I graduated high school 16 years ago and I have been having nightmares about that period ever since.
My nightmares all take the same form: I am a student at Maseno School and for one reason or another I have gotten in trouble. My punishment—in the form of caning or even a full-on gang-beating by all the teachers at the staff room —is impending. Sometimes I am able to wake myself up before the beating starts; most times I can’t and I have to suffer through it again.
Either way I always wake up panicking and I often have trouble falling back asleep, because these nightmares trigger something deeper than my fear of getting beaten. They trigger a deep-seated rage I haven’t yet found an outlet for.
Unable to fall back asleep, I often fantasize about getting revenge against all those who beat and humiliated me. Most times it is something as banal as slashing the tires of a teacher who caned me often. Other times I imagine writing letters detailing these tortures and sending them to the current employers of the prefects who beat us up. I imagine them getting fired and their lives spiraling out of control.
In writing about my time at Maseno, I have become aware of my desire to mark only the kind of torture that was remarkable, and therefore say nothing about the banal aspects of torture, such as the environment it produces, one in which fear is everywhere all the time; and one in which one never knows what it is precisely that will get one in trouble, because it could be anything. That fear is as damaging as torture itself, and remains with one just as long.
Getting caned—slapped—punched—beaten down with a hockey stick, or gang-beaten—deprived of food and sleep—made to kneel for hours—frog-marched for long distances—I find myself wanting to use the term ‘torture’ though I am aware others will find it disagreeable, too spectacular. Liwe liwalo.
My experience of corporal punishment, like that of most Kenyans, goes further back than high school. I went to Arya Nursery School where there were fewer black than Asian students, and where black students were the only ones who got caned.
All our teachers were black.
Even at that young age the message was clear: we, black students, were lesser than. Corporal punishment in Kenya has always had a racialized history.
After nursery school I went on to M.M. Shah Primary School, where corporal punishment was mostly classed. Those whipped for not doing homework were those who didn’t do the homework because they could not afford the textbooks. Those caned for being late were often those who walked long distances to school, as opposed to those of us who were driven to school. Those woken with blows for falling asleep during lessons were often also the kids who had to work late into the night after school to help put food on the table for their families.
I think the punishments at high school have stayed with me because nowhere was punishment as developed a social institution as it was at Maseno. To understand torture at Maseno at the time, one has to have an understanding of the prestigious boys boarding school: its logics; its architectonics (prefects stayed in their own cubicles), its ecology (the green, fertile compound teeming with all manner of trees); its creeds (Maseno’s motto is ‘Perseverance Shall Win Through’); and its ideologies (the exceptionalism that said we were better than all other schools). Together these factors turned punishment into a robust social institution.
Punishment had its own logics, which produced its rituals of truth. Although punishment had its stated goals, it simply became institutional practice—it was the defining role for prefects and all those in power. It was simply what those in power did, no why or wherefore.
Additionally, punishment was a seemingly indispensable pedagogic tool for teachers. Its methodologies, from making students kneel for hours on gravel, on concrete, or outside on hot days; to ‘frog-marching’ students; to waking students up in the middle of the night for impromptu contraband inspections; to pulling students out of bed for overnight gang-beatings; all these were supposed to be rehabilitative for all manner of offenses, from tardiness to struggling with classwork, from falling asleep during lessons to failing to rise for the early morning wake up call.
Maseno’s architectonics allowed punishment its own infrastructure. The Old Mackay building functioned both as a prefects’ study area and also a torture chamber; and prefects’ cubicles were the zones where overnight beatings took place.
Lastly, punishment had its own ideology. We were told that to survive Maseno one needed to be ‘hardcore’. We wore our abuse as a badge: we were Maseno, meaning we were harder than you. We could take more beatings than you, and we were therefore readier for the world out there and its beatings. Our school motto—‘Perseverance Shall Win Through’—was often marshaled to put out any dissenting feeling about torture. What this ideology belies is a sordid belief about fighting for freedom both inside the school and in the world out there: there is no use for it. What students need, ostensibly, is to be prepared for the unfreedom of the world out there.
We had a school exchange with Alliance High School and we found out that their wake up call wasn’t until 6:30am, a whole hour an a half after ours. We ridiculed them for sleeping in, for being ‘soft’ —that right there was the punishment ideology hard at work, because we believed success could only come through hardship, in this case through sleep deprivation.
Like every institution, Maseno was invested in the production of bodies—the right kind of body. The school administration often chose boys with bigger bodies to be prefects. They also believed that students from rural areas made better prefects than those from urban areas because they were supposedly more compliant to higher authority.
But nowhere was the practice of power as the production of bodies more evident as in the food regime instituted at Maseno.
Not only was the denial of food often used as a means of punishment, but prefects were served ‘top soup’ with every meal. Top soup was made from beef broth and tons of fat, and was believed to make prefects’ bodies larger, stronger, and therefore better tools for domination. Top soup was considered a privilege at an institution where the rest of us ate boiled everything.
With a name belying the homoeroticism in a space full of homosocial anxieties, top soup tied might to right (mwenye nguvu mpishe). How food was prepared—whether straight up boiled or sautéed, garnished or served with weevils—and what it contained in the way of nutrients was therefore very political. During my time in high school we were more likely to rebel over poor quality food—and we did rebel—than we were over a beating (even when it landed one of our colleagues in the hospital). And yet food itself was a regime of violence.
Punishment, then, was the production of bigger bodies for the domination of other bodies, and concomitantly the production of the very bodies to be dominated.
What the violation of torture did was produce our bodies as not-ours. Prefecture, as the form of power most prevalent in student life, was an embodied politic that deprived students of bodily autonomy.
Boys with big bodies (but who were not prefects) were often targets of the harshest punishments. Their growing bodies alone were threatening, and they had to be put in their place, often at the behest of being beaten by a group of teachers or prefects at once. They were routinely taken to the staff room so all teachers present could take turns in their torture.
We came to understand our maturing bodies as threats, and this threat as in need of management, because our growth always already constituted insubordination; simply for growing and existing, our bodies were produced as in need of discipline and punishment to succeed both at school and out there in the world.
I have been trying to come to terms with what ‘remains’ of the torture at Maseno. What was written—beaten, really—into the body remains in the mind, returning as frequent nightmares reliving beatings and humiliations. Yet what was written onto the body and into the mind was written also on the lay of the land, because gardening, farming, slashing grass and uprooting trees were often used as punishment tasks.
When I arrived at Maseno it was a verdant compound with many local tree species, abundant birdsong, and those cheeky little monkeys that stole your lunch if you turned away from your dish for too long. There were all manner of insects, too, most of which I had never come across before my time there, though my family lived a mere 26 kilometers away.
My relationship with that environment—as its custodian—shifted immensely as that environment became implicated in the punishment regime at Maseno. Most disturbing among these practices was assigning the cutting and uprooting of trees (with the rudimentary tools) as punishment, an arduous undertaking that would take a student such a prolonged period of time that those receiving this punishment often either woke up earlier or stayed up late after night prep to finish the work in the time allotted—adding sleep deprivation and disruption of studies to their ‘discipline’.
The transformation of that lush ecology into an arena for hard labor markedly shifted my feelings toward taking care of the environment, a feeling that remained with me a long time. I know that might sound silly to some, but I now firmly believe that taking care of one’s environment should never be used for punishment, neither at school nor in prison.
There were fewer trees at Maseno by the time I graduated (my memories might be unreliable here, but we certainly uprooted more trees than we planted at Maseno). It wasn’t just students who’d been tortured in my four years there; the land had been punished as well.
At Maseno prefects were called ‘cops’ and ‘karaos’ by other students. We understood the penal imaginary as governing our relation with power. The speeches at both prefects’ and teachers’ assemblies were inundated with threats. Prefects threatened to ‘clobber’ anyone showing ‘insubordination’. Teachers promised that any and all indiscipline ‘will be dealt with thoroughly’. This, of course, is familiar language: you only have to listen to government officials like Interior CS Fred Matiang’i to realize the language of punishment has become our language of governance.
The baraza that was supposed to be a forum for students to speak openly and directly with school administration about our concerns was discontinued after, at the very first convening, students raised issue with corporal punishment by both teachers and prefects. The school administration allowed no other convention afterwards. In my four years at Maseno we had one baraza, and it was a non-starter because those in power were not willing to divest from torturing students. They believed there was no pedagogy without punishment, no learning without subjection, and students could not be trusted to have ideas about how their education should proceed.
In writing this I have been trying not to get bogged down in the minutiae of it all. I know how this article will be read and circulated by some sections of the public. I can already hear all the ‘accept and move on’. I already know the derisive laughter, the kind we weaponized against those of us who, as early as primary school, had not learned how to not flinch and writhe and scream while getting caned. I know that I will be laughed at. I will be dismissed as weak, petty. I will be told there are more pressing issues.
Years ago when Mashada online forums were still a thing, former students would frequently confront former prefects about their torture, years after the fact, highlighting the toll that remains. The Internet allowed this follow through, which happens because torture has a long afterlife. Punishment in schools constructs durable things. It positions the student a certain way and creates ideologies about subjectivity and power, resilience and toxic masculinity, sex and sexuality, embodiment and sovereignty, subjection and governance. These are things we interact with every day.
These things remain.
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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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