mzeiya
Elder Lister
This dude has opened his heart and opined the following...
Dear Hon. Raila,
I am writing to you from my small bedsitter somewhere closer to Nairobi CBD than Karen, but if we both left our houses for CBD, you would get there way faster than me. Needless to say, I’d spend some 30 minutes or more for a matatu to fill. So, basically, I mean to say the distance between you and me, status-wise, is probably no less than Addis Ababa to Nairobi.
In 2007, I was in Standard 2 in some village school in Okela village, Uyoma Katweng’a (UK). When Kivuitu announced the results, I was at Loyan’s (a classmate and friend) place. I felt like a part of me left me. I felt bad, bad. I felt like my life, those of my family members, and Kenyans generally would not change for the better. I felt I had lost greatly.
Here’s why: growing up, we were fed with the notion that you were the only person who would liberate the Luo community. Every child my age would talk about you in school. Everyone ‘worshipped’ you. The teachers taught us about you. Some of them actually called you the President of Kenya. For a long time, I knew you were the President of Kenya. For a long time, I knew Kibaki and Kivuitu were criminals who deserved to rot in jail for stealing your win.
That same year, Hon. Raphael Tuju (Tuch Mon) was running for a second term as MP for Rarieda constituency. My mother, Margaret Anyango ‘Nyomollo’ (Eternal rest grant unto her, Oh Lord...), was part of some women's league supporting Tuju. She was so excited about Tuju. Women in my village, and I guess in the whole of Rarieda, loved Tuju. They still do. They talk about him to date.
But sadly, that year, Tuju lost his seat because, apparently, you de-campaigned him due to his alignment with Kibaki’s party. You wanted every Luo politician to vie with your party even if they didn’t agree with your policies. Tuju lost to Nicholas Gumbo. My mother, just like many of her friends, was heartbroken. She told me this story, and I felt bad for her.
I remember there was a day she came home and found me loudly singing this ‘Tuju’ song by Suzannah Owiyo, and she was very upset with me. She was concerned that some ‘Raila supporters’ would hear me and probably attack me or my family. I kept wondering, ‘Who is this Raila, yawa?’ So, really, I was confused about whether to be your fan or to feel sad about Hon. Tuju’s loss. I was barely nine years old, remember. But this Raila thing was giving me sleepless nights, like some ladies giving Kenyan men sleepless nights and vice versa.
In early January 2008, my cousins Fred (16) and Dave (7) were traveling from Mombasa back home after a long holiday they had both longed for before. Sadly, they were not to get home until after about one month. They were victims of the 2007/08 post-election violence. These two young boys had to suffer for 30 straight days because no bus would be allowed to move until Raila was announced President.
Remember the “No Raila, No Peace”? I heard about it, even though I was so young. When the two finally got home, they were emaciated, darker, and bitter. They were infected with the dangerous chickenpox. That was the first time I heard of such an infection in my life. They had these madoadoa, they looked homeless, and I remember people cried when they finally got home. Still, everyone was chanting ‘Raila Tosha,’ ‘Agwambo Tosha,’ ‘Tinga Tosha,’ and we believed you were clean—msafi kama pamba.
In 2013, I was in Standard 8. The results of the March election tore us apart. We mourned for some days, but life continued.
2017! Same thing.
What I failed to insist on earlier is that we were always told these guys (the Kikuyus) always stole your votes. It was taught to us both at home and in school. So I grew up knowing you were the only saviour Luos were waiting for to get to the Presidency.
In 2022, I supported you but shingo upande. I did it in the belief that there was no better candidate, not because you were the one, like I used to believe before. Kahongo already had a glaring bad reputation.
(1/3)
In short, I still supported you.
I should have taken a little break before diving into this next paragraph, but I’m sure you’re too busy to afford the luxury of waiting. I’m talking about 2024, June onwards. When we, the young people of Kenya, decided that enough is enough and that we were not going to wait for any messiah from God knows where to liberate us, we took to the streets and marched to remove a repressive regime.
We told you to stay at home and let us deal with this. You did for a moment, but oh boy, did you ultimately have to be the saviour! But there was no space for infiltration. So no one gave a damn about your existence because, really, we were doing just well—of course, apart from the painful casualties experienced. Many of our friends were killed by your now friend. Many were abducted, tortured, and threatened. I am one of those in the latter category.
Attached here is a screenshot of my photo from a video during my interview with NTV. I chose it thinking it would maybe make you feel some type of way. Just a little. That is if you are coming across it for the first time.
Gen Zs were killed. Their families buried them with only the support of fellow comrades. The pain of losing loved ones is still felt among those families. They had to foot hospital bills alone, apart from some support from fellow comrades. Even their killer—your friend Ruto—never bothered. Others were badly injured, but again, they dealt with the bills themselves.
Do you know Hanifa? She helped mobilise funds to support those who were hospitalised. Were the funds enough? Of course, it can never be enough. Did you do anything about any of these cases? Did you? Well, of course, you were not obliged to do anything. After all, you are just a Kenyan like any of us. You have no office. I mean, you are just a raia, right?
Haiya, what did you decide to do after we had weakened Arap Mashamba, the Chief Thief from Sugoi? You went and negotiated for yourself and your minions. You distributed positions that were on offer as you pleased and then showed us the middle finger. You literally told us to fuck off. After all, you were on the payroll, and your boys like Mbadi, Joho, Wandayi, and Oparanya were already representing you in the bed-and-bread-based government.
Oh, should I talk about how much you earn from Nairobi City County? Are Kenyans aware that you are employee number one in City Hall? Needless to mention the other counties, especially those whose governors were elected under the Azimio coalition party. You take home whopping amounts of money every month, including from MPs and MCAs. Huna ata aibu!
Honestly, there is so much more I can talk about, but I am also tired of venting now. I feel worse every time I write about any of these things, so I don’t have the pleasure to continue writing.
Anyway, Jakom! From the foregoing, I have lost the trust and admiration I used to have for you, and believe me, most of my peers have also lost respect for you. You think we celebrated for no reason when you lost the AUC seat? That’s the resounding message.
Kenyan youth have decided to take over the leadership of their nation, and they are not going to let any individualistic characters steal their future. We won’t. As you come back to Kenya—oh sorry, you are already here?—get ready to help us remove Ruto, then sit back, relax, and advise us on the positive aspects of leadership as you watch us take over leadership of our country.
You fit that role now more than anything else. We still know and acknowledge the positive role you have played in our democracy, and we are grateful for that. You have done a lot of active politics. It’s enough. Let us, your children and grandchildren, bring in fresh blood and ideas with your help and the help of all the others who fit that category.
(2/3)
Yesterday (Saturday 16/02/2024), from around 5 p.m. onwards, I was all smiles and pacing around in a celebratory mood as I watched the results stream in. I was genuinely happy. I felt that the Gen Z spirit was finally vindicated. Indeed, our spirit is vindicated.
Every young person in the country is celebrating—except, of course, a few diehards from Kondele and the likes. Mothers are still hurt. Fathers are crying. Their tears may not be visible, but trust me, they are crying. Burying their children is the last thing they would have wished to do, but they did. It hurts more than anything else.
Given a chance to vote now, Kenyans will punish you big time. They would even vote for a non-citizen to punish you, Ruto, and all your agents. Read the room. Read the mood. That’s how unpopular you have become. Right now, I would actually beat you in a free and fair election. Just saying.
Back to yesterday—so one of my friends asked me why I was so happy. I told them I was celebrating your loss. They were so surprised at how things had completely changed. They would never have imagined me celebrating, but, well, it happened. I couldn’t help it. I just felt this deep, genuine feeling of happiness that I couldn’t explain. That’s when I realised that emancipation is real.
I told them I know better now.
Indeed, I know better now.
Yours,
Joshua Okayo
Gen Z.
Dear Hon. Raila,
I am writing to you from my small bedsitter somewhere closer to Nairobi CBD than Karen, but if we both left our houses for CBD, you would get there way faster than me. Needless to say, I’d spend some 30 minutes or more for a matatu to fill. So, basically, I mean to say the distance between you and me, status-wise, is probably no less than Addis Ababa to Nairobi.
In 2007, I was in Standard 2 in some village school in Okela village, Uyoma Katweng’a (UK). When Kivuitu announced the results, I was at Loyan’s (a classmate and friend) place. I felt like a part of me left me. I felt bad, bad. I felt like my life, those of my family members, and Kenyans generally would not change for the better. I felt I had lost greatly.
Here’s why: growing up, we were fed with the notion that you were the only person who would liberate the Luo community. Every child my age would talk about you in school. Everyone ‘worshipped’ you. The teachers taught us about you. Some of them actually called you the President of Kenya. For a long time, I knew you were the President of Kenya. For a long time, I knew Kibaki and Kivuitu were criminals who deserved to rot in jail for stealing your win.
That same year, Hon. Raphael Tuju (Tuch Mon) was running for a second term as MP for Rarieda constituency. My mother, Margaret Anyango ‘Nyomollo’ (Eternal rest grant unto her, Oh Lord...), was part of some women's league supporting Tuju. She was so excited about Tuju. Women in my village, and I guess in the whole of Rarieda, loved Tuju. They still do. They talk about him to date.
But sadly, that year, Tuju lost his seat because, apparently, you de-campaigned him due to his alignment with Kibaki’s party. You wanted every Luo politician to vie with your party even if they didn’t agree with your policies. Tuju lost to Nicholas Gumbo. My mother, just like many of her friends, was heartbroken. She told me this story, and I felt bad for her.
I remember there was a day she came home and found me loudly singing this ‘Tuju’ song by Suzannah Owiyo, and she was very upset with me. She was concerned that some ‘Raila supporters’ would hear me and probably attack me or my family. I kept wondering, ‘Who is this Raila, yawa?’ So, really, I was confused about whether to be your fan or to feel sad about Hon. Tuju’s loss. I was barely nine years old, remember. But this Raila thing was giving me sleepless nights, like some ladies giving Kenyan men sleepless nights and vice versa.
In early January 2008, my cousins Fred (16) and Dave (7) were traveling from Mombasa back home after a long holiday they had both longed for before. Sadly, they were not to get home until after about one month. They were victims of the 2007/08 post-election violence. These two young boys had to suffer for 30 straight days because no bus would be allowed to move until Raila was announced President.
Remember the “No Raila, No Peace”? I heard about it, even though I was so young. When the two finally got home, they were emaciated, darker, and bitter. They were infected with the dangerous chickenpox. That was the first time I heard of such an infection in my life. They had these madoadoa, they looked homeless, and I remember people cried when they finally got home. Still, everyone was chanting ‘Raila Tosha,’ ‘Agwambo Tosha,’ ‘Tinga Tosha,’ and we believed you were clean—msafi kama pamba.
In 2013, I was in Standard 8. The results of the March election tore us apart. We mourned for some days, but life continued.
2017! Same thing.
What I failed to insist on earlier is that we were always told these guys (the Kikuyus) always stole your votes. It was taught to us both at home and in school. So I grew up knowing you were the only saviour Luos were waiting for to get to the Presidency.
In 2022, I supported you but shingo upande. I did it in the belief that there was no better candidate, not because you were the one, like I used to believe before. Kahongo already had a glaring bad reputation.
(1/3)
In short, I still supported you.
I should have taken a little break before diving into this next paragraph, but I’m sure you’re too busy to afford the luxury of waiting. I’m talking about 2024, June onwards. When we, the young people of Kenya, decided that enough is enough and that we were not going to wait for any messiah from God knows where to liberate us, we took to the streets and marched to remove a repressive regime.
We told you to stay at home and let us deal with this. You did for a moment, but oh boy, did you ultimately have to be the saviour! But there was no space for infiltration. So no one gave a damn about your existence because, really, we were doing just well—of course, apart from the painful casualties experienced. Many of our friends were killed by your now friend. Many were abducted, tortured, and threatened. I am one of those in the latter category.
Attached here is a screenshot of my photo from a video during my interview with NTV. I chose it thinking it would maybe make you feel some type of way. Just a little. That is if you are coming across it for the first time.
Gen Zs were killed. Their families buried them with only the support of fellow comrades. The pain of losing loved ones is still felt among those families. They had to foot hospital bills alone, apart from some support from fellow comrades. Even their killer—your friend Ruto—never bothered. Others were badly injured, but again, they dealt with the bills themselves.
Do you know Hanifa? She helped mobilise funds to support those who were hospitalised. Were the funds enough? Of course, it can never be enough. Did you do anything about any of these cases? Did you? Well, of course, you were not obliged to do anything. After all, you are just a Kenyan like any of us. You have no office. I mean, you are just a raia, right?
Haiya, what did you decide to do after we had weakened Arap Mashamba, the Chief Thief from Sugoi? You went and negotiated for yourself and your minions. You distributed positions that were on offer as you pleased and then showed us the middle finger. You literally told us to fuck off. After all, you were on the payroll, and your boys like Mbadi, Joho, Wandayi, and Oparanya were already representing you in the bed-and-bread-based government.
Oh, should I talk about how much you earn from Nairobi City County? Are Kenyans aware that you are employee number one in City Hall? Needless to mention the other counties, especially those whose governors were elected under the Azimio coalition party. You take home whopping amounts of money every month, including from MPs and MCAs. Huna ata aibu!
Honestly, there is so much more I can talk about, but I am also tired of venting now. I feel worse every time I write about any of these things, so I don’t have the pleasure to continue writing.
Anyway, Jakom! From the foregoing, I have lost the trust and admiration I used to have for you, and believe me, most of my peers have also lost respect for you. You think we celebrated for no reason when you lost the AUC seat? That’s the resounding message.
Kenyan youth have decided to take over the leadership of their nation, and they are not going to let any individualistic characters steal their future. We won’t. As you come back to Kenya—oh sorry, you are already here?—get ready to help us remove Ruto, then sit back, relax, and advise us on the positive aspects of leadership as you watch us take over leadership of our country.
You fit that role now more than anything else. We still know and acknowledge the positive role you have played in our democracy, and we are grateful for that. You have done a lot of active politics. It’s enough. Let us, your children and grandchildren, bring in fresh blood and ideas with your help and the help of all the others who fit that category.
(2/3)
Yesterday (Saturday 16/02/2024), from around 5 p.m. onwards, I was all smiles and pacing around in a celebratory mood as I watched the results stream in. I was genuinely happy. I felt that the Gen Z spirit was finally vindicated. Indeed, our spirit is vindicated.
Every young person in the country is celebrating—except, of course, a few diehards from Kondele and the likes. Mothers are still hurt. Fathers are crying. Their tears may not be visible, but trust me, they are crying. Burying their children is the last thing they would have wished to do, but they did. It hurts more than anything else.
Given a chance to vote now, Kenyans will punish you big time. They would even vote for a non-citizen to punish you, Ruto, and all your agents. Read the room. Read the mood. That’s how unpopular you have become. Right now, I would actually beat you in a free and fair election. Just saying.
Back to yesterday—so one of my friends asked me why I was so happy. I told them I was celebrating your loss. They were so surprised at how things had completely changed. They would never have imagined me celebrating, but, well, it happened. I couldn’t help it. I just felt this deep, genuine feeling of happiness that I couldn’t explain. That’s when I realised that emancipation is real.
I told them I know better now.
Indeed, I know better now.
Yours,
Joshua Okayo
Gen Z.