The William Ntimama that I knew

Mzee William Ole Ntimama took his beaded rungu (club) inside a battered classroom in Maela and aimed at my head but it was quickly intercepted by two Narok civic leaders who went for his wrist. I swore that day I would never deal with Mr Ntimama and told my news editor as much. I just saw in him a burly bully as the room exploded into chants of Tapala! Tapala! (Peace! Peace)

But my wall of reciprocal hostility collapsed not long after and we became friends for the next two-decades. This is how my story with Mr Ntimama started. He had declared his functions would not be covered by the Nation correspondent in Narok because he saw him as part of the government conspiracy against him spurned by Nyayo system through the then District Commissioner John Nandasaba.

The government through Mr Nandasaba had banned the Maasai’s upcoming Eunoto (feast of the calves) ceremony which was a traditional handover from senior to junior warrior age-sets. Mr Ntimama was in rage and called a huge rally up the lush green hills of Maela-Enosubukia, where for those who remember, hundreds of victims of 1992 tribal clashes in parts of Narok and Naivasha had been settled in makeshift camps.

I was assigned to cover the function with photojournalist Joseph Mathenge. We found Mr Ntimama, some wazees and morans in the classroom devouring roasted meat. Everyone had his knife. When we were served there were two problems; there was no salt and we had no knife and you can only use your age-mates!

This must be one of the most difficult meals I have had to take so as not to disappoint my host. Mr Ntimama entertained us with his hilarious jokes and roaring laughter that not only revealed the wide gap between his teeth but also sent his wide chest heaving. Then Ntimama explained to us that because he would be speaking in Maasai dialect once at the podium, he needed to give us the story beforehand. “The colonial government did not ban this ceremony. (Mzee) Kenyatta did not try. So even Mzee Moi may try but he won’t go far. I am asking the government to expand its cells to accommodate all Maasais because we shall come out and celebrate and they can arrest all of us.”

As the story got sweeter and I saw my byline getting closer to page one, I nudged him further by asking: “Bwana Waziri, are you prepared for the consequences because this may lead to your flag being taken away”.

For a few seconds Ntimama looked at me with the eye squinted in anger and his wide chest heaving in and out in deep breath. Then he held his rungu and asked two questions: “Are you asking me that because you are a Kip (meaning Kalenjin)” Question number two: “You think I am a coward? Go and tell Moi your father what I have said!”

I panicked as the civic leaders held onto his arms. I thought I would never talk to Ntimama and left angry and ashamed. In doing the story I avoided emotional involvement and when it came out on page one two days later he was excited. Many times he called but I didn’t return his calls on the office landline.

Then the next Tuesday Mr Ntimama had found a trick to get to me; my ever-happy and quite supportive colleague, Njeri Rugene. She persuaded me to go meet the old man. At the Bunge restaurant where we found him seated we made peace. I almost cried as Ntimama apologized to me and conceded even his friends had told him I was just pursuing a good angle for the story.

Mr Ntimama asked me: “Mr Kiptanui are you Kalenjin and were you circumcised in line with the traditions of your grandfather?” When I answered yes he then asked if I were married and I said no. Then he threw in the one that weakened my hostile heart: “I am not your age mate, you are a young boy. I am a Maasai old man, I am not supposed to be apologising to boys in front of a woman but I am doing that because I want you to be my friend and we get over this.”

He added: “In Masai and Kalenjin when men forgive each other, it is final and the past is forgotten. If you are a true son of Kalenjin, shake my hand as a sign of friendship.”

To cut a long story short, we became friends and in the next few weeks I was his guest in Narok, again with Mathenge, and went all the way to his Melili Farmhouse. On the way we shared stories and laughter, and lot s of nyama choma. He introduced us to his family and even had his late son Francis Siyomit (Draeke) take us around town.

He would later grant me the honour to write his first ever newspaper profile, a task that took two days of being with him in his political and social activities, and through his various homes and those of his friends too. He was the ‘deep-throat’ source for some of the big stories I would later write but ethical requirements restrain me from naming them. It is through interaction with him and visiting his Nairobi home, and especially his library, that I discovered he was a keener reader than me.

His collection was huge. It explained why in his political rally he would for example declare, ‘we Maasai are not Lilliputians; we’re not citizens of Lilliput.” You can only know what this means if you have read Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels.

As they buried him on Wednesday my heart my mind ran over the times he had called me just to commend on my article, point out what I got wrong or to pick my mind on an issue that bothered him. Fare Thee Well Kugo (grandpa).