JAMILA'S MEMO ON WHAT IS YOUR SURNAME?

On my memo tonight, I ask, what is your surname? Kamau? Wanyonyi? Otieno? Kiprotich? Mutua? Abdurahman? Because apparently, in Kenya, that may sometimes be more important than what is written on your CV. This week, Kimilili MP Didmus Barasa gave us a rather extraordinary example of how he thinks people from his community who are appointed to senior public positionsexample of how he thinks people from his community, when appointed to senior public positions, should behave. UPSOUND…Didmus Now, it is very easy to dismiss this as another politician saying something outrageous. But perhaps we should stay with it for a moment. Because maybe Barasa has simply said loudly what too many Kenyans have quietly come to accept; That public office belongs to communities. A minister is appointed and we say: Tumepata waziri. A PS is appointed: Tumepata PS. Someone from “our community” gets a parastatal: Serikali imetukumbuka. And when they are removed? Tumepokonywa. But who exactly is “we”? A Cabinet Secretary from Western is not the Cabinet Secretary for the Luhya community. A Principal Secretary from Central does not work for the Kikuyus. A parastatal chairman from Nyanza does not hold a Luo position. An ambassador from Garissa does not represent Somalis. These are public officers of the Republic of Kenya. And yes, Kenya must reflect its diversity. Our public service cannot belong to one community or one region. But inclusion cannot mean excluding somebody else because of their surname. Because today you are cheering when Kamau is sent home. Tomorrow your daughter Nekesa is sitting before a panel somewhere else. Next week it is Otieno, or Kiprotich, or Mutua or Abdurahman.. And somebody looks at that name before they even look at the qualifications. Then what? This is especially cruel in a country where we constantly lecture our young people. Soma kwa bidi, get good grades. Go to university. Learn skills, don't expect favours. Then that young person spends four years studying. Their parents sell land, livestock, borrow money, struggle through school fees. They graduate, do internships, apply for fifty jobs. Finally, one interview comes. They wake up early. Iron the one good suit they own. Carry that precious brown envelope. Sit outside that interview room rehearsing their answers. And perhaps what they don't know is that the interview ended before it started. Because somebody read the name on the first page, Wrong name. Surely we cannot build a country like that. And perhaps the saddest part is what this teaches the next generation. That excellence, merit and hard work is not enough. You need somebody from your village, your tribe or somebody who knows somebody. And then we wonder why young Kenyans lose faith in institutions. Why should they believe in a system that tells them to compete while quietly deciding that some people belong more than others? So yes, let us talk about ethnic balance. Let us insist that every Kenyan community sees itself represented in its government. But let us never confuse inclusion with tribal patronage. Public office is not inheritance, neither is it a community property. And a government job is not a favour from one tribe to another. It belongs to the Kenyan who deserves it. So perhaps the question at the beginning was wrong. Maybe we shouldn't be asking, what is your surname? Maybe the only question that should matter is: Can you do the job? And that is my Memo.