I am writing this essay in the hope that when he grows up, my two-year-old grandson Samora Nduru will read it and feel good about what his Kikuyu relatives have done in the 2022 presidential election.
He was named after his paternal grandfather who, unfortunately, passed on in December last year, seven months before this momentous election.
So, what have these relatives done? They have taught the world some really tough moral lessons. The first one: You don’t abandon a friend, especially one who helped you become what you are.
The second one: A good turn deserves another. If I lift you up today, you reciprocate tomorrow. In Kiswahili we talk of “Kurudisha mkono.”
After Barack Obama was sworn in as President of America in 2009, the BBC interviewed Wole Soyinka about this epoch-making event.
And with an impeccable sense of irony, the Nigerian writer said: “Obama has really disappointed us.
Just when we were about to give up on politicians, he comes along.” The typical politician in Kenya and elsewhere cannot spell the word “morality,” let alone explain its meaning and how he or she relates to it.
But once in a while, in the murky world of politics, we experience an Obama moment, and for me, the 2022 presidential election in Kenya is such a moment.
And if you have the patience to read this essay to the end, you will understand why I am saying so.
In his first visit to Russia as president, Obama invoked the name of Alexander Pushkin. I have said before that many educated Kenyans say goodbye to books once they finish school; so, it is not likely they saw the link between Obama and the nineteenth-century Russian writer.
Alexander Pushkin, who had African blood, was the father of modern Russian literature, a literature that in its depth and scope has no equal in the world.
Pushkin’s great-grandfather on his mother’s side was an African from Ethiopia. The Russian Tsar Peter the Great adopted him, gave him land and enabled him to become part of the aristocracy.
Being proud of his African ancestry, Pushkin even wrote the biography of his great-grandfather called The Negro of Peter the Great . So, in the great Russian writer, the American president saw a kindred spirit.
You might be wondering, what is the relevance of all this to our topic? In 1836, Pushkin published a powerful novel titled The Captain’s Daughter . In this novel, he described the peasant revolt of 1773-1775 against Catherine II, the tsar of Russia.
The rebellion is led by Emelka Pugachev. Embedded in these historical events is the story of the I – narrator Petrusha Grinev, a soldier on the tsarist side who falls in love with Marya Ivanovna, the daughter of Captain Mironov.
Grinev meets a stranger during a blizzard who shows him the way to an inn. Out of gratitude, Grinev gives this stranger a sheepskin coat and a glass of vodka to keep him warm.
The I-narrator, who is accompanied by his servant Savelich, does not ask for the name of this stranger.
Later, the fortress of the tsarist troops is captured by Pugachev’s rebel army. These rebels execute the people loyal to the Tsar, including Captain Mironov, Marya Ivanovna’s father.
Luckily, however, Pugachev recognises the young soldier who gave him a sheepskin coat and a glass of vodka, when he was freezing in the winter storm and spared his life.
In the meantime, Shvabrin, who has designs on Marya Ivanovna, defects to the rebel side. He detains this girl whose heart is with Grinev and tries to force her to marry him.
When Grinev receives Ivanovna’s letter complaining about the evil Shvabrin, he rushes back to the fortress and reports the matter to Pugachev.
But Shvabrin, the villain of the story, defects back to the forces loyal to the tsar. This time, his aim is to take revenge on Grinev.
He reports to the tsar that Grinev has been hobnobbing with Pugachev. Grinev is arrested and sentenced to death. When Marya Ivanovna hears of this she goes and seeks an audience with Catherine II to intercede for her husband. The tsar believes her and sets him free.
Relating this to our 2022 presidential election: who doesn’t know that without William Ruto , Uhuru Kenyatta wouldn’t have become president?
And yet Mr Kenyatta strategically abandoned his deputy in his second term; he used him and dumped him.
And in his campaign against him, he came across as singularly ungrateful and downright mean.
In Pushkin’s novel, you don’t abandon the person who helped you when you needed help. A friend in need is a friend indeed, said Shakespeare.
As I write this essay, I can hear some political analysts shouting: politics is not about morality. Politics is about the quest for power. It is about wielding power.
And following in the footsteps of Niccolo Machiavelli, they will say: might is right. The first duty of the king is to destroy the kingmaker.
But I submit that politics should be about moral values. Morality is an inseparable part of our evolutionary DNA.
When our ancestors invented the twin institutions of marriage and family, and when they started living in communities, they designed a moral code.
This code consisted of values such as love, kindness, generosity, empathy, and compassion.
I have said elsewhere that I subscribe to the theory that Homo sapiens invented language in order to gossip and tell stories.
The gossip and the stories were about those who deviated from their moral norms: those who committed incest, rape, adultery, murder, and so on; or those who were unkind, uncaring, or mean to one another.
All the oral narratives we inherited from our ancestors are life-affirming. In all the folklore of the world, good triumphs over evil. So, don’t tell me that politics has nothing to do with moral values.
And before I am done with values, let me point out that Uhuru Kenyatta’s use of state machinery against his deputy achieved the opposite result.
It made Ruto the underdog who attracted sympathy from the voters. Our moral nature is such that we are emotionally drawn toward the disadvantaged and the deprived.
I have talked about the folklore of the world. I should add that the whole institution of literature is the story of the underdog who has to surmount all manner of obstacles in order to succeed.
I started off by dedicating this essay to my two-year-old grandson Samora Nduru who, when he grows up, will justifiably brag about his relatives from Mt. Kenya, especially those who bought into the hustler narrative.
Kenyans who were born in the lap of luxury, if you excuse the cliché, quibble over the semantics of the word “hustler.”
Let me tell those idle thinkers that Samora’s great-grandmother on his mother's side was a hustler in the definitive sense of the word.
She used to walk from Chamakanga to Mbale, and often to Kibos, to buy things like omena , salt, kunde seeds or “tsimbindi,” and dried fish, otherwise called “kivambala.”
She would then carry them on her head back to Chamakanga. You are talking about a journey of roughly 30 kilometres to and fro. She would then walk from door to door selling her merchandise.
In the meantime, Samora’s great-grandfather would be toiling for a mzungu farmer on the slopes of Mt. Elgon, earning a beggarly salary.
And once in a while, he would jump on a bicycle and ride all the way to Chamakanga. Picture the journey from Kitale to modern-day Sabatia Constituency in Vihiga county on a bicycle!
From Kitale to Chamakanga, it was mostly downhill, but the poor fellow had to ride back, this time mostly uphill.
During the famine which we called “etozo” , we would sleep hungry on many occasions.
At times, we would boil a tasteless vegetable called “magalaba,” consisting of the green leaves of beans.
This would be our meal: no starch, no protein, and of course the hunger didn’t go away.
In the El Nino of 1961, Samora Nduru’s great-grandmother developed a swelling on one of her legs.
The infection grew into a gaping wound, and the poor lady couldn’t walk. She was then carried on a wheelbarrow to a private clinic near Busali Union, a journey of about three kilometres uphill.
When I saw a clip on YouTube showing William Ruto being carried on a wheelbarrow, I remembered this woman who died 20 years ago.
In the clip, Ruto was dancing and laughing; however, Samora Nduru’s great-grandmother was in excruciating pain.
But you get my point: the story of the wheelbarrow goes back to the colonial days, and Raila Odinga lost my vote when he made fun of this means of transportation.
As I move towards the end of my essay, allow me to digress a little. I will be 75 in November this year; so, the other day I caught myself thinking, if I die during their tenure, Rigathi Gachagua will come to my funeral, and if he does he will drag his boss along with him.
I taught him a course called Stylistics, which is about the miracles creative writers perform with language.
At that time, I was the Chair of the Department; and Gachagua was elected the Chair of the Literature Student Association.
There is no harm in daydreaming; if the two leaders choose to acknowledge me in my death, Kenyans shouldn’t be surprised.
I believe I have said enough to make the reader understand why no power under the sun could have prevented me from voting for the man with the hustler story.
Three days before the voting day, accompanied by Samora’s grandmother, I jumped into my Volvo, a fuel-guzzler, and drove to Chamakanga.
After voting, I was broke. To fuel the car for my return journey to Nairobi, I had to take a bank loan. That is how important this election was for me.
Going back to my grandson Samora Nduru: I sincerely hope that when he reads this essay in the years to come, he will be smiling as he reflects on how his Kikuyu relatives redefined the ethical parameters of this presidential race.
He will also appreciate that his hustler great-grandmother who was carried to the clinic on a wheelbarrow deserved a place in our universe.
Henry Indangasi is a Professor Emeritus, Department of Literature, University of Nairobi
