'Hapa wizi tu:' Our thieving ways turning Kenya into failed State

Folks, happy new month! I suspect this enthusiastic greeting might seem misplaced given that the month of June was incredibly cold and bleak, and July is predicted to be even colder. But it is shining as a write.

When regular folks discuss weather, like the Brits, then things are thick. But there’s never a dull moment in our land. In this very week, when Prezzo Bill Ruto launched an overpass on a major road that no doubt could be one of our links to Singapore, some killjoy managed to steal his thunder.

Before Prezzo Ruto could revel in the glory of the road milestone, top sleuths were reportedly hot in pursuit of crooks who’d pocketed some Sh6.2 billion only, through payroll fraud in 12 government entities. The emphasis of “only” isn’t mine, it’s been used by Prezzo Ruto to describe previous heists.

I hear this figure accounts only a quarter of those government entities; many more are under review. So it’s affirming to hear civil servants have evolved over the last decade or two. The chaps who left their jackets at their desks to operate kiosks have now been replaced by tech-savvy crooks who move millions at the blink of an eye.

The consequence, the activist Wanjira Wanjiru told a radio programme, is that massive thefts of public resources are considered a launch pad for elective politics for the big thieves. In her hamlet of Mathare, Wanjira said, her community experienced a spike in crime after the Youth Affairs ministry was looted by crooks who stashed sacks of cash under her bed.

What Wanjira was saying is that there is a clear link between this licentious minority and the insecurity that roils our country. The Mathare youth who had kept off the streets turned to crime when the programme went bust. Someone stole their daily bread, to buy an Aston Martin.

A friend remarked this week that it might seem churlish to excoriate the Kenya Kwanza administration for mastering the art of stealing public funds because virtually all Kenyans are potential thieves. The only thing that separates them from the crooked civil servants is that they haven’t had an opportunity to steal.

My friend knows what he’s talking about. He’s had gangs of workers at his premises in an upmarket suburb of the city for the past one year. A long-serving worker was caught stealing steel from the construction site, while my friend’s accidental review of books of accounts revealed that “ghost workers” had received about Sh1 million in illicit wages.

Another friend who tried a hand at Uber services was puzzled by the constant flow of drivers who came and went within weeks, until one told him point-blank: There were no opportunities to steal from him. Unbeknownst to the drivers, my friend had fitted his car with a tracking device, so he was able to monitor the drivers’ movement real-time. They did not want that.

These anecdotes connect micro to macro economies of corruption, a theory that I was able to test this week as well. As a diligent “telephone” farmer, I needed some farm equipment delivered, so I phoned a large matatu Sacco that also runs a parcel service.

The first number listed on the Sacco’s website was switched off, which I thought strange. I tried the second number. It was answered by a very enthusiastic man who claimed his name was Mark. Second name? Mark.

If your parcel is under five kilos, then the charge is Sh400, Mark offered helpfully. I had two parcels, so that made it Sh800. Mark encouraged that I pay for the parcels, even before the cargo was delivered, as a digital receipt would be sent over.

The “Pochi la Biashara” number that he shared went to an individual’s account. But I didn’t panic. Even government agencies like the National Transport Safety Authority have payment accounts that go to individuals.

My gut feel proved accurate. I had been robbed of Sh800 in broad daylight because that phone number was instantly switched off.  Hapa wizi tu.