JAMILA'S MEMO: What is your surname?

In my memo tonight, I ask: What is your surname? Kamau? Wanyonyi? Otieno? Kiprotich? Mutua? Abdurahman? Because apparently, in Kenya, that may sometimes be more important than what is written on your CV.

This week, Kimilili MP Didmus Barasa gave us a rather extraordinary example of how he thinks people from his community who are appointed to senior public positions should behave.

Now, it is very easy to dismiss this as another politician saying something outrageous. But perhaps we should stay with it for a moment.

Because maybe Barasa has simply said loudly what too many Kenyans have quietly come to accept: that public office belongs to communities.

A minister is appointed and we say, Tumepata waziri. A PS is appointed: Tumepata PS. Someone from “our community” gets a parastatal position: Serikali imetukumbuka. And when they are removed? Tumepokonywa.

A Cabinet Secretary from Western is not the Cabinet Secretary for the Luhya community. A Principal Secretary from Central does not work for Kikuyus. A parastatal chairman from Nyanza does not hold a Luo position. An ambassador from Garissa does not represent Somalis.

These are public officers of the Republic of Kenya. And yes, Kenya must reflect its diversity. Our public service cannot belong to one community or one region.

But inclusion cannot mean excluding somebody else because of their surname.

Because today, you are cheering when Kamau is sent home. Tomorrow, your daughter Nekesa is sitting before a panel somewhere else. Next week, it is Otieno, Kiprotich, Mutua or Abdurahman.

And somebody looks at that name before they even look at the qualifications.

This is especially cruel in a country where we constantly lecture our young people: Soma kwa bidii. Get good grades. Go to university. Learn skills. Don't expect favours.

Then that young person spends four years studying. Their parents sell land, livestock, borrow money and struggle through school fees.

Finally, one interview comes. They wake up early. Iron the one good suit they own. Carry that precious brown envelope. Sit outside that interview room, rehearsing their answers.

And perhaps what they don't know is that the interview ended before it started.

Wrong name.

Surely, we cannot build a country like that.

And perhaps the saddest part is what this teaches the next generation: that excellence, merit and hard work are not enough.

You need somebody from your village, your tribe, or somebody who knows somebody. And then we wonder why young Kenyans lose faith in institutions.

Why should they believe in a system that tells them to compete while quietly deciding that some people belong more than others?

So yes, let us talk about ethnic balance. Let us insist that every Kenyan community sees itself represented in its government.

Public office is not inheritance. Neither is it community property.

And a government job is not a favour from one tribe to another. It belongs to the Kenyan who deserves it.

Maybe we shouldn't be asking, What is your surname?

Maybe the only question that should matter is: Can you do the job?