Category: TaxDollars

On Father’s Day, My Journey Begins

On Father’s Day, my kids called and messaged to wish me well. As Father’s Day was fading into the rear view mirror, I logged onto Facebook. Two messages, for no particular reason, caught my eye. Two people had written about fathers: one, a former colleague from my days with the Misery Merchants in the realm of The Lords of Poverty, and the other, the straight-talking leader of the PPC. Their heartfelt words about fathers stirred something deep within me, and I found myself reflecting on my own father.

A Void to Fill

I had neither messaged nor called him. In fact, I hadn’t even remembered him on the day. Those two Facebook messages made me wonder: what do I truly know about my dad? Is this even a relevant question? Maybe not, but I still felt a void that needed filling. What if I wrote about my earliest memory of him? Let me take you back to a time before my eleventh birthday.

The Evening We Heard Music

One evening, just after dusk, my brother and I were walking up the slopes of Mount Kipipiri to our house. We had gone to fetch milk from Njenga Muiga’s place. The milk was a variety called “mathace,” a cheap, low-quality kind because Njenga Muiga would skim off the cream to sell separately. He had learned the skill to do so from his former colonial master.

As we crossed the trench that marked the boundary to our farm, we heard music coming from up the mountain, in the direction of our house. Our home was on the same latitude as the next farm, and the last houses before the forest that stretched up to the mountain’s peak. Someday, I hope to take a trip from behind our house to the top of that mountain. As we climbed, now dark, we talked about the music, unsure whether it was coming from our house or the neighbors’. My little brother, three and a half years my junior, couldn’t recognize the sound. But I speculated that maybe our dad was home and playing a guitar. In hindsight, I’m not sure why I thought this, but I seem to recall my mom mentioning that dad used to play the guitar, even though I can’t find a clear memory of it.

The Radio Arrival

We hurried home, and when we arrived, our dad was indeed home. It was an exciting moment! What’s more, he had brought a radio—a Toshiba which required four batteries. That radio lasted for a very long time. We were among the few families that owned a radio.

Infrequent Visits

My dad soon left again, and I don’t remember the next time I saw him. Before I turned eleven, I can only recall three or four times he was home. Some fathers lived with their families, though about a decade earlier, these men would have been working as laborers on settlers’ farms. However, other men, like my dad, were away working in some distant town. I remember two neighbors who, like my dad, were seldom home. They would come back once a year for what was called annual leave. They were painters working for the government in some distant town. They didn’t come home for Christmas, as it wasn’t celebrated in our community at that time, but only for their annual leave.

The Unpredictable Father

My dad never came home on any predictable schedule. He didn’t have a regular job to let him go home on annual leave. With no formal schooling or training,  the day of the week, date of the month, or season of the year probably meant nothing to him. That’s my guess. I don’t really know what he did to make a living back then.

Mom’s Visits to Prison

Mom told me that my dad was arrested twice and spent extended periods in prison remand. One stint lasted about three years. In both cases, he was never convicted. I guess he didn’t have anyone to be a surety in court, allowing him go home and attend court sessions only when his case was mentioned. Mom shared this information, with much sadness and disappointment in her voice, how she had gone to visit him in prison. It was in Nakuru.

A Mother’s Sacrifice

She had arrived at the prison gate early in the morning, as required. It was a difficult feat given the distance, erratic public transportation, poor roads, and financial constraints. She identified herself as the wife of Gichuru Kamotho (my dad) and, like every other visitor, was ushered into the waiting room. Other visitors came and went, meeting with their loved ones. But my mom waited in vain, despite being assured that dad had been informed of her visit and presence. At the end of the visiting time, my mom left, disappointed, heartbroken and ashamed. Who did the prison warders think she really was?

Disenfranchised Men

I didn’t have a relationship with my dad because he was away from home. If I had been born 100 years earlier, this wouldn’t have been the case. When European settlers arrived, they couldn’t find farm laborers, so they designed a scheme to force men to leave their families and work on the farms. The earnings from this labor went to paying taxes. Men didn’t labor on the settlers’ farms to provide for their families—there was no need for money in a community where every family produced their own food. My dad wouldn’t have spent time in prison remand either, because our community didn’t have such systems. Men have been disenfranchised from their roles in the family since then.

A Modern Attack on Men

This attack on men has continued to this day. One such attack is Canada’s program to help women and girls around the world. I’m confident this program doesn’t involve women in Norway, but it does in Kenya. The effect is separating men like my dad from their families. This has led to a breakdown in societal structures, not just in Kenya, but in many other countries. The result includes a large number of people fleeing their Democratically led countries to Euro-centric countries as immigrants, where they are often unwelcome.

Cherish and Connect

Reflecting on these memories and thoughts, I realize the importance of cherishing and acknowledging our loved ones. So, let’s not wait for another Father’s Day to reach out and connect. Share your stories, express your love, and maybe, just maybe, we’ll bridge the gaps left by the past.

When my grandparents were born, their arrival into this world was marked by a simple, yet profound ritual. There were no baby showers laden with gifts and cash; instead, the new mother, my great-grandmother, would be surrounded by women from the neighborhood, there to assist in the delivery. These women, who we might now call midwives, played a crucial role. Once the baby was born and its gender determined, the women would make a celebratory sound called “ngemi.” Twice for a girl, four times for a boy. Contrast this with the birth of my own children, who were greeted not by tradition, but by a hospital bill.

In just a generation, we have shifted from a life where cash was irrelevant, to a world where cash reigns supreme. To get that cash, we often have to sell something to a Eurocentric world, usually raw materials, which barely cover our expenses. To make up the shortfall, African governments resort to begging and borrowing—beggrowing—from the rest of the world. This has been the story for decades. I recall in the 80s, whenever the Kenyan Minister of Finance had an appointment in Washington, it was front-page news. Today, the narrative remains the same but with some notable changes.

The first is subtle: it’s no longer just the ministers who go on beggrowing missions, but the presidents themselves, a sign of the increasing desperation. These missions are no longer limited to Washington D.C.; they are global. Our leaders trot from west to east, north to south, beggrowing.

The second change is more significant and has everyone talking. Africans have noticed that their leaders live lavishly, enjoying the spoils of their beggrowing trips. Like sheep following a shepherd, ordinary Africans have decided to emulate them. They may not afford private jets, business class, or presidential suites, but with the help of family, friends, and by selling family assets, they scrape together enough for an economy ticket. But woe unto them, obtaining a visa to any Eurocentric country is often harder than getting water from a stone. I should know—I am one of them.

As if to add insult to injury and death, to the Africans dismay, they are now increasingly not welcome anywhere, except perhaps in Rwanda and Kenya.

I wasn’t always a wannabe European. Up until my children were born, I never considered leaving my country except for short trips if the opportunity arose. But things changed. I noticed that the best jobs went to those with Eurocentric educations, often the children of the well-to-do. I began to think I wanted the same for my children.

During my first trip to Europe, I went to Belgium and was impressed by the order and productivity of the people. One thing stood out: in the four weeks I was there, I never had to brush my shoes. There was no dust. Hard to believe.

I like order, a clean environment, great education for my kids, and opportunities for amazing careers in fields like aerospace, biotechnology, finance, agriculture, and research. A family friend informed us that Canada accepts skilled immigrants. I visited their website to learn more. Between my wife and me, the skilled part was a no-brainer, but the process came with a high price and the risk of losing the application fee. Confident in our abilities, we gathered our documents and paid the processing fee. For two years, we waited, our lives on hold, selling everything to raise the settlement fee and fight tickets for the four of us.

We arrived in Canada as skilled immigrants, but recently I’ve begun to rethink that status. I’ve been informed by a Nigerian lawyer and human rights advocate that Africans are not merely migrating; they are fleeing, risking everything, including their lives, for the hope of a better life in any Eurocentric country.

So, why are we fleeing?

The answer lies in the stark contrast between our values and those we aspire to adopt. In my homeland, we cherish community, tradition, and a slower pace of life. But in the modern world, particularly in Eurocentric countries, success is measured by different metrics: individual achievement, material wealth, and the ability to provide a certain standard of living for one’s family.

Adapting to Canadian values does not mean abandoning our roots. It means integrating the best of both worlds. We can keep our rich traditions alive while embracing the opportunities that come with living in a developed country. We must learn to value order, education, and the rule of law. We must adapt to a society that values punctuality, cleanliness, and productivity.

Adapting is not about losing ourselves; it’s about evolving. It’s about running away from the mountain of old limitations and climbing the mountain of new possibilities. We owe it to ourselves and our children to strive for a life that marries our rich heritage with the promise of a brighter future.

In the end, fleeing is not about fear. It’s about hope. It’s about the dream of a better life, where we are not defined by the scarcity of our resources but by the abundance of our potential. So, we run from the mountain, not because we fear it, but because we believe in the promise that lies beyond it.

Tattered Uniforms, Boundless Dream

On a rainy January day, my father dropped me off to start elementary school, a moment etched in my memory. Clad in a school uniform of tailor-made khaki shorts and shirt, the pocket adorned with blue and white strips of dress material, I stood among my peers. The girls wore dark blue sleeveless dresses over white blouses. Some kids could not afford the school uniforms but came to school anyway. Occasionally those without uniforms would be expelled from class and school. The parents would show up at school and made an agreement with the headmaster and agree on plan to provide the uniform. Often this involved buying one piece at time, over a period of several months. Shoes were a luxury, worn only by a few teachers’ children, while most of us navigated the school grounds barefoot. Yet, in our eyes, we were not poor, far from it.

Stitching Stories of Resilience

By the third year, my uniform, particularly the shirt, was a patchwork quilt of repairs. Even the patches began to fray, but this was our norm. We didn’t see ourselves as destitute, deserving pity from the so-called “misery merchants.” We faced problems, but we tackled them head-on, parents and children alike.

Most adults had at least one cherished pair of nice clothing, and those who didn’t were working tirelessly, hearts set on acquiring one. There were two choices when it came to buying clothing: “cia gucururia” (off-the-hanger) and custom-made.

Cia gucururia were the new ready-made clothes. They were considered cheap and less desired, a last resort. The coveted item was simply called “Jinja,” a name referring to a brand of cloth materials produced in Uganda. To acquire a Jinja, you would visit the tailor shop. From the rolls of fabric on the shelves, you’d select your preferred material. The tailor would then unfurl the roll and place it on the counter. Notebook in hand, he’d jot down your name and date, pulling a pencil from behind his ear. With a tape measure draped around his neck, he’d measure your size, constantly seeking your opinion. “Is it too tight? Too loose? Too short? Too long?” He meticulously recorded every detail in his notebook. After some quick calculations, he’d cut the required length of cloth from the choice roll of material previously placed on the counter

The cut piece would then be carefully folded. The tailor would slice a piece of brown paper tape from a roll on a special wooden holder. The tape would pass through a small well of water to activate the glue. When the well was dry, the tailor would lick the tape. The prepared tape would then be affixed to the cloth, your name written on it, and placed on the counter for pending work.

The tailor would return to his station behind the counter, and you’d pay a portion of the agreed price. No one ever had the full amount upfront. It often took several months before the tailor could even begin working on your clothing. The tailor would then return to his workplace behind the iconic Singer sewing machine, a symbol of craftsmanship and dedication.

Journey to the Mission Center: Hope in the Gray

Life took an unexpected turn when whispers spread about free clothing from the Catholic Church, but only for its members. As Presbyterians, my family, and our Seventh Day Adventist neighbors, the Miringas, were excluded. However, my mother and Mama Miringa decided to try the and get the free clothes. Kinyanjui (Miringa’s son) and me were sent to the mission center to beg for clothes.

But one day, my mom and Mama Miringa decided to roll the dice. They sent Kinyanjui (Mama Miringa’s son) and me to the mission center to ask for clothes. The place was immaculate, one of the few spots adorned with all-grey brick houses, each impeccably maintained. The path from the main road was surfaced with compacted quarry stones, a testament to order and care.

As you entered, the church building stood on the right. This same building had doubled as my kindergarten classroom for a brief stint. It was U-shaped, with a long veranda covering the open part of the ‘U’, supported by a hue of blue painted round metal pipes. The residence consisted of two large, round buildings connected by a covered walkway. An outdoor garage at the back could hold several vehicles. The residence was powered by an electric generator. The entrances to the residences boasted large wooden doors that opened into an open-roof courtyard adorned with beautiful flowers. This garden was the stuff of legends, a place few locals ever ventured beyond those big doors. Especially the men’s side, which lay to the left as you approached the compound.

Yet, there were whispers of one young girl who did pass through those doors. She became pregnant and bore a child with skin unlike any of us. There were no albinos in our community, and besides, she was a choir girl who spent a lot of time helping at the church. Her dream, like many other kids, was to become a “sister” or nun. And then, just before the child was born, the local priest, Father Kabinato, vanished without a trace. The rumor mill buzzed with speculation that he was the father of the mzungu child born in the village.

Beyond the Gates: A Tale of Begging and Disappointment

I can’t recall how long it took before we returned, as I couldn’t read or write to mark the time frame. We repeated the knocking and waiting routine. This time, she gave us handkerchiefs, one each. They looked, smelled, and felt nice. We returned home, clutching our small treasures with a mixture of disappointment and newfound hope.

From Handkerchiefs to Hope: Beggar’s Journey

I can’t recall how long it took before we returned, as I couldn’t read or write to mark the time frame. We repeated the knocking and waiting routine. This time, she gave us handkerchiefs, one each. They looked, smelled, and felt nice. We returned home, clutching our small treasures with a mixture of disappointment and newfound hope.

Legacy of Dependency: The Church’s Unintended Impact

The Catholic Church’s distribution of used clothes fostered a culture of begging and dependency, a legacy that endures today. This well-intentioned charity bred a self-perpetuating beggar nation, exploited by misery merchants seeking tax dollars. Each year, African governments rely on donor money from Western taxpayers, funds often squandered on extravagant luxuries rather than addressing systemic issues.

Despite this backdrop, our spirit remained unbroken. We didn’t see ourselves as victims but as resilient individuals striving for a brighter future. Our struggles were real, but so was our resolve to overcome them. In the garden of misery, we planted seeds of hope, nurturing them with an unwavering belief in our ability to rise above our circumstances. We were not just surviving; we were fighting, dreaming, and building a better tomorrow with every ounce of strength we had.

However, the misery merchants and the lords of poverty, fueled and funded by Western taxpayers, seem determined to keep us dependent. They want to keep us chained to a narrative of need, but we are more than their stories of woe. We are warriors of hope, refusing to be mere pawns in their game. In our hearts, we know that we are destined for greatness, and no amount of external pressure and deceit will dim the fire of resilience burning within us.

Conclusion

To the Lords of Poverty and Misery Merchants, a beggar nation is the proverbial gift that keeps on giving tax dollars, reincarnate.

Shattered Innocence: Surviving the Realm of Misconceptions

This story is about my time in the realm of the misery merchants, a place where everything that shaped who I am today was deemed wrong or defective and therefore needed to be eradicated. The games I played, my interactions with other kids, the things we did to feed ourselves, the survival tactics we devised, the role of my parents—everything about me was considered wrong.

The Daily Torment

Everywhere around the office, graphic reminders of our supposed inadequacy loomed large. This message was prominently displayed through various graphics. It became increasingly difficult to look up from my desk, walk the hallways, or raise my eyes lest I catch a glimpse of one of the many images dotting the walls. State-of-the-art coffee machines churned out bitter brews while playing videos of African children—faces etched with hunger and despair—as if to say, “This is your reality.” It was torturous.

The Haunting Mural

But there was one mural that haunted me most—a vivid depiction of African kids, their tiny hands interlocked in a fragile circle. Why did the misery merchants choose this image? Was it a cruel jest, a reminder of our vulnerability? What did it mean to them? Was it just another thing they needed to use taxpayer dollars to destroy? One thing I am sure of—they could not identify with that photo nor understand it. I can only think of these quotes: “You meet a people that you first of all don’t recognize as good as you” by Rune Fjellheim and “Then remove the human aspect; that’s the first strategy” by Tazeen Qayyum.

A Childhood Memory

Let me tell you about the mural and one of my earliest experiences in life while in kindergarten—an experience that has stuck with me to this day.

A Tale of Innocence and Curiosity

On February 21, 2024, The Toronto Star reported that “Conservative Leader Pierre Poilievre says he believes ‘biological males’ have no place in change rooms that are labelled female.” As a boy growing up, I learned that boys were very curious about what lies under a girl’s skirt. Boys became men, and some men did not grow out of this, which is likely what Hon. Poilievre was alluding to. This curiosity became an obsession during my six years in a boys-only boarding school. It was the only thing talked about while not sleeping or during the mandatory quiet time of classroom and study schedules.

The Experiment

I remember an event while in elementary school. Some boys decided to put their newly learned science of optics to good use. They set out to conduct an experiment to fulfill one of their fantasies. For the experiment, they needed a small portable mirror (not easy to come by then) and a human target. There was a new female math teacher, Miss Kibe. She was short and always dressed nicely. Like all the other teachers, she was assigned a mud-walled house within the teachers’ quarters where she resided during the week. But on Fridays after school, she would be picked up by a GK (Government of Kenya) green Land Rover with a tarpaulin on the back. She would always sit at the front, next to the driver. Rumor had it that she was the daughter of the DC (District Commissioner), a government official that everyone feared. Miss Kibe would then be dropped back on Monday early morning.

The Plan and Its Consequences

During math lessons, Miss Kibe would teach, give students work to do, and then go around the desks marking. From this process, the wannabe experimental scientists saw an opportunity.

Their experiment was this: bring a mirror to class and place it strategically under their desk, out of sight. Then, when Miss Kibe came to mark their work, one of them would clandestinely maneuver the mirror to under her feet. This would give them an excellent view of what was under her skirt.

Everything went according to plan, almost to the end. But the experiment went horribly wrong, as sometimes happens, and Miss Kibe saw the mirror. My school system, actively supported by tax dollars to this day, was brutal. The boys were subjected to that brutality to the extreme, and they never showed up at the school ever again.

A Personal Revelation

Over the years, I never shared the same obsession with other boys about what was under a girl’s skirt. Probably because of a secret I held. Let me explain. Remember the mural in the lobby of the misery merchants’ office? The kids holding hands is a dance we did while I was in kindergarten. We would hold hands so a boy would always be between two girls and vice versa, as the teacher instructed. The teacher’s decree was a dreaded arrangement among the children, yet her will always prevailed, casting a shadow of apprehension over our youthful spirits. We would sing some words as we went back and forth. At some point, we would stop, lift our left leg, and place it on our left arm. Not being too clever, I did not know the difference between left and right. So, I would have to look at the other kids to know which leg to lift. This one time, I looked to my right, and the girl had already lifted her leg and placed it on the arm I was holding. Lifting the leg meant also lifting her skirt. And as was the norm then, she was not wearing underwear. So there I was, staring right under a girl’s skirt.

The Symbol of Innocence

This mural is a reminder of our childhood innocence, the games we played, and the simple joys we shared. It symbolizes a culture and a way of life that should be celebrated, not destroyed. It reminds me that despite the hardships and the dehumanizing efforts of the misery merchants, we can still find joy in the small things and hold on to our humanity.

November 9, 2018: A Moment of Dread

On November 9, 2018, I was about to click on the homepage button, a simple act that suddenly became a source of intense pain. Sharp, yet not excruciating, it radiated from both sides of my head, above the ears. I dreaded what I would see next—the image that haunted me. It was a photo of a Caucasian woman, surrounded by smiling African children, with an African man standing behind them, unsmiling. The woman’s happiness seemed misplaced, artificial, perhaps nothing more than a forced “say cheese” moment for the camera.

The Physical Toll of Witnessing Injustice

Working within the realms of the “Lords of Poverty” is not for the faint of heart. Each day, I find myself grappling with a barrage of unpleasant sensations. It starts with a strange feeling in my stomach, creeping its way up to my head. My heartbeat becomes more pronounced, a rhythmic pounding in my chest that leaves me feeling weak and on the brink of collapse. The emotional strain manifests physically, making me feel as if my body is betraying me. I feel an overwhelming urge to cry, as if the weight of the world is pressing down on my shoulders.

The Emotional Rollercoaster

This journey is an emotional rollercoaster. It’s like walking a tightrope, where one misstep can lead to an abyss of despair. Each image, each story, chips away at my soul. It’s a battle between hope and hopelessness, where the heartache is palpable. But amidst the tears and the pain, there’s a flicker of determination. I am not just a passive observer; I am a seeker of truth, ready to confront the harsh realities and amplify the voices of those who are often silenced.

The Unspoken Reality

The world needs to wake up and smell the coffee. The reality of international aid is not as rosy as it is often portrayed. The smiling faces and happy children are part of a carefully constructed narrative that hides the exploitation and dehumanization happening behind the scenes. We must peel back the layers and expose the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it might be.