If you can't stand the heat, quit the kitchen

As a cub reporter, I was assigned to an older journalist whose normal beat was reporting on crime.

Dan Waiyaki loved his job and fancied himself as some sort of undercover sleuth, his conspiratorial manner always suggesting that he was onto a scoop that would shock the government and disorganise the underworld.

Never mind that his duties were limited to going through the daily crime reports at Vigilance House every morning in the hope of gleaning something newsworthy.

In those days, The Standard’s reporters were housed at Adamali near the Globe Roundabout and on the way to police headquarters, we would normally drop by City Hall to find out if anything of interest was listed for hearing at the city court.

From Dan, now late, I learnt that a reporter had to be alert and always on the lookout not just for that defining story that can pop up in the streets at any time, but also for the criminal classes always out to do him harm.

A sharp journalist had to know his way around town, including the alleys and side streets that would get him to his destination in the shortest time. It was Dan who introduced me to Araujo, a Kenyan of Goan descent who was a former photojournalist with the Nation. At that time, he was City Hall’s Public Relations Officer.

One day he called the newsroom to tip me about a juicy story.

Listed for hearing that day at the city court was the case of a couple who had been out on the town celebrating their marriage anniversary and rediscovered their youthful romance to such an extent they could not wait to get home. They were found by law enforcers somewhere in Lavington, canoodling in the car in the small hours of the night and were to be arraigned in court in the morning after spending a couple of hours in the cooler.

These law enforcement chaps can be such killjoys.

It was also Dan who introduced me to Dr Munyua Waiyaki, one of Kenya’s most accomplished and well regarded Foreign Affairs ministers.

He and Dan shared a forebear, Waiyaki wa Hinga, who led resistance to early British occupation of Kenya and after whom Waiyaki Way is named.

For his troubles, the British buried him alive in an unmarked grave in the Mtito wa Ndei area.

It was in 1983 and President Daniel arap Moi had called snap elections.

Just before the elections, reports surfaced that a certain powerful figure in government was being groomed by unnamed foreign powers to snatch power from Moi and the accusing finger was pointed at Njonjo.

Like Njonjo, Dr Waiyaki received his university education in South Africa and they both hailed from Kiambu. They had also served in the Jomo Kenyatta government.

He was therefore viewed as a Njonjo man although the two had fiercely disagreed on a number of policy issues especially on Kenya’s position with regard to the apartheid regime in South Africa.

He therefore faced a tough fight for re-election to the Mathare seat which he had represented for a number of terms.

To make matters worse, his main opponent was Andrew Kimani Ngumba, a well-heeled and connected former Mayor of Nairobi.

One of the campaign rallies was to be held at Soko Mjinga in the Korogocho area of Kariobangi and people feared that there would be violence.

Dan made arrangements with Dr Waiyaki for me to cover the rally for The Standard and when he stood to speak he showed no indication of the palpable tension in the area.

He was suave, composed and as eloquent as ever. When at the end of the rally he hurriedly left and I joined him in the back seat of a nondescript car for a lift back to town, I was amazed to find a man mopping rivulets of sweat from his face and shaking like a reed.

“Drive out of this place, quick,” he urged the driver. He lost the election.