“The clock did not invent man,” are the opening and apologetic words of my Nigerian host as the function began 45 minutes late, which I was later informed was rather early for Lagos functions. I was giving the keynote speech at an annual client workshop and book launch for a firm of Lagos advocates and had sat at the edge of the high table to enable easy access to the podium. I wonder how we are starting the function when all the other seats at the high table remained unoccupied. It turns out that I had made the ultimate faux pas (I learnt much later as I read a hilarious 1960s book titled “How to be a Nigerian” by Peter Enahoro) that required me to be ‘called’ to the high table. The workshop started with the Master of Ceremony announcing the Chairman of the function, who was then called to the high table with much flourish and accompanying applause. I sat there like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights as seven other names of senior dignitaries were called to the high table with my name cited last but I already preempted my journey to the high table by sitting there –albeit sheepishly – in the first place.

My host’s eight-year-old son came up to me at the end of the function and innocently asked, “Are you a phonics instructor?” I looked quizzically at his mother as I didn’t understand the question. In between loud guffaws, she bemusedly explained that my accent was refreshing and my elocution clear, two features of his English phonics instructor in school whose role was to get her Nigerian students to articulate themselves as phonetically clear as possible. God bless his cotton socks, I must say I was rather chuffed for the rest of the day.

As I started off saying last week, I was in Nigeria last month for 3 days and had the good fortune to have a local guide, Oti. On the second day, Oti took me to a market and as we drove, he kept me informed of the local vibe from politics to religion. It was the week of the presidential primaries from the two largest parties, PDP that had the incumbent Goodluck Johnson running unopposed and the opposition party APC. Leke, my waiter at breakfast had already expressed his preference for Major General Buhari, who was running against Atiku Abubakar.

“I will vote for Buhari because even if he has stolen money, he has kept his money here in Naija and I can benefit from employment of his companies. That Abubakar is corrupt – he takes his money to Dubai and South Africa.” Leke’s resigned acceptance that corruption money should stay at home rather than abroad is atypical of our African submission to this problem. Oti agrees with Leke’s views as we sit idly stuck in stationary traffic. It can take up to two hours to move 5 kilometres in this city and quite often, drivers fall asleep waiting behind the wheel as the cloying heat and humidity together with the hum of multiple vehicle engines lull one to a mind numbing stupor. “Buhari is in his seventies,” Oti muses, “but he is still an attractive candidate because he is known to be anti-corruption. Can you believe that he took a loan to buy his farm?!” This last question is said with much shock from someone who thinks all former civil servants are stinking rich from the benefits of their jobs. Apparently it is Buhari’s fourth attempt at the presidency, but the ne’er-do-gooders want him to fail so that corruption thrives.

We get to the market and a moneychanger walks up to us. Oti feels we can trust him and we begin our negotiations right outside one of the fabric stalls. I’m trying to change $300 into Naira and fall into the classic trap of being distracted by loud passersby and the quick-fingered moneychanger gave us only $180 Naira equivalent. The moneychanger and the loud passersby vanished into the numerous stalls in the market. Oti was mortified, he couldn’t believe we had been conned. “Nkt, 419-oh!” Said the bemused owner of the stall in front of which we had been transacting. I was annoyed with myself as all my instincts had been against changing money outside of the numerous forex bureaus that we had passed between the hotel and the market. Oti, on the other hand, was sure that they had used black magic as we had both been intensely counting the naira as the moneychanger swiftly made the exchange. I chalked it to experience and shrugged my shoulders, resigned to my fate. Oti, meanwhile, bristled in righteous indignation and lamented for an hour thereafter about how such folks gave Nigerians a bad name. He wanted us to go to the local police station, but the thought of spending 3 hours writing statements on a crime that wouldn’t be resolved in the blistering heat and humidity was not my idea of a day well spent.

I try not to focus too much on how Oti drives with one foot on the accelerator, the other on the brake and his left hand on the horn. But I get the sense that one requires spiritual guidance to deal with the notorious Lagos traffic as I left the southern suburbs of Ikoyi at 10:30 p.m. later that night and it took us one hour and 15 minutes to get to the northern suburb of Ikeja, a journey of 18 kms of 3 lane – sometimes 4 lane – highways that were bumper to bumper at that late hour.

On my departure I meet a classic hustler willing to push my trolley for a fee. I tell him that where I’m from women didn’t give money to men, that in fact the reverse was true. The hustler is full of African wisdom, “M’am some fingers are taller than others.” I shake my head in wonderment. These Nigerians are quite the lyricists!

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It was with great joy that I am happy to pronounce the completion of 21 days of self quarantine which enables me to publish this piece without the requisite eyebrow raising episodes that I endured whenever I dared to say: “I’m going to Lagos for a workshop” last month. I was actually quite disappointed that fellow Kenyans lay on the same judgmental status on Ebola-free-status-Nigeria-as-declared-by-the-World-Health-Organization as the British and American do with travel-advisories-against-bomb-ridden-Kenya but that was a 2014 bee in my bonnet. It’s a new year now.

I flew our national carrier and as much as friends take the mickey out of me for my constant and lavish praise on Kenya Airways, it begs taking note of the fact that there are probably only 4 large airlines worth international salt on a continent of 53 countries and KQ is one of them. In a country like ours that has very few things to be proud of lately, KQ’s pride of place amongst international airlines is one I brag about incessantly. The Boeing 737-800 flight was flown by an all female crew superbly led by Captain Ruth Karauri, a petite and fairly young pilot whose captain role excited several male passengers that formed a long line of fawning fans behind me as my request for the obligatory “Young, female pilot because KQ rocks!” selfie at the end of the journey was happily fulfilled.
It was my second visit to the sun kissed Lagos, a city that I absolutely love for its insatiable spirit of entrepreneurism, boundless enthusiasm and the palpable zest for life that clings on in the choking exhaust fumes and dust polluted air.

Over dinner, my hosts were quick to bring me up to speed on the local vibe. My host’s wife chuckled as she told me about the typical Nigeria’s view of Ebola, “Ebola is not my portion” is the standard response of the God fearing Nigerian, “I rebuke it!” She tells me that spirituality is very high in Nigerian culture; God will protect the Nigerian from all that is evil, which is why their churches are big business. “The ordinary Nigerian’s life has become so debased that all they think about is how God can protect them from insecurity, poverty and terrorist attacks,” she adds. I blink my eyes in surprise. She’s talking about the ordinary Kenyan’s life and doesn’t know it. “Corruption mscheeeeew,” she spits the words out as if they taste like the bitter vegetables that make up the delicious Egusi soup we are consuming, “It is everywhere. From the police on the roads to the staff at the airport, to civil servants in the government.” I smiled as I recalled arriving at the airport and walking towards the car that had come to pick me up. The guard by the kerb gave me a sunny smile worth a million Naira as he pointed out what was quite obvious to me as my ride, “Hallo ma’m how was your trip?” That question asked with a suggestive lilt at the end that presupposed a tip for asking about my wellbeing. “Welcome to Nah-jeria” was the last thing I heard before hurriedly slamming the door on his expectant face. I didn’t have the naira to thank him for the sunny welcome but I appreciated his concern anyway.

Oti, my local and very knowledgeable guide for the duration of my stay, took over the narration of the Lagos vibe the next day as he drove me to the market. I had tucked the Business Day newspaper under my arm as I finished breakfast so that I could discuss the day’s headlines with him. “Legislators spend 682.7 billion Naira (approximately Kshs 341 billion) to pass 104 bills since 2011. A woeful scorecard says the newspaper at a time when the parties were going into primaries in preparation for February 2015 general election. The analysis, it cost 5.73 billion (Kshs 2.8 billion) per bill in this legislature i.e. the running costs of the production for the legislature.” Oti doesn’t think the current government, nor the legislators will come back. He says that there is widespread belief that the government will be voted out, assuming that there is no rigging. The corruption and insecurity are too much, Oti says. I admire his burning African optimism for change. The back page of the newspaper has a commentary by Mazi Sam Ohuabunwa titled “How many more must be killed before we declare a state of emergency over Nigeria?” Mazi’s beef: Some legislators wanted the state of emergency in 3 northern states to be lifted when insurgents have ruled for the last 18 months. He believes the country is in a civil war. How can you declare an emergency over a state and leave all the governors and political structures intact he asks and cites President Kenyatta firing of ole Lenku’s and Kimaiyo as an example for Goodluck to follow. I choked over my fried plantains as I read that last part. Kenya is now cited by a Nigerian commentator as a beacon for “how to manage insecurity”. Right.

It is rather uncanny how our fortunes as Kenyans are inextricably linked to those of our Nigerian brothers. We both have an almost sullen resignation about the cards that life has dealt us with regards to the twin monsters of corruption and insecurity. We both suffer from questionable legislators that purport to fulfill the mandate that they tricked from us with our unsuspecting votes and we both turn to spiritual seed planters to nourish our grief stricken souls as well as fill us with their opiate of hope in a rapidly deteriorating life. But we both wake up every morning determined to see the day through and hope against hope that each new government will make a difference. We both deserve the Nobel Hope Prize if there’s ever one.

More next week about the sights and sounds of Nigeria including my 419-oh experience!

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Last week a work assignment took me on my virgin trip to Juba in South Sudan. The trip got off to a less than stellar start when we ran into headwinds at the boarding gate at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport (JKIA). Two of my colleagues had forgotten to carry their yellow fever certificates and were asked to stand aside while “Juba” was consulted. My prayerful third colleague and I, who had both happened to travel to Nigeria in May this year, were told we were lucky. “If you have been to Nigeria in the last sixty days the Juba authorities will not allow you into the country,” was the professionally polite statement from the ground staff. Alright, so this could not have been informed to our travel agent at the point where the ticket was being issued? Memo to self and to anyone else: do not plan for any trips to Juba and Lagos within the same quarter. My colleague’s prayers were answered and “Juba” responded with “Yes, they may proceed without yellow fever certificates.”

When one lands at Juba, one can be forgiven for thinking you are at a United Nations airfield. Numerous World Food Program planes and helicopters are parked at the airport and there’s a heavy presence of United Nations Mission In South Sudan (UNMISS) uniformed personnel. Upon deplaning, a masked attendant in a white coat pointed us to a tent before which is a plastic water tank with some filmy water to be used to wash one’s hands. With dripping hands we were then guided into a tent with gloved, masked attendants taking temperatures with guns as Red Cross staff from Japan monitored them intensely. Ebola readiness is very apparent and the form that we had filled on the plane was quickly marked with our temperatures. That form was the only medical item that generated any interest from the airport officials. It seems the yellow fever urgency at JKIA was a storm in a teacup. Ebola had taken its place. We finally entered into a low-slung building that had seen more war than peace and maintained an ambient internal temperature of at least 35 degrees Celsius in its poorly ventilated confines. An attractive, brand new terminal building lies in its last stages of completion adjacent to the old terminal. The silence around the incomplete building signifies that there has been a pause in its construction.

We stood in line to get visas. It would take at least 3 pages to write what the process of obtaining a business visa at Juba International Airport entails. Suffice it to say that we watched the Kenya Airways plane that had brought us get cleaned, refueled, boarded by outbound passengers and take off into the azure South Sudanese skies before we finally received our passports back. We pushed our way through heaving masses of people awaiting luggage that is belched out of a scanner fed from a conveyor straight from the airside tarmac. It’s impossible to differentiate between arriving passengers and the hoi polloi.

John, our driver, meets us in a mercifully cool Toyota Land Cruiser, a car that is as common in Juba as a Mercedes in Frankfurt or a Probox in Eastleigh. Juba, he points out, is an ode to East African unity. Somalis own most of the petrol stations while a great number of hotels are owned by Eritreans. Most of the food is imported from Uganda while most of the skilled labor in the banking, hotel and construction industries is Kenyan. As we drive through Juba town we see a lot of hotels under construction, I stopped counting at 10. Kenya’s UAP Insurance is putting up what looks like the tallest building in the city while CFC Stanbic, Equity, Co-operative and KCB Banks take their pride of place in the city’s financial directory.

The main line of business for many of the banks is trade finance and foreign currency trades. Due to a weak judicial system, lending is generally not widespread due to the risk of unenforceable judgment debts and realization of securities. As a result, the businesses in South Sudan do not benefit from the opportunity of working capital and capital expenditure facilities that can generate rapid economic growth and employment.

We drive across the Nile on a steel reinforced bridge that allows single file access each way. The banks of the river teem with old mango trees that seem to grow wild. We drive out for at least 35 kilometres and note that there is almost no agricultural activity on what are very clearly fertile lands adjacent to a perennial fresh water source in the Nile. That Juba can become fully self-sustaining in food production is apparent to the untrained eye.

With oil proceeds at an unhealthy 98% of total government revenues, President Salva Kiir cannot be comfortable about the country’s exposure to the oil extraction industry. Income tax rates are low, with the highest tax band at 20% and very little actual tax collection. Robustness is also required around the power sector as there is minimal power production from the national electricity provider South Sudan Electricity Company which takes 468 days to install a meter at a client site, according to the World Bank Group publication “Doing Business in South Sudan.” Even if the electric meter is installed, there remains the issue of receiving electricity and therefore the bulk of homes and businesses in Juba run on diesel generators, which make any manufacturing process very expensive to run.

It is obvious that once the LAPSSET corridors open, a lot of opportunities will arise for even more trade between the two countries. But, even more importantly, skilled labor is very scarce and it would do well for the Government of South Sudan to enter into labor agreements with its neighbors to import professionals with the sole view of up-skilling its own citizenry for future posterity. Teachers and medical personnel would be a great start.

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A few days ago I had the good fortune of having a work assignment in Dar es Salaam. We deplaned from our national carrier Kenya Airways, which had departed 3 minutes earlier than scheduled making for an impressive on time arrival contrary to its much-maligned reputation. Waiting for us, just past the air bridge, we found three plastic gloved ladies standing next to an Ebola screening poster. Lo and behold, they were not waving a magic temperature wand like their Kigali counterparts despite the starkly present ebola visual aid reminders. The polite ladies were only interested in seeing our pale and well-worn yellow fever certificates. It was as if the certificates would magically illustrate whatever tortuous journey each passenger had endured in the last three months. As we descended into the bowels of the immigration hall, we found two long wooden counters with little cubbyholes in which immigration forms sat askew. A sign very clearly indicated: ” Tanzanians and residents don’t need to fill out these forms”. Righto, the rest of us non-entities blithely filled ours out and stood in line. Because Tanzania is a member of the Coalition of the Unwilling, there was no separate line for East African Community residents, but I’m tired of singing this song. I frankly think that in the immigration hall at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport we should put a sign that says EAC and COMESA citizens EXCEPT Tanzanians. Oh I forget that Tanzania is not a member of COMESA. Anyway I got to a grim faced immigration official who didn’t even crack a smile at my killer of a charming grin. “Vipi kaka?” I try the local lingo. He mumbles something in response and thrusts the blue immigration form back at me ……”Tia sahihi” (Append your signature). At least he’s speaking Swahili to me.

As I exit the arrivals terminal I see a brand spanking new building named “VIP Terminal 2”. Joshua, my taxi driver, says I should have used it since I have a diplomatic passport. I look confused. It turns out that he mistook my powder blue colored East African passport for a diplomatic one. I quickly set his disabused notions right. But the surprises don’t end there. Driving out of the airport, I see a huge construction project in the airport vicinity. I ask Joshua what it is.
“Nkt…..tunajenga terminal 3 na barabara hatuna. Mwenye kuturoga akafa. Kama angekuwa hai tungeenda kumuomba msamaha.” (We are building terminal 3 yet we don’t have roads. Whoever has bewitched us has died. If he were alive we would have gone to beg him for forgiveness) I almost fell out of the taxi laughing. I loved Joshua’s righteous indignation as it made him a true East African citizen. What I particularly found interesting was that the Tanzanian government, which ran the national carrier Air Tanzania aground, would have the temerity to build another terminal with no national carrier to provide the requisite passenger flows. Anger at the misplaced priorities of our national governments can galvanize the East African citizenry into a Coalition of the Indignant.

We got on the highway headed to the Dar CBD. Within minutes Joshua quickly got off the road as a Nissan pathfinder with the letters “MP” emblazoned on the sides and a loud siren whooshed by. I’m just about to get peeved that Tanzanian members of parliament drive cars with sirens, when I see 3 Four Wheelers following in quick succession following. Turns out that it was a military honcho who was being given way. I exclaim utter Kenyan shock, why should we move off the road for a military honcho? Joshua response: we have respect here for military folks, but if a citizen wants to get to airport fast he or she just needs to call the police and pay 200,000 TZ shillings (Kes 11,000) to get a police motorcycle escort. Pardon? Joshua said he had done it several times when he had guests who were running late and needed to get to the Dar airport despite the legendary Dar traffic jams. There is a reason why we are the East African Community that goes beyond common borders and common colonial histories. Our cultures are not dissimilar and, sadly, white elephant infrastructure projects, pompous officials with a need to declare their nuisance presence on the roads and an inability to adequately prepare for with a medical crisis like Ebola are par for the course amongst the East African Community members.
Having said that, it bears noting that the rate of economic growth in this part of the world is exciting to external investors. A number of the people that I was on the flight with from Nairobi ended up staying at the same hotel as I. The Serena group of hotels has successfully taken a plum place as the hotel of choice for the East African business traveller and I never cease to marvel at the number of Kenyans I always find at any of the Serena properties in Kampala, Kigali and Dar. The Dar Serena was full this particular week, with all kinds of business people from various countries around the world and I found a number of Kenyan businessmen closing opportunities in the retail and energy sectors. There were also a number of training activities happening at the hotel driven by Kenyan organizations. Much as the Tanzanians are anecdotally wary of the Kenyan capitalist onslaught, it is apparent to the uneducated eye that removing trade and labor barriers is the last mile for an already burgeoning cross border relationship. After all, we are already joined at the hip in our mutual distrust of Serikali!

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Last Thursday afternoon I walked gingerly through Jomo Kenyatta International Airport (JKIA) always on the lookout for anyone coughing or looking like they had the sweats. I was en route to Kigali on my favorite, proudly Kenyan airline that had picked Gate 4 as the departure gate which is quite a schlep across the building if one favors a quick shot of cappuccino at the Java located at Gate 14. But the long walk gave me time to observe the airport through the narrow lens of the Ebola paranoia that has beset the media, the country and the world.

Departing passengers mixed freely with transiting passengers and there were no signs of overkill that I have observed in Hong Kong and China where people walk openly with face masks adorned due to some perceived disease they fear receiving or spreading (which I believe is post-SARS paranoia). I still hadn’t seen any sign of medical staff or a port health team in the entire time that I had walked across the expanse of the airport from Gate 14 to Gate 4. (On an entirely different note, if you ever have to take a flight from Gate 3 and below pray to your chosen deity for help as those gates are in the very bowels of the airport where no light ever penetrates and the few remaining ceiling boards look like they were used as dartboards by very bored airport staff.) All in all, a pretty relaxed atmosphere throughout the airport.

We landed in Kigali a few minutes to six p.m. local time. I had noted that one of our female ministers was on the flight with us so I expected to find Kenyan embassy staff waiting for her at the bottom of the plane. Alas, it was not so. Together with her bodyguard they got on the bus like everyone else to be transported to the main terminal. I have to admit, I was rather chuffed at this equalization of passengers. My smugness was short lived because waiting at the terminal was a tall, swarthy Rwandese man with officialdom stamped all over his grim face. I didn’t look back. I figured that was the Cabinet Secretary’s welcoming committee. I promptly forgot about her as I traipsed down the stairs to the immigration hall. At the bottom of the stairs stood two medical staff who were politely pointing to the side where forms were stacked on various tables for incoming passengers to fill. The form was a basic one pager that asked everything short of which my political party of choice was back at home. The medics were firm, but polite. You would not get past them without the form. I had failed to write the telephone number of the Serena Hotel where I would be staying. “Madame, you must write the telephone number,” the lady dressed in white scrubs said to me. I shrugged my shoulders and responded that not only didn’t I have the telephone number, but there couldn’t be that many Serena Hotels in Kigali that they would have a problem finding me if need be. She told me to stand straight and pointed a plastic temperature-reading gun at me. “Ahh, madam you’re fine!” She declared. I almost slumped to the ground in relief.

I got to the immigration desk. The immigration officer reached out for my passport in a gloved hand. I raised my eyebrow in suspicion and a gentleman who was standing next to the immigration officer noted my concern. “Madam we are just taking precautions,” he said. I chuckled, telling both of them how I was very impressed with the very apparent Ebola checks. “But you’re coming from Kenya, even there they are tough!” The immigration officer said. “Umm, why do you think so?” I asked. “I saw it myself on Citizen TV news,” he responded. It wasn’t lost on me that local Rwandans thousands of kilometers away were watching our television station. The gentleman who was standing on the side clearly differed and shook his head gently. “I was in Kenya last week to check on the steps you are taking to screen passengers from Ebola countries because our government wants to be sure that passengers in planes coming from Kenya have already been screened.” He stopped abruptly, as if he had said too much. “But you are still screening passengers,” I said. He smiled. “We only gave Kenya a 50% pass mark, that is why we are still screening your passengers.”

I particularly love visiting the city of Kigali, which is clean, orderly and extremely safe. Driving through the numbered streets on our way to the hotel, Francois the driver pointed out a slum that was precariously perched on the slopes of a hill. “Serikali itatoa hizo nyumba na ihamishe watu pande ingine,” he explained the government’s initiatives to move people away from the slums out of town so that the land would be used for better buildings. Francois, like many Swahili speaking Rwandans, was born out of the country and returned to Rwanda to help build his country. He hastily pulled to the side of the road when two motorcycle outriders with the words Military Police emblazoned on their backs zoomed past, followed by several four wheel drive cars at high speeds that left our car rocking in their wake. Our cabinet secretary had arrived in Kigali in the style to which she was accustomed. A fleeting thought went through my mind: was she subjected to the plastic temperature gun in the quiet confines on the VIP receiving room? I wouldn’t have been surprised. Rwanda’s tight controls over external threats be they rebels from Eastern DRC or an unseen enemy in the name of Ebola is illustrative of what an African government that takes care of its citizens can do. Sending their medics to test the Kenyan Ebola controls at JKIA was a good example that Kenya is not viewed as that all knowing omnipresent big brother that we tend to believe we are!

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Earlier this month, I had the pleasure of travelling to Botswana. We took off on KQ710, departing ten minutes earlier than scheduled on a spacious and well-appointed Embraer 190 that was about half filled with passengers.

I grabbed an empty seat on the emergency aisle door quite chuffed that there was no one next to me. My joy was short lived when a portly, six-foot tall gentleman came and plonked himself heavily by my side. He greeted me politely and I resumed my reading. As the plane was just about to take off he held his hands in front of him and slowly curled his fingers into a tightly held fist. If I didn’t know better it looked like he was holding an imaginary flight console. As the plane gathered speed on the runway he closed his eyes tightly and leaned back in his chair all the while clenching his fists and pulling back on the imaginary joystick. The fellow in the next aisle who was clearly of poor breeding openly gawked at the unfolding drama, wide eyed and shocked at what was clearly a (hulk of a) man fighting his fear of flying. I tried not to look at Hulk from the corner of my eye but couldn’t avoid hearing the suppressed howl that escaped his dry lips as the plane shuddered its way into the air. As the plane clambered towards its optimal cruising altitude he slumped into his chair and mercifully passed out.

As the plane started its descent into Gaborone, I looked out of the window to see a very dry sun-scorched earth filled with different hues of brown, red and beige while peppered with sporadic bursts of scrubs and bushes. The proximity to the Kalahari desert, which occupies at least 70% of the country, was apparent even from the air. We landed at Sir Seretse Khama International Airport, an institution roughly the size of Kisumu’s international airport with no duty free shops and only one coffee shop serving the entire airport’s thirsty population.

Thabo my taxi driver happily pointed out the sights and sounds of Gaborone as we drive to my hotel. “People don’t sleep hungry in Botswana,” he tells me, “The government takes care of you. You know, the Botswana Pula is stronger than the South African rand, eh?” This last question is stated with the authority and pride of one who sees only South African goods in the supermarket shelves. “We import everything from South Africa, even milk! But our money is stronger than theirs!”

An interesting history contrives the foundation of the country of Botswana. Sandwiched between Angola and Zambia to the north, Zimbabwe to the East, Namibia to the West and South Africa in the south, the largely desert filled area of Bechuanaland remained largely ignored by the colonial powers during the sunset years of the 19th century. In 1895, three chiefs of the area known as Bechuanaland, sailed to Britain to ask the British to make their area a protectorate. Khama II, Sebele I and Bathoen I were concerned about the growing influence of the Portuguese, the Germans in the north and southwest and Cecil Rhodes’ annexation of Zimbabwe to the northeast. The Batswana proudly claim that it is this act of joint collaboration between the ruling chiefs that set the scene for the relative political stability, unified identity and distaste for infighting of the Batswana people to this very day.

By the time of Botswana’s independence in 1966, it was one of the poorest nations in Sub-Saharan Africa. There was only 12 kilometres of tarmac in a country the size of France, twenty two university graduates, two secondary schools with eighty secondary school graduates and no university.

Botswana’s fortunes turned in 1967 with the discovery of diamonds. One Mutswana said as he related their history to me, “Botswana would never have been granted independence if those diamonds were discovered before independence.” His eyes danced with mirth but his tone was deadly serious. Copper and nickel were also discovered which propelled the country from a cattle rearing economy to a modern one. A disciplined culture of saving and investment that was first put in place by the first president Sir Seretse Khama and embedded by his successor, Sir Ketumile Masire ensured that the country enjoyed the world’s highest rate of per capita income growth, a good 7.7% per annum between 1965 and the year 2000. While Botswana is Africa’s 13th largest economy, its low population of about 2 million puts it at the top of the African GDP per capita league table at $ 9,398 compared to Kenya’s $977.

60% of the government’s revenues are from diamond mining which also makes up 70% of the country’s exports. As they expect diamond revenues to fall by the year 2022, the government is now turning its focus to the country’s enormous coal deposits, estimated at 202 billion tonnes.

But a drive through the wide two lane carriageways that crisscross the city demonstrate Botswana’s weak underbelly: an almost unhealthy reliance on the South African economy. There are many shopping malls in the very South African style of one storey strip malls with the ubiquitous South African retail outlets of Woolworths, Mr. Price, Pick and Pay or Choppies supermarkets, Ocean Basket sea food restaurant etc. The supermarket shelves are lined with South African goods including milk, maize flour, vegetables and fruits which make their food prices (and invariably inflation indexes) inextricably linked to South African fortunes. A large amount of their electricity is also imported from South Africa’s Eskom.

I can’t help but reflect on the political dangers posed by such a heavy reliance on another country’s economy. Other than the fact that the Pula is pegged to the South African Rand, it is apparent to the uneducated eye that any economic upheaval endured by its relatively stable southerly neighbor can lead to social upheaval in Botswana. It is not difficult to see how an interfering neighbor can opt to make a play for the strong mineral resources of its relatively weaker neighbor by tightening the value chain that keeps the population well fed and homes and businesses well lit. For the first time in my adult life I know start to understand the Tanzanian reluctance for many things Kenyan. It can lead to an uglier can of worms being opened up in future: political domination.

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I landed at Uganda’s Entebbe Airport at 8 p.m. last Sunday expecting to find a country winding down a restful weekend. However, the 38 kilometres from Entebbe to Kampala are peppered with little shopping centers from Baita to Kajansi, filled with the ubiquitous African styled one storey shop heaving with plastic utensils, plantains, sufurias, tomatoes and toys hanging on the wide open doors. There were several barber shops still open for brisk business as the clock inched to 9 p.m. The cloying, heavy smell of mchomo (local parlance for nyama choma) filled the air as we drove past most of the townships emanating from bars that were bursting at the seams with patrons. I marveled at the bustling nocturnal social life and Frank the driver clicked in exasperation “Ugandans like to booze, they can booze until they drop then they wake up tomorrow to continue.” The way he said it with such disgust and finality it brooked no response. We drove at a stately speed of 80 km per hour, every now and then being overtaken by drivers who seem to have the devil himself hanging onto their exhaust pipes as they weaved in and out of oncoming traffic at breathless speeds. There’s clearly no regard for flashing headlights from infuriated drivers, they seem to take it in their strides.

The single lane traffic started to thicken as the twinkling lights of Kampala sparkled a few kilometres ahead of us. I ask Frank where we are, he responds “Lufin.” “Pardon?” “Lufin, Madam.” ‘What kind of name is that? “ I ask quizzically. “It’s that thing that you put on houses, there is a factory around here that makes it, so this area is called after the factory.” I gather that Frank isn’t much of a tour guide so I slip back into my silent observations as I then notice the big red sign stating “Roofing Ltd” on top of a factory building on the side of the road.

We shortly found ourselves at a junction of four roads snaking away from a central roundabout called Kibuye atop of which sat a menacing truck of police who are apparently stationed there 24 hours. The surrounding area reminds one of Eastleigh, numerous traders fill the roadsides selling their wares on top of plastic covered stands lit by lanterns. The time is a few minutes past nine but it could have been high noon for all the shoppers that flitted in between the makeshift stores, a stone’s throw away from the gleaming edifice of the Nakumatt Katwe building, which is appropriately closed for business. I look up and see a building with a half finished name blinking in red “Xing Xing Furnit—“ and turn to ask Frank about the presence of Chinese in Kampala. “We don’t call them Chinese, here we call them investors,” was his terse response. Frank, it was turning out, was not much of a talker.

The next morning, The Daily Monitor, one of Uganda’s leading circulation newspapers, published a letter to the editor that reflected self-deprecating criticism that was quite refreshing. Titled “Stop Blaming China” the writer, an African male, posits: ” I’m surprised that many Ugandans especially on social media are blaming China for executing two Ugandans convicted of drug trafficking. Uganda has also outlawed homosexuality and other crimes. Why then should we assume that it is only our laws that should work and those of the Chinese against drug carriers should be selectively applied in favor of Ugandans?”

This was not my first trip to Kampala, but it was one that I viewed with a different set of lenses. I saw a lot of similarity to Kenya in terms of a robust SME sector that turns the necessary cogs of the economy, but I also saw the same afflictions striding the newspapers like a runaway horse: Tribal clashes in Hoima leave villagers dead. Or the more typical “corruption at NSSF”. The best one was the raging debate on how parliamentarians were uneducated, sleepy, individuals who added zero value to the life of the average Ugandan. One could switch to the news channel of either East African country and find the same news items bombarding the airwaves. Our problems, I summarized, were not uniquely Kenyan. My new lenses helped me draw the conclusion that Kenyan solutions, if ever found, therefore, would be as gladly embraced across the border as our financial (KCB, CBA, NIC, Equity etc) and retail (Uchumi and Nakumatt) institutions have been.

Having concluded my business on Wednesday, I left my hotel at 4 p.m. to catch an 8 p.m. flight. Kampala traffic is, in many ways, almost worse than Nairobi’s traffic but this time it is compounded by the insane boda boda cyclists who rule the roost in the middle of the central business district. Only the bodaboda driver has a helmet, while his exposed passengers hang on for dear life with the certainty of doom etched on their ashen faces. The boda bodas zip in between cars, buses and lorries, unashamedly scraping the sides of vehicles in their irrational quest to use the path of least resistance.

We arrive at the lush and magnificently green Entebbe town, where the shores of Lake Victoria gently lap at the manicured landscapes atypical to the area. Entebbe has transformed over the last few years into a resort town, with a growing population of hotels catering to business and conference tourism. A spanking new Lake Victoria Mall beckons to shoppers with the large signs of Nakumatt and KFC signaling Entebbe’s entry into retail relevance. Large billboards emblazoned with Fang Fang Hotel and Fang Fang Restaurant are a stark reminder of the new eastern investor infiltration of untapped markets.

From a bustling SME sector, tribal issues and unsuitable parliamentary representatives, the Kenyan in me felt like I could totally relate to my Ugandan brothers and sisters. I left Uganda feeling much like a Liverpool FC fan: “You will never walk alone!”

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Twitter: @carolmusyoka

“The problem with Nigeria is corruption. You see that Civic Centre we drove past? You saw all those boats floating next to it? They belong to so-and-so and he works for the government. Can you believe he built that building with his “salary”? The last sentence was virtually spat out in disgust by Adebayo, the driver who was acquainting me with the sights and sounds of Lagos last week. Adebayo had been driving in Lagos for several years and had no illusions as to what destiny held in store for him. In his view, Nigeria was a giant that had been ruined to a large extent by the multi headed hydra of corruption. “You see now most Nigerians want to work for the government. Why?” He started answering the question even before I had opened my mouth. “Because it pays to work in the government. They make money those people. They buy boats and houses. How many houses can you eat? Eh?” I started to respond, but thought twice as it was clearly a rhetorical question. “Eh? Madame Caro these government officials are not good people.” He shrugged his shoulders in despair and resolute acceptance. And he never uttered another word until we reached our destination.

I had landed in Nigeria three days before, excited at the prospect of visiting Africa’s largest economy for the first time ever. Multitudes of swinging palm trees and plantain laden banana trees dotted the landscape below the airplane as we came in to land at Murtala Mohamed International Airport in Lagos. They say that first impressions are hard to change and nowhere more so than taxiing to the terminal from the runway. A skeletal frame of an old airplane lay forlornly on a grassy knoll by the side of the runway, its rusted nose, missing cockpit and weather worn fuselage reminding me of a half eaten tilapia. The terminal building looked exactly like its 1978 vintage, with terrazzo flooring and peeling wooden cubicles for the immigration officials. My bags sputtered out of one of the only two luggage carousels in the arrivals hall, the conveyor belt creaking like it was about to come to a shuddering halt at any minute. It was hard to believe that the same belts would carry washing machines and all manner of electrical appliances purchased by well-heeled Nigerians in London which is only a 5-hour flight away from Lagos and the shopping destination of choice. But that would be the beginning of many paradoxes that exist in the beautiful country.

Speeding through the mainland towards Ikoyi Island, we passed hundreds of yellow Volkswagen Kombis or “danfos” ferrying millions of passengers across a city that has close to sixteen million bus trips made daily in the city. The Kombis were all unified in looks by their peeling paint and rusting bodies caked with dust and grime. They were driven with surprising respect and a semblance of order, at least that is what it seemed like to this matatu-jaded eye. The odd red Tata buses would ply across the mainland as well, in a bus transit system run by the City government. The first paradox was the sight of a slum built in one of the lagoons that traversed the vast city. Mabati walled structures that appeared to be floating in the water congregated into a water-based community on stilts that were not too far off from the massive 10,000 feet plus edifices that the Nigerian elite have built in the name of residences. The steady hum of a generator would become consistent background noise at the residential building I was staying at, as regular electricity supply is negligible. An estimated 60 million Nigerians own power generators – compared to an estimated 6 million connected to the national grid – and spend approximately $13.3 billion (Kshs 1.1 trillion) to fuel them annually. The paradox here is that there are more Nigerians using self-generated power than those using the official source, which in and of itself is hardly reliable in the first place. Yet in all of this is a city and country bubbling with a latent energy, highly entrepreneurial spirit and warm friendly people that have propelled the country to become the leading economy in the continent. It is not difficult to see why. Despite the obvious anger and frustration at the seemingly endless corruption within rank and file government luminaries, the Nigerians appear to forge ahead and drive their own growth regardless of the insurmountable challenges thrown in their paths and the minimal infrastructural support provided to various sectors of the economy by the federal government. The almost doubling of the Nigerian GDP last month, catapulted the country to the top of the African heap on the back of updated information on the telecoms, SMEs, banking and film making industries as key contributors to the Nigerian economy.

As we drove through the Lagos streets, I wanted to console Adebayo that Nigerians did not walk alone, but he seemed inconsolable. Kenya has also created a generation of citizens who aspire to work for the (central and county) government for no other reason than it is a sure-fire way to get rich. This counterintuitive aspiration has been fuelled by years of corruption that has become institutionalized and is almost a bragging right of every administration since 1978. But we can and we must ignore the civil service elite as a source of inspiration for economic empowerment. We can and we must grow our own productive units whether in small and medium retail trade, in film, in music, in transport, agriculture and livestock production amongst others. The Nigerian economy has demonstrated that you can drive your own growth outside of oil revenues and in spite of lackluster government intervention: African solutions to African problems, some say. Nigeria provides a beacon of hope that economies can be fuelled by nothing but the sheer force of a self-driven population.

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Twitter: @carolmusyoka

He is described by Wikipedia as a career banker, ranking Fulani nobleman and a respected Islamic scholar. An offshoot publication of the Financial Times, The Banker has awarded him with the Central Bank Governor of the year and Central Bank Governor of Africa in 2011. TIME magazine also listed him in its TIMES 100 list of most influential people of 2011.

Welcome to the illustrious world of Lamido Sanusi, the immediate former Central Bank Governor of Nigeria. Appointed by the late President Yar’Adua in June 2009, he is credited with bringing much needed sanity into the spiraling recklessness of many local Nigerian banks. Within two months of his appointment, he had dismissed eight CEOs of Nigerian banks and initiated prosecutions against 16 high ranking banking officials for charges related to fraud, lending to fake companies, giving loans to companies that they had a personal interest in and conspiring with stockbrokers to boost share prices. Having taken a leading position in placing Nigeria as a frontier market for foreign investors looking for high returns in a relatively calculated risk environment, he was also at the forefront of balancing the stability of the Naira against the valuable oil export revenue and a voracious import appetite of a growing consumptive economy.

He was therefore well within his mandate when he wrote to President Goodluck Jonathan sometime in December 2013, expressing concern that $20 billion in oil revenues had not been remitted by the state oil company to the government between January 2012 and July 2013. The letter, which was allegedly leaked to former President Obasanjo, provided much needed ammunition in the growing warfare against Goodluck’s bid for a second term next year. Goodluck proceeded to suspend his Central Bank Governor who had a few months left to the expiry of his term in mid 2014 citing that Sanusi’s tenure had been characterized by various acts of financial recklessness that were inconsistent with the administration’s vision of a Central Bank propelled by the core values of focused economic management. Go tell it to the birds; the financial markets read it for what it was, a high level nipping in the bud.

Goodluck could have waited out the four or so remaining months of Sanusi’s tenure, especially since Sanusi had publicly stated in 2013 that he had no intention of seeking a second term following its expiry in 2014. However, Sanusi’s credibility, stature and recognition at a national and international level would make any further “revelations” or “concerns” by the Central Bank Governor fatal wounds to his re-election campaign. Of course, the fact that the President suspended the Governor without consulting the Senate whose full approval is required before removal of a Central Bank Governor fell right in with the Big Man Syndrome sweeping many African states lately.

Whether the Nigerian senate will assert its authority is anyone’s guess. But a world-renowned central banker has had his wings clipped unnecessarily for political expediency. It sounds straight out of a – pick an African country of your choice – political playbook. Back at this ranch, our executive is running a supremacy war with a board over at the East African Portland Cement, the latter which has rejected attempts by the Government – read President – to appoint a new chairman who will take care of the Government’s interests. The judiciary is also engaged in a chest thumping war of edicts against the senate in the jaw dropping episode that is the now-he’s-governor-now-he’s-not Wambora saga. In the court of public opinion, anyone who watched Wambora on television when he appeared to defend himself against the five counts that gave rise to the impeachment proceedings would be hard pressed to support the man. He had absolutely no apologies to make when he brazenly displayed ignorance of the globally recognized management maxim “The buck stops here”. Everyone around him made mistakes and he was a saint. In fact Embu residents would regress into cavemen and bush hunters if he was removed from office as he was the solution to their woes from his lofty perch as “Governor-who-doesn’t-get-his-hands-dirty-but-knows-what-the-panacea-needed-is. “

To the remaining governors who watched the unfolding wing clipping with clenched teeth and gastrointestinal cramping, the next step was to come out fighting. They knew that those meddling senators would come for them next. It didn’t matter that Wambora’s removal was as a result of substantive findings of gross incompetence and abuse of office. They would fight about the procedure of removing him rather than the substance of the charges against him. In so doing, they have sent a very strong message to us voters: eating, mediocrity and incompetence in that order of importance are what they celebrate and execute in their governorships. A virtually unheard of Kenyan citizen called Martin Wambora has, through his sheer managerial incompetence, managed to create a constitutional crisis pitting the legislative arm of government against the judicial arm in the cross fire of ignored court orders, and pitted the legislative arm of the government against the executive arm in the fight for supremacy of senate (legislative) versus governors (executive).

In all of this, I’d like to believe that the ultimate manager of this business called Kenya is watching hawk eyed at the unfolding mess in his front yard. The elephants are fighting each other tooth and nail and the grass – read citizens – is getting trampled on and completely forgotten about. The citizens have children to feed, clothe, house and educate. These priorities are running the clear and present danger of being completely forgotten about if the elephants are not reined in soon. Come 2017, the voter will cast his lot with either a promise of a rosy future or the memory of a depressed past. Following broken promises in 2002, 2007 and now 2013 it doesn’t look like hanging one’s political reelection hat on any promise will make sense. Having said that, it bears witnessing that at least our manager doesn’t have to account for 20 missing billions of oil revenue dollars. Yet.

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Twitter: @carolmusyoka

Of Devil’s Armpits and International Airports.

In November 2011, CNN published its list titled “10 of the world’s most hated airports.” Our very own Jomo Kenyatta International Airport (JKIA) came in loud and proud at number 6, having been drubbed by London’s Heathrow, the Los Angeles International Airport and Paris’ Charles de Gaulle who came in third, second and first respectively. This is what the CNN report had to say:

“Saddled with a 1958 blueprint designed for 2.5 million passengers, JKIA receives close to twice that many. Hence the airport’s 2005, Three Phase, US$100 million expansion project which has seen long delays (something about the rain) and has been spinning its tires somewhere in Phase Two for the last few years. For now, that means business as usual: cramped spaces; long lines; inadequate seating; frequent power outages; tiny washrooms hiding up several flights of stairs; shabby duty free shops; overpriced food outlets; and business class lounges worthy of a shelter in mid-city Los Angeles. Sure, it’s a breeze compared to Lagos. But it could be so much better.”
To some, the mere fact that we even got cited as a global airport worth mentioning would perhaps provide some twisted sense of pride that we feature –notoriously I might add- on global indices. However, you just have to walk inside the main terminal past the 14 or so departure and arrival gates to know that the CNN reporter wasn’t giving short shrift to the state of the airport in their analysis. If anything they simply ran out of space to paint the complete picture. Luckily I have the luxury of a little more space.
The duty free shops are nothing but stuffy, untidily designed retail spaces that almost all sell the exact same items, which are displayed in the exact same way. Potential customers are engulfed by piles of unidentifiable stock that is packed to the rafters on thin display shelves jutting out against glass and aluminium framed shop walls thus providing a classic scene for a claustrophobe’s worst nightmare.
Passengers with long transit times curl prostrate on the ground, desperately trying to catch a few winks of sleep on the hard, terrazzo floors as arriving passengers gingerly pick their way over slumbering bodies to make their way to the immigration counters. The washrooms have to have been designed with petite, sprightly monkeys in mind, as those are the only mammals that can possibly navigate with regular ease the bizarre staircases and two feet wide cubicles that make up the lavatories. To the Kenya Airport Authority’s credit though, they have made an attempt to keeping them clean. So on my Lavatory Standard measure of cleanliness I’ll give JKIA three out of five stars – where one star equates to “the devil’s armpit” and five stars equate to “worthy of worship”.
Ladies and Gentlemen of the cabinet in the government: The government can’t manage the airport, build four lane highways, create a port in Lamu and whatever other grandiose targets we have for our aggressive vision 2030. We lack the capacity to do it and should concession it out to experienced and profit motivated airport operators who can run it like the business that it is. Kenya is no longer a piddling, little rural backwater represented as a blip on the former-colonies-we-used-to-have map in Buckingham Palace. Kenya is a vibrant growing economy, has the geographical benefit of being strategically located mid point of the African continent and has a reasonably well-educated citizenry that would make a good labor force for foreign direct investment. Sadly, the first impression a visitor gets on arriving at JKIA is one that is quite evidently at great odds with the rest of the infrastructural development going on in the country. Last week, I had the pleasure of transiting through Mumbai’s Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport. I passed through it last in June 2006 and it was ghastly to transit through as it ranked head to head with JKIA in terms of decrepit facilities. [On my Lavatory Standard, it definitely was a one star then] Turns out that a few months earlier in February, a consortium of three companies trading as Mumbai International Airport Limited was appointed to carry out the modernization of Mumbai Airport.
And modernize they did. Last week, I walked through spaciously wide boulevards of shopping space done in an open plan design, with French and American fashion houses retailing the latest in perfumery and clothes. There was a food court with KFC, Pizza Hut and local fast food and coffee shops as well as the British high street retailer WHSmith with a little outlet tucked into a corner. You cannot be blamed for thinking you were in a European airport. This transformation occurred in the last five years. The immigration officer who gave me a toothy smile as he stamped my passport informed me that they handle at least 8,000 passengers during the day and another 12,000 passengers at night.
The airport has five operating terminals spread over an operational area of 1,450 acres (5.9 km2) and is India’s and South Asia’s largest and most important airline hub; it handled more than 29.9 million passengers in 2010–2011. While this may be almost 6 times JKIA’s passenger traffic of 5.6 million in 2010, our economic growth prospects make such numbers quite attainable as does our vision to firmly stamp our position regional business hub. [On another note, 1,450 acres for an airport should make anyone in greater Syokimau nervous right about now] I do have to admit though that the Lavatory Standard for the Mumbai airport has only moved two notches to 3 stars. They really do need to get the cleaners to do their job instead of staring blankly at the bathroom walls in abject boredom.
We have to do something about our airport if we plan to be an economy to reckon with. It’s dreadfully archaic. The good news is it’s at least better than Lagos and Kinshasa if my colleagues are to be believed!

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Twitter: @carolmusyoka