You saw it coming, admit it. If I wasn't the whingeing, lazy, arm-chair loving type that I am, I would have wangled out of my very first employer the equivalent of a million dollars and today some national tabloid (here's to you, Daily Nation) would be feting me for my "business skills" and my rags-to-riches fantasy. When it came to to identifying "opportunities", I am afraid my parents did not have that inner pilfering spirit to impart on their pride and joy; instead, they hammered into me the less glamorous spirits of thrift, hard work, honesty, and patience.
It could all have gone horribly wrong too. Machakos Boys' School was not really known for academic excellence by the time I was exiled there. It was famous, though, for school closures, sadistic bullying, a growing weed problem (and I do not mean striga), and a deteriorating academic record. But it was about to lose its long-time henchman - sorry, principal - and settle for a new one from nearby Mumbuni; that is how bad things had gotten.
But providence seemed to side more and more with my parents. Mac B was becalmed in the four years I was interned there. I had brief spurts of academic Renaissances, but they sputtered on the weed-consuming habits among members of the faculty - and general student population. I squeaked through. Then more providential news happened along and I ended up on the Indian subcontinent. I became intimately acquainted with the effects of different types of libations; I am now firmly convinced that the Devil's Water should be imbibed with wild abandon in the first year of high education and moderately when one is about to embark on a career.
My return was marked with parental optimism, and their prayers were rewarded when an internship opened up in an agency known to swim in donor funds. All their prayers were about to be answered. Hundreds of thousands of dollars sloshed around the place; all I needed was the right mercenary mindset and that nice Range Rover would be mine. Unfortunately, they had hammered in thrift, hard work, honesty, and patience rather well. I am not a thief. I am not a pilferer of multi-million-shilling proportions. I am unlikely to become one at this age.
The Daily Nation has done what we have always suspected it always does. It has admitted to caring more for the flash of success than the true means employed in order to succeed. A convicted fraudster lies through her teeth about her struggle and our most respected tabloid cannot be bothered to properly examine the fraudster's background, swallowing instead the lies about hard work and luck. The Daily Nation confirms that Kenyans don't give two shits about the source of your wealth; you can spin any yarn you want about it and it won't matter whether the story is true or not. All that matters is (a) that one is rich; (b) that one can tell a good story of how one became rich; (c) that the tabloids won't bother to find out the truth; and (d) that may Kenyans will be envious of you.
We love rich people in Kenya, let us be honest. We think they deserve our adulation because they are rich. We expect them to enjoy privileges denied the rest of the population. They should not suffer the indignities suffered by the poor. Even when we discover that their riches are founded on the bones of their victims, we will cluck in dismay and swiftly put it out of our minds; rich people do not do bad things. When they murder, the victim must have provoked her own death. When they steal, why didn't the victim secure their property properly? We accommodate their foibles and eccentricities. We are their greatest admirers - and defenders. Because we live under the illusion that one day we, too, will be rich like them. Thanks to the Daily Nation, we know how to do it too. Lie, steal and cheat seems legitimate. After all, the Daily Nation approves.
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