第1章 エチオピア農村社会における公共圏の形成 -市民社会／共同体の二元論をこえて-／松村圭一郎
ケニアのパイプライン会社が全国障害者評議会（NCPWD)と協力して2017年KPC障害 Inuka奨学金を受給する学生のため資格のある相応しいForm Oneの学生達は申請ができるが，この申請者たちは，2016年にKCPEを受けるためには，ケニア市民権を持っていないとならない。またNCPWDに障害者として登録を済ませていて，恵まれない状況にある貧しい学生でないとならない。
Kenya Pipeline Company in conjunction with the National Council for Persons With Disability (NCPWD) hereby invite applications from suitably qualified and eligible Form One students for the 2017 KPC Disability Inuka Scholarships. To qualify for the application, the applicant must be a Kenyan citizen who sat for KCPE in the year 2016. He/She must be registered with NCPWD as a person with disability and also be a needy student or from a disadvantaged background. The scholarship application forms are available on the KPC website (www.kpc.co.ke), the NCPWD website (www.ncpwd.go.ke) and at County Disability Services Offices countrywide. For those in Nairobi, can pick the forms from the National Council for Persons With Disability (NCPWD) offices along Waiyaki Way next to Kabete military barracks. Applicants to send their application form and supporting documents to their respective County Disability Services Office or NCPWD offices in Nairobi by Friday 13th January, 2016. Those who will not have received any communication by 31st January, 2017 should consider themselves unsuccessful.
For more information, call +254 (020) 2606500-4 and ask for Ext 140 or 188.
You may also send an email to email@example.com
Read more at: https://www.standardmedia.co.ke/article/2000228674/application-for-form-one-kpc-disability-inuka-scholarships-for-2017
press release: Application for form one KPC Disability Inuka scholarships for 2017
It was a bitingly cold night, with London gripped by its first freeze of 2017. The organizers had felt obliged to roll two mobile heaters onto the stage, and their Kenyan guest never removed his heavy tweed jacket or unwound his copious scarf. Nonetheless, the writer Ngugi wa Thiong’o was in ebullient form when he spoke at Goldsmith College’s George Wood Theatre recently, and his chutzpah warmed the audience.
The seventy-nine-year-old author had just flown in from a tense Gambia, where one of his plays was performed. “It was a magical moment”, he joked. “It’s the only time I’ve been in a country which had two presidents at the same time.” Passengers on his flight were informed during a stopover in the Canary Islands that President Yahya Jammeh had finally, reluctantly agreed to cede power to election winner Adama Barrow, thereby averting a new West African civil war: “Many immediately wanted to go back”. But Ngugi wanted to talk about something else: the importance of translation, “the oxygen of cross-cultural fertilization”, and a project launched by Jalada, a Pan-African writers’ collective based in Nairobi, to have one of his short stories translated into fifty-four languages.
Powered by little more than volunteer enthusiasm, Jalada has actually managed to have the fable Ituĩka Rĩa Mũrũngarũ: Kana Kĩrĩa Gĩtũmaga Andũ Mathiĩ Marũngiĩ, (“The Upright Revolution: Or why humans walk upright”), originally drafted in Ngugi’s native Gikuyu, translated into sixty-one languages, fifty-four of them online, the vast majority of them African. “The Jalada project negates the colonial inherited assumption that African languages are not capable of intellectual complexity”, said Ngugi, praising the team as “practical visionaries”.
When I contacted Jalada’s managing editor Moses Kilolo later, he said that the collective’s aim was to encourage translators to give voice to African languages and cultures traditionally looked down on as inferior. Jalada hoped that the story would one day be translated into every known language. “We have not done badly for the first year.”
Ngugi has been beating this particular drum for four decades now. He took a decision to write in Gikuyu rather than English when he was in detention in 1977, jailed by the government of the then President Jomo Kenyatta. The first modern novel in Gikuyu, Caitaani mũtharaba-Inĩ (Devil on the Cross), was initially written on prison toilet paper, and Ngugi explained his decision in “Decolonising the Mind”, a series of essays published in the 1980s which argue for linguistic decolonization. To be truly intellectually free, he has always argued, African writers must express themselves in their own vernacular languages, which have a musicality and imagery all their own, not the languages of former colonial masters, whether French, Spanish, Portuguese or English.
Arguing that the imperial project was always built on the principle of a few benefiting at the expense of the many – a message with echoes in this post-Trump, post-Brexit era – at Goldsmith College he warned against “a hierarchy of languages, with the dominant ones built on the graveyards of the smaller”. Having once regarded this problem as specific to African cultures and European powers, he said that he had come to realize that the same phenomenon, in which language becomes the instrument of a new power dynamic, had taken place in Ireland under British rule and with the Native Americans in Canada and the United States.
It’s a message, Ngugi recognizes, that has largely fallen on deaf ears, including those of his own children, who produce a steady stream of thrillers, essays and poems but prefer to express themselves in English. “Since I wrote ‘Decolonising the Mind’, I’ve received everything from open hostility to polite expressions of interest, but no real change in practice”, he acknowledged. Hence his delight at the Jalada initiative.
Many of my Facebook friends are Kenyan, and quite a few among them Kikuyu, so I held a straw poll, asking whether they preferred reading Ngugi’s work in Gikuyu or English, a language learned at school and often associated in Kenyan minds with passing exams. While some said that Ngugi’s writing is definitely at its most punchy in Gikuyu (“There are some expressions no amount of translations can do justice to”), others admitted that they struggle to read in vernacular, and pick up the English version when given the choice. One respondent said that the debate resonated more with Western academics than young Africans “trying to find an identity that is marketable to the world in this century”; another argued that Ngugi’s position felt out of step with a very real concern at the rise of ethnic tension in the country. “We are trying to end tribalism in Kenya. How do you embrace your language if, any time you talk in your mother tongue in public places, people start giving you that bad look?” Another Facebook friend made a distinction between live performances of plays, poems and skits, which come across superbly in vernacular, he said, and written texts, where it felt like a chore. “Reading in Gikuyu is hard, even for those of us who can.” “While it is true”, remarked another, “that Ngugi has sounded the trumpet, it is equally true that almost no local writer has harkened [to] the call.”
The debate will continue, even as the language Ngugi still regards primarily as a tool of colonial oppression becomes ever more richly infused with the values, inflections and imaginations of writers in not only Africa but India, the Caribbean, North America, Australasia and Asia. Jalada has a whole series of special translation issues planned, though Moses Kilolo is keeping the names of his contributing authors secret for the moment. The collective hopes in future to secure funding for its translators, aware that the goodwill that made this first, possibly record-breaking venture with Ngugi possible will only last so long.
Michela Wrong is the author of four books on Africa. The paperback edition of her first novel, Borderlines, was published last year.
Ngugi wa Thiong’o’s new book Birth of a Dream Weaver: A writer’s awakening will be reviewed in a future issue of the TLS.
Overturning the hierarchy of languages
Reuben and his siblings endured woe upon woe, upheavals that were mostly orchestrated by their father, a man that drunk too much, was violent, and who shirked his responsibility towards his family.
Nevertheless, Reuben has repeatedly bitten the nail and risen above the gale of doom. He has never let the misfortunes that coloured his childhood slacken his willpower to become a worthy person, a resolute young man with a cause and a powerful message of hope to those who may find themselves trampled under the feet of similar tragedies.
In 1997, Reuben’s mother was diagnosed with a heart condition that would see her in and out of hospital for five years. With their mother’s hospitalisation, and a father who drank too much, the already shrunken resources the family relied on shrunk even further, and Reuben and his siblings had to make do with the difficult option of fending for themselves.
A distinctly good-humoured manner, careful diction and a winsome smile constitute the first impression that you get of Reuben Favour, 28. He has recorded three songs, is a motivational speaker, and an author of three books.
He also runs a security firm located in Thika town, Kiambu County, and is the founder of a charity that provides street families in Thika with food and clothing.
Commendable achievements for a 28-year-old, right? Underneath these accomplishments however are jagged scars of a young man whose life has been knocked off kilter numerous times.
Reuben’s experiences are almost surreal, baffling, but inspirational all the same. His childhood is markedly bereft of any familial attachment; a despondent life characterised by disease and destitution. Reuben and his siblings endured woe upon woe, upheavals that were mostly orchestrated by their father, a man that drunk too much, was violent, and who shirked his responsibility towards his family. Nevertheless, Reuben has repeatedly bitten the nail and risen above the gale of doom. He has never let the misfortunes that coloured his childhood slacken his willpower to become a worthy person, a resolute young man with a cause and a powerful message of hope to those who may find themselves trampled under the feet of similar tragedies.
“I’m the fourth born in a family of six children. My siblings and I were raised in Kiandutu slum in Thika. My father worked with the then Thika Municipality as a security guard while my mother was a vegetable vendor,” he recounts.
In 1997, Reuben’s mother was diagnosed with a heart condition that would see her in and out of hospital for five years. With their mother’s hospitalisation, and a father who drank too much, the already shrunken resources the family relied on shrunk even further, and Reuben and his siblings had to make do with the difficult option of fending for themselves.
“Most of the times we were under the care of our elder sister, who was 17 then. She would look for food, cook for us and prepare us for school. We were basically on our own.”
It was out of this improper care, misery and despair, that Reuben left home and went to live with the street children in their neighbourhood. He was only eight then.
PEACE IN THE STREETS
“I dropped out of school while I was in Class Two. This was more bearable than spend the day in school on an empty stomach and return to a hostile home,” he explains.
Street life would completely change the course of his life. At first, Reuben and his new friends would just roam the streets of Thika town engaging in mischief and begging. One day, his friends pounced on him and tossed him into a pool of water and fled. Reuben says that he almost drowned since he could not swim.
“Were it not for passers-by, I would have drowned in that water,” he says, adding that for the three years he lived in the streets, other life-threatening incidents followed in the name of playing.
“It was hell on earth,” is how he describes these three years.
Even as the young boy suffered in the streets, none of his kin, except his mother, was concerned about his welfare. “Whenever she was released from hospital, she would come looking for me. She would beg me to return home, but I would always refuse - what was there at home to motivate me to return? Beatings from my father and sleeping hungry? I was better off eating from dustbins and sleeping in bus terminals, at least I had some peace.”
As time went by and Reuben adjusted to the way of the streets, he started engaging in acts of crime. He and his friends would accost people in some sections of the town, beat them up and rob them.
The gang grew in number and notoriety. They were now a serious security concern for the town’s residents, but every time, they managed to escape the police dragnets. Their party did not last long though, they were arrested during a vicious crackdown that left many of them with bullet injuries. He and his friends were arrested in this crackdown and arraigned in court. They were committed to a correction centre, where they were to stay for five years. For two months, Reuben and 47 other children were held at Getathuru Rehabilitation School in Kabete, after which they were ferried to Othaya Approved School to officially begin their sentence. Now in the confines of a government facility, Reuben, then 12, found himself in class again.
“I was readmitted in Class Three and began my studies.”
But life in the facility was far from cosy. “From teachers who were overly hostile, inadequate food and crammed cubicles, the general living conditions were beyond pathetic. It was nothing quite like a correction centre should be like, much less a learning institution.”
According to him, this was more like condemnation for the boys, most of who would rather have taken their chances in the streets. The harshness of this new reality was insufferable for the boys. Out the batch of 47 who were admitted in 2000, only Reuben and another boy endured the living conditions here.
“The others fled, while three died there,” he narrates.
For five years in the borstal institution, and what took a huge amount of Reuben’s forbearance, he contended with the sufferings, chronic deficiencies and hard labour.
“In November 2005, I sat for my Kenya Certificate of Primary School, KCPE, exams. My term also expired. I was now a reformed teenager and at the brink of freedom once again. I felt new,” he says.
In December that year, Reuben was a free man. When the results were announced, he had scored 335 out of 500 marks. “I received an admission letter from Kenyatta High School, Mahiga, in Nyeri County.”
The invitation was both a milestone and mockery to him. Confronted with the reality of his mother’s ill health, his father’s unconcern and a family that was fast disintegrating, clearly, secondary education for Reuben was a long shot.
As luck would have it though, out of the blue, a Japanese organisation, Japan International Cooperation Agency, JICA, offered Reuben a four-year sponsorship that would see him through secondary school.
“My patience had been on an acute wane, and I was staring at a likely return to the streets. It was a miracle.”
It was during his time in high school that the ghosts of his life at the approved school came back to haunt him. “During a lesson, one of our teachers asked us to introduce ourselves. One was to say their name and former primary school.”
Clearly, this was a catch-22 situation for him - Reuben had no option but to reveal details of his incarceration, a revelation which would consequently blow away the cover of a tainted past that he had been determined to conceal forever.
“When I mentioned that I had come from an approved school, the friends I had made shunned me.”
The distance between him and people he had known as his new friends in a new life for weeks effectively dashed what little hope he had been nursing of reforming completely and being accepted by the society.
“They began seeing in me not a classmate, but an outcast who had just been released from jail. I started keeping to myself, and my participation in class skidded off. I had no motivation at all.”
The steady flame of cordiality, of reform and of good conduct that had been building up in him rapidly turned into a fiery fireball of self-loath, resentment for his colleagues and a pounding desire for the worst: suicide.
“It was difficult for me because I believed and even felt I was a changed person. I thought: what’s the point of living anymore when my schoolmates discriminate against me? Can I withstand this for four years?”
Even worse, Reuben’s isolation made some students suspect him to be a mole for the school administration. Whenever he got wind about plans by fellow students to attack him at night, Reuben would slip out and spend the night in the cold. “Sometimes I would sleep in the washroom. Since I shared the same facilities with those who were plotting to harm me, I had nowhere to hide. I thought: the only option is to end my life.”
That first time, the school matron walked in on him just as he had put the noose around his neck.
“It took the initiative and motherly care of a teacher, we called her Mrs Thirimu, who comforted me, assuring me that she knew people who had been through worse. I was put through a counselling programme for weeks.”
Through this therapy, Reuben’s fears were quelled. But only for a short time. He would try to kill himself five more times. Meanwhile, his mother’s health continued to deteriorate.
“She was operated on and would occasionally go to the clinic. Dad on his part lost himself completely into alcohol. While the stay in school was intolerable, at home, the situation was more distressing.”
His mother would never recover. She passed away in December 27, 2006. The agony that this dramatic departure bore in Reuben’s heart, the wound that was incised deep into his spine, was unspeakable.
“It was a whack of utmost severity that I didn’t imagine I would ever recover from.”
While his initial thought of taking his life had been quietened by his teachers’ reassurances, the tragedy of his departed mother reawakened his temptation to take his own life. Again.
“This time, the urge was hot and heavy. I had no reason to live. I was determined to end the pain that was my life.”
During the vigil following his mother’s death, Reuben took a knife and slipped away. This time, it took the intervention of an uncle who happened to be passing nearby to stop the utterly devastated teenager from harming himself.
After the burial of their mother, it was decided that Reuben and his siblings were to be divided among their relatives. While he ended up living with his grandmother in Karatina town, Nyeri, their youngest sibling was taken in by a Catholic nun.
After four years of enduring unspeakable labels and insults from his schoolmates, Reuben completed his secondary school education.
“I scored a D+ of 30 points in my KCSE. I had failed. I was in a panic and devastated.”
With broken dreams and an even more broken heart, Reuben went to his late mother’s parents’ home in Kamwangi in Thika. “It wasn’t the best place to be, but what better option did I have? There was nothing worthwhile to do there though.”
With his teenage life in a topsy-turvy state, he needed to chart his next move in life.
“I was once again at the centre of the crucible of a misery-laden life, without hope, and, even more forbidding, the prospect of ending up in the hostilities of street life again.”
He was hapless, scared and confused.
“Soon enough, I left home and started looking for menial jobs in construction sites around Thika town. I had my future staring right into my eyes, I had to do something, however mindless, to secure a livelihood,” he recounts.
With frustrations that characterised the young man’s life after high school, Reuben could not resist becoming a chip off the old block: he soon glided into alcoholism and drugs. It was an easy escape from his troubles, he says.
“I spent all my wages on liquor and yellow yellow,” he says, referring to crystal methamphetamine, a highly addictive drug that alters the central nervous system.
With this indulgence, Reuben’s life had come to a watershed. Until a stranger intervened and he was saved from his self-destructive behaviour.
“This time, it was a church leader. I was vigorously counselled by Pastor Sammy Thuo of End of Times Mission Church in Thika and became a member in this church.”
Pastor Sammy, as he calls him, also financially supported Reuben to enrol for a certificate in Theology at the Presbyterian University.
PICKING THE PIECES
“It wasn’t easy. Challenges got the better of me, but I had to keep going until the end.”
Upon completion of the course, he registered for a diploma. With these developments, Reuben’s life was right on the path of a recovery process.
He says that attending seminars and conferences aimed at youth spiritual empowerment and his stay within the precincts of a church altered his outlook of life, upon which he took a long and confident stride in the right direction.
The young man’s carefully coordinated life between church activities, philanthropy and writing is dramatically different from his earlier life that lacked poetry and order, a young life that had almost irredeemably gone off tangent.
Reuben’s current life is anchored upon a fervent desire to caution people against pitfalls such as domestic violence and alcohol abuse. The principal themes explored in his books are hope and inspiration.
“Since I’m a beneficiary of motivation and psychological support, I’m fired up by the need to inspire other young people who may be just as desperate as I was. It’s an obligation I feel to change lives and give hope to those who might have lost theirs.”
For someone under whose watch and guidance are tens of children and adults, he lives by discipline and punctuality.
“With about 30 children under my wing, occasional motivation talks to deliver in high schools, colleges and universities, my life has become very busy. It requires commitment, industry and alertness.”
When you factor in Reuben’s literary endeavours, his life has had a spectacular switch from a course laden with misery to one that is incredibly eventful.
“It humbles me to see that children and even adults can draw inspiration from my earlier life,” he says, warning parents and guardians against giving up on their errant children.
“I believe that everyone has a chance at change. I had mine, and I made the most of it. I can comfortably say I have won back my bearing in life.”
Reuben and his siblings have since reconciled with their father, who is now retired. His siblings now have their own families and are independent. As for him, his ultimate goal is to set up a children’s facility and help as many street children as possible get a better life.
From the absolute squalor of street life, the burden of incarceration at 12, the death of his mother, stigmatisation by schoolmates, the dragon of drug abuse and shackles of a broken family, Reuben refused to surrender. Instead, he picked up the fragments, rebuilt his life, and is now a source of inspiration, of livelihood and hope, not just to children in similar doleful circumstances of his previous life, but to adults as well.
I have gone through great tragedy, but it did not kill me
Everline Achiengさんの障害は立った時にだけ分かる。彼女は8歳の時に原因不明の病気で学校教育を諦めざるをえなくもなった時に右足を失っているため，クラッチの支えなしでは歩けない。2010年に，政府が無料の産科サービスを開始する3年前のこと，彼女はRift Valley General病院で帝王切開で双子を産んだが，二人は呼吸器の発達の問題のために死亡した。赤ん坊を失ったことに加えて，Achiengさんは与えられたベッドの位置が高くて固定されていたために病院で困難も抱えた。「ベッドの上に上がるのは苦痛なくらい大変なことでした。」と彼女はその時のことを今も覚えている。
NAKURU, Kenya (Thomson Reuters Foundation) - Everline Achieng has a disability you only notice when she stands. She walks with the support of a crutch since losing the use of her right leg at the age of eight due to an unknown illness that also put an end to her education.
In 2010, three years before the government introduced a free maternity services program, she delivered twins by caesarean section at the Rift Valley General Hospital, but they died after developing breathing problems.
On top of suffering the loss of her babies, Achieng had difficulties in hospital as the bed she was given was high and fixed. “It was a painful struggle climbing onto it,” she recalled.
At the hospital where she delivered, since renamed as Nakuru Level 5 Hospital, the wards are now equipped with adjustable beds - a sign that health services are becoming more inclusive.
But one thing has not changed: the lack of data on disabled expectant mothers.
In 2013, health functions were devolved to Kenya’s 47 counties, which are bound by the 2010 constitution to implement health policies developed at the national level, including free maternity services.
But rights activists say those services have not been adapted for disabled women, partly because the government is not gathering information on them.
Achieng is counted as one of the nearly 5 percent of the Kenyan population suffering some form of disability, as captured in a 2007 national survey.
But that data is now around a decade old - and more recent censuses, such as the 2014 Kenya Demographic and Health Survey, do not include information on disabled men, women or children.
In hospitals, the patient sheet filled in by pregnant women has no question asking if they have a disability.
Information gathered by county hospitals is fed into the Ministry of Health’s database, which can be used by other ministries and development agencies. But the oversight in the data collection makes it impossible to tell how many disabled mothers are delivering at hospitals.
Dr. John Murima, medical superintendent at Nakuru Level 5 Hospital, could not provide figures on disabled women giving birth at the public facility.
“We use certain tools to capture data for patients - for example, their general health. But we do not have a tool that captures people with disability as a patient,” he said.
Given that governments and donors rely on data to identify development concerns, Kenya’s lack of statistics on disabled people accessing health services means their needs are at risk of being ignored, experts warn.
President Uhuru Kenyatta introduced the Free Maternity Services Programme in mid-2013, aimed at relieving all women of having to pay user fees for delivery at public hospitals.
Annually, 1.6 million women in Kenya deliver babies, according to the health ministry. Of these, around 1 million give birth in public hospitals, while 200,000 do so in private hospitals and 400,000 deliver at home or in unhealthy conditions.
Even women who do not pay into the National Hospital Insurance Fund (NHIF), a state health insurance scheme, are eligible for free delivery.
Last October, the health ministry extended free maternity services under a program called “Linda Mama, Boresha Jamii” ("take care of a mother, improve the family").
Under this initiative, expectant mothers who cannot afford insurance cover can now access ante-natal, delivery, post-natal and health services for their child for a year.
Dr. Peter Kimuu, head of the health ministry’s policy, planning and healthcare financing department, said those eligible must register first for a free NHIF card.
“Every woman has a right to access equal and quality health services in any hospital,” he said.
But for Achieng, the unique needs of disabled mothers extend beyond free maternity services.
“We really need help to start income-generating activities to be able to afford a healthy lifestyle,” she said.
The global Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs), launched last year, state that countries should promote gender equality by eliminating all forms of discrimination against women.
But without data to demonstrate the scale and urgency of the problem, securing funding for programs to support disabled women is likely to take longer than the 15-year life span of the SDGs, argued George Gongera, a professor of strategic management and international relations at the Co-operative University College of Kenya.
Dr. David Ole Sankok, chairperson of Kenya’s National Council of Persons with Disabilities, which is charged with collecting data on disabled people, said no audit had been done on women with disabilities seeking maternity care.
But trying to gather such information could draw strong reactions from the target group, he warned.
“This is a private affair and you can't start asking if she has a disability. She will begin to think that she is not supposed to be pregnant because of her disability,” said Sankok.
Despite the sensitivity of the issue, medical staff are being trained to handle disabled patients better, and the council is pushing for prescriptions to be offered in braille for the blind, he added.
Stephen Obama, Nakuru County coordinator for persons with disabilities and development, said programs targeting disabled women must be implemented urgently if they are to enjoy good maternal health.
“Poverty is a major problem facing persons with disabilities - and for a pregnant woman it becomes even more complicated because they have special needs to meet, like healthy food - and that means money which they don’t have. We want government to note this as a troubling issue,” he said.
Last year, the Ministry of Health recognized the poor state of data collection in a key investment framework, noting that it is problematic for planning and monitoring.
Faith Njahira, a disability rights advocate, said the government should utilize information collected by community health workers from households - which includes disabilities among family members - to compile disaggregated data.
That would be a key step towards recognizing the problem, said Gongera. “It is very difficult to consider an issue, even when it is an emergency... when you have no data to show,” he said.
(Reporting by Moraa Obiria; editing by Megan Rowling. Please credit the Thomson Reuters Foundation, the charitable arm of Thomson Reuters, that covers humanitarian news, climate change, resilience, women's rights, trafficking and property rights. Visit news.trust.org/)
Kenya's disabled mothers neglected due to dearth of data
父の命令、９歳で７８歳と結婚 違法でも伝統 ケニア
One evening in 1979 Teddy Kalanda Harrison, a young Kenyan musician, overheard a group of tourists trying to learn a few words in Swahili.
Their enthusiastic attempts sparked an idea for a song and a global hit was born.
Jambo Bwana, also known as Hakuna Matata, went platinum in Kenya and was covered by bands around the world, including Boney M.
Teddy and his brother Billy Sarro Harrison spoke to Witness about their hit record.
Kenya’s catchy pop hit that took the world by storm
火曜にMurang郡の障害者たちが，Ahadi KenyaのCEOのStanley Kamau氏が彼らのためにパーティを催したあと，ヴァレンタイン・デーを祝った。
Ahadi Kenya Trustについては以下のサイトを
People living with disability in Murang’a county on Tuesday celebrated the Valentine’s Day after Ahadi Kenya CEO Stanley Kamau organised a party for them.
The 200 people convened in Murang’a town to received rose flowers, food and Sh500 each.
They said they have been neglected by both the government and society.
Murang’a Disabled Persons’ Organisation chairman Muiruri Gichuhi said the majority of Kenyans view people living with disability as a nuisance and segregate them.
“We see people avoiding us all the time, because even when you greet them along the streets they think you just want them to help you,” Muiruri said.
He said the group also craves socialising and integrating with other people in society, saying they feel left out.
“We did not chose to be this way, but we are happy that Kamau remembered us today and chose to celebrate this day with us.”
Kamau said he chose to celebrate Valentine’s Day and his birthday with the disabled as a way of showing them love.
He said he was impressed that all the 200 people who attended the party had registered as voters and will be able to participate in the elections.
200 Murang’a disabled get flowers, food, cash from Ahadi Kenya for Valentine’s
(CNN)The Kenyan government says it will appeal a court ruling Thursday thwarting its plan to close the Dadaab refugee camp, the largest in the world.
In a statement posted on Twitter, it said that it has "the cardinal responsibility of providing security for all Kenyans" and claimed the complex in eastern Kenya, which is the size of a large town, has become "a launchpad for various terrorist attacks by Al-Shabaab."
Earlier in the day, Judge John Mativo said in a ruling that closure of Dadaab violates the country's constitution.
The government's closure and repatriation plans are "arbitrary, discriminatory and undignifying and hence a violation of Articles 27 and 28 of the constitution and consequently the same is null and void," Judge Mativo declared.
The government has long held the view that Dadaab has been used as a base by the al-Shabaab terror group.
The camp began to grow with the outbreak of instability and violence in Somalia in the early 1990s and is currently home to approximately 260,000 people.
Relief at court decision
Ahmed, 24, a refugee who was born in Dadaab, told CNN over the phone that the court's ruling this morning came as a relief.
"Ever since the government of Kenya said that the camp should close in six months we were just fearing that the government would say the six months is ended and each and every one should go. That was all we have been worrying about."
Human rights groups also applauded the court's decision.
"After months of anxiety because of the camp closure deadline hanging over their heads, increasingly restricted asylum options and the recent US administration suspension of refugee resettlement, the court's judgement offers Somali refugees a hope that they may still have a choice other than returning to insecure and drought-ridden Somalia," said Laetitia Bader, Africa researcher at Human Rights Watch, in a statement.
Somali refugees in Kenya affected by Trump's travel ban
Somalia was one of the country's included in US President Donald Trump's executive order to bar citizens of Iraq, Syria, Iran, Libya, Somalia, Sudan and Yemen from entering the US for 90 days. The ban also prevents entry for all refugees for 120 days.
Twenty-six thousand refugees in Kenya, most of them from Somalia, were affected by that ban, Yvonne Ndege, the spokeswoman in Kenya for the United Nations refugee agency, told CNN.
Somalia elects an "American" president
Yesterday, Somalia's Parliament elected former Prime Minister Mohamed Abdullahi Farmajo, a dual US-Somali citizen, as the country's new president.
Farmajo was declared victorious after incumbent President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud dropped out of the contest following the second round of voting.
The 328 members of Parliament met at an air force hangar in Mogadishu to cast their votes because of fears of a terrorist attack.
With the doors to the US appearing to close, many Dadaab residents now wanted to go back to Somalia, according to Abdi Maalim, a freelance Kenyan-Somali journalist.
"Even the longest-staying refugees in the camp now have some hope in their country because of the new president who is very much seen as the people's president," he said.
Famine looms for 3 million Somalis
Maalim said those keen to return were largely from the cities, which have so far not been affected by a terrible drought that has gripped large swathes of Somalia.
The UN's Food and Agriculture Organization says up to three million people face hunger and even starvation because of poor rains that have wiped out crops and livestock.
"We are no longer talking about a drought crisis in Somalia, or even a severe drought crisis," FAO's Somalia Representative Dick Trenchard told CNN.
"We are talking about preventing famine in several areas of the country in the second half of the year, particularly in Bay in the south and Puntland in the north. Every Somali knows how bad the situation is and the potential catastrophe that lies ahead unless there is a massive and immediate increase in support and humanitarian assistance."
Kenyan human rights groups take lead
The high court ruling came in response to a petition not to shut Dadaab by two Kenyan human rights organizations, Kenya National Commission on Human Rights and Kituo Cha Sheria.
The camp was initially due to be closed on 30 November 2016, but the government announced a six-month delay on "humanitarian grounds."
Occupying about 50 square kilometers in Kenya's Garissa County, Dadaab has four sub-camps of Hagadera, Ifo, Dagahaley and Kambios, making it the largest refugee camp in the world by population.
The camps were initially designed to host just 160,000 people, yet the population rose dramatically between 2010 and 2013, mostly due to famine.
A spokesman for Kenya's Interior Ministry said the court's judgment did not impact an ongoing "voluntary" repatriation program that has already seen 46,000 Somali refugees return home over the past six weeks.
Kenya to appeal court block on closure of world's largest refugee camp
(CNN)Smartphone payments are gaining ground in the US, but mobile money is old news in Kenya.
The majority of the East African country's population is subscribed to a mobile payment service, and the most popular choice is M-Pesa, which celebrates its 10th anniversary in March 2017.
M-Pesa -- "pesa" means "money" in Swahili -- has made a dramatic impact over this time.
The system was launched by Vodafone's Safaricom mobile operator in 2007 as a simple method of texting small payments between users. Today there are 30 million users in 10 countries and a range of services including international transfers, loans, and health provision. The system processed around 6 billion transactions in 2016 at a peak rate of 529 per second.
M-Pesa is also lauded for its social value; offering opportunities for small businesses, and playing a significant role in reducing poverty.
There have been bumps in the road -- the service was withdrawn from South Africa after poor performance -- but M-Pesa's first decade has been a success story.
The next decade will bring new challenges for the mobile payment system.
Safaricom CEO Bob Collymore says it a priority to refine the user experience and offer new services.
"One of the big problems has been the relative clumsiness of using M-Pesa," he told CNN.
New streamlined solutions include a debit card that will allow users to tap and pay, and a new mobile app.
The service will face stronger competition in the coming years. The Kenya Bankers Association -- representing 46 banks -- is introducing its own mobile payment platform that will allow convenient transfers between accounts at different banks, and the group hopes this will eat into M-Pesa's market share.
"Given the economics of the product, I think you'll find customers moving over and preferring to use our product," says Habil Olaka, CEO of the Kenya Banker's Association.
Look after the pennies
The Safaricom CEO says he welcomes the banks' intervention as he believes it will drive innovation and benefit the consumer.
"We always used to say that cash is the enemy," says Collymore. "Holding cash doesn't make sense. As soon as you put it in the mattress, it loses value."
"We are not attacking the banks; we're working with the banks...If other people are finding solutions for problems, then that's also cool."
But financial analyst Aly-Khan Satchu of Rich Management believes that competitors will struggle to displace a service that has put down deep roots.
"Are the (banks) going to be able to dislodge M-Pesa? I'm not so sure. It's ubiquitous, it's everywhere," he says. "I think they're going to struggle."
Perhaps in recognition of this challenge, Olaka says the Bankers' Association will be targeting payments that exceed M-Pesa's maximum transaction of 70,000 Kenyan Shillings ($675).
Collymore is happy to maintain focus on the other end of the market. Micro-payments drove M-Pesa to a position of dominance and the CEO has faith that the same model can sustain success into a second decade.
"We target the one shilling," he says. "The banking sector across the world has always ignored the so-called base of the pyramid. We haven't because we understand that the base of the pyramid needs to be served and there's also commercial viability in doing that."
CNN's Anastasia Beltyukova contributed to this report.
M-Pesa: Kenya's mobile money success story turns 10
滝田さんはケニア南西部のマサイマラに広がる国立保護区の管理施設で、２００８年から獣医師として働き、仕事の様子などを「獣の女医 ｉｎ アフリカ」（https://www.facebook.com/asukafrica別ウインドウで開きます）というフェイスブックのページで紹介しています。「女子力」の記事もここで紹介されました。首都ナイロビに戻っていた滝田さんに電話で取材しました。