Caring Cash

Front matter

Free Money and the Ethics of Solidarity in Kenya

TOM NEUMARK

‘Across the world, welfare systems are being remade in the image of “basic income”. Tom Neumark powerfully intervenes in this debate by showing how Nairobi’s grant recipients experience care and violence, freedom and bureaucracy. It has implications far beyond Kenya.’

Part II

3 Under the Aegis of Mistrust Detaching from Others, Surviving with Others 5 A Mother's Care

Conclusion Notes

References Index vii

35 68

105 131 150

184 192 206

Series Preface

As people around the world confront the inequality and injustice of new forms of oppression, as well as the impacts of human life on planetary ecosystems, this book series asks what anthropology can contribute to the crises and challenges of the twenty-first century. Our goal is to establish a distinctive anthropological contribution to debates and discussions that are often dominated by politics and economics. What is sorely lacking, and what anthropological methods can provide, is an appreciation of the human condition.

We publish works that draw inspiration from traditions of ethnographic research and anthropological analysis to address power and social change while keeping the struggles and stories of human beings centre stage. We welcome books that set out to make anthropology matter, bringing classic anthropological concerns with exchange, difference, belief, kinship and the material world into engagement with contemporary environmental change, capitalist economy and forms of inequality. We publish work from all traditions of anthropology, combining theoretical debate with empirical evidence to demonstrate the unique contribution anthropology can make to understanding the contemporary world.

Holly High and Joshua O. Reno

Acknowledgements

This book has taken many years to finish and along the way I have incurred numerous debts. The first is to those in Korogocho. The book contains only a fraction of what they taught me and yet it could not have been written without them. They dared to share with a stranger their lives, marked by anguish and sadness, but also by wisdom and a cautious determination. While they remain anonymous in the book, they and I know who they are. In particular, I am indebted to Kamau, Jude and John — the best guides I could have hoped for, and who got me out of countless pickles.

The residents of Korogocho are accustomed to being surveyed and surveilled by a changeable cast of organisations. They were understandably wary when asked to open their lives, once again, to the gaze of a curious outsider, not least that of a white, male student from Britain who inexplicably arrived without a mradi (project). They would sometimes ask how my research would help them escape from their often harrowing circumstances. I have never found a satisfying answer to that question. I certainly cannot see how this book will help. But contained within me is a quiet hope: that the caring, ethical efforts my interlocutors showed me and taught me about, presented in this book through the bushy layer of my own interpretation, will offer a modest addition to our collective understanding of life. It is an unsatisfying response for sure, but then any other would be disingenuous. And so, an acknowledgement of my debt to them goes hand in hand with a deep-felt apology for my inability to repay even a part of it.

The remaining people I am also in arrears to, but I hope they will be more easily mollified by some straightforward appreciation.

For much of my time in Nairobi, I was hosted and sustained by Baba and Mama Maina, and their children Koi, Mwangi and Maina. I thank them deeply for welcoming me into their home with such unguarded hearts. I am also immensely grateful to John Gitau Kariuki, my Kiswahili guide and Wallace ‘Jackababa’ Oyugi, my Sheng one.

The research would not have been possible without the support of various international and Kenyan NGOs and their representatives. I also owe a debt to the government of Kenya and its civil servants for facilitating viii Caring Cash the research and for sharing their perspectives. I acknowledge the British Institute in Eastern Africa for providing me with an institutional home during my fieldwork. There I met Lys Alcayna Stevens, John Arum, Margarita Dimova, Hannah Elliot, Kerry Kyaa, John Perkins, Hannah Waddilove, and Sam Wilkins who all played their part in keeping my head above water.

Quite conventionally, this book is a conversation between the world ‘out there’ and the academic community that I have been inculturated into. Much of this took place in the Department of Social Anthropology at the University of Cambridge, where this book began its life as a doctoral dissertation. Two anthropologists there, Harri Englund and Henrietta Moore, deserve my greatest appreciation. They offered me reassurance, pushed me to think harder, urged me to stay close to my material, and showed me, in their own inimitable style, the value this has. I may have sometimes strayed from their sound advice, but I could not have written this book without them.

My thanks to my fellow doctoral candidates of the writing-up group and to its facilitator James Laidlaw, all of whom helped shape my ideas. During my time at Cambridge, both during my studies and when I took up a teaching position, I was able to able to rely upon a supportive group of friends and colleagues with whom to share ideas and companionship. Thank you Paolo Heywood, Nick Evans, Jess Johnson, Jonney Taae, Ross Porter, Fred Ikanda, Viesturs Celmins, Fiona Wright, Rachel Wyatt, and Laura Chinnery.

The book travelled with me, often weighing down on me more heavily than my luggage, as I took up a series of academic positions. After studying then teaching at Cambridge, I lived in Tanzania for two years, during which time I was employed as a Research Fellow in the Department of Social Anthropology at the University of Edinburgh. I am grateful to Jamie Cross for the opportunity to work remotely back before it was considered acceptable, for enthusing me with his own devoted work, and for encouraging me to write this book. From Tanzania I moved to the Institute of Health and Society (HELSAM) and the Centre for Development and the Environment (SUM) at the University of Oslo. At SUM, Katerini Storeng and Sidsel Roalkvam showed me what a nurturing academic environment looks like, and demonstrated through their work and collegiality the good that comes from it. At HELSAM, Ruth Prince graciously gave me the freedom to develop my ideas, set an example with her scholarship and, by extending her warm friendship, made it all fun.

Acknowledgements ix

Tam thankful to the fellow anthropologists, colleagues, and friends who have challenged and supported me in equal measure. They have offered enriching conversations, feedback on my writing, as well as perceptive comments which - while they may well have forgotten them — have nonetheless made their mark on this book. These people include Edwin Ameso, David Bannister, Matei Candea, Kevin Donovan, Wenzel Geissler, Maia Green, Ben Jones, Sian Lazar, Bill Maurer, Vickie Muinde, Samwel Ntapanta, David Parkin, David Pratten and Jamie Wintrup.

At Pluto Press, I am grateful to David Castle for his backing and the anonymous reviewers who pushed me to write a better book. I thank Wesley Osoro for the cover illustration and Melanie Patrick for its design.

Financial assistance was provided by the University of Cambridge's Domestic Research Studentship; a Research Fellowship at the University of Edinburgh funded by the UK’s Engineering and Physical Research Council; and a Postdoctoral Fellowship funded by the European Research Council and SUM. Two chapters, somewhat revised, have been published previously. Chapter 3 is based on “Trusting the Poor: Cash Grants and the Caring Bureaucrat in Kenya’, Anthropological Quarterly 93(2), 2020: 119-49. Chapter 4 appeared originally as “A Good Neighbour Is Not One That Gives”: Detachment, Ethics and the Relational Self in Kenya’, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 23(4), 2017: 748-64.

That this book has made it this far is because of my family and friends. With my parents, Ann and Jim, and my brother, Ben, I calibrate my sometimes errant moral compass and receive unconditional reassurance. Hugo Madden, a close friend and intellectual companion, has, through countless conversations over the last two decades, sympathetically scrutinised many of my ideas. And I have always felt the hands of my friends on my back. Thank you Luke Buxton, Chris Hollins, Vaishnavee Madden, Chris Marshall, Ross Pepper, Linzey Ryan, Simon Whitley, and Will Hodson.

Finally, I thank Aurelia, whose wisdom and wit is matched only by her patience and positivity in the bleaker moments. She has taught me that it’s just a book, and it’s how we treat one another that matters the most.

Note on translation and naming Most of the quotes that appear in this book were originally in Kiswahili and Sheng, and all translations are my own. Unless otherwise stated, all organisations and interlocutors are referred to by pseudonyms.

Prologue

Recently having gone blind — she still did not know why — Beatrice was not able to see the diarrhoea on the packed-dirt floor in her concrete one-roomed home. Reflexively, and without saying anything, Kamau wiped it up with a cloth that was lying by the jiko (charcoal stove) on the floor between us. Beatrice was well aware that her newborn grandson, Lorenzo, was unwell. The two of us had dropped by to see her that morning, but we had met many times previously, after she had been introduced to us as a beneficiary of a particular humanitarian non-governmental organisation (NGO) programme. Each month, over an eight-month period, a message to her phone would signal the arrival of a small cash grant payment deposited into her mobile money account. That day, after chatting a little while in her home — a bedroom really, that doubled up through the strategic placement of a curtain, as a kitchen-cum-living room — we bade farewell with promises we would visit her again soon.

Kamau, who was assisting me with my research, had been born and raised there in Korogocho, one of the largest of Nairobi’s ghettos, as the slums in this sprawling city are known locally." While he had moved to just outside the ghetto, his mother and sister still lived in the same small compound, with shacks constructed out of mud and corrugated iron, wedged between the rest of the slum and the Nairobi River. There they made some income running a small business raising and selling chickens.* But it was not just his family, nor the modest and temporary employment that I offered him as my research assistant, that drew Kamau back into Korogocho. As a youth activist and community worker, he was working with young people there, and trying to tap into the tributaries of foreign, charitable money of which he himself had been a beneficiary — sponsoring some of his education — to see how he might help them escape from the some of the worst criminal temptations the ghetto offered. He had already managed to bring into the centre of Korogocho a shipping container, hoping to fill it with books and connect it to the grid for lighting. But even in its current state, children could still meet and study there in some peace.

Given Kamau’s intimate familiarity with Korogocho, it was not surprising that when we left Beatrice’s home that day, he instantly recognised the

Prologue xi noises coming from somewhere nearby. “Those are gunshots’, he stated in his typically calm and understated manner. I did not immediately hear them myself. I was still unaccustomed to the cacophony of noises that formed the ghetto’s soundscape. Many of Korogocho’s sounds come from the jua kali, the Kenyan Kiswahili term for the informal economy, which translates as ‘fierce sun’, a reference to the way that workers labour throughout the day under the sun’s often piercing rays. The sounds of this economy reverberate in the ghetto, as wood is chopped, bicycles and motorcycles repaired, metal doors and gates welded, and the food staple maize is ground. I had begun to recognise some of these sounds, but the noises of gunshots were still unfamiliar to me.

The gunshots were far enough away for Kamau not to be alarmed, despite not being entirely sure where they were coming from. We walked hesitantly to the crossroads between the two neighbourhoods where the tarmac road began, the recent result of a slum upgrading programme funded by Italian government sovereign debt relief. A crowd had gathered there. A fistfight erupted, unconnected to the gunshots, but quickly fizzled out. The gunshots, though, continued. A young man in the crossroads crowd told us they were coming from Grogan, a neighbourhood of Korogocho only a few hundred metres away. It was the neighbourhood most feared by my friends and interlocutors, and which was once described by the journalist and scholar Mike Davis as ‘the most wretched’ one in the slum (Davis 2006, 44). The gunshots were closer than Kamau had thought. A middle-aged man ambled alongside us with reassurances that they were only warning shots fired up into the air by the police. No doubt they were also a show of force by the authorities. Over the course of a few days, we were able to piece together a fuller picture of the events.

The previous week, a boda (motorcycle taxi) driver had been summoned at around 5 a.m., over an hour before sunrise, to collect a man at his shack in Highridge, another neighbourhood in Korogocho. The time was not unusual; the day starts early for men, many of whom regularly walk the hour and a half journey south along the city’s streets and busy highways towards the Industrial Area. Yet the driver, upon arriving at the shack, was murdered and his motorbike stolen.

Reacting to the typical failure of the police to investigate crimes in the ghetto, some of his fellow boda drivers had, on the day that Kamau and I visited Beatrice, decided to investigate themselves. After receiving a tip-off, they were eventually able to locate his motorbike, with the new owner agreeing to lead them to the man he had bought it from. Travelling xii Caring Cash on foot together as a group they ended up in Grogan. There they found the man and apprehended him before he could disappear into the latticework of small alleyways that criss-cross Korogocho. Before long, a larger group of residents had gathered to watch and intervene. At this point it had seemed certain to the bystanders that the man the drivers had been led to, whom they believed was the murderer, would be lynched. However, although the police, who are experienced by Korogocho’s residents more as a violent threat than a form of protection from violence, were initially absent, they did arrive in time to rescue the suspect. Firing their assault rifles into the air, they hauled the man the few hundred metres to the Chief’s Camp, the centre of the Provincial Administration, a part of the governmental structure that extended the power of the president down to the ground (Branch and Cheeseman 2006).

Dissatisfied with the police’s chosen method of addressing the murder, the large group of a few dozen mostly young men descended upon the camp to make their case and, they hoped, get the man back into their possession. It was then that the police fired first tear gas and then more gunshots to dispel the gathering crowd. But this time the shots were not only warning ones. Two men in the crowd were hit and were rushed bleeding on the back of bodas to the nearest hospital; fortunately, as I later found out, surviving their injuries.

As we stood at the crossroads listening to the early version of the story — that the police were firing warning shots - two men nearby continued to chop through a pile of firewood. It seemed inexplicable in light of what was happening, and I pointed it out to Kamau. He made a polite grunt of acknowledgement. It was not the right time for observations, so I shut up, and we stood there without talking. It was only a few months after the murder of an activist named Nyash, who was one of the first people I had met when I had arrived in Korogocho.* He was shot and killed outside his shack in Grogan. I did not know him well, but Kamau and he were friends. I learned that he had left behind his elderly mother, Mary, who had already lived through the death of six of her children, either from illness or at the hands of the police (Mwangi 2018). Rumours abounded about Nyash’s murder, but many people at the time believed he was killed by the police in response to his tireless work to expose police brutality in the ghetto.

After a few moments of silence between us, Kamau spoke. ‘People seem so dehumanised now in Koch’, he said, using the shortened nickname for the ghetto, ‘Now it only surprises you if it’s someone close to you who is

Prologue xiii killed’ Other friends afterwards worried aloud that if someone so high profile as Nyash could be killed, it meant that even ordinary residents could be, too. Insecurity in the ghetto was a constant worry for everyone, and the only item that seemed to have a permanent place on the agenda of the baraza (public meetings) when they took place.

The murder of Nyash and the boda driver happened on the street. As did the fights, muggings and armed robberies that many of my interlocutors, along with their partners, children and friends, had been the victim of. Women I knew had seen their children or their husbands injured and sometimes killed. Violence happens quickly in Korogocho, but word also travels fast. After bumping into different people I knew when I was out doing my fieldwork, conversation would invariably turn to the most recent violent incident. Gunfights on the street the day before and even bodies found the next morning. These events and others intimately experienced built, in people’s minds and bodies, a particular backdrop to life in the slum.

Talk about the largely male violence that I have described spun about the ghetto. But the women with whom I spent most of my time also spoke to me of less visible forms of violence. Some spoke of their experience of domestic violence that remained hidden behind the closed corrugated metal door of their shacks, its physical effects concealed by layers of clothing. Others talked of break-ins into their homes, masked sometimes by the noise of rain on a tin roof, which others in more privileged positions — myself included — often find soothing. The outcome of such forms of violence and suffering is never an angry mob to be dispersed by police gunshots or tear gas.

Nor is this the outcome for the violence of poverty, disease and exclusion that disproportionately affects those women situated on the margins of both a state-managed capitalist economy and the everyday networks of care in Kenya. Women I knew in the ghetto would be as likely to talk about the street violence of the ghetto as they would their own, often desperate, attempts to feed their children, get them to school, and keep them out of trouble. In fact, as the murder of Nyash showed, the violence of the street enveloped everybody, intruding insistently into the lives of the women with whom I spent time and jeopardising their hopes of keeping a family alive and together in the midst of it.

One, always hopeful and never certain, outcome for the women ensnared within these violent unfoldings was to be incorporated into some institutionalised form of care. There was very little in the way of a comxiv Caring Cash prehensive state welfare system in Kenya during my fieldwork, or even today; rather, there were disjointed, time-limited and uncertain charitable projects that floated in and around the ghetto. One such programme was the one that Beatrice had begun to receive and the purpose of us visiting her: a cash grant. It was partly an interest in the cash grant that brought me into the ghetto, but as I was immersed in its workings through my ethnographic fieldwork both there and across Nairobi, I was drawn deeper into the struggles, ambitions and hopes of differently situated actors, from grant recipients to civil servants to NGO workers.

Introduction: Grants and the Care for Relationships

Caring Cash is a story about care and relationships. On the one hand, it is about the globally networked charitable relationships of care and their experiments with cash grants. In the parlance of policy, the grants that had recently arrived in Korogocho during my fieldwork were known as ‘unconditional cash transfers’. Backed by aid money, in partnerships and sometimes independently, the government and NGOs in Kenya began to offer this ‘free money’ to the poor and vulnerable across the country in the 2000s. On the other hand, the care I talk about during the course of this book refers to the ways in which people like Beatrice, whose home we had emerged from before hearing the gunshots in the prologue, but also others like neighbours, lovers and bureaucrats, engaged in acts of care that sought to keep intact the persons and relationships that constituted their lives. Acts and words of care such as that expressed by Beatrice, when she told me ‘I’m just trying to be a good mother’, after we had been talking about her teenage daughter, the mother of the sick baby Lorenzo.

At the time of our visit that day, like on most days, Beatrice’s husband Jacob was hustling away from home. In previous years he had found piecemeal work with NGO projects back in the area of his natal home, and once, when I was visiting Beatrice, he pulled out certificates evidencing his attendance at various workshops.’ But aid budgets, particularly those routed towards HIV/AIDS that had created a surge in foreign aid funding from the 1990s, had now dwindled and meant this work, at least for Jacob, had begun to dry up. This work had been part of the larger charitable economy that extends across the globe and reaches into places like Korogocho. It was comprised of both governmental and non-governmental efforts; and understood by most people I knew in Korogocho, and often elsewhere in Kenya, as a voluntary gift to the poor rather than an entitlement of citizens. While once having worked on charitable projects, Jacob now found that he and his family had become recipients of charity themselves. Or at least, his wife had; Jacob was always reluctant to talk to me about the cash grant the family was receiving.

One late afternoon, after taking a break from the dust and exertion of sanding what would eventually become a school table, James, a carpenter I passed often as I went about my fieldwork, asked me what exactly it was that I was doing in the ghetto each day. I tried, as best I could at the time, to explain my interest in the cash grant programmes that were coming into Korogocho. I also expressed how I was interested in writing something that showed others, including the government, what the circumstances of life were like in the ghetto. Ignoring my interest in the cash grants, James sighed: “There is so much research here, everything is already known about us. No, the problem is not that the government doesn't know about our suffering, it is just that the government doesn’t care. While anthropologists have routinely found themselves as witnesses for another's culture (Metcalf 2001) or suffering (Englund 2011), in Korogocho this was not something that James thought I should waste my time on. He had grown understandably weary, and cynical, of the persistent representations of Korogocho’s suffering, not because they were necessarily inaccurate but because they had shown themselves to be impotent in the face of an apathetic and neglectful government. As with most people I met in Korogocho, James wanted much less research and a lot more action.

Caring Cash takes the reader to a moment in time in the early twenty-first century when there seemed to be in the cash grant what many of my interlocutors, particularly women, thought resembled something like real material and significant action.* Unlike many other forms of intervention that residents had seen through their time living in the ghetto and elsewhere, these cash grants appeared to them as actually rather useful. Of course, not without reservation, women, with whom, as I’ve said, I spent most of my time, welcomed the potentially life-saving capacity of these grants that gave them ‘free money’ and, because they were what was termed ‘unconditional’, ostensibly expected nothing in return. This meant that people receiving them were not required to jump through the burdensome, bureaucratic hoops that typify the more common conditional cash transfers that have been described as one of the most popular forms of welfare in and for the twenty-first century (Lavinas 2013), nor the ‘empowerment money’ in which debt stands as the privileged form of poverty alleviation (Elyachar 2002).

For institutions that designed and advocated for unconditional cash grants, as well as many who received them, the grants represented a stepchange from other forms of charitable interventions, such as the sacks of food or medical aid that have typified humanitarianism particularly, or the education as well as the microloans that have, for decades now, characterised development interventions in Kenya. One of the more appealing aspects of these cash grants, for many of their advocates, is the opportunity they purportedly provide to treat the poor in a far less paternalistic way. Cash grants are understood as a more ethical intervention, offering the poor greater dignity and freedom to exercise their own choices.

Of course, the view of a paradigmatic shift around assistance is far from unequivocal. Some, including my interlocutors, have drawn attention to the way in which grants understood as charitable giving retain some of charity’s most vexing features. ‘It looks like a refugee camp here; Kamau said to me one day, shaking his head with disgust, as I sat on the ground with him ina local church compound watching people being enrolled onto one of the cash grants programmes. There have been other criticisms too. Some people have pointed to the apparently meagre financial value of cash grants, while others lament that grants merely perpetuate charity’s focus on the very poorest in a manner which does little to stem the growing and more entrenched socioeconomic inequality that scars the world.

Similarly, for James, the carpenter, the introduction of cash grants was far from capable of remedying the years of neglect that slum dwellers had experienced, and neither would they challenge the insecurity produced by both the state’s police and the ghetto’s criminal gangs. They would certainly not provide the proper paying jobs that men wanted. In fact, James likely ignored my interest in cash grants because, as was the case for Jacob, Beatrice’s husband, he understood them not only as what some called pesa ya wazungu, foreign, charitable money, but also pesa ya wanawake, women’s money. For many men the charitable grants were not a salvation but a painful sign of what they perceived as their own failure to look after their own families, and the role of foreign charity in remedying that.

A number of journalists and activists have described, as I have chosen to do in the prologue of this book, the textures and eruptions of violence and suffering that envelop Nairobi’s slums. “Here the end of the world is not a prophecy but a condition, wrote the British comedian-cum-activist, Russell Brand (2013), after visiting Nairobi’s sprawling rubbish dump, Dandora, which borders Korogocho and serves as a source of employment for some of its residents. Such apocalyptic descriptions have often been bolstered by a sombre statistical picture. Since 2002, the African Population and Health Research Center has carried out a so-called Demographic Surveillance Survey in Korogocho, producing an avalanche of statistics that largely portrays the slum as a nexus of social breakdown and ill health.*

These representations of slum life have often been accused of dehumanising slum dwellers, resembling a sort of poverty porn, which has fed upon and nourished the impulse, particularly among foreign individuals and institutions, to do good. Those anthropologists also producing descriptions that draw attention to overt and hidden violence in urban neighbourhoods across the world have also faced such accusations. Perhaps most famous were Nancy Scheper-Hughes’ (1993, 1995) accounts of chronic hunger and ‘maternal neglect’ in Brazil, which, as she reported, were dismissed by some of her colleagues as a form of political activism that abandoned the discipline’s more dispassionate attempts to understand, rather than judge, human realities.

Joel Robbins (2013) is similarly concerned by anthropology’s turn away from a description and exegesis of the varied cultures that constitute our shared world and towards efforts, instead, to witness and account for the universality of human suffering. He has argued that anthropologists should also be prepared to explore how people, even in the most abject of conditions, strive towards their own particular conceptions of a ‘good life’. Yet the circumstances that he himself witnessed in his own fieldwork were different from those I encountered in the ghetto of Korogocho (Robbins 2004). He saw a community in Papua New Guinea that had apparently lost their traditional culture to the incursion of Christianity, but he did not witness the ways in which people struggled with even the most fundamental task of staying alive.

I am particularly curious, however, about how the premise of the unconditional cash grants in Kenya resonated with both perspectives. That is, with what the anthropologist Sherry Ortner (2016) has summarised as ‘dark anthropology’ and what she calls ‘anthropologies of the good’. Meaning, both the exploration of social relationships that produce misery and impoverishment, and the approach to explore, as Robbins and others argue, how people pursue their own value-rich projects of the ‘good life’. The grant programmes in Kenya, still at a nascent and experimental stage, and nothing like the scale of state grant-based redistribution observed in other parts of Africa (Bahre 2011), nevertheless sought to be part of building something like a national social assistance system. They sought to reduce widescale impoverishment in the country while at the same time allowing the poor spaces of freedom through which to pursue their own values, goals and strategies, always within a market economy.