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Reflections

You Were Only Seven

7 min read.

Kevin Mwachiro pens a poetic tribute letter to Geoffrey Mutinda, a 7 year old boy shot dead after a police clash with NASA protestors in November 2017 and questions the normalization of the murder of children as collateral damage during election contests in Kenya.

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Dear Geoffrey,

Your family picked a great photo of you that was used at your funeral. You were photogenic and I was impressed by how comfortable you were in front of the camera. It was a good shot and I remember, saying to myself, ‘cool kid’. Your dad, Peter said that photo was taken on just a kawa day. An ordinary day in the sprawling, high-density, sprawling neighbourhood of Pipeline.

My name is Kevin. A mwananchi just like you but one who was touched by your death on the day of President Uhuru Kenyatta’s inauguration. When I first heard the news that another kid had been shot, I must admit I was numbed. There was lots of anger, confusion and despair hurricaning inside me. I refused to go online to read what had happened and it took me a day to muster the strength to read about the events that led to your death. I did and didn’t want to know.

I was like, another child? Have we stooped that low as a nation that our brutality and hatred does not even spare children during our fights? Something is wrong with us big people!!! You were only seven. Seven, my boy. I remember I liked being seven. It seemed like such a cool age. Unfortunately, you only got to know seven. It ended there for you and your legacy began. You will be remembered as the kid who was shot on inauguration day. Your family will remember you and you will be remembered for the injustice that your family will receive. Your family like the rest of Kenya will have to accept and move on. Wenye nchi would much rather prefer that. Our national rallying call should be, ‘Harambee, Accept and Move, Harambee, Accept and Move On!’

It is sad that our nation-building, Kenya -rising, fix the economy and peace mantras, will be built on the graves of individuals like you. The year, 2017, joins 2007, 1997 and 1992 as years scarred by PEV (Post Election Violence) and the death of innocents. People are scared to use that acronym these days. Maybe it helps us forget, and hide behind that accept and move on attitude that we as a nation have taken to heart. PEV for me is politically engineered violence. It is has been in our past, post and present. It has become the reality of our democracy. The reality of Kenya, a country that is now uncomfortable with itself and fearful and untrusting of its children.

I was seven too, Geoffrey and I remember it was in 1980. My first recollection of the Olympic games was in that year, the games were in the USSR, now called Russia. President Moi, had been in power for two years. I had just joined Standard One or Class One, as it is referred to now. The thing I liked most about being in Standard One was, that I was finally able to join my brother in the same school. You see, I had been in another school and didn’t like it much. But that year, we were together with my big brother. Was it like that for you? Did you like being with your big sister in the same school?

You seem cheeky, Geoffrey? The description of you in the press barely scratched the surface. “He was a good boy, mtoto mzuri.” That is all. There was no story built around you, to tell us who you were. There was no interest in what you liked, what your teachers and classmates at Remedy Academy and your new school Uvania Primary thought of you? What did the relatives think of you? What was your home in Mwala like? Where in Machakos County is Mwala? It was reported that you were playing on the balcony? Why were you alone? Didn’t you have other kids to play with?

I remember my younger brother, for many years was his own best company. He would get a couple of pens or pencils and conjure up images and stories in his mind that only he would enjoy. Was that you too? When I was seven, I was a soft and almost gentle. I make myself sound like an advert for Sta Soft! But I was seven too. I drank maziwa ya nyayo (President Moi’s free milk) and VOK (Voice of Kenya) were our eyes and ears to the world. We only had one TV station/channel then and would you believe it, in black and white. I remember loving Fanta, like crazy! The Treetop bottles weren’t big enough; the Weekly Review had too many words and hardly any pictures. I devoured Rainbow, a children’s magazine, hated avocado and worshipped our loquat tree in August.

My best friend David Gitau who swam in the baby pool, was terrified of a teacher called Ms Kilonzo and Simba and Bingo were our dogs’ names. I had my biggest birthday party when I was seven. It was awesome! I remember the cake had nice chocolate icing. We used to get homework only on Fridays and the big rubbish truck used to collect our taka taka fascinated me. Yes, back then Nairobi City Council did that. Ah, and Oven-door Bakery in my head was heaven. That was part of my seven.

He was only seven, I repeated that statement over and over in my head. Seven. Snuffed out at seven. Did you hear the piki piki that is said to have the guys who shot you? Did the bullet tear through the washing lines towards you? Was your bullet the first one that rung out or did you fall after the pregnant lady got shot in the thigh?

By the way, Mama Mtoto, as your dad called her is fine. Her name is Agnes and she gave birth to a baby girl. The media just described her as a pregnant woman. I kept on wondering why? She was a victim too, right? Doesn’t she deserve to be named? I was told I ask too many questions. But, how else will we know the truth?

I saw pictures of your mother distraught. The media exposing her grief. It is sad that our appetite for news does not let one mourn in private. Maureen, your sister seemed stunned to silence. Your dad Peter’s one roomed flat became Pipeline’s Ground Zero. Mourners, onlookers, journalists and cops descended on the tiny balcony that was once your city home. We had landed like vultures onto your home. We wanted to know why another child was killed so soon. Why? Who donnit? The police denied it was them, but who believes the police these days? Who else has bullets, batons and boots that speak with authority? The memories of Baby Pendo and Stephanie Moraa were still fresh in our hearts. Then they killed you Geoffrey! No one has been brought to book and frankly; we don’t expect anyone to be charged with your murder. This is Kenya, sadly. Two five four at fifty-four! Where our wounds are left open for time to heal. Don’t even ask about justice. Haki, if I knew I’d tell you.

In a few months, Kenya will forget you that you were only seven. But your family won’t. They have to live with the pain and our anger we will eventually turn to numbness, as we can’t wait to put 2017 behind us. There will be no commission of inquiry to investigate why yet again another Kenyan election claimed the lives of very very young, youthful, some pregnant and some ‘peace-loving’ Kenyans.

We will not stop to question whether it is right for stones to battle with bullets. It will all be forgotten, if not all forgotten already. Would you believe Geoffrey, there is already talk of 2022 without even fixing the problems of this and other elections? Anyway, it’s easier to fall on the comfort of our ‘unsaid rallying call’, ‘Harambee! Accept and move on!

But we forget it will not be easy for your mum. She will miss your appetite for rice and cabbage, watermelon and oranges and smile at the way you hated pineapple. She says you were a critic in the kitchen and spoke your mind on the meals she prepared. I can see you were a foodie in the making. She will miss your, ‘Mum, hiyo haifai,’ comments. She laughed as she told me about that, but that laugh tugged at her heart, rekindled her pain and opened the emptiness that has now replaced you in your home.

You are missed, Geoffrey. Maureen will reminisce sitting with you on the sofa and giggling at the Kirikou cartoons that you loved. You dad, remembers your gentleness, your love for cycling, football and play. The same play that came in the way of a stray bullet. Your folks remember that despite the difficult pregnancy, you came out a bouncing baby boy weighing 4kgs and were a most pleasant and easy child.

You were only seven, Geoff and on your way to Class Three next year at your new school, Uvaini Primary School in Machakos. You had just completed your first term there. Maths and Kiswahili classes that were your favourite, will be no more for you.

You’ve left us here as we are still trying to understand where we are as a nation.   Fortunately, you won’t be subjected to tribal profiling that is now prevalent. The other day, I was asked whether I was Kikuyu or Luo, it seems like they have become euphemisms for government and opposition. If that isn’t enough, then your surname determines how you will be welcomed, celebrated or mourned. This saddens me. That’s what you’ve left behind.

It also saddens me how bereft (forgive the big word) of kindness we are becoming even in death. I’m sorry to tell you that your body spent hours covered by a leso outside your home before it was taken to City Mortuary in the dead of the night. Your blood staining the same floor that you were playing on earlier. Those images of your corpse is how you were introduced to Kenya. The police had to be begged to take your body to the morgue and your family was reduced to cleaning the blood stains off the police car that ferried you there. Of course, kitu kidogo was also demanded off your family. To the officers present your death was an opportunity to oil their palms. This is our Kenya. We are the watumishi not the cops. Even dignity was denied to your family at this time.

Your dad is a strong man, like Pendo’s dad and like him; he also experienced the lack of kindness from the system. He mentioned that he was unable to be in the room with the police when they began the post mortem examinations. It was too much for him. He walked out. I don’t see why he even had to be there in the first place, when all this was so raw. Maybe, he didn’t want to live you alone.

Rest, Geoffrey. Your family did what they could to make sure that you had a good send off, but unfortunately your burial became another rally. Politicians couldn’t resist their pride, politicking, and pawning your death. They ignored sympathy and empathy as they used your grave as a podium for their agenda. If you were shot on the streets, maybe you’d have been described as a looter. You are lucky you didn’t get to see this charade. Even the media, managed to weave in politics into your funeral. Lots of politics. Sadly, that funeral was neither about you nor your family. There was an image of your father shielding his face with his kofia that made me wonder. Was he using his hat to protect his eye or hide his tears? He will miss you Geoffrey. They all will.

Rest, little boy. Keep watch over your family and when you can Kenya too. I hope that’s not too much to ask? Maybe in heaven they have a special place for children who are only seven.

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Kevin Mwachiro is a Kilifi based writer, journalist, podcaster and human rights defender. Twitter @kevmwachiro

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Reflections

Stealth Game: The Proverbial Has Hit the Fan

The report of the Oakland Institute is simply saying what I have been saying since 2016. That “Community” Conservancies Devastate Land and Lives in Northern Kenya.

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Stealth Game: The Proverbial Has Hit the Fan
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Many of my friends, particularly those from outside the conservation sector have been puzzled by the silence that has followed the release of the Stealth Game report by the Oakland institute.

This, my friends, is because you people mistakenly imagine that conservationists in Kenya are normal, functional human beings. They are NOT, and the rational ones are fewer than five per cent, the scientific threshold for statistical significance. For those of us who know them well, we can read and interpret this silence to a high level of accuracy.

First of all, rest assured that everyone who needs to see the report has seen it, including government officials at both county and national level. I personally forwarded it to an official at the highest levels of government, and the response I received was “thank you”—at least an admission of having seen the report. Interestingly, two senior county government officers also forwarded the report to me, leaving me wondering what exactly they see as their role in the whole scandal, as opposed to mine as an individual. The silence is only in the public sphere. I have direct contacts in a lot of private spaces where the Oakland report is causing a lot of wailing, gnashing of teeth and breaking of wind.

The key point we all need to understand here is that people are in trouble—bringing to mind that uniquely American expression about faecal matter hitting the fan and splattering everyone in its vicinity. Here’s why: A couple of years ago, a few colleagues and I visited the US House of Representatives in Washington DC to present a memorandum on human rights abuses in central Africa committed by the WWF under the guise of conservation, an issue we also brought to the attention of various European legislatures. It has taken time, but the cosh has come down on the WWF, culminating in a Senate hearing earlier this year, which has severely tightened the screws on them. Therefore, the consternation that has greeted the report is disingenuous, because none of this information is new—it is simply saying the same things that a few colleagues and I have been saying since 2016.

The conservation sector in Kenya routinely dismisses any questions from black Africans and the consternation is because the report is coming from an American institution, and cannot be dismissed on racial grounds. An amusing anecdote I’ve heard from one of the conservation groups is, “This is just the usual noise from Mordecai Ogada. . .” But when another member says, “No, it’s from the Oakland institute in the US,” all hell breaks loose with people crying “Oh my God! What are we going to do?”  In another forum, a senior participant (who obviously hadn’t read the report) dismissed it as lacking credibility, “Since the only source of such information is Mordecai Ogada (again!!??). When another participant pointed out the report was the result of over two years’ research she changed tack, attacking the author Anuradha Mittal based on her racial and family background. The strange thing is that this woman is also of the same racial background as Mittal! Many people will find this bizarre, but I don’t. Our conservation sector is so steeped in racial and ethnic prejudice that it is shameful. Apart from dealing with people who don’t want to hear me because I am black, I’ve had to deal with indigenous Kenyans who routinely tell me to keep off wildlife issues in northern Kenya because I am a Luo from western Kenya!

The key issue of rights violations is studiously avoided by conservationists to a ridiculous degree. I’ve seen conversations where The Nature Conservancy’s communications director is asking a whole group of conservation professionals how they can “counter Mordecai Ogada’s narrative”. A couple of years ago, the Northern Rangelands Trust hired Dr Elizabeth Leitoro as “Director of Programmes” and one of the key expectations was that she would somehow “control” Mordecai Ogada (yes, again) since over 20 years earlier I had been her intern when she was the warden at the Nairobi National Park. Dr Leitoro asked to meet me, and my son was patient enough to sit with us as we talked. She later launched a racial attack against me and my family on social media in defence of the NRT (she deleted the tweet and blocked me, but I still have a screenshot; the NRT got rid of her). This shows the neurosis bedevilling conservation in Kenya.

These conservationists will scream, shout and make personal attacks and noise about everything EXCEPT the problem at hand. Secondly, they are obsessed with appearances, so you will never hear a word said by any of the foreigners who run the show. It is always the ill-advised, ill-prepared but well paid locals who come out in robust (if somewhat foolish) defence of their captors. Right now the national government, the county governments, and conservation organizations are all tongue-tied because they don’t know how to dismiss criticism from the US, where their lifeblood funding comes from. USAID is the biggest conservation funder in Kenya, and the biggest grantee is the NRT, which confers on them God-like status here. All the other conservation voices like the Kenya Wildlife Conservancies Association (KWCA) or the Conservation Alliance of Kenya (CAK) that receive small-change grants cannot say a word against their “leader”, the NRT. That is why five days later, the CAK claims to be “still reading the report”. They are waiting to see which way the wind is blowing before they make any noise or break any wind in defence of their fellow Kenyans.

Mark my words, these people have colossal reach; that’s why even the government has said nothing. There was a major press conference in Nairobi on 17th November 2021 about the Oakland report, and all the major media houses in Kenya were present, but the story has been “killed”. They have a huge PR machine, and if anything in the report were untrue, they would have torn it to shreds. Their bogeyman, Mordecai Ogada (frankly I’m a bit flattered!), is not in the picture, so they cannot point fingers at me anymore, and must now address the ISSUES. I am informed that some heads have already rolled. They are big, but not big enough to kill the story in the US public policy space. The WWF learned that the hard way. There shall be wailing, there will be hypertension, some hyperacidity, diarrhoea and other stress-related illnesses, but it looks (and smells) like change is coming.

This silence isn’t of the golden kind, it’s the silence of sick, trembling cowards caught in a big lie. I have nothing to add to the Stealth Game report, but wherever and whenever I will be asked to say something about it, I will not let anyone get away with trying to look shocked. I will always state just how I told them about this injustice five years ago, but it never mattered then. Because I am black, if truth be told.

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Reflections

I Know Why God Created Makeup

I am an economic migrant without the luxury of choice. I am not ready for Kenya yet so I must wake up, put my makeup on and take up my station by the dialysis machines.

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It is half past five in the morning and your eyes are heavy with sleep. It is fascinating that they should be this lethargic, yet they would not close for a wink or two in the past eleven or so hours of the night. Lately your body seems to be operating on a paradoxical circadian rhythm– sleep when you shouldn’t and stay awake when you ought to be sleeping. You are a nurse and constantly tired. Translated, it means that you are one patient away from a mortal accident. You slap the alarm clock into silence, eyes half open set another alarm for half past six on your mobile phone, which has permanent residency under your three pillows.

You have been using three pillows for a while now. There does not seem to be one single shop in the world that sells decent pillows. The pillows in this city are as thin as a tongue. The lowlife of pillows. They smell of dying hope and unhappy thoughts. They are the sopranos in the pillow choir. Irritating but necessary. We therefore use three of them to allow them to accord each other some moral support. You miss fluffy pillows. Pillows like the ones you lay on at that posh hotel in Naivasha during your disastrous honeymoon a few years ago. Nostalgically, you go back to Naivasha in your sleepy mind.

There is a hazy recollection of that honeymoon. It was not meant to be because the wedding was not to be either. But they both happened. You know they did because you can hear yourself screaming in agony as another harsh word lands on your soul. But despite the honeymoon’s calamitous ending, you miss the pillows. They took to your torrential tears like a babe to its mother’s breast. They soaked the tears up perfectly and left no traces. He never once stirred. He was so drunk he could have been half dead. You had wished for the latter before you met Jesus. We do not think such thoughts nowadays and if we ever do, we will blame it on these scandalously uncomfortable pillows.

The summer morning’s sun tears precisely through your curtains like a surgeon’s blade. You love summer but you don’t like the glare of the morning sun. It is too bright. Accusatorily bright. Like it came to remind you what a slob you are for snoozing your alarm. It stands there, hovering over you like your mum when you wouldn’t complete your homework but wanted to read a Harry Potter novel instead. Mum would not go away, nor will the sun. Begrudgingly you wake up. Legs dangling onto the side of the bed, you will the rest of the body to join them on the peach-coloured bedroom rug on the floor. You miss the days when peach was just some fruit.

Eyes still closed, you head to the bathroom. You are startled into alertness by the girl staring at you in the mirror. She is as hopelessly worn out as a politician’s promise after campaigns. She looks like a thousand trucks ran over her and a group of snow-white owls perched on her hair. The wild hair tendrils falling on your face are a pasta disaster. My God, the lint from those pillows! You whisper. It is however more than just lint. Your eyes are red and puffed up. Like you hid two baby donuts under the eyelids and now the world can see your secret eating habits.

You are expected to be at work by half past seven, nursing patients. The COVID-19 pandemic rages on and you are not sure how much longer you can keep it together. Take that lovely patient yesterday, for example. She stood out from the first time you met her. She allowed you to needle her dialysis fistula as a new nurse. She was welcoming. Showed you pictures of May, her cat. Always had a joke for everyone. She entertained the unit with great panache. She had perfectly manicured nails which put your grooming routine to shame.

For fifteen years, kidney failure never took her life. But she died yesterday. She contracted COVID-19 and passed away. This is not an isolated case. The story keeps repeating itself. Like a repetitive bad dream, the carrousel of mortality keeps coursing through the hospital.  Too many dialysis patients have been lost to the coronavirus.

Nobody acknowledges it but your colleagues are gutted by her death. Their demeanour is typically British though, they are long suffering. They wear resilience on their faces and spot plastic smiles to hide the pain. British nurses are averse to complaining. They take it all in their stride. Either that or quit. What would you not give to be able to quit nursing right now!

On the other hand, you are an economic migrant in the United Kingdom. Your life in the UK is governed by the terms and conditions of your visa. The terms say you are to be a nurse for the remaining period on your visa. You cannot leave. You risk being deported to Kenya if you exit nursing at the moment. You are not ready for Kenya yet. You envy Amy and Moraine. Two highly skilled kidney nurses from Scotland. They recently quit nursing altogether. Amy went back to university to study accounting while Moraine has started a coffee shop. The luxury of choice.

You take a quick shower, scrub your hair so hard as if you were shaking your brain from a lingering nightmare that it half hurts. Six and a half minutes later, you are staring at yourself in the dressing mirror. You have been in this flat for a year now and have never once used the dressing mirror like you want to use it today. To glam up the top half of your face.

Following a YouTube tutorial, you start applying acres of ridiculously expensive products on your exhausted face. Your patients are expecting a buoyed-up nurse; that is what they must get. This is why God created makeup. You pay close attention to your eyes. The windows to the soul. These windows needs some maintenance. The eyebrows are up first.

Your eyebrows are a strange phenomenon. The hairs are few and far between. You can never shape them perfectly to save your life. You scribble and doodle with some eye pencil YouTube influencers swore by and finally manage to draw two diagrams of West African evil spirits chasing after one another. Your signature mismatched eyebrow look.  Feeling accomplished, you open your eyes wide and, stroke after stroke, you apply mascara on your eyelashes. The damage is then covered in some dark eye shadow. Only the top half of the face matters. The face masks and visors worn at work have rendered the lower half of the face irrelevant. Who wants lipstick smears on their face mask? Not you, you conclude.

At twenty minutes past seven, you are at work already. You are helping prepare the dialysis machines. Jean, your nurse colleague streams in. She has had her eyes done too. She is wearing some glittering eyeshadow. Her eyebrows look like what yours would be like when they grow up. You can see a hint of foundation on her forehead. You let out a sigh of relief. God created makeup for tired nurses, you surmise.

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Reflections

The Charles Mugane Njonjo I Knew

Much will be said and written about Charles Njonjo. The Charles Njonjo I knew was a steadfast friend and a man of his word without hesitation.

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A lot has been written and a lot more will be written about the late Charles Mugane Njonjo who has passed away. I would like to tell my own personal story. I never knew him as a bureaucrat or politician. Indeed, our paths crossed immediately I left high school in 1983. Together with colleagues, we had written a play and planned to perform it for the public. We searched our minds for a public figure who would agree to come as guest of honour on opening night. We sought someone who would attract public attention to what we were doing, but more importantly for us 17-year-olds, someone who would agree to show up. Charles Njonjo’s name was all over the news at the time. His political career had just been truncated amid the prolonged political drama of the “traitor affair”. He was a figure of great public fascination for a variety of colourful reasons. We also had the names of other public figures on our list and I was tasked with reaching out to them.

Frankly, I wrote to Charles Njonjo not expecting to hear from him. He replied immediately, though, and accepted the invitation to be guest of honour at the opening night of our play, The Human Encounter, at Saint Mary’s School in Nairobi. Once he accepted the invitation, we excitedly proceeded with preparations for the opening night. A few days later, however, we were informed that, unfortunately, the authorities had deemed Mr Njonjo’s presence at our event unacceptable and the decision was not negotiable. I informed my colleagues and we decided that since we had worked hard on the production we would obey the orders from above and proceed with our play without Mr Njonjo. There was no need for a fuss. I then had the embarrassing duty of disinviting Mr Njonjo when he had already accepted to be our guest of honour.

I spent a whole night drafting the letter and in the end, my late father told me not to agonise excessively, “Njonjo likes to be told the truth directly.” So I wrote the disinvitation letter as clearly and as respectfully as I could. I asked a friend of his to pass it on to him and did not expect to ever hear from him again. The message I received promptly back surprised me. Njonjo expressed his deepest appreciation for the invitation and explained that he fully understood why it had been withdrawn. He asked that we remain in touch. I was deeply relieved. Over the years, he would reach out to me through family and friends and we would interact jovially, remembering the letter I had written retracting his invitation as guest of honour. “No one has ever done that to me,” he would joke over tea.

In the early 1990s, as political pluralism was returning to Kenya, violence broke out in Nyanza, Western and Rift Valley provinces. At one point, hundreds of thousands of Kenyans were displaced as our elites arm-wrestled for power. I travelled to Laikipia and then to Burnt Forest and was aghast at the state of the internally displaced that had been forced from their homes by the violence. Together with Dr David Ndii and Mutahi Ngunyi we launched the “Kenyans in Need” appeal. The then chief editor of the Daily Nation, Wangethi Mwangi, gave us free advertising space to mobilise resources for the displaced – especially those in Ol Kalou who had been evicted from Ng’arua in Laikipia. The late Archbishop Nicodemus Kirima of the Archdiocese of Nyeri agreed to use the relief infrastructure of Catholic Church to distribute any donations that came our way. Laikipia fell under Kirima’s remit.

The response to the appeal was surprising in its scale. People donated second-hand clothes, books, shoes and cash to the appeal. We received around KSh1 million worth of donations over the following months. We delivered the first batch directly to the philosophical Archbishop Kirima at his official residence in Nyeri, unique because of its specially built library full of the books he clearly loved. Our biggest and most consistent donor throughout the entire enterprise was Charles Njonjo. He was not keen to have his name mentioned but we would sit at his home drinking tea and reflecting on the political situation in the country.

When I joined government in 2003, Njonjo remained one of my steadfast providers of moral support. When news broke that I had been moved from the Office of the President to the Ministry of Justice, the first call I received was from Charles Njonjo. “You’re going to resign immediately, aren’t you?” he asked in his typically direct way. In the end, I didn’t. I sometimes wistfully recall his advice at the time. We kept in close touch.

When my situation in the Kibaki government went belly up in 2005 – as he had predicted to me many times – and I found myself in exile, Charles Njonjo became an even more steadfast friend. He stayed in touch and whenever he called, he would always enquire about my personal circumstances. He was a most interesting person in that way, loyal to his friends to a fault. Once you were his friend, he stood by you no matter how atrocious the circumstances. He would call to tell me he was coming to London and we would spend the day together simply walking the city, chatting and drinking tea. Back home I found out he was in constant touch with my family, offering moral and any other kind of support that might be needed.

When I returned from exile, one of the very first people to invite me for tea and a catch-up was Charles Njonjo and we took up from where we had left off in 2005. His observations on politics and about certain politicians were often wryly hilarious. His capacity to read people accurately was something I learnt. We would sit in his Westlands office and I would seek his opinion on this or that political interlocutor and in typical fashion he was always direct – “solid fellow”; “believe only half so-and-so says”; “take that one seriously”, etc. He was particularly dismissive of ethnic chauvinists and insisted that they held Kenya back in fundamental ways.

Charles Njonjo and I kept our friendship quiet. In part, this was because some of his diehard enemies were also my very good friends – the late legal giant Achhroo Ram Kapila SC among others. So, we didn’t discuss his enemies; he advised me on mine. Much will be written about Charles Njonjo and even though there was much we totally disagreed on politically, the Njonjo I knew since I was a teenager was a man of his word. He was a dear friend in ways I have never been able to share. There is not a personal problem that I raised with Charles Njonjo that he didn’t immediately seek to solve in his no-nonsense style. Njonjo could be a very funny man, full of jokes and insightful observations without a taint of bitterness. To me he was funniest when he joked in Gikuyu, which some people thought he couldn’t speak.

As I have said, much will be said and a lot will be written about Charles Njonjo. The Charles Njonjo I knew was a steadfast friend and a man of his word. I have lost a dear friend and wish his family succour as they mourn him at this time.

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