The Gimme Economy

Nearly every day when I walk my dog in our neighborhood of Nairobi, someone will say to me, “Gimme that dog!” 

Some people are very insistent: “Come on, just give it to me. Gimme your dog.” And while most are walking, others will actually lean out of their cars to say, “Gimme that dog.”

Needless to say, I’m very fond of our dog, and he’s not up for grabs.

Moreover, it’s not like there’s a shortage of dogs here in Kenya. There are plenty of strays, especially in the slums. Known locally as the Dagoretti Ditch Dog (named for one of the eight administrative divisions of Nairobi), Kenyan street dogs tend to be sleek, short-haired, and smart. They scrape out a living feeding on the ubiquitous piles of garbage that litter city streets and neighborhoods, and they do their best to stay out of the way of kicking humans and motorized vehicles. The lucky ones get taken to the Kenya SPCA, where they are given proper care and attention – and hopefully a new home.

Typical Dagoretti Ditch dogs up for adoption at the KSPCA

Meanwhile, my dog is a mutt. He’s of average intelligence, neutered, and probably about 13 years old. We adopted him as an adult from a shelter years ago. While very sweet, charming to look at, and immensely likeable – even to people who don’t particularly like dogs – he’s no best in show. Nor is he much of a guard dog – unless you happen to be a cat.

But it doesn’t matter. Because when people stop to ask for my dog, it’s not really about the dog. It’s about something I call the gimme economy.

The dictionary definition of “the gimmes” is a “reliance on or a demand for the generosity of others, especially as one's due.” It’s very common here in Kenya, and according to my Kenyan friends, is on the rise.

Several factors seem to be involved.

First, there’s the enormous gap between the lifestyle of people like me and that of the overwhelming majority of Kenyans. According to the UN Human Development Report, more than 43% of Kenyans live on less than $1.25/day. Minimum wage in Nairobi for unskilled labor is $100-$120/month, and if you are a guard, that salary requires working 12-hour shifts, 6 days a week.

Most poor people in Nairobi live in one of the city’s numerous and vast slums, typically within labyrinthine neighborhoods of one-room shanties composed of dirt floors and corrugated metal walls and roofs. Because the government considers slums to be “informal” communities, they do not provide them with any municipal services such as clean water, sewage, streetlights, paved roads, schools, or health care. What services do exist are provided by churches, NGOs, small enterprises, and community members themselves. The results are dirty but bustling neighborhoods, filled with crime and disease, but also a vibrant population that reflects the effects of both despair and determination.
 
Even people with formal sector jobs often have difficulty affording much more than a slightly better place in the slums or lower income areas. Most (65%) of them earn just $200-$400 per month. That’s sufficient to be considered middle class, but not enough to access decent living conditions, which are notoriously unaffordable.

Our modern house is relatively modest by expat standards, but it is cheery and bright and secure. We have power and plenty of indoor plumbing, not to mention a fridge, range, small kitchen appliances, and a machine for washing our clothes (no dryer or dishwasher, which are rare extravagances, indeed).

The vast income and lifestyle disparities between the poor and people like us breed a Robin-Hood-like mentality, based on the concept that it’s okay to take from the rich (as we appear to be in a relative way) to give to the poor. In fact, it's expected - as one's due. 

This viewpoint has been reinforced through generations of international and humanitarian aid – long doled out in the form of handouts. While understandable during times of crisis, such as the looming threat of widespread malnutrition this year due to extended droughts, the long-term dependence on outside assistance has led to warped expectations about one’s due.  Both the humanitarian and development communities are trying to address the issue of learned dependence by replacing it with approaches that require community and individual inputs and participation in exchange for aid and investments. But it’s a tough mentality to change.
 
And it’s one that reverberates world wide, especially in the context of the gift economy of social media. Years ago (September 2002) the Wired ran a special report story about people using webcam culture to solicit gifts from strangers, touching on a concept they called the “please gimme economy” (the only other reference I’ve found to a gimme economy culture). 

“Why fold jeans at the Gap when you can get a new DVD player by making puppy-dog eyes into your webcam?” the story asked. It went on to say that: 

“In exchange for posting flirty photos, journal entries, and casual chat, these young experts in urges and acquisitions are hauling in pretty cool gear. Their sites are linked to mainstream registries at Amazon.com and elsewhere. The gift strategy seems to work, though police worry the sites can be a prowling ground for pedophiles.”

More recently, we’ve seen the advent of crowd-funding appeals to help people do everything from paying medical bills or start up business costs to going on holiday, saving circus lions, or sewing teddy bears for child cancer patients. But somehow, there’s a difference between being asked to give to a cause and the expectations of the gimme mentality.

So, while I do give generously to all kinds of causes and people here in Kenya, particularly those connected to promoting new livelihood choices for the poor, I’m not buying into the gimme economy.

And I’m not giving anyone my dog.

My dog may be a mutt, but he's not up for grabs.