Is taking unwanted children to court the best we can do?

A forward from my long-lost friend and brother, Prof Makau Mutua, lately the dean of an American law school and globe-trotting professor of law, recipient of so many honours that when he lists them in his CV he looks like he is joking, the latest being KNTT (fellow of the Kitui Nasa Think Tank), got me thinking about what makes us African and different.

It read: “One noteworthy reality about Europe’s current political leadership is summarised here by Phil Lawler:

l. Macron, the newly elected French president, has no children.

2. German Chancellor Angela Merkel has no children.

3. British Prime Minister Theresa May has no children.

4. Italian Prime Minister Paolo Gentiloni has no children.

5. Holland’s Mark Rutte, Sweden’s Stefan Löfven, Luxembourg’s Xavier Bettel, Scotland’s Nicola Sturgeon — all have no children.

6. Jean-Claude Juncker, president of the European Commission, has no children.

“So a grossly disproportionate number of the people making decisions about Europe’s future have no direct personal stake in that future.”

LIFE OF CAREER
It is rare in Africa to find a person who chooses a life without children.

More often it is that kind of life, which unfortunately chooses those who live it.

I remember Prof Phil Taylor, our journalism teacher who had quite an influence on me, had no children.

He used to object mildly about decisions made for the public that tended to lend more weight to families with children, observing, at that time, that there were more families with pets than with children in the United Kingdom.

I don’t know whether that was a fact, but it seemed OK to me for people to choose a life of career and intellectual pursuits and have no time left for children.

IMPORTANCE OF CHILDREN

In those societies people choose not to have children; it does not make them bad people, perhaps selfish ones, and they often make huge contributions because their life is dedicated to academic or professional application.

At some point I flirted with the idea of an ascetic, bachelor life, dedicated to the growing of a beard, the writing of revolutionary literature, violent opposition to all forms of oppression and the reading of sad poetry.

When my niece was born and I took her in my arms and she broke into a broad, toothless grin, African hormones kicked in and cleaned my blood of all that European stuff.

Children are the future of our families, our communities, our countries and all of humanity.

STREET CHILDREN

The future is not an abstract question; it consists in us having, loving, nurturing and protecting an offspring.

A crocodile, the most basic and ruthless predator you will meet, usually tenderly carries its offspring in the same mouth it uses to tear prey apart.

But even those who have made a choice not to have children, or those nature has cruelly denied the ability, love children.

And we don’t love children because they are well-behaved, doing well in school, clean and smell nice.

We love them even when they mess up big time, are dirty and pesky.

This week, we got reports at the Daily Nation that police had arrested 500 street children and taken them to the city magistrate’s court. They were referred to the Milimani Children’s Court, where they couldn’t be prosecuted because folks couldn’t think of the crime the children had committed — other than, of course, being unwanted.

BETTER ALTERNATIVE

I could not follow the accounts — according to one, 50 children jumped out of a police vehicle and disappeared — only 10 were taken to a rehabilitation centre and they most probably are back in the streets.

Is this the best we can do? Is this how we take care of the futures?

With the trillions the national government has and the billions the county governments have, the best thing we can do with unwanted children is to arrest and take them to court?

Whose bright idea was this? You will be hearing more of this.

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The quality of garments we are now buying has depreciated atrociously.

After three weeks on leave, the only strenuous exercise being to reach out for pancakes and tea, and it was heavy exercise given the quantities in question, I was horrified to discover that despite much huffing and puffing, I couldn’t get into my shirts. I needed new ones.

The hopeless fabric had shrunk. I have not packed on the kilos, mind you, we don’t have a weight issue in my genes, it is the fabric.

I am puzzled and amused that a malicious pair has taken to whispering conspiratorially when I waddle past them (on the way to the pancake pile):

“Queenvee (in reference to Vera Sidika, she of the humongous posterior) ain’t got nothing on him.”

I have also noted with some concern that the same misguided parties keep a keen interest in my stomach, which is flat, and again whisper rather pointlessly:

“We have to buy a pram. He is definitely at the end of the third trimester”.

Good heavens, what do they mean?

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