Moreover, throughout the continent a genuine and deliberate effort has begun to provide a different kind of leadership from the past. Democratic space is significantly broader in many countries, while free elections are far more common, and coups far less so, than at any time since the continent's independence.
In recent years, I have been privileged to attend summits of the African Union, where generally I have been encouraged. The leadership is very different in values and principles from that which characterized the OAU, and the desire for change is reflected in the progressive development of demands for democratization, responsibility, and accountability within the African Union itself. Of course, I know that what I hear is partly rhetoric and not always accompanied by commitment to action. Furthermore, it is surprising to see the transformation that apparently democratic, responsible, and even revolutionary leaders undergo once they are in power. Who can know what power does to leaders? While there are many areas of hope in Africa, there are also areas where the sense of hopelessness runs deep. Events in Sudan and Chad, the August 2008 overthrow of the first democratically elected president of Mauritania since independence, and the December 2008 military coup in Guinea are all discouraging.
Nonetheless, I remain optimistic about the prospects for improved leadership and governance in Africa because I see some positive signs: the prompt response of the AU, under the chairmanship of John Kufuor, then president of Ghana, to the postelectoral violence in Kenya in 2008; the peaceful transition of power in 2005 in Tanzania from President Mkapa to President Jakaya Kikwete; and the fact that the AU has not embraced leaders who assume power undemocratically. These are all indications of an Africa that may be embracing a new form of leadership, one that will put the African people first, whether in parliament or the treasury or the judiciary, and will make them feel, and be, respected and valued.
MOVING THE SOCIAL MACHINE
ALMOST HALF the population of sub-Saharan Africa lives on less than one dollar a day, the highest level of poverty in the world. While poverty is at the root of many of the pressing problems Africa faces, so is the poor's apparent powerlessness. During the course of the last forty to fifty years, most Africans, in large measure because of their leaders' attitudes and policies, have come to believe that they cannot act on their own behalf. Self-determination and personal and collective uplift, values embraced by the great majority of Africans in the period just after independence, have been eroded.
Disempowerment—whether through a lack of self-confidence, apathy, fear, or an inability to take charge of one's own life—is perhaps the most unrecognized problem in Africa today. To the disempowered, it seems much easier or even more acceptable to leave one's life in the hands of third parties, whether governments, elected leaders, or, in some cases, aid agencies and faith-based organizations. Ultimately, they may believe that whatever happens is God's will, predetermined and inevitable. To try to convince such people that one can alleviate one's circumstances through one's own effort is hard. Whether the poor's self-reliance and motivation have been destroyed by decades of embedded state corruption or if there is a pathology of willed helplessness—indeed, a stubborn refusal to help oneself—is perhaps a discussion for social scientists, although I suspect that the loss of cultural bearings has contributed.
This “dependency syndrome” is a substantial bottleneck to development, as challenging as corruption and poor governance. It has added an extra weight to the work of those who want to enable individuals and communities to better their circumstances.
Poor people need to be engaged in their own development, and, by extension, in expanding the democratic space that many African societies desperately need. Just as communities should be mobilized to combat malaria, or HIV/AIDS, for instance, so they must work together to fight the scourges of failed leadership, corruption, and moral blindness. However, because the poor are more likely to be uneducated, illiterate, and ignored, and feel powerless, this requires both political and economic commitment, as well as patience and persistence, since change does not occur overnight.
Societies are like machines. When everything is working smoothly, society can move forward. Because modern societies are so complex and multilayered, most of us have little idea how the societal machine operates beyond the parts that most immediately affect us. However, although we may not see the entire mechanism, it's clear that for a society to function, everyone needs to do his or her part. If pieces of the machine are not working properly, not only does the machine not move forward, but it begins to grind. The broken cogs jam other areas, even though they may not be immediately connected to the nonworking parts. Before the machine comes to a complete stop, that grinding can be excruciating.
In societies that are in the process of breaking down, people become frustrated by their part of the system that isn't functioning. They then try to work around that broken area, which only further damages the societal machine, further angering the people. The irony is that if everybody performed their tasks to the best of their ability, the machine would move. But if individuals are more inclined to do things that bring the machine to a halt or a crawl, eventually everybody becomes a victim. This is called “underdevelopment.” What it means is that even the smallest move forward appears to take forever, and the societal machine is under constant threat of stopping altogether.
COMMUNITY DEVELOPMENT:
MOVING THE MACHINE FORWARD
In Kenya in 2002, a coalition of political parties finally laid to rest the presidency of Daniel arap Moi, and the first new administration in twenty-four years came into power. A newfound spirit of enthusiasm pervaded the country; in fact, there was so much goodwill when the new government was formed that something extraordinary happened: across Kenya, the “social machine” began to move again.
Here is just one example. For years, policemen had cadged bribes from the drivers of matatus, the cheap, private minivans that, given the generally poor state of public transit, are the main means of transportation for millions of Kenyans. To the drivers, the bribes were an accepted cost of doing business—allowing them and not another driver to ply a certain route, or ensuring that police officers would ignore any infractions in the vehicle's condition or running. Matatus had become extremely unsafe; high-speed accidents were common, and thousands of lives were being lost every year. And yet, people had few other alternatives but to continue riding in them.
After the 2002 election, matatu passengers began to challenge any policeman who demanded a bribe from the driver. Inspired by the new government, which had vowed to make fighting the corruption that riddled society from top to bottom a priority, ordinary citizens stood up and demanded that neither the police nor the drivers conduct business as usual. This reached a point where policemen stopped asking for the bribes, either because they feared the reaction of the matatu passengers, or, possibly, because even they embraced the new spirit and did their part to facilitate the service without demanding a kickback.
Matatu drivers also began obeying speed restrictions and agreed to abide by the new government's directive to install seatbelts, a practical safety measure that also limits the number of passengers. (Previously, drivers would pick up as many people as they could, even when riders were literally hanging out of the doors.) This was evidence of the “new Kenya” that citizens wanted to work for and believed was possible, after decades of a government devaluing their aspirations for a more honest and just society.
But as soon as it was clear that individuals in the new government were not honest and refused to honor the promises they'd made to each other during the campaign, this spirit was suddenly lost; and unfortunately, before too long many people went back to the bad old habits.
In 2002, I, too, joined the new government, as a member of parliament for the constituency of Tetu, the region in which I had grown up. Increasingly, I had begun to feel that in order to bring about the change I was working to achieve at the grassroots, and what I believed needed to happen in the country as a w
hole, it was worth trying to enter parliament—either to alter existing legislation or to draft or pass new laws. The fact that the regime that had been in power for decades had come to an end provided a greater opportunity than previously had existed for me and other members of civil society to join the government.
If elected, we could also actively involve ourselves in shaping policy and the future of the country. As a member of civil society, one can have the most brilliant ideas in the world and still be ignored if one is not in a position to influence the leadership in power and the leaders aren't generating good ideas of their own. If, however, one has access to the leadership or if the leaders are pursuing policies that are beneficial to the country, then one's good ideas can be very quickly adopted on a larger scale.
I was also keen to see how I could apply in a parliamentary constituency the Green Belt Movement's approach to development: working from the bottom up to reach those who plan and execute the large-scale development models whose benefits rarely trickle down to the poor. I also hoped to empower communities to undertake their own development and learn to assume responsibilities as well as assert their rights. In theory there is no better way to address poverty than to go to the people themselves and ask them to name their priorities for local-level projects. I was pleased, therefore, when in 2003 the new Kenyan government took an important, indeed revolutionary, step and offered all MPs and their constituents an opportunity to try a similar approach.
Through an act of parliament, the government established the Constituency Development Fund, or CDF. The CDF would provide direct funding for local development initiatives, particularly targeting those that would combat poverty, to be decided on by the citizens themselves. The total amount dispensed was 2.5 percent of the tax revenues the government collected. The act stated that each of the 210 parliamentary constituencies would receive an equal portion of 75 percent of the funds, while the remaining 25 percent was allocated according to the poverty levels in each constituency, with those with higher poverty levels receiving more. The act also mandated that up to 10 percent of the CDF be allotted to bursaries—grants—for education. It was, indeed, an effort toward the equitable distribution of resources in all communities.
For years, Kenyans had complained about their taxes being misused by the ruling elite so that few of those funds, in the form of services, trickled down to the people—especially the rural poor; here, the government, for the first time, was attempting to ensure that some of the revenues it collected went directly to those who needed them most. The top was reaching out to the bottom. Finally, the approach that civil society had been advocating had been accepted by the government. An additional benefit of the act was that it encouraged Kenyans to pay their taxes, in the belief that the money would be used more transparently and accountably than in the past. The public knew that the more revenue the government received, the more funds would flow to the CDF. These revenues did indeed rise under the new government because more citizens were willing to pay their taxes. In 2004, the CDF was allotted 1.26 billion Kenyan shillings (nearly $20 million). By 2008, this had grown to 10.1 billion shillings (almost $155 million).1
In my judgment, the CDF presented a perfect opportunity to put into action a long-held belief of mine that for Africa to develop, it would be necessary to reach local people at the most elementary representative level and encourage them to both make decisions about projects and oversee their implementation for their community's benefit. Because Kenya, along with many other African countries, has a highly centralized governmental system—a legacy of colonialism—that over the years has tended to marginalize rural populations, it was necessary to devolve decision making to counter the dependency culture that had been created. The CDF opened up the possibility of converting talk into action by letting the people, for the first time, determine their development priorities themselves.
The CDF Act passed through parliament without a hitch, because it was to replace the practice of harambees, which had become a scourge in parliamentary constituencies. Harambee is the Kiswahili word for “pulling together.” President Jomo Kenyatta introduced the term in Kenya in 1963 to instill a community spirit and sense of self-reliance and hard work in promoting small-scale local development. It had since come to mean something like a fund-raiser, or a donation, having been hijacked by politicians, who recognized it as an important forum for influencing potential voters. Members of parliament were constantly being asked to participate in harambees, both formal and informal—to build a new church hall, help parents pay for their children's school fees, assist in getting someone buried or married, or make possible a trip to the doctor or surgery. Although MPs in Kenya are now relatively well paid, much of one's salary, and more, could be consumed in various harambees.
By 2002, harambees had become almost a form of extortion: a means for constituents, church organizations, or women's groups to ask for, and receive, a donation from their MP. They had also become a way for the MPs, particularly at election time, to, in effect, buy votes to ensure their reelection. This problem is not confined to Kenya; it is not uncommon for politicians to give enticements—for instance, food, clothing, or cash—to citizens, especially those who are poor, to assure their support at the polls. Citizens are usually not interested in knowing whether the money and gifts came from the MP's pocket or were siphoned from the national treasury.
The CDF offered an opportunity to end some of this form of graft, and to use national funds not simply to dole out sacks of grain that might feed a family for a week, but to build health centers or ensure that children finished secondary school, the benefits of which would accrue to the whole community and, in theory, would lead to longer-term positive changes. The CDF also could be an important model on which to base antipoverty, pro-development efforts in other African countries, and even other regions. Of course, if corruption set in, the CDF would be judged a failed experiment.
My constituency, Tetu, is in the Highlands of Central Kenya, near the provincial capital of Nyeri. The landscape is marked by hills and the mountain range of the Aberdares to the west and, in the distance, Mount Kenya to the north. The area has relatively high annual rainfall, and many rivers and streams. The economy is primarily agricultural, dominated by livestock farming and cash crops of coffee, tea, and maize. All agriculture in Tetu is small-scale; there are no large-scale farms except on the forested slopes of the Aberdares; very few industries operate here, apart from one tea factory. Per capita GDP is $400 a year, or $ 1.11 a day.
Through the CDF, Tetu was given 134 million shillings (about $2 million) over the five years I was an MP—the amount at the end being six times that at the beginning. Each MP was charged with the responsibility of making sure that the funds allocated to the CDF were actually used to benefit the people; the people themselves, the press, and a national-level CDF committee impaneled by the government would act as watchdogs. The government stipulated that each constituency create a committee of fifteen individuals to determine which projects would be funded. They would be paid a small stipend for their work.
I found this an unsatisfactory way to approach the allocation of CDF funds; I felt the CDF effort should be as participatory as possible. I'm someone who likes to experiment with ideas: if they work, I pursue them; if they don't, I drop them. I couldn't see how fifteen committee members would be sufficiently representative or able to identify the needs of the whole constituency, which numbered about ninety thousand people. So I went to the sub-locations—the smallest administrative units in Kenya, governing (in my constituency's case) around 2,500 people—and encouraged each of them to form a committee of fifteen people.
What I was trying to do was to ensure that the members of the committee were elected by the people. In establishing itself, each sub-locational committee had to follow criteria for representation of women and youth. There are thirty-seven sub-locations in Tetu, which meant that 555 people were involved directly in the CDF's operation. The committees would meet and decide on th
e priorities of their sub-location: Should they repair their social hall or a school classroom? Did they want to have pipes laid or extended, or have water flowing to a particular spot? Did they wish to build or complete a health center? Or hire a teacher for a school? This bottom-up approach helped people take ownership and feel like the projects were theirs.
The chair and vice-chair of each sub-locational committee met and formed locational committees, also with fifteen members, to discuss what they'd prioritized in their sub-locations: What was most strategic? What would serve people the best? What would most effectively alleviate poverty? Then each locational committee would choose two representatives to serve on the constituency-level committee. This committee of fifteen at the constituency level received five proposals from every location and then agreed on which projects to fund. Most of our decisions were unanimous. Only very rarely did we have to take a vote.
At each committee level, the government was also represented through local officials. However, it was made clear to them that while they were welcome to participate in the committee's deliberations, they had no role in choosing the members of any of the committees, or in determining the committee's priorities for the use of CDF funds. While the government representatives could vote, it was the people themselves who identified the projects, prioritized them, and implemented them. (In the classical governance structure, the government's representatives would have imposed their views on the people and, for the most part, people would have remained passive and endorsed what the government's representatives decreed.)
Every project also had an elected project committee: again, a means of encouraging local participation. I wanted people not only to choose projects, but also to see them through to completion. Whether it was a new classroom, the renovation of a health dispensary, or the installation of water pipes, it was the local project committee members who paid out the funds and ensured that the work progressed. As much as possible, the actual work was done by members of the community. Why look for high-level artisans and builders from Nairobi when they existed in the villages of the constituency, especially when many of them didn't have jobs or were underemployed? By having these individuals participate in the CDF projects, employment opportunities were created, money stayed in the community, and even more local people got involved.
The Challenge for Africa Page 13