Extracted from Melancholia of The Drunk; A Collection of Unpublished Monologues, Rants, & Letters by Phill Ibsen, M.o.D
POLITICS is about who gets attention, when and how. To get it you must be willing to lose something special to the highest bidder. You must have a bargaining chip, some sort of a soul to trade, and in the worst case scenario your vote might even count. What could I possibly have to trade for attention when all I do is beg for a little show of humanity, or just a pretense of acceptance from you?
A while ago I had sat on an empty stomach chain smoking high grade marijuana and jabba herbs, right there in downtown Kisumu, on your way to SWAN center; where the street peddlers gossiped about the government being a carnivorous ambiguity. They characterized it as an anger-stricken jealous vulture with sharp broken talons; an old dirty revving machine always getting away with murder on that nasty impoverished mamboleo-miwani road. At the helm of it there is a dusting of hope. Hope that someday things will change.
I sometimes liken myself to the Kenyan government, not the getting away with murder part, but someone who continually and exhaustively takes without giving in return. Only except this time someone had been abducted and tortured then freed. It’s either someone had fucked up or this was a desperate attempt to seek attention. Well, the guy ended up making news for the next seven days or so. His pictures flooded social media. Most were of him at the hospital looking pitiful and bandaged. He looked miserable I hear, if that was what the PR team wanted to sell to the public, they succeeded. Every picture invited sympathy. The local and international human rights organizations were not left behind. They had to do their marketing here. They had to be visible. They rallied against torture – because torture is inhumane and no one deserves it.
Again, who gets attention, when and how, remember? The guy in question is a high class popular figure known for pulling cheap stunts. He is the fighter of Human Rights, the champion of the voiceless. A Human Rights Defender, drowning in international accolades and appreciation. Funny how a simple act of being human warrants recognition. I must suppose without evidence, based on his so-called lifestyle diseases, that for the last 3 months he has never slept on a hungry stomach.
Well, I have been hungry all my life, what do I get? If I had a smartphone or a little bit of internet connection (I heard that is also a basic need) I would have posted my plight. Get some retweets and what not. Or you could do it. Take a selfie with me and then post on social media with captions like, “The population of street families are on the rise, are our streets safe?”
Since we equate human rights to what’s trending, maybe the algorithm could work in our favor. Or maybe if things get that bad, we should all sign up for the Street Family Liberation Party. Don’t we need someone to represent our interests in Parliament? We could also have the rights to proper housing and decent jobs, right?
If we are so desperate for sustainable development then we could also go that way. And since you damnably think that our families are drug addicts, maybe we should demand proper health care. Demand for things like clean syringes for safe drug abuse. I mean, we are still interested in having a healthy family and reducing the risks of needle transmitted diseases right?
You call it exposing the ills. But what about what you see daily as you pass the streets? You take me for a beggar. Fingers darkened by soil from scavenging carcasses of leftovers as I struggle to feed myself. “Why just go back home?” some of you say. Do you even bother to know of my story? Do you happen to think I just woke up one day and ran away from the hugs of a warm bed? Do you think it was my choice to be this rugged constantly sniffing on glue?
Have you wondered why a higher percentage of street families are males? Have you asked yourselves what happens to us when we come of age? Every morning you walk along with fancy suits, passing me by as I fester upon you with my dirt stained nails begging you.
“nisaidie na twenty bob”
Upon which you pass me as fast as lightning, not paying attention. No eye contact. Just a whiff of your scent rushing past. Oftentimes, there is a voice inside my mind whispering to stretch out my arms and clutch your handbag. Perhaps then, you would turn around, make eye contact, and politely say, “I see you. I understand your struggle, but I cannot help you at this time,” before gently continuing on your way.
But you and I know how that would end. Ochi, a friend of mine, fed up with the public’s lack of basic respect toward street families, listened to that voice. His reward? Mob justice. For what? All he wanted was to be treated fairly, to be spoken to like a human being.
Isn’t that torture? To beg for humane treatment, only to be rewarded with a brutal death? Or isn’t it not enough to warrant some media coverage? The city is growing and our population is rising, maybe soon all of us will be political. Maybe then we will have something to trade. Maybe then we will trend on social media. Maybe then we will grab your attention. Until then, let us continue playing politics – who gets attention, when and how.
We are coming out into the streets with dark dirt marvelous colors.
We are here, we have seen things and we are not impressed.
