What we miss most

In her second term in Parliament, the first being through nomination by the National Rainbow Coalition in 2003, Cecily Mbarire says she has never enjoyed being called ‘mheshimiwa’ (Honourable) every time she passes by.

She sharpened her political claws agitating for students rights at Egerton University. Later, she helped found the Youth Agenda, a civil society group for young, educated people.

All this time, her battle was all about the high and powerful, oppressing the lowly placed folks.

So when the title mheshimiwa became a prefix to her name when she run for and won the Runyenjes seat in Embu, she found herself in unfamiliar territory. 

“It (the title) carries with it a kind of a bigger-than- life image. I do not like it, more so when in social events,” says the youthful MP.

Today, what Cecily misses most is to be called by her shortened name. “I wish everyone would just call me Cess. That’s the name all my close friends were used to calling me. Today, they hesitate to use that name, yet it’s the name I cherish,” she says.

Mbarire laments the fact that today, most people see her only through political lenses and this doesn’t impress her.

“Often, people will bring up political discussions even when I am out with friends. Sometimes I just want to chat about family, business and other happenings,” says the Tourism Assistant Minister.

But Cess has more worries. She misses shaking a leg at her favourite dancing and entertainment joints.

“I’m passionate about dancing. Before I got into politics, I used to go out dancing a lot with my friends, mostly former student activists but we can no longer do it. Today, Immediately I step into a public place, someone recognises me and shouts ‘mheshimiwa’.

“It immediately ceases to be a free environment for me. Sometimes people will recognise you and come over to start political discussions even when they can see you are sitting with friends or family,” she says.

In the 10th parliament, it is not only the 39-year- old Cess who misses the “weekend socialising”.

Rachel Shebesh wishes she could just walk into a club with music blazing, take to the floor and dance away without anybody noticing her. But that’s now hard ball for her.

A regular patron at the former Club Afrique, she would dance with friends until late into the night. “I’m a great fan of Lingala music. Today, I listen to my favourite musician, Werra Son more than I can afford to dance to his music,” says Shebesh.

When she gets a chance to dance, especially at an exclusive party, one easily sees a mother who misses the good old days.

One of the occasions when Shebesh got a chance to shake a leg was during the Divas Valentine Dinner at the Hotel Intercontinental on February 12, this year—she out-danced most of the women in attendance, including Narc Kenya party leader Martha Karua.

“These chances are rare so you utilise them fully when they come around, “ she says. However, she tries to compensate for the lost opportunities by watching football. She is fan of Spanish Club Barcelona FC.

These are just some of the things that the youthful women who are holding political office find difficult to do, lest they be put to “public ridicule”.

“We’ve got to be careful because the media is always waiting for us, especially the women MPs to put a foot wrong and you will be all over (more so in this internet age),” says the 40-year old mother of three.

The fear of being exposed to public ridicule has also eaten into the entertainment life of Shakila Abdala, the ODM-Kenya nominated MP from Lamu East.

She can no longer enjoy swimming on the beaches of Lamu lest someone captures her in her swimming costume. A Muslim who still harbours political ambitions back home, Shakila cannot imagine her detractors circulating her pictures in swimming attire.

It is more risky now that people have phone cameras and keep clicking at the beaches. “When I am at the beach, I can only walk around. I walk a lot,” says Shakila.

The soft-spoken but forceful MP says assuming political office almost means you become public property.  “People follow everything you say and do, all to try and capitalise on it against you,” she says.

For Millie Odhiambo, it is the money, wide travel and being busy that she would wish was brought back to her.

A renown child rights activist, Millie was always travelling out of the country and in her words, most of her money was spent on immediate personal and family needs.

“Today, I spend a lot on other people. It is a bit crazy trying to meet people’s expectations as a politician,” she says.

The ODM Nominated MP further says she loathes the reality that she can spend a day without doing anything “substantive” for ordinary Kenyans.

“Most MPs are occupied but not busy. I particularly dislike having to run around like a headless chicken to meet party or parliamentary obligations,” she confesses.

In her days at Child Rights lobby, Cradle, not a single day would pass without her making a decision that helped an ordinary person.

“I was busy and everyday there was a genuine problem to solve. Nowadays, it is all politics. I do not like it,” she says and adds, “At Cradle, I was used to output vis-a-vis outcomes when doing things. In politics, you have to wait a while to see tangible results, if at all” she observes.

If only politics did not steal family time from Wavinya Ndeti, she would not have much to grumble about.

The Kathiani MP says the greatest sacrifice she has had to make is to reduce the time she spends with her aged father back at their Athi River home.

“I used to see my father three or four times a week either to consult him or just to see how he is faring on. Today, I can go a whole week without seeing him,” says the lastborn daughter of the widowed Peter Nzuki Ndeti.

Mzee Ndeti, an octogenarian, inspired his talkative daughter into politics, his influence enabling her to wade through the ODM-Kenya wave in Ukambani in 2007.

Ndeti was the pioneer chairman of the Athi River Town Council and owned almost all the land where Athi River town stands today.

“I owe him a lot, politically. We are fond of each other and I feel bad that my political work separates me from him for long,” says Wavinya of Chama cha Uzalendo party.

Although she is married with three children, Wavinya’s only way to compensate for the lost time with her “dear father” is to have him accompany her family when they go for holidays abroad.

“I often take him along with us when we travel. When I create special family time, I include him because I do not always have enough time with him,” says Wavinya, the Assistant Minister for Youth Affairs.

On her part, Esther Murugi took several months to adjust to what she called “suffocation by the security detail”.

The Nyeri Town MP had spent several years in the property management field and when she was made minister, it took her time to feel remotely comfortable with the trappings that come with the office.

“I really miss the time when I would be free to just sit with my women friends and chat without people even knowing who I was or where I am,” she was quoted as saying in an earlier interview a year after her Cabinet appointment.

Gone are the days when she could pop into a restaurant and have tea without all eyes turning to her.

“I can no longer meet my friends for a cup of tea in a local restaurant like I used to do and neither can shop for my vegetables in the local markets, like I loved doing. I always shopped for my vegetables myself,” says Murugi.

She was largely unknown outside Nyeri when she came to Parliament, but today she cannot pass by without anyone recognising the diminutive grey-haired minister.

This week, she talked about her depression following adverse  media reports on what she says. “I wish I was able to do my work without anyone misreporting what I say or do. The media limelight is quite depressing for me,” she told Saturday Magazine.