​​The Plumbline (2017)
Publisher: Books on Creating Understanding
146 pages
Price: 1000 KES

​In a rapidly changing society, we educators must always examine and reflect on whom we're teaching, and why we teach what we teach in the classroom. Donald K Smith's book is a welcome opportunity for educators, especially Christian educators, to ask what God is calling us to do today.
 
The book is a collection of essays in which Prof Smith reflects on different challenges facing higher education, and how Christian universities can ideally respond to those challenges. Based on his experience at Daystar University, which he co-founded with his wife Faye Smith and with Dr. S. E. M. Pheko, Prof Smith examines how Christian universities could resist the pressures of the larger world to distort Christian higher education.

The biggest problem facing higher education, which the book addresses, is the marketization that dehumanizes students. Marketization measures the effectiveness of education by profit and enrolment, not by whether students are learning and becoming stronger and more mature to speak God's love into a broken world. My greatest surprise over the last decade has been that the voice of the Kenyan church has been absent from a conversation about the neoliberal destruction of the soul of education, and that Christian scholars, who should be informing the church about this threat, are uncritically accepting market ideologies for education.
 
Prof Smith has spoken about this unfortunate situation. He challenges us by asking if profit and business should be the "plumbline" of education, and even challenges us to serve the poor. For me, the most powerful part of his book is when he addresses the erroneous perception that Daystar University is not for the poor, and when he remembers the hundreds of students who have struggled with limited or no financial resources to study at Daystar. As he says, if we do not always come up with ways to take care of poor students, then we are not truly a Christian university.
 
Another interesting aspect of the book for me was his interrogation of power, accountability and servant leadership. He criticizes "high power distance," where people use power to impose decisions without consultation and respect of institutional history and precedent. He criticizes the idea of power coming from title and position, rather than from service, especially service to students.
 
I am also pleased that Prof Smith questions the idea of integration of faith and learning, which remains a central idea that lecturers must write on for them to be promoted in Daystar University. I have always held the view, which Prof Smith holds, that integration “assumes separation, thus the need to integrate.” I do not think there is a separation between faith and learning. As Rev. T. Njoya once said in a lecture on the same subject, faith IS learning. One cannot have a robust faith without willingness and ability to learn.
 
Theology, faith and culture

That said, I am a little uneasy about the theological basis of these arguments in The Plumbline. One is the idea that Christian scholarship is scholarship that glorifies God and studies reality as a manifestation of God’s glory. Linked to this argument is the idea of a “biblical worldview” which, Smith argues, is the foundation of Christian education. I have heard these ideas repeated as given, and I’ve asked that we interrogate them. I have asked for us to consider this question: can Christianity, or the bible, be considered a worldview?
 
Let me explain why answering this question is important. The problem with saying something like scholarship must glorify God, or that the scholar’s obligation is to “maintain a central focus on Christ,” is that glorifying God is an abstract concept. What does glorifying God concretely mean in 21st century Kenya? Are we all agreed on that interpretation?
 
Indeed, one of the difficulties of institutions that call themselves Christian is that while they may be agreed in principle what “Christian” entails, we do not agree on its concrete manifestation. The problem with abstract terms like “focus on God,” or “glorifying God,” is that the interpretations of what they mean within an institution are as myriad as the people in the institution. One frustration that people often encounter is when someone defines a decision as “Christian,” even when the Christian-ness of that decision is not evident. Even those who interpret education in business terms use the Bible to justify their approach. When there are many possible interpretations of what “focus on God” means, the interpretation that eventually prevails is dictated by those in power, thereby abetting the oppressive power logic that Prof Smith criticizes in his book.
 
And yet, The Plumbline places an extraordinary amount of trust in Christianity to unite people on the right thing to do. An example of such an argument is the statement that if everyone in a Christian university was born again, “everyone would thoughtfully and completely accept the statement of faith and follow the regulations. No one would be here just for career preparation or to make money and gain a high status.” Besides the problem of whether Christians would genuinely agree with the regulations, there is the question of whether they would necessarily follow them. At the end of the day, Christians are also sinners, and so they will not give a perfect, let alone united, implementation of Christian education.
 
The problem with the idealist view of Christian higher education is most visible in the nostalgia for the days when robust secular universities like Harvard and Oxford where theologically based.  According to this nostalgia, which is driven by scholars like Mark Noll, whom Prof Smith quotes, the decline of the visible Christian ethos in higher education in the West is driven by the power of secularism.
 
In the paper I wrote to fulfil my institutional requirements, I respectfully disagreed with this argument. The reason that secularism gained status in America is because the church was complicit in slavery and racist discrimination. When institutions like Harvard were at their most Christian, they were also not admitting female and black students.
 
The reason why scholars have “a deathly fear of being labelled fundamentalist” is because calling oneself Christian, especially in the United States, is often tied to conservative politics that justify the impoverization and criminalization of black and brown peoples. In other words, Christianity in the United States has not necessarily united the country, because of a fundamental (pun intended) disagreement on social justice related to black and brown peoples. It is unlikely, therefore, that scholars would be united on what Christian higher education means. “Focus on God,”or on “glorifying God,” are not neutral ideas. Their meaning is determined by culture, social status and political context.
 
That is why I also disagree that Christianity is a worldview or culture. Christianity is a faith that is interpreted within a certain worldview, and the role of theology is to articulate that interpretation in a neoliberal Kenya in the 21st century. Unfortunately, theology has taken a back seat in Kenya and given way to Biblical studies, and so a rigorous Christian interpretation of what education should look like in today’s era is not forthcoming.

This weakness in the logic of Christian education comes from the elevation of faith over history, experience, society and politics, yet theology ideally calls for an egalitarian relationship between faith and education. This elevation of one aspect of life, or discipline, over all others, is described by Lewis Gordon as “disciplinary decadence.” By contrast, theology, as I understand the great theologian James H. Cone to have described it, sees faith as an aspect of life that must interact with, not lord it over, other aspects of life, with human humility rather than the claim to be speaking God’s will to society. The decadence we witness among Christian scholars comes from the elevation of faith above academic rigor or social justice, so that as long as a Christian lecturer says “I am saved,” that lecturer is not accountable for how they teach or govern in a teaching institution.
 
But it is not only faith that occupies a problematic status in The Plumbline. The same applies to culture. Presumably, because of Prof Smith’s training, culture is elevated over politics and material conditions. For instance, we see the implication that apartheid, which Donald Smith and Faye Smith resisted when living in South Africa before coming to Kenya, was a primarily cultural phenomenon. However, apartheid was not just division between black and white peoples; it was also the use of political institutions and violence to maintain that separation, and for the purpose of creating concrete material conditions of power and wealth in the hands of the white minority.
 
While thinkers like Fanon did emphasize the importance of culture in fighting oppression, he did not advocate for intercultural understanding or a more rooted faith as the anti-thesis to oppression. Rather, he did advocate for nationalism that is expressed through the culture of the oppressed. That is why nationalism is a project that is necessarily intertwined with Christianity – as was the case of Martin Luther, whose protest against the Catholic church was necessarily about German independence from the Vatican in Italy and for the scriptures in the German language, or Steve Biko who saw black theology as an ideal expression of Christianity in the African nationalist struggle against apartheid. Therefore, Christian education must, necessarily, have a nationalist dimension.
 
A labor of love

Nevertheless, The Plumbline is an honest, philosophical reflection on what it means to be a Christian and to teach in the 21st century. It is a visibly deep interrogation by a man with a heart for education and deep love for the students and for God, which is rare in this era where governments and corporations are dehumanizing the project of education. Such raw reflections are rare in today’s universities where security of tenure and economic stability are no longer guaranteed, and so few academics dare to ask questions about the direction in which higher education is heading, for fear of losing their jobs. The book is also useful as a beacon for current and future generations of academics and students to continuously interrogate the endeavor that is education.
 
Most of all, regardless of what one thinks of specific ideas in the book, the book is evidence of what a scholar should fundamentally be – a person who continuously reflects on the definition of education in a rapidly changing world, on the role of the scholar and teacher in that education, and above all, a love for God’s children, especially students and the poor. Together with his wife Faye Smith, Prof Smith is also unique because of his insider-outsider status in an institution which they started, but which they do not own. His status remains difficult for Kenyans to grasp. Many people, including students, think that the Smiths own Daystar, which is not surprising, given that we Kenyans are governed by the colonial logic of ownership and property as the primary social status in society.
 
The Plumbline is an expression of faith and a labor of love, in which Prof Smith affirms education as a dialogue that must always continue between human beings and their world through faith in God.

Main artist: Victor Seii
Label: Complete Africa
Year: 2013

So I'm reviewing a Christmas album in July. Here goes.

How it got on my CD rack
I was listening to the radio to one of my favorite poets and radio hosts, David Black Skillz, one afternoon a few days before Christmas. And he played one of the tracks "In excelsis deo." I made sure I had a copy of the album the very next day.

What I love about the album
"In excelsis deo," like everybody else. I can't get enough of it. I've been playing it even after Christmas is over. The song is perfect on every front. When I knew that Victor Seii was the producer, I appreciated more the bass harmony that was very well done. Kenyan albums are not very good at making the bass an instrument on its own right. Kavutha, who duets with Dan Aceda, is to die for or this track. So is the Luo folk song climax. I would say the same for the track "Shangwe to the world," which has a catchy refrain, and when the Luo song "Niwara nono" comes in...my oh my, as Jeff Koinange would say.

I also like the beautiful track "What child is this," done by Sauti Sol, my not so secret indulgence. The harmonies are beautiful and the song showcases the voices and smooth style that keeps me glued this great group, risquee video or not. 

The Kenyan National Anthem with David Nntare and Nanjira Sambili is a fitting opening of the album.

This is a very creative album that well integrates traditional Kenyan sounds with modern vibes. The solos by an array of singers, from Wendy Kimani to Atemi Oyungu and Emmy Kosgey, the background vocals and harmonies are superbly done. When I finished listening through the entire album for the first time, I said to myself: Victor Seii is our own Quincy Jones. Or Babyface. Or whichever producer you know brings out the best in several well-known singers of different backgrounds. 

Hmmm, I wasn't too sure about...
Mary's boy child. I felt that Emmy Kosgey's part in the duet could have had more presence in the song. I definitely didn't get "Hark the herald angels sing." I felt is should have gone full out hip hop with a more serious rap section and probably less singing. Every time I listen to it I wonder whether Kenyan producers may be having trouble nailing the formula of having an all star cast doing a song together. It reminds me of the song during the promulgation.

The album jacket has great photography but which can't be clearly seen due to the poor quality of printing. I guess cost was a big concern.

And the album is too short. Eight tracks only.

My wishlist for Well Seasoned 3
Some more acapella, by 5 Alive reunited, perhaps? And maybe Chris Bitok doing the sax, rather than just vocals. 

I can hardly wait to...
Get myself a copy of Well Seasoned 1.

Artist: Chumba
Label: SoundAfrica
Year: 2008

How it got on my CD rack
Apparently I'm talking about this album released six years after it was released by Doris Chepchumba Tanui, aka Chumba. It just got to my CD rack two years ago. And that's an interesting story. 

I was sitting in a restaurant in Nairobi and heard this wonderful, soulful song. I suspect it was "Ongerip emet nyo," because it's my favorite. So I asked the waitress to find out who was singing. The first thing she asked was if I was the same tribe. Goes to show - we're so tribalist that even music isn't a human, universal language in Kenya. Would the waitress have asked the same if Beyonce was the artist?

What I like about the album
This is a truly Kenyan and African sound. The songs are in several Kenyan and international languages, including Kiswahili, Kalenjin, Kirundi, Luhya (her words, not mine), Lingala, Taita, Pokomo, English and French. Also, I was quite pleased to know that Chumba has roots in Maroon Commandos, and it shows in the quality of the sound and the songs. The guitar solos are extraordinary, reminding me what I loved about Maroon Commandos when I was younger.

Like I said, "Ongerip emet nyo" is my favorite song. I always go for the mellow, and this one is nice, with good guitar work and pleasant wind instruments. And that goes for most of the songs - the winds (flute, sax) and the guitar work in most songs takes me back to the good old days of listening to the singing Kenyan soldiers.

The themes are also great. There's a good dose of love songs, but I think the most fun to listen to is "Unakumbuka," sang by a woman whose husband has fallen on good times and then abandoned the family that stood with him through the tough times. This CD is a 12-track treat.

What I don't like about the album
The sleeve of the album has editing mistakes that should have been sifted out. For instance, the sequence of the explanation of the songs does not match the sequence of the songs on the CD.  And the sequence matters for listeners who do not speak the languages. Also, the gap between each of the tracks is too short, so the songs almost flow into each other without a break. Readers not used to the genre and style of rumba may find the songs long, although the good thing is that the instrumentals are quite good.

I look forward to listening to Chumba's other albums, if only I could find them. She's difficult to locate on the world wide web. But she was one of the Kenyan artists featured at the recently concluded Smithsonian Folk Life Festival.

Author: Henry Ole Kulet
Publisher: Longhorn

One of my favorite scholars, Lani Guinier, uses the miner’s canary as a symbol of the link between the fate of the most vulnerable amongst us and the rest of the society. When miners were underground, it was difficult for them to tell if air was getting too toxic to breath, until it was too late. So they would go into the mines with the bird, and when it started to show signs of distress, the miners would know that they should exit the mine as quickly as possible.
Just like the canary, the herds – of wildebeest, elephants, rhinos, hippos or cattle – in Henry Ole Kulet’s latest novel Vanishing Herds, remind us of the danger posed by our destruction of the environment. Trust me to begin by saying that the novel is a love story of Norpisia and Kedoki, a newly wed pastoralist couple trekking across the country to Kedoki’s home village in Nkararo. Kedoki wants to take his wife to settle in his home village where he has not been for years. The two had been brought together by a trauma during their childhood when they both lost siblings to cattle rustlers. Although the marriage seems to be arranged, the relationship blossoms into love as Norpisia accepts to go with her husband to her new home.

The trek turns out to be hazardous. The couple encounters raiders who seriously injure Kedoki, and the wild animals have become unusually hostile and “angry” towards human beings, due to the destruction of the environment. Human beings have ravaged trees, including the sacred Medungi forest whose entry was forbidden by the elders. When the herds were not angry, they simply were not there, a sign to the human group and its livestock that pasture was difficult to come by or that rivers were about to burst their banks.

What I found beautiful about the narrative is the way myth and science complement each other. For Norpisia, her dreams and her apprenticeship under a prophetess/medicine woman enable her to sense when Mother Nature is not happy with humanity. There are scientific reasons for the drought, dried up rivers and floods, but the mythical terms add the sense of immorality and taboo to what we people do to other members of our universe that do not speak. For example, the laibon decreed that if a tree was cut in Medungi forest, the “blood of the felled trees would flow into the rivers, turn them red and poison man and beast.” The power of such instruction causes Kedoki and his friends to take a detour around the forest.

The communal spirit is another wonderful motif of the book, with Masintet and Lembarta – friends of Kedoki – joining to help with the herd, and Kedoki keeping his honor by paying the two men with cattle and heifers. Norpisia leads in reafforestation efforts thanks to the strong bonds with the Eorr-Narasha community where she, Kedoki and their son stop over in their journey to Nkararo. The book is also rich in Maasai knowledge of plant species, their medicinal qualities and the cycles of life in this lovely world that God created. Ole Kulet has beautifully depicted the unsung heroism of pastoralist communities who are responsible for the sparing what remains of Kenya’s natural habitat today.

There was a debate in our book club discussion in May 2013 about the gender roles in the book. Norpisia seems to be a superwoman, knowing all and defeating all, while Kedoki bears the brunt of the wrath of Mother Nature and of bandits. I was uncomfortable about judging Kedoki as emasculated, given that in many communities women actually do more work than they are given credit for. I still haven’t made up my mind on that question.

Until then, I highly recommend Vanishing Herds. The book is beautiful to read. But it is also a warning that Kenyans must watch out for the welfare of the non-speaking members of our universe – the rivers, the forests, the plains, and the wild and domestic animals. Like the canary, the suffering of the non-speaking members of our universe is a warning of imminent danger to us human beings as well.

Author: Eva Kasaya

Tale of Kasaya is a story that affirms humanity as the corner stone of dignity. It is an easy-to-read and exciting narrative by Eva Kasaya about her experiences as a house girl in Nairobi.

The story begins from Kasaya's early childhood on a coffee plantation in Thika, and chronicles her family's hardships that led her to drop out of school and make the daring journey to Nairobi to work as a house girl. After different harrowing experiences in different homes in Nairobi, she eventually lands a job in a home where she is treated like a human being and eventually transitions to a career in tailoring.

​Tale of Kasaya is a mirror held up to Kenya in many ways. For me, the most striking element was how, in this age where devolution is the buzz word, oppression, exploitation and high handedness are devolved to the homes. In the private spaces from Kibera to Kileleshwa, fellow Kenyans treat others with little dignity, and worst of all, this treatment comes from the hands of women.  Kasaya is harassed, made to work long hours without pay, and patronized by members of the very group that suffers such oppression as a block that produces over 80% of the country's wealth but owns only a little over  1% of it. The story is a reminder that democracy and freedom must resonate not only in the corridors of political power but also in the privacy of our own homes.

The other interesting element for me was the power of dreams and of dignity. Kasaya was driven by a dream of opportunity to make the life of herself and her family better, and that opportunity was represented by Nairobi. Nairobi initially failed to deliver that promise but eventually came through for Kasaya.  Kasaya’s drive to find opportunity proves that the measure of a country’s freedom should be the extent to which the country provides its citizens with the opportunity to live a dignified life.

Tale of Kasaya can also be described as a panorama of Nairobi in words, although one that is often interrupted by typographical errors and awkward expressions. We first get an outsider’s view of the city from the perspective of the Kerongo villagers who are told exaggerated tales of cultural artifacts such as TV soap operas and Kanda Bongoman dance moves. Through Kasaya’s narrative, we get an experience of the train and main public transport stages, then the poverty and terrible living conditions in the slums and then the comfort of the more affluent areas of Nairobi. The contrasts in the landscape are also in the people, from the homes of people like Nancy in the slums, of oppressive (and frankly psycho) characters like Mama Jacky, to the humane couple who give Kasaya a new perspective of life. When the city of Nairobi celebrates its history, I hope it will encourage the reading of this book as a cultural landmark.

As the central character, Kasaya represents the strength of dignity and the human spirit. Under each employer, she strives to work the best she can, and does not carry the bitterness from one home to the next. Finally, Kasaya defies the cynical love of money to which many Kenyans succumb. Her wish is simple: to be treated as a human being, to have a decent job and to help her family. But the ultimate affirmation of her humanity comes from the very fact of writing her story. Before she starts writing, she says, her life appeared fragmented, with each episode forgotten as soon as the new one begins. Some parts of her life even “seemed as though [they] had never happened” and even her success was not hers; rather, it “was pegged to what the villagers said about me.” By writing, therefore, Kasaya affirms that despite her humble origins, her life is an important part of the Kenyan narrative.

Artist: Suzanna Owiyo
Label: Kirkelig Kulturverksted 
Year: 2010

How it got on my rack
I kept promising myself that I'd buy Suzanna Owiyo's album but the opportunity presented itself when she visited Daystar. So I have an autographed copy!

What I like about the album
This is a truly Kenyan album. The songs are rooted in the past, they have different cultural flavors. I mean, what could be more Kenyan than a Luo singing in song in Kikuyu with a chakacha beat? The instruments are fabulous. I love the nyatiti and the orutu in the songs, but the guitar is also something to write home about.

The themes are also varied, soulful and socially conscious, revealing a singer who has a finger on the pulse of society. My best line is in "Dhano le" decrying sexual abuse of children: "A man must be strong for a woman and child to be safe."

The bonus track, "Matatu," featuring Jua Cali was a pleasant surprise, revealing Suzanna's versatility as a musician.

My favorite song
My favorite song keeps changing. I do love "Osiepna" with Ogoya Nengo's wonderful voice, although I wished we heard more of her in the song. I also like "Usife moyo" which should be a jazz classic. The guitar work is superb and the message is wonderful. It is a song of love and care. But "Abiro" hits the spot. It's mellow and beautiful. The sound matches the theme of a prodigal daughter returning home. I also like "Ayango" for the simple fact that it encourages girls to go to school. I must mention Jamer - a song warning against alcoholism and which has a wonderful duet between Suzanna and the orutu at the end of the song.

Author: Chris Lyimo
Published by: Story Moja
Year: 2011
Price: around Kshs 800

This is probably more of a reflection and discussion than a review of Chris Lyimo’s very engaging narrative about his struggles with, and triumphs over alcohol addiction. The book raised too many questions in my mind for me to limit my reflections to just a review. Especially so, because one of my frustrations with the book was that it restricted Lyimo’s experience to the individual, yet its content presents an indictment of modern Kenyan society which, despite all the money it has, has been unable (or is it unwilling?) to answer fundamental questions of what it means to be an African human being in this second millennium of our Lord. 

The first thing I read by Lyimo, and which made me want to read this book, was his blog at "My side of the street." What stood out for me was a man who was deeply thoughtful and deliberate about life – whether about parenting, faith or politics. He does not take anything for granted. He questions, engages and argues, but he also follows with conviction, which is a very rare quality among most Kenyans. Most Kenyans play safe; whether it’s in careers, marriage, faith or culture. They take the well beaten street so that they don’t answer too many questions. 

We aspire for careers in medicine or accounting so that we don’t have to answer condescending questions such as “where will you get a job with that?” We marry within our tribe so that we have a relatively smooth ride during the negotiations, and as a backup plan in case the marriage doesn’t work and we have to go back home to “I told you marrying someone of that tribe wasn’t going to work.” When church pastors or elders say “jump,” many of us Kenyans will ask “how high?” because asking “why?” will attract criticism for questioning the Lord’s will. Many of us will also follow customs and traditions without conviction, because that’s easier than having our Africanness questioned, and easier than being accused with “mwacha mila ni mtumwa.” By contrast, Lyimo is a different breed of Kenyan; he isn’t one of those who float with the crowd, and for that he paid a heavy price.

Let me explain what I mean. The book’s opening sentence, “your kanyamu doesn’t look like theirs,” which was how his elder sister distinguished him from his sisters, indicates a major question that confronts Lyimo as he approaches teenage: what does it mean to be a man? However, the question was never answered for him. Instead, that statement, and many other incidents in his life, reduced manhood to a single organ of a man’s anatomy (a phenomenon I have always complained about), and symbolized that he did not fit in, against which Lyimo would fight for many years afterwards. Manhood was once again trivialized when he was put through circumcision at the tender age of 10 (I refuse to believe that circumcising children is African – our grandfathers had already broken their voices by the time they faced the knife). He was taken through the physical ritual without so much as an explanation as to what that meant, I guess because it was taken for granted that African culture is self-explanatory, which it isn’t. Nothing in the world is. And so his life continued as one constant bumping into – rather than going through – the milestones of life, like falling in love and his heart being broken, going to high school, sitting exams, grief over the loss of his twin sister and later on of his baby son. At each stage, there was no guidance, no support, no consolation, no commemoration from the people around him. In fact, he finally mourned his departed family members when he was recovering. So while in normal lives each milestone is (or should be) marked by rituals, celebration or mourning, Lyimo soaked his life’s milestones in alcohol.

And the people in his close circles were complacent. The first time he got drunk was on New Year’s eve night, at the age of eleven, with alcohol provided at home. When his twin sister died in a road accident, everyone “understood” why he “needed to drink.” The best discussions he got on life were from his teachers (hurray for teachers!), while the standard comments from his close circles were on as how much trouble he was. For instance, on his return after a stint of studying in the UK, he was welcomed with the statement “I can’t say anyone missed you.”

Recovery from alcoholism therefore meant two things for Lyimo: learning to deal with the cycles of life, aka growing up, and being surrounded by a community to help him on the journey. Lyimo just had to learn to stand strong through the ups and downs of life, as he explains in one of my favorite passages in the book: “I had to take risks... I had to invite rejection. As [painful] as it was, I had to believe that … it was an opportunity for growth. I think I’ve been through more rejection in recovery than in active alcoholism. Well, it is true because I have been fully present in those phases. I had no booze to run to.”

Incidentally, that’s what initiation is supposed to do. The idea of pain is to not to prove that one is a man by not crying; it is to teach African children that adulthood is being able to be “fully present” in both the good and the bad moments of life.

It is because this complex philosophy/psychology has not been fully explained that many Kenyan men celebrate facing the knife without tears, only to later fail to step up when their families and their nation need upright men who stand up for justice, who serve society with love and dedication, and who reject moral corruption and economic exploitation. But men cannot achieve that alone. They need to be in a community like the one that Lyimo eventually found: a community that affirms people, that sets aside time to listen and teach, that loves, accepts and forgives. It must be a society that teaches people that they always need others. Lyimo puts it better: “there can never be too much help if we authentically ask for it.”

I loved Lyimo’s book. Initially I felt that the descriptions of his decadent life as alcoholic were lengthy, but I think the final pages redeemed them. I’m still disturbed about how much his home and social environment played a part in his alcoholism, because I feel that there are some lessons that his family also needed to learn, yet all the apologies seem to come from Lyimo alone. Then there are the occasional editing faults that reminds one of the recent complaint about the torture Kenyan book reviewers are put through. However, the book is written with the tone, language and imagery usually associated with fiction or poetry. Kudos go to Story Moja for expanding the scope of creative writing to publishing of life stories and proving what Anthony Gitonga said at one of the sessions of Creatives Academy – creative writing applies to more than just fiction.

It will come as no surprise to those who know my political views that I am haunted by a statement that I suspect was not meant to be as significant as I think it is. According to Lyimo, his mother tried to keep up with the Joneses, to “emulate the settlers’ wives” by sending her children to private schools and schools overseas, and that meant keeping her kids with a constant supply of pocket money. That statement reminds me of the argument I often make, without getting much sympathy, which is that the fundamental problem facing Kenya is the settler logic inherited from the colonial times. That logic has permeated not just our politics, but also how we raise our children, fall in love and relate with one another, the career choices we make, and how we define education, masculinity and femininity, money and success. If you want to understand what that means in practical terms, you must read this book.

And I also hope the reader of this book ignores the blurbs and sees this book as more than about an alcoholic, with lessons for more than just those suffering from addiction. My side of the street is for all of us who share this street that we call life. It is a mirror held up to Kenya to examine our definition of life, success, love, sex, faith, parenthood, masculinity and femininity. It is also about being human and finding redemption. But most of all, it is about our need to be deliberate about everything we do, or to use Lyimo’s words, to be “fully present” in every aspect of our own lives and of each others’ lives.

Artist:  Adawnage

How it got on my rack
Probably for the wrong reasons: I decided to buy a copy when I heard "Uwezo" on one Sunday morning when I was watching TV instead of going to church. But I got the final push to actually buy it after I met the producer. 

What I like about the album
It's a fresh, modern Kenyan sound. And I like bands. The songs vary in style, from the soulful "Uwezo" to the rumba "Safari."

My favorite songs
Definitely "Uwezo," like most people. I also enjoy "Safari" (the rumba version) and "Nitumie" that has a salsa flavor.

I'm not sure about
The ending of "Safari"II. Not sure I got it, although I get the point of having a surprise end.

Author: Kinyanjui Kombani

I’m a hopeless romantic, but I missed the gist of Kinyanjui Kombani’s love story until my second read. Maybe it’s because the first time I heard about the book was from an article that suggested the book was a prediction of the election violence of 2007/8, which meant that I was looking for the politics rather than enjoying the story. I hope I’m not going to spoil it for potential readers of the book as well.                       
The Last Villains of Molo follows the lives of five young men, Bone, Bomu, Bafu, Ngeta and Rock, who were brought together by the Molo clashes of 1992. They forge a tight friendship that transcends the ethnic identities for which the people around them are killing each other. Once they move to the city, they live in the Ngando slums and basically live a life of hustling. That’s until a beautiful rich lady called Nancy shows up.

Nancy’s love relationship with Bone is accompanied by a series of dramatic events, until the end when we discover that the painful past in Molo had brought them together. But love and sanity prevail over the hatred that was politically engineered. In previous discussions of the book, readers felt that the end was too idealistic. However, on one occasion when the author visited us, he answered the usual Kenyan question of “what can be done?” by saying that love is the answer. I was skeptical at the time, but later it made sense. It is love that humanizes the five young men when Nancy enters their lives. It is love that stops the cycle of revenge.

The other genius of this book is the use of nicknames which keep the reader away from being conscious of the characters’ ethnic identities. To this day, I’ve not been able to match the real names with the nicknames of the young men. I think I want to keep it that way.