in which Bishop and his harem are subdued, the crowd bays for Bishops blood, until Macho in his weary voice cries out, “Stop it! Stop it!”  When silence and order is restored, Bishop is wriggling on the ground and Macho painfully rises. “Let him be, no killing, this place is thick with the smell of blood. Let him go,” he orders.  The crowd heeds Macho’s call and allows a vanquished, and humiliated Bishop to walk amidst them to an unknown destination. The last fight indeed!

The end.

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These diary entries form part of IRIN’s extensive multimedia coverage of the humanitarian impact of conflict in northern Uganda. Lord’s Resistance Army rebels are no longer active here – they have moved their operations into neighbouring countries – so millions of people have left the crowded camps where they lived for up to two decades to return to their home villages. These are the stories of people who have made that journey and are now trying to overcome the trauma and dislocation of war to rebuild their lives, and livelihoods, from scratch.

Monica Atto was abducted by the rebel Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) as a child but escaped and now lives in a suburb of Gulu, northern Uganda, with her five children, eking out a living making paper beads.

Monica shows off some of the paper beads she is making in Gulu town for a living. Photo by Charles Akena/IRIN

October 2009

” I no longer stay at the Child Protection Unit in Gulu town; I left last June after four years. I was told to leave by the army officer in charge, who said they could no longer accommodate me because my husband was no longer working at the unit.

I am now living in Gulu town. I am staying in a three-room house built by World Vision. They provided me with the shelter because I have nowhere to go with my children.

I am still struggling although I thank God I have a house. The biggest burden now is school fees for my children and how to feed the five orphans under my care since my sister passed away two years ago.

My four children can’t continue with school next term because their school is closing. Two are in year four and five while the other two young ones are in nursery. Each child’s school fees are 15,000 shillings (US$7.50). They are studying at Grace Christian Academy but the school is closing because the proprietor passed away at the beginning of this year.

I am worried because I can’t afford to pay for my children to attend a new school in Gulu town. The fees are expensive – at Grace, my children were subsidized.

My children will have no future if they don’t study. But I can’t pay for the children under my care because I don’t have a good source of income. The jobs I do are casual that pay little and aren’t sustainable.

I am making paper beads for a woman in Gulu town. She pays me Sh5,000 ($2.50) every week for making the beads. The lady sells the beads in her craft shop for Sh15,000 ($7.50). I have been working for her for two weeks. Before, I was working for Watoto Church in Gulu town, making teddy bears and aprons. The first month the pay was good, Sh120,000 ($60), but after that they did not pay me. I worked for five months without pay and decided to quit the job. The money they owe me could pay my children’s school fees for three years.

My sewing machine is broken down. The machine was given to me by World Vision after undergoing rehabilitation when I returned from LRA captivity. The machine helped me raise some little income but the mechanic told me it can’t be fixed and needs replacing.

My husband John Obita is far away in Karamoja. He was transferred to Karamoja in January this year. He is still serving in the Uganda People’s Defence Force but I have lost contact with him. I can’t reach him on his cell phone because the area is out of reach. Maybe he could bring some money for the family if they allow him home.

Food is a problem. I feed the family on what I get during the day. I have no garden to cultivate crops to feed the children. It is a very hard life. I leave everything in God’s hands. I have been thinking about my suffering and I can’t think any more. Nothing good has ever happened in my life, it’s all hardship.

My mother Macilina Abalo is ill. Her legs are swollen and she can’t walk on her own, she is on crutches. I visited her last February as all was not okay in our home village in Palabek. My cousin, who was looking after my mother, was involved in a car accident and her limbs were broken. She has undergone three operations but she is not feeling better. She can’t walk properly for long distances. Yet she has to work in the garden to grow food to feed my mother.

Small successes

I have the skills and the knowledge for making beads, teddy bears, sewing clothes and aprons. I don’t know if I will ever have the opportunity to start up my shop to sell these items I can make.

My youngest has grown – he is 1¼ years. I can’t believe he has grown despite the enormous challenges I am going through and those still ahead. Even the other younger children are staying well despite all this.”

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14 December 2007

The downfall of Otti

We’ve heard that Kony killed Otti, his number two, although he says he’s imprisoned. I don’t know what the truth is but if it’s true it’s very bad. Otti was the one who was most involved and positive towards the peace talks. This says to me that Kony is not interested in the peace talks.

It seemed to us in the LRA that it was Otti who was really in charge. He was a man of action.

In the army we thought he had a strong personality. Once he decided upon something he followed it through.

He was the one who would insist that we showed we were real soldiers by going back to our own homes, to go and kill our own people. He himself went back and murdered his own father, murdered his own mother in Atiak. He was ruthless.

In the LRA it was Otti who was feared the most because no one could ever move him in his decisions. If he said someone would die, they would die. And this time he had committed himself to the peace talks. There was to be no turning back for him.

Otti is open compared to Kony. Kony would hide things; he would camouflage his intentions and his motives. Not with Otti.

I was abducted by Otti’s group before being transferred to serve under another commander.

But even if I was abducted by his men I don’t hold a grudge. He was also acting under orders. That was the way of the LRA. I don’t have any personal bad feeling towards him. Despite my suffering I think it’s bad if he has been killed.

A visit to Kitgum

My mother has been very ill recently and so I travelled out to see her in Palabek Gem camp, near Kitgum. She has been coughing up a lot of phlegm and blood. I think it might be tuberculosis but she hasn’t been checked out. I want to take her to the Good Mission hospital here as soon as I can afford to.

My mother took a serious beating when she was abducted by the LRA and I don’t think she ever really recovered. My father was killed and so she has no one to support her and then there are orphans relying on her, and when I arrived they all looked to me as their only hope. It was really desperate.

Generally things there seemed to be a lot better than when I last visited in February. People are reaching out to the their homes and have started digging the land. Many people have left for resettlement camps and some are even back in their original villages.

People aren’t nearly as reliant on the World Food Programme. But I think the big problems now are with education. Families still find it very difficult to send their children to school, the classes are terribly over-crowded and we are a long way behind other parts of the country.

It was very difficult for me to go back. I really don’t like it. I was getting nightmares during the day just being there. I still think a lot here but it’s not like there where my family were killed.

Here life is difficult. Poverty may be here but it won’t kill us. There, anything could happen.

All the other children who were abducted with me were killed and now their parents ask why, and tell me how lucky she had it. ‘Your girl is back from the army while ours are dead,’ they say. ‘What did she do to survive? What blood does she have on her hands?’

But I had no control. It was so unfortunate they died. I feel a certain guilt that I’m the one who survived but what could I do? And now when I’m there I worry about what their families might do – who could come for me in the night.

Life in Gulu

The father of my two children came back in October. I was happy to see him again. He gives me some stability. I now I have someone to lean on.

But I still feel so lost in the world and wonder why I’m living.

We see these white cars, we see the signs of all these organisations but I’ve no idea where to turn. No idea how to cope when I see all those orphans looking at me and my mother coughing up more blood. What am I to do?

I feel I need to commit myself to church. I have been going to a Pentecostal church since June and I want to become more involved. I grew up in a strong Catholic house and then I moved to become an Anglican but those don’t give me any heart.

When I go to this Penetecostal church I find this incredible relief and my heart fills up. For a short while it releases me from all the troubles I’ve been going through. We sing until we can’t sing any more. It really touches you.

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20 July 2007

In Acholi names usually have a meaning. You name your child after something that’s happened around the time of their birth.

My eldest is called Elma Alimo – meaning ‘difficult moment’. I named him that because I was young when I had him – just 13 – and I was very scared, I was alone and didn’t know what to do.

After we were abducted, the girls were picked out on the first day back at the camp to ‘cook’ for particular men. The man I was to cook for was an old man – 45. I didn’t know what was expected of me until he started explaining. I didn’t know of men; I could never be at ease with him, he was like a father. I used to feel shy with him.

I did try to refuse but he told his soldiers to beat me and they brought pangas and told me I would be killed and I pleaded, telling them I would do what he wanted. And he taught me to be a woman. I became his fifth wife.

I didn’t know how to wash my first baby properly and he got an infection around the umbilical cord. In Acholi culture you throw a child up to make it brave and when an old woman was doing that the pus burst and my baby started screaming.

My second child is called Rackara Goddy. My husband was shot in a fire-fight immediately after I conceived. By that time I had become fond of him. I became sick and had to go to the health centre but I left my firstborn son with a Sudanese lady I thought I could trust but she turned out to be a horrible old woman. She made my little boy keep the fire and then if it went out she’d burn his hands with light grass. So after all of that I felt pretty unlucky and so named my boy Rackara – the unfortunate one.

My third child is called Rwot Okonya Sandy, which means ‘God rescued me’ Sandy. Sandy was the name of my best friend in the bush. I’d really like to see her again once all this is over. When I arrived she looked out for me, made sure I didn’t get myself killed. We looked after each other’s children. And then she always covered my back when we were in a fight.

It was no more than two days after I had given birth that the UPDF [Ugandan People’s Defense Forces] crossed fire with us. I had gone to get water. The other rebels had fled and Sandy had picked up two of my children but couldn’t manage the new-born and so left him where I would see him. I found him while the shells were falling around us and we were eventually re-united with the others.

I could have escaped but how could I have left my other children? One time they released me when I was pregnant but I followed them because who would take care of my children? On another occasion a friend offered to sneak out my first-born but I couldn’t do it; instead I waited until we could all go together. I might have hated being in the LRA but my family was more important to me than escape.

It was very difficult to stay without a husband in the LRA. A man will guard and protect you. My second husband was a friend, a kind guy and he saw the trouble I had and said to me that I could join his family. I was lonely and after a while I took his protection. I wouldn’t say it was love – it wasn’t – but in the bush things were fine. Out here things changed, he became a womaniser. After getting out he joined the UPDF but then he went off with another woman to another district.

So I named my fourth child Lalam Innocent in the hope that he would remain innocent of what his father had done.

My hope for them is that they grow up and are sponsored at school. I never went to school myself but I want them to have the opportunity.

I wouldn’t be able to concentrate in a class. Sometimes when I’m happy I can read and write well but when things are bad I don’t even know how to hold a pen.

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10 July 2007

These days with the peace talks things have changed. There is no more captivity. There is no more abduction. People are at rest and we aren’t having so many funerals. But the peace talks have kept many of the children in the bush and we don’t hear about them coming back any more. Now they are all up in [Democratic Republic of ] Congo, people are not escaping any longer.

There is no one particularly I would like to see but I feel for them all having that hard life up there. I was there for 10 years myself but my life is much better now I’m back. I live with my four children at the Child Protection Unit here in Gulu, along with some other returnees, and I can go and sell vegetables down at the market, do what I need to get by.

Before I went to the bush I was living in Palabek, a camp in Kitgum district, with my mother and brothers and sisters. I was 13 when I was taken. By that time I was really the mother of the family. My mother had fallen ill with a disease that cracked her hands and legs. She couldn’t walk and had to crawl so I became the mother when I was eight years old. That’s the way it was.

The LRA had collaborators and one was a neighbour. He led them to where the children were and so one night they came for us. They came at 10 in the evening when we were asleep. By the time I woke up they were already inside and one guy took off his bag and handed it to me to carry. My mother was shouting, pleading, saying she wasn’t well and needed me but they wouldn’t listen. They took a stick and started caning her. I said to her, let me go and as long as there is still life we will meet again. And if they kill me the young ones will grow up and support you. I was worried that they would kill her if she protested any longer.

After I escaped in 2004 I went back and found that everyone had been killed by the rebels. My father had good land up there and if peace comes I could perhaps go back, lots of people are, but who’d take care of me up there? If I was living there it would just be a constant reminder of all the people I’ve lost. I’d be so empty, so lonely. My brother is still with the rebels and if he was released and came back things could be different. Perhaps we’d both go back together.

Things were difficult when I went back. Because I was a returnee my uncle expected that I’d had lots of help from NGOs and was wanting things from me but I didn’t have anything to give. With four children to look after, what would I have to take?

But these days I have too much fear that it would be too lonely. So I’ll stay here in Gulu, this is where my life is now.

What were the aims [of the Lord’s Resistance Army]? The main aim was to take over the government but it was impossible. Children were dying; we were all dying for no reason. We were only taken to be killed, no higher purpose than that. I never saw it as a fight for justice.

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20 May 2007

“Kony will never sign a peace agreement”

Monica Atto, 25, was abducted by the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) rebels in northern Uganda as a child.

Now living with her five children in Gulu town, she believes LRA leader Joseph Kony will not attend ongoing peace talks with the Uganda government. She spoke to IRIN:

“I have been following the Juba peace talks between the LRA and government of Uganda so keenly on my radio and it is not surprising that up to now no peace deal has been signed. For Kony to pick up a pen and put his signature to a peace agreement is impossible.

“He deliberately doesn’t want to sign the agreement because he knows that if he comes out of the bush the government and the International Criminal Court will arrest him for crimes he committed against innocent people in northern Uganda, Southern Sudan and Democratic Republic of Congo.

“We know that Kony is buying time to reorganise. It makes us sad when we hear he is failing the talks by refusing to turn up. It reminds us of the suffering we experienced while in rebel captivity.

Monica Atto, 24, Former LRA abductee and soldier, Gulu Town, Northern Uganda, 10 July 2007. Photo by Euan Denholm/IRIN

“We have lost hope in the talks because all these years the rebels have refused to release children and women. I know there are still hundreds of children and women in captivity.
We hear he is abducting more children and women in Congo and Sudan. We fear he is preparing for war. Peace was the best chance for him and people in northern Uganda, but chances of peace are fading away. It will not be realised and the rebels might come back and wage terror on the local population.”

Kitgum

“My mother is still very ill and her health is getting worse, her legs and arms are developing wounds. I visited her in February this year in Palabek Gem in Kitgum and found her vomiting blood. I brought her to Lacor hospital in Gulu for treatment but there was no significant improvement.

“The doctors gave her antibiotics and advised her not to do any hard work and she should always go for regular medical treatment. It is difficult because neither my mother nor I can afford the cost of her treatment. She is complaining of chest pain.

“I feel sad because my mother is living alone. My father was killed by the rebels and she has no relatives to support her. At the moment I cannot travel to Kitgum and see her because I am nursing.

“People are busy cultivating crops on their land; so many are going back home. But others are still living in the camp, saying they will not go back home until the rebels come out of the bush. They fear that the rebels might come back and abduct their children.

“I am happy that I delivered my fifth child on the 16th of this month. She is looking healthy. I have not given the baby a name; I am waiting for the father to give her a name. I delivered the baby while he was away.

“He is a soldier in Kapchorwa in eastern Uganda; he was deployed by the government late last year to protect people there against Karamojong cattle rustlers. We do not know when he – Obita John – will return but he says some day in August he will come to see us. He is a hard-working man and also formerly abducted by the rebels. He returned from the rebel army in 2004.

“He calls me to find out how we are doing. He was very happy when I told him about his new baby girl. I did not want to have another child but somehow my husband convinced me. Having so many children with no work makes life so difficult and stressful. I want to stop with the five children that I have.”

Poverty

“My life in Gulu is getting more difficult because of poverty. I have nothing to do, I was trained as a tailor by World Vision in 2006 and they gave me a sewing machine. I have kept the sewing machine but I have no money to rent a shop and buy materials for sewing.

“I am worried I am losing my tailoring skills because I am not practising. I tried selling food and cabbages in the market some years back but I stopped because I could not make a profit. Now I have no money but when school opens next month I will begin selling boiled cassava to at least earn some money.

“My colleagues who returned from the rebel army are finding life hard with the biting poverty in Gulu.

“I am unfortunate because my mother is weak. My husband is an orphan, his parents and brothers were killed by the rebels and we have nowhere to turn for support. We cry when we talk about it and when we reflect on the past and imagine the future.

“I have been trying to seek assistance from NGOs in Gulu to help pay for school fees for my children and younger brother. I will keep trying so that my children and younger brother are educated.

“We, the formerly abducted girls, are so saddened because former rebel commanders who made us suffer are building fortunes and mansions but we have nothing to feed our children.

“The government is giving these former rebel commanders a lot of support; all their children are studying in schools, but we are not being supported. Do we deserve all the suffering we experienced at the hands of these rebel commanders?”

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Hi. My name is Jessica but my friends (who are very few) call me Jezzie while my enemies –a constituency of them – call me Jezebel. I am 25 years old and HIV-positive. I am a mother of 4 -year –old twins – David (Didi) and Terry (Titi). This is my continuing story.

Week 7

Tuesday

My kids have not slept the whole night. Today is their birthday – they turn the magic number 5! Wow, how time flies! I spent most of the night half asleep, reminding the twins to sleep and guarding their birthday cake from imaginary enemies.

“Someone will steal the cake,” Didi kept on telling me until he fell asleep at around 3 a.m. By 5 a.m., both kids are up.

 “Mum, is it morning yet?” asks Titi, knocking hard on my door.

“Mum, is the cake still there?”

“Mum, can we go to school now?”

“Please call the teacher!”

“Are the other children awake?”

Questions galore force me to wake up. I drag myself out of bed and open the door to give my two angels a hug. The tone changes. “Mum?” Didi starts, but I cut him short.

“No, Didi! You are not going to taste the cake,” I croak at him.

Didi bursts out in laughter. “How did you know what I was going to ask?” I also find myself laughing. Nothing beats the hearty roaring laughter of a kid. “I am your mother. You keep forgetting that,” I answer him.

Aly, my houseboy, who is up unusually early because of the birthday madness comes to Didi and Titi’s defence. “But it’s their birthday not the other kids’ birthday, so let them enjoy the cake,” he says.

“Yes!” the chorusing from both kids echo in the sitting room, meaning that I am outvoted 3 to 1.
I smile but put my foot down. “Just be patient for another hour or so, and the cake and all the sweets will be yours! The joy is in sharing with the others not eating alone!” I tell them.

“Mum, can I get a horse as a birthday present?” Didi asks.

I am yet to respond to Didi’s wild wishes, and Titi joins in, “And I want rabbits. Will you buy them for me?”

The kids are not at that age where you can lie your way out easily. To them a  promise made is never forgotten, and they will not hesitate to hammer it into your memory every minute until you honour it.

“No pets are allowed in our flats!” I tell them with finality, though I am quick to add, “Only the watchman is allowed to keep puppies and dogs!”

“When I grow up, I want to be a watchman!” pipes Didi to my amazement.

Within an hour of impatience, cajoling and bribery, we are on our way to school. The kids sing heartily as they jealously guard the cake, which I have smuggled into the front seat. I get to escort them to their classroom for the second time in a week. Both David and Terry are in their home clothes, Terry wearing her Barbie outfit and David insisting on wearing combats, dismissing the Spiderman outfit as too kiddish!

In less than 10 minutes, all the kids are in class, and we sing for my twins, distribute the goodies and have a blast for about 15 minutes or so. I am careful not to eat the cake because it is not good for my current condition.

I leave the classroom full of life and drive to the courtroom for  Mr. Mambo’s hearing, which  failed to take off yesterday because of technical hitches. The law court building  is very dull and uninspiring.  The dark corridors, dirty paintings, withered doors are a great contrast to the pride that lawyers and magistrates exhibit during some of the heated sessions. Colourful learned friends, pallid and lifeless buildings! What an irony!

I take a seat at the back of the courtroom, the front wooden benches all empty. It is almost 8 a.m. and the first case will not be heard until 8.30 a.m. I peruse through a copy of the day’s newspaper to try and catch up with the latest news and read of one scandal after another;  no wonder one leading local playwright once dubbed the Kenyan political scene a reality comedy show.

“Mr. Mambo!” booms the voice of the police prosecutor. Mr. Mambo looks up. His eyes are puffy.

“My name,” he whispers.

“Your are charged with 15 counts of defiling minors, who had been placed in your care,” continues the prosecutor. “How do you plead?”

“Not guilty your honour,” another whisper.

“Your hearing is hereby set for next week on Wednesday at 9 a.m.,” the judge pronounces. And with that Mr. Mambo is whisked away. I wonder whether he has seen me, but that hardly bothers me. I am just happy that the monster has been moved away from those innocent girls.

I am about to walk out of the room when from the corner of my eye I catch a familiar lanky and light skinned man being led into the room. I turn suddenly and my eyes lock with Shida Mingi – my kids’ father. I sit down to listen to this one.

Shida has been charged with organising the kidnapping of his two children so that he could get ransom. Being a mentioning, a trial date is set for a month’s time, though he is released on bond. Shida notices me sitting on the benches. I fix my gaze on him, and he looks away. I smile.

It is close to 9 a.m. when I drive to the office passing by the congested road heavy with traffic. A sizeable crowd of what looks like Council workers are chanting slogans about delayed salaries and poor pay. You mean these guys work!

My phone rings, and I check the screen. It’s Mariam.

“Hi there,” I murmur, my eyes on the road and slow moving vehicles.

“Wanna make lots of money?” Mariam shoots straight away.

“Of course, as long as it is legal!”

“Nothing is legal on earth,” she pulls one of her famous one liners. I listen keenly as Mariam outlines her plan: there is big money coming in to organise a Gay Council in Kenya. Mariam want help to organise the conference under the banner of my AIDS NGO. The BackFront restaurant seems to be bearing very ripe fruits.

The traffic clears a bit, and I let the car slide on free gear. “That is a tough call my girl. The government is not asleep you know,” I caution her.

“Cut the preaching sister. Will you help me or not?” she sounds desperate.

I am about to answer when a sharp knock raps my side window. I turn suddenly to see the unmistakable baton of a uniformed policeman motioning me to pull aside.

“Police!” I whisper as I end the call and pull aside, roll down my window and fish out my driving license from my handbag. The policeman, without uttering any word to me, comes to my side of the window and takes my driving license. He takes a look at it and returns it to me, and then motions me to drive away. I feel nothing about bribing a policeman! This is Kenya and corruption starts and ends with me.

I call Mariam again to find out the details for funding, and how much my cut will be.
“About Kshs. 3 million,” she says.

I almost crash as I drive into the nearest petrol station, where the price of fuel has almost doubled in the last six months. As I digest the news, another call comes in. It is Christine flashing me. I immediately call her. “The hearing of Mr. Mambo’s case was today,” I inform her.

“I am ready to take an HIV test,” she tells me. That makes my day.

“Sure, Christine. I will organise it for you,” I reply. I sit in the car, and cry tears of joy. Christine is crucial to my fight against HIV/AIDS with the teenagers.

To be continued.

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EVE says: 10 things I hate about Adam

I will ignore the ‘medieval’ Adam who won’t shower, chews loudly with his mouth open, leaves the toilet seat up, belches and farts uncontrollably, or laughs like a hyena. Those are goners. I will address the civilized Adam, who in spite of himself, still commits some unforgivable faux pas. Hopefully, he will listen:

1. Over confidence. How do I break this to you; you are not every girl’s knight in shining amour. When we are still ‘strangers’ slow down and prove yourself. Don’t pounce on me like would a hungry lion on a gazelle.

2. Arrogance. Should I feel lucky that you paid me some attention, or that I came tops in your careful ‘selection’? I don’t think so. Stop being conceited – not every woman dies to be yours.

3. Braggadocios. If only you could refrain from bragging, we would be ever grateful. “My N series Nokia phone, my Mercedes Benz car, my 21-bedroom house, my this, my that, my my my ….” I am blind not to see that Rolex watch, your sleeves are rolled up for crying out loud! Here’s news for you, not all women care about what you own. Get over yourself!

4. Machiavellianism. We can detect the lies instinctively and know when something is off. Be honest; the “I was hit by a bicycle” ruse, when we can see you fell after a drinking spree, doesn’t take a genius to tell.

5. Kissers and tellers. Some things are private. Can you refrain from recounting details of our relationship to your buddies? Keep your conquests to the football games you attend; “We beat Manchester United,” when you can hardly play football. Make bets and gambles, but never drag your 15 friends to our bedroom!

6. Adams won’t understand women. When we cry and laugh, it needs no explanation, or does it? We are different and will not act like men. Are you really that thick?

7. Crying blackmailers. We don’t see you cry because you act macho, so we worry when we see tears running down your cheeks like a little girl. It seems quite an idea to use those tears to convince her, after she catches you in bed with another woman. Please!

8. Helpless sick men make me sick too! When Adam falls sick, your 4-year-old child will come out a champ. His helplessness is exaggerated. You might as well put him on diapers and a feeding bottle to get a perfect infant err… invalid.

9. Channel surfing. You watch something interesting on TV, and then what do you get? Switches between programs he has no interest in! Make up your mind and watch one channel! Is that so hard? Really?

10. Wearing the same old thing over and over. I am sure you girls know of a sweater, jacket, or a piece of clothing that won’t leave his back. Here is some advice: organize an ‘accident’ that will ruin the thing, shrink or change color while washing. Remember it’s more believable if it is someone else’s fault, like the house girl or your visiting sister.

ADAM replies: 10 things that drive me nuts about Eves

1. Fakeness. That God created Adam before Eve, makes Adam the original and certified image of mankind. The rest is all Chinese fakeness. Fake hair (aka weaves}, accents, nails,  friends, names, and lives in the name of soap operas. The phrase “If you can’t make it then fake it” was definitely coined by an Eve.

2. Clandestine movements. Whoever invented chamas must have been the idlest woman around. Ever tried piecing together the relationship between monthly chama meetings, and the full moon? Rumour has it that they have moved beyond bonding and learning sessions, to orgies where ‘sex’ therapists have infiltrated and taken advantage of Eve’s gullibility; all in the name of enhancement of sexual prowess. Cases of live demonstrations have been reported to the morals authority board. Your days are numbered!

3. Financial Illiteracy aka materialism. From the neighbour’s TV which you don’t have, to the black and white Great Wall, and the coloured TV. Then other things that the neighbour has and you did not have: carpet (or is it an Iranian rug?), car, holiday. Well, why not move into the neighbour’s house and prove me right about this entire hullabaloo about love?

4. Nagging. These Eves can talk on and on about your not squeezing the toothpaste properly, your holed socks, mismatched tie and shirt, toilet seats being left up (or is it down?), slurping while drinking tea, and on and on. Get used to it Eves because Adams are not going to change.

5. Historical. The reason the national average in mathematics has gone down in national exams is because Eves cannot figure out figures. Hence their switch to history to remind Adams about what happened 1,000 days ago – “Do you remember ogling at the woman at the bus stop?” Or “How could you not comment on the dress I wore that day  seven years ago?” And so we forget irrelevant dates like their birthdays (come on, I don’t even remember mine, so what is so big about yours?), anniversaries, doctor’s appointments etc etc etc.

6. Inconsistency. The time taken by Eves to wear clothes is inversely proportional to the time taken to remove them (for whatever reason). Why do Eves take too long in showers, toilet, doing make up, and to leave the house? Unofficial rumours have it that, some descendants of Eve wake up at midnight for the morning charade. Despicable.

7. Every wedding the Eves must have a new outfit with matching shoes. Everything? No, these Eves recycle bras and underwear because, no one will see that deep inside. Talk of fake, if it’s a make over, make it complete to the last cloth.

8. Phone etiquette and personal space. Eves are the ones who flash asking for credit (which you use on other friends), and raid his phone for his messages. Well? Tabia mbaya!

9. Moods. Waah, those are the bomb! In the morning she is on top of the world cracking jokes, talking to everyone and hugging anything around. Two hours later the expletives are more and more colourful. Only a lawsuit stops her from smashing your head. The crime? You said hi to her. God in his infinite wisdom should have created traffic like device on Eve’s bulbous nose: red – I am in a bad mood so STOP; green – go away!

10. Finally. Women should stop competing with men. Leave the smoking, drinking, swearing, peeing while standing and dogging to Adams. Adam perfected these on Day 1 of creation.

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