YESTERDAY in Kenya:

Life in the rear-view mirror

Kenyan-born Cyprian Fernandes, has been seeking the truth for over 50 years. More East Africans remember him as a Daily Nation sports reporter than as Africa’s leading investigative reporter and social commentator. He travelled the word and his “patch” included the Commonwealth, Africa, United Nations, UN Security Council and the group of non-aligned nations. He met and interviewed some of the greatest men in Africa. After a brief stint in England, he and his family migrated to Sydney, Australia, where he excelled at newspaper design, colour reproduction and editing. With friends, he produced the oldest Indian newspaper in Sydney.

Before I take you on my life's journey, allow me to make a few things very clear. As the country of my birth, I will always love Kenya. I am indebted to Kenya because it gave me my lfe, my career and whatever else that has happened to me around the world that I have travelled. But I also love the country of my ancestry: Goa. My mother bonded in us a strong link with Goa through her stories, her songs, her lullabyes and entrenchment of what made a Goan. It was all she knew. I always knew that the time would come when I would have to leave Kenya. I never felt at home there as much as I feel at home in Australia or Goa. But I will owe a lifelong debt to Kenya and all the people who contributed to make me the person I am today.

The name"Nairobi" comes from the Maasai phrase Enkare Nyirobi, which translates to "the place of cool waters".

Nairobi, Kenya

I was born poor in Nairobi, 16 September 1943, a baby boomer to be. Nothing unique or self-martyrdom about that but it sets the context of a truly remarkable adventure My father eked out a living as a tailor. My mother was an illiterate housewife. For a while we managed as a family. The serpent of life has myriad ways to destroy a person. In my father’s case it was the poison of “he spoilt my name” which was something short of a criminal offence within the Goan community. It was enough to generate a fireball of gossip, finger-pointed, whispered about, out-casted and most of all cocooned in shame. Unfounded accusations, nay unadulterated lies, were enough to drive a person to suicide. In a way, he did commit a kind of suicide. My father despatched my mother and my siblings to Goa with a dowry to marry off my aunt. No dowry, no marriage. Arrangementwere made with a suitably acceptable suitor chosen by my mother (an arranged marriage had been achieved as were most marriages at that time) and we

returned to Nairobi.

Back in Goa, my aunt decided to marry a lowly toddy maker of instead. The toddy maker was of lowly standing and not particularly good at anything. Good, not, definitely not. Later my father brought the newly marrieds to Nairobi. I don’t think my father liked his new brother-in-law very much. The friction resulted in slurs against my father; slurs that some people would kill for in Goa. My father took to alcohol. Worse, he blamed mum and his many rages would end up with beating her. We frightened kids tried our best to stop him but in vain. When I was 11, my father in a drunken stupor decided he was better off without his family and threw out my mother with the six children, the two youngest barely a few months old.

The following is a piece I wrote one Mother’s Day in 1993:

Our life began one day in December a long time ago … some 44-plus years ago. It was the same year we were returning home at midday from St Teresa’s School, Eastleigh, and were about to pass by Tracey Jones’ home, three doors away from ours when all hell seemed to break loose. Hell indeed. The devil himself it seemed was doing his worst to destroy the once humble home. Crockery smashed, shattering into oblivion. Glass screamed into fragments and powder. Wood, chairs, tables, and furniture of all sorts was tortured out of existence, fragmenting against the stones walls and splintering, shredded into the air through the doors and windows. The noise was frightening.

A poltergeist, the local Catholic priest told us, was behaving rather inconveniently. The priest and two altar boys in their red outfits and white tops were timidly trying to enter the mayhem armed with incense and holy water hoping to perform an exorcism of sorts. They sort of took a step forward and five steps back, ducking and crouching as the ghost’s splinter bombs exploded time and again. In the end they gave up and waited for higher Catholic reinforcements. The kids just said simply: a ghost had gone madly wild. While we peered, inched closer, each huddling against the next kid, then backwards at the sound of the next crash, smash, squeal, scream, bang … forced laughter hiding fear, high anxiety filled the air. What if the ghost decided to come after us. Bugger that we are not afraid of any ghost. This clayton’s bravado against the denizens of the occult and devilry was interrupted by the hen-like muster of the kids by their mothers. Come away, come away, splashes of holy water, Our Fathers, Hail Marys all in various decibels were held up as shields against the devil at work. As they rambled prayers at the speed of a rocket being launched, the old women looked like hens with their heads chopped off. It was a funny sight for the kids. The mums were chasing the kids, round and round. Not even the threat of “I will tell your father” could stop the kids. The kids appeared to look tough, but there was fear, real fear, the stuff of nightmares. This fear had been fed and nurtured by myths and legends from lands from far beyond the horizon and more out range of juvenile raw imagination. But not too far away, as Kenya was a land full of witchdoctors and medicine men. The kids

knew very little about this and, yet, the little that they knew would surely bring pain and tears as darkness fell. And nightmares, too. Yet, it was a story that was related and retold over many months and like Rumours (mentioned later) just grew and grew, further and further away from the real thing until it was unrecognisable.

So there was my mother, flaunting and flapping her wings in wild and frightened deliberate gestures, fanning far and wide, reaching further than her spindly little arms would allow, desperately gushing for air like some Olympian butterfly swimmer, rising above the waterline, rushing, chasing, in an intense effort to get her brood under the safety of her wings, and later the safety of home. Tracey Jones, by the way, was many years my senior. With blue eyes and honey blonde locks and long sexy legs, she was surely the most beautiful girl in the world. After the ghost had destroyed their home, we never saw or heard of Tracey or her mother again. Seychellois friends used to swear that Mrs Jones used to sell her black magical potions forany occasion, including some strange powder to bewitch a girl or boy to marry their son or daughter. Seychellois served it with tea, coffee, or a soft drink, liquor as well. It was called Jibwa or some such word in creole.

By the time the Catholic artillery, several bishops and an army of clergy had arrived, the poltergeist had become bored and the skeleton home was quiet again. We lived in Eastleigh, a few kilometres west of Nairobi. The suburb was set aside by the British colonial government for Asians and elite Africans as part of its segregation policy in 1920. I never knew any “elite” Africans in Eastleigh except, perhaps, John Kasyoka who was Dr Charlie Paes’ pharmacist and President of the Kenya Football Association.

The two outstanding elements were the Royal Air Force base at Eastleigh Airport and the St Teresa’s Boys’ and Girls’ schools adjoining the St Teresa’s Catholic Church. In the 1950s, it was the poorest man’s paradise. But life was a pretty peaceful place and the only crime was a little thieving and pole fishing of homes. Other than that people went about their simple lives without anything out of the ordinary. Those families that had maids and houseboys complained incessantly about the thieving of sugar and coffee or alcohol. Nobody was actually rich, some did slightly better than others. Few families owned a car, even fewer owned their own homes. In the early 1950s most families lived in rented homes. We were the children of the Never Never, life was always on the slate. We had never heard of the word, mortgage. The bus was the mode of transport and the service was pretty good and buses were always very clean.

Today Eastleigh and its surrounds is called Little Mogadishu. Notorious,one can buy kind of ammunition. One can also buy any kind of part, includingbody parts, they say. Everyone else has moved on. The shopping is pretty good,the traffic insane. Eastleigh was founded in 1921. The colonialgovernment allotted Nairobi's residential estates by race, and Eastleigh was reservedfor Asians and allegedly elite Africans. Eastleigh remained a large Kenyan Asian enclave until independence in 1963. In recent years, the suburb has been dominated

and almost exclusively inhabited by Somali immigrants. Today, it is called Little Mogadishu where Somali Al Shabah terrorists come for R&R.

My mother never grew to much more than five feet. She was a walking skeleton. Blackened by nature of skin and darkened by nature of heat and dust. Her skinny legs carried her with a precision of step that translated into a type of motorised speed. She was fast. Her bony hands carried with a vice-like grip. Her brow was unfurrowed. Quiet resolute, fierce determination lives here. There were no lines on her face, no creases in her skin. A lean face … more bones than flesh … was a stern one. Only her eyes betrayed her: little round balls of dynamite waiting to explode. Wire fuse burning at the back of her brain, piercing clean as a surgeon’s scalpel, a pair of red hot spears, molten metal headed. They were cruise missiles, computer tuned to precision accuracy. Such was the determination. A little woman, but a living rocket. On the other hand, those balls of dynamite lit her face like lamplight when she smiled or laughed, which was rare. In her low, quiet moments there was also quiet resolution. Not as well publicised as the determination in her, but just as well signatured by the sound of a feathery light voice.

Picture then the sight early one morning, Christmas round the corner. This steely woman with her brood of six, including a girl barely a month old, all wrapped in the warmth of her wings at rest in a large square chair. Thrown out of her home by and uncaring husband and father who was a victim himself. Unable to come to terms with himself or the ills thatdogged him, he took the easy way out in a drunken frenzy. He thought he was getting rid of his problems. So there we were hanging on to this tiny woman who said not a word, murmured not a sound but in her quiet dealt a steeled resolve. For one or two of the children, the episode came almost as a relief: an end to all the beatings, the abuse, the belittlement, the pain, the tears, the shame, the madness, the lunacy, the despair and always the poverty. Orphans of St Vincent De Paul. We who have nothing, have never known anything other than our pitiful world. We knew that but not many people did, and if they did they did nothing to help. Yet, there was never any hate in any quarter, more regret. Would this unhappy cup ever go away from me, a hapless prayer fordeliverance from this midnight hour. Why us, why? God only knows. You all go to school, I will find a place by the time you get back, was all she said after we had breakfasted on mouthfuls of tap water. It was the end of our life without father. It didn’t matter what was in store, from here on whatever happened to us would be of our own making, because we made it so. We would survive, at least she would make certain we survived. We had on only the clothes we stood in, four boys, the oldest 11 and two infant girls. Mum had nothing, not a single cent. She was less than nothing. Uneducated, untrained, her only tools were her feet and hands, her eyes and above everything else her faith in God and an unshakeable belief in herself that nothing was

impossible.

So she found a place for us. The Adela family was just two short of a football team now they had a couple of reserves. Like us they were survivors, but extremely disciplined and happy. There was plenty of laughter and lots of God (each Sunday morning we would be up at 4.30 and walk single file for an hour to St Peter Claver’s Church on the outskirts of. Nairobi. Along the way we would say a couple of rosaries and myriad prayers. On the way back, we would stop at Mincing Lane Market and pick out the cheapest vegetables. There were always more prayers at home including the daily rosary). Here we would survive until that distant day we would find a home of our own. Right then such a thought was further away than the moon or the stars. To feed us, mum ran errands, cleaned homes, did grocery shopping, baby set, ironed and cooked, dressed corpses, wailed at funerals. She never turned down anything she could do. Lines of injured football players would stand outside waiting for her healing massage. Her fingers, they said, made miracles.

A piece of unlikely luck. Unable to read or write, she developed an uncanny ability to pick winners in the local horse races. Tiffin boys who biked lunches into the city would come round to pick up her bets and follow her tips. She bet 10 and 20 cents but the winnings did come, however small they supplemented her dawn to dusk work. It was not long before we rented our own home. Later in life, she would take her scrimping and saving to new heights. During her visits to her children she would return with tons of suitcases full of second hand clothing which sold like hot cakes in Nairobi. She did not become a millionaire, but had a bob or two of her own. It seemed all so silly, the effort did not seem rational but there was a bottom line, however small.It never stopped for a very long, long time. She never spent a cent on herself, just the bare necessities of life. Not for gold or jewellery, pearls or the classier things in life. Never needed them, never had them, never knew them. All she knew was her children and everything she did in life she did for her children. But she was also tough, very tough with the children, almost as hard as she was with herself. She said farewell to the world after a short stay in hospital in Sydney, Australia, following a motoring accident in which she was a passenger. Peace at last.

One of the bonuses of our life was that I learned to cook everything my mum could teach me, except the Goan sweets. Not a cordon bleu chef, but I cooked pretty good, or so my friends taught me. Never had a yen to cook or bake the sweets. Regret it now.

What a lady, what a mother.

How I became a journalist

The Colony Statistical Officer had become bored with his job and had gone walkabout for a week without reporting in. When I did go back, the sombre, almost statue-like

Principal Immigration Officer, simply shook his head and held out his hand to say goodbye. Suddenly living on the edge or by my wits seemed a load of crap. Arrogance maybe, even brashness, or even being full of it, perhaps drunk with success at such an early age.Whatever it was, I was definitely dumb but I was not that disappointed with losing that job.

I had been telling myself for months that I was only acting the part. I was neither old enough nor experienced to put those probation officers on the carpet. This forced my younger brother to quit school and help support the family, something he never forgave me. This was the hardest time for me and it took the longest time to get back on track. Until a minor miracle happened, a friend let me stay at his place.

For the next four or five months I bludged and lived off my friends and their folks… until a wonderful day in 1960 in the snooker parlour at the Queens Hotel. The snooker parlour remained a regular haunt for a long time. Besides the snooker, they served the best rare roast beef sandwiches, the crispest chips and an unadulterated Heinze tomato sauce, the expensive brand.

I was sitting with a friend, Julio Menezes (his brother Braz who read an earlier post was quick to recognise that it his brother I was talking about since I had forgotten Julio's second name), who was at university and he asked me what the heck I was going to do with my life. What did I really want to do? I wanted to become a criminal lawyer, I told him.

You won’t be able to do that without a High School Certificate and years at university, besides you can’t afford it.

Well, the next best thing would be journalism.

Get off your butt and go and become a journalist. Do it today.

The Aga Khan owned Daily Nation and Sunday Nation were barely months old. The East African Standard was supposedly the best newspaper in Africa but they did not employ African or Asian reporters. It had to be the Nation. That afternoon I went into the typesetting and compositing room of the Nation in Victoria Street in a building that had been once the Whitehouse Bakery which baked the best bread in the world. Still miss it today.

I asked to see the Editor and was pointed to the Works Manager: Stan Denman. He was a tough, imposing (even threatening, don’t mess with me, kind of guy) former British Royal Commando.

What do you want?

I need a job in journalism.

How old are you?

Twenty two, I was actually 16 going on 17.

Come with me. And I followed him into what turned out to be the paste up room. The Nation was probably the first newspaper in Africa to use computer generated copy. This proof read final computer print came in long strips and had to be trimmed perfectly to fit the sub-editor designed page. The composed page was proof read and finally signed off to be photographed. The negative produced an aluminium plate which fitted onto a drumof the litho offset printer. One drum, one page. Because computer generated printer was more expensive, though faster, the Nation also used linotype originated lead type and the pages were composed in the traditional fashion.

Do you think you could do that … pointing to the composition of the computer type?

The first thing that flashed through my mind was: This is not journalism I am thinking about. In my own stupid, arrogant way I told him: No thanks. I didn’t come here to paste up little bits of paper. I want to be ajournalist.

With that he actually kicked me out of the place.

As I licked my wounds and soothed my bottom, it struck me that I could have been a lot more diplomatic. Dumb ass!

Never mind. There is always Plan B.

The next morning I awoke and went to church to find God again. I think I found Him, can’t think of any other reason than that for what follows.

I went back to the Nation. Only this time I went to the Editorial department where I was interrogated by the best security system, better than anything the CIA or KGB could come up with to deny any entry into the Editorial section: Marina, the original angry inch.

What do you want?

I would like to see the editor, Mr John Bierman.

You can’t. Go away.

But I have to see him.

In what other language can I tell you? You cannot see him; he is a very busy man. At best leave him a note.

Mr Bierman wants to see me.

Are you sure of that?

Yes.

Speak to his secretary.

The secretary, a gorgeous red head with whom I fell head over heels in love with instantly, set in a little cubicle just behind the reception desk.

Yes. What can I do for you?

I have an appointment with the Editor.

Which Editor?

John Bierman.

No, you don’t have an appointment.

Yes I do. I spoke to him yesterday.

I make all the appointments. No one else makes them, not even he. There is no appointment.

Yes there is, I spoke to him.

No you didn’t. No one speaks to him without first talking to me.

You must have been away from your desk.

You have an appointment, do you? You are sure of that?

What time is your appointment?

10 am

It is 9:45, you are too early.

I always come at least 10 minutes for an appointment.

Well, Mr Bierman is right behind you.

I turned around and there was this hot bod with movie star looks with his hands hanging on to part of the metal frame above the doorway. And he was smiling.

Cyprian Fernandes, Mr Bierman, I stuck out my hand.

Ten minutes early I like that.

Thanks for seeing me.

So you spoke to me yesterday and I agreed to see you today? I must be suffering from amnesia because I cannot recall talking to you yesterday or ever.

I lied.

What, you little bleeding blighter …

Well I am getting my interview, aren’t I?

So what can I do for you? By the way, how old are you?

Twenty-two

Education?

High School Certificate.

What would you like to do in journalism?

In a second my 18 point by-line flashed in front of me: By Cyprian Fernandes, Court Reporter, Municipal Reporter, Social Reporter, Political Reporter, General News Reporter and myriad other titles.

Got nothing like that.

What have you got?

A sports reporter, may be.

I will take it.

Hang on, hang on, not so fast. Come with me, and he introduced me to Sports Editor Tom Clarke, one of the most wonderful guys I have ever met.

John said to Clarke: Tom this is Cyprian Fernandes, your new sports junior or the biggest conman I have ever met.

I had played a little soccer as a child, a goalkeeper in full black from head to toe emulating the great Russiangoalkeeper Lev Yashin. I had no success. I knew very little of the other sports.

Tom went through the introductory ropes of how the Sports Department functioned. He was the boss and I was his only reporter. Free-lance contributors provided some copy and rest came from wire services. He gave me a sheet of wire stories and said:Rewrite one of these and make it bright and interesting, use a little fictio if you need to, just this once.

United’s babes boot Spurs out of the park

A bunch of kids, some not old enough to be out of school, ran circles around the older professionals of

Tottenham Hotspur in the English League yesterday. Manchester United’s Busby’s babes, led by the genius of Bobby Charlton, the only survivor of the 1958 Munich air crash which killed eight United players, won 3-nil. It could have been 10 or 12, so dominant were Manchester Spurs were never in the game; the young United players appeared at times to have the park all to themselves and were merely doing a series of training exercises in bullet-like passing and cannon fire into a empty goal. Spurs were somewhere else, doing something else other than playing football. Spurs were certainly not at Old Trafford. There were a bunch of fake professionals in white trying to play anything but football.

Tom had a quick look and took it to John Bierman, who was standing a few feet away and they both cracked up in hysterics Tom came back and asked how good was I on cricket?

Know the game, know the rules, can report.

OK. Tomorrow there is the annual Asians v Europeans match at the Nairobi Club (memory may have got the ground wrong). I want you to cover it and come back and write a trial report. Take the rest ofthe day off and prepare for tomorrow. By the way you are hired. We shook hands, that was not the only thing shaking, so was the rest of my body. The only thing under control was the widest grin on my face. Thanks a million, I said in a quiet voice, I won’t let you down.

Don’t worry, I will look after you.

As I went passed Marina, I said: I got the job.

Good for you, she said with a smile I have never forgotten.

I ran outside and jumped for the sky. Yes! Justlike in a Toyota ad many decades later.

Cricket. What the hell do I know about cricket? There are batsmen, bowlers, fielders, singles, twos, threes, fours and sixes, fast bowlers, spinners and slow bowlers, what else? What are the finer points?

The only cricket I knew, having never played, was listening to Test cricket on British Forces radio, BBC’s Sports Round-Up or commentary on my tiny crystal set. I never missed a Test, especially the Ashes.

I went to the nearest bookshop and asked for a comprehensive book on cricket. There was only one, a fairly thin one at that but it was just the thing I needed.

It contained:

The MCC Rules of Cricket

The various fielding positions… very easily drawn on the first page of my note which I

referred to again and again with each shot.

Taking guard, 1, 2 and off stump and providedshort commentary on the different guards.

The art of batting, cutting, driving, square,through the covers, and the various positions.

Fast and medium pace bowling

Spin bowling

One of the rules was a lengthy piece on no-balls

And a whole bunch of other stuff I would needto know.

As I was to learn in later years, the bookletprovided only the basics and was really meant for cricket ignoramuses, like me.

For the moment, I thought that was enough.Cricket in Kenya was played on jute matting, what else could there be?

Next I called the Kenya Cricket Associationafter being passed on and on eventually got the names of the two teams and the respective captains.

The match was due to start at 10 am; I gotthere at 9 am. I was the only one there but as other folks arrived, introduced myself and gleaned their thoughts on the games and various players.

At 9:30 I got into the dressing rooms and spoke to the individual captains and from memory some of the questions went like this:

How is it looking for your team?

What is the batting like, who are your main stays?

What is your attack like, pace and spin, andwho are you looking to for the breakthroughs?

What would be a good score?

It was a fine day and the weather would not have any effect on the game.

Which batsmen are you looking to get out quickly?

If I was writing a preview I thought I had enough for a half decent story.

There was no such thing as a press box. You just sat where you thought was most

comfortable, especially from the sun. I did not know if there were other journalists there. I met a couple of guys at lunch provided by the club but they did not identify themselves as journalists or contributors.

I was fortunate enough to sit with a couple of die-hard former cricketers and gleaned much for my note book.

At the end of the match I copied the scores from the two scorers and went and interviewed the two captains.

I went back to the office, said a prayer, and typed my story on a typewriter chained to the desk. Before the chaining, typewriters ghosted away regularly

When I handed Tom my story, he asked me to hang around.

A few minutes later and showed me some of the sub-editing changes he had made.

Be back at 9 am from now on … by the way you are no longer a junior, you are a senior sports reporter.

Thank you, thank you God. Thus began a journey that would take me to the four corners of the world, meet Presidents and Prime Ministers, Cabinet Ministers, dance with a Princess and become a household name in print, radio and television.

Reporting soccer came easily. Writing came fairly easily as did asking the tough or awkward questions. In my reports I was praiseworthy as much as I was critical and was never afraid to question the form of a player or why he should not be dropped. I was also never afraid of challenging the establishment or seeking out fraud or indiscretions like nepotism or tribalism. I always made sure I knew the answers to the questions I was asking, making further investigation more fluent. I was never put off by the proverbial “no comment”; I got to the bottom of the story one source or another.

I got caught out once on radio when I hadaccused the Football Association of misuse of funds after they had shown a strange loss of funds. Reg Alexander, who had something to do with the association, asked me:

Have you got any proof?

Let me have the books and I will have them independently audited, I said.

Reg was dismissive.

I never got caught out like that again. I had not based my allegation on the fact that corruption was institutionalised in Kenya. Most people in position or power had their hands into something or theother, but through convincing anecdotal evidence provided by many in the administration itself.

Constantly asking the biblical Why, when, how, where, which, what, who defined my

research into my reporting. Consequently, My press facilities were canned by the association. Undaunted, I was a paying customer and reported on the match from the grandstand. A few months later, the ban was inexplicably lifted.

I had never played hockey and I will remain forever indebted to international hockey umpire Oscar D’Souza for tutoring me in the rules of the game and some of its finer points. I am also always grateful to international Hilary Fernandes for taking me on tours of the genius of the game. I refined my knowledge by picking the brains of various international players and coaches. I was never an expert, but I was lucky enough to ask the right questions most of the time. But it was an unforgettable time. The 1960s were the heyday of the classic hockey stick work game, unlike today’s long-passing, boring power hitting game. Today, those deft dribbling skills continue to impress in the women’s game (2010). Argentina’s Luciana Ashmar and the Netherland’s Van As are brilliant exponents India and Pakistan dominated the game them and Kenya usually gave them a good run for their money. Among the Kenyans I will remember most are: Alu Mendonca (the best Goan player) Hilary Fernandes, Silu Fernandes, Edgar Fernandes, Egbert Fernandes, Avtar Singh, Surjeet Junior, Reynolds D’Souza, Franklin Pereira, Anthony Vaz, Reynolds D'Souza, Dunstan Rodrigues, Leo Fernandes, Pritam Singh, Cajie Fernandes (with Alu arguably of the greatest) Bringing my soccer style of reporting to hockey, unheard of before, I soon earned respect both from the players and from my editor Brian Marsden who rewarded me with a weekly column on the subject. I didn’t make too many friends with the management of the sport which was dominated by Sikhs. Nevertheless I fought for and won selection for players who were not on the selectors’ radar.

Soccer, hockey, athletics, cricket and tennis gave me great pleasure but I also reported on rugby, until Michael Wright took that over, and golf and any other sport that was on on a slow day . Sport also gave me instant access to several ministers, many of whom I had already known before, and going to the top on anyissue was not a big deal. For example, Seraphino Antao, a Commonwealth Games double gold medallist, was Kenya’s greatest athlete, many decades before Kenyan African athletes dominated the world. On one occasion, weeks before the then Commonwealth Games, the athletics chiefs had denied him the services of his regular coach, Ray Batchelor. I spoke to the relevant Minister and problem was solved in a couple of minutes with Minister making the funds available immediately.

There must have been times when I got my butt kicked but I can’t recall any. It is like they say, easier to remember the good times. In all the associations, I had contacts who regularly tipped me off. It was easy to sieve out the kites by double checking the information.

One blemish: In December 1963, the Ghana All Stars wrecked Kenya’s Uhuru soccer celebrations. The All Stars were 6 or 7 nil at half time. Jomo Kenyatta left in disgust half. I was stunned. Every Kenyan was stunned. Back at the office I froze at my typewriter. Thankfully sports editor Brian Marsden helped me save the day as he wriggled out the story out of my shell-shocked brain.

Never again.

A bullet with my name on it

Death threats to journalists and other prominent people were fairly common place in Nairobi, Kenya during the late 1960s until my departure in 1974. It was also pretty common to be picked up by the dreaded Special Branch for interrogation and/or deportation As a political journalist in Kenya, you had to walk the political tightrope with the precision of a brain surgeon. You lived with fear of deportation every day to the point it became second skin and you thought nothing of it. To survive one placed his or her faith in the truth, as we had been told on the masthead of the Daily Nation: The Truth Shall Make You Free. Problem was, publication of the truth more often than not resulted in the worst of fates. The truth, in fact, made a prisoner of you, rather than set you free. Also, there were not too many editors who were brave enough to publish. If one fell through the cracks, watch out. For example, if you exposed the President, Jomo Kenyatta, and his Kikuyu cronies for exploiting a loop hole in the Constitution and freely sharing out Crown Land, at the least you would be deported (providing the British High Commission or your representative diplomatic was aware). If you were a Kenyan, the chances are that you would be dead.

Anthropologically, the African is a hunter gatherer. Over time, he has left the gathering to the women and made hunting his sole domain. In time, he aimed his arrows at other tribesmen to steal their women and cattle. Killing comes naturally, often without a second thought. In Kenya, the Mau Mau killings are a prime example. Other evidence includes the Idi Amin’s massacres and murders. In the recent past the genocide in

Rwanda and Burundi are startling examples followed by the mass murders in the Congo, Central Africa, in the Sudan and the atrocities committed by the white regime in South Africa. So a death threat is not to be taken lightly anywhere in Africa or anywhere else in the world for that matter. The holocaust and atrocities of the ilk virtually in every corner of the world loom large in the mind. The Crown land freebies have been spoken of or written about sparsely, but only after Jomo Kenyatta’s death in 1978. However, publication of the story would have surely resulted in death both for the writer, publisher and the publication would have been banned for life and its non-Kenyan employees would be deported on the spot.

In the absence of a story of that magnitude, I cannot recall any journalists being killed, but plenty being deported, for indiscretions of revealing the truth or being associated with digging up the truth such as the Mau Mau oathing ceremonies post-independence. The bottom line was that if you were fool enough to challenge Kenyatta or his Ministers, you would most likely be spitting into a gale carrying as many bullets. There was some criticism and exposes of Cabinet Ministers, but these were in relation to corruption and graft that would crucify the individual rather than the Kenyatta collective. On the other hand, as far as the world knew, thanks to friendly nations with interests such as Britain and the US, Kenya was great example of an emerging African country. It was to a large extent at peace with itself, even though in the broadest of terms, a single party administration is no substitute for democracy. However, multiracialism of sorts was on view, tourists thronged in their thousands as did billions in foreign aid. To the outside world, mainly by the tourist telegraph, Kenya was idyllic. The reality was that Kenyatta was an autocrat, even a demi-god. His will was always done, whether it was constitutional or not. I must confess I could not get my best stories published. Forget publish, I could not even talk about them to my fellow journalists or other people. The late Boaz Omori, Editor, Daily Nation, was for me the gentlest of souls you could ever meet. He had been promoted over the head of the most professional Joe Rodrigues. Boaz got the jobbecause he was black and he was unlikely to cause any waves. For that matter, neither was Rodrigues, but Rodrigues would be unbended on principle. On one occasion, after I had handed in a story, Boaz looked at me, with that unique super large smile lighting his face, and asked: Are you trying to get us both killed?

The white journalists, too, knew to push only just so far but they whinged about it like hell, surely in denigration of a black system.

Kenyatta knew no fear. He verbally flogged errant ministers with a torrent of four letter words in Swahili in front of thousands of Kenyans and visitors alike at rallies such as those that marked Independence in December 1963. In front of Kenyatta, ministers and members of parliament all cowered alike. All except his eternal nemesis, Jaramogi Oginga Odinga, who desperately wanted to be President. The token Vice-presidency at Independence was never to his liking and he suffered from political sunstroke in the shadow of Kenyatta. If Cabinet Ministers and Members of Parliament cowered in the

presence of Kenyatta what hope was there for humble journalists.

Kenyatta was not a very tall or large man but he exuded charm and power in equal quantities. White settler biddies swooned as he passed by like teenagers at Elvis Presley or Beatles concert. Her was always impeccably elegant, a rosebud the standout decoration in his lapel. This also underscored his love of roses. So journalists beware, cross Kenyatta and lose all hope. Consider the political scenery: The North Western Kenya leader, Oginga Odinga, had come as Vice President in at independence in 1963 and was gone by May 1966. He would go to his grave opposed to Kenyatta and all things Kikuyu.

Joseph Murumbi held the vice presidency for a few months in 1966 and left a few months later disillusioned, fearing that his political best friend Pio Gama Pinto had been murdered by the Kiambu (Kikuyu) mafia then ruling Kenya under Kenyatta. Murumbi was in a specially dark place because he was reputed to have coerced his life-long friend Pio out of hiding.

Ronald Ngala, the leader of Kenya’s coastal people, and the king of the Kalenjin, Daniel arap Moi, split the African representation into Kenya African Democratic Union (KADU) on one side, and the Kenya African National Union which included Tom Mboya and members of the Kiambu mafia on the other. In 1966, Daniel arap Moi succeeded Murumbi. Ronald Ngala was to die in a tragic road accident in 1978 but was a spent political force on the national landscape although he continued to hold sway in his constituency of the Kenyan coast.

In 1966, Oginga Odinga formed the Kenya People’s Union, signaling a head-on clash with Kenyatta and the Kikuyu.

In my book, Pio Gama Pinto was one of two Goan full-bloods who were true African nationalists. The other was barrister Fitz De Souza. Joe Murumbi was neither Goan nor Maasai, he hovered somewhere in between, the twilight of the half-caste. While he was a nationalist, I was never convinced that his whole heart was in it. Perhaps, by the time I met him he was so disillusioned that he would have rather forgotten about his political past. He spoke very little about himself anyway. He was perhaps happiest talking art and music, especially African art. He quietly cancelled himself off the political scene and found solace in the beauty and comfort of the arts instead of the intrigue, the wheeling and dealing, the constant fear for one’s self and family and the lackpersonal political freedom that gripped Kenya under Kenyatta. The Kiambu mafia: Kenyatta, Attorney General Charles Njonjo, Minister of State Mbiu Koinange, Finance Minister James Gichuru, Defence Minister Dr Njoroge Mungai.

Tom Mboya, who continued to grow in stature and popularity since independence, was not a Kikuyu favourite. He was out of favour with Kenyatta who had sent him to negotiate independence in October 1963, instead Mboya was suspected of

engineering December 1963. Even before that, Mboya was on the outer because he would not give up his parliamentary seat for Kenyatta. He was tolerated for his immense popularity not only at home but also in the West. More importantly he was a sworn enemy of his fellow Luo, Oginga Odinga.

That left: Kenyatta who was going to die any day now. Daniel arap Moi who was going to succeed him. Njoroge Mungai who was going to stop Daniel arap Moi. Charles Njonjo who was going to stop Mungai. Not in the inner sanctum, but with considerable political clout, were the very likeable Mwai Kibaki and Jeremiah Nyagah. Tom Mboya was no longer a threat. He had been cruelly gunned down in the doorway of his chemist’s shop in broad daylight on a Saturday morning, July 5, 1969. His passing had shocked the country. Oginga Odinga was not a threat either but he continued making political noises of sorts on the outer fringes of the political spectrum, without any real muscle. He was the residentcommunist (a capitalist at heart really) with supposed strong leanings to the Soviet Union and China. There was a supposed friendship with Tanzania’s President Julius Nyerere, a self-confessed socialist and a China-fancier, after all they built him a railway to Zambia. However, the West were encouraged accept Odinga as the face of communism and the threat of communism in Kenya. Nobody except Odinga argued. Odinga did not pose athreat because a reasonably strong Kenya Army backed by unlimited military support from the UK made sure there was no threat to the security of the country or a coup. J.M. Kariuki, a fast rising Kikuyu star who claimed alliance with Tom Mboya and who was the only Kikuyu on Rusinga Island for Tom’s funeral, once said that Kenya did not want 10 millionaires and 10 million beggars. He was assassinated in March 1975. J.M. was not all his public persona said he was. He promised lots of money to self-help groups and delivered little. Robert Ouko, another Luo and former foreign minister who had better entres than most presidents to the US Oval Office, was murdered in 1990. There are others, like Agriculture Minister Bruce McKenzie, whose passing has been documented elsewhere. I did not know Bruce all that well, I knew of him.

I first met Tom Mboya in 1960 at a Luo soccer club match at the Nairobi Stadium. From that day on, I was in regular contact with him. He mentored in local politics and provided large landscapes on his picture of a truly independent Kenya. He introduced me to histop specialists in the Planning and Development Ministry and told them I had carte blanche on free-to-air information. He was definitely Africa’s answer to John F. Kennedy, if Africa allowed him the miracle. Never did. If I was star struck, it was with due credibility. US educated with intellect, charisma and friendly persuasion galore, he had brilliant access to the inner sanctums of the US, Britain, Germany, UN and who bunch of other European and African power brokers. China and the Soviet Union did not have much time for this black capitalist. Ironically, Tom’s resume mirrors that of Foreign Minister Dr Njoroge Mungai, another presidential aspirant and more importantly a Kikuyu. Like Tom, Mungai was another brilliant contact. My wife and I

were the only Goans invited to a private party for the then Prince Charles and Princess Anne hosted by Mungai. Naturally, we were the only Goans invited to his wedding. Mungai opened doors to every president and prime minister in Africa. I did not spare him any tough questioning at press conferences, but I also got the inside running on major scoops. I Travelled theworld with him, our visits to the world’s capitals usually ended with R&R at the nearest sauna with Aquavit, champagne and caviar in hand. Naturally it led to many people associating me with Mungai and I am not ashamed to admit him as a great source. I would even call him a friend if pure journalism permitted it.

Both Mungai and Mboya were both handsome devils, suave and polished they attracted women like bees to a honeysuckle. Both married beautiful women. Both were US educated. Mboya facilitated the transportation of hundreds of young Kenyans to the US where they were granted scholarships.Then there was Attorney General Charles Njonjo: the black Englishman and man most likely to influence Jomo Kenyatta. Njoroge Mungai may argue the toss on that one. Njonjo was Kenya’s front door key to the British cabinets of both Labour and Liberal.

And finally, the charming Daniel arap Moi with all the caring poise and understanding of a school teacher that he was. He never said much but he was always a president-in-waiting. I went on a few overseas trips with him, especially in Africa. I found him an easily likeable man, though always a wary one, but I got along well with him. I had established my credibility assets with all the top players and I thought I enjoyed their confidence.

So, why then the bullet with my name, you may well ask. I pored over every nook and cranny of the disk spaces of my own brain and never found answer. Like I said there were many death threats and Police Commissioner Bernard Hinga had tried to look into one or two on the quiet with no mention in the Daily Nation or its editor. There were also the crank calls that poured abuse over the phone lines. More of than not, these ended with my putting the phone done. There was no profit in continuing the conversation. The first time I received a death threat, I must admit I was shaken a bit, but these were the days of the sweet bird of youth, the planet of wind in your hair and an unshakeable belief in your mission in life. Besides, they don’t shoot journalists in Kenya, I told myself. Did the death threats impinge on my freedom? No. I continued to proceed with as much caution as intuition would allow me. Foolishly or not, I must have convinced myself that had friends in high places.

You develop a second skin about such things and eventually the threats are reduced to empty words and you don’t think twice, although, as I said, you really should not take a death threat lightly anywhere in Africa. My only crime would have been that I gave each of the top players the exposure they deserved in a balanced story. There was no bias but there have been more than one positive story only because they merited publication. I was not the news, they were. I was merely the humble scribe, the

messenger and you what they say about messengers, don’t shoot them.

The crunch came on day in May 1974. After dinner that night, my wife said: Cyprian we need to talk.

What’s wrong.

You have always said that I was the perfect journalist’s wife. Before we married you took me to the Nation offices and pointed to your blue Olivetti portable typewrite and said:there’s my first wife. I have never argued the point. I have watched you absolutely immersed in one crisis or another. I have shared with you agonies and ecstasies of journalism. We made new friends and travelled far and wide. It has been a heck of a ride. But I have to say STOP now. (I move to hold her and comfort as she sobs and tiny tears escape her eyes and run down her cheeks.

Why? Because they are going to kill you.

Who? I don’t know. But I was told today, they are going to kill you.

Who told you? This insurance salesman came to see my boss. He asked me for name and when I told him he said he had a friend called Fernandes.

Does your husband write for the Nation? Yes.

Suddenly his smiling, happy face was ashen. He ran to the door, checked the corridor, shut the door quietly, and said: Dear lady, dear lady. Get him out of this country today. They are going to kill him. They have bullet with his name on it.

Who is going to kill him? I can’t tell you. I must not say.

Before I could say anything else he had bolted out of the door. I was shattered. I told my boss. I told my sister.I said he must have been another nut.Nut or not, we are leaving Kenya. If you don’t want to come, I am taking the children and going to Canada or England.

When do you want to leave? Tomorrow, the day after, as soon as we can.

How about in four weeks? Do it as quickly as possible. There was only one decision. Within four weeks we were out of Nairobi. Earlier in the year, I had been to Canada for interview with the Toronto Globe and Mail. I secured an understanding that I would in-waiting for the Foreign Editor’s chair when I migrated. We had planned to stop over in

England for a week, we ended up staying five years and moved to Australia instead, pure heaven, at the first opportunity.

YESTERDAY in Kenya (4) Munich and friends

The Munich Olympics, death and golden glory

One of my junkets took me to Germany in 1972, visiting various places of interest especially the Olympic stadium in Berlin, the scene of Jesse Owens’ 1936 Olympic four gold medal successes. Black athlete Jesse was the man Hitler would not recognise or shake hands with as an Olympic champion. Jesse won the 100, 200 metres double, the long jump and was part of the 4X100 metres relay team (Later in Munich, I spent a whole morning with the great yet very humble man). The junket which would end in Munich, just before the start of the Olympics, was made up of journalists from many parts of the world including Australia and New Zealand.

Once we got to Munich, I realised I would be the only one going home. I thought it would be a shame to have come so far and miss being at the Olympics I was not supposed to be in Munich; Norman Da Costa was covering for the Nation. I went into the Press Room and sought out the Chief Press Officer, a very likeable guy called Wolfgang (I think) and asked if I could get press facilities. He was sorry but every available press pass had been issued months before. In that case, I said could I have somewhere to stay since all the hote accommodation in Munich was booked out. No problem, he said, but it will be expensive. I took up the offer.

That afternoon I attended a Press Conference by the African head of Olympic

organisations. I asked him: Now that Idi Amin has thrown out all the Asians and killed any chance of multiracial sport, will you ban Uganda from taking part in the Games?

There was numbed silence followed by an uproar of sorts, including encores of “answer the question”. I asked a few more touchy questions before the African chiefs left in disgust. A lot of English speaking journos tapped me on my shoulder and said “good questions”.

Later that afternoon, there were a couple more press conferences and I made a similar impact. At the end of the last of these, Wolfgang came and put his arms around my shoulder and led me away. When we had reached a certain point, he said: Stand here and smile. He stood a little awayfrom me. Moments later he handed me my premium press pass, press kit and a whole bunch of other stuff, free of charge. You are a good journalist, I wish you good success, he said. I had done work for the German radio station Deutsche Welle off and on for a while, mainly political reporting and daily commentary and analysis whenever I was in Bonn. The next day I headed for the DW studio and they welcomed me by handing me a couple of large tape recorders. I also contacted the BBC World Service and their Africa Service and they agreed to take any feeds I could provide. Eventually, I would go from station for them to copy material from my tape recorders.My plan was simple: I would interview former greats like Jesse James, Emil Zatopak (one of the greatest long distanc runners of all time), Mal Whitfield (an Olympic quarter miler who had been attached to the US Embassy in Nairobi) and ask them just one question: How would you run their pet event/events, who were their likely opponents and what tactics would best suit the Munich track? I had to find my subjects and update the tapes after the finalists emerged following the heats. I also spoke to a whole bunc of coaches.

The stations would use these sound bites in their previews of races to come and also slot them in during the actual races. Almost every broadcasting unit bought my tapes. Some used the material unchanged, others used the model to create their own stuff relevant to their audiences. Most of them paid cash in US dollars. I did not talk to many of the Kenyan athletes but provided my own analyses.

The Israeli siege followed by the massacre opened up an opportunity to provide live feeds to several stations. A Kenyan athlete was a telecom technician and he wired up a whole bunch of phones to help me speak to several programs live. None of this would have been possible without the help of Roy Thompson, the king of sports reporting at Deutsche Welle radio. I also owe an enduring debt to the late Ian Woolridge, one of sports’ greatestwriters, certainly the best dressed. Ian had been a hero of mine for as long as I had read copies of the London Daily Mail. The crotchety, grumpy yet brilliant

columnist J.L. Manning was another. This legend never touched a typewriter but hand wrote all his copy. There were also a whole herd of British and Americansportswriters whose names have been wiped off the my memory banks of my mind, just a cumbersome shortcoming of ageing … the grey cells, they are weakening I shared my material with anyone, whether theywanted to pay for it or not. Interviews too. All my stuff was particularly appreciated (besides Roy and DW) by the journalists who were on that junket with me. I never had to pay for a drink at the Press pub. I was almost drowned in free grog.

World’s first deserved a gold medal in journalism

So there I was in the press stand, a computer telephone and enough paper info to save the ozone layer and enough journalist to set a nation of their own. Me against teams, each with the resources of dozens of journalists, researchers, producers, directors, copy boys, coffee boys, gofers … hell I can’t take them on, they are just too many! I could not just sit there and call the races. Everyone had their own folks out there. SuddenlyI found myself redundant.

As I sat there half watching a procession of the early heats, I was subconsciously taken in the sheer beauty of the games, the German one-way precision, change no lanes, do not adapt, follow the plan like a train timetable. It all looked so good. The only out of place thing I noticed was that the perimeter wall was lined up with folks in their wheelchairs, inside the stadium. Inside the stadium, those were the days when the world had yetrealise that handicapped people needed to be catered for.

At last. I struck gold. I got a couple of my buddies to virtually carry me into the Games Medical Emergency Room. I complained of severe pain in my legs. After various scans and tests, the doctors said I should be hospitalised No. No. I pleaded that I was a journalist and had to cover the track and field events.

What else can we do?

Fill my butt with pain killing injections and give me a pair of crutches.

That did the trick. I walked out of there with those wonderful crutches and sports journalism history: the first journalist in the world to interview medal winners and commentate on the track. Nobody stopped from the very first day

I stepped inside the Olympic arena.

When unknown Ugandan John Aki Bua won the 400 metres Gold Medal I ran half round the track interviewing him. After winning he just could not stop running I will never forget the broadest smile in Games: Australia’s Raelene Boyle after she won silver in the sprints. She epitomised the beauty of the joy of climbing her own personal Everest and enjoyed every moment in the process American Frank Shorter, who could barely speakafter winning the marathon said: “I am not sure I am alive. I hit a wall some kilometres back and I am sure I died there.”

I sat for three hours with the great Kipchoge Keino in the medical testing room. He just could not provide a urine sample, it took an eternity to do so. A favourite for the 1500 metres, he won silver but then shocked everyone by winning the 3000 metres steeplechase. And he was not happy at all. I hurdled like a punda (donkey), he told me. Several years before I had watched run his first sub four minute mile on a grass track at the Medical Sports Ground in Nairobi There were many, many more winners and I was the only one who interviewed them at their moment of their great exhilaration:

Lasse Viren in the 5000 and 10000 metre double and Dave Wottle in 800 were two unforgettable characters.

After the closing ceremony, I went to the Press bar and met up with a whole bunch of fellow journalists.

My last unforgettable moment came with a tap on my shoulder and turned round to see the beaming face of Wolfgang, the Chief Press Officer. We did not talk while he continued to shake my hand and tap myshoulder with his other hand.

Wundabar and Zank you, he said, you no pay for anything, or something that sounded like that as he walked away waving his hand in farewell.

I sent some money home and took off for some much needed R&R in Scandinavia, lots of Aquavit, Courvoisier and caviar, not necessarily in that order.

The news and nothing but the news

Long before I went to the Munich Games, I had already moved to the General News department. I had brought Norman Da Costa from the lowly Sunday Post and later Polycarp Fernandes joined the Sports Department. Michael

Wright had joined many months before. I had yearned to move to the News section and the transition was smooth. As the new boy in the news hood, I had to cover the bottom of the diary stories which more often than did not make the paper. I covered the Rotary and Lions Club lunches, openings of this and that, launches of what not, sometimes wrote the stars when the true copy was late coming from London, minor motor accidents, chased fire engines ... you know the mundane stuff. I made a brief attempt at writing about youth, music and the nightclub scene. I usually started work around 8 in the morning and rarely wentto bed before 3 or 4 the next morning.

I think the first real story I covered was the murder of an Ismaili family in Nairobi West. I heard it on the radio and headed for the scene of the crime. As I entered the home and saw the corpses, I was emotionally smashed. It was a scene from some of the insomniacs horror movies screened today. The parents and two children were dead. To this day, I don’t think the killer or killers have ever been caught. Things moved me up pretty quickly after that. Brian Tetley was an alcoholic but a wonderful guy and an even more wonderful funny writer. He birthed the Mambo column and all its hilarity … it was an instant success. When he left, I inherited the column but I doubt if I ever matched the brilliance of Brian. His interview with the comic genius Spike Milligan published in the London Guardian remains the best I have read anywhere. Spike spoke with the speed of lightening, a joke, a funny line, hilarity every neon second. It was impossible to have a serious interview with him, by Brian Tetley did. Brilliant.

Some other folks who changed my life Michael Parry, a proof reader with Nation, joined the whites only East African Standard. Another self-taught journalist, Mike went on to adorn journalism in his very own special way. He was also a happy clicker with the camera. He and I were appointed to lead the court reporting team at the same time. Thus began many years of intense rivalry and to this day still remain friends. We also headed the teams that covered the annual gruelling East African Safari with many international drivers taking part. Kul Bhushan was an outstanding member of the Nation team. In between, I continued to build a health portfolio of assets.

My best pal at the Nation then was Philip Ochieng. I admired his intellect and even more his speed in finishing The Times and Daily Mail crosswords, which was to remain an addiction for many years. Philip remains one of the best political analysts. Later the ever smiling and funny Joe Kadhi and I always met for a beer at the nearby Sans Chique.

Not far behind was the handsome Adrian Grimwood who has had an eternal affair with Kenya's coast, especially Mombasa, Malindi and Lamu and continues to edit Coastweek. He is a walking, talking encyclopedia of

everything Kenyan coastal. Adrian is one of life's gifts of the wonder of human nature. A great journalist no doubt, he was also generous, very funny and a pleasure to have a beer with. I met him again a few years ago after not having seen him for 40 years and he had not changed a bit, just clocked up the years.

Perhaps the best journalist at that time was without doubt Hilary Ng'weno. In today's parlance he was cool dude, in journalistic terms a clean skin. He was the man for Kenya's tomorrow. He was not tied down by the rampant tribalism or the rampant corruption. He was and still is a world class journalist in the truest sence of the word. He was a lot like John Bierman but was devoid of Bierman's fast gun or his larrikinism. Both shared a naked passion for the truth and the story and urgency to get it into print. Hilary has gone on to carve out a career that surely as him at the pinnacle of African and international journalism. He was appointed Editor-in-Chief of the Nation Group in 1964 and left less than a year in the job. Hilary was not the kind of guy who would tolerate crap from anyone, certainly no white guy. He was never comfortable at the Nation. It was always a matter of when and not if he would go. He was too brilliant for the Nation of that era.Azhar Chowdhary, a brilliant photographer, was another special friend. He lost a leg which had become infected from the coral at a Mombasa shoot of Kenyatta but that never stopped. Azhar was a brilliant newsphotographer and a wildlife essayist. He had this uncanny knack of seeing the subject in a unique way, frame by frame. While his cousin Akhtar Hussein was a creative genius for the set up picture and who went on make a name for himself as a Royal Photographer, Azhar was always better in the moment. A great all round guy. They were preceded by the ornamental Sashi Vassani, the Nation's first Chief Photographer. A quiet spoken man without the flamboyance of either Hussein or Chowdhary,Sashi was Mr Reliable. He had a heart attack while sitting in the sofa opposite the New Editor's desk and died in hospital.Truly a lovely man. Anil Vidyarthi was another special photographer. He was a can do kind of guy who would not let anything or anyone stop him from getting the gun shot.

Boaz Omori, Nation Editor, was a gentle man. He gave me some huge breaks and also enabled me to travel the world. Joe Rodrigues and I rarely spoke about work. We used to have a beer at the Lobster Pot at around 7 each evening. I think he was quietly proud of me. Many years later when I showed him my debut features page design, he said: Wonders will never cease. He never was one for handing out compliments. But I still think he was a great Goan journalist with few if any flaws. Henry Gathigira, as News Editor, was a gentle but grand journalist, especially his knowledge of local politics. He was a Kikuyu. He assigned me to some of the best, if sometimes the toughest, stories. It was Henry who appointed me the Nation’s representative on VoK television’s Meet the Press program. To say that I got the plum jobs is an understatement.

Karo, our office driver, and I travelled thousands of miles, chasing story after story. He became my honorary assistant because he was a big help talking in Kikuyu with people at the scene of an incident. He brought potential witnesses to me. A beautiful man with a heart as large as the circumference of the horizon. I will always remember the man with the greatest smile in the world. Chief Sub-editor, Allen Armstrong. He was mybiggest fan, If we were short of Page One lead or a major story, he would say: Don’t worry, Skip will turn up with something. As I passed his desk and briefed him, he would say: 10 pars please. Ten paragraphs he would get and not a word more, Another very special person.

Jim Glencross, Editor of the Sunday Nation, was a real pal. First, he gave me a rea column: Fernandes on Sunday and later taught me the art of editing. Features editor Trevor Grundy showed me huge belief and after I had had enough of news, he welcomed me to the art of page design. Neil Graham was another special friend. Jack Beverly, founding Editor Sunday Nation, was a hard man to like but with an eagle eye for detail. In one of my stories, I had begun: In a brief five minute interview … he asked: How brief is five minutes, Touché! Jack's sidekick Gerry Loughran was probably most likeable person I know and a grand journalist to boot. Very talented. Buddy Trevor, great beer drinker.

Dear reader, the above may mean nothing and writing down a couple of hundred more names, important though they may have been in my life, will bore you to death. So, with your permission, I will tell you about just one more guy and what a guy! Mike Chester was hired from England (the Birmingham Post, I think) as news editor. Mike was a revelation. A suave guy, with equally suave qualities he brought to all walks of life. He was also a tough taskmaster. Above all he was a brilliant journalist.

He taught me the art of writing a crisp 25-words or less intro, the first paragraph of any story. The intro virtually said what the story was all about and usually provided the sub-editor with an instant headline. Mike also brought me to tears one day. He got me to write the intro to a story 25 times. In disgust I told him after the 25th time: That’s my best and if it is not good enough you had better find someone else to write it. I went to Chief Sub-editor Allen Armstrong and asked if he had received the story. I sent the story off over an hour ago, he said. He had used my original story. So I asked Mike why he had put me through those 25 attempts. “You zip into the office, light your cigarette, and speed-type your story. Think how much better it would be if you gave it a little more thought before you rushed into type?” What he did not know was that I was in the habit of doing all my thinking on the way back to the office and usually had it pat by the time I got to my desk. A few weeks later, he said: Forget all that stuff I told you, you are an intuitive reporter, stick with it.

The first week Mike was there, I handed in an expense chit for 20 shillings. Come over here, as he headed for my typewriter, and said: Let me show you how a white man writes his expenses. My humble 20 shillings chit was turned into 200. Something I later excelled at.

Here you are, he said. You are in the chair.

What chair?

You are buying the drinks at the Sans Chique (the back door of the Nation, across a lane, led to the back door of the SC). I was to buy many drinks and he in return He called me his shotgun rider. If there was a troublesome story, he sent me. He loved his Tusker lager as much as he loved women. I had some of my best times with Mike as a journalist and was sorry to see him wongly deported. He was a stringer for the London Financial Times and had for a long time chased the Kikuyu Mau Mau oathing ceremonies that had begun surfacing.

If John Bierman was the polished diamond, Mike was a rough one, though a poor man’s one. A diamond nonetheless.

YESTERDAY in Kenya (5) John Bierman was truly a fearless editor, even a renegade of sorts who might have taken chances that might have made the truth itself the victim. But he did it with a heart and soul that was dedicated to the greater good of man and the truth. As brilliant as he was, he too was flawed. But during his tenure, the Nation was as fearless as he could make it. When the clinically true history of Kenya is written, it may judge him to be a mere mortal at a time when history demanded him to immortal. I loved the man.Boaz Omori was a kind man, thrust into history ill-equipped to deal with the challenges of an emerging nation, brutalised by colonialism, with bloodied souls and corpses of a people baying for blood: "This is my father's land, and the rest of the world (including all non-Africans, and non-Kenyans) can get the hell out. Boaz was not a warrior. He could not fight for the truth, the right, and rights of human beings, the rights of a true democracy or even the rights of common sense and fair play. One Kenyan politician joked with me that there could never be fair play in Kenya because it was not black enough, rather more likely white. On the other hand, while he would not go into battle, Boaz was loathe to hurting anyone. He was a getalong kind guy who did not want any hassles or did not want to hassle anyone either. Besides the Aga Khan, Michael Curtis and the Board, I think I was the one guy he listened to. During his tenure I became the first Kenyan journalist to travel the world in search of that investigative scoops and I have him much to thank for. But he was never

Editor material.

Joe Rodrigues was the right man rather than Boaz for the job. Boaz got it because he was a black Kenyan. Joe looked more white than even an Indian. But Joe was the true journalist. He had everything going for him. He had the editor genes (his father was an Indian editor and nationalist of note), he was a consummate professional, journalism was his first wife and he spent most of his life at the office, first in, last out. After he was finally made Editor, Joe's heroics landed him in plenty of hot water, but that was nothing new. He was the most honest man I knew. Some people have touted him as a nationalist and a freedom fighter of sorts. I doubt that. I never saw him support any kind of extemism, he certainly did not support the Mau Mau but we were all agreed independence for Kenya was a matter of when and not if. For me, Joe dealt with each story on its merit taking into account the big picture. It was all about the story, there were no hidden agendas in his cupboard. I guess his honesty, his integrity, his unbreakable faith in the truth or compromise the truth, the trueness of his journalism is what made him Africa's greatest quiet achiever in journalism. Besides he was not a bad human being, at least one of the best of his species.Most of us lived in fear of lives every day. In the overall scheme of things, I thought that George Githii was the worst man for job. That's not only because I was forced to live in fear. He saw in me someone that needed taming, someone to toe his flawed line. I could never do that. Naive maybe, I was the son of truth itself, I thought.Editors, to my mind, are inspirational flag-bearers, guardians of the truth, guardians of their journalist flocks, innovators, brilliant analysts, warrior ambassadors for their mastheads, they led where others followed. I always felt that George was something of a thug. Thugs don't make good editors. Besides, he broke the first rule: he had personal agendas to flag. However, he was blessed with some moments of brilliance when fought for the truth like a crazed warrior. I always felt it was a little bit like the devil fighting forsomething good, godly even. He was an impostor and HH and his team have a lot to answer for. Besides there was always the threat of the handgun which was close by.

If the cancer of corruption emitted a puss of money, millions and millions, then the worst corruption was political corruption. Political corruption raped the individual day in, day out and the residue was brain-dead zombies, a soulless semblance of the human being. To this day, that is the legacy that generations of Kenya will have to live with.But life goes on and many beautiful and wonderful things continue bless Kenya. It is a bit like reading stories of a war-torn country or a country smashed by God's hand (like Katrina and New Orleans): It is always a lot more bleaker looking from the outside in. Inside life goes on. People eke out a living, fallin love, make babies, send them to school, and see them achieve

their potential, marry and continue the cycle. Meanwhile there is the circle of song, laughter, dance, good times, bad times ... life, such as it is happens. The Kenya of today has done many great things and whatever bleakness exists therehas been some escapism in its world champion athletes and sportspersons. Shitshappens, life goes on.

PS: I said I was disappointed. I think Gerry, in his book on the Nation's 50 years, focused what he thought would make news but in the process forgot about the small people, the minutiae, the mundane, the routine ... whole bunch of people who made the Nation what it was. Without them there would be no Nation. Notice that there is no mention of the Features section especially the gorgeous Barbara Kimenye who is now a famed Kenyan book author, or the sports writers (me included, that is where I started) Norman Da Costa, Polycarp Fernandes, the late Monte Vianna who died so young in a plane crash near Voi, Alfred Araujo a sub-editor who went on to greater things in the UK, Olinda Fernandes the first Goan girl to venture into journalism, Kul Bhushan who was always busy doing things.One of my stories that never got published was about how Kenyatta and Kenya institutionalised corruption with the introduction of the quota and licence systems. I doubt if he is absolving him because, in truth, it was a given that Kenyatta, his household and his close collaborators used the Gatundu Hospital funds as their own. But there was never any proof and could not be said categorically. Kitu Kidogo (a little something, money) was the cancer that began eating away at Kenya from the earliest years since the arrival of the whites and the browns. In post-Independence Kenya, it soon became a way of life.

George Githii was an intellectual as much as he was a mad man, unpredictable and dangerous. He always carried a hand gun with him. This was known to fall from his person on more than one occasion. He was a devilish opponent of Njoroge Mungai. I had worked closely with NM on several UN and Commonwealth campaigns. NM was part of the GEMA group that wanted to stop Moi from succeeding Kenyatta. Quite rightly, Githii, himself a Kikuyu and a former Kenyatta right-hand man, opposed this with considerable help from the so-called black Englishman Charles Njonjo. Githii was like a man possessed. He threatened me and colleague, Trevor Grundy, on more than one occasion. On the last occasion, I told him to get stuffed. One month later my family and I were out of Kenya. There had also been a series of death threats.

YESTERDAY in Kenya (6) Recipe for self-destruction A recipe for self-destruction

I always feared for Kenya’s future because I was convinced that it held nothing but danger and destruction since independence came at the price of individual and tribal greed, mistrust, suspicion, corruption and later death and assassination. Harry Thuku took the first steps towards political agitation by forming the Young Kikuyu Association in 1921. It was promptly banned by the colonial government. Thuku reformed the organisation as the East African Association, fighting for the rights of labourers’, especially women and land. They were originally concerned with Kikuyu affairs but broadened their interests to a much wider political umbrella. The EAA became the Kikuyu Central Association with Johnston Kenyatta as its secretary general. In 1929, the association sent Kenyatta to London to put the land case and other issues directly to the British government and people. Kenyatta did not return until 1946. Thuku was eventually arrested anddeported to Kismayu island. In 1944 Thuku formed the multi-tribal Kenya African Students Union which in turn became the Kenya African Union in 1946. Kenyatta became its president in 1947.

The Kikuyu were the first to see the potential of political agitation. They began with fighting for individual Kikuyu rights, Kikuyu land rights, and moved to taking the whole country. This will to dominate has led Kenya to crisis after crisis. The first instincts were to form regional assemblies or governments. This idea was just as doomed as the central government.

Even before independence, two Luos: Oginga Odinga and Tom Mboya were locked in a mighty struggle. The young, handsome, articulate and self-assured Tom Mboya was the darling of the West, especially the USA. It was not long before Tom was sending plane loads of Kenyans for an America education. The so-called socialist, who was in reality a capitalist (how else can you live?), Oginga Odinga made his leanings to the East public. He also began sending Kenyans overseas for an education … that is to Moscow. Oginga openly disliked Tom Mboya but the latter was often too clever for the senior politician. Oginga was old school, Tom was definitely new school. Both served under Kenyatta with their dislike for each other continuing to foster.

In-fighting among the Kikuyu was cancerous too. Attorney-General Charles Njonjo has had life long battle with Njoroge Mungai. Njonjo opposed Mungai who opposed Daniel arap Moi from succeeding Kenyatta. This Njonjo won and Moi became president. But it was not long after that Moi and Njonjo fell out

and that was the end of the Kenyan African Englishman. Perhaps the biggest pointer to the future futility of Kenyan politics was found in the Kapenguria six: Jomo Kenyatta, Bildad Kaggia, Achieng Oneko, Kungu Karumba Paul Ngei, Fred Kubai who were jailed on trumped up charges of managing the Mau Mau.Achieng Oneko left Kanu with Oginga to form the ill-fated Kenya People’sUnion.Paul Ngei was a founding member of the Kenya African Democratic Union. He was never trusted by the Kikuyu although he served in government for a long time. Kaggia, disillusioned with the wholesale corruption around him also left to join the KPU. Kaggia drifted further away when his best friend and socialist colleague Pio Gama Pinto was allegedly murdered by the Kiambu mafia. Fred Kubai retired from politics after serving several terms in parliament. Kungu Karumba was also disillusioned with the Kikuyu land grab and became a communist sympathiser. He disappeared in 1975. These were supposedly the founding fathers of an Independent Kenya.Where did the unity go? In May, 1960, James Gicheru was the stand-in president of the Kenya African Union (KANU), with Oginga Odinga, Ronald Ngala, Moi, Tom Mboya the other key officers. However, Ngala and Moi declined the positions because they felt that KANU was Kikuyu and Luo centric. They went on to form the Kenya African Democratic Party (KADU) to represent the Kalenjin, Masai, Abaluhya and the Coast. Ngala died in a car crash not long after. Everybody it seemed was watching everyone else.

When KADU was eventually disbanded and merged with KANU. Moi became Vice 1967 after Joe Murumbi held the post for a brief time. Odinga left the party in 1966 to form the Kenya People’s Union. I cannot honestly say that I met a single politician who was there purely for Kenya and its people. Everyone, it seems, had a hand turned out or sticking up turned behind the back.

YESTERDAY in Kenya (7) A bullet with my name on it

Death threats to journalists and other prominent people were fairly common place in Nairobi, Kenya during the late 1960s until my departure in 1974. It was also pretty common to be picked up by the dreaded Special Branch for interrogation and/or deportation As a political journalist in Kenya, you had to walk the political tightrope with the precision of a brain surgeon. You lived with fear of deportation every day to the point it became second skin and you thought nothing of it. To survive one placed his or her faith in the truth, as we had been told on the masthead of the Daily Nation: The Truth Shall Make You Free. Problem was, publication of the truth more often than not resulted in the worst of fates. The truth, in fact, made a prisoner of you, rather than set you free. Also, there were not too many editors who were brave enough to publish. If one fell through the cracks, watch out. For example, if you exposed the

President, Jomo Kenyatta, and his Kikuyu cronies for exploiting a loop hole in the Constitution and freely sharing out Crown Land, at the least you would be deported (providing the British High Commission or your representative diplomatic was aware). If you were a Kenyan, the chances are that you would be dead.

Anthropologically, the African is a hunter gatherer. Over time, he has left the gathering to the women and made hunting his sole domain. In time, he aimed his arrows at other tribesmen to steal their women and cattle. Killing comes naturally, often without a second thought. In Kenya, the Mau Mau killings are a prime example. Other evidence includes the Idi Amin’s massacres and murders. In the recent past the genocide in Rwanda and Burundi are startling examples followed by the mass murders in the Congo, Central Africa, in the Sudan and the atrocities committed by the white regime in South Africa. So a death threat is not to be taken lightly anywhere in Africa or anywhere else in the world for that matter. The holocaust and atrocities of the ilk virtually in every corner of the world loom large in the mind. The Crown land freebies have been spoken of or written about sparsely, but only after Jomo Kenyatta’s death in 1978. However, publication of the story would have surely resulted in death both for the writer, publisher and the publication would have been banned for life and its non-Kenyan employees would be deported on the spot.

In the absence of a story of that magnitude, I cannot recall any journalists being killed, but plenty being deported, for indiscretions of revealing the truth or being associated with digging up the truth such as the Mau Mau oathing ceremonies post-independence. The bottom line was that if you were fool enough to challenge Kenyatta or his Ministers, you would most likely be spitting into a gale carrying as many bullets. There was some criticism and exposes of Cabinet Ministers, but these were in relation to corruption and graft that would crucify the individual rather than the Kenyatta collective. On the other hand, as far as the world knew, thanks to friendly nations with interests such as Britain and the US, Kenya was great example of an emerging African country. It was to a large extent at peace with itself, even though in the broadest of terms, a single party administration is no substitute for democracy. However, multiracialism of sorts was on view, tourists thronged in their thousands as did billions in foreign aid. To the outside world, mainly by the tourist telegraph, Kenya was idyllic. The reality was that Kenyatta was an autocrat, even a demi-god. His will was always done, whether it was constitutional or not. I must confess I could not get my best stories published. Forget publish, I could not even talk about them to my fellow journalists or other people. The late Boaz Omori, Editor, Daily Nation, was for me the gentlest of souls you could ever meet. He had been promoted over the head of the most professional Joe Rodrigues. Boaz got the jobbecause he was black and he was unlikely to cause any waves. For that matter, neither was Rodrigues, but Rodrigues would be unbended on

principle. On one occasion, after I had handed in a story, Boaz looked at me, with that unique super large smile lighting his face, and asked: Are you trying to get us both killed?

The white journalists, too, knew to push only just so far but they whinged about it like hell, surely in denigration of a black system.

Kenyatta knew no fear. He verbally flogged errant ministers with a torrent of four letter words in Swahili in front of thousands of Kenyans and visitors alike at rallies such as those that marked Independence in December 1963. In front of Kenyatta, ministers and members of parliament all cowered alike. All except his eternal nemesis, Jaramogi Oginga Odinga, who desperately wanted to be President. The token Vice-presidency at Independence was never to his liking and he suffered from political sunstroke in the shadow of Kenyatta. If Cabinet Ministers and Members of Parliament cowered in the presence of Kenyatta what hope was there for humble journalists.

Kenyatta was not a very tall or large man but he exuded charm and power in equal quantities. White settler biddies swooned as he passed by like teenagers at Elvis Presley or Beatles concert. Her was always impeccably elegant, a rosebud the standout decoration in his lapel. This also underscored his love of roses. So journalists beware, cross Kenyatta and lose all hope. Consider the political scenery: The North Western Kenya leader, Oginga Odinga, had come as Vice President in at independence in 1963 and was gone by May 1966. He would go to his grave opposed to Kenyatta and all things Kikuyu.

Joseph Murumbi held the vice presidency for a few months in 1966 and left a few months later disillusioned, fearing that his political best friend Pio Gama Pinto had been murdered by the Kiambu (Kikuyu) mafia then ruling Kenya under Kenyatta. Murumbi was in a specially dark place because he was reputed to have coerced his life-long friend Pio out of hiding.

Ronald Ngala, the leader of Kenya’s coastal people, and the king of the Kalenjin, Daniel arap Moi, split the African representation into Kenya African Democratic Union (KADU) on one side, and the Kenya African National Union which included Tom Mboya and members of the Kiambu mafia on the other. In 1966, Daniel arap Moi succeeded Murumbi. Ronald Ngala was to die in a tragic road accident in 1978 but was a spent political force on the national landscape although he continued to hold sway in his constituency of the Kenyan coast.

In 1966, Oginga Odinga formed the Kenya People’s Union, signaling a head-on clash with Kenyatta and the Kikuyu.

In my book, Pio Gama Pinto was one of two Goan full-bloods who were true African nationalists. The other was barrister Fitz De Souza. Joe Murumbi was neither Goan nor Maasai, he hovered somewhere in between, the twilight of the half-caste. While he was a nationalist, I was never convinced that his whole heart was in it. Perhaps, by the time I met him he was so disillusioned that he would have rather forgotten about his political past. He spoke very little about himself anyway. He was perhaps happiest talking art and music, especially African art. He quietly cancelled himself off the political scene and found solace in the beauty and comfort of the arts instead of the intrigue, the wheeling and dealing, the constant fear for one’s self and family and the lackpersonal political freedom that gripped Kenya under Kenyatta. The Kiambu mafia: Kenyatta, Attorney General Charles Njonjo, Minister of State Mbiu Koinange, Finance Minister James Gichuru, Defence Minister Dr Njoroge Mungai.

Tom Mboya, who continued to grow in stature and popularity since independence, was not a Kikuyu favourite. He was out of favour with Kenyatta who had sent him to negotiate independence in October 1963, instead Mboya was suspected of engineering December 1963. Even before that, Mboya was on the outer because he would not give up his parliamentary seat for Kenyatta. He was tolerated for his immense popularity not only at home but also in the West. More importantly he was a sworn enemy of his fellow Luo, Oginga Odinga.

That left: Kenyatta who was going to die any day now. Daniel arap Moi who was going to succeed him. Njoroge Mungai who was going to stop Daniel arap Moi. Charles Njonjo who was going to stop Mungai. Not in the inner sanctum, but with considerable political clout, were the very likeable Mwai Kibaki and Jeremiah Nyagah. Tom Mboya was no longer a threat. He had been cruelly gunned down in the doorway of his chemist’s shop in broad daylight on a Saturday morning, July 5, 1969. His passing had shocked the country. Oginga Odinga was not a threat either but he continued making political noises of sorts on the outer fringes of the political spectrum, without any real muscle. He was the residentcommunist (a capitalist at heart really) with supposed strong leanings to the Soviet Union and China. There was a supposed friendship with Tanzania’s President Julius Nyerere, a self-confessed socialist and a China-fancier, after all they built him a railway to Zambia. However, the West were encouraged accept Odinga as the face of communism and the threat of communism in Kenya. Nobody except Odinga argued. Odinga did not pose athreat because a reasonably strong Kenya Army backed by unlimited military support from the UK made sure there was no threat to the security of the country or a coup. J.M. Kariuki, a fast rising Kikuyu star who claimed alliance with Tom Mboya and who was the only Kikuyu on Rusinga Island for Tom’s funeral, once said that Kenya did not want 10 millionaires and 10 million

beggars. He was assassinated in March 1975. J.M. was not all his public persona said he was. He promised lots of money to self-help groups and delivered little. Robert Ouko, another Luo and former foreign minister who had better entres than most presidents to the US Oval Office, was murdered in 1990. There are others, like Agriculture Minister Bruce McKenzie, whose passing has been documented elsewhere. I did not know Bruce all that well, I knew of him.

I first met Tom Mboya in 1960 at a Luo soccer club match at the Nairobi Stadium. From that day on, I was in regular contact with him. He mentored in local politics and provided large landscapes on his picture of a truly independent Kenya. He introduced me to histop specialists in the Planning and Development Ministry and told them I had carte blanche on free-to-air information. He was definitely Africa’s answer to John F. Kennedy, if Africa allowed him the miracle. Never did. If I was star struck, it was with due credibility. US educated with intellect, charisma and friendly persuasion galore, he had brilliant access to the inner sanctums of the US, Britain, Germany, UN and who bunch of other European and African power brokers. China and the Soviet Union did not have much time for this black capitalist. Ironically, Tom’s resume mirrors that of Foreign Minister Dr Njoroge Mungai, another presidential aspirant and more importantly a Kikuyu. Like Tom, Mungai was another brilliant contact. My wife and I were the only Goans invited to a private party for the then Prince Charles and Princess Anne hosted by Mungai. Naturally, we were the only Goans invited to his wedding. Mungai opened doors to every president and prime minister in Africa. I did not spare him any tough questioning at press conferences, but I also got the inside running on major scoops. I Travelled theworld with him, our visits to the world’s capitals usually ended with R&R at the nearest sauna with Aquavit, champagne and caviar in hand. Naturally it led to many people associating me with Mungai and I am not ashamed to admit him as a great source. I would even call him a friend if pure journalism permitted it.

Both Mungai and Mboya were both handsome devils, suave and polished they attracted women like bees to a honeysuckle. Both married beautiful women. Both were US educated. Mboya facilitated the transportation of hundreds of young Kenyans to the US where they were granted scholarships.Then there was Attorney General Charles Njonjo: the black Englishman and man most likely to influence Jomo Kenyatta. Njoroge Mungai may argue the toss on that one. Njonjo was Kenya’s front door key to the British cabinets of both Labour and Liberal.

And finally, the charming Daniel arap Moi with all the caring poise and understanding of a school teacher that he was. He never said much but he was always a president-in-waiting. I went on a few overseas trips with him, especially in Africa. I found him an easily likeable man, though always a wary

one, but I got along well with him. I had established my credibility assets with all the top players and I thought I enjoyed their confidence.

So, why then the bullet with my name, you may well ask. I pored over every nook and cranny of the disk spaces of my own brain and never found answer. Like I said there were many death threats and Police Commissioner Bernard Hinga had tried to look into one or two on the quiet with no mention in the Daily Nation or its editor. There were also the crank calls that poured abuse over the phone lines. More of than not, these ended with my putting the phone done. There was no profit in continuing the conversation. The first time I received a death threat, I must admit I was shaken a bit, but these were the days of the sweet bird of youth, the planet of wind in your hair and an unshakeable belief in your mission in life. Besides, they don’t shoot journalists in Kenya, I told myself. Did the death threats impinge on my freedom? No. I continued to proceed with as much caution as intuition would allow me. Foolishly or not, I must have convinced myself that had friends in high places.

You develop a second skin about such things and eventually the threats are reduced to empty words and you don’t think twice, although, as I said, you really should not take a death threat lightly anywhere in Africa. My only crime would have been that I gave each of the top players the exposure they deserved in a balanced story. There was no bias but there have been more than one positive story only because they merited publication. I was not the news, they were. I was merely the humble scribe, the messenger and you what they say about messengers, don’t shoot them.

The crunch came on day in May 1974. After dinner that night, my wife said: Cyprian we need to talk.

What’s wrong.

You have always said that I was the perfect journalist’s wife. Before we married you took me to the Nation offices and pointed to your blue Olivetti portable typewrite and said:there’s my first wife. I have never argued the point. I have watched you absolutely immersed in one crisis or another. I have shared with you agonies and ecstasies of journalism. We made new friends and travelled far and wide. It has been a heck of a ride. But I have to say STOP now. (I move to hold her and comfort as she sobs and tiny tears escape her eyes and run down her cheeks.

Why? Because they are going to kill you.

Who? I don’t know. But I was told today, they are going to kill you.

Who told you? This insurance salesman came to see my boss. He asked me for name and when I told him he said he had a friend called Fernandes.

Does your husband write for the Nation? Yes.

Suddenly his smiling, happy face was ashen. He ran to the door, checked the corridor, shut the door quietly, and said: Dear lady, dear lady. Get him out of this country today. They are going to kill him. They have bullet with his name on it.

Who is going to kill him? I can’t tell you. I must not say.

Before I could say anything else he had bolted out of the door. I was shattered. I told my boss. I told my sister.I said he must have been another nut.Nut or not, we are leaving Kenya. If you don’t want to come, I am taking the children and going to Canada or England.

When do you want to leave? Tomorrow, the day after, as soon as we can.

How about in four weeks? Do it as quickly as possible. There was only one decision. Within four weeks we were out of Nairobi. Earlier in the year, I had been to Canada for interview with the Toronto Globe and Mail. I secured an understanding that I would in-waiting for the Foreign Editor’s chair when I migrated. We had planned to stop over in England for a week, we ended up staying five years and moved to Australia instead, pure heaven, at the first opportunity.

YESTERDAY in Kenya (8) Njoroge Mungai

Who double-crossed Njoroge Mungai in Singapore?

During 1969 and 1970, Kenya’s Foreign Minister, Dr Njoroge Mungai, had spear-headed the anti-arms sales to South Africa campaign. The British were the arms merchants and the South Africans contended that the arms were needed to make the Indian Ocean shipping lanes safe from the land. It not, they swore on the blood of Boers dead both in war and peace in South Africa, not intended for use against black South Africans or African nationalists or against neighbouring African countries. I travelled with Mungai to most African forums, especially the Organisation of African Unity in Addis Ababa, individually to various countries in Africa, India, and the Far East. At othernational forums we met up with leaders of the Caribbean countries. The OAU unreservedly supported the campaign. Milton Obote of Uganda Julius Nyerere of Tanzania and Kenneth Kaunda of Zambia were strongly vocal in their support. Kamuzu Banda of Malawi did not care less one way or another. In the corridors of the OAU, while lobbying OAU support for independence of what is now Zimbabwe, Robert Mugabe was more despondent because he was afraid the arms would be used against his country. In those days, Robert Mugabe was a very likeable man, quietly spoken, dapper in dress with a ready greeting.

Most leaders and governments agreed that the South African plans for safeguarding the Indian Ocean sea routes were nothing but a pack of lies. By the time, in January 1971, the Kenya delegation reached Singapore for the Commonwealth Heads of Government summit CHOGUM, in some quarters there had been substantial weeping and gnashing of teeth, fearing that the

arms issue would (a) split the Commonwealth (with Britain, Canada, New Zealand and Australia on one side) or (b) would result in the demise of theCommonwealth. Similar fears had been held at previous summits and the organisation (the so called family of the British Commonwealth) had remained unbruised, unscarred, supposedly united with a single voice. British aid that subsidised so many former colonial countries was no mean factor why so many of them toed the line. This time round however Mungai had managed to capture the imagination of a lot of people, not necessarily that of their elected leaders. But the air was filled with anticipation, that this once atleast Africa and humanity would be the victors.

On the eve of the conference, I went for drinks at the US Embassy. The talk was all about the arms campaign. The US had kept out of the argument saying it was really a matter for the Commonwealth. That night, one of my American military contacts who I usually ran into at various conferences, especially at the UN Security Council, said to me: Forgetit Skip, it is not going to happen. And you did not hear it from me. Forget it, this time it will, I said cocksuredly.

After the conference opened, there was a fairly short debate on the subject. The arms campaign was nuked by the wilely British Foreign Secretary, Sir Alec Douglas-Hume. I had great admiration for Douglas-Hume as a political strategist. He had refined his skills while working in the back rooms of the British House of Commons. The nuking was a simple slingshot: He told the summit, that the arms issue should be decided by the heads of government or leaders of delegations: the elders of the British Commonwealth. This moved extinguished any of the fire that had been displayed earlier by respective foreign and defence ministers. Heads of the government or heads of delegations were not well versed on the subject or were aware of the tricks of the arms trade. This also meant that the final discussion on the subject would go ahead without the chief architect of theanti-arms sales campaign, Dr Njoroge Mungai.

On the eve of the Big Chiefs’ meeting, the senior members of the delegation which included Mungai, Attorney General Charles Njonjo, Daniel arap Moi (leader of the delegation), Dr Karanja, Kenya’s High Commissioner to Briton and others whose names I forget. One of the first to speak, and I leave his name out for fear of libel, said: I don’t know why we have to go through all this rubbish. If I was president today, I would open diplomatic relations with South African tomorrow. There were murmurings of discontent and after several speakers, it was agreed that the campaign could not succeed withoutMungai at the Big Chiefs meeting. All agreed, including Daniel arap Moi. With that a whole bunch of Mungai’s support crew, analysts, speech writers, researchers, etc. headed for the makeshift office to update the presentation for the Big Chief’s meeting.

Later that night, I went to dinner with Moi and Charles Njonjo. Everyone seemed in an elated mood. Moi could not stop laughing as Njonjo and I got stuck into our escargot. You guys are eating insects (dudu, in Swahili), he said. Naturally, everyone also tucked into beef steaks. When we returned to our hotel, I popped into Mungai’s room and played the Devil’s Advocate on some parts of his presentation. Before I left, he said: This is what we have been working for the past two years and the moment has arrived. The next morning most of the team was up by 7 at breakfast. Everyone except Mungai. I later found out that Moi had called Mungai very late in the night and had told him that he, not Mungai, would be going to the Big Chiefs’ meeting. Mungai had been well and truly double-crossed. There was an indelible suspicion that Njonjo had influenced Moi, who knew little or nothing of the anti-arms sales campaign.

The Yank was right on the button.

YESTERDAY in Kenya (9) Idi Amin

The bigger double-cross: Idi Amin and Milton Obote

At the end of the conference, there were a number of kerbside press conferences. I happened upon Milton Obote and a group of other African leaders. I chanced to ask the first question: Dr Obote, how could you and your fellow African leaders allow yourselves to be bamboozled by a simple procedural motion? Obote said: That is Cyprian Fernandes, acolonial stooge and I will not answer such a stupid question. Among the group of journalists were some of Fleet Street’s best and a chorus went up: Answer the question, answer the question. Obote and the Africans turned and left in disgust.

That was the last time I saw of him as President of Uganda.

While I was with this group of journalists, deep in conversation, we stopped at a traffic light. Instinctively we all took a step forward when the pedestrian light turned green. Unfortunately, my foot was the only one still on the road as a red light crashes came screaming past. We walked across the road as if nothing had happened. The pain in my right toe did not come much later … by the time I had already arrived in Hong Kong. I had dinner with Joe Rodrigues’ brother and his wife and later went to a casino in Macau. I returned at around 4 am. The hotel I was staying in had cub-hole bars at every lift. The silly thing about it was that there was a mini-bar in every suite. As I approached the lift, there was a fairly large Dutch type with an even larger voice and there were four Chinesegrinning and nodding ... not understanding a word he was saying.

Come here you black bastard. I want to buy you a drink. I am celebrating, another black gorilla has come to power in Africa.

No thanks, said, I buy my own drinks.

By the way, who is the gorilla?

Someone called Idi Amin.

The Dutchman turned out to be a South African seaman and had heard on the ship’s radio that there had been a coup in Uganda. I knocked back a double 25-year-old Glenmorangie and hobbled to the lift and to my room. I rang the airport and said that I held afirst class open ticket and needed to catch the first plane to Nairobi. There are three flights, I was told. Is any flight being diverted to Singapore? Yes, East African Airways. Can I have a first class seat please? No you cannot, First Class has been reserved for VIP guests. Can I have the first seat, just behind

the curtain separating First from Economy? You can have the rest of the aircraft, it is completely empty.

I grabbed my things and headed for the airport. At the check-in, the pain in my foot was excruciating and the check-in lady noticed this. Have you got a medical certificate allowingyou to fly? Why do I need one? You might have a medical emergency on theaircraft? Where do I get a medical certificate? The best place would be the new PrincessMargaret Hospital. I hobbled into a cab and when I arrived at the hospital, I flashed my Press Card and was seen to immediately.

They began by taking my temperature, measuring my blood pressure, and going through the motions of a full examination. I said please stop. It is my foot.

It will need X-rays … Just give me some pain killing injects and a large box of pain killers to last me 17 hours of flying. They obliged, including the certificate that enabled me to fly. I was on that East African Airways’ flight faster than anything the world had seen.

When we stopped off in Singapore, I was at the top of the stairway in First Class as Milton Obote and his entourage came aboard. We nodded in greeting. It was a very sombre Obote. His face was grim with concern. Gone was the dismissal arrogance he had displayed the previous day at the kerbside press conference. He looked a shell of the man who onceoozed confidence. It would be wrong to say he looked a broken man, but the spark of his previous life was missing. Where once there might have been cheery banter as the delegation seated itself, now there was nothing but an eerie silence. Like their world had fallen apart and so it was to be. The aircraft took on the appearance of a hospital deathbed and those on board watched in silence the coming death of a man’s highest position. I was not surprised by the coup d’état. Before I had left Nairobi, Ugandan contacts had warned me that something was in the win. I had called y editor Boaz Omori in Nairobi to find out if there was any news. There was none and, according to him, a coup was nothing more than political mischief. As it turned out, Obote had made arrangements to sack Idi Amin while Obote was in Singapore. Such was the man’s confidence. Idi Amin beat him to the draw. On the other hand, there were rumours that Obote intended to sack Idi Amin on his return to Uganda.

The tears finally came streaming down his face after he listened to a BBC broadcast on the aircraft’s radio. The BBC report confirmed the coup.

I tried several times to attempt an interview with Milton Obote but with little success except in the First Class aisle he said to me: Leave me alone, I am

going through a private hell of my own. So I sat there noting his every move, gesture, facial expression, rubbing his face in his hands, talking in quiet tones to his confidants etc.As I sat down at my typewriter in Nairobi that night the intro to my story was quite simple: It went something like this: As Milton Obote sped home not knowing whetherhe was still President of Uganda or a just another man in the street, his onlycomment to me was: Leave me alone, I am going through a private hell of my own. Whatever the truth, Idi took charge of Uganda with Israeli help and the blessing of the British. The Israeli motives have been well documented elsewhere. They wanted the war in Southern Sudan to simmer on and keep the Arabs in the Sudan preoccupied

An official British Government note: AMIN DADA, GENERAL IDI, President of Uganda

Born about 1925. Tribe: Kakwa (West Nile). Joined Kings African Rifles about 1945 as a private soldier and worked way up through the ranks. One of first Ugandans to be commissioned. Army and Air Force Commander 1967. Major-General 1968. After coup promoted himself General.Popular and a natural leader of men, but simple and practically illiterate; a man of the people. An imposing presence, 6'3" in height; once a good heavyweight boxer and rugby player. As Head of State, has shown an engaging lack of formality and a disregard forhis personal safety. Benevolent but tough. Well-disposed to Britain; perhaps to an extent damaging to him in the African context. Speaks passable English. God fearing and deeply religious. A Muslim with four wives and seven children.

Kenya was not exactly jubilant with Idi Amin, but there was some celebration that Tanzania’s chief collaborator Milton Obote was out. An extremely leftist leaning Julius Nyerere and Milton Obote had no time for British/US capitalist ally Kenya.

The British, on the other hand, were “blindedby Amin’s expressed love for England and his intentions to build a pro-WesternGovernment.” He needed help and the British were happy to provide arms andother assistance.

Milton Obote and 20,000 Ugandans took refuge in Tanzania, readily offered by President Julius Nyerere. Around 1964, I had heard of a story that Amin and Obote had been involved in smuggling gold. Some said this went as far back

as 1960, with the fall of the Belgian Congo; Belgians sought out Obote help to transport their valuables to safety. There was an unconfirmed report that Obote had double crossed Amin, keeping the larger share for himself.

Who the heck was this guy Idi Amin? Kenyans were glad that he had got rid of that arch black communist Milton Obote. The challenge was to interview Idi Amin. The problem was the borders were shut and to enter illegally was virtual suicide. On Friday, February 12 still hobbling about in pain, I rented a car from the Eboos (the Nation had a hire-deal), told the driver to lie down in the back seat when we got to the border, and calmly drove into Uganda several hours later, entering illegally and breaking the curfew. I stopped at Entebbe and went to the shores of Lake Victoria and saw the corpses of Amin’s victims bobbing about. I then drove to Kampala and visited this huge mushroom like tree where Idi Amin claimed God had come to him and told him to save Uganda. I think I took a photo of a four-year-old pissing on the tree, never got published because it was too insulting to Ugandans.

Next I drove north the Apac District, Lengo and Acholi, village areas of Milton Obote and his wife, Miria, a beautiful and gentle soul. I visited his parents and checked out that all was well in the northern areas. The coup had not reached them. Driving non-stop, just breaks for a meal and nature calls, I headed south until I reached the border with Tanzania. I drove several hundred kilometres along the border until, on the southern side, I saw Tanzanian soldiers digging in. I went across nonchalantly and had a chat with asenior officer who gave me a drink of water and told me that they were conducting normal training exercises. I was not able to take any photographs.

Driving along that border, people were fleeing either side of it not knowing whether they were Tanzanian or Ugandan. On my way back to Kampala, I saw a Ugandan Militaryconvoy and followed them to their camp where they too were digging in. I flashed my Press Card and told them I was in Uganda to celebrate the army’s great victory. I got a couple of beers for my trouble. Bottom line: Tanzania and Uganda were readying for war. Had to rush back to Kampala and file my story in time for the Sunday Nation. I had just sat at the telex machine (pre-computer days) and typed: Mutukula, Saturday By Cyprian Fernandes

The door burst open and four armed soldiers rushed in. One of them said: You must come with us.

I typed: “They’ve got me and hit the send button.”

The four frog-marched me to a waiting Jeep. They sat two astride me while I sat on an army tool box in the middle. A fifth soldier sat in front with the driver.

Once I got on the Jeep, I knew I was a dead man. How do you face death? Is it like PhilippePetit who said once he was on that tightrope high above, there was no turning back from one twin tower to the other … once you start something there is no going back? Or with great courage epitomised by martyrdom? Or without a moment for reflection before the Nazi guns splattered death. I had time to think. I said a prayer as we drove and told my wife and daughter how much I loved them both. Their faces kept flashing in front of my eyes. A million thoughts enter your mind, but the most harrowing one is that sometime soon you will be dead. I was too numbed to be afraid. Instead, I gave in to my coming death fairly easily, after all, I had only myself to blame. That’s it, can’t fix yesterday, will take the now as it unfolds.

I was quite amazed how much detail in the Kampala streets came to life in that brilliant sunshine. The smiles seemed much larger and the colours much more vibrant. There were more than a few times that I begged God for my life and in the end I commended into His hands my life. The Jeep stopped at the Ugandan Parliament House and waiting to greet us was an army captain I had known. When he saw me sitting with my hands on my head, he said: “Mr Fernandes, what are you doing with your hands on your head, don’t you know you are the guest of his Excellency, President Field Marshall, Idi Amin Dada?” My immediate thoughts were why did not someone tell these four monkeys who had arrested me.

You are very welcome to a free Uganda and President is much looking forward to meeting you, the captain said (how did they know I was in the country, I wondered)..As I was ushered into the Cabinet Room, Idi Amin and his ministers were seated around an ebony table, quite a large one actually. Amin was fairly dark by complexion but you could see a reflection of his face on that black ebony table. He got up and came to greet me with his hand thrust forward. “Welcome to a free Uganda, Mr Fernandes,” he said.

I understand you have been across our borderinto Tanzania, he said as we walked towards a large map.

Yes, I said, I have seen some Tanzanian soldiers digging in.

Don’t worry about them, my sums will blow them to little pieces.

What are sums, Mr President?

Surface to Air Missiles.

May I quote you on that?

I think that is why you are here.

He invited me to sit.

That is when I made a horrible mistake. Having driven for nearly 24 hours, my body was covered in dust, some of it red ochre and I was thirsty as hell. So I asked him for a drink. He gestured to his Foreign Minister Wanume Kibedi to oblige me. He returned with a wooden crate of Fanta orange thick with dust. (I always thought Wanume Kibedi was a special young man with loads of potential and a future president of Uganda).

Mr President, could you oblige me with something stronger? Again Wanume Kibedi set off and returned with a crate of beer, also thickset with dust. As I desperately gobbled at the beer, I suddenly remembered Idi was a Muslim and did not drink.

Anyway, I sat there for nearly two and half hours and listened to a pack of lies. He told me he was out hunting when soldiers came to him armed and with tanks and told him that they had made a coup and they wanted him to lead Uganda. He denied he had masterminded or led the coup. “I am a simple soldier.” There was no mention of Israeli help. But he did give me a quote I have never forgotten:

Uganda is corrupt. The Ministers are corrupt. The civil servants are corrupt. Everybody is corrupt. I want to clean up Uganda and give it back to our people as innocent as a baby that has just come out of its mother’s womb.

I liked the guy. Simple but sincere and he appeared genuine about cleaning up Uganda. He also said he wanted to get rid of communism, socialism, and all these anti-West ideas.

I went back to my Kampala office and called the Sunday Nation editor Peter Darling and said those immortal words every journalist dreams of: Hold the Front Page, I got the interview.

I died a thousand deaths in that Jeep but soon I would be flying back to Nairobi.

Thank God.

Sunday Nation, February 14, 1971

THE COUP: Amin tells his story The Military Head of Uganda, Major General Idi

Amin, was to have been shot at 3.40 on the morning of Monday, January 25.

Acholi and Lengo in the Ugandan Army and Air Force were given the go-ahead to assassinate Amin and arrest and disarm all non Acholi, Lengo officers on the afternoon of Saturday, January 24.The former President, Dr Milton Obote, chairing a meeting by telephone from Singapore (where he was attending the Commonwealth Heads of Government meeting) ordered that Amin be killed. Two of those who participated in the ill-fated plot series of meetings, Mr Basil Bataringaya (the former Minister for Internal Affairs) and he former Inspector General of Police E.W. Oryema have admitted the plot to kill Amin.

The fantastic plot by the former leader to control Uganda by placing armed control in the hands of Acholi and Lengo people was revealed to the Sunday Nation by the man who, by an equally fantastic piece of luck, lived to tell the tale … Major General Idi Amin. The “Obote Plot” was to have been revealed a week ago, but the new Cabinet decided to withhold the information. However, in a 2.5 hour interview with me, Amin revealed the fateful events that brought him to power.

Amin said “one man saved Uganda from the terrible thing that Obote had planned for us all”. His name is Sergeant-Major Mussa of the Mechanical Battalion. It it had not been for him, Amin would not be alive today.

According to Amin: “That fateful day started most deceptively. It was a bright and sunny morning. Unsuspecting, I went hunting in the Karuma area. “While I was hunting and doing my duty for my country, my people and my President, my death and the annihilation of Uganda was being plotted. I learned this later. Ask them and they will tell you it is all true.

“On the 24th there were several meetings. All of them were attended and chaired by Basil Bataringaya. Also present at the meeting were E.W. Oryema, Mr Okware (Commissioner of Prisons), Senior Assistant Commissioner Dusman and Mr Hassan, chief of the CID. There were also others.

“On the afternoon, after the meeting had been held at police headquarters, Parliament Building (in this very building where you and I sit today, with thanks to the Almighty God), and at the Office of the Inspector General, it was decided. Obote ordered my death. Oryema and Batangariya have confessed to this.

“At that precise moment I was probably shooting my third Uganda Kob (an antelope). And so it happened. I returned home at six that evening. I did nothing special and did not sense anything at al. At 7.30 the world seemed to erupt on my front door step. There was a tank and the men on it were shouting

almost hysterically and like a tall giant Sergeant-Major Mussa stepped and told me there had been a coup but he had executed a counter coup.

“Make one thing clear. The soldiers and I did not plan a coup. It happened spontaneously. The Acholi and Lengo officers were half way to victory when the ordinary soldier, seeing the danger, took the initiative. One man, Sergeant Major Mussa did it. By six o’clock, the Acholi and Lengo officers had acted efficiently and precisely. All non-Acholi, Lengo, officers had been disarmed or arrested. Then it came to the all-important MechanicalBattalion on Lubiri Hill (ironically situated where once the Kabaka’s place used to be). It was here that Mussa acted with precision and faultless, seeing what was happening all around him.

“He made a beeline for the armoury and at the same time warned the other soldiers in the battalion. Single-handedly he overpowered the guard and thus armed his fellow soldiers. He took charge of the situation and commanded the counter-coup for those few minutes. Then he made another beeline…. For my residence atop a tank and asked me to do my duty and take command of the situation. I acted with hesitation. I took charge. Meanwhile, another hero was being born to Uganda. I was left without a single officer, only NCOs and soldiers, another brave man was in the process of putting his life in danger. He was Second-Lieutenant Maliamungu (Swahili for God’s property). Atop a tank, he raced to Entebbe airport, where the Air Force was all set to follow Obote’s orders. Maliamungu stopped the planes with his tanks. Later, other tanks assisted him.

“Otherwise, Uganda might have seen genocide. If not for Mussa, Uganda might have suffered annihilation. Maliamungu was shot in the leg, but he refused treatment. He still refuses treatment. He is still in charge of Entebbe and is doing a fine job. There was another man, Sergeant Yekka. He, too, had a very honourable part to play in the salvation of Uganda. (Amin never told me Yekka’s role). Then I stepped in. I ordered all soldiers tostop fighting. I ordered them to stop killing each other. Immediately there was a response. In some cases, a few of them, rebel officers decided to run away. They did. They are now coming back.

“I was on radio communications throughout the night until the morning. I was ready and willing to die for my country. I had fear of nothing. I felt no remorse. Only one thought nagged my mind … “save Uganda. Save Uganda”. I had a small part to play. Ugandans, true national Ugandans, saved themselves and their country. That, then, was what happened. Now Uganda is in the process of putting the final touches on its second chance to save itself.” Idi Amin’s grasp of the English language was not the greatest and I tried to tell the story in his own words. Was his story a total lie? Was there ever a Mussa, Yekka and Maliamungu? Over the next two years, I was never able to find them. It is

generally accepted that the Israelies neutralised the Air Force by sabotaging the aircraft.

Idi used to call me regularly for a chat or tip me off on a story. I made several trips to Uganda until one near-fatal day.During one of my many forays into Kampala, Ihad heard about Amin’s death squads shooting innocent people and throwing themover the railings of a bridge to be devoured by waiting crocodiles. I decided to chase this up and after a lot of help from sympathetic Ugandans I arrived at the bridge and was met by several men. They showed me blood caked at the railings, almost as thick as cow dung. Iwas told the killings took place around 6 pm. There was some natural light left by the setting sun. I was at the bridge, hidden in the bushes, and a little after 6 pm, a military truck pulled over and a number of men were lined up then shot in a blaze of automatic gunfire. The corpses were thrown into the river.

I raced to my hotel and as I picked up the keys to my room, the receptionist handed me a folded piece of paper. It said: Get out. Quickly.

I raced to Entebbe airport and headed forNairobi. I had got the photographs (pre Photoshop) but they were a little grainy, yet I thought there was enough to show people being shot, with gunfire flashes most prominent... I took the story, the pictures and negatives to my editor Boaz Omori. He asked to wait outside his office while he reached for the phone. When he called me back, he said: I can’t publish this. It is too sensitive and controversial and the photos are not clear enough as evidence. He tore up the pictures and negatives and threw them into a waste basket. Weeks earlier Idi Amin had visited Nairobi and walked the streets with throngs of Kenyans celebrating his success. He met Jomo Kenyatta and his ministers and was recognised as friend of Kenya.

Boaz Omori could not jeopardise that, he had already been warned by the Kenya government.

Many weeks later the story flooded the British papers, thankfully. They were tipped off by Ugandans and a certain Kenyan journalist who shall remain nameless.

That was the last time I went to Uganda… to a country where I didn’t need a passport to enter and was once welcomed by its president and ministers. That was also the second and last time I had faced possible death in Uganda.

Joe Murumbi, the reluctant Goan

The late Joseph Zuzarte Murumbi, Independent Kenya’s first Foreign Minister and later Vice President for a short while was a rare African politician. Like his friend and mentor Pio Gama Pinto, Murumbi was an honest man. The man I knew was a something of an introvert. Even while campaigning he did not seek the media limelight, he was happier talking to his voters. More often than not he was a difficult man to interview on politics. He found it difficult to talk about himself and even more difficult to talk about the various strands of politics prevailing in the country at the time. I even got the feeling some times that he was a reluctant politician. But he was a gentle man, even poetic sometimes but always in a far off world of his own, the world of art. He was born of a Goan father and a Maasai mother. Yet he was neither. I would also say that his Maasai heritage did not sit too well with the small minded Goans. He was not exactly a regular visitor to the Goan clubs.

Murumbi was educated in Bangalore and lived there for 16 years. However I have never been able to find any record of him visiting Goa. More importantly, on his return to Kenya, he chose to live as a Maasai, his mother's people.

Joe succeeded Oginga Odinga as Kenya’s second vice president in May 1965. He resigned on August 31, 1966. Murumbi donated 8000 rare books to the National Archives Library and stipulated that his Muthaiga home “the collection would be preserved at his Muthaiga home, which would be expanded to become the Murumbi Institute of African Studies, with a library,

hostel and kitchen.” Despite a huge demand from overseas he sold his vast art collection to the Kenya government at a concessionary rate. Unfortunately, the government sub-divided the Muthaiga property and allocated it to developers which shocked Murumbi. It is said that he never recovered from the shock he experienced when he visited the site, only to find developers turning it into private real estate.The Daily Nation recently reported another insult to the memory: “The Murumbis spent most of their retirement between his Muthaiga residence in Nairobi and his 2,000-acre Intona Ranch in Transmara where he had built himself a 30-room home. The house fell into neglect after his wife Sheila died in 2000. From being a luxurious retirement home with many servants and part of his famed art collection on the walls and hallways, the imposing house doesn’t even have doors and windows, thanks to vandals.“Roots have torn their way into what was once a beautiful swimming pool now a cracking brick mortar edifice greenish with algae. In one of the rooms, a not-so-good graffiti artist listed the names of Kenya’s past vice presidents and the incumbent Kalonzo Musyoka. The castle is near the world-famous Maasai Mara game reserve and would form an additional tourist attraction or an exclusive lodge.” Now there is a wrangle over the property. The original Maasai owners want the property back, a finance company claims a mortgage on the property and is calling in the note, and there are some people who think the property should remain the estate of the late Murumbis. Very sad indeed.

Joe Murumbi fell out with Jomo Kenyatta and the Kenya Cabinet because he was astounded that Kenyatta and his Ministers did not have the political will to direct the UK-provided Settler Transfer Funds for the benefit of the landless millions. Instead the STF was hijacked by a few African elite who were giving themselves loans and buying huge tracts of land at the expense of the poor. Murumbi was the classical honest politician, if it is possible for such a human to have existed, and he could not stomach the corruption. It has been said he became physically sick when discussing the issue with friends. Murumbi succeeded his friend Oginga Odinga as vice-president in May 1965. This move was designed to drive a wedge between Murumbi’s socialist leanings and Odinga. It did not work, Murumbi resigned a frustrated man on August 31, 1966. He buttoned his lip, and simply moved out of political life to focus completely on his magnificent collection of art and books. His isolation led to mainstream Kenya "forgetting" Murumbi, especially after Murumbi and Alan Donovan started the internationally lauded art gallery, African Heritage. This was reckoned to be a high-brow gallery and had nothing to do with the common man and Murumbi was often dismissed sadly as a class conscious noveau riche.They considered him the first African snob. He was none of those things really, just someone at peace with himself and his own world. He was labelled a left leaning, West bashing anti-capitalist. The fact that he left politics to enter into business cans that theory. He loved life too much to be a

communist.

Goans have tried to make a big deal of the Goan half of his life. I think he shunned that. There could not have been more than a couple of times that he visited the Goan clubs and mostly in the company of Pio. I remember reading a long time ago when he as asked to who he would like to live as, he told his father: a Maasai. The story below confirms that somewhat.He spent 16 years in Bangalore, India but I have not been able to find any evidence of him ever having visited Goa (that does not mean he didn'). What is absolutely true is his friendship with Pio Gama Pinto who Murumbi considered his mental in all things, even though they appeared poles apart in politics: Pio was a self-confessed communist why Murumbi was a moderate. Murumbi was personally sicked by Pio's assassination because Murumbi had brought Pio out of hinding thinking the danger had passed. That might have possessed him to defy Kenyatta and government and personally undertake funding raising for the Gama Pinto family. The Kenya government had displayed marked indifference during and after the tragedy. It was left to the likes of Murumbi, Bildad Kaggia, Oginga Odinga and others to show due respect to a fallen comrade who was a great son of Kenya who gave his all in fight for the country's freedom. However, mainstream Kenya never gave him his full recognition although in 2009 a Murumbi Peace Memorial was unveiled in Nairobi City Park, not far from the City Park Cemetery where Murumbi and his wife were buried side by side.

I am indebted to the Kenya Ethnic Communities Foundation for the excerpt below:

Peter Zuzarte, a Goan, came to Kenya via Aden and Zanzibar and arrived in

Mombasa in 1897. He then walked to Baringo which was at the time in Uganda Province of the British East Africa Protectorate. In Baringo he served as a district clerk under Geoffrey Archer, the District officer, who later on became Governor General of the Sudan. He was then posted to Naivasha which was also in Uganda Province on the border and from there he was transferred to Eldama Ravine. While there, he resigned and started his own business and also met and married a Maasai woman who gave birth to Joseph Murumbi in 1911. He later on moved to Londiani where he again set up a shop.

From an interview by Anne Thurston with Joseph Murumbi in Kenya Past and Present, Joseph Murumbi who became the second Vice-President of the Republic of Kenya said:

My mother grew up in Eldama Ravine area. She was the daughter of Murumbi, the Laibon of the Uasin Gishu Maasai. He, my grandfather, never was able to come to terms with the British. Sir Fredrick Jackson, in his book Early days in East Africa, called him "the one-eyed Cyclops — an evil man" (in fact, Jackson was describing another local leader). On one occasion my grandfather incited the Maasai warriors and the Sudanese, who had been stationed in Eldama Ravine by Lord Lugard, to be moved to Uganda when needed, to rebel against the British. They nearly killed the district Commissioner and afterwards a nine foot stone wall was built around the District Commissioner's house for protection. My grandfather was deported to Narok then and on two other occasions. The third time he died there.

Peter Zuzartes' shop was situated in an area reserved for European shops, away from the main Indian trade area. Mr. Murumbi recounts that: "By some wangle his father set it up on a plot which was in the name of an American lady — whom he did not know." The only other shop in the European area was the post office. He has further stated:

My father's shop was a corrugated iron building, rather a large shop, and attached at one end was our residence, behind was a kitchen. It was the only shop in the area where one could buy drinks and a good range of supplies. I remember as a child seeing the Boer settlers, arriving in wagons pulled by teams of oxen, stop at my father's shop to buy their supplies. After Londiani, where there was a railhead, there was no other real source of supplies until Kitale or Eldoret. When there weren't many customers, I would sit in the shop with my father and he would teach me the alphabet . . .

Teddy Roosevelt (he later became president of America) once came to

Londiani and, my father's shop being the only place where he could buy supplies, he called there and saw the roses. He and my father exchanged information about grafting roses. My father was a keen gardener; it was a skill he developed himself.

Asked if there were children he played with, Mr. Murumbi said: "there were several Indian shopkeepers, although as I've said they were in another section of Londiani, and there were two children. However, I don't remember playing with anybody other than our dogs, my mother and my father. The dogs, Jack Russels, were called Roddie and Spot, and were very important to me as a child." Those of us who knew Murumbi at the family level know that he exhibited reserved traits and love for dogs to the end of his life, a sure heritage from his upbringing.

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A couple of clippings, thanks to Time Magazine:

There was a time when Kenyans solved their political problems with the panga, a two-foot-long bush knife that the Man Mau terrorists wielded to bloody effect against British rule. Independence and parliamentary government demand more subtle solutions. Kenya's President Jomo Kenyatta, whom the British once jailed as the master of the Mau Mau, has been quick to adapt.

Take the problem of Oginga Odinga, the powerful leftist who last month resigned as Vice President, bolted the ruling Kenya African National Union, and took 27 other members of Parliament with him to form his own opposition party. Although Jomo still had a clear majority in the 130-member House, Odinga's revolt was the first serious challenge to the political unity on which the Mzee (Old Man) has based his rule. Kenyatta's answer was to cut Odinga down to size, and his slices were as quick, neat and deadly as those of a Mau Mau panga.

First he called Parliament into emergency session, rammed through a constitutional amendment forcing the rebels to resign their seats and run for office again, this time against KANU's powerful opposition instead of with its support. Then, before a mass rally in Nairobi last week, he produced four former Mau Mau leaders who told the shocked crowd that Odinga had offered them nearly $500,000 to return to the forests to fight Kenyatta. "If you play around with me," warned the Mzee, "you'll be playing around with a lion." So saying, he reshuffled his Cabinet, putting pro-West moderates into all posts formerly held by Odinga's left-wingers. His final stroke was to name Foreign Minister Joseph Murumbi as his new Vice President. Murumbi, a sometime

leftist whose occasional anti-Western statements have angered Kenyatta in the past, is nevertheless absolutely loyal—and, unlike Odinga, has no pretensions to the presidency. From now on, Kenyatta himself will handle his nation's foreign affairs.

Member of Parliament Joseph Anthony Zuzarte Murumbi, 57, served as Kenya's Vice President for seven months in 1966 before stepping down to enter business. "I felt that in commerce," he explains, "I could make a real contribution to national development." Owner of one of the finest libraries on Africana in Kenya, Murumbi is chairman of a large sugar refinery, a Nairobi-based export-import firm, and an advertising agency that promotes, among other things, African trade abroad.

The interrogation The Players:The Minister of Information (paceing around the room gesturing like a mad Italian) with responsibilities for the media including the Voice of Kenya, The Nation Group, The East African Standard, Sunday Post and other Kenya regional papers in both English and Swahili.

Jim Glencross (seated), Northern Irishman, who knows he will have to leave Kenya one of these days but would like his stay to be as long as possible and that he and his folks are definitely not returning to the then war-torn Northern Ireland.

Cyprian Fernandes (seated) , a British Passport holder who has been recognised by the highest authority as a Kenya citizen, a free spirit.

The subject: A no-holds-barred critcism of the VOK under the steerage of George Githii.

The Minister: Fernandes what kind of a fool are you? Are you begging to be put in jail? Or should we deport you to Maralal (a Kenyan Northern Frontier District detention centre during the Mau Mau era)? Why are you so stupid to write these things about Githii? You journalists are all the same. You think you are the president of Kenya and you can write any kind of rubbish you want. You are not the president. You are a simple person who is stupid. You are not a clever man, if you were you would not write such gaasia (rubbish). Would you, anh, would you, could you?

Fernandes: Minister what rubbish are you referring to exactly, please pointed it

out to me!

Minister: You imperialist stooge who is a Kenya, you who are less than a dockey, a complete kumbafu, want me to explain to you exactly what is rubbish. Haven't you got the slightest intelligence to recognise it for youself?

Fernandes: I am trying to get it clear in my own mind what is in your mind because I cannot understand what you saying. For example, is there any passage in the editorial concerned that has broken any law in Kenya, has committed any kind of libel or defamation or crossed any social or political mores. Has the editorial wrongly accused the Kenya Government in any way possible. Why has it caused you so much heartburn that you should choose to abuse my innocent profession and my person. What is the mistake, what is the law?

Minister: You white person, are you just going to sit there and let this stupid mhindi make an even bigger fool of both of us? Can't see that he is a mad man, why are you supporting him?

Glencross: It is not a matter of supporting Fernandes or not supporting him. We do not why we were summoned to come to your officer. We don't what legal authority you have to summon us, no order us to be at your office. If it is a matter of crossing on legal boundaries than the Attorney General and the Nation's lawyers can sort it out. Or if you would like, you could calm down and tell us what we have done wrong.

Fernandes: Minister you are treating us just like the British treated Kenya's Africans. What you are doing is imperialism in reverse.

Minister: I am an imperialist, am I. Do I look white to you? You see, you see, you are a stupid man....!

Fernandes: I must have become stupid over the weekend. I was not stupid over the past four years when we spoken often and you commented regularly on various stories about one political issue or another, when I used your photograph and you used to call the next day and tell me what a great job I was doing to build a great Kenya. i wonder why Kenyatta, Mungai, Moi, Njonjo, Kibaki, and the rest of the leading political lights in Kenya don't I am stupid. If I am so stupid than why has Kenyatta appointed me secretary to the Kenya delegation to the Congo Independence celebrations.

Glencross: Minister all we are saying is that unfounded personal attacks is not the way to solve anything. Istead we should apply quiet, considered reasoning to understand what is wrong, what we can learn from it and how we can fix it.

Minister (in a ranted rage): I can have you killed in five minutes. How can you talk to me like that? Don't you know I am a Minister in President Jomo Kenyatta's Cabinet and a Minister of the independent state of Kenya. How can you look down your nose at me, as if you are so superior. You pundas (donkeys) don't you know that I have the power to cancel Fernandes' citizenship and deport you to Britain? In one minute you can be heading off to Embakasi Airport.

A LONG SILENCE

Minister, talking to himself: We let these imperialist into our country, give them the benefit of enjoying lots of money, the wonderful facilities Kenya has to offer, especially the wonderful sunny and warm environment instead of their dark, grey, rain and snow and sleet climate in Britain, and this is how they repay us. I should really get rid of them. We cannot allow a Minister of the Government to be treated in such a way. And this is a bunyani (Indian, colloquially a shopkeeper) whose ancestors have robbed and robbed our poor ancestors for nearly 100 years. Why should we give them citizenship? This is like Israel welcoming the Nazis and giving them citizenship, even Hitler.

After glancing out of the window for a few minutes, he turns to us: This is what I want you to do. You must write an editorial praising Githii and VoK and you must say you were misinformed. You must say how sorry you are for having written such rubbish about Mr Githii. Is that clear?

Glencross: We cannot do that, Minister. You have not shown us what is not true, or what is wrong, or what is a lie. We do not know what is there to correct, if you show us and it is in fact true, we will do the honourable thing. We don't have any hidden agendas.

Minister: There you go again, you are being stupid. Fernandes, you see the sense, explain it to this idiot imperialist.

Fernandes: Minister, I have been desperately trying to make sense of a fragment of your vitriol, but I can't ...

Minister: Get out, get out.

Jim and I walked out and we looked at each other in utter bewilderment. We stood outside the Minister's offices behind the Nairobi Law Courts and simply asked ourselves: what was that all about. Jim looked at me and said: amber? My wife and I had used the traffic lights system to judge the gravity of the situation: green was all clear, amber was go home and get the children ready, red was head out to Embakasi Airport and head for London. I told Jim we were still in Green mode. I still had a few strings to pull. I called Dr Njoroge Mungai

and explained to him what had happened. He said that nothing had been raised at the weekly (Cabinet) meeting in State House Gatundu but he had heard a few sniggers about the editorial. As I said Githii was Kenyatta's private secretary and he had a lot of pull. But Mungai's attitude was that it was not a serious matter and that Githii was old enough to look after himself and did not need the Minister for Information to bend any elbows. He told me not to worry about it. A few days later I met Charles Njonjo in Parliament and after I raised the subject with him, he did not see any issues but, as usual, he ended our conversation with: be careful.

There were many occasions when Dr Mungai pulled me out of sticky situations, even defended me in Cabinet on very stick subjects such as accusing Paul Ngei of pilfering famine relief maize for his personal and tribal benefit or accusing Dr Kiano of being Mr 10 per cent (he alleged charged 10 per cent of the total invoice for import/export licences). There were several instances when thde Special Branch escorted me to Gatundu and after hours of torture, wondering if was I was going to live or die, I would be released, thanks to Dr Mungai, Charles Njonjo, Mwai Kibaki, standing up for me. There were many others also who did not see me as a threat including the Opposition's Jaramogi Oginga Odinga. I used to have some chilli infested debates with him in office in Nairobi. Everybody thought he was a red communist where in fact he was a wiley capitalist.

It was mindless but it was not too bad. For example, we were not physically tortured, injured mentally not physically. Other journalists like Joe Rodrigues, Philip Ochieng, Joe Kadhi and Joseph Karimi may had even more horrendous experiences.