You know, there are certain things you expect from a school. A dodgy curriculum. Possibly a terrifying maths teacher. Maybe even a suspicious meat pie in the canteen. But a raging inferno that claims the lives of sixteen pupils? That is not on the syllabus, unless you are studying the finer points of systemic failure. Yet here we are, staring at the smouldering wreckage of yet another tragedy where the words 'safety protocol' appear to have been written in invisible ink.
The fire, which tore through a dormitory at a school in central Kenya, has left sixteen children dead and a nation asking questions that nobody wants to answer. Questions like: Why was there no functioning fire alarm? Why did the extinguishers look like they were last serviced during the Mau Mau uprising? And why, oh why, does it always take a body count for anyone to care about fire safety?
I have seen more rigorous safety inspections at a circus. The clowns there at least know where the exits are. But in this school, it seems the only thing preventing a disaster was the absence of a spark. Until the spark arrived. And then, of course, it was chaos. Children screaming. Teachers scrambling. A total absence of the basic protections that any half-decent building code would mandate.
The authorities, predictably, are promising a full investigation. They will form a committee. They will issue a report. They will recommend changes. And then, in a few months, when the tears have dried and the headlines have moved on, everything will go back to how it was. The same faulty wiring. The same blocked fire escapes. The same fatal negligence waiting for its next opening night.
Let us not pretend this is an isolated incident. This is a pattern. A recurring motif in the great tragedy of African infrastructure. Schools that look like prisons. Hospitals that resemble abattoirs. The only thing that is modern is the indifference. Modern, efficient, and utterly heartless.
Meanwhile, the politicians will offer their condolences. They will visit the scene, looking appropriately sombre. They will promise justice. But justice is a word that gets thrown around a lot, like confetti at a funeral. It means nothing unless it is followed by action. And action, as we know, requires money. And money, in this context, is always 'unavailable.'
I can already hear the excuses. 'We are a developing nation.' 'We have limited resources.' 'We are doing our best.' Well, your best is not good enough. Your best is a pile of ash and sixteen broken families. Your best is a testament to the fact that you value everything except human life.
What will it take? A hundred dead? A thousand? Perhaps we need to start treating schools like airports. Metal detectors, bag searches, armed guards for the fire exits. That would get their attention. Because it seems the only thing that really matters in this world is the illusion of security, not the substance.
I have a radical suggestion. How about we actually enforce the laws that are already on the books? How about we prosecute the officials who signed off on these death traps? How about we make negligence a capital crime, at least figuratively, so that those in charge might actually start caring?
But no, that would require effort. That would require accountability. And accountability, my friends, is the one thing that is always in short supply. It is easier to light a candle, say a prayer, and move on. The fire will fade from the news. The world will forget. And sixteen children will remain dead, their only legacy a few column inches and a government promise that will be broken before the ink is dry.
So here is to the victims. May they rest in peace. And here is to the survivors, who will spend the rest of their lives wondering why nobody cared enough to keep them safe. As for the rest of us, we will do what we always do: tut, shake our heads, and wait for the next tragedy to remind us that we have learned absolutely nothing.
