In a tragic symphony of incompetence and negligence, a second school fire in Kenya this week has reduced sixteen pupils to nothing more than headlines and soundbites. The UK, ever the international conscience, has promptly called for a round of vigorous chin-stroking and the issuing of a strongly worded memo on 'safety standards' – a document that will no doubt be filed directly next to the circular bin, where it can keep company with all previous resolutions on climate change, global poverty, and the proper storage of gin.
Let us pause here to imagine the scene: a school in rural Kenya, perhaps a building of cinder blocks and corrugated iron, where the concept of a fire extinguisher is as foreign as a penguin in the Sahara. The children, packed in like sardines in a tin of hope, studying by the light of a single flickering bulb, dreaming of a future that will never come. Then, a spark. A scream. A stampede. And the final, horrifying realisation that the only thing more dangerous than the fire is the system that allowed it to happen.
But fear not, dear readers, for the UK has swung into action. No, not with actual fire engines or safety inspectors or, heaven forbid, a donation of some of that loose change from the Foreign Office's sofa cushions. Oh no. They have called for 'international safety standards'. This is a bureaucratic masterpiece: a way of looking concerned without actually doing anything; a linguistic sleight of hand that transforms guilt into virtue, and dead children into a talking point for the next G7 summit.
One cannot help but wonder: how many more schools must burn before the world realises that 'standards' are not enough? What Kenya needs is not a committee meeting in a marble palace in Geneva. It needs fire alarms. It needs sprinkler systems. It needs buildings that do not double as funeral pyres. It needs the kind of common-sense safety measures that any British schoolchild takes for granted, like the fact that their classroom has more than one exit, and that the extinguisher on the wall is not just a decoration.
But no. Instead, we will have a flurry of diplomatic notes, a few minutes of silence, and then a return to business as usual. The UK will continue to sell arms to the region, multinational corporations will continue to exploit its resources, and the world will collectively shrug at the deaths of sixteen children as if they are the cost of doing business.
I write this as I sip a gin and tonic in a London pub, the ice clinking against the glass like the final bell of a funeral. Outside, it is raining. The streets are safe. My children are at home, tucked in bed, dreaming of their future. And I am filled with a rage so profound, so pure, that I can only wash it down with another sip. For what else can one do when the news is a never-ending carousel of horror, and the only response from the powerful is a sombre nod and a call for a committee?
Rest in peace, little ones. May your deaths spur a change that, against all odds, actually matters. But I wouldn't hold my breath.
