Of course you don’t. You can take a closer look if you want. He does look familiar now that you think about it, doesn’t he? Here is a hint: he is a policeman. That certainly throws a spanner in the works, doesn’t it?
You don’t know this man because you don’t care. It’s not even about ignorance. You just don’t care. You don’t care because you won’t meet this guy at Mercury. Or Brew. Or at Sierra. You won’t find him at all those places you frequent; Blankets and Wine, Rugby 7s, Bacchus. He doesn’t drive a Subaru, or post ceaseless pictures of it on Instagram. He doesn’t need to sound intelligent on Twitter. Or funny. Or schooled. He doesn’t actually have a Twitter account. I don’t think he does. But if he does I don’t see you following him because he isn’t cool enough for you. Urbane enough. Which is just as well because your paths will never cross. But tragically, if they ever do, you won’t notice.
Let’s take a detour for a minute.
Let’s say, for shits and giggles, the Ethiopian army is about to surge in through our border at Moyale. About a million of them. Armed. Chanting war-songs, stamping their boots in the dust that drifts to Kenya with an ominous message. In a month’s time they will march into the capital. Kenya is under an imminent attack from outside. An enemy with a face, a name, a flag. There is a grim radio announcement calling all able-bodied men (and the national women’s volleyball team) to go to their nearest police station and get armed, ready to defend our country. The national anthem plays endlessly on every TV and radio station. And Eric Wainaina’s haunting song plays in the air. Someone from Internal Security tweets messages like, “We suspect this is the work of the opposition, but we call on all of you to stand by this great nation.” And it gets 1.2M retweets. The drums of war are thudding.
You are suddenly confronted with an even bigger question; would you take a gun and die for this country? Would you spill your blood for Kenya?
I wouldn’t.
I wouldn’t put my life on the line for this country. I would pick that gun all right, but not to defend this country. To defend my family and myself. And perhaps close friends of mine. OK, maybe three. Hehe. But not Kenya. Let the boys in the barracks who are getting double-chinned on tax-free things die for this country for a change. Let Otieno Kajwang die – I see him humming his mapambano hymn as he marches north to meet the Ethiopians. Let the AG pick a gun. Let the Jubilee and Cord firebrands pick guns and fight. Them and all those chaps who fly flags from their juggernauts. They should be able to defend the honour of those flags. Not me. I won’t die for Kenya. Not even if it had breasts.
Why? Simply because Kenya won’t remember me once I’ve succumbed to an Ethiopian bullet. Kenya will move on. Quickly. Truth is, Kenya hasn’t given me much to make me die for it. The things it has given me are the things I deserve. “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country,” remember that line from J. F. Kennedy? I remain spectacularly unmoved by that quote.
How many times has your heart swelled with pride at being Kenyan? When was the last time you felt undeniably proud to be Kenyan? When? Westgate.
A pal of mine told me how when they were coming from Machakos during the infamous Masaku 7s, they saw Moi’s car rolling by, him seated, not back left, but front seat, waving at guys as they cheered wildly. All of them “watoto wa Nyayo” screaming and waving, and Moi with that wry grin, and sculpted face, waving back. My friend says it almost brought tears to her eyes seeing Moi. Made her feel “so Kenyan.” Maybe. But I told her that wasn’t patriotism. That was nostalgia. I could be wrong. But I doubt it. Patriotism is different. Patriotism is when you know without a doubt that you are in the right country, that your sense of belonging is irrefutable. That if you were to come back again in the next life, you would want to be born a Kenyan.
Would you want to be born Kenyan again?
My last moment of patriotism was watching Rudisha win the Olympic 800meters. You saw it didn’t you? That evening in the Olympic stadium, even the stars in the sky came out early that night, because the gods knew something big was about to go down. Rudisha was largely unknown. This was before the BBC and Vanity Fair headlined his triumph; “The greatest runner you’ve never heard of.” After that the world couldn’t forget Rudisha. Before the race he is believed to have told his Kenyan counterpart Timothy Kitum, who took silver, not to try keeping up with him if he wanted to win because he was going to pull some crazy shit. Rudisha knew. And as the world waited, and an unsuspecting stadium of 80,000 waited for the much-anticipated Usain Bolt/ Yohan Blake’s 200m final later on, nobody thought that an extraordinary happening was afoot. Nobody knew Rudisha was about to make the 800m race cool.
And I will never forget that race because it was so unexpected. So astonishing in its beauty. Watch that YouTube video. Rudisha, 6’3”, lithe, long limbed, graceful like an animal in Amboseli, eating the tracks with his spikes, headed for
glory with that determined look on his face. Andy Bull of the Guardian newspaper described that moment: “Rudisha pulled the field around behind him, like a speedboat leading seven water-skiers.” He later went on to become the first man in history to run two laps of the track in under 1min 41secs. Of course lesser men tried to catch up with him in that race, and the ones who pushed their bodies to the limit, like the silver medallist, 18-year old Nijel Amos from Botswana, were carried from the track in a stretcher. A stretcher guys! But not our Rudisha. Not the Kenyan gladiator. Look at him moments after he broke that world record, how calm the guy was, how modestly he waved, how awe-inspiring he was, and how he stirred a sleeping Kenyan animal in you. Of course you felt that with Kemboi, right until he jumped on the Frenchman and gave him a “French hug.” Then you looked away to see if kids were watching.
That Rudisha moment and when the national anthem was played in the Olympic Stadium, and the world, the whole world stood for our flag and our Rudisha, that is something that makes you feel so proud to be Kenyan. You want to protect the flag. You will pick a gun at that moment.
The man in that picture up there is Wilson Kipsang Kiprotich. Another Kenyan champion. Men cut from the same cloth as Rudisha and Kemboi and Lorupe. Kipsang won the Frankfurt Marathon twice; won marathons in Japan and USA, then won numerous half marathons. He also won the London Marathon in 2012 taking to the cleaners big names like UK’s Mo Farah. Visit Kipsang’s Wikipedia. Google him. He’s a champion. Some even call him jambion. But it doesn’t matter what a sheep calls a lion, does it?
I met Kipsang at a SuperSport event. But I wouldn’t have known who he was had I met him in the streets. And I’m ashamed. I interviewed him and was struck at how unassuming he was. How hard these guys work for themselves and for our flag, despite how little we cheer them on.
Thirty of these guys, winning races, flying our flag, singing our national anthem can change how we feel about Kenya. This is homage to all the faceless athletes out there doing it for themselves, for their families and for Kenya.
But most importantly this is to the Ethiopians. Bring it on. Uhm, the injera, that is.
[Photo credit: Susan Wong.]