entrepreneurialism has won them control of the matatu trade, and they run most of the capitalâs kiosks, restaurants and hotels. A Luo, on the other hand, is all show and no substance. His date will be wined and dined, but sheâll pick up the tab at the end of the evening. Born with huge egos, the flashiest of dress sense and the gift of the gab, the Luo excel in academia and the media. Luhyas are said to lack ambition, excelling as lowly shamba boys, watchmen and cooks. Stumpy, loyal, happy to take orders, Kambas are natural office clerks, soldiers and domestic servants; but watch out for potions, freak accidents and charms under the bedâthese are the spell-casters of Kenya. Enticing and provocative, their women dress in eye-wateringly bright colours and often work as barmaids. In contrast, the cold, remote Kalenjin care more about their cows than about their homes. Macho and undomesticated, the proud Samburu and Maasai make for perfect recruits to the ranks of watchmen, wildlife rangers and security guards. And so onâ¦
When they speak in this way, Kenyans show, at least, a refreshing honesty. Public discourse is far more hypocritical. In matters ethnic, newspaper and radio station bosses adopt a policy of strict self-censorship. Telling themselves they must play their part in the forging of a young nation state, editors have for decades carefully removed all ethnic identifiers from articles and broadcasts. But it doesnât take long to work out what is really going on, or why one VIP is throwing the taunt of âtribalistââKenyaâs favourite political insultâin anotherâs face. If a surname isnât enough to accurately âplaceâ a Kenyan, laborious verbal codes do the trick. A commentator who coyly refers to âa certain communityâ, or the âpeople of the slopesâ, means the Kikuyu and their kinsfolk from the Mount Kenya foothills. âPeople of the milkâindicates the livestock-rearing Kalenjin or Maasai. If he cites âthe people of the lakeâ or âthose from the westâ, he means the Luo, whose territory runs alongside Lake Victoria and whose failure to practise circumcisionâgateway to adulthood amongst Bantu communitiesâprompts widespread distrust. The sly euphemisms somehow end up conveying more mutual hostility than a franker vocabulary ever could. Like the ruffled skirts which covered the legs of grand pianos in the Victorian age, they actually draw attention to what they are supposed to conceal: an acute sensitivity to ethnic origin.
The fixation shocks other Africans, who privately whisper at how âbackwardâ they find Kenya, with its talk of foreskins and its focus on male appendages. âThereâs no ideological debate here,â complain incoming diplomats, baffled by a political system in which notions of âleftâ or ârightâ, âcapitalistâ or âsocialistâ, âradicalâ or âconservativeâ seem irrelevant: âItâs all about tribe.â Directors of foreign NGOs puzzle over the fact that political parties, born and dying with the speed of dragonflies, either donât bother publishing manifestos, or barely know their contents. But who needs a manifesto when a partyâs only purpose is furthering its tribeâs interests? Tribe is the first thing Kenyans need to know about one another, the backdrop against which all subsequent interaction can be interpreted, simultaneously haven, shield and crippling obligation. The obsession is so pervasive, Kenyans struggle to grasp that it may not extend beyond the countryâs borders. âSo,â commented a Kikuyu taxi driver when he overheard me expressing scepticism about the likelihood of an Obama win in the 2008 US election, âI see you Westerners have problems with the Luo too.â
Yet, perversely, the strength of these stereotypes is in inverse proportion to their longevity.