Perhaps less clear to readers is the second definition of my concept—the “prison world” as an archive. Those who write history often dismiss sources deemed inadequate and erroneous. The very process of writing history, of using the archive, produces unheard and silenced voices. In addition, archives usually produce hierarchies of knowledge. According to Mbembe,

“archives are the product of a process which converts a certain number of documents into items judged to be worthy of preserving and keeping in a public place, where they can be consulted according to well-established procedures and regulations… The archive is, therefore, not a piece of data, but a status.”[17] [Open endnotes in new window]

A great example of a hierarchical archive is the National Archive, more specifically the Colonial Office of the British Empire.[18] Prior to the turn of the twenty-first century, The National Archive would only showcase documents that spoke of British successes during their colonial rule in Africa. It was not until revisionist (Marxist) Mau Mau historians Caroline Elkins, Huw Bennett, and David Anderson were called to investigate the archives that five Kenyans filed claims against the British government for “acts of mistreatment and torture” under British colonial rule in Kenya.[19] Throughout a tedious and complex investigation, they were given access to the Hanslope Disclosure,[20] where they found many files regarding interrogations, screenings, villagisation (a form of population control through detention villages), and hand detainees missing from the archives.[21] This new highlighting of different information proved that the British were not only responsible for the atrocities of Mau Mau detainees, but the National Archive secretly held sources that officials knew would tarnish their reputation. On one hand, the reorganization and withholding of certain documents exemplified the archive’s hierarchy, production of silenced voices, and illegitimate credibility as a historical archive. On the other hand, while censorship limited access into the totality of the archives, many historians such as Elkins were still capable of reading “along the archival grain” in order to uncover the truth. According to anthropologist Ann Laura Stoler, reading along the archival grain means to set aside any biases and assumptions about the colonial archive and instead read into it willingly to comprehend its methodical construction, imperial motives, and colonial interpretations. She argues that reading along the archival grain in colonial archives has produced some incredibly insightful analyses of colonialism, and anti-colonialism for that matter, especially when addressing rationalities and reasonable implications.[22] However, this methodology can only go so far especially when encountering histories that bleed into contemporary systems of power and surveillance.

At this point, the “prison world” can be recognized as a new archive, or at least we can be reminded of its existence as an unused archive for explicit and uncensored sources. Because the “prison world” and its freedom papers are created by the prisoners themselves, the political prisoner (who is the archivist in this case) shares an intimate connection to the prison world. Within the prison is a prison world, and within that world are freedom papers.

In the next section I turn to explore a history of Kenyan prisons through their harsh realities of governmental surveillance, discrimination, and torture, but also through their triumphant stories of escape, activism, career building, and creativities of expression.

Echoes from the past

Temporal landscapes: My first case study describes temporality and space in Fort Jesus, Mombasa. Between 1895 and 1958, the Portuguese military base was transformed into Kenya’s first carceral facility. Built in the shape of a man with four bulwarks representing a limb and eight watch towers, the fort reflected the “panopticon” advocated by British jurist and prison architect Jeremy Bentham. This carceral design was a circular prison that included a watch tower in its center; its structure was intended to create a state of conscious and permanent surveillance over the prisoner in order to ensure automatic authority.[23] This modern disciplinary mechanism, Michel Foucault argued, inflicts “institutions of repression, rejection, exclusion, and marginalization”[24] as it permeates throughout the institution a hierarchical system of power achieved through surveillance.[25] In addition, the fort incorporated prison warden quarters, barracks for soldiers and guards, kitchens, burial sites, etc., and above all, prison cells for men, women, and children.

The photographs above showcase one feature in particular: the torture chambers. Located just below the women’s cells, these chambers consisted of two rooms: the first room (left) was for both men and women, while the second room (right) behind it was solely meant for men. According to Educational Director of Fort Jesus, Mwalimu Abdi Aden Korio, prisoners would be chained to the walls while ocean waters would rise up into the chambers and drown the prisoners throughout the night.[26] A testimony from these chambers comes from former prisoner Mohammed Bachu whose years of imprisonment are unknown; however, according to his daughter, he died in prison in 1956, just two years before Fort Jesus had disbanded as a prison. Bachu was imprisoned for trading ivory and because this was deemed a serious crime, he was sentenced directly to solitary confinement in the torture chamber. While confined, he was not alone as there were other prisoners in the chamber.

Entrance to torture chamber.	Passage to torture chamber, food storage, ammunition storage, and drain.

Mwalimu Abdi states that prisoners who were held in the torture chamber were not allowed to talk amongst each other, so Bachu developed a form of communication with percussive taps against the wall that only he and the other prisoners understood.[27] Two taps followed by a pause and then another tap meant that a guard was approaching. Continuous taps meant that the chamber was about to flood. Four consecutive taps would signify that a woman was approaching the chamber (this can be viewed as an early version of catcalling). Mwalimu Abdi mentioned that Bachu eventually was able to sneak in materials of leather and string in order to construct a small drum, which he strategically hid from guards.[28] Bachu’s use of musical rhythms to communicate with other prisoners was a form of esoteric knowledge that developed into mutual aid amongst those held in solitary confinement.

Political prisoners then: The political prisoners of then refer to the revolutionaries of colonial Kenya of the twentieth century. A great example of this type of prisoner is former Mau Mau custodian Maina Macharia, who is 93 years old. While Kenyan Mau Mau revolutionaries mobilized in hopes of decolonization from the British, Maina Macharia was their custodian of important files from 1952-1953. His title was short-lived since he was captured and sentenced to more than five years in prison; during his sentence, Maina moved from prison to prison until he was released in 1959.[29] According to his memoir, of which he gifted a copy to me during our interview in his home, Maina stated that he was forced into hard labor, and in every new prison that he was relocated to, his sleeping arrangements, access to paper, and food rations were reduced to almost nothing.

“We had only one bed and two blankets that accounted for ten of us. Many days, we had no food, no mats, no sunshine… we had to smuggle in newspapers using ‘night baskets’ [used for trash] so that my fellow prisoners and I were briefed of the news outside… But the lack of food was the worst. I remember one man named Munogoki… he was one of us. He committed suicide in Karaba after a beating for gulping down a porridge.”[30]

From starvation to harsh beatings, political prisoners like Maina Macharia and his acquaintance Munogoki were not treated with the honor and status they had acquired outside. Instead, they were intensely surveilled, most especially because of their status and affiliation with the Mau Mau. Free conversations were scarce in the prison world, but communication with the outside world was almost non-existent. When first interrogated, Maina stated that if you did not admit to being Mau Mau, you would be placed in another room for screening and forced persuasion.[31] In other words, there was no way of getting out of this situation; whether you were Mau Mau or not, one accusation could lead to your inevitable imprisonment.

Though Maina Macharia was locked up under high surveillance, this did not break his spirit as he continued to smuggle newspapers and books in to enhance his studies on world affairs and current events. After his release, he was employed with newer opportunities in politics; he was even able to keep and preserve some of the Mau Mau files he had prior to his imprisonment (as shown in the photograph below). While many perceived him as a historian of great knowledge, his opposing ideas and actions against the current government still did not end well, especially with Presidents Jomo Kenyatta and Daniel Arap Moi. Still today, Maina remains under government watch.

Forbidden communities and their testimonies

Finding the forbidden fruit: for the last two weeks of my trip to Kenya in the Summer of 2022, I visited the slums located in Mathare and participated in political agenda meetings with members of the Mathare Social Justice Centre,[32] who directed me to the Coalition for Grassroots Human Rights Defenders (CGHRD).[33]

Inside Mathare Social Justice Centre. [ Click here to see large]

My visit with the latter placed me in a secluded area in Mathare, where I was able to stay off the police grid and meet with the LGBTQ+ community.[34] I conducted three non-consecutive group interviews in total, interviewing over twenty Kenyans who have experienced discrimination, violence, and/or imprisonment. My analysis will use testimonies from only five femmes and studs from the total of twenty-four interviews taken.[35] Since it is illegal to be a homosexual in Kenya, the interviews do not disclose individuals’ names, dates, or locations in order to protect their identities. In fact, I suggested that they all introduce themselves with nicknames before the start of the interview. In addition, the only place mentioned in these testimonies is the location where these interviews took place. Although the Kenyan government knows that these communities exist in the Mathare slums,[36] only the CGHRD, which is a protected non-governmental organization, knows where they meet and where they are located. Only with permission from the representatives can the community be known.