147 Not Just A Number!!

In the wake of the Garissa massacre, Kenyans came out in their droves to convey their heartfelt condolences. While this is quite laudable in every aspect, the truth of the matter is that we have formed a habit of raising serious questions and thereafter going on with our lives until the next tragedy happens. The Westgate attack brought us together as we sought to support men, women and children whose lives had been cut short in the hands of murderous terrorists. We donated blood, foodstuffs, sent M-pesa and when all was said and done, we moved on with our lives as if nothing ever happened.

We never got to know of the faces, of the stories, of the dreams that those who perished in the Westgate attack had. We, in our characteristic fashion, coined the “we are one” phrase and moved on. We held long debates on where the problems lay, the loopholes in the security system and what could have been done better to prevent this catastrophe from happening. Every time we are under a siege of sorts, what we see from the government is kneejerk reaction. As much as I would like to dwell on all this, my conscience can’t allow me considering how fresh the memory of the recent attack in Garissa is in my mind.

147 not just a number has been the hash tag trend on twitter and many other social networks. It’s a stark reminder to all and sundry that the lives lost in the latest terror attack won’t just be a statistic. For long, we have quantified the number of people killed in terror attacks or any other kind of unfortunate incidents. We have, successfully so, managed to sweep under the carpet their dreams, expectations and denied them of their place in history. Just like the slain police officers in Baragoi, we have refused to put a face behind their names, to document their sacrifices, their commitment to service and above all the tribulations they go through every single day to make this nation a safe haven to each and every single citizen.

We must refuse to ascribe to the norm of all talk while nothing is done to properly remember the souls that have lost their lives. We must celebrate each and every student who perished. We must tell their stories, their aspirations, and their dreams and document them as a constant reminder that as a nation we are bleeding. We need to walk around and see what murderous acts have done to the well being of this nation. 147 families are in pain, Kenya as a nation is in pain. The question is; are we going to just sit back and move on while saying those killed were just 147?

Were those not humans who had dreams and aspirations of a better tomorrow? Were those not individuals who died without ever having to put their ides to practice? Were those not individuals whose families had placed so much hope in them? It beats logic that we have become so adept at issuing condolences while giving a wide berth to the very things that unite us as a country. We must speak out on the ills bedeviling our country. We must speak out on the haphazard way in which the lives of ordinary Kenyans are handled.

147 not just a number is not just a hash tag as some of us have literally taken it to be. It’s a message to all and sundry that these are bright lights that have been dimmed. It’s an attempt to celebrate the lives of individuals who in their quest to make our country a better place met an untimely death in the hands of blood thirsty and brainwashed radicalized terrorists. It’s a rallying call that such a thing need not happen again. We must feel safe in our own country and we must do everything in our power to ensure that such blatant killings of innocent lives do not recur.

Lastly, while celebrating the lives of these 147 great Kenyans, we must also ensure that we are not sucked into the unnecessary hatred of a particular religion. We must not be sucked into the cheap propaganda that a particular religion is responsible for the wanton and heinous killings. This is just but a diversionary and divisive tactic that these heinous terrorists are using to create a rift among the peace loving Kenyans. Yes, we have a lot of questions on why there is discrimination based on religion whenever these heartless terrorists strike. However, this need not be a catalyst to start a campaign that will hurt us as a nation. We are one and must work together if we are to slain the ugly head of terrorism.

To the 147 families that lost their loved ones, to the many relatives and friends who are reeling in pain and anger, please remember that we refuse to make the 147 just a number. We refuse to refer to them as just as a statistic. We want document their names in the annals of history, document their aspirations and forever remember them as the future generation that never got to touch the silver lining of their dreams. Kenyans must unite and let all and sundry know that 147 is not just a number. The 147 are brothers, sisters, cousins, and friends whose lives were cut short but whose memories we must keep alive!!!

The last letter (Reply to Africa Kills her Sun)

Africa kills her Sun By Ken Saro Wiva

Dear Bana,

In every letter that I ever wrote to you, I knew exactly how to begin it, what I was going to say in the middle and how I was going to end it. It was never difficult. I wrote them effortlessly, probably because I thought I knew you that I was writing to the man I once knew and fell for, or may be it’s because I knew there was a possibility of a reply no matter how small it seemed to be. But today, I sit here with a pen and a paper and all I can do is wet my paper with tears. Tears of lost love, tears of unimaginable pain, and tears of a dream deferred.

I am crying for so many reasons. I cry because you are dead, because you turned out to be the very thing you swore never to be but most of all, am crying because you gave up on us in your quest for selfish patriotic ideas! We could have had a life together, we could have had our children and we could have had our happily ever after if you did not choose that stupid profession and gave your life to save your friends. What were you thinking? Were you even thinking at all?? Had you lost all your senses? Were you under some form of spell? I have so many questions that seem to have no clear answer.

I don’t know how I should feel about all this.  I don’t even know what this is so am just going to write anything that comes to mind starting with the memories that have tormented me for the past 10 years. Do you remember where we used to meet? Do you remember back in the days when we concocted all form of lies just to spend some time together? Do you remember how you would lie to your mother that you were going to cut grass for the goats, and I would say I was going to fetch water in the stream only for us to disappear together in the forest, eat fruits all day, play and dance together as though the rest of the world did not exist? Do you remember how you used to hold me so tight and tell me you would give up anything to have me by your side? Do you remember our long conversations and true confessions under the sycamore tree? Do you remember how we used to bath together in the river Nash? I don’t know if you remember, or even how you could forget all these because for me, these memories kept me going when you were nowhere to be seen. They kept me going when you vanished without a trace!

I still remember the day I found out you had left without saying goodbye as if it just happened few hours ago. It was Saturday 10^th June; I went to our usual meeting place in the afternoon hoping to see you. I had a surprise for you; a sweater I had been knitting in secret for our future first born. I was so excited to show you how pretty it was and how I could not wait to have a baby with you. We had agreed we were going to call him Syna. The Initials to our two favorite places. So I went there and you were nowhere to be seen. I sat for hours, waiting, wondering what could have happened to you. Then, when the sun set, I had to go back home confused; wondering what could have happened to you. My worries were not unfounded as you had never missed a date with me even when you were sick. I spent the night staring into the darkness, wetting my pillow, my heart in my mouth, questions of what could have befallen the love of my life running through my mind.

The next morning I went to church, prayed for your well being and that you show up at our usual meeting place. When the time came I went to our meeting point with my little black sweater. I didn’t find you and waited in vain. I decided to go to your house; a decision that was not easy considering your mom never liked me. She was always irked at my sight and always disapproved of my relationship with you. Luckily, I didn’t find her home as she had gone to fetch water from the stream. Your younger brother was home and he told me you had left to look for a job in town.

In as much as I was relieved that you were not sick, dead or in prison, I was a little bit mad that you never found it proper to inform me of your plans before you set out on your sojourn. That notwithstanding, I was astounded, shocked beyond measure when I finally came to learn of the path you had taken. My heart broke into pieces when I realized you had ascribed to some stupid patriotic principles that had consumed your soul. How could you do that? How could you swear your love for me in one minute and the next take off without saying goodbye as if I never meant anything to you? How could we be talking about building the family together, having a future together and before I know it you have vanished without a trace? I cried, I cursed and I blamed you for a very long time. But even in all this, I never stopped writing to you or going to our meeting place every chance I got. Sometimes, I would write a note and leave it under the sycamore tree hoping that by some miracle you will collect it. I know it sounds crazy but somehow, I thought you might one day come back to me. Needless to say, that was wishful thinking.

It wasn’t easy being the girl I used to be when you left. I was broken, shattered and my mum thought I wasn’t going to live. I didn’t eat or drink for days. I cried every time I looked at that little black sweater and the thought that you never got to see it, and you never even got a chance to know I was making it. After a while my Aunty Nina came to visit and I begged her to take me with her. I felt like there was no longer a place for me in the village. Everything reminded me of you, everyone reminded me of you. I wanted to start afresh; I wanted to be happy again. Little did I know when you left you took a part of me that I could never get back.

I started school again in Masagura high school back in the village where my aunt lived with her family. I was determined to be the best so that I could be chosen to join Kwamanga College in town with a hope of meeting you some day. When the time came I did my exams and passed with flying colors. I remember the day I went back home to inform my parents of the news that I was going to a college in town. They were so happy for me. I passed by your house to ask if you had been around, if you got any of my letters I sent to you and I was told you never came back, your mother gave me back my letters, some of them were half way eaten by rats. So I took them put them in the small bag my father had bought me in the market hoping I would give them to you in person when I met you.

My life in college was okay, except for the fact that while other girls would engage in the social activities after school I walked around asking people if they knew you. I had an old picture of you the one you took the day you got your confirmation, am not sure you remember it, I  knew you might have changed considering you took that picture a long time ago but I decided to give it a short. My friends thought I was crazy to look for a man who left me without even a goodbye but I told them I just wanted to know why you did what you did. I needed to hear it from you. After two years of searching with no success I began to lose hope, I became desperate so I found myself in toxic relationships.  Now that I think about it, I realize I never really stopped looking for you. I was still looking for you in other people. Everyman I slept with, or had a relationship with was because he had something that reminded me of you. The truth is I didn’t care whose bed I slept in as long as it made me feel close to you.

Then, one morning, I woke up to the news of bandits who were going to be killed in the stadium. Your name was mentioned alongside other names that I didn’t recognize. I gazed at the picture in an old TV set at my boyfriend’s apartment and I saw your face. I didn’t even shower; I took off to the bus stop, took the first bus hoping I could get just few minutes with you before they kill you but by the time I got there you were already dead. Your body had been taken by the city police. I knew my chance to get answers was gone. I cried so hard until my voice and the tears dried out. The city was no longer a good place for me, so I went back home to our village, there is where I found the letter you wrote to me.

If you are wondering how it made me feel, well don’t, because it made me feel as though I had lost you all over again, it was more like the day I found out you left without saying good bye. You say you are proud of your profession; that you are in company of presidents and ministers and social workers, since when did you start to care about how others live their lives? Since when did it become about the wrong things just because everyone else is doing it? How could you forget your good morals and do the bad things just because no one is telling you to stop? How did you become so selfish that you forgot your whole family depended on you? Your father used everything he had to take you to school with a hope that you would help your siblings after you got a job and you repay him by throwing your life away under the lame excuse of solidarity? I am disappointed in you in ways I can never explain, I thought you knew better.

Anyway, I have spoken to your father about your statue, he suggested we put your grave among your ancestors, we did not get your body but we are still going to make a grave as you asked me to. In it we will put anything that symbolizes you and burry it. For me I will put all the letters I wrote to you in the past ten years and the little black sweater I was to show you before you left. Just so you know am not doing this because you deserve it. But for the sake of the love we once shared, I will grant you your last wish.

I hope we meet again in the next life because I have so many questions that only you can answer them.

Love,

Zole