We've let down heroes like Mzee Ojwang

NAIROBI: One of Kenya's greatest actors and comedians took his final curtain call last weekend, leaving a deep void in the country's theatre scene and TV screens. Billed as the father of Kenyan comedy, Benson Wanjau alias Mzee Ojwang Atari succumbed to pneumonia and marched into the sunset leaving behind an acting legacy that spanned over four decades.

But the iconic figure who graced our living rooms and left us in stitches with his infectious humour and a shrill war cry whenever he was mad at his screen spouse, Mama Kayai, leaves behind an impressive resume that is blemished only by the fact that as a nation we have failed to fully embrace and appreciate our theatre heroes.

Nothing illustrates this depressing attitude to our heroes in various social fields than the cavalier way that great actors have gone to their graves with nothing monetary to show in appreciation, except our incessant demands that they make us laugh. Actors eat, pay bills and support their families – a fact that seems lost to our nation.

Wanjau had just been cut loose by his employer, Kenya Broadcasting Corporation, after four decades of uninterrupted service. We are not privy to the details that led to his removal, but we know that perhaps that there may have been a better way to treat an employee who has given exemplary service. Yet Mr Wanjau is not alone. The doyens of acting in Kenya who have taken their final curtain calls before him include Peter Lukoye alias Tamaa bin Tamaa, Othorong'ong'o danger, Said Mohammed Said alias Wariahe bin Huu and Masanduku arap Simiti, Mutiso, Baba Zero and Mzee Mombasa. When the laughter died out from the TV screen and the lights went out, they receded to a daily life of struggle and pain amidst a society that seems to offer them nothing more than a pat on the back.

Many of the iconic actors before Vitimbi honed their skills in previous shows like Darubini and Kivunja Mbavu in the 1970s, where they became household names and brands in their own right. They belong to an exclusive group of actors who rose to fame with little support and took acting to another level. But later after a great performance, they returned to their tiny houses and waited for day break to earn their meagre living in a punishing industry that offered little appreciation and no pension plans.

A high-five or a strong-arm greeting does not pay school fees or put food on the table. Their compensation for making us laugh through our misery and sometimes deepest pain has admittedly not been adequate. As a society, we have debated the need to have a fund to cater for our ageing theatre heroes in old age, men and women trapped in a career that brings them passion and satisfaction but comes with a tiny pay cheque that is hardly adequate to cater for them and support their families.

If we celebrate our heroes who race on the running track and bring glory and medals to our nation, men and women who fly into JKIA with cash in their pockets as winnings, surely we can do more for our heroes who earn a pittance and bring us so much joy. It's not asking too much, is it?

 

Mr Wanjau and other theatre activists have brought us so much laughter and deserve better. For a nation that waits with bated breath to hear the annual dirge of wasted public funds that run into billions by the Auditor General, a nation where corruption reigns in public and private service, surely we can spare a little amidst the brouhaha to show our deep gratitude to this coterie of actors who were too busy making us laugh to afford and plan for old age.

There is something about social value that comedians bring. In the US, such icons as Redd Foxx, Flip Wilson, Richard Pryor and Bernie Mac have been celebrated, for in the words of Ebony magazine, "Icons...(who) have used their comedic gifts to provide the types of relatable anecdotes and social commentaries that transcend time and span generations. Their fearlessness allows them to say the things we dare not say aloud, and our laughter comes from the recognition that, while we didn't articulate it, we've had the exact same thought."

In many ways, those words speak for many Kenyans when we lionize Benson Wanjau and company. But we are challenged to do more, to end the spectre of late-life suffering and life in poverty for many of a vanishing generation of theatre heroes who have graced our screens and stage. Arts and Culture CS Hassan Wario needs to put a team together to scratch their heads and come up with a lasting and long-term fund that can cater for this group. It's not too late.