In a spectacularly predictable turn of events, the land of the long white cloud has not, in fact, descended into a gentle drizzle of hand-wringing and charity bake sales. Instead, a protest in Nairobi against a new US-run Ebola research facility has turned deadly, with reports of tear gas, rubber bullets, and at least one confirmed fatality. The protestors, who had gathered to express deep-seated suspicions about American virologists poking at the continent's most feared pathogen, were met with the full force of a police force that appears to have been taking lessons from a particularly aggressive game of Whac-A-Mole.
One might wonder why the UK is inserting its metaphorical oar into this particular puddle of blood and outrage. But our aid agencies, ever the sentinels of moral superiority, have 'voiced concern'. Concern is a marvellous currency, isn't it? It costs nothing to mint another coin of 'grave worry' and toss it into the ever-growing fountain of international hand-wringing. The Department for International Development has issued a statement expressing 'sadness' and 'urging calm'. Because nothing says 'we care' quite like a carefully worded press release from someone who's never been tear-gassed in their life.
The protestors, a coalition of local activists, conspiracy theorists, and what one can only assume is the entire population of Nairobi who have ever had a bad experience with a syringe, were demanding answers. Answers about the purpose of the centre. Answers about the samples being taken. Answers about why the Americans always seem to set up these facilities in places where the local plumbing could generously be described as 'seasonal'. The government, meanwhile, has responded with the logistical nuance of a sledgehammer: dispersal orders, batons, and a casual disregard for the Geneva Convention that would make a dictator blush.
This is, of course, the same government that has proven time and again that the only thing more prolific than its corruption is its ability to dispense tear gas. A government that has learned, perhaps from watching too many episodes of 'The Thick of It', that the best way to handle a crisis is to create a bigger one. And what better way to distract from the fact that the President's nephew has just bought a fifth mansion in London than by cracking a few skulls over a foreign-funded lab?
But let's not forget the fine folks at the American centre, who are no doubt sipping their fair-trade coffee in a cushioned conference room, discussing 'community engagement strategies' and 'building trust'. Because nothing builds trust quite like a bullet-riddled corpse outside your barbed-wire fence. They'll probably release a statement expressing their 'deepest condolences' and 'commitment to health diplomacy' while their security contractors swap stories about the 'hostile locals'.
Meanwhile, the UK aid agencies are busy 'monitoring the situation' from their air-conditioned offices, perhaps drafting a sternly worded letter to the Kenyan government that will be filed under 'T' for 'Things We Pretend Will Make a Difference'. But fear not, dear reader. In the grand tradition of international development, they will soon pivot to a new hashtag, a new campaign, a new photo of a white person hugging a black child. And the protest will fade, like a bad hangover after a night of cheap gin. But the blood, the blood stays on the pavement. That's the thing about journalism, folks: we report the fever dream, but we can't prescribe the cure.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need a drink. And possibly a flak jacket.
