A year on from the blood-soaked protests that turned Nairobi's streets into a Jackson Pollock canvas of tear gas and despair, Britain has finally found its voice. Not to demand reparations, not to impose sanctions, but to offer the most British of responses: a sternly worded statement of condemnation, preferably delivered over a lukewarm cup of Earl Grey while tutting at the sheer cheek of it all.
Let us rewind the tape to that fateful day when Kenyan citizens, driven by the kind of righteous fury that only comes from watching your children go hungry while MPs park their Porsches on the pavement, decided to take to the streets. The result? A government response that could generously be described as 'robust' if you were a sadist with a thesaurus. Dozens dead. Hundreds wounded. And the international community? They did what they always do: looked the other way and murmured something about 'internal affairs.'
But now, with the anniversary upon us, the Foreign Office has emerged from its slumber like a crusty old colonel roused by the clatter of G&Ts. 'We condemn the disproportionate use of force,' they bleated, their lips trembling with moral outrage. 'We urge restraint.' Oh, how we love that word. Restraint. As if the Kenyan government, having already deployed live ammunition against its own people, will suddenly be moved by a strongly worded paragraph from a nation that once colonised half the world and called it 'civilisation.'
Meanwhile, in the streets of Nairobi, families are laying flowers at the spots where their loved ones drew their last breaths. They are not waiting for Whitehall's approval. They are not seeking Westminster's sympathy. They are mourning, they are angry, and they are wondering why the same countries that lecture them on democracy are happy to sell arms to the very regime that gunned them down.
The hypocrisy is so thick you could spread it on a scone. Britain, a country whose own police forces have been known to get a bit heavy-handed with protesters (remember the 'kettling'? Or the 'plebgate'?), now feels qualified to lecture others on crowd control. It is like a lion tamer with a missing arm giving advice on how to handle big cats.
But let us not be too hard on the diplomats. They have a difficult job, balancing the need to appear principled with the desire to sell Typhoon fighters to anyone with a chequebook and a disregard for human rights. Perhaps they will send a strongly worded letter to the Kenyan president. Perhaps they will even go so far as to cancel a trade delegation. And then, satisfied that they have done their bit for global justice, they will adjourn to the nearest bar and order a double gin, dry, with a slice of lemon, and toast the memory of those who died for the right to a fair wage.
As for the Kenyan government, they will no doubt release a statement of their own. 'We regret the loss of life,' they will say, 'but order must be maintained.' Order. That other great colonial export, along with railways and the habit of drinking tea at four o'clock.
So here we are, a year on. The families mourn. The politicians posture. The journalists write clever pieces about it. And the world, as always, moves on to the next tragedy, the next outrage, the next opportunity to express profound concern while doing absolutely nothing.
God save the King. And the Kenyans. But mostly the King.
