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Ordinary people feel no sense of shame in talking about other ethnic groups in vile and disparaging terms
By Katy Migiro My taxi was just minutes from Nancy Wanjiru’s house when she called me. “I’ve gone,” she said. “They killed someone and they say they are going to burn houses tonight.” It was March 4 – election day in Kenya – and I had planned to film Nancy in her house. She had been raped and displaced in the violence that followed the 2007 election and I wanted to see how she fared this time around. But she was too scared even to stay at home. When rumours started circulating in Nairobi’s Mathare slum, she took her children and ran to her sister-in-law’s house. Five years after the madness that brought Kenya to the brink of civil war, the main question for journalists, international observers and 40 million Kenyans was: “Will there be more violence?” But I wanted to find out more. How did ordinary Kenyans feel about this landmark election, their country and their fellow citizens? How had Kenya changed in the last five years? MACHETES AND METAL BARS Nancy, a Kikuyu, was one of three Nairobians whose stories we filmed in the run-up to the election. Until the 2007 election, Nancy’s family ran a bar and a beauty salon and rented out several rooms. Her life was destroyed when violence erupted across the country after allegations that the presidential result had been rigged in favour of the Kikuyu community. More than 1,200 people were killed. Nancy’s family properties were all burned down. Neighbours she had known since childhood broke into her house, dragged her husband outside and beat him with machetes and metal bars before throwing him in the river. The next day, Nancy was walking to hospital to see her husband when a police officer she knew took her to his house, promising to lend her a pair of his wife’s shoes as Nancy was barefoot. There, he raped her. “He came and told me that even if I scream, there is no one here to hear me. He strangled me on the neck and that’s how he was able to rape me,” she said. Now, she is afraid all the time. “I’m usually scared even when I am alone at the house with my husband,” she said. “I see the person that raped me in him.” Her husband is also traumatised and has lost his memory. “When you wake him up, he starts shouting: ‘Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!’” Nancy said. BETRAYED Nancy’s life is now ruled by fear, rumour and tribalism. “Even if you have a disagreement with your neighbour, they start calling you ‘Kikuyu’ and you get beaten up,” she said. She feels utterly betrayed. The police refused even to record her rape in the occurrence book. The officer who raped her taunts her. “He was intimidating me, telling me that I’m a beggar and that I can’t take him anywhere (to get justice),” she said. “In Kenya, if you don’t have money you won’t receive any justice.” And the threat of violence – real or imagined – is ever present for her. Beyond the headlines of a peaceful election, Kenya is still in deep trouble. Macheting your neighbour is not the only way that a country can tear itself apart. Ordinary people feel no sense of shame in talking about other ethnic groups in the most vile and disparaging terms. One man laughs as he tells me that he hates another community and that they are “stupid”. Even Nancy, who is desperate for peace, spouts the stereotypical views of her tribe. “If Raila (Odinga, outgoing prime minister and opposition leader) had won this election, there would be no jobs,” she said. As depressing as it is to hear, this prejudice does have some backing. Jaymosh – another of the Nairobians we filmed, 22 years old and unemployed – says employers only hire people from their own ethnic group. “If you are from a different tribe, he tells you: ‘Brother, I’m sorry, the job is not available,” he said. “Tribalism is stupid and it makes us hate our lives.” Where does Kenya go from here? It will take more than a peaceful vote to restore peace and unity to this country.
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