Jeff Koinange provides a powerful narrative as a scribe in his memoirs

Some books are simply page-turners. Such is star journalist Jeff Koinange’s Through My African Eyes. Let’s state the bottom line upfront. No African journalist before Mr Koinange had been so internationally famous. Nor are we likely to see the likes of him any time soon. Mr Koinange is a Kenyan original, one of a very rare species. Even in the pantheon of star journalists worldwide, Mr Koinange stacks up very favourably. I bet he would’ve become even more famous than CNN’s Anderson Cooper had the news giant not prematurely — and mysteriously — let him go. Still, Mr Koinange has remained an iconic newsman with a unique professional flamboyance. My crystal ball tells me his best days are yet to come.

Through My Africans Eyes isn’t, strictly speaking, an autobiography. It’s more a memoir, a narrowly focused category of the larger genre of autobiography. An autobiography is the “story of one’s life,” written by that author. A memoir, on the other hand, is the “story from a life,” also written by the author in the first-person.

The former is comprehensive while the latter is less so. One might even argue that Mr Koinange isn’t old enough to write a full autobiography. Autobiographies ought to be reserved for grizzled veterans. Mr Koinange is neither a veteran, nor grizzled.

That’s why I will simply extract from his memoir key departures worth noting. My confession — I couldn’t put the book down.

First, Mr Koinange’s memoir is revelatory. Not in the seedy sense. No — although he doesn’t shy away from describing his sexual plunders and peccadillos. But it’s the insightful nature of the work that catches the reader. He takes the reader right into his early childhood and school days in Nairobi, and makes you feel like a living witness. Part of that, I think, is the colloquialism with which he writes. He’s a fluent author who writes with the simple clarity of a born storyteller.

He doesn’t bloviate, or engage in pomposity. He doesn’t hide his personal warts — insecurities, hopes, and fears. He paints a compelling montage of his imposing pedigree as a member of the Koinange family royalty.

Second — and this is what I admire about the man — Mr Koinange did not make it because of family legacy. Nothing was handed down to him on a silver platter. In fact, he was down and out after high school — and near depression.

But he single-handedly sought and was hired as one of Africa’s first Pan American World Airways flight attendants. He did so even though his loving mom fought hard to dissuade him from pursuing a “dead-end career” as a “waiter” on an airplane.

But it was that “waiter’s” job that exposed him to the world and spurred him to New York University, a top college, where he completed his studies in journalism. Lesson — trust in thyself.

Third, Mr Koinange proves that success at the top of any profession requires excellence. It’s clear Mr Koinange never cut corners, or shrunk from gruelling work. He was the first to rise, and the last to bed. He didn’t mind being corrected, or exposing his foibles.

He didn’t take slights personally. A good example is when Larry King, the former doyen of CNN, kept referring to Mr Koinange on air as Jeff Coinage as he reported on Hurricane Katrina. Mr Koinange took it in stride, and let others correct “King Larry.” He was unfailing in his good humour and courtesy to his co-workers and “subjects.” It didn’t matter whether they were “the lowest of the low” or “the worst of the worst.”

Fourth, he demonstrated you can be a pan-Africanist without being defensive about Africa’s woes. He tells the stories of man’s inhumanity to man without varnish. He calls a spade as such. He doesn’t hide the fact that he was flummoxed by the savagery of African warlords and their minions. The scenes he describes of the civil wars in Liberia, Sierra Leone, DRC, and other basket cases are horrific and impossible to comprehend.

But he tells these stories while preserving the humanity of the victims. He’s especially troubled by the abominations against women and children. At many intervals, he forgets that he’s a reporter and not a human rights worker. He never exhibits a superiority complex.

Finally, Mr Koinange won some of the most prestigious awards for his towering achievements as a journalist. He rubbed shoulders with the most powerful men and women around the globe. But not once does he rub it in your face, except to describe his utter joy and humility.

In my book, that’s greatness. Kenyans are lucky that Mr Koinange is working in Nairobi, and mentoring a new generation of story tellers. He’s given us a gem, an uncensored expose of his life as a journalist. There’s more to come.