It’s Our Turn to Eat. Michela Wrong

the authorities – was ‘Luhya’ (‘those of the same hearth’), slapped onto twenty subgroups in the 1930s and 1940s. It comes as no surprise to discover that the stereotypes Kenyans apply to one another today, from the fierceness of the Maasai to the supposed domesticity of the Kamba, faithfully reflect the roles the colonial authorities allotted each group: Maasais as mercenaries, Kambas as first porters and then as kitchen workers. Growing up on a white-owned farm in the Rift Valley in the 1940s, the future Nobel Peace Prize-winner Wangari Maathai noticed how the colonial experience reinforced ethnic distinctions. ‘Kikuyus worked in the fields, Luos laboured around the homestead as domestic servants, and Kipsigis took care of the livestock and milking,’ she records in her autobiography. ‘Most of us on the farm rarely met people from other communities, spoke their languages or participated in their cultural practices.’⁵

      Two World Wars, in which thousands of Kenyans served, radicalised the colony's African population, challenging this vision of the world. In the muddy trenches of eastern Germany, on the bleak escarpments of Ethiopia and in the jungles of Burma, they saw their white rulers fight and die just like other men. They grasped that the British were mere mortals, their empire beleaguered. The learning experience took place on both sides. ‘The younger settlers who had fought in the war with the African had an entirely different outlook on African political advance and the African himself to those who had remained behind,’ wrote the pre-independence minister of agriculture Michael Blundell, who led Luo troops to fight the Italians in Ethiopia in 1940. ‘The colonial relationship of governing and subject races had been eroded.’⁶ Confronted by a range of increasingly belligerent political associations and trade unions calling for a voice in Kenya's administration, London struggled to justify British policy.

      The Mau Mau uprising of the 1950s finally exposed the unsustainability of the colonial carve-up. In the run-up to independence in 1963, the regulations that had shaped a sense of separate identity were scrapped, as Africans were granted the right to grow what crops they pleased, to buy land outside the reserves, and to campaign on national issues. But ethnic straitjackets, once tailored, cannot so easily be unstitched. Like so many black leaders of the 1960s, first president Jomo Kenyatta dedicated his energies not to overturning but to inheriting the system left behind by the colonial powers. Only this time it would be his Kikuyu ethnic group, rather than Kenya's departing white tribe, that would benefit from the ‘matunda ya uhuru’ – the fruits of independence. While generously helping himself – he taunted former Mau Mau veteran Bildad Kaggia for having so little to show for his liberation war – he made sure his Kikuyu kinsmen got served first when it came to constituency funding, procurement contracts and white-collar jobs in the administration. The fact that no single tribe accounted for more than about a fifth of Kenya's population meant marriages of convenience with at least two other large ethnic groups were always necessary. But priorities were clear. ‘My people have the milk in the morning, your tribes the milk in the afternoon,’ the president told non-Kikuyu ministers who complained.

      When Moi took over on Kenyatta's death in 1978, the approach was perpetuated. Because his Kalenjin ethnic grouping was a smaller, more diverse and less economically powerful group than the Kikuyu, Moi was forced to draw the magic circle a little wider. But Moi's focus remained his own tribesmen, who suddenly found key jobs in the civil service, the army and state-owned companies that had hitherto been closed to them. Ask middle-aged Kenyans today what they consider the root causes of their generation's ethnic wariness, and most point to the education quotas introduced in 1985, which obliged schools to take 85 per cent of their pupils from the local area. The policy was aimed at improving educational standards amongst the Kalenjin, but its impact was to erect even higher walls between communities. Under Kenyatta, at least the tribes learnt mutual tolerance in the playground and classroom. Under Moi, the first time a member of one tribe rubbed up against another was often at university, by which time prejudices had already taken root.

      Bullied by Western donors into introducing multi-party politics in 1992, the leader who had done so much to entrench ethnic rivalry presented himself as a national unifier attempting to keep his population's primitive urges in check. ‘The multi-party system has split the country into tribal groupings. I am surprised that Western countries believe in the Balkanisation of Africa … Tribal roots go much deeper than the shallow flower of democracy.’ But if Moi had wilfully reversed cause and effect, he was correct in predicting that the new politics, built on a foundation of rivalry laid by his predecessor and himself, would take ethnic shape. In competitive political systems, argues Paul Collier, parties look for the easiest way to establish their superiority in voters' eyes. Providing services like health, schools and roads is one way of winning approval, but such things are very hard to deliver. Another way is to play the ethnic identity card: ‘And that,’ says Collier, ‘is incredibly easy.’

      Analyst Gerard Prunier has christened Kenya's post-independence system of rule a form of ‘ethno-elitism’.⁷ A pattern of competing ethnic elites, rotating over time, was established which made a mockery of the notion of equal opportunity. This was viewed as a zero-sum game, with one group's gain inevitably entailing another's loss. In Francophone Africa, the approach is captured in one pithy phrase: ‘Ote-toi de la, que je m'y mette’ – ‘Shift yourself, so I can take your place.’ In Anglophone Africa, the expression is cruder, bringing to mind snouts rooting in troughs: ‘It's our turn to eat.’ Given how unfairly resources had been distributed under one ethnically-biased administration after another, starting with the white settlers, each succeeding regime felt justified in being just as partisan – it was only redressing the balance, after all. The new incumbent was expected to behave like some feudal overlord, stuffing the civil service with his tribesmen and sacking those from his predecessor's region. When no one shows magnanimity, generosity dries up across the board.

      It's actually possible to quantify the ‘Our Turn to Eat’ approach in terms of parliamentary seats, ministerial positions and jobs in the state sector, as each regime doled out appointments to those deemed in the fold. According to one study, during the Kenyatta era, the Kikuyu, who accounted for 20.8 per cent of the population, claimed between 28.6 and 31.6 per cent of cabinet seats – far more than their fair share – while the Kalenjin, accounting for 11.5 per cent of the population, held only between 4.8 and 9.6 per cent. With Moi's arrival, the Kikuyu share of cabinet posts fell to just 4 per cent, while the Kalenjin's share soared to 22 per cent. It was a similar story with permanent secretaries, where the Kikuyu went from 37.5 per cent under Kenyatta to 8.7 per cent under Moi, while the Kalenjin went from 4.3 per cent to 34.8 per cent.⁸

      In theory, of course, a particular ethnic group could hold the lion's share of key government jobs without it distorting national policy. In fact, the entire arrangement was premised on the pork-barrel principle. Hoeing their Central Province plots in bare feet and ragged hand-me-downs, a minister's constituents might feel they had little, individually, to show for their community's pole position. The top men stood at the apex of frustratingly inefficient pyramids of dispersal. But what was the alternative? ‘The grassroots perception is, if we elect a member of our elite, he can at least talk to the elites of the other tribes,’ says Haroun Ndubi, a human rights campaigner. ‘People will say: “This is someone who can speak English with the others.”’ And if a local hero consistently failed to pass at least a fraction of what came his way along the chain, he could expect to be unceremoniously dumped come the next election.

      The difference being on the right side made was illustrated when the ministry for roads and public works published estimates for spending on road-building in July 2006. Regions whose MPs formed part of Kibaki's inner circle got far more than was allocated to areas whose leaders were in opposition. Once Nairobi and the tourist hub represented by the Maasai Mara were excluded, allocations to the home constituencies of vocal government critics were nearly 320 times less generous than those to constituencies of trusted presidential aides.⁹ The parliamentarians made some barbed remarks when this extraordinary gap was exposed, but passed the road budget without amendment. This, they knew, was the way the game was played.

      Where