๐๐ ๐๐ฒ๐น๐๐ถ๐ป ๐ก๐๐ฎ๐บ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฒ
It has often occurred to me, while watching the noisy ambitions of modern statesmen and the breathless scurry of the multitude after the illusions of political triumph, that the real work of building a nation is done in silence, by minds better engaged in thought than in parade. It is a melancholy observation, but one that insists on being made, that the more a people loses its familiarity with the habit of reading, the more it surrenders itself to charlatans who peddle hope without instruction, and slogans without meaning.
There was a time, not very long ago in the measurement of history, when to read was counted a virtue, and to think was considered the first mark of a citizen. In those days, books were kept close to the hearth, and learning was spoken of with the kind of reverence now reserved for fleeting riches and vulgar fame. But time, like a careless housemaid, has scattered those treasures, and left behind a country where loudness is mistaken for leadership, and where ignorance walks brazenly down the avenues of power.
It requires no acute observer to notice that in Kenya today, reading has been relegated to the domain of examination rooms and neglected libraries, while the public square has been surrendered to the shallow clamor of half-baked opinions. The citizen no longer wrestles with ideas; he recites catchphrases. He no longer labours through argument; he tweets affirmations.
In such a country, freedom cannot but suffer.
Freedom is not the child of chants and slogans. It is the grandchild of thought, and thought is the child of reading. When Plato proposed that a republic could only be truly governed by philosopher-kings, he did not mean that philosophers must wear purple robes and sit in ivory towers; he meant that the habits of reflection, of deep and careful consideration, must precede the exercise of power. A people who abandon the book abandon also the capacity for resistance, the appetite for truth, and the longing for betterment.
In the absence of reading, what rises instead is the cheap dramatics of politicians, the coarseness of public discourse, and the blind acceptance of whatever gospel is shouted loudest. The man who does not read will believe anything; he will follow anyone; he will vote for anyone. He becomes a subject of manipulation, a clay in the hands of unworthy masters.
History offers examples too many and too painful. Tyrannies, when they take root, are often preceded by an assault on thought. In Rwanda, propaganda killed the mind before it killed the body. In Nazi Germany, books were burned before men were. Colonial masters forbade reading in the vernacular precisely because they feared what knowledge might spark in the souls of the oppressed.
Here in Kenya, it is a bitter irony that the chains once broken by readers of Marx, of Fanon, of Nyerere, are now being refashioned by a generation whose literacy barely surpasses the ability to read text messages. Where the mind has been starved, the will must soon follow.
I recall, with no small measure of sadness, the old men of Gusiiland โ men whose education was often but a few stolen years in missionary schools, yet who treasured every book they laid hands on. They understood, instinctively, that to know was to resist. They understood, even without the luxuries of the modern age, that reading was the anchor of dignity. One of them, my grandfather, often said to me: โa child who does not read cannot fight for his future.”
How different from the child of today, who marches to political rallies in the sun, chanting songs he cannot explain, celebrating leaders he cannot question, surrendering his destiny to merchants of deceit.
The consequences are visible everywhere. In Parliament, where grandiloquence has replaced wisdom. In the markets, where superstition thrives unchecked. In homes, where education is seen as a ticket to employment, but seldom as a discipline of character. In society, where fame has overtaken integrity as the chief measure of a life well lived.
Meanwhile, the budget is passed in the dead of night, the constitution is amended with casual contempt, and public resources are squandered with the glee of drunkards at a village feast. And the people cheer, or shrug, or weep quietly into their pillows, because they have long forgotten how to think, and therefore how to resist.
The societies that endure, that flourish, that build pyramids and parliaments and philosophies, are those where reading is a public habit and reflection a private duty. One cannot point to Americaโs Federalist Papers, or Britainโs Magna Carta, or Indiaโs Non-Cooperation Movement, without also pointing to the books that nourished them.
In contrast, what nourishment does a Kenyan citizen now receive? Facebook posts. WhatsApp forwards. Shallow manifestos and even shallower promises. The mind, deprived of nourishment, atrophies. The nation, deprived of thinking citizens, crumbles.
It is therefore not merely a cultural loss when reading declines; it is a political catastrophe.
No police force, no constitution however robust, no army however disciplined, can defend a nation whose people have surrendered their minds to frivolity. Democracy, liberty, justice โ these are not guaranteed by paper and ink, but by a vigilant and thinking populace.
Thus, if Kenya is to survive the storms that gather upon every horizon โ tribalism, corruption, inequality, ignorance โ it must return to the humble, stubborn habit of reading. We must teach our children that a book is a weapon. We must teach our leaders that a speech unaccompanied by knowledge is but noise. We must teach ourselves that reading is no luxury, no pastime of the idle, but the most urgent political act of our age.
The man who does not read is easily ruled.
The woman who does not read is easily cheated.
The nation that does not read is already enslaved.
Let every village revive its libraries. Let every town build book clubs with as much zeal as it builds churches. Let every schoolmaster, every parent, every chief, every preacher, every legislator, understand that the future will belong to those who read it into existence.
Otherwise, we shall continue, like drunkards in a storm, to stumble from one crisis to another, forever blaming fate, while the real culprit stares us in the face โ our own abandoned minds.
A country that does not read cannot be free.
It can only dream of freedom, while remaining forever a prisoner of its own ignorance.
ยฉ ๐๐ฒ๐น๐๐ถ๐ป ๐ก๐๐ฎ๐บ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฒ
๐๐ฒ๐น๐๐ถ๐ป ๐ก๐๐ฎ๐บ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฒ, ๐๐ต๐ฒ ๐๐๐ข ๐ผ๐ณ ๐๐ฑ๐๐น๐ถ๐ด๐ต๐ ๐๐ป๐๐ฒ๐ฟ๐ป๐ฎ๐๐ถ๐ผ๐ป๐ฎ๐น ๐๐ผ๐ป๐๐๐น๐๐ฎ๐ป๐ฐ๐ ๐๐๐ฑ, ๐น๐ฒ๐ฎ๐ฑ๐ ๐ฎ ๐ด๐น๐ผ๐ฏ๐ฎ๐น ๐ฐ๐ผ๐บ๐ฝ๐ฎ๐ป๐ ๐ฑ๐ฒ๐ฑ๐ถ๐ฐ๐ฎ๐๐ฒ๐ฑ ๐๐ผ ๐บ๐ฒ๐ป๐๐ผ๐ฟ๐๐ต๐ถ๐ฝ ๐ฎ๐ป๐ฑ ๐น๐ฒ๐ฎ๐ฑ๐ฒ๐ฟ๐๐ต๐ถ๐ฝ ๐๐ฟ๐ฎ๐ถ๐ป๐ถ๐ป๐ด. ๐๐ ๐ฎ ๐๐ฒ๐ฎ๐๐ผ๐ป๐ฒ๐ฑ ๐ถ๐ป๐๐ฝ๐ถ๐ฟ๐ฎ๐๐ถ๐ผ๐ป๐ฎ๐น ๐๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ฎ๐ธ๐ฒ๐ฟ, ๐ฎ๐๐๐ต๐ผ๐ฟ, ๐๐ฒ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฒ๐ฟ, ๐ฎ๐ป๐ฑ ๐น๐ถ๐ณ๐ฒ ๐ฐ๐ผ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ต, ๐๐ฒ๐น๐๐ถ๐ป ๐ต๐ฎ๐ ๐ฒ๐ฎ๐ฟ๐ป๐ฒ๐ฑ ๐ฎ ๐ฟ๐ฒ๐ฝ๐๐๐ฎ๐๐ถ๐ผ๐ป ๐ณ๐ผ๐ฟ ๐ฑ๐ฒ๐น๐ถ๐๐ฒ๐ฟ๐ถ๐ป๐ด ๐ถ๐บ๐ฝ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐๐ณ๐๐น ๐บ๐ฒ๐๐๐ฎ๐ด๐ฒ๐ ๐๐ต๐ฎ๐ ๐ฟ๐ฒ๐๐ผ๐ป๐ฎ๐๐ฒ ๐๐ถ๐๐ต ๐ฑ๐ถ๐๐ฒ๐ฟ๐๐ฒ ๐ฎ๐๐ฑ๐ถ๐ฒ๐ป๐ฐ๐ฒ๐. ๐๐ถ๐ ๐๐ผ๐ฟ๐ธ ๐๐ฝ๐ฎ๐ป๐ ๐ถ๐ป๐ฑ๐ถ๐๐ถ๐ฑ๐๐ฎ๐น๐, ๐ด๐ฟ๐ผ๐๐ฝ๐, ๐ฐ๐ต๐๐ฟ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฒ๐, ๐๐ฐ๐ต๐ผ๐ผ๐น๐, ๐ฎ๐ป๐ฑ ๐ผ๐ฟ๐ด๐ฎ๐ป๐ถ๐๐ฎ๐๐ถ๐ผ๐ป๐, ๐๐ต๐ฒ๐ฟ๐ฒ ๐ต๐ฒ ๐ณ๐ผ๐ฐ๐๐๐ฒ๐ ๐ผ๐ป ๐ต๐ฒ๐น๐ฝ๐ถ๐ป๐ด ๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ผ๐ฝ๐น๐ฒ ๐ฎ๐บ๐ฝ๐น๐ถ๐ณ๐ ๐๐ต๐ฒ๐ถ๐ฟ ๐ฎ๐๐๐ต๐ฒ๐ป๐๐ถ๐ฐ๐ถ๐๐ ๐ฎ๐ป๐ฑ ๐ฒ๐บ๐ฝ๐ผ๐๐ฒ๐ฟ๐ถ๐ป๐ด ๐๐ต๐ฒ๐บ ๐๐ผ ๐ฏ๐ฒ๐ฐ๐ผ๐บ๐ฒ ๐๐ต๐ฒ ๐ฏ๐ฒ๐๐ ๐๐ฒ๐ฟ๐๐ถ๐ผ๐ป๐ ๐ผ๐ณ ๐๐ต๐ฒ๐บ๐๐ฒ๐น๐๐ฒ๐. ๐๐ฎ๐๐ฒ๐ฑ ๐ถ๐ป ๐ก๐ฎ๐ถ๐ฟ๐ผ๐ฏ๐ถ, ๐๐ฒ๐น๐๐ถ๐ป ๐ถ๐ ๐ฎ ๐ต๐ถ๐ด๐ต๐น๐ ๐๐ผ๐๐ด๐ต๐-๐ฎ๐ณ๐๐ฒ๐ฟ ๐๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ฎ๐ธ๐ฒ๐ฟ ๐๐ต๐ผ๐๐ฒ ๐ฒ๐ ๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ฟ๐๐ถ๐๐ฒ ๐ต๐ฎ๐ ๐บ๐ฎ๐ฑ๐ฒ ๐ฎ ๐๐ถ๐ด๐ป๐ถ๐ณ๐ถ๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ป๐ ๐ถ๐บ๐ฝ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ ๐๐ผ๐ฟ๐น๐ฑ๐๐ถ๐ฑ๐ฒ. ๐ง๐ผ ๐ฏ๐ผ๐ผ๐ธ ๐ต๐ถ๐บ ๐ณ๐ผ๐ฟ ๐๐ผ๐๐ฟ ๐ป๐ฒ๐ ๐ ๐ฒ๐๐ฒ๐ป๐, ๐๐ผ๐ ๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ป ๐ฟ๐ฒ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ต ๐ต๐ถ๐บ ๐ฎ๐ +๐ฎ๐ฑ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ต๐ด๐ด๐ด๐ต๐ฑ๐ญ๐ฌ.
Sign Out: The Rise of a New Campus Ritual