RE: I DEMAND TO BE SAFE OUT HERE
I am just an ordinary Kenyan out here. Out here is how it feels like leaving outside the well-guarded gates of the State house. Unlike you Mr. President, out here ordinary Kenyans like me only dream of the kind of Security you, your family, your cabinet and your political friends enjoy. For most of us out here, its survival for the fittest; as am writing you this letter, I am lucky to say that I am one of those Kenyans who might have not been victims of the ongoing terror mayhem that have become the order of the day out here. I am lucky Mr. President, because that’s what it’s like to live each day out here, outside the well-guarded state house. And even as I enjoy my luck, I wonder how long this may last. I am one of those Kenyans who spent half a day to ensure we had someone like you enjoy the security you’re currently having.
I fulfilled my mandate as a Kenyan, to ensure your security was guaranteed so that you were physically and mentally provided with an atmosphere good enough to ensure I and other ordinary Kenyans lived with a semblance of content that someone is in control. That I’ll get back straight home from work without looking over my shoulders or under the bus seats to ensure I live one more day out here. Last year in September, I watched with shock as terrorists took over a shopping mall and blatantly took the lives of over 60 Kenyans. I cried for my country, my motherland.
I wish I voted for BABA.
I longed for those days when all we could witness these heinous acts were in an action movie at the Kenyan Cinemas. But even there, I don’t feel safe anymore. Last night after I saw an update on Mpeketoni attack I went to sleep and prayed that the incident would be brought under control and the culprits brought to book for attacking a police Station. I woke up this morning and the first thing I did was to check the social media for more information on what became of the previous night incident.
Mr. President, close to 59 Kenyans, ordinary Kenyans like me lay lifeless out here. For the enemy, the atmosphere smelt of victory but for the ordinary Kenyan out here, fear and confusion gripped us as we watched in shock. Unfortunately, out here, this seems to be the order of the day. I might have been tempted to imagine that had these ordinary Kenyans a quarter of the security you have guarding you at the state house guarding the entire Mpeketoni, perhaps the enemy would have had little chances of even thinking of an attack.
But who are they, who are we to compare ourselves to you, the President! We’re just ordinary Kenyans! But I believe, had someone done their job right, the ordinary Kenyan out here would have gone back home to their families like you did to yours last night and have some family time without worrying of their security. Just recently, we saw the West scramble jets to the coastal towns to evacuate their citizens amidst fears that there was an impending major attack in the region.
All these time I looked up to you, the man we fulfilled our half day mandate to ensure our safety out here provided leadership and ensured the enemy failed. Mr. President I remember clearly you said the security agencies were working tirelessly to ensure the safety of each and every individual Kenyan. I took a deep breath and prayed that they would shame the enemy and keep us out here safe. Last night Mr. President, I understand that the enemy visited; they took not just minutes or an hour, but four hours to cause all the damage that left the ordinary individual Kenyan you assured us the security agencies would protect. Four hours these Kenyans waited, perhaps hoping that this situation would be contained. A four hour wait that ensured victory to the enemy.
Oh Mr. President, I am scared. The question is, can I take your word for my safety anymore? I am scared because outside here, I have to continue checking under the seats of the bus as I go home or to work. I have to alight when I see someone I don’t trust. Outside here, fear is what keeps us safe; fear is all I depend on to stay alive. Just a few weeks ago, you came to address the nation driving in a bullet proof Land cruiser, so we were told. This is the security I gave you.
I’m not lucky to have a bomb proof car to protect me from the hawk eye of an enemy. I didn’t at any point doubt your safety that day, neither do I now because Mr. President, I had done my job well enough to keep you safe, so you could ensure I felt safer. I am a worried Kenyan, because out here, outside the gates of the state security you’re enjoy, countless Kenyans like me will continue losing their lives in this senseless blood bath. All I can hold onto is hope. Because unlike me Mr. President, that’s a luxury you cannot afford.
You must not remain hopeful that things will be better. You have to take action and do it now. Stop forming commission of inquiries and get us people who can do the job. This is not just about condemnation and knee jerk reactions; it’s about doing all it takes to ensure we’re safe out here. I hope I live another day out here that I don’t need to look over my shoulder because you’ve already done that for me. A day that I wouldn’t need to look under the bus seats to feel safer, a day that I would welcome and have a casual chat with the person seated next to me in the bus without feeling insecure or suspicious. That is the Kenya, we want outside here. We don’t need bomb or bullet proof cars to feel safe. We don’t need the police driving chase cars around us to feel safe. But what we want is not to have all these but still feel safe to be Kenyan in our very own Kenyan way. I demand to be safe in my country. I demand to be safe out here too.
If it’s too hard for you to make us feel secure. Kindly let Baba take over.
Yours Fearfully Kenyan
Jaluth
(The writer of the letter's opinion does not necessarily represent Our position)
