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This week, I was invited to a breakfast meeting in town, the sort of engagement I avoid like the plague, because I don’t like the idea of venturing out in the hour that local lore has it that’s when Mara dumped his mother by the roadside.
For those who have forgotten, Mara was the trickster who decided to prop his dead mother’s body by the village thoroughfare at dawn so that whoever touched her would be blamed for killing her. That’s my roundabout way of saying I hit the road too early for comfort when such nefarious characters abound. Destination? A city establishment that has a countryside feel, for a hearty breakfast.
Or so I thought. Despite my best efforts, the breakfast caravan came and went before my arrival. Consequently, my first meal of the day came at 11 am, a slow-baked cake that replaced my regular nduma. So it seemed to be well worth the wait.
I was in the honourable company of men and women in fine robes, many of whom had titles before and after their names. No, these were not the waheshimiwa; their titles came from ‘eating’ many books to qualify as medics and other professionals, and who now serve in various capacities at both county and national facilities.
I didn’t get any sense that their egos were inflated, but the atmosphere did get altered after the cake eating, so it could be a case of undetected flatulence more than anything else. I suspect that’s why doctors don’t generally approve of too much cake.
This particular cake was to mark the birth of a spanking new media platform that focuses on public health, so the medics are vital stakeholders. I have no idea how the conversation veered suddenly from felicitations on the milestone to a lecture on how scribes should steer clear of ‘negative’ journalism and focus on positives.
To illustrate this point, one medic explained how a scribe called to seek his comment on a drug shortage at a county hospital. The medic termed this phenomenon a “drug stock-out,” which he attributed to bilateral donors’ shifting priorities, blah blah blah.
And since the scribe ignoramus lacked this context, and the larger improvements within the public healthcare system, their “reckless” reporting had allegedly jeopardised many lives!
Jesus, son of Mary! I have no idea why everyone, from political charlatans who scored D- in their primary schooling and now run this country on falsified high school diplomas, to medics with funky degrees from funky colleges abroad, thinks they can direct scribes on how to do their work.
Another medic, whose booming voice blew the microphone mute, trust me, I’m not exaggerating, lamented about his county attracting ‘negative’ reporting, highlighting the tragedy of 18 mothers who died while giving birth.
Apparently, this was considered a “good” outcome because the casualties were lower than in a previous reporting period, while systemic investments had been made to ameliorate future risks. That’s what the scribes should have focused on, the medic speechified, not on the 18 deaths.
So I gently said nobody gets to tell scribes what stories are important and which are not. We are not conveyor belts. We might not have placed our feet in buckets of cold water to stay awake and cram complex parts of human physiology as did medical students, but we use our heads to remember tales of Mara and his mother.
That’s complex, as is the story of journalism. It’s not about the usual; it’s about the unexpected. The well-worn dictum: when a dog bites a man, that’s not news; when a man bites a dog, that’s news, captures this conundrum.
In journalism, we evaluate communities and their well-being and how those in power are subverting or enhancing the full realisation of our people’s potential, as guaranteed in our Constitution.
The silver lining, I said to the medic who lamented about the “stock-outs” story, was that somebody allowed him to respond to the claims. That’s being fair-minded. We always strive to be.
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This week, I was invited to a breakfast meeting in town, the sort of engagement I avoid like the plague, because I don’t like the idea of venturing out in the hour that local lore has it that’s when Mara dumped his mother by the roadside.
For those who have forgotten, Mara was the trickster who decided to prop his dead mother’s body by the village thoroughfare at dawn so that whoever touched her would be blamed for killing her. That’s my roundabout way of saying I hit the road too early for comfort when such nefarious characters abound. Destination? A city establishment that has a countryside feel, for a hearty breakfast.
Or so I thought. Despite my best efforts, the breakfast caravan came and went before my arrival. Consequently, my first meal of the day came at 11 am, a slow-baked cake that replaced my regular nduma. So it seemed to be well worth the wait.
I was in the honourable company of men and women in fine robes, many of whom had titles before and after their names. No, these were not the waheshimiwa; their titles came from ‘eating’ many books to qualify as medics and other professionals, and who now serve in various capacities at both county and national facilities.
I didn’t get any sense that their egos were inflated, but the atmosphere did get altered after the cake eating, so it could be a case of undetected flatulence more than anything else. I suspect that’s why doctors don’t generally approve of too much cake.
This particular cake was to mark the birth of a spanking new media platform that focuses on public health, so the medics are vital stakeholders. I have no idea how the conversation veered suddenly from felicitations on the milestone to a lecture on how scribes should steer clear of ‘negative’ journalism and focus on positives.
To illustrate this point, one medic explained how a scribe called to seek his comment on a drug shortage at a county hospital. The medic termed this phenomenon a “drug stock-out,” which he attributed to bilateral donors’ shifting priorities, blah blah blah.
And since the scribe ignoramus lacked this context, and the larger improvements within the public healthcare system, their “reckless” reporting had allegedly jeopardised many lives!
Jesus, son of Mary! I have no idea why everyone, from political charlatans who scored D- in their primary schooling and now run this country on falsified high school diplomas, to medics with funky degrees from funky colleges abroad, thinks they can direct scribes on how to do their work.
Another medic, whose booming voice blew the microphone mute, trust me, I’m not exaggerating, lamented about his county attracting ‘negative’ reporting, highlighting the tragedy of 18 mothers who died while giving birth.
Apparently, this was considered a “good” outcome because the casualties were lower than in a previous reporting period, while systemic investments had been made to ameliorate future risks. That’s what the scribes should have focused on, the medic speechified, not on the 18 deaths.
So I gently said nobody gets to tell scribes what stories are important and which are not. We are not conveyor belts. We might not have placed our feet in buckets of cold water to stay awake and cram complex parts of human physiology as did medical students, but we use our heads to remember tales of Mara and his mother.
That’s complex, as is the story of journalism. It’s not about the usual; it’s about the unexpected. The well-worn dictum: when a dog bites a man, that’s not news; when a man bites a dog, that’s news, captures this conundrum.
In journalism, we evaluate communities and their well-being and how those in power are subverting or enhancing the full realisation of our people’s potential, as guaranteed in our Constitution.
The silver lining, I said to the medic who lamented about the “stock-outs” story, was that somebody allowed him to respond to the claims. That’s being fair-minded. We always strive to be.
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By Peter Kimani