Through the windscreen of Harun Muchene鈥檚 taxi, central Nairobi looks affluent enough 鈥� with fewer beggars than central London and plenty of plate glass. But even though Harun has been driving the streets for years, he gets nervous as the car leaves the eastern edge of the centre and enters the poorer quarter.
Accra Road is teeming with so many people that the car comes to a standstill several times amid the crush of dealers, traders and people who are just hanging out. 鈥淭here are many idle people here,鈥� Harun warns. 鈥淚t is not their wish, but they have nothing to do.鈥�
Unemployment has soared in Kenya since recession hit five years ago. As businesses failed across the country, the flow of newcomers into Nairobi in search of work increased sharply. Thousands of men, sometimes with their families, have moved to the city. Many of them are crowded into two huge shanties on the outskirts of the city. Nairobi鈥檚 population at the last count was around 1.5 million, up more than 60 per cent from 1979.
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Harun, who is in his forties, worked for 21 years mending calculators, cash registers and typewriters, but by 1990 his employers could no longer afford to import machines and spares and the company went bust. Today, Harun鈥檚 earnings as a taxi driver are unreliable. 鈥淚 can go for a month without getting work, in which case I just stay at home and do nothing,鈥� he says.
But Harun is comparatively lucky. What sets him apart from the newcomers is his land 鈥� a modest plot just beyond the city鈥檚 western border. Ownership of land, even on a small scale, is a status symbol in Kenya and a source of income. As long as you own land, you are not considered poor.
Where the city鈥檚 buildings thin out, Harun swings the car off the tarmac road. Just a few metres beyond lies Harun鈥檚 compound. His 14-year-old son, Robinson Kabue, opens the gates and lets his father steer around the 20-odd dogs that come to greet their master. This is Harun鈥檚 refuge where he can shut out the city.
His house is made of wood and corrugated iron, with a concrete floor. The living room is huge, with soft chairs lining the walls. In one corner sits a TV, which is unfortunately on the blink. The toilet is a pit latrine and water is delivered to a central point in the neighbourhood once a week. It is up to Robinson and his cousins to ferry water back to the family鈥檚 tank in the yard. Harun鈥檚 house is connected to the electricity grid: 鈥淲e are very advanced,鈥� he jokes. He has no telephone, but gets messages via one nearby.
The neighbours are Harun鈥檚 three brothers and a sister who also live on land inherited from their father. Normally, land passes only from fathers to sons, but Harun and his brother decided that their unmarried sister should be given an equal share of the plot.
Harun鈥檚 eldest brother has seven children. 鈥淚n those days people liked to have as many children as possible,鈥� says Harun. 鈥淣ow, because of lack of money and land, people are having small families. It鈥檚 difficult to find somebody who has even three children.鈥� Robinson is an only child.
Harun鈥檚 wife, Salome Mugure, is away visiting neighbours. She and Robinson supplement the family income with produce from the plot. At the far end of the compound, they grow maize and beans. Closer to the house, they keep five pigs, which squeal as Harun approaches. Nearby are two large sows, chickens and a cow that is due to calve this year. A cow is a valuable asset worth about 拢570. If the calf is a bullock, the family will sell it. If it is a heifer, they will keep it. Whatever happens, the mother鈥檚 milk will be a valuable source of income, raising the equivalent of about three days鈥� wages in a week.
Because of his land and his home, Harun sees himself as comparatively well-off. Driving back into the city, it is easy to see why. Finding no jobs, many of the newcomers have started what Harun calls 鈥渄irty鈥� industries, selling second-hand clothes and recycling waste paper. Street hawkers are everywhere. Every taxi driver seems to have at least one agent, and at the traffic lights people stand, offering gaudy paintings or framed photographs of President Moi for sale. As long as he has land, Harun will not face such poverty.
His aspirations, though, are modest. He would like to buy a pick-up truck so he could collect leftover food from hotels and discarded vegetables from the market. With this food, he could keep three cows, 20 pigs, and chickens. 鈥淭hat could keep me going with no problem,鈥� he says. But a pick-up would take him more than two years to earn even if he were in a steady job. So the plan remains more of a dream than a realistic goal.
鈥� The demands of European consumers for unblemished French beans extend to remote Kenyan farms. Kenya exports beans worth 拢12 million a year, mostly from family farms which can grow them more cheaply than anyone else. The country鈥檚 biggest exporter, Homegrown, sells pesticides to hundreds of smallholders and tells them exactly when to spray, so the beans conform to European standards. At the company鈥檚 depot in Nairobi, women trim and pack the beans for British supermarkets, complete with price labels in sterling. In 24 hours, British shoppers will be buying them