Idle village crooks define our politics

Forget manifestos. Elections in Kenya are decided by village political fixers with basic education and questionable integrity, writes JACK DANIELS 

He burst into the public relations office of a government ministry bristling with authority, unwanted and unwelcome.

“Who is in charge here?” the bellicose fellow bellowed.

The young officer he was addressing looked up, bemused.

“Where is your boss!” the visitor barked once more. 

“Not in,” replied the quietly seething civil servant, adding through gritted teeth, “How may I help you, sir?”

“My names (sic) are Kioko!” he snapped back, looking mildly drunk.  “Your minister is my personal friend. I usually get something from this department every year. I want an umbrella and a T-shirt!” he bellowed. “And a kofia! (cap)” he added for good measure.

Unfortunately, there were no umbrellas, T-shirts, kofias, umbrellas or goodies of whatever kind to dish out. The highly connected visitor did not take kindly to the news.

Fired

“I will call the minister who is my close friend and have everybody in this department fired! You will all go home!” he spluttered, the fault lines in his fragile ego all too visible through glassy, blood-shot eyes, saliva spitting from his mouth.

In your average public office, a lot of unsavoury traffic walks through the doors. However, it is true that some of these uncouth name-droppers wield so much power at the grassroots that they truly have ministers and MPs on speed dial.

How does it get to be so? Well, politics in Kenya is a rough and tumble affair largely because a huge swathe of the electorate is poor, illiterate and drunk most of the time.

If you are an aspiring politician, you can try to roll up your sleeves Barack Obama style and charm this lot with your policies and charisma. However, any serious politician knows this only attracts the attention of foreign NGOs and the media.

Insults

The second option is to call upon the grassroots political fixers who know in which shebeens the voters are exchanging drunken insults or which gutters they fall into on their way home. These are the people to entrust with wads of Sh50 notes to bribe voters, which is the only charisma the people understand.

The first option will get you nowhere, not even a spot on Jeff Koinange’s fabled bench, but the second option always brings results.

The truly gifted at wrangling votes from the nooks and crannies of villages you have probably never heard of are so valuable to their political paymasters that many of them are so powerful they frighten assistant chiefs.

Needless to say, they call the shots in virtually all grassroots CDF committees.

But the trouble with these village power men is that their social finesse only reaches acceptable levels during elections. In between elections, their access to power make them a terror in the villages, especially if the mheshimiwa (MP) has M-pesad them something to ‘greet’ his people with over the weekend.

They are an interesting breed of folks because they usually vacillate between extreme poverty and incredible access to cash flow.

The health status of their battered wallets is subject to the political seasons. This is why, when times are hard, they desperately keep an ear to the ground hoping to hear word that the opponent of mheshimiwa is out and about in the constituency. That is enough to convince the tight-fisted mheshimiwa to send something to ‘greet the people’ in his corner of the universe.

The first person to receive the mheshimiwa’s greeting is usually the bartender. This is unfortunate because the money would be better spent, if not on the people, at least in the local clothes shop getting some new threads for himself and his family.

Inflammable

Usually, the fellow has only one suit, ill-fitting and inflammable, of course, which he keeps for visits to the mheshimiwa’s office in Nairobi to bring ‘greetings’ and ‘development requests’ from the people or for the occasional grassroots tour of the mheshimiwa.

Neither is the money spent on groceries or school fees for the family. The bartender knows immediately the fellow swaggers in that money has walked in because the fixer will have what the youth call ‘swag’ and what the older generation call arrogance.

“Give everybody a round and bring me several,” he shouts at no one in particular and the bartender in general. Immediately, the youngest barmaid is ordered in no uncertain terms to see to the man’s every need until he can drink no more or there is no more money to spend.

If all the bar has is an old hag for a barmaid, well, desperate times call for desperate measures and reinforcements will be called in. The barmaid’s daughter, niece, his neighbour’s daughter...really anyone will do. The idea of the fixer getting bored and moving on to the competition with mheshimiwa’s money cannot be countenanced.

When the fixer gets drunk, any female within reach is fair game. The barmaids serving him have long grown accustomed to the grooves of his rough hands on their backsides, bosoms or wherever else there is some flesh to fondle. And to borrow an unfortunate phrase from a cabinet minister, the women are only too willing to receive the attention because it means drinks and money (and possibly a small contribution from mheshimiwa during the next harambee to raise funds to bury a relative) are afoot.

The fixer gets drunk rapidly and his every sentence is punctuated is with mheshimiwa this, mheshimiwa that. “Mheshimiwa is calling me this afternoon so that we can discuss electricity. Mheshimiwa and me are tight and you know he is very close to Raila, very close...” he announces.

Make no mistake, however. These fixers are no jokers. They know everyone in the village and everyone knows them, which is why politicians deal with them directly. Whenever they’re needed, they’re always ready to spring into action.

An excellent example of their power and perennial usefulness was seen recently when angered villagers in the small township of Ahero near Kisumu ‘spontaneously’ erupted in protests against Miguna Miguna for publishing a tome heavily critical of the Prime Minister.

As brilliantly captured by The Standard’s Nicholas Anyuor:

“Women, youths and the elderly people alike demonstrated along the Kisumu-Nairobi highway, causing a traffic snarl-up for over three hours. Chants, ululations and whistle blowing rent the air as villagers jigged in fits of anger and protest.

“They were not done. Armed with the coffin (to bury Miguna), the demonstrators sang funeral dirges and sounded drums of mourning borrowed from the Luo rituals of death and cleansing and performed routines required in fending off evils that cause death.”     

There was obviously nothing spontaneous about this demonstration. Someone had to round up the youths and organise transport for the elderly. Someone had to organise for the coffin to be procured. As you know, demonstrators probably need lunch and bus fare and these had to be facilitated. And above all, the whole shebang had to be coordinated like one big orchestra — which dirges to sing, who will lead the ululations, what route to follow and so on.

Power

All this was done by a local fixer somewhere, using finances provided by a politician or an aspiring politician keen to impress the Prime Minister.

If power lies with the common man, the local political fixer leverages that power on behalf of the big man.

Do not be surprised then if you hear that a foreign investor cooled his heels at the reception of a ministry with only his briefcase for company while the big man he wanted to see was receiving a political briefing about what his opponent is up to from a fellow with Standard Four education.

If that is not clout, tell me another. Love or hate them, these village fixers make or destroy the powerful and they answer to the highest bidder.