In the Slums of Nairobi, the Star of Africa Fades
Crisis in Kenya: Some 300 people have been killed in post-election violence in the country
"The most dangerous thing in the world is a young unemployed man." That's what my taxi driver told me as we pulled into a burned-out gas station on the outskirts of Muthare, the sprawling slum that's been the epicenter of violent unrest in Nairobi, Kenya, ever since this country's bitterly contested Dec. 27 election. On the far edge of Muthare, on Juju Road, a dusty, litter-strewn artery, army trucks idled near the charred remains of four cars freshly burned to the ground. On one side of the road was a campaign poster for opposition candidate Raila Odinga, marking the area as belonging to his Luo tribe. Walking a few steps the other way, I entered the territory of embattled President Mwai Kibaki's tribe, the Kikuyu.
It wasn't so long ago that everyone in Muthare lived together in peace. Now Kenya is a nation divided along tribal lines. In the last week, some 300 people have been killed and 100,000 left homeless in a country that has been long considered a model of stability in violence-ridden East Africa. Many homes, shops and churches have been burned to the ground with crude Molotov cocktails made from Coke bottles. Random attacks and gang rapes occur under the cover of night, keeping everyone on high alert. "It was never like this," said my Kenyan colleague, Justus, a TV reporter coping with a live-broadcast ban by Kibaki's government. One of Justus's best friends, a Luo, will no longer speak to him because he's a Kikuyu.
Vigilantes have taken control of security in Muthare. On the Kikuyu side, the Mungiki, a secretive gang behind past elec tion violence, have begun levying a small tax to keep their neighbors safe. A vigilante group representing the Luo is offering pro tection of their people for roughly the same price. The levy is just 100 shillings—about $1.20—but anything's too much for the working poor here. As I stood interviewing Christina Ouma, a Luo mother of three desperate to get her sick mother to a downtown hospital, a Kikuyu man entered the area brandishing a rungu, a wooden baton. Like everyone else trying to leave Muthare, he sought a policeman to escort him through another tribe's area. But in nearby Kibera, Africa's biggest slum and an Odinga stronghold, no one can get past the police cordon. "Hatari sana," said the police man in Swahili. "Too dangerous."
Several world leaders have voiced their hope for a resolution in Kenya, including Archbishop Desmond Tutu, who arrived last week to help mediate the conflict. At a refugee camp outside a Kenyan Air Force base, one woman, Alice Mugawe, who fled here after her neighbor's house was set on fire, told me she doesn't care who Kenya's next president is. She wants only peace for her five children. "School is opening again on Monday, and we will be there." Like so many Kenyans, she can only hope.
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