This is a response I just wrote and posted to an Allafrica.com story.  By the way, I consider Allafrica.com as one of the best Africa news services in existence today.  The article is

Burn, Baby, Burn - Why Africa’s Leaders Will Soon Be Needing a Lot of Water

by Kalundi Serumamga is a political and cultural activist based in Kampala

Here is my comment:

“The problem that Gaddafi is facing is not only his own severe dictatorial rule. As treacherous as he is, this is nothing new. He has been ruling with an iron hand for decades. So did Presidents in Egypt and Tunisia. The current “straw that broke the camel’s back,” is growing unemployment and specter of poverty for their nations’ youth. Whether they are dictatorial or not, many of Africa’s leaders face a growing disgruntled young population. And, these young people are neither ignorant or without power. They are more educated than ever and they have learned to use social media to organize and motivate each other. A wise leader anywhere, but especially in Africa these days, will include young people in the process of nation building and treating them with respect as a national treasure. A leader who does not do so may find his days in power numbered.”

(If you missed the first 3 parts of this experience, click here, part 1, part 2 and part 3)

 

 

Before I knew it, a dark blue station wagon pulled up. One of the passengers leapt out and rushed over to me. “Do you have any guns?” he asked as he walked right past me.

 

 

“No. I am a missionary. I do not have any guns.”

 

 

He opened the door to my truck and started searching it: felt under the dashboard, opened the glove box, and pulled down the visor. I reached in to moved some things from under the driver’s seat so he could see better. “I will do it myself,” he said. “Stand over there.” I walked a few yards away from the door.

 

 

The women that were cooking across the road came over and were soon joined by several others. They surrounded me and glared. I tried, in vain, to see through them to the truck.

 

 

The man in the plain military uniform, who I had talked to on the road, stepped through the crowd, thrust his rifle at my chest and yelled, “Why are you here? What do you want?”

 

 

‘Lord, I need your help,’ my spirit cried out and I said, “I just want to speak to Devi. I have a message from God.”

 

 

The crowd quickly swelled to more than a hundred. Suddenly, someone chopped me behind the knees; my feet flew out from under me; I was on my back; looking up at three rifle barrels. A women’s voice yelled, “Burn him!” Others joined her. “Burn him! Burn him! Burn him” Maybe they would. A resigned helplessness rushed over me.

 

 

The man who had been searching my truck broke through the crowd waving his arms and shouting something at the uniformed man. Several men lifted me off the ground and into the bed of my truck. Half a dozen men with rifles jumped in and the uniformed man sat down next to me and handed his rifle to a boy, who could not have been more than fifteen years old. From his waist he pulled out a large locally made pistol and slid a shotgun shell into the back of the barrel, and pointed it at my head.

 

 

The man who searched my car, (by now I gathered he was the leader), climbed in the driver’s seat. The truck jolted forward, but could only creep along, unable to break through the crowd trotting along side. They still shouted, “Burn him. Burn him.” I could not focus enough to pray, so I bowed and let my spirit groan to the Lord.

 

 

We crawled along for a couple hundred yards, and stopped. The dark blue station wagon pulled alongside. They lowered me out of the truck and shoved me into the back seat. The uniformed man sat down beside me and again pointed the pistol at my head.

 

 

Soon we drove into the shaded area in the village and they pulled me out of the car, led me through the crush of people, and sat me on a stool against a tree. The uniformed man crouched down in front of me. He looked wild, even possessed as he pointed the pistol at my chest. It shook in his grip.

 

 

Many people pushed each other and tried to look down on me. Many of them shouted, asking the others what was going on. The men right in front of me yelled. It took me a second to make out that they were speaking French. “I do not hear French very well,” I said in Aja, their mother tongue.

 

 

The leader shouted over the noise of the crowd, “Why did you come here? Are you a Catholic? Devi told the priest he did not want to see him.”

 

 

“No, I am not a Catholic.” I reached for my wallet and pulled out my Benin ID card. He grabbed both of them. “God sent me to talk to Devi.” I said.

 

 

The crowd shouted so loud that we could not communicate well, so a couple of the men lifted me up and guided me into a building just ten yards away.

 

 

They sat me one of three chairs at the front of the rectangular room. A couple of men with rifles remained standing at the door. As far as I could tell the remaining, ten or so men did not carry weapons. Faces clogged the one open window, near the door. I recognized Devi’s father, the diviner, peering in.

 

 

One at a time, a half a dozen men entered the room, asked the same questions, and left. “Who are you? Why did you come here? What do you want to tell Devi?”

 

 

I was very nervous, but determined to complete my mission. Over the past thirty years, I have developed a comradery and a high degree of trust in Africans. Nevertheless, I knew my present captors had dealt treacherously with many others.

 

 

After an hour and a half, a door to the right opened. A man walked in. “Lets go outside,” he said and motioned me to follow him. We stepped through the door into a courtyard. Devi and three other men stood there, facing me.

 

 

Devi looked at me and said, “Don’t be afraid.”

 

 

“My heart is running very fast, but my spirit is trying to remain calm.”

 

 

“Are you a thief,” he demanded.

 

 

I locked my eyes on his. “No.”

 

 

“What did you want to say to me?”

 

 

“I, too, believe that people should not steal. More importantly, God does not want them to steal. But, thievery is not the only thing that displeases God. He does not want people to lie, to sleep with other people’s wives, nor to be jealous of each other.”

 

 

I paused, but Devi did not react, so I took a breath and let my spirit gain some strength from the Lord. “These burnings have caused a lot of disorder and fear in Aja land. God wants peace. But, there is no peace now. People are so afraid that they cannot sleep at night. They are afraid that you might come in the night and take them or their relatives away. God is not pleased. There is too much fear.” He looked away from me. “You are afraid, too. You do not know when the para commandos will come for you.” God give me the words, I prayed silently. “It is not easy to see a way for all of this fear to come to an end. God wants me to talk to you, Devi, to tell you that He wants to work with you to bring peace. God loves you. He loves all the Aja people. All the fear and problems make Him sad.”

 

 

“Is that all?” Devi asked.

 

 

“My coming here has caused you a problem. I am sorry for that, but I had to bring you this message. Come visit me at my house anytime. We can talk some more.” One of the men smiled and said he would. Devi walked away and urinated against the courtyard wall.

 

 

The door opened behind me. I turned, my escort motioned me back inside. I saw the men in the courtyard had begun talking among themselves, so I re-entered the building. Only two guards remained. One of them had a rifle. I said, “Do you want to hear …” The guard with the gun motioned me to be silent and sit down. I complied and silently talked to my Father in heaven.
About an hour later, several men came in through the main door. They sat down and whispered to each other. Shortly, a man in a dark suit entered the room, followed by two policemen. Later, I learned the man in the suit was the Mayor of Djakotome, the nearest town. I recognized one of the policemen. He talked to David and I when we went to the Djakotome police station, on two occasions, while Devi was holding Joseph. The policemen looked at me and laughed.

 

 

After the Mayor spoke softly to the other men in the room, he turned to me and motioned for me to stand up. “We can go now.” When we got outside, the crowd was still large, but no longer loud. “Can I talk to the people?” I asked the Mayor.

 

 

He did not answer, but the man who had searched my car said, “Yes, if you want.”

 

 

“God loves you, and I love you. That is why I am here. I came to talk about God’s desire for peace and freedom. He is not happy about the fear that has come to Aja land. He sent me to ask Devi to help bring peace.”

 

 

A policeman took hold of my arm and escorted me to my truck. He put me in the rear seat and joined his fellow officer in the front. Somehow, they had acquired the key to the truck. The Mayor got into the dark blue station wagon that had brought me to the compound hours ago. The station wagon led the way down the dirt road.

 

 

After interviews at both the Djakotome and Aplahoue Sous Prefectures, the policemen drove me home. There was no one to greet me or to hear what had just happened. My wife, Cyndi, my daughter, Heather, and my son-in-law, David had gone to Cotonou the day before.

 

 

I had a restless and prayerful night. Had I fulfilled the mission? My nerves were still on high alert, and Devi did not give any indication that he would change anything. Did he believe I was speaking on behalf of the Lord? “Give some sign, Lord. Show me that I had not had a gun pointed at my head for nothing.”

 

 

I knew what I had done was right, not because of any special revelation, voice, or vision, just a clear understanding of God’s word and a desire to do something. I knew that the Lord said, “my word is sufficient.” It would have to be, for now at least.

 

 

The next morning, I drove to Cotonou, and told my family what had happened.

 

 

After praying, they suggested that I should inform the U.S. embassy. A counselor at the embassy asked me to write an account of the ‘incident.’ The next day when I handed him the report, he said, “Look at this.” He held up the front page of a local newspaper. There was a picture of Devi and a story of a rally at the stadium in Lokossa the day before. He surprised thousands of people by proclaiming he would no longer burn anyone. He even forbad anyone from using his name in connection with any further burnings.

 

 

I thanked the Lord, and praised HIS NAME.

 

 

(If you missed the first 2 parts of this experience, click here, part 1 and part 2.)

 

 

As we were driving home one Saturday in September, we spotted more than a hundred motorcycles and bicycles parked near the gate of a primary school just beyond the town of Dogbo. A large crowd filled the schoolyard. Several of the men held rifles. I pulled up and asked two men who were leaving, “What is going on?”

 

 

“Devi just burned two thieves. He is talking to the people now.”
He had ‘progressed’ to executing people on playgrounds. What next? The answer arrived the following day when we returned home from worship in a remote village.

 

 

We saw a crowd in the town park. “It’s got to be Devi,” I said. I rolled up to the edge of the park and hopped out. Music, punctuated by announcements, bellowed from a loud speaker. “Devi is coming soon…everyone come…Churches are with us…Devi is sent by God.” Many of the people in the park knew I opposed Devi’s activities. They crowed around me. I asked them, “Why is Devi coming here?”

 

 

“He is going to raise money,” one of my neighbors said.

 

 

“If Devi is sent by God why does he wear fetish protection around his waist? Why does he sacrifice to the voodoo gods?” The circle of people grew, but no one answered my questions. “If he is sent by God, why does he come with guns? Tell him to go home, put his guns down, and then come back.” I returned to the car and asked my wife to go home and inform our mission teammates what was happening. “I’ll be there soon.”

 

 

Ten minutes later several neighbors came up to me and spoke in a low voice, “Richard you need to get out of here. These people are not happy with you.” I scanned the eighty or so who encircled me, and found only a few faces that seemed sympathetic, so I heeded the advice and walked away.

 

 

As I reached the far right corner of the park, I spotted the Captain of the Brigade and several of his fellow policemen coming out of the station. They had taken off their uniforms and put on colorful, civilian clothes. It was obvious that they would not stand in Devi’s way. They feared him.

 

 

It took me just a couple of minutes to walk home. Cyndi and I decided it was prudent to go to Azove for lunch rather than stick around town during Devi’s rally. When we approached the paved road, we could see that rifle-carrying men lined both sides of the street for about a quarter of a mile. Across the valley, I could see a procession of motorcycles and cars, with their headlights on, moving slowly down the hill. They were escorting Devi to town with the rural equivalent of a presidential entourage. We decided not to attempt to proceed up the hill past them.
When we turned around and preceded down the dirt road, we were shocked to see armed men standing every few meters around the perimeter of the park. Some had stationed themselves in front of the police and mayor’s office. The vigilante bands had become an organized militia of more than one thousand and had effectively taken control of Aplahoue for the afternoon.

 

 

The following afternoon we attended a service at the Catholic Church in Azove where the Monsignor from Lokossa delivered a homily in opposition to Devi’s campaign. The press, local government officials, police brass and the rest of us crowded into the church. Without calling Devi’s name, the priest spoke about the need to be forgiving and to be agents of peace.

 

 

That evening my landlord told me that the Monsignor sat down, after the service, with Christian leaders to discuss how they might work together to end the burnings. I regretted that I missed that meeting. So, the next morning, October 18, after my wife and the Hicks left for Cotonou, I drove to the Catholic compound in Lokossa. Another priest told me the Monsignor had gone to the north of the country. So, I visited with the priest for a while, then headed home.

 

 

The conversation with the priest and the events surrounding Devi churned in my heart and mind as I drove home. A word came to me from the Lord, not in a mysterious voice, but the clear proclamation of scripture. “For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love and of self-discipline” (2 Tim. 1:7). I was convinced that I must meet with Devi and tell him how God felt about what he and his followers were doing. I prayed that he would listen.

 

 

I heard that Devi lived in Gohomey, so when I spotted the Gohomey Clinic sign, I turned down the dirt road and saw three people walking ahead. I pulled along side them, greeted them, and said, “I want to talk to Devi. How do I get to his house?”

 

 

They looked at each other, then one said, “We do not know.”

 

 

Surely, everyone around here knows his place. They must be afraid of what might happen to them if they showed me the way. I thanked them and I drove on.

 

 

A half a mile further down the road I came upon another group. “I am a missionary.”

 

 

I pulled my wallet from my hip pocket and showed them my “carte de sejour” (resident I.D. card). “I want to talk to Devi. Is his house on this road?”

 

 

“Just keep going for about four kilometers and you will come to it.”
I put the truck into gear and drove on. Less than a half mile later, I noticed a man, in a plain military uniform, jogging down a knoll toward the road. He carried a rife in one hand and waved for me to stop with the other. “I want to talk to Devi,” I told him when he came up to the truck.

 

 

“It is just up ahead.”

 

 

A couple of kilometers later I began to think that I had been deceived. I pulled alongside a young man and asked him if he would take me close to Devi’s house. “I will let you off before we arrive, so no one will know you showed me the way.” He agreed and got in the truck.

 

 

It was not long before the young man said, “Devi lives there” and indicated a village just ahead. “You can let me out here.” When I stopped, the young man looked around to see if anyone was watching. Satisfied, he got out. I thanked him and ventured forward.

 

 

On the right, a couple dozen mud huts bordered a tree-shaded, open area. A school was behind a hedge on the left. Except for the children in the schoolyard, there did not seem to be anyone around. Then I spotted a few women cooking under a tin shelter at a crossroad at the edge of the village. I drove up to them and asked if Devi was around. They looked at each other and did not answer. So, I repeated, “Can you please show me his house?”
Finally, one of them pointed at what looked like a bike path lined by tall shrubs. I had only gone fifty meters down the path when a man stepped out from a break in the shrubs. He held a two-way radio. “Go back to the junction. Devi will meet you there,” he said and motioned me to turn around.

 

 

When I got back to the junction, I got out and stood in front of my truck. People came out of huts and from behind trees. They stared, but kept their distance. Children ran across the open schoolyard. I held my hand up and said, “Don’t come close. This is not a place for children.”

 

 

If you missed part 1 click here.
Devi’s growing band of vigilantes set up roadblocks on many of the dirt roads. One night in early August, my teammate and I drove our pickups down one such rural road giving some church leaders a ride home from a meeting. As we neared a village, I saw red lights flickering in the road. As we approached, I realized that someone had placed lanterns in half a dozen red, plastic buckets and positioned them in the middle of the road. Logs and benches were stacked behind the buckets. As we pulled up to the barrier, about eight young men stepped out of the darkness on our right. Several of them held rifles. One stationed himself in front of my truck while two others inspected the rear. The rest gathered at the passenger window and glared at us.

 

 

One of them asked, “Where are you coming from?” We told them about the leadership meeting.
Then he said, “Are you thieves?”

 

 

“No, we are not thieves. Move the barriers, please.” I was exhausted and not in the mood for dealing with young bullies.

 

 

“Give us some money,” the spokesman said.

 

 

“Who sent you out here to do this?”

 

 

“Give us a thousand francs, then you can go.”

 

 

I reached in the glove compartment, pulled out a Bible tract, and handed it to him. “Please, move the barrier.”

 

 

He looked at the tract, shrugged, and then ordered the man in front of our truck to move the obstacles aside.

 

 

As I rolled through the gap in the barricade, I looked in my review mirror and saw my teammate driving up. He drove onto the shoulder of the road to my left, evading the barrier.

 

 

In the next few days, we learned that Devi’s people had established roadblocks all over Mono and Coufo districts and had detained, and burned several suspected thieves.

 

 

Even convicted thieves in prison were on Devi’s agenda. He told an audience of twenty thousand in Lokossa that, ”One day, we must march on the prisons, lead the thieves out, and burn every last one of them.”

 

 

It was not long before “Colonel Devi” was not satisfied with burning suspected thieves. He went after his opponents, even if they were government officials. One afternoon, he captured the mayor of Lalo, who had publicly criticized him and his vigilantes, tortured him, and set him on fire. They dumped the charred body in front of the Lalo police station as a warning to other officials.

 

 

As the weeks passed, pickup trucks of armed vigilantes prowled around to show the police and populace that they were serious. They even commandeered the city trash tractor and paraded bound prisoners through town in the trailer. On a couple of occasions, I stopped and attempted to talk with them, but they ignored me. One day, David Hicks, my son-in-law and teammate, came upon a truck of vigilantes on their way to burn prisoners. He tailed them. When they stopped and led the prisoners off, David got out, fire extinguisher in hand, and told them he would put out any fire they lit. Before he had a chance to do so, the crowd forced him back to safety in his truck.

 

 

The burnings were horrifying enough, but my concern grew over the influence the crusade had on thousands of Aja people. Cheering crowds lined the streets as vigilantes passed and encouraged as Devi ignited the captives. Parents even brought their children to watch. I heard children shouting to each other, “Give my toy back or Devi will come burn you.”

 

 

All of this fed Devi’s ego. He did not trust reporters in general, so he seldom granted interviews or allowed them near burnings. Yet he permitted supporters to chronicle his crusade. A local photographer filmed many of the burnings and sold the explicit footage locally and to European websites specializing in the macabre. One of the more popular clips featured David’s attempt to take action with his fire extinguisher. A national folk singer even composed a ballad praising Devi because he “rejected their (the captives) cries for forgiveness.”

 

 

By September 1999, Devi had burned more than a hundred and twenty people. The Benin government was concerned, and for good reason. Elsewhere in Africa, unrestrained vigilante activity and mob violence has resulted in many prolonged, bloody revolutions. Officials ranging from the Prefect (District Commissioner) in Lokossa to the Society of Federal Judges spoke out against Devi. Even the President publicly forbade him from continuing with the executions. However, nothing changed, and the government did not detain Devi or stand in his way.
Twice I alerted police when I spotted vigilantes on their way to burn captives. They listened, but did not take action.

 

 

One evening my landlord and I had a long discussion with the Mayor in Aplahoue. He confirmed that the burnings were illegal and that he had filed official reports and phoned his superiors, all to no avail. This convinced the Mayor that if he took unilateral action against Devi, the administration would not back him up. David and I had a candid conversation with the district’s Adjunct Procure (Assistant Justice). He was candid about his opposition to Devi. After Devi publicly threatened to storm the Tribunal and capture him, he issued a warrant for Devi’s arrest, but security forces refused to pick him up.

 

 

Then Devi struck close to home. When the head of the Avegodo village invited an Aja evangelist, Baten, and myself to begin Bible studies in his village, we were unaware Devi considered him an enemy. A couple of weeks into the studies, vigilantes snatched the headman and his son and held them until they paid a one hundred and twenty dollar bribe. The delegate reported the incident to the press, but Devi countered that he would never ask for a bribe and promised to punish two of his followers for receiving the money.

 

 

About a week later, Devi’s people grabbed Joseph, a Christian from the Avedjin congregation. Scores of Christians begged the Lord to intercede and two days later, the vigilantes released Joseph. We were relieved, but knew the ordeal was far from over.

 

 

My outraged reached a peek when I heard Devi claim God had ordered him to wage this crusade. In direct contrast to such a claim, he appropriated power from evil sources. He frequented voodoo priests to receive blessings from their gods. On more than one occasion, he came to our town to visit the priest of the god, Sovi. Shrines and the remains of sacrifices littered his home compound. A belt of strung seashells around his waist forewarned his enemies that the voodoo gods were on his side. He often showed up at the burnings with an owl on his shoulder. Aja people believe that sorcerers send owls to deliver curses.

 

 

I was positive that Jehovah, the Almighty God, would never send anyone who maintained such a close bond with voodoo. Yet, it was this audacious claim that motivated more and more Aja people to follow him.

 

 

This is the first in a series of posts that recount an encounter I had with a man in Benin more than a decade ago. I wrote the entire series, in a single document, soon after encounter, but this is the first time I have published it.

For God did not give us a spirit of timidity,
but a spirit of power, of love and of self-discipline. – 2 Timothy 1:7

— Hotel Plateau, Azove, Benin, April 1999

“I took some pictures of the burning yesterday,” the man slapped a three-inch stack of photos on the bar in front of the waiter. I raised a Coke to my mouth and peeked at the top snapshot. A man sat on the ground with a car tire around his waist, eyes wide in terror behind a transparent shroud of flames.

“He broke into a woman’s house while she was selling pots and pans at the market. Neighbors caught him sneaking out of the house with a radio.” The photographer grinned and went on to say the neighbors shoved the thief back into the house, bolted the door, and summoned the owner. The mob that followed her back from the market, quickly bound the thief, drug him outside, shoved a tire over him, drenched him with gasoline, and ignited it.

The photographer flipped to the next photo. The fire was out, but dark burns pocked the man’s contorted face. “He did not die the first time, so they had to torch him a second time.”
That was all I could handle. I left my almost full Coke behind and drove home.

I had no idea that the summary execution captured in those photos would grow into a cruel, reoccurring event. In fact, it hardly crossed my mind during our May to July furlough in 1999. Yet, when we returned to Benin we were told that more than twenty people had been burned to death. Some had beaten and robbed motorcyclists or taxi drivers. Some had stolen only a goat or a chicken. One man had set them all on fire: Ehoum Zinsou Devi.

When I asked people what motivated Devi to appoint himself judge and executioner, most pointed to his relationship with his twin brother. Devi’s people, the Aja, believe that twins have a special bond that remains even when one of them dies. The survivor will constantly carry a small, wooden doll to remind everyone that he is a twin. They also think twins have a unique relationship with the gods even to the point of being divine.

When he was in his twenties, Devi temporarily separated himself from his twin when he joined the army. In less than two years, his military career ceased. Some say the army asked Devi to leave because he lacked the intelligence to advance. Others reckon he had trouble taking orders.
Upon his return home, he channeled his desire for power into an extortion racket that he and his brother ran. This frequently pitted them against thieves. In one run-in, thieves gunned down his twin. To avenge his death, Devi embarked on a campaign to burn all thieves in Benin’s Mono district.
He organized young men from the extortion racket into a fledgling vigilante force. They set up roadblocks and scoured village for thieves. Devi took on the title Colonel Civil (Civilian Colonel) and dawned bracelets and necklaces given to him by feared voodoo practitioners, including his father. Clothed with these powers, Devi did not fear punishment from earthly or spiritual authorities. As his ego increased, so did the number of new recruits.

Almost every day I heard reports that vigilantes snatched people from their homes, pulled others out of cars, or terrorized villages in the night. They tied up the accused, locked them in guarded huts, interrogated, and if need be, tortured them into confessing that they were thieves. Finally, they loaded them into the back of pickup trucks and drove them to a public place where Devi would set them on fire. Then they left the bodies. Relatives seldom retrieved them.

One day, as we entered Azove on our way home from teaching in a village, my wife, Cyndi said, “What are all of those people doing in the road?” There was a crowd in the central traffic circle.
“It looks like an accident,” I said. Over the years, we had come upon scores of accidents on African roads. On many occasions, we lifted an injured person into our car, and sped him off to the hospital. Once again, we readied ourselves to be of assistance.

It was dusk, so I approached slowly and strained to see what had drawn the crowd. Next to the curb, laid two charred corpses their arms stiffly extended in the air. I gasped and pulled over next to a cluster of men. “What happened?”

They grinned and pointed to the bodies. “They are thieves. Devi burned them.”

Cyndi and I looked at one another. Then I turned to the crowd again, “This is not good.”

“Not good?”

“No, it is not good.” I pulled away and slammed my palm against the steering wheel in disgust. How could human beings rejoice at cruel execution, no matter what the reason?

Devi dumped the bodies at this intersection of vehicles and people so the news of his deed would circulate throughout the region. Some would rejoice. Some would fear. By morning, everyone would be talking about Devi.

After seeing the charred bodies, I could no longer keep my concerns to myself. I ask the Lord to bring a halt to this terrible crusade. After a praying at a mission team meeting, I said, “I believe something has to be done. We need to do something.” But, I did not know what to do.

(the next installment will appear tomorrow)

Yet another use of cell phones in Africa has come to my attention. Like other novel, African uses of cell technology (checking the validity of medicines, receiving crop price information, and banking), this one offers real help at the grassroots level on the continent. Farmers in Kenya while purchasing seed and fertilizer for their crops can, at the same time, use their cell phones to scan a bar code on the products to purchase weather related crop failure insurance. They receive weather advisories on the same devises. Ultimately, if the rains are not sufficient or abundantly destructive they will receive payouts on those devises.

There are no forms to fill out nor claims to file. The entire system is automated on their cell phones. This insurance scheme is the result of a partnership between UAP Insurance Company of Kenya, Safaricom Ltd., and two crop input providers (MEA Fertilizers and Syngenta Foundation for Sustainable Agriculture seed supplier).

The name of this Kenya insurance scheme is called Kilimo Salama (’safe farmering’ in Swahili).  Farmers can insure the seed and/or fertilizer for as little as one acre.  The cost to the farmer is five percent of the purchase price of the products.  That five percent is matched by the product producer, MEA or Snygenta.  When a local weather station detects that there has been either too much or insufficent rain a payout is automatically triggered to cover the seed or fertilizer.  The scheme has gained momentum this year because of the payouts it made in 2o1o to farmers in effected areas.  The farmers now have confidence that their investment in the insurance will actually result in a payout.

View this video describing the scheme and a payout last year:

Of course, as is the case with all forms of insurance, premiums could increase if multiple, major payouts are made due to chronic weather problems. Yet, the ease of purchase and payout will most likely continue to attract greater numbers of Kenya’s farmers. The success of the Kilimo Salama scheme will surely spawn similar coverage in other African countries.

Africans used to be continually lag far behind the rest of the world in the implementation of technology, but they are quickly becoming the trend setters when it comes to the use of cell phone and mobile media technology. More power to them!

Other Africa Technology articles in Stories Of Africa Blog:

CMS Employed to Monitor Sudan Referendum

Cell Phone App to Fight Counterfeit Meds in Kenya

Africa’s Use of Mobile Technology Assists Healthcare