Even you can be a cop if you want…
The story of the week has to be Joshua Waiganjo, the man police arrested on the third day of 2013 after what police said was a dramatic chase in Eldama Ravine in the Rift Valley.
Waiganjo’s name is now preceded by the adjectives bogus police officer, fake cop and impostor. Just how can a man keeping the company of the Provincial Police Officer to for so long, and firing real cops along the way, be discovered to be a fake?
Pretty simple, it would seem, and we must also applaud the good journalists at K24 who, by walking around with two-way radios and sounding serious, managed to punk a few guys in Mlolongo and Athi River.
It reminded me of a guy I will call Tim. We were in campus together. Whenever he would get very broke, and that was very often, Tim would hook up with his cousin, who was an Administration Policeman in Shauri Moyo.
He would don one of his cousin’s spare uniforms and they would then wander through Shauri Moyo’s alleys, collecting bribes from chang’aa dens and harassing members of the public for money. These trips into the slum were all about getting money to buy drinks and generally have a good time.
When I asked him what happened when they met other cops, Tim would smile and say he only needed to salute and say “Afande.”
Now come to think of it, is there any official and well known form of identification for the police?
All they are known to do is grab you by the belt at the back of the trousers, lift and propel you forward, replying to your pained inquiries with “Utasemea mbele” or “Tutaongea ukifika kwa station.” You will then be thrown in the boot of the battered 504 Peugeot station wagon or a Land Rover that looks ready for conversion into a breakdown vehicle and that will be it.
All this thing taught me is we still have plenty to do before we can say we have a modern police force, and it doesn’t start with calling it a service.
… and prove it to some degree
Still on matters fake, I must admit I am waiting with real anxiety to see how Margaret Wanjiru will prove that her degrees are from accredited institutions and that they are, well, degrees.
Some say that she got her undergraduate papers long after obtaining her doctorate. Some say she attended, vicariously I must add, a college in the United States named Vineyard Harvester Bible College. Its location is reported to be rather suspicious.
When she launched her campaign to be governor of Nairobi, she refused to answer the questions put to her about the matter. But on the road later, the good bishop said she can only be called doctor because she deserves it and she deserves it because she has the degree, no doubt.
Some say that she might have blundered her way into this mess by asking the Commission of Higher Education to verify the authenticity of the colleges she attended. Rarely in the history of law do you find someone who asks the judge to have the authorities verify that they are not guilty. The prudent thing to do is to wait for the authorities to prove that you are.
But given that she beat a well-connected Maina Kamanda at the General Election in 2007 and then in the by-election in 2010, we cannot in any way doubt her toughness.
It’s Small Party Time
If you haven’t, please read a story by Billy Muiruri on Page 5 of the Sunday Nation on January 6. It is about a uniquely Kenyan phenomenon that happens every five years since 1992.
It goes like this. A few days before the party to which you belong holds it nominations, your people tell you that the secretary general of the party made a face at you as you looked the other way at a recent meeting. This same secretary general is also rumoured to have clicked and shaken his head in a most disgusted manner when you addressed the rest of the party. Indeed, you spies report, the secretary general has been seen eating meat and ugali and later having a drink with the man who you consider your main rival for the seat. As you browse through the paper to see whether your rival has a colour photo in those county profiles the papers are running now, your eye lands on an ad by Saba Saba Asili, Farmer’s Party, Agano Party…you get the drift.
So you call up the party’s chairman, a very wise fellow who puts his number at the bottom of the quarter-page ad in the two papers with the biggest readership, meet him at Dove Cage and go home with a vital document.
If all does not go according to plan on the day of the nominations, you will be safe. If it does, you’ll tear up the damn certificate.
The man will be having another cold one at Dove Cage as usual.
Our excessively expensive election should be a one-off
Last week was very rough for Parliamentary reporters.
On Wednesday, when MPs met for the first time this year, every story that came through from the chamber was smoking hot, every document tabled and then copied and brought to us was packed with important info. I wrote five stories, none less than 500 words long and none deemed unworthy of publication.
On Thursday evening, the media liaison officer handed us a pile of documents, and as we labored through them, it was easy to lose sight of one that seemed rather innocuous. It was the pre-election fiscal update from Treasury and it showed that the General Election in March will cost us Sh24.9 billion. Considering that the last big election cost Sh8 billion, I will refrain here from repeating that old adage about democracy and cost.
The update had one more surprise. We cannot afford a run-off. I support Githae when he says Kenyans should vote to avoid spending Sh11.2 billion in a run-off.
and the intro we shouldn’t have culled
This blog likes to think of itself as a tool to measure what lessons, if any, we have learnt over the past week. It shall break with that short-lived tradition in the last post here below.
I was in Garissa in the week before Christmas trying to figure out why and how there have been so many terrorist attacks there since June this year. Garissa is not a nice place to be at this time and on our last night there, the events recorded below took place. I made a very unwise decision and culled the following intro from my story.
Unlike many other targets, Timothy Kihuria saw them coming.
Kihuria and a friend, Ben Kihang’a, had just had supper and watched the headline news on the 7 p.m. bulletin at a restaurant popularly known as Kwa Chege on Kenyatta Street in Garissa town on Wednesday December 19.
They left the restaurant at about 7.15 p.m., walking out on to the street. As they stepped out of the way of a white vehicle that approached, Kihang’a fell in behind Kihuria.
Kihuria was a teller and Kihang’a worked in the customer service department at National Bank. Both had been in the town since June, with their families based back in Thika and Nairobi. Kihang’a’s wife had delivered a baby girl and they were chatting and laughing about it on the crowded street. With their bright white company shirts and caps, they probably stood out in the crowd of men in kanzus and white caps.
As they let the car pass, Kihuria heard loud footfalls. When he turned to look at whoever was in a hurry, he saw a man place the muzzle of a pistol on the back of Kihang’a’s head.
He took off, no doubt heard the gun go off, and realised in that split second that the gun would next be trained on him. He ducked as he ran. The bullets tore through his hamstrings and when the attack stopped, he crawled to another restaurant known as Kwa Njuguna and called for help.
As Kihuria was writhing on the floor at Kwa Njuguna, Garissa was falling into a familiar routine; iron shutters rolled down, shops were hurriedly shut, diners asked for their meals to be packed and the hordes of taxis parked on Kismayu Road sped out. The tension and fear that comes with terrorism has gripped Garissa for some time now, with the unfortunate part being that there seems to be no end in sight.