Monday, September 12, 2011
BLACK MONDAY
I guess this is the worst part of being a journalist. Seeing people hurting and not being able to do anything about it. Not by choice but forced by circumstances.
I watch as scores of people are rushed in ambulances, personal vehicles and matatus to the nearest hospitals for medical attention having sustained up to 90% degree burns.
I am not a medic but those kinds of burns a very hard to recover from. Tears are streaming and I can only be glad that I am watching the events of the black Monday unfold while I am 500kms away.
Selfish it might seem but, I don’t think that if I were covering that news piece, I would do it objectively. Even the première was devastated by what he saw at the Sinai slums.
Today’s tragedy is the worst of fire tragedies that have been seen in a while. Bodies burnt beyond recognition, hundreds left homeless.it is almost time for children to go home from their first day in school after teacher’s called of their strike yesterday, but some of these children will have nowhere to call home and no parent to return to because of the black Monday tragedy.
After Sachangwan it would have been evident that Kenyans would learn from it and forget the idea of siphoning fuel altogether. The truth is many of us never learn and if we do we try to rationalize the chances of the events happening to us as very few.
Imagine the thoughts of the woman running with a three litre jerican to siphon fuel to sell: at least my children will have food for the next few weeks. She is among the many whose bodies have been burnt beyond recognition.
But even then innocent blood was spilled, that of those who had no intentions of getting rich quick from the illicit sale of spilt fuel. The fire caught them of guard in their homes or maybe in their sleep.
It is even more tragic that many people will not know if their family members are among those who perished for a little while longer as confirming with the busy hospitals the victims have been referred to will be difficult.
The Kenyatta National Hospital is in dire need of blood donation if it is to help the more than seventy people that have been admitted to their hospital from the fire. The least we can do is donate!
Friday, September 9, 2011
BEING A JOURNALIST
When you want something real bad nothing deters you from achieving it even when skeptics say that it is practically impossible.
When I made my first application to the Standard Group, I knew that I was doing the right thing.so right was I that I made three more applications with one being sent by a courier service just in case the others got lost in the mail.
Finally the call for me to go for an interview came, I expected to be heading to Nairobi but that is hard to come by especially if your postal address reads Mombasa.
Nothing I ever learnt in class prepared me for my first day at the bureau. I got to the office and apart from a few pleasantries there was not much that I got form the other journalists.
I sat there in the newsroom keeping myself busy with every newspaper I could get a hold of as journalist after another walked out to an assignment.
In less than half an hour the office was empty, everyone was out in the field but I just sat there all cold and lonely like a mortuary.
But around midday they started streaming in each punching away their stories to beat the newspaper, television and radio deadlines. Everyone seeking their on space if I had made my maiden entrance at that particular time I would have mistaken that office for a madhouse.
When I left the office that evening I prayed to God that the next day would not be another cold room experience. I vividly recall my first day in the field I accompanied one of the journalist to an assignment feeling very accomplished.
When we got to the office he did his story and I was left hanging, someone challenged me to write my story and then later on compare it with his. I wrote it the first time, and rewrote it three more times because I had missed the angle.
I accompanied other journalists to assignments in days that followed and with time learnt how to pick out the most news worthy angles in the story.
Soon I was going on assignments on my own, doing stories for both print and radio used to the pressures of meeting deadlines.
The diary in the office where assignments are noted can helped in planning but there was still a large possibility that a bigger story could break at any minute anytime anywhere and at that moment you would have to drop whatever you were doing, and go for that story regardless.
Working irregular hours for six days a week could not surpass the joy of waking up every morning not knowing what the future holds for that day. The thrill of walking into that office compared only to walking into an abyss of possibilities and uncertainty.
The day my lecturer came to asses me, a big story had broken in the early morning, the police had nabbed a drug haul and arrested suspects. We did not have time to talk for long because my editor sent me for an assignment almost immediately.
For the six months that I was there I was exposed to a lot that goes on in the journalistic world and learnt how to report on different beats from health to business, form courts to science, more so on human interest stories.
It was not always a bed of roses; there were times when I would get to the house at midnight or even later than that because there was a story that need to be covered. Times when I had to give up my off day to go to the office an file a story that I covered late into the night.
I quickly networked with other journalists and joined various media association like Association of Media Women in Kenya (AMWIK), Media for Science Health and Agriculture (MESHA) and the Kenya Correspondents Association which have provided me with numerous opportunities to train and invaluable information which I used in writing stories.
Being a journalist is passion driven and working in any organization let alone mainstream media provides and adequate opportunity for one to expose themselves.
My outfit was the Standard Group which helped expose writing abilities that I hardly knew existed. But even without the outfit I am still a journalist and that is why I am currently freelancing until I get the next outfit that fits perfectly.
I became a journalist the minute I decided to follow my dream and am glad that through it all I never looked back.
When I made my first application to the Standard Group, I knew that I was doing the right thing.so right was I that I made three more applications with one being sent by a courier service just in case the others got lost in the mail.
Finally the call for me to go for an interview came, I expected to be heading to Nairobi but that is hard to come by especially if your postal address reads Mombasa.
Nothing I ever learnt in class prepared me for my first day at the bureau. I got to the office and apart from a few pleasantries there was not much that I got form the other journalists.
I sat there in the newsroom keeping myself busy with every newspaper I could get a hold of as journalist after another walked out to an assignment.
In less than half an hour the office was empty, everyone was out in the field but I just sat there all cold and lonely like a mortuary.
But around midday they started streaming in each punching away their stories to beat the newspaper, television and radio deadlines. Everyone seeking their on space if I had made my maiden entrance at that particular time I would have mistaken that office for a madhouse.
When I left the office that evening I prayed to God that the next day would not be another cold room experience. I vividly recall my first day in the field I accompanied one of the journalist to an assignment feeling very accomplished.
When we got to the office he did his story and I was left hanging, someone challenged me to write my story and then later on compare it with his. I wrote it the first time, and rewrote it three more times because I had missed the angle.
I accompanied other journalists to assignments in days that followed and with time learnt how to pick out the most news worthy angles in the story.
Soon I was going on assignments on my own, doing stories for both print and radio used to the pressures of meeting deadlines.
The diary in the office where assignments are noted can helped in planning but there was still a large possibility that a bigger story could break at any minute anytime anywhere and at that moment you would have to drop whatever you were doing, and go for that story regardless.
Working irregular hours for six days a week could not surpass the joy of waking up every morning not knowing what the future holds for that day. The thrill of walking into that office compared only to walking into an abyss of possibilities and uncertainty.
The day my lecturer came to asses me, a big story had broken in the early morning, the police had nabbed a drug haul and arrested suspects. We did not have time to talk for long because my editor sent me for an assignment almost immediately.
For the six months that I was there I was exposed to a lot that goes on in the journalistic world and learnt how to report on different beats from health to business, form courts to science, more so on human interest stories.
It was not always a bed of roses; there were times when I would get to the house at midnight or even later than that because there was a story that need to be covered. Times when I had to give up my off day to go to the office an file a story that I covered late into the night.
I quickly networked with other journalists and joined various media association like Association of Media Women in Kenya (AMWIK), Media for Science Health and Agriculture (MESHA) and the Kenya Correspondents Association which have provided me with numerous opportunities to train and invaluable information which I used in writing stories.
Being a journalist is passion driven and working in any organization let alone mainstream media provides and adequate opportunity for one to expose themselves.
My outfit was the Standard Group which helped expose writing abilities that I hardly knew existed. But even without the outfit I am still a journalist and that is why I am currently freelancing until I get the next outfit that fits perfectly.
I became a journalist the minute I decided to follow my dream and am glad that through it all I never looked back.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
GLAD TO BE HOME
She walks with her head high, briskly sauntering through the streets of Mombasa county, taking each step with pride.
27 year old Beatrice Muni Wambua knows quite well how good it is to be home surrounded by loved ones.
The last six months have been the worst of her life an ordeal in the Arab world that she would rather forget.
When an agent who still lives in their neighborhood approached her with a job offer in January as a house help in Saudi Arabia that would pay Ksh 16,000 monthly, Muni jumped for the opportunity.
“I didn’t think twice it seemed like such a lucrative offer after unsuccessfully searching for a job for more than six years,” she said.
She had never been out of the country before and was worried that the opportunity would pass her by because she lacked a passport.
Her agent reassured her that it could be arranged for and managed to secure her one in a week’s time.
“She was very concerned, she got me the passport took me to Nairobi and made sure that I had boarded the plane to Saudi Arabia,” she recalled.
When Muni set foot in the foreign country she realized that she was not the only Kenyan who had sought for those greener pastures.
“When I arrived at the airport, I realized there were several girls like me. We were picked and housed in a big room in Sakaka until each of our employers came to pick us” she says.
The agents who coordinated their arrival ,ensured the househelps were safely delivered to their employers and hers was a two week stay.
She began working for her Arabian employer in the month of February and did all the house chores with much diligence even as the work load became overbearing.
“When I first got into the house I was given long deras and headscarfs that I had to wear every day, you cannot wear jeans you have to wear clothes that hide your figure because the women fear you can seduce their husbands.”
Like other girls, Muni was often scolded by her employer, abused and belittled before guests and children even when the house chores were done to perfection.
“She was quite jealous and would treat me badly, yet I was not interested in her husband.She would quarrel me while I stood their crying until her husband interefered.”
Real trouble began in May when she demanded to be paid her three month salary to send to her parents back in Kenya.
“The mistreatment worsened, the chores increased as she said that she wanted me to finish two years before she could pay my salary in lumpsum,” she says
Muni’s adamant defiant led to another drastic turn in the already strained relationship with her employer.
“I was so frustrated and did not even eat for days, then one morning she just woke up threw all my belongings out from the balcony and kicked me out of her house,” she says.
At that moment the reality of being stranded in a foreign country hit hard.
After two days of seeking directions with the few arabic words she had learnt, Muni managed to get to the police station in Sakaka.
“I recounted my ordeal and stayed in the police cells until the day my employer would come, pay for my air ticket and return my confisticated travel documents,” she said.
According to muni the police station was filled with poor girls of all races,mostly philipinos and Africans who had sought refuge after escaping mistreatment in the hands of employers.
For three weeks Muni stayed at the police station, her family in Mombasa remained worried as there was no way to communicate.
“I talked to my mother last,when I was kicked out,saying I was safe even though I did not know where to goand that my phone would go off because it had no charge,” she says
Her employer finally softened heart and came to the station handing her the passport and airfare but no pay.
Muni had to take three connect flights to get to Kenya and then a bus to reach home but that did not damppen the joy she continued to feel about her homecoming.
“When I got to Nairobi I called home to say I would arrive the following day. It was so overwhelming to see my whole family had come to the bus station that I fainted.”
27 year old Beatrice Muni Wambua knows quite well how good it is to be home surrounded by loved ones.
The last six months have been the worst of her life an ordeal in the Arab world that she would rather forget.
When an agent who still lives in their neighborhood approached her with a job offer in January as a house help in Saudi Arabia that would pay Ksh 16,000 monthly, Muni jumped for the opportunity.
“I didn’t think twice it seemed like such a lucrative offer after unsuccessfully searching for a job for more than six years,” she said.
She had never been out of the country before and was worried that the opportunity would pass her by because she lacked a passport.
Her agent reassured her that it could be arranged for and managed to secure her one in a week’s time.
“She was very concerned, she got me the passport took me to Nairobi and made sure that I had boarded the plane to Saudi Arabia,” she recalled.
When Muni set foot in the foreign country she realized that she was not the only Kenyan who had sought for those greener pastures.
“When I arrived at the airport, I realized there were several girls like me. We were picked and housed in a big room in Sakaka until each of our employers came to pick us” she says.
The agents who coordinated their arrival ,ensured the househelps were safely delivered to their employers and hers was a two week stay.
She began working for her Arabian employer in the month of February and did all the house chores with much diligence even as the work load became overbearing.
“When I first got into the house I was given long deras and headscarfs that I had to wear every day, you cannot wear jeans you have to wear clothes that hide your figure because the women fear you can seduce their husbands.”
Like other girls, Muni was often scolded by her employer, abused and belittled before guests and children even when the house chores were done to perfection.
“She was quite jealous and would treat me badly, yet I was not interested in her husband.She would quarrel me while I stood their crying until her husband interefered.”
Real trouble began in May when she demanded to be paid her three month salary to send to her parents back in Kenya.
“The mistreatment worsened, the chores increased as she said that she wanted me to finish two years before she could pay my salary in lumpsum,” she says
Muni’s adamant defiant led to another drastic turn in the already strained relationship with her employer.
“I was so frustrated and did not even eat for days, then one morning she just woke up threw all my belongings out from the balcony and kicked me out of her house,” she says.
At that moment the reality of being stranded in a foreign country hit hard.
After two days of seeking directions with the few arabic words she had learnt, Muni managed to get to the police station in Sakaka.
“I recounted my ordeal and stayed in the police cells until the day my employer would come, pay for my air ticket and return my confisticated travel documents,” she said.
According to muni the police station was filled with poor girls of all races,mostly philipinos and Africans who had sought refuge after escaping mistreatment in the hands of employers.
For three weeks Muni stayed at the police station, her family in Mombasa remained worried as there was no way to communicate.
“I talked to my mother last,when I was kicked out,saying I was safe even though I did not know where to goand that my phone would go off because it had no charge,” she says
Her employer finally softened heart and came to the station handing her the passport and airfare but no pay.
Muni had to take three connect flights to get to Kenya and then a bus to reach home but that did not damppen the joy she continued to feel about her homecoming.
“When I got to Nairobi I called home to say I would arrive the following day. It was so overwhelming to see my whole family had come to the bus station that I fainted.”
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
An Everyday Miracle
Everyone everywhere is searching for a miracle. For doors to open so that they can get their hearts desires. To get a job, to get married, an education, a house, a promotion or the much longed for child to hold in their arms.
Sometimes our desires become the driving force of our religion the basis of our faith. The misconception that if we pray harder, go to church more faithfully, pay tithe then God will be able to meet the desires of our hearts.
Christianity today has been watered down by televangelism that continues to preach the gospel of harvests; you plant a seed for the lord and sow your miracle.
I may not be in a position to talk from a theological perspective neither am I ordained but I hold true the view that at times we struggle too hard to see the presence of God in our lives that we fail to see the evidence that He portrays on a day to day basis.
When our faith is tested we wait to see the one miracle that can prove to us that we are not forsaken, not forgotten that as He promised in His word to never leave us (Joshua 1:5).He is by our side.
We want a constant reassurance that He is somewhere in the background working things out for us because we believe in Him and that all in the end will be well.
But if we take a moment to block out the noises around us, to sit in a quiet place and listen. Then in that moment of silence we will feel the ultimate miracle; the heartbeat.
Even the greatest of scientists cannot begin to comprehend its workings. A heart begins to beat as a child grows in their mother’s womb and only stops at His command.
Every night when we go to bed we have the confidence that we will wake up the following morning and continue with building the nation. But there is no reassurance just hope, because several people( some of whom we might know well about) have died in their sleep.
But each morning when you wake and you can feel your heart beat then you are assured of His presence because He has given you the miracle of seeing a new day.
Even when things seem tough, even when nothing is going your way give thanks because you receive your miracle each day.
Sometimes our desires become the driving force of our religion the basis of our faith. The misconception that if we pray harder, go to church more faithfully, pay tithe then God will be able to meet the desires of our hearts.
Christianity today has been watered down by televangelism that continues to preach the gospel of harvests; you plant a seed for the lord and sow your miracle.
I may not be in a position to talk from a theological perspective neither am I ordained but I hold true the view that at times we struggle too hard to see the presence of God in our lives that we fail to see the evidence that He portrays on a day to day basis.
When our faith is tested we wait to see the one miracle that can prove to us that we are not forsaken, not forgotten that as He promised in His word to never leave us (Joshua 1:5).He is by our side.
We want a constant reassurance that He is somewhere in the background working things out for us because we believe in Him and that all in the end will be well.
But if we take a moment to block out the noises around us, to sit in a quiet place and listen. Then in that moment of silence we will feel the ultimate miracle; the heartbeat.
Even the greatest of scientists cannot begin to comprehend its workings. A heart begins to beat as a child grows in their mother’s womb and only stops at His command.
Every night when we go to bed we have the confidence that we will wake up the following morning and continue with building the nation. But there is no reassurance just hope, because several people( some of whom we might know well about) have died in their sleep.
But each morning when you wake and you can feel your heart beat then you are assured of His presence because He has given you the miracle of seeing a new day.
Even when things seem tough, even when nothing is going your way give thanks because you receive your miracle each day.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
LETS SAVE A LIFE
Skin sagging, sunken eyes, bonny cheekbones and frail looking bodies of hunger stricken people have been the headlines for the last five days.
Portraying only a fraction of the grotesque situation of drought that hit Kenya’s arid and semi arid areas. No one has been spared old men, women and children in the northern parts of Kenya savor for just one meal among the many that others gulp in mouthfuls.
A section of the media went further ahead to depict exactly how severe the situation has gotten: a television featured a young child who crawling on dry land that has cracked from loss of moisture under the hot suns’ rays. The child appearing too frail to walk but struggling to crawl perhaps trying to run away from the hungry vulture just waiting for him to die.
Another a photo of a woman who had been the face of the story of hunger when it first broke in the newspapers now deceased after succumbing to hunger.
So moving are the pictures that the journalists through the media owners association and some corporate began an initiative to save the millions of people that are faced with death due the continued lack of food dubbed Kenyans for Kenya.
So far the initiative has managed to raise 40 million shillings in a span of two days making the needed 500 million to save more than 3.5 million people saved with hunger.
The situation is drastic and needs drastic measures yet the persons responsible for undertaking the measures seat in their comfort zones of fill oblivious of the harsh realities.
Perhaps it is the reason for being left out of the campaigns to raise funds for the starving Kenyans.
Perhaps another excuse to abdicate their responsibilities.
Evidently continual blame on wrong policies will not in the immediate future save the lives that are poised with this great threat.
It is time for immediate action, send in your contribution, via MPESA (Pay bill number 111111; account number 11111) or deposit in KCB Account No. 1133333338.
Let’s save a life!
Portraying only a fraction of the grotesque situation of drought that hit Kenya’s arid and semi arid areas. No one has been spared old men, women and children in the northern parts of Kenya savor for just one meal among the many that others gulp in mouthfuls.
A section of the media went further ahead to depict exactly how severe the situation has gotten: a television featured a young child who crawling on dry land that has cracked from loss of moisture under the hot suns’ rays. The child appearing too frail to walk but struggling to crawl perhaps trying to run away from the hungry vulture just waiting for him to die.
Another a photo of a woman who had been the face of the story of hunger when it first broke in the newspapers now deceased after succumbing to hunger.
So moving are the pictures that the journalists through the media owners association and some corporate began an initiative to save the millions of people that are faced with death due the continued lack of food dubbed Kenyans for Kenya.
So far the initiative has managed to raise 40 million shillings in a span of two days making the needed 500 million to save more than 3.5 million people saved with hunger.
The situation is drastic and needs drastic measures yet the persons responsible for undertaking the measures seat in their comfort zones of fill oblivious of the harsh realities.
Perhaps it is the reason for being left out of the campaigns to raise funds for the starving Kenyans.
Perhaps another excuse to abdicate their responsibilities.
Evidently continual blame on wrong policies will not in the immediate future save the lives that are poised with this great threat.
It is time for immediate action, send in your contribution, via MPESA (Pay bill number 111111; account number 11111) or deposit in KCB Account No. 1133333338.
Let’s save a life!
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
politics' dirty tricks
our politicians keep on proving time and time again to ordinary citizenry that we can not handle our internal affairs.corruption cases continue to be rampant despite numerous promises by to fight it at all costs.
public service officers have been scrambled for and been made partisan with constant referrals to ethnicity
how many times have we seen them saying that their tribes are being targeted that their are political assassins out to end their careers that their tribes have waited so long to have a piece of that national cake
they forget so soon that the path they are taking was what brought about the post election violence and the internally displaced persons who until now have notg yet been ressetled
it is a pity that these politicians view us as puppets to be toyed around with.they group themselves into opposing factions and declare war against each other in the public eye but behind the scenes they wine and dine with each other at any possible opportunity.
the results innocent Kenyans are turned against each other and at the worst end up killing each other.
Kenyans need to rise above this trivial stupidity
public service officers have been scrambled for and been made partisan with constant referrals to ethnicity
how many times have we seen them saying that their tribes are being targeted that their are political assassins out to end their careers that their tribes have waited so long to have a piece of that national cake
they forget so soon that the path they are taking was what brought about the post election violence and the internally displaced persons who until now have notg yet been ressetled
it is a pity that these politicians view us as puppets to be toyed around with.they group themselves into opposing factions and declare war against each other in the public eye but behind the scenes they wine and dine with each other at any possible opportunity.
the results innocent Kenyans are turned against each other and at the worst end up killing each other.
Kenyans need to rise above this trivial stupidity
Friday, January 14, 2011
education in kenya
with the current comments made by our learned members of parliament in Kenya and most recently by the minister of education there is need for divine intervention.with the introduction of the free primary education eight years ago parents and other stake holders thought it a relief int the provision of the much needed primary education however with time this has come to be a complete contrast.the number of students that have been enrolled into this system of basic education has more than tripled while the necessary support infrastructure has remained stagnant.the result an overstretched teaching staff and students who are barely shifting through school.some ridiculous bill is yet to be placed in parliament in order to abolish the national examination system that allows students to go on to secondary education.if this is done how are we to grade and quantify these students whose numbers continue to increase with time?will there be another examination system that will replace KCPE as was the case in 1984?or will have students aimlessly proceeding from one class to the next without any grading system whatsoever.it is time that Kenyans let professionals handle matters pertaining to ministerial posts and positions.it is embittering to see politicians fight against KCPE when many of their children have either studied abroad or gone through the British curriculum.if the bill is to be passed then children of the common mwananchi will be left to suffer.the move by the minister to reduce the number of private students going to national high schools is absurd.for one most these children come from humble backgrounds and were able to study only because education was free.unless good economic support structures are established these children might end up being kicked from the school due to unpaid fee arrears.locking out students from private schools who have succeeded is punishing the wrong culprit these children are guilty of only working hard and passing their exams so why punish them by not allowing them into their high schools of choice?the ministry should rather focus on reducing the disparity between public and private schools and improving the quality of education.
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