Please, return these children to their families

In the last two weeks, I have had to write these two articles in the paper;

9-year-old girl goes missing
Nine-year-old Nicole Lingomo, a daughter to Ramathan Lingomo, a resident of Kevina Village, Nsambya, Kampala, went missing on Friday May, 2009. According to her father, a Congolese refugee, she had gone to fetch water at a nearby tank when she disappeared at 9am. She was dressed in a green skirt, black blouse and wearing sandals. The Primary Two pupil at Nakivubo Primary School had plaited hair.
The matter has been reported at Old Kampala Police Station, but her worried parents appeal to anyone who can help them trace her to call 0753-063532.

Help trace this girl
Thirteen-year-old Melon Natukunda, an orphan from Agape Children’s Village, a charitable orphanage, in Kaggala, Bukerere, Mukono District went missing on June 1, 2009. The Primary 4 pupil, who speaks Luganda and Runyankole, disappeared while on her way to Agape Nursery and Primary School. She was wearing a blue T-shirt with the inscription “God is Able” and blue jeans trousers.
The case has been reported to Seeta Police Post but the management of Agape Christian Village appeals to whoever comes across her to contact them on phones lines; 0782-767843, 0772-948550 or 0782-337817.

So, who is taking our children?
On Friday 29th June, I was at my desk trying to make sure we beat the early edition deadline. As I went about editing the lead story, a lady from our advertising section walked to my desk, behind her was a graying old man, visibly worried. She told me the old man had something to tell me; paying half-attention, I asked him what the problem was.

In Swahili, he began, with a sob: “It is my daughter,” jolting me into full attention.
“Nataka mutoto wangu. Mbona mutu anaiba kasichana kangu. Nataka mutoto wangu (I want my girl. Why would anyone steal my girl? I need her back”).

The old man is Ramathan Lingomo quoted in the first story. In tears, he told me how his last born in a family of five had gone to a nearby tank to fetch water. Then suddenly Nicole was nowhere. Not even the peers who play with her could tell how and where she had gone. The pain on the old man’s face was discernible. It was obvious this little girl, born in exile, was his pet. Her play tool; the one who afforded him a smile as he drowned in the pangs of life in a strange land; as he waited for his share of rations from the refugee agency. The gap this little girl’s disappearance had caused in the family’s life was as glaring as a vacant plot in a slum.

Today, a week after, I called Mzee Ramathan. Nicole is still lost but today he received a call from an NGO that helps in these cases. He was preparing to go and meet them---hoping it is a move that will help his little sweet girl get re-united with the family. It is living in stretched hope, but still it is hope.

So, yesterday, Isaiah, our advertising manager came to my desk and told me: “Here is another case of a missing child. They saw the story you did on the first girl and they also want help.”
That is the case of Melon (picture above), lost from an orphanage. I have not talked to the caretakers. But still I feel the pain. I actually fear to talk to people close to these children because their tears send me to the brink of wailing too.

But, who is this taking our children? Who took little Nicole and Melon? Who is holding these little girls, probable female shakers of tomorrow’s Uganda? Who can’t let these girls have the peace and laughter of their family and friends?

I have heard of tales of child sacrifice blah blah. I just don’t want to imagine these little girls have been slayed. As was inscribed on Melon’s T-shirt, “God is Able”. If anything, God should be able to restore these girls to where they belong.
Watch your kids folks---don’t let them stray. We live in a cruel world.

Yes-our joking leaders

I had decided to give this blog a break from politics. I had turned to my second passion; literature, fiction.
But there are times when you can’t help it. When you look at the things around you, around your leaders and yeah, you think you need to say something---even if you are pretty sure you may change nothing. Yes, posterity will not judge me harshly; that I looked on as theft, plunder, and lootocracy went on unabated.
For example, the other day this minister for Local Government, the bespectacled Adolf Mwesige told a gathering of local councillors, that this government was preparing to pay councillors gratuity, in a bid to show “gratification for the great work the councilors do”.
According to the minister, this would roll out starting 2010 financial year and taxpayers (you and me) would have to fork out no less than Shs3 billion for the start. Ok, when friends tell me we have jokers running this country, I try to vouchsafe for them; but surely how do you make a case in front of such mediocrity, such pedestrianism like that exhibited by Hon. Adolf?
What this servant of the nation is saying is that after some fellow runs to be councilor, basically bribes the voters to let them allow him represent them either at sub-county or district; then in the course appropriates all tenders to himself or friends, attends a session once a month or twice in three months, draw a fat allowance; his policies are basically disregarded---that after such selfless service, me, the taxpayer, should thank this guy. Fear for his job security and say, “Man, since voters have now kicked you out, because you were a louse, here is your kasimo, your envelope!”
Yes, Adolf and ilk want us to believe that politics is now a profession at the level of teachers, nurses, engineers and journalists et al. That we should reward people who simply seek power, aggrandize themselves, loot whatever is in their vicinity; after such exploits, we should say, what a job well done!
This colleagues, comes in the face and news that our budget to be read this month will announce a default in payment of pension to the tune of over Shs130 billion because the government is broke. This colleague, will come on the backdrop that civil servants in 41 districts have missed their April salaries because the Treasury was dry and the supplementary budget unapproved by the House.
Yes, on the backdrop of all these, our government will pay gratuity to councilors, just a year before the next election—who smells a rat here, like I do?????

The pains of a sub editor

In a bid to put bread and butter on my table---and that of family and some friends, I try to make sense of stories. Going by the label sub editor, I am tasked to make stories comprehensible and sensible before they get to our much-beloved readers. That should not be a tough call--but look below and see how some people make me earn my bread. This is a raw copy of a story that was supposed to get to you, our beloved reader;


Congolese women using coca cola for quire private parts pains.

BY xxxxxxxxxxxx.

The staving Congolese women in Moroto Municipality have taken advantage of using coca cola soda for quire private’s parts pains after sex business.

More than 70 Congolese women earlier this month were chest away from the Barracks by the authorities from Moroto Division Barracks where they were staying with their husbands.

The Congolese women brought by the UPDF soldiers from Congo has their wives are stranded in Moroto municipality without any food supplies and they have turned into sex business for survives in the municipality of moroto.

“Although we are stranded but we shall not die because we have made friends in the municipality we only relying with any person who comes and buy for us Beer and eating other issues later,” they said.

Two Congolese women Albonda shalani and Landombo Rashal among others who stay in Narwosi slam area Moroto municipality yesterday revealed to daily monitor that most of their colleagues have got contract of sleeping with 7 men per night “in case of private pains they buy coca cola soda for quire the pain” Ms Albonda said.

The acting CAO incharg for Bokora Koriang Timothy moroto district said. I think there is need for emergency research on how to help these Congolese women so that they should not spoil the name of moroto municipality,” he said.

He said the government of Uganda has given every foreigner of staying in Uganda “we need to cooperate UPDF and the district on how to help these women” he said. END

The Rude Awakening

It looked an evening of great promise. As a fresher, I had always craved for the first time when I would “hang out” with one of our own—the much craved for university girls, whose reputation I had met months before I went to the Ivory Tower.
Having sat for my A-level in a typical village school deep in Bugisu, my impressions about university girls had largely been formed by stories that the few boys from Namabasa, who had been to Makerere, narrated whenever they came back for holidays. One boy in particular, Wandwasi, told us of girls whose skimpy attire had caught the eye of the “big people” in the city that the wealthiest of men came to set camp at the campus just to have a look at these marvels of creation.
“These girls, who usually go by the names of Conny, Vicky or Valeria,” Wandwasi would tell us, “Speak through the teeth and roll words so easily that you lousy folk of Namabasa would have to strain your ears just to get a word.”
So, when I emerged one of the best in my district and made it to campus, as was the common reference, I couldn’t wait to have my own Vicky. The feeling I had when I first set foot in the famed Mitchell Hall was akin to that of Armstrong when he landed on the moon. I knew one of my immediate accomplishments would be to acquire a Vicky and begin compiling tales for my hungry folk back in the village.
Then came Nabbosa; like the first rain after a hot season. Relieving, soothing, refreshing. The first weeks had been tough for me. It looked like all my attempts at winning attention of the girls were hitting a dead end. All the girls would offer was a “hi”, uttered so fast that it seemed like a burden talking to me. But Nabbosa was different. I met her on the last day of the Mitchell Bazaar, a market display that would in the night turn into an alcohol drinking binge event.
She was courteous and never lost interest even when I told her I had just set foot in Kampala. She was studying the revered Law and took no offence at interacting with me; an Arts student. I had heard of the “attitude” Law students carried and never thought I would get too close to one like I did on this evening.
A few days later, Nabbosa and I were a hot item. My feelings saturated by her, I decided it was time to hit the fun trail. Being ignorant of the city, it was her task to name the place. TLC, she said, was the in-thing for campusers. A health club during the day, university students would descend on it in the evening, converting it into a semi-brothel.
We stormed the club, her in a black, tight-fitting dress that exposed her delicate curves and me in my jeans, that although had seen the better of days, remained my favourite. The T-shirt, with a big Makerere logo and “We Build for the Future” slogan, completed the picture for me. Around us was a sea of humanity. We had to rub and shove before “capturing” some space in a corner.
Nabbosa left to pick our drinks as I sent my eyes on a journey of optical nutrition. They darted from here to there and the skimpy dresses, shapely legs, curvaceous bums ensured I was not starved, though a little scandalised. How would people bare flesh so easily and still look angelic? I wondered.
Suddenly, I was jolted from my dreamy world with a thump on my right cheek. Landing heavily, like a crashing helicopter, the stranger’s hand rested on my cheek, immediately implanting a mark. Half-dazed, I looked up, only to meet another thump, this time accompanied with a rude, “Do you know the girl you are playing with?”
Before I could finish my, “Which girl are you…” question, I found myself held by the belt as I was shoved out of the club, half-walking, half-flying. The so-called bouncers declared me persona-non grata and bellowed that I leave the premises faster than I came.
A week later, I found a note at my B11 doorstep. “Don, I am sorry. I didn’t know how to explain it. The guy who accosted you is Solomon; he pays my fees. I never expected to meet him there; he had told me he was upcountry. Truth is, he is my fiancé and hope is that after school, I will be his wife. You are a nice guy, I hope you find a girl to treasure you. Nabbosa.”

The millet garden

Nadunga was the perfect girl. The gap in her upper teeth gave her the look of a princess, her not-so-bulging curves would turn even the most impotent of men on. Her catwalk needed no red carpet, it accompanied her to the well, forest and even pit-latrine.
If her looks sent you crazy, her voice would leave you in a trance. Unlike other girls in Namabasa village, whose pre-occupation was gossip and many times discussing the size of the men’s manhood or lack of it, Nadunga only opened her square lips to utter sense.
You can therefore understand the envy among the other boys of Namabasa Secondary School; when Nadunga chose me as her boyfriend. The battle to win Nadunga’s soul had begun four years ago when we joined Senior One. By then, she had all the features of a belle and the four years had only refined them. Looking at her now, one would see copper ore that had gone through the flame to end up into pure metal.
I was in the crowd of boys who did all that they could to at least get her attention---even if it only meant attracting her smile. Unlike my friends who were gifted in height, I was very short—compelling most of my friends to describe me as down-to-earth.
But I was above the surface when it came to the mastery of English Language. Whereas most of my friends had had their primary schooling in the village, I had studied at Fairway Primary School in the middle of Mbale town. I spoke with an accent that mesmerised the village kids. My English received similar attention like Nadunga’s beauty.
But that was not a straight ticket for me. It had taken three years of making passes and offering my packed lunch, usually busima and malewa, to finally get real audience with Nadunga. And when that came, in the first term of S4, I had spoken in a manner that would shame Mark Antony.
“My heart bleeds for your love,” I had started the conversation conducted under the mango tree. “Your looks have sent electric waves down my spine. For the past three years, I have been a silent sufferer of your good looks. Admit me into your heart and I promise to forever make it flourish.”
She replied: “You look good. I love your English even if I don’t understand what you say. You can become my man but let me not see you with other girls.”
It was the best feeling I had since I had been able to withstand the surgeon’s knife two years ago during my rite of passage to manhood.
But the real quest for Nadunga had not been in her company. I would listen in amazement as boys talked of how they had floored girls, how the girls would scream in the millet gardens as they made love.
My craving to make love to Nadunga grew by the day.
one evening I gathered courage as we munched at the roast maize I had carried for lunch. “Sweetest of hearts---my inner soul longs to mate with yours,” I began.
Looking at me with a blank stare, she asked, “What do you mean?”
“I want to make love to you,” I said this with utmost difficulty.
She promised to think about it and give me feedback.
The following Monday, she walked to me and told me to prepare—for the coming Friday would be our big day. Nadunga was finally letting me take her virginity. I quickly made it a point to brag to my friends, we even agreed on a common venue so that they would hang in the neighbourhood and watch me make the conquest.
The venue was a millet garden near school. At exactly 2pm that Friday, I walked to the garden. I dashed to the corner I had agreed to meet Nadunga.
There she was lying with her legs spread. I fidgeted with my shorts, just as I finished removing them; I saw the black object slide slowly near my foot. God! It was a snake. I did not have the time to pull up my shorts. “Help! Help!” I screamed as I dashed off, not giving Nadunga a second look. My friends jumped from their hide-outs and also ran like madmen. We ran towards the school and it is only when I got to the school football pitch did I realise I was naked. By this time, the whole school had come to see the cause of the noise. I never spoke to Nadunga again.

MPs must be evaluated

What should have been a peaceful consultative meeting between MPs and officials of the African Leadership Instititute, a civil society organisation, on Tuesday turned rowdy as legislators accused the institute of seeking to destroy them.
Apparently, the institute, headed by former spy chief David Pulkol, has previously carried out an assessment of the MPs performance, with the results, mainly unflattering, getting a lot of media coverage.
So, when Mr Pulkol revealed that a similar report would be made public at the end of this month, the legislators in the Tuesday meeting rose up in arms. They say the methodology employed by the African Leadership Institute is not accurate. They fault the researchers of concentrating on their submissions on the floor of the House, committee sessions and district meetings, yet under the multi-party dispensation, MPs make most submissions in the caucuses and are restrained from speaking on the floor of the House.
I agree that the assessors can be more accurate. What the researchers should do is get records of caucus proceedings from the party whips and reflect these in their findings. They also can look at MPs contributions elsewhere, say international fora. But that does not mean the MPs’ contributions on the floor, committees and districts should be disregarded. The parties may have already chosen movers of motions but surely individuals make suggestions, respond to Bills and can mover Private Members Bills. It is not true, therefore, to conclude that MPs are supposed to be mute just because the parties have not asked them to talk.
By law, MPs are ex-officio members of their district local government executive councils. They are expected to attend meetings there and brief their councils on developments in the House. It is also the time they get feedback from the district. It is foolhardy for the MPs to disregard these meetings, claiming they are run by their rivals.
And just because Mr Pulkol is a former spy chief, does not mean he can’t do objective research. Rather than judge him by his past, MPs should critique his work and methods.
MPs are public officials. It is important that the public knows how they are performing. That is why they should heed Mr Kassiano Wadri, the Opposition Chief Whip’s advice: “Let us open ourselves to public surgery. We must be able to absorb all this positive criticism. The moment we close the door to criticism, we shall be judged wrongly.”
I made the same argument for judges some time back. They hated assessment by the Public Service Commission, saying their independence was at stake. But the PSC is mandated by law to do this, like the judiciary, they are independent. It is only fair that people be checked to see if they meet standards for the jobs they were recruited.

Cheeye: The price of arrogance

Ok, I have been sitting here and wondering. The rest of us have been glowing after seeing an official deemed corrupt being sent to the cooler. In a country where we were convinced corruption had become a part of life, to see a culprit whisked to jail offered some fresh air.
But just what could be going on in the mind of the culprit? From Justice Katutsi’s ruling, it is obvious that part of Cheeye’s 10-year jail term could have sprung from his arrogant attitude during the trial. Katutsi talked of a man, who neither showed remorse nor guilt. A man who exuded arrogance and cared less about the wretched of the earth, the sufferers of HIV/Aids from whom he was stealing.
So, what could have given Cheeye this clout even if it became increasingly clear that evidence of his culpability was growing by the minute? Why did man, who knew that his own officers were exposing evidence of outright theft, still have the knack to carry himself about with a swagger?
Three things are clear; Cheeye knew he was part of a system that had embraced graft, he also knew punishment in this country only comes when sanctioned by the President and it had something to do with his character.
It is the truth universally acknowledged that coruption in Uganda has come to stay. Every day one flips through the papers, there is evidence of an official nibbling at public funds. We have grown to relate politicians to theft, civil servants to bribery, roads to potholes, etc. This state of affairs was not lost on Cheeye. He knew that theft has become a part of our social fabric. And in any case, it was a paltry Shs120 million, considering that we rub shoulders with zillionaire thieves on our streets daily.
Cheeye’s arrogance, hence could have been borne from this fact.
We also have known that to get punished for stealing public funds in this country, the President must have sanctioned the punishment. The Temangalo debacle is evidence of this. There might not have been theft of money but blatant disregard of procurement procedure was visible even to the blind. And yet, like a newspaper page, the matter was folded the moment the President made it clear that he did not want the it pursued further.
Cheeye, I am convinced, still knew he had the President’s ear. He had afterall been the President’s economic intelligence ear for a while. Bursting deals like the NSSF Nsimbe housing project that sent Mpumas, Mugoyas and Bakokos packing. Cheeye took every chance to let anyone who cared to listen how he had the President’s hotline. A story is told of how the government under pressure from donors, sought to have some people sacrificed over the Global Fund theft. Cheeye was confroted by a league of policemen; he drew a gun and told them off, reminding them that he talked directly to the President. It took another call from Museveni, a squad from ISO, to get him to court.
Anyone with this clout and “connections” could afford Cheeye’s arrogance.
As a friend has also observed, Cheeye was an accident in waiting. Tales of him outrightly buying sluts on the streets are public secrets. Whispers do the rounds of how he would buy the women, take them to lodges and when done with sex, push objects into their “secret” parts. One time, a slut had to escape through a window if at all. That he exuded arrogance and lack of remorse, this could have been the root.

But as Cheeye sits in whatever cell in Luzira, can we say the time to shake the status quo has begun? Or was he a mere sacrificial lamb??

Museveni & family; the tale of Wafukho

After being “let down” by elite politicians for a while, President Museveni is now turning to his family for support. He told the BBC that his decision to appoint his wife, Janet, to the “demanding” Karamoja Affairs docket was because elite ministers had shunned the area, prompting him to ask for his wife’s help.
True, in 2006, Maj. Tom Butime turned down the appointment to that ministry after his constituents demanded that he does so or gets recalled. Butime had previously served in other ministries, including internal affairs and his constituents viewed his posting to Karamoja as a demotion.
So, our stuck President turns to his wife for help. And note that Mr Museveni also told BBC that his wife’s performance as Ruhama MP had been sterling so far, another credit.
Ladies and gentlemen, simply put, our President is running out of people to trust and deliver his agenda. The only people he can rely on now are family members, whom he said he does not care if they take up “positions of sacrifice”. Yes, it is a sacrifice to become your brother’s presidential adviser (Salim Saleh) or head one of your father’s military elite outfits (Muhoozi Kainerugaba).
What does this mean? Is it only the President’s kin, who if they take positions that involve hefty budgets, troops of military escorts, are sacrificing? What about the over 200 teachers in Adjumani who every morning troop to class to teach yet they are not on government payroll and are not sure of pay at the end’s month? What should we call this?
What about the hundreds of traffic officers manning our streets, standing in the heat of sun or cold of rain---at times even minus basics like umbrellas, boots and jackets? What should we call this---opulence, paradise?
The President should tell us the truth. Many years in power have created him an inexplicable political web, leaving him unsure of who is for or against him. In typical African fashion, when we are scared of even our shadows, it is in blood relatives that we take refuge in. The adage “blood is thicker than water” comes in handy here.
While I was a kid, my mum told me a tale of Wafukho, a village boy who went to town in search of wealth. Indeed he got the money and as expected, got swarmed in the pleasures of town. The succulent thighs of women, bitter-sweet content of the bottle and the dazzling lights of the disco. Before long, Wafukho was coughing and passing out stool. The women deserted him, the bottle became sour, and the money vanished. It is then that he remembered home. He trooped back and his mother—whom he had long ignored welcomed him back---nursed him and he died in her arms.
My mum’s tale might have aimed at teaching me the basics of never forgetting one’s roots but it also showed how thick the blood bond can be.
When everyone else has deserted you—you can be sure one person will stick by you—your relative. This notion is not lost to our President.

Let's regulate caning of teachers

Sometime in the late 90s, this country was gripped with a raging debate on whether teachers should continue administering corporal punishment to students. It was then a norm that caning was the most used punitive measure and some schools had taken it to a whole new level—whipping and flogging students.
With cases of students getting injuries and being hospitalised because of canes administered by teachers, the civil liberties’ movement brought pressure to bear on the education ministry, which ultimately banned the practice. The adage “Spare the rod and spoil the rod” was buried forever.
In its place, teachers were asked to use more corrective means like counseling to guide learners—never mind if some of these learners---were outrightly hard-headed.
But it looks like the hunter suddenly turned hunted. In the recent past, it is cases of teachers being flogged that are making the headlines. It has now become the norm for many a politician to flog teachers, either found drunk, not in class or even with untucked shirts.
In March 2008, MP Emily Otekat canned two teachers, Isaac Opit from Omagoro Primary School and Alfred Opolot from Orupe Primary School after he found them drinking alcohol.
Pader Resident District Commissioner Santa Okot Lapolo also about two years back caned a teacher in front of pupils who cheered as the stick landed on the poor man’s behind.
But perhaps the mother of them all was the recent humiliation of Mr Jackson Bushentince, the headmaster of Ombatini Secondary School in Maracha/Terego District. He had reportedly mismanaged the school and was treating the teachers unfairly. Unwilling to let their school go to the doldrums, the students took matters into their own hands.
After rounding up the headmaster at his home, they administered five strokes of the cane, frogmarched him for 12 kilometres to the DEO’s office and demanded his transfer. Just picture a haggard-looking headmaster, with his bottom aching, being frogmarched by students, he ideally, should be disciplining!!
It is obvious that the action of these students is rooted in a societal construct that caning is a punitive measure. It is an indictment on those who banned the practice that they might have done a cosmetic duty. The practice might have subsided but it has never left people’s minds---and at any given opportunity, people will employ it. Even the students who are apparently being shielded.
Maybe we should now critically think about legalizing caning but with a view to regulating it—considering that teachers are now becoming victims. Maybe we should let all folk and sundry know that before caning a teacher, they should be subjected to a fair hearing.
If the teacher is drunk for example, we may want him to sober up first, and then ask where he got money to “waste” considering his meager earnings. Having heard his side of the story, we can then choose where to administer the strokes. The bottoms maybe unfair, considering that he must sit as he marks assignments. We can then opt for palms or knocking the ankle. We all got these kinds of punishment at some point.
Surely, if we must cane our teachers, it can be done in an organized manner.
But one may want to ask what happened to our teacher of old. The graceful, respectable village character whom everyone held in high esteem. What happened to the granaries of knowledge and custodians of culture?
Just at what point did teachers lose it that they can now become targets of can-happy politicians and students?

Lessons from Kenyan fires

Last week, two disasters hit Kenya. On Wednesday, one of Nairobi’s busiest supermarkets, Nakumatt, went up in flames, consuming 25 people and dozens others are still missing. Just when Kenyans were still absorbing that shock, another tragedy struck.
On Saturday, a fuel tanker overturned in the town of Molo. Like it happens in all poverty-stricken neighbourhoods, masses of people swarmed the accident scene to siphon fuel. Suddenly, the scene that was teeming with hundreds of people was in flames. By yesterday, the death toll was 142.
The accounts of how the fire started remain contradictory but there are strong suggestions that one man, barred by the police from siphoning the fuel, dropped a burning cigarette and caused the inferno.
In Uganda, incidents like the Molo one are not new.
As these tragedies have shown, there is need by the authorities to do a mass sensitization on the dangers of siphoning fuel at accident scenes. In Uganda, some of the dark spots are known and it may be best to educate people around these areas.
But importantly, one may want to ask; what would compel someone to risk their lives to siphon fuel even when they know their lives are endangered? Kenyan Prime Minister Raila Odinga after visiting the death scene at Molo said, “Poverty is pushing our people into doing desperate things just to get through one more day.”
Unless there is economic empowerment, we shall continue seeing cases of people staking their lives for such petty gains like petrol spilt from a tanker.
Our Disaster Preparedness Ministry and the Police may also want to ask if they have a quick-response team to handle such cases. How fast can they move to cordon off an accident scene?
In the Nakumatt case, authorities are being blamed for having blocked the fire exits, which left most people trapped in the building. In Uganda, and Kampala especially, the city council has been blamed for approving building plans that lack safety provisions. Whereas Nakumatt might have had a fire exit, many buildings in this town do not have such provisions. Even simple gadgets like fire extinguishers are lacking. In the case that a fire breaks out, these buildings turn into death traps.
My heart reaches out to all those that lost their dear ones in the tragic Kenyan incidents, but that should serve as a lesson to authorities on disaster preparedness and management.