A sudden, frenzied and unusual search in my cell. I didn’t know exactly what they were looking for. But they found leaves of toilet paper I had written a poem on. They confiscated all the 14 verses of my poem Kamliwaze (Go and Comfort Him). It is a pity I’ve lost it, especially that I had memorized only the first four stanzas of it. The rest is now gone and lost. Fortunately, they couldn’t find the other three poems (Nshishiyelo ni Lilo, Tuza Moyo and Jipu), which I had wrapped in a plastic paper and tossed them in my urine pot for ‘safe custody’; and also the two poems (“Siwati” and “Mamba”), which were dangling on a blanket thread outside my cell window. But I doubt if they will be able to make out the meaning of the poems. Even if they will, I have 1001 alternative interpretations for each one of them. May 22, 1970

This is how Professor Abdilatif Abdalla, arguably the first political prisoner and author in post-independence Kenya, captured the early morning raid in his cell in a dairy of his time at the Kamiti Maximum Security Prison. He was lucky that even the diary that was later published in the Africa Events magazine survived the raid and in its own way contributed to the prison literature sub-genre. Prison literature—novels, short stories, poems or plays that delve into the horrid conditions and experiences in prison—has increased immensely, a global phenomenon whose importance in examining the struggles in the society cannot be ignored.

A study of African literature that does not delve into the writings and the writers who have been so prolific while in prison would be incomplete. The sub-genre includes works that give insight into the independence struggle, such as the autobiography of Ghana’s first president, the late Kwame Nkrumah, which he wrote in James Fort Prison where had been incarcerated by the British colonialists for agitating for his country’s independence.

The post-independence era in Africa is a remarkable one; the continent experienced turbulent times, with liberators-turned-oppressors using the same methods as the colonialists to suppress dissent. The sub-genre is thus closely linked to the democratization of our society and these are writings that provide an accurate and comprehensive commentary on the socio-economic and political development of Kenya and of Africa in general. They are an important resource, showing us where we are coming from and shining a light on the fragments scattered along the political, economic and social path that we have trod as a country and as a continent.

Prison writings are a complex body of work that can be classified variously. The two major classifications are the traditional ones, namely, fiction and non-fiction. Non-fiction is further sub-divided into that which is mainly historical and that which is merely a diary of events.

However, whether fiction or non-fiction, these writings vividly capture the gruesome experiences lived in the state’s corridors of silence. In some countries, the writings can be traced as far back as the colonial days and serve as beacons in the post-independence history of a country, where it has come from and where it has reached in its quest for justice, upholding the rule of law and ensuring that fundamental human rights are respected; they are a vast body of knowledge that tells the African tale.

Kenya’s prison writings begin during the British colonial rule that saw many of those calling for self-determination thrown into jail and into detention camps. Graduates of these jails and detention camps captured their experiences on paper, tracing a path that has been followed by subsequent writers. The late JM Kariuki was among the first Kenyans to capture his experiences in detention in his non-fiction account Mau Mau in Detention published in 1963, opening the floodgates of tales of the independence struggle, the telling of which had hitherto been skewed in favour of the oppressors.

An established writer and publisher, Gakaara wa Wanjau had the misfortune of being imprisoned in both colonial and independent Kenya. He documented his experience in the British corridors of silence in his book Mwandiki wa Mau Mau Ithamerio-ine (Mau Mau Author in Detention).

Over the decades, independent Kenya has produced more and better works that examine themes such as the gradually growing intolerance to dissenting views and even the suppression of dissenters. The doors to this literature were opened by Abdulatif Abdullah, the first post-independence Kenyan political prisoner.

Abdulatif was imprisoned by the Kenyatta regime for four years and subjected to hard labour after writing an article titled Kenya: Twendapi? (Kenya: Where Are We Headed?) in reaction to the disbandment of KPU. While serving his term, Abdilatif wrote a collection of poems titled Sauti ya Dhiki, which ironically won him the second edition of the prestigious Jomo Kenyatta Prize for Literature.

The doors to this literature were opened by Abdulatif Abdullah, the first post-independence Kenyan political prisoner.

Other writers were to follow and each chose a unique way to capture the horrific jail conditions. The most famous of these writers is Ngugi wa Thiong’o. His activities at the Kamirithu community theatre led to his detention in 1977 and he wrote Detained: A Writer’s Prison Diary—taking a departure from fiction—while incarcerated at Kamiti. Others who have contributed greatly to this body of work include Maina wa Kinyatti, Koigi wa Wamwere and, more recently, Wanyiri Kihoro.

Maina wa Kinyatti has perhaps the highest number of books that vividly describe his harrowing experience in prison. He has published a collection of poems titled A Season of Blood: Poems from Kenyan Prisons (1995), a book of his recollections titled Kenya: A Prison Notebook (1996) and Mother Africa, which chronicles his arrest, torture and imprisonment.

Former Nyeri Town Member of Parliament Wanyiri Kihoro has documented his ordeal in Never Say Die, described by the late Wahome Mutahi as a brilliant piece of work that accurately details the events that took place at the infamous Nyayo House basement cells.

The late Wahome Mutahi also captured his own ghastly experiences in two insightful accounts—Three Days on the Cross and Jail Bugs. Wahome was arrested a few days after he submitted the manuscript for Three Days on the Cross to publishers. Upon his release, the publishers asked him to revise the manuscript to incorporate the details of his latest incarceration.

There are many other works that have been written that are largely fictional, several of which are thrilling, fast-paced dramas. East African Educational Publishers has a large collection of the genre, listed under their Spear series. Many of these writings are largely confessions of erstwhile crooks—such as John Kiriamiti’s My Life in Crime, Kiggia Kimani’s Prison is Not a Holiday Camp or Charles Githae’s Comrade Inmate—whose leitmotif is a scintillating narrative of the gruesome and the grotesque in prison. Karuga Wandai’s Mayor in Prison and Benjamin Garth Bundeh’s Birds of Kamiti are amongst those listed in the Spear series even though both narrate lived experience. In particular, Bundeh’s Birds of Kamiti is a detailed account of his close shave with the hangman’s noose, a personal account that is both gripping and emotional.

However, these works, whether autobiographical, biographical or mere confessions, address pertinent issues and provide a social commentary that merits consideration, since they provide new insights into both the authors and the society at large.

For Ngugi, for instance, incarceration was not merely an opportunity to write a prison diary. Rather, it is from within this physical prison that Ngugi stumbled upon another—non-physical prison—namely, language. Ngugi defied this non-physical prison as he had the physical one. He sought refuge in the power of the pen and wrote Detained. He defied the subordination of the physical prison and found refuge in Gikuyu. In Cell 16, Ngugi wrote Caitaani Mutharabaine (Devil on the Cross) in Gikuyu as a demonstration of his newfound freedom.

There are many other works that have been written that are largely fictional, several of which are thrilling, fast-paced dramas.

For others like Maina wa Kinyatti, “Writing and reciting poems in solitary confinement under conditions of unendurable physical and psychological torture hardened the heart and steeled the mind to remain steadfast and truthful to the cause”.

The incarceration of writers has not been limited to Kenya only. Apartheid South Africa jailed Dennis Brutus, who wrote Letters to Martha, and the late Alex La Guma, among other writers. Jack Mapanje of Malawi, Kofi Awoonor of Ghana, Sherif Hatata and Nawal el Sadaawi of Egypt, and Wole Soyinka—the first African recipient of the Nobel Prize for Literature—have all been there.

These writers have also served to raise fundamental questions on the dispensation of justice. The works—whether biographical like Wanyiri’s Never Say Die, which was nominated for the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award or confessions by erstwhile bank robbers and other crooks—have brought to the fore the rot within the system, making clear that closer scrutiny is necessary.

What drives the incarcerated to write? Could it be the appalling, grotesque, dehumanising conditions in the state corridors of silence that have kept the number of prison writings growing year in, year out? Or is it merely an insatiable desire to write and keep tabs?

Conversations with a number of these writers reveal that it is a combination of these and many other reasons. It is a bottomless pit of stories and experience that cannot be bottled up inside. “One normally feels that the story has to be told”, comments one writer.

“For many writers”, observed the late Wahome Mutahi, “Writing about their horrid experiences behind bars is often cathartic.” It is a means of explaining themselves and the society’s choices that create the environment in which they find themselves and which cause them to end up behind bars where they encounter a whole new ecosystem. It is a way of navigating their two worlds.

Prison writings open the eyes of the world to the horrendous conditions that continue to prevail in these places in which society places some of its members for correction and punishment, described differently by different writers.

In Birds of Kamiti, Benjamin Garth Bundeh describes prison as a totally new world. “A world of prisoners, of warders, and of the tragic twist of fate. It was a world in which either the spirit was completely broken and degraded, or true courage was born.”

“When you enter this place”, writes Bundeh, “You have to forget everything about the outside world. The dungeon becomes your home and you must survive smoking is treason here – But we still manage to pass the traffic load of fags and like stone-age man, we create fire in these caves. It is a place where the basic instinct of survival reigns supreme.” In this work of non-fiction, Bundeh notes that after his first night in prison, a truer picture began to form.

It is a bottomless pit of stories and experience that cannot be bottled up inside.

“I saw more people and most of them looked like creatures out of a nightmare. Together with them, we had ceased to be human beings. Our names had been taken away from us. We had been relegated to more numbers in a heap of files. Both the beginning and end of life seemed to have been lost.”

Incarcerated writers want to talk about this place where every effort is geared towards removing the last traces of humanity in the inmates. They write about these correctional institutions that are a law unto themselves. Into the damp mould and stagnation of these tombs, “The warders would from time to time burst in to remind us that, unlike free people, [inmates] could be tormented again and again, physically and spiritually, subtly and brutally, collectively and individually, day and night… The warders enjoyed treating us to the choicest of gutter oaths,” writes Bundeh.

The authorities find ways to further break and degrade the inmates. There is torture that targets the most vulnerable parts of the body and every writer seems to have endured it. Beatings are followed up with being forced to eat partially cooked food and solitary confinement whose effects, writers argue, is not much different from a shot of LSD or any other hallucinogen. Both degrade people, “only that the drugs make one mad more quickly”.

Besides the deplorable and dehumanizing conditions that most writers vividly narrate, the other issues that often come out in prison literature are significant social commentaries that question and catechize life—the conditions outside prison. These books, whether works of fiction or non-fiction, all raise important questions about society.

There is torture that targets the most vulnerable parts of the body and every writer seems to have endured it.

In their writings, the writers often seek to focus society on the entire system of justice and its dispensation. Many question the whole system of crime and punishment, and although some do not do so directly, they question the effectiveness of the system. Bundeh, who was on death row and actually witnessed the execution of some of his fellow inmates and friends, packs his narrative with so much energy and emotion that it is deeply felt by the reader. He asks,

“I wonder, should any human being be allowed to condemn another human being to death? Should one form of killing be lawful and another one unlawful? Should the law be allowed to take away that which it cannot create? Is there any correlation between the execution of treasonous, murderers or violent robbers and the number of crimes committed? The gallows in Kenya, the guillotine, the electric chair, and firing squads elsewhere – are these deterrents?”

Many works of non-fiction share a similar trait. The authors are in many cases unwilling guests of the state and they repeatedly turn to writing as a form of catharsis. The majority find themselves behind bars because of their political beliefs and their writings provide new insights into the political machinations in this country.

Often written in the first person, these books directly tackle the country’s political goings-on as is the case in Wanyiri Kihoro’s Never Say Die or Karuga Wandai’s Mayor in Prison in which the former deputy mayor of Thika provides interesting insights into “Siasa za kumalizana” (the politics of decimating, completely vanquishing your opponent) in the Kenyan political arena. Although it is an account of his fight for survival and for his freedom, Kihoro nonetheless manages to show the country’s struggles, transitions and some of the central issues that greatly influenced the political shenanigans that got him into trouble.

Politics is also examined indirectly in the prison writings of non-politicians like Mwalimu Abdilatif Abdalla, Prof. Ngugi wa Thiongo or Gakaara wa Wanjau while it is examined through works of fiction as in the late Wahome Mutahi’s books Three Days on the Cross and The Jail Bugs.

Whether politics is discussed directly or indirectly by writers who are serving time, they all show the mischief that surrounds it and how prison has been used by the ruling elite to silence political dissent, to deal with perceived enemies, and to stymie reforms both in colonial and post-colonial Africa.

For instance, political repression was rampant in Kenya in the 80s and 90s and those perceived to be enemies of the state were detained without trial or jailed following a judicial process that was often skewed in favour of the state. Torture and imprisonment were employed to quell political dissent and for the self-perseveration of the ruling elite.

Wanyiri Kihoro and Wahome Mutahi aptly capture these dark days in their books and by doing so, they have documented our political history, vividly presenting their gruesome ordeal at the hands of the state security machinery in the infamous underground cells of Nyayo House and in so doing, exposing the extent to which the political class would go to preserve themselves and the status quo.

Prison literature in Kenya, East Africa and from across the continent, whether written in colonial times or after independence, gives the reader a peek into the horrendous conditions prevailing in these institutions that are primarily meant to be correction facilities. They also play a secondary role: providing social commentary on the social, economic and political developments in our countries.

Picture this. An afro-sporting, mean-looking, boxer-punching sterro with the attitude of a highbrow Cinderella is out to save you. He is in shades, and chains and… hold up! Is that polyester?! The ultimate retro bad boy looking for the bad boys. He is not Batman. Nor is he Superman, he’s a bit of both. Patrolling the streets of Nairobi, when it switches from metropolitan NBO to seedy Nairobbery. Smoking out hardened criminals while driving a Peugeot 504 in mid-1990s Nai. Oh, one more thing: make sure that your picture is sepia-toned, that old-school filter that Instagram babes like to use. A red-ribbon tied menacingly across his forehead. A mean mien roaring the ultimate fighting cry, Kama mbaya, mbaya! He is out for blood, emotionless and guileless, all stances and stage punches, out to rescue what was her name? Oh yes. Brittania Zimeisha, the striking damsel-in-distress played by Patricia Kihoro. You know Patricia Kihoro, right? You should. But, wait, who is our hero? What is he?

He is the mononym, the man, the myth, the legend. He is Makmende. Makmende, the sterro. Makmende the starring. Makmende, the otero. Makmende, the buda, the only man who DJ Afro could bring to life with a quip of call me budaaaa. Makmende was the childhood hero of our times. Depending on your moral flexibility, he could be the promised Messiah or the pantomime villain. The kimonda—some might say an ass-kicking “bully”—but that doesn’t matter. We played Police & Robber in the streets of KaNairo wielding our fake dushnyaos before Makmende inadvertently came and rescued the day. Makmende always rescued the day. He was the original palimpsest of stories, yearning to be told.

Hush-hush, the mythical Makmende is around. Makmende as himself (duh) in the single Ha-He. There is a new sheriff in town. The stars aligned, the ducks in a row, astonishment meets affirmation and through Makemende, Ha-He virals to critical mass. The Wall Street Journal followed dozens of blogs, including a term paper, in praising Just a Band for being the first Kenyans to spark a Twitter fire and gain 100,000 YouTube views in a blitz. This, by the way, is in 2010. Makmende caught on like a house on fire: shareable, affable, and meme-able before memes were memes and trending topics could not be tracked by RSS feeds but travelled by word of mouth and speed of feet. Makmende is fast but he is never in a hurry.

“Juu tuko works mzeiya

Evacuate the area”

Makmende amerudi. Just a Band wamerudi. Evacuate the area.

Of course, they never really left, at least not for me. As a young boy living in Nairobi, Just a Band defined my adolescence, teenagehood and early adulthood; I grew up under the lull of their synths and eclectic rhythms. This band that was formed in 2003, the year after President Moi left office, the man who ruled Kenya by fiat. You know President Moi, right? You should. It must be said though, that Moi loved choir music, and who knows, maybe the whims and charms of an all-boy band would have taken him? Maybe their laid-back grooves would have softened his rule had their music caught him as he skulked about the Nyayo House basement? Maybe Makmende would have been Moi’s right hand, relegating the king’s hand Hosea Kiplagat to secretarial duties—as long as Makmende would add a tie, you know, to make it official, all pun intended.

On 3 June last year, Just a Band announced the end of their two-year break (it had ended up being six years), capturing the imagination of a nation with the unexpected but-we-told-you-we’d-be-back announcement:

“…the hiatus is officially over and the four of us are back at work as Just a Band… We each went out into the world and had a bunch of adventures, and we needed time to catch up on one another as humans and friends…”

The friends in this case are Bill “Blinky” Sellanga, Daniel Muli, Mbithi Masya and Jim Chuchu who met as students at Kenyatta University. It is like something was in the water at KU, you just don’t know what. (Well, the marketing boss at KU would have been pulling out hairs when Kenyan musician Krispah aka Ndovu Kuu in his hit song Ndovu Ni Kuu immortalised the institution, singing: “Mtoto wangu akiitwa KU ntakataa, Hakunaga masomo KU nmekataa”. Of course, he later claimed that KU could mean anything, from Kabianga University to Kukula Ugali. I guess if the shoe fits?…)

I grew up under the lull of their synths and eclectic rhythms.

See, Just a Band has never been… just a band. Their unique blend of funk, electronic and DIY charm strung together under a base of local influences took the world by storm following the release of the Ha-He music video. During a key tension moment in Ha-He, Makmende is threatened by a man in a red tie who asks, “Are you a dreamer?” Makmende answers to nobody, lighting up our poor fellow with blows, a dream fulfilled.

Dreams, of course, are what mark popular culture. Some dreams are quite obvious, almost tangible‌, they exist in the forefront of our minds. Others exist in the far recesses of our subconscious. Just a Band is built on the beauty of dreams.

In 2008, my dream, so to speak, was to pass the KCPE exams. But that same year Just a Band fulfilled a subconscious dream, they released their first album: “Scratch to Reveal”. Their work was almost instantly iconic. Their video for the song “Iwinyo Piny”, animated by Daniel Muli, featured a giant turtle floating over Nairobi with a DJ on its back. The group was ‌self-taught, using YouTube tutorials to pick up new skills, including animation. Their off-the-cuff rendition speaks to the studied effortlessness with which Just a Band does their cool, upbeat, trancy music. Afro-specific and yet possibly from anywhere.

Their unique blend of funk, electronic and DIY charm strung together under a base of local influences took the world by storm.

In an interview with Rootsworld during their Rush Gallery 2012 Brooklyn (New York) installation Kudishnyao! Daniel Muli says, “The name of the band is actually a joke. Sometimes we are trying to do projects that are supposed to mean something, and if all we do is give the moral of the story, it can be very boring.”

Like other African artists of their generation, the band is hyper-aware of trends, drawing on the fragments of pop culture that have penetrated Kenya and shaped their sensibilities: the Blaxploitation flicks popular throughout Nairobi in the 80s and 90s, the music of Daft Punk, the Tupac/Biggie Smalls/Fugees, and the Bones Thugs and Harmony tapes they traded as kids in Nairobi schoolyards. Just a Band famously imposed themselves as the East African art scene’s DIY honchos, directing their own videos, producing their own music, and creating their own artwork.

They dared to dream. In April 2016, the dream was deferred. Just a Band announced a hiatus to pursue solo projects.

Just… where did they go? 

Jim Chuchu had quietly broken from the group a few years earlier than their announced hiatus and together with Njoki Ngumi and George Gachara, had founded The Nest Collective, a Nairobi-based artists group that focuses on film, fashion, music, literature, and everything art. They released Stories of Our Lives, a controversial film that celebrates the narratives of Kenya’s queer community amid pervasive societal censure and maltreatment. However, on 3rd October 2014, the Kenya Film Classification Board (KFCB) restricted the distribution and screening of Stories of Our Lives in line with section 16(c) of the Film and Stage Plays Act, objecting that the film “has obscenity, explicit scenes of sexual activities and it promotes homosexuality which is contrary to our national norms and values”.

No matter, the ground-breaking film inspired others, such as the critically acclaimed Rafiki, the first Kenyan movie to screen at the Cannes Film Festival. He is also co-founder of the HEVA Fund, the first organisation in the region dedicated to making capital investments in the creative sector and building financial infrastructure around creative pursuits in East Africa.

Animator and illustrator Daniel Muli spent his hiatus creating a graphic novel that “he’s been talking about for years”.

Blinky Bill released “We Cut Keys While You Wait”, his first solo project, in 2016. The extended play (EP) was a six-song offering featuring Kenyan acts Shappaman, Sage Chemutai and Maia Von Lekow. The EP saw Blinky secure deals with Sony Music France, which distributed his first album “Everyone’s Just Winging It And Other Fly Tales” (Lusafrica/The Garden), 12 groovy tracks between rap, funk, nu-soul and electro which favour the vibrant Kenyan urban scene (Muthoni Drummer Queen, Sage…) and the wider alternative African sonosphere (Petite Noir, Sampa the Great, Nneka). He has been a creative force behind many Kenyan productions for the likes of MDS, Fena Gitu and EA Wave.

Their off-the-cuff rendition speaks to the studied effortlessness with which Just a Band does their cool, upbeat, trancy music.

He talks fondly of his stage name “Blinky Bill”, which he claims he adopted after seeing his name in a newspaper and thinking that it looked too boring. The Australian cartoon of the same name, which was also his nickname in high school, inspired the name.

Mbithi Masya launched a successful film career. His first feature film, Kati Kati won several international awards, including the International Federation of Film Critics (FIPRESCI) award in the Discovery Programme at the 2016 Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF). FIPRESCI described his work as “an exciting and unique new voice in cinema”.

An acclaimed director, you might not know that Mbithi is behind several advertisements in the country including Betika’s “Get Ready For Big”, Sauti Sol’s “Extravaganza” and Blinky Bill’s “Mungu Halali”.

*

Just a Band’s return doubly impressed Buddha Blaze, a well-known authority on all things hip-hop and entertainment. “They [Just a Band], are the pioneers of alternative sound in Kenya,” he tells me. “They opened up a lot of opportunities for others and it is time they came back as the leading light.”

But has the industry moved on from them? “This is the right time for JAB to be back. They have grown individually, simultaneously, as the Kenyan music scene has grown.”

But what exactly is the Kenyan music scene?

It was much easier to define a Kenyan musician in the 80s and 90s when it was mostly benga. “Our identity from the seventies has always been benga. Eighty per cent of the vast majority of contemporary artists drawn from all over Kenya from the likes of Ken wa Maria to the late Musa Juma play Benga,” according to Tabu Osusa, founder of Ketebul Music.

Buddha Blaze offers a subtle take: “Kenyan music has been an opportunity to explore different sounds. From Ogopa to Genge to Chipuka to Benga to Kapuka, Kenyan music will one day evolve to become a single sound. Till then, we enjoy the variety of experiments.”

Kenyan music defies definition. It is an alchemy of sorts, taking something from the influences of rhumba, Afropop, trap, hip hop, Afrobeat, soul, and RnB, making it appealing to a variety of audiences. It rejects the neat square boxes of identity that think they’ve finally figured it out. Its identity is formless.  It’s everything and nothing in particular, sometimes zeitgeist fever, bravura and bravado; sometimes falling short of the uniqueness and authenticity of our history and past lives.

It was much easier to define a Kenyan musician in the 80s and 90s when it was mostly benga.

Just a Band redefined what it means to be an urban Kenyan. ‌A Nairobian in particular. They made it cool to be different before it was cool. It was cool to like Just a Band. It still is. Their funky music slowly became the soundtrack of Nairobi, in its innocent desires and its dawning regrets; absorbing alternative Nairobi into their very soul. From West-of-Uhuru-Highway to the flats of Donholm to all the phases of Buru.

Their music filled the empty, undefined spaces inside us. Inside me. When a Just a Band track played, our eyes would dart around in a search for longing, our bodies contorting in delightful delirium and our hearts racing in tandem to the rhythm. When Just a Band took a hiatus, they not only left a gaping hole in my soul but one in the Kenyan music space as well.

Listening to their new singles (“Save My Soul”, “Watu!” and “Echo” — a one-track album) I wonder whether I have all along been suffering from acute nostalgia: did I want Just a Band back because of what they can do? Or because of what they used to do?

Is it because of the influence they had on other artists? The cool mien and DIY-ness of Chris Kaiga? The easy flow and shrap undertones of Boutross? The gwezz rap of Lukorito, and that nod to JAB’s music by XPRSO? Who, if you squint hard enough at, you may just see traces of where they mined their inspiration. Let’s not even get started on the devil-may-care vibe check of Lil Maina’s songs. Who says he is not a rapper. Just a guy having fun with sounds. Sound familiar? You know Lil Maina, right? You should.

If President Moi were reading this, he would want me to be honest, so I will be. The new songs have not kindled a spark in me, and I prefer to cover myself in the warm blanket of their past hits—I am trapped in my childhood, teenagehood and all the other -hoods. So go ahead and listen to “Winning In Life” featuring the Grammy-winning trumpeter Owuor Arunga, or to “Iwinyo Piny”, a tragicomedy. Indeed, my all-time favourite Just a Band song is Probably Just For Lovers, from their third album, “Sorry For The Delay”.

“Eeeehhhh I am here again, falling in love again.” 

Like Just a Band, I too am a lover. They croon, the bruised romantics at the height of their powers. Both tremulous and torrential, and if you’re not converted, you never will be.

But I’ve always been in love with them. I loved their experimentation. I loved their diversity. Just a Band was what I dreamt a musician should be, and I suspect it is what deep down I want to be.

Their funky music slowly became the soundtrack of Nairobi, in its innocent desires and its dawning regrets.

Just a Band’s voice is always that of someone confiding, not emoting. They sound the way you sound if you could speak of the things you dream. (In case you are wondering if I achieved my dream and passed my KCPE in 2008, I did.)

If you’ve never heard their work before, don’t start with the 82’ material — named so because 1982 is the year all three members were born. Though it has its charms, it throws you straight into the thick of things. Listen instead to the “Scratch To Reveal” album; that’s the best way to ease into their vibe. To ready yourself to experience the band back together for their last ever world tour. Maybe that’s what I need to accept that they’ve changed, that I’ve changed.

They took a break as a group so they can explore different paths and become stronger as individuals. Here’s the thing though, Just a Band — Dan, Bill, Mbithi, Jim — for me, and for countless others who listened to you on headphone cables tucked into the pocket of their jeans, legs cruising on the Tom Mboya Streets and Moi Avenues of Sakaja’s Nairobi through Nairobbery to KaNairo, you never left.

Much has been documented about reburial cases in Kenya, especially situations resulting from heated contestation among family members, concerned community and the government. Most of these cases have been determined through court processes and have raised questions of heritage, memorialization and how to handle the dead.

The debate about reburying the dead has resurged with renewed vigour, with politicians and pundits discussing relocating the remains of Kenya’s founding president, Mzee Jomo Kenyatta. This issue was tabled in the eighth parliament in 2001 through a motion by former Rangwe MP Shem Ochuodho, who wanted the government to create a fund to support Kenya’s heroes. However, Ochuodho’s proposal was shot down in parliament and did not see the light of day.

The discussions were revived in June 2003 when Justice Minister Kiraitu Murungi announced the planned construction of Heroes Corner in Nairobi and the intention to exhume the remains of former Mau Mau fighters and the Kapenguria six for reburial there. The idea of exhuming and reburying them was intended to construct a narrative of resistance against colonialism, following a script that would largely portray veterans as national heroes during the reburial ceremony.

The debate about exhuming and reburying past heroes was once again revived, focusing on former president Jomo Kenyatta.

However, the idea of Heroes Corner did not take off following the failure to find Dedan Kimathi’s body and the decision by the government to erect his statue on Kimathi Street in Nairobi in 2007. It also emerged that the families of nationalists and freedom fighters opposed the idea of exhuming their dead kin, claiming that the government was not in a position to dictate where their loved ones should be buried or reburied.

Prior to the promulgation of the new constitution, a task force chaired by Prof. Vincent Simiyu was set up to fast-track the idea of memorializing past and present national heroes and heroines. Following the committee’s recommendations, the late President Mwai Kibaki announced on 20th October 2010, during the first ever Mashujaa Day celebrations, the government’s plan to establish a National Heroes Monument at Heroes Corner in Uhuru Gardens to honour past and present heroes and heroines.

The debate about exhuming and reburying past heroes was once again revived, focusing on former president Jomo Kenyatta. It centred on whether to rebury Jomo’s remains at the family’s rural home in Gatundu, or at the Heroes Corner in Nairobi, or whether to let them remain in the heart of Kenya’s capital city. This debate raises the serious question of whether the remains of Kenya’s first president have any significant role in Kenya’s politics today.

Born in 1893, Jomo Kenyatta served as Kenya’s first prime minister, becoming the first president when the country became a republic on 12th December 1964. As president, Jomo was associated with abolishing racial segregation in schools, hotels, churches and social clubs. His supporters believe he was central in spearheading the Pan-African movement, an ideology that sought to create and entrench African identity.

On the other hand, critics challenge Jomo Kenyatta’s role in the struggle for independence and his depiction as a Pan-Africanist and as a unifying leader. He is blamed for undermining the 1962 constitution, which had aimed to create a decentralized political system, in favour of a centrist state. This gradually led to a weakened opposition, unequal resource distribution, clientelism, neopatrimonialism and “land capture” by the elite.

After ruling for about 15 years, Mzee Kenyatta rested on 22nd August 1978. Although his family wanted to bury Mzee’s remains at their ancestral home in Ichaweri, the government objected because Jomo Kenyatta was a national figure and the country’s founding father. He was buried in a marble mausoleum at Parliament Square.

The mausoleum is adjacent to Parliament Buildings on a piece of land that is approximately 4.48 acres along Parliament Road within Nairobi’s Central Business District. Its walls and floor are solid granite. There are 22 evenly-spaced flags — 11 on each side — along the paved pathway to the red-carpeted entrance to the main structure, and decorated statues of lions.

While Jomo Kenyatta’s mausoleum is not open to the public, access may be granted upon formal request, or one may catch a glimpse of the sepulchre during the commemoration of Mzee’s death that takes place on 22nd August every year.

It is, however, ironic that the existence of the Jomo Kenyatta mausoleum defeats the purpose for which it is referred to as a national heritage. If its existence is to remind Kenyans and the world of the significant centrality of Jomo Kenyatta’s presence in the making of the Kenyan Nation, then why deny Kenyans the opportunity to engage with its past? It is no wonder then that in some quarters there have been demands that Jomo Kenyatta’s remains be moved to a private site or to a more accessible space such as Heroes Corner.

Critics challenge Jomo Kenyatta’s role in the struggle for independence and his depiction as a Pan-Africanist and as a unifying leader.

The calls led to an unsuccessful attempt to open the mausoleum to the public through the Kenyatta Mausoleum Bill 2016 tabled by Hon. Muthomi Njuki. The bill had recommended that the mausoleum be made a national repository of Jomo Kenyatta’s artefacts, a place of research and knowledge dissemination, a tourist site for locals and outsiders, and a spot for preserving and conserving Jomo Kenyatta’s and Kenya’s heritage.

That the mausoleum is treated as a private space is bemusing considering that Jomo Kenyatta was a public figure and Kenya’s founding president who led the country for nearly fifteen years. Moreover, the mausoleum is managed and maintained by parliament and guarded by the Kenya Defense Forces using taxpayers’ money. In other countries such as Egypt, Ghana and Malawi, the mausoleums are not only part of the national heritage but are also open public spaces that tourists and locals can visit freely.

There are those for whom the question of relocating Jomo Kenyatta’s remains to Ichaweri appears to be a non-issue; they point to former presidents Moi and Kibaki who were buried in their homes at Kabarak and in Othaya, respectively. In both cases, however, their two families objected to the government’s plan to bury Moi and Kibaki at Uhuru Gardens. The families further claimed that both had expressed the wish to rest within the family home. It should also be noted that both Moi and Kibaki died in retirement, unlike Jomo who passed away in office.

The suggestion to rebury Jomo Kenyatta at Ichaweri, therefore, is not meant to bring dignity to the deceased or closure to his family. Rather, it is connected with current politics that aims to rewrite national histories from below.

On the other hand, while the proposal to rebury Jomo Kenyatta at Heroes Corner in Uhuru Gardens is a noble idea, it is dubious and comes at an inappropriate time. His interment at Uhuru Gardens should have occurred when he died in 1978. Moreover, moving the mausoleum from parliament to the new Uhuru Gardens would be a waste of public resources and would affirm Jomo Kenyatta’s influence on Kenya’s politics from the grave.

Reburial, in most cases, is undertaken to end the narrative of the dead, to set the deceased’s body and soul at peace and offer closure to the living. However, given that the dead body and the exhumation and reburial process are political, this not only unsettles the writing of history but raises questions regarding the temporality aspects and sequences of these actions, that is, what the remains of the dead do in relation to reburial and their impact on those involved in the exhumation process.

The significance of the dead body — especially of a national hero — to the survival of a political regime cannot be wished away. It possesses the capacity to upset and destabilize social order or even evoke a variety of understandings across the social-political spectrum. A case in point is the Malawi government’s decision to rebury the country’s founding president Kamuzu Banda in a mausoleum. The action was part of President Bingu wa Mutharika’s strategy to win hearts and secure the support of Banda’s ethnic group, the Chewa of central Malawi.

The suggestion to rebury Jomo Kenyatta at Ichaweri, therefore, is not meant to bring dignity to the deceased or closure to his family.

It has also been argued that the burial of former Zimbabwe president Robert Mugabe at his rural home in Zyimba — instead of at Heroes Acre in the capital Harare — denied President Mnangagwa the opportunity to legitimize his leadership and benefit from the prestige of the dead.

However, unlike Heroes Acre in Harare, Heroes Corner at Uhuru Gardens is not a cemetery but a symbolic area that features the names of Kenya’s heroes and heroines for the remembrance and preservation of the nation’s history. Photos of past and present national heroes and literature on Kenya’s history are part of the materials being considered for inclusion at Heroes Corner. Any consideration of relocating the corpses of deceased heroes and heroines to Uhuru Garden will open up a whole can of worms with the families of the deceased, and in terms of culture and the law.

What is emerging through this debate on the reburial/relocation of the mausoleum is how this narrative is linked to attempts to recast the past, connecting the history of the reburied with the temporality of convalescing and reconstructing the nation. Jomo Kenyatta’s case raises questions about his life as president and the role of reburial and memorial practices in producing a historical narrative around the corpse of the founding president, pointing to how reburial can be a politically contested issue.

The contestation clearly indicates that Kenya’s founding president, Jomo Kenyatta, is an irreplaceable figure in the sense that his remains convey a complicated legacy of the struggle for independence that cannot be erased from history.