In a recent opinion piece, Nation Media Group’s Editorial Director and columnist Mutuma Mathiu explored the depth of youth angst in the country and on what terms the young people should be understood.
“The real Kenyan youth you need to think about,” he writes, “is urban or peri-urban, well educated, insanely clever and well-read, erudite, eloquent and very well-spoken, massively energetic, outspoken, radical, a citizen of the world.
“And angry,” he stresses. “And so disillusioned with their country that you are almost afraid to be in the same room with them.”
They are angry, he suggests, when you tell them the future belongs to them because they feel that future is code for the mess you have created.
Youth disaffection in the country is nothing new. It has often been symptomatic of larger socio-economic and political malaise affecting the general population since colonialism through post-independence to date.
Each generation of youth has, therefore, had its gripe, which has often tended to inform their artistic expression, including through literature.
Ngugi wa Thiong’o is perhaps an obvious example of his generation to mention. The global scholarly interest of his works certainly makes him among the foremost authors of his generation in Kenya as in Africa.
His works have a common preoccupation with socio-economic and political issues that have affected the country. And when he published one of his most discussed books, Petals of Blood, in 1977, he was 39. That makes him young enough to merit the description youthful.
The book documents the evils levelled against the peasants and workers. It weaves a complex tapestry. But the character Wanja, the barmaid, it has been suggested, is symbolic not only of ruthless economic deprivation of the underclasses but of dispossessed youth. She is not too different from the angry youth Mathiu is talking about.
It puts things in perspective to mention this in relation to today’s youth, as writers often define their eras.
Though not so far removed from Ngugi generation, Meja Mwangi is another writer who has been of scholarly interest.
While his works explore diverse themes including colonization and the Mau Mau liberation movement, as well as thrillers in the 1970s and 80s, his urban trilogy – Kill Me Quick, Going Down River Road, and The Cockroach Dance – dwell on social problems, particularly due to rapid urbanisation.
Today’s youth might likewise identify with the characters Meja and Maina in Kill Me Quick and the situation they find themselves living on the street because they can’t find a job. Though it is a book of its time in the 1970s, it is still relatable with the disillusionment and unfulfilled hopes it captures in the socio-political dispensation that still obtains decades after Kenya’s independence.
It might seem that Wahome Mutahi’s Three Days on the Cross, categorised in the genre prison literature, only evokes an epoch during the Moi regime when he was incarcerated in the 1980s by the morbid, insecure regime when he was in his early thirties.
But in the reading of scholars such Anna Miti Kula of Kenyatta University, Three Days on the Cross is much more. She notes that:
Like any other artistic venture, prison literature is an indicator of the various parameters that govern and shape society. It can on the one hand be closely linked to the democratisation of our society and an indicator that even jail has not and cannot dampen the fury of the pen, on the other hand. A brief explication of these writings indicates clearly that they can also be used to give an adequate, accurate and comprehensive commentary on the socio-economic, political development of Africa and Kenya for that matter. They are an important resource in showing where we are coming from and what sorts of fragments are scattered along the political, economic and social path that we have used.
These writers give expression to the issues that characterised their generations. And, if we agree with the concept of literary humanitarianism that the reader may fulfil a humanitarian act by reading a story of suffering, an argument can be made that their works must have contributed to the current dispensation of multi-party democracy and the promulgation of the 2010 Constitution.
But the new constitution is again under attack, just as it was after independence, while the youth continue to languish.
If, according to the African American social activist Toni Cade Bambara, “the goal of the revolutionary artist is to make the revolution irresistible,” who are the distillers of youth angst in the current generation, giving artistic expression to their disappointments?
While there are writers in their current youth, I am not sure there are that can measure to the stature of the older generations mentioned above.
Instead, I would argue that the space is being filled by a passionate crop of spoken word artists, prominently finding voice with the 1990s collective Ukoo Fulani Mau Mau, credited with introducing music lovers to hard-core rap mashed with strong socio-political consciousness.
A translation of “a clan of Mau Mau”, UKOOFLANI is also a Swahili acronym for Upendo Kote Ole Wenu Ombeni Funzo La Aliyetuumba Njia Iwepo (Love everywhere all who seek teachings of the creator; there is a way.)
Their contribution has not escaped scholars such as Zimbabweans Tasiyana Javangwe and Cuthbeth Tagwirei, who assert that such new genres of socio-political consciousness are not dissimilar to dominant themes of human rights in proverbs, song, folklore, as in drama and fiction.
For now, Ukoo Fulani seem to have gone silent, but there’s a new generation of spoken word artists, examples of which include Monaja and Dorphan, both of whom are crafting their name as they capture audiences on social media, as on theatre stage.
Take Dorphan, for example. Spoken word, his chosen genre of expression, has its roots in oral traditions and performance. He mentions somewhere on his Facebook page how “In the moments of weakness / I invoke the spirit of Kamirithu through the writings of Ngugi wa Thiong’o / Let me remind myself the sweetness of my mother tongue in my mouth.”
But his artistry encompasses elements of rap and storytelling, but also rhyme, repetition, improvisation, and word play that he applies to sublime effect on issues of social justice and politics.
An example of this is his 2019 piece lamenting President Uhuru Kenyatta’s broken campaign promises. Wielding the Swahili words apike and apite like a weapon in the Sheng poem, he employs the metaphor of unaffordable rice that might mean the broken promise of youth jobs, or the neglect of a citizen in the economic malaise, who are nonetheless expected to stop with respectful attention while the president passes:
Rais apite juu manifesto yake ilidai kupunguza bei
Bei za bidhaa zikipungua mwananchi anaeza afford ku’buy rice apike
Rice apike anga’ tumbo itakuwa na kitu akijipata kwa traffic akingoja rais apite
Rais apite lakini kwanza aseme nini ilifanyikia manifesto
juu bado mwananchi haezi afford ku’buy rice apike
Rice apike ndio rais apite
Inakuwaje miaka nne baadae bado rice hapiki?
Rice hapiki na ata baada ya miaka nne ya nduru bado rais hafiki
Rais hafiki na ni mwaka mmoja, miwili, mitatu, minne…
eti na bado mwananchi anangoja
His words resonate, and I dare to think the poem as an anthem of resistance. What is certain, however, is that artists like him are adding their voice to various citizens’ initiatives resisting the government-led move to cannibalise and overthrow the will of the people of Kenya encapsulated in the 2010 Constitution.
As lawyer Martha Karua and leader in the Linda Katiba movement reminds us writing in the Elephant recently, the most powerful feature of the 2010 Constitution is that it places citizens (Wanjiku) at the centre of governance, providing them with the tools and the power to demand participation, inclusion, accountability, and transparency in governance processes.
The people’s will is being thwarted or ignored. This shift of power, she acknowledges, is what has put the political class in a direct collision course with the citizens amidst the recent misguided calls for constitutional reforms by a section of the political class, through the so called Building Bridges Initiatives.
Critical observers have not failed to observe that some of the major proponents of the BBI are scions of independence leaders, who like their sons now are shredding the Constitution.
It is a travesty in governance, which as Mutuma Mathiu alludes, insults the intelligence of youth to the anger consuming many of them.
He intimates how he has heard the phrase “Business is not a solution to structural problems” from young people not more than once.
He follows this with his characteristic biting wit, noting that “The favouritism, waste, political bloody mindedness cannot be cured by hardworking youths exporting honey to Europe. They are governance issues which can only be resolved through resolute application of the law.”
His “advice to the politicians, policymakers and the folks cutting deals is this: Sit on the floor with a gang of 20 young people. It will change your life.”
Gitura Mwaura is a writer and development journalist.
gitura.mwaura@gmail.com
