What’s it about the Toyota Land Cruiser Prado, the wagony, road-hugging four-wheeled status symbol that has become a cultural phenomenon in Kenya?
This multimillion-shilling Japanese sport utility vehicle is seemingly everywhere these days. When a newly appointed Cabinet Secretary received her brand-new specimen recently, some people shared photos of it on social media with comments that showed a blend of envy and approval.
A friend phoned me the other day to talk about something entirely different and ended the chat with, “By the way, the oaf [our well-connected mutual acquaintance] now drives a Prado”, as if I was supposed to take note of the man’s new ride and the implied change in social status that this supposedly connotes.
These gleaming chariots of the elite, often driven at high speed, glide over potholes effortlessly and leave other vehicles in the dust. No traffic police officer dares to stop them – for all the officer knows, they could be ferrying a VIP to some church fundraiser, and who wants to get in the way of a VIP hurrying to church?
But the Prado appears to be more than just a car – it’s a statement, and it has plenty to say.
Once upon a time, certain pricey versions of the Mitsubishi Pajero reigned supreme as the go-to vehicles for the high and mighty. But the Pajero lost favour years ago and is no longer being produced. Enter the Prado, strutting onto the scene like it owns the place – and, let’s face it, it owns the place now.
In Kenya, where the gap between the haves and the have-nots is wider than a politician’s promises, the Prado has become the ultimate symbol of excess. It’s like a giant, mobile billboard screaming, “Look at me! I’ve made it!”
Politicians don’t just push us off the road in their aggressively driven, tinted-window Prados. They have taken on the role of trendsetters extraordinaire. They’re not just leaders – they have also become unwitting influencers, perverting tastes. Look at their palatial homes and imitations of them. Their cars? Do we even need to ask?
It’s hard to pinpoint when the Prado started becoming a status symbol. Devolution must have something to do with it. Billions of shillings started pouring into counties from the National Treasury after 2012, and with car loan schemes for MCAs, the cash had to go somewhere. And where did it go? To buy luxuries of the kind favoured by those most visible of our overlords – MPs.
And then the most socially ambitious among us began taking notes, consciously or unconsciously mimicking the lifestyles of MCAs and MPs. It’s as if there’s an unwritten rule: “Thou shalt drive what the powerful drive, lest ye be mistaken for a commoner.”
But too much of anything can make you … nauseous. If the Prado were a phrase, it would be considered a cliché. It’s the linguistic equivalent of using “at the end of the day” in every sentence – overused, yes, but it still gets the message across. It’s the automotive version of wearing sunglasses indoors – completely unnecessary and a bit pretentious, but undeniably cool (to the wearer).
A Prado zooming down the road is a performance, a complex social ritual, a display of power and a testament to human nature’s endless capacity for showing off. But do the owners see the absurdity in all this?
Some people recognise that this vehicle is ridiculous (in the Kenyan context), but I get the feeling that everyone else has missed the farce. No one means to be harsh. Comfort, high ground clearance and air conditioning are nice to have if you can afford that package, and maybe success can be measured in those features.
But the Prado, this uniform of the powerful and influential and those seeking to ape them, is a rolling reminder of the absurdities of our time – the conspicuous excesses of the few amid the deprivation of the many.
— The writer is a Sub-Editor with People Daily-