Michael Oyier

A diminutive man with a big heart.

Sometime in November 2005, days after I had joined KTN as a new staff, I got to finally meet one presenter whose schedule and I were different.  The man had a diminutive figure, spoke eloquently with a good command of English language and whose reputation preceded his mention.

“I’m Michael Oyier”, he began, “and you trembled and fumbled a little bit during your sports news presentation on television last night. I’m on Early Edition at four, you could pass by the gallery if you want”.

I murmured some motherese as he left for the 16^th floor studios of KTN on I&M building, along Nairobi’s Kenyatta Avenue, on the prompting of the floor manager. 

Brief and crisp. That’s it, right? That’s is what it takes to go through the autocue after sufficient preparations?  I asked myself as Oyier wound up the bulletin. Pretty much so, alongside wearing a good pair of suit and a well-polished pair of shoes- Just in case they need to take a long shot in the studio, he added with a mischievous smile. 

For the weeks that followed this brief introduction, I took it upon myself to review off-air bulletins anchored particularly by Michael Oyier , Ahmed Dharwesh, Tony Gachukia and other rostered talents. I found Michael mostly approachable and tolerant, even if brief, in his interactions. As some of us newbies were still grappling with on-air traction in delivery- unlike other established names, Mike would offer, often, on-the-spot tips of new anchoring and studio presentation before cracking a disarming joke on his way out after a brief engagement. 

I’d stick around KTN Newsroom after presenting the 7PM sports news to watch him co-anchor the Prime-Time news with Lilian Muli or Catherine Kasavuli at 9PM. Their presentation chemistry was highly rated. The bulletin was top of the chart at the time- and with massive, authoritative reputation that KTN enjoyed at the time , the station found a natural midwife of the day’s laborious prime-time news bulletin in particularly Michael Oyier. The viewers loved him, alongside Njoroge Mwaura, Waweru Njoroge, Lilian Muli and Catherine Kasavuli.

Mike was pleasant to talk to- when he had time. He inspired a sense of self-assurance, humility, patience and service- something that had been mentioned to me by Josephat Makori as a young man in the profession.  Those were living attributes in flesh and colour, easily walking around, package in a small body, legally identified as Michael Oyier. Our interactions were few and far in between- and unless I caught up with him during the “Early Edition” broadcast- which was discontinued shortly afterwards- then I had to wait for the prime-time news to shadow him and others for more exposure and training.

Mike never sat around to discuss people. He had not time for petty office politics. He would turn up minutes after “KTN Leo” bulletin at seven o’clock, spend quality time reading through the draft news leads and introductions, before meeting editors and producers for more engagement before going on air. He was particularly a darling of the floor managers and the gallery crew. While other anchors could wrap up the bulletin or bemoan technical gremlins at the slightest technical issue instead of retaking the package or the intros, (one person was renowned for this) Michael had a way of calming nerves when things went wrong during the broadcast. He made the crew understand that whilst the famed news anchors could have been the faces of the station, he was just a small man delivering news in a big way. In Michael’s world, everyone counted in the production of the news of the day.

And that remained pretty much unchanged for the entire period of our employment with KTN and Standard Group. I saw how editors, producers, reporters, video editors, managers and supervisors related with him- with much admiration and respect.

I don’t remember reading Mike Oyier’s exit memo from the Standard Group Management when he left KTN in 2012. It wasn’t the best of corporate culture by SGL to fail to fete top talents who were leaving business. Cost cutting measures being introduced at the time led to redundancies and mass exits, including terminations. I called Mike Oyier, but he did not pick up the call – and only texted back after about three days, apologizing for “walking around with “an employed heavyweight’s missed call”. 

Our paths didn’t meet again for years, until one afternoon in 2021 at Wood Avenue, Nairobi. Whilst joining the road from Lenana road, I recognized him as the driver of a while saloon car, without tinted windows. If he had a gun, he’d have shot me purely due the way in which I approached him – by attempting to block his car from turning left into the road. Folks at the nearly apartment block must have seen us laugh it all afterwards after pulling outside their gate- and Mike eventually told me, “the small KTN boy is now driving a dump truck”. Bro, is that me with protruding grey hairs on the head that he’s talking about like that?

Two years later, our paths crossed again in Athi River. On the road, again. So, that’s it- we are now going to be stopping traffic to catch up? I asked him, as I pulled over to the side of the road.  He mentioned he’d just come from seeing his daughter- and he was the happiest man in the world. Wiping his eye glasses, Mike asked me about my own family and how they are doing. It was the first time ever that he’d done that. We caught up for a few minutes and I mentioned that I had recently seen him on YouTube, discussing his struggles with depression and sadness. 

I realised we had temporarily stopped traffic – and adjusted our vehicles on the shoulders. Did you watch the whole confession? It was more than 10 minutes long, he quipped. I replied that he couldn’t beat Tiktok waist shakers for popularity and ratings now, if he chose to come back to the mainstream media.  We laughed it all, and agreed that we stand no chance at this time against the social media application. He mentioned something about how young people don’t know the power of the app- and how some are actually sinking into depression after continued exposure. Some are my clients- don’t join the booking, he joked. He then asked me, with a cheeky smile, “How did you summit Mt. Kenya with that pot belly anyway-or were you that Google floating balloon around Chogoria?”

I must have a lost a few calories after bursting into laughter. Seriously, you need to drop a few scales- you could use a few more altitude”. And with that, he drove off, having secured an assurance from me that I will not to block his way on the road again. 

This past week, I leant of untimely demise of my friend Mike Oyier. It has taken me almost three days to write this, having failed to find the energy, to begin with- and the words. I saw the breaking news on social media. I stopped scrolling down immediately. My knees became weak and my mouth dry. I called colleagues and friends to confirm the news. They too, were shocked by his death.

Mike Oyier was a good man. He treated people with respect. With dignity. With disarming humility. Despite his tribulations, he’d put others first- and wouldn’t even discuss his own plight, ironically, having been the bearer of news during his years as an acclaimed newscaster. 

May Michael Oyier’s soul rest in peace. May his family, daughters, friends and colleague in the profession- and everyone that he touched- be comforted at this difficult time. We have all lost a friend and a role model. We are all poorer without him- and his presence. 

Rest in peace, Michael Oyier. Good souls always finish the race of life faster than most people. 

Good Riddance Mwai Kibaki: You Ruined My Life.

I have written before my own experiences covering the post-election violence in late 2007 and early 2008 whist working as a television reporter for Kenya Television Network (KTN).

https://saddiqueshaban.wordpress.com/2013/02/18/do-not-burn-my-kenya-again/

Disclaimer.

Through this writing, I intend to paint an all too obvious picture- that Mwai Kibaki wasn’t without fault or imperfections, like all of us. He was human, after all. Just like all of us. Just like me. I understand fully that people, including those who know me, may interpret these thoughts as they may wish. I also know that I am a flawed man and perhaps upon my demise, people may hold similar views about me, my deeds and life – and that they are entirely entitled to their own views, as I am to mine. I don’t speak for my former employer and this is not an official account of what transpired during that time. These are my own thoughts as a journalist and a private citizen of Kenya.

Mwai Kibaki is dead, at 90.

I have watched television broadcast, read published reports and commentaries about Mwai Kibaki’s death and how he was said to be Kenya’s “greatest president”.

I have now been compelled to pen down, by reasons of posterity and institutional memory, my own experiences under Mwai Kibaki as a journalist and a Kenyan.

Emilio Stanley Mwai Kibaki is now deceased. He served as Kenya’s first opposition president and the country’s third, from December 2002 until April 2013. I can now write this freely, without fear on this World Press Freedom Day.

While studying in Kenyatta University, I remember attending a political rally at Nairobi’s Uhuru Park in late 2002, where Kibaki and other members of the National Rainbow Coalition (NARC) hosted a mega rally, whose momentum catapulted him and others into power. It was the second time I was seeing him in person, having first met him in 1997 at the Eldama Ravine township grounds where he was campaigning for president under the Democratic Party ticket. Fearing stampede after getting injured during the mega rally, I skipped his inauguration ceremony on December 29th 2002.

Mwai Kibaki’s path and mine would meet three years later when I became a professional journalist. Mwai Kibaki hardly attended any sporting activities, other than turning up for the Kenya Golf Open final. Over the months that followed, I covered presidential sports functions and also 2005 and 2010 Kenyan constitutional referendum. There wasn’t much to write home about this period, as they were largely formal and regular.

But as time went by, things changed and I found myself in the cross hairs of his failure as the president of Kenya and felt the blunt edge of the impunity of his government. There were episodes of his wild family escapades and car-crash first lady wife and alleged mistress whose alleged involvement in questionable activities have been published by leading media houses and stories available in the public domain.

Kibaki was a terrorist sponsor and a sympathizer.

Things changed one night in March 2006. I received a cold text message on my Nokia 3310 on March 2. I reached out for the bedside lamp and traced the phone.

­One-eyed, I read the terse message. “Check if your TV is showing Your Channel, Your Choice”

Why would anyone ask me to confirm if the network was broadcasting in the middle of the night? That would have been the moment the station would be plugging into CNN for international feed. Lazily, I checked it out.

It was off air. KTN was off-air. There were only NTSC colour bars and tone in place of scheduled programming. That was strange. I jumped out of my skin in bewilderment and washed my face off the unfolding nightmare. I flipped channels. Others were on air, KTN wasn’t. I checked again.

I called three colleagues and realized they had received the same message from a senior editorial manager. It was around three in the morning by the time I glanced proper at my watch.

Most phones were busy or owners unavailable.  No one had any information about why Kenya Television Network (KTN) was off-air on Thursday, March 2nd, 2006.

I lost sleep. I made frantic calls but no one had any solid information. I finally got through to a newspaper delivery van driver, who was on his way to Mombasa. He had stopped by the roadside after hearing reports that some his colleagues based at Standard Newspaper’s Nairobi’s Likoni Road printing press had been assaulted and deliveries meant for nearby jurisdictions had been destroyed. Printing press machines had been vandalized, he added, and premises had been broken into by heavily armed group of people. He feared he would be targeted for being an employee of Standard Media group and delivering the incriminating cargo.

Then a terrifying  piece of information came through.

“We have been raided by terrorists” KTN has been shut down, studio equipment destroyed and people have been arrested, it added.

No further context or explanation. This came from a colleague, who immediately switched off her phone.

I was only five months old in the establishment, having been employed in October, 2005. I looked at my sink and realized I had not even switched off the tap. My ceiling board appeared to be in an endless circular motion. And was that a buffalo on the wall?

There were no ride-hailing services then and Njoroge, my regular taxi man in Ruiru town, had long closed for the night.   

I called him up frantically. He picked up. Come to my house, right away. I have an emergency. I have to go to Masaba hospital on Ngong Road, I thundered.

I hit the shower. Picked my best suit, the one that Swaleh Mdoe once made a fun of, on air, saying it was the only pair I have. Truant Babu’s grandson, that man was. Forgot to brush my shoes and hair and even left my wallet in the house in a haste when the taxi arrived.

Njoroge summoned whatever donkey powers remained of that rickety Toyota Corolla 100 car and floored it. For effect, I kept quiet throughout and feigned some deep thoughts to avoid having to discuss how his team, Beirut FC, (Thika United) was fairing on in the league.

When he eventually dropped me outside the I&M building on Kenyatta Avenue a few minutes after five, my knees wobbled at the sight of armed police officers standing outside the then Seasons Restaurant on Banda Street, overlooking the basement entrance to the building. I quickly walked past and hid outside Post Bank House on Market Lane. I then circled Season’s Restaurant, into Muindi Mbingu street. From a vantage point outside Hughes Building, I could see foot traffic into and out of the building. I crossed over to Kenyatta Avenue. The parking lot was rather busy at this time of the night.  I suspected the people parked outside the building on Kenyatta Avenue were not taxi drivers. I crossed over to Six Eighty Hotel and bid my time there.  

I had tapped “Pambazuko La KTN” bulletin the previous night and I called a friend to confirm if the program was on air. It wasn’t. It was now minutes after six o’clock.

I couldn’t believe that I was hiding in the streets waiting for a moment to enter the building. What became of my bravery as a journalist? Why would I hide in the streets, famed for their illicit trade, in the wee hours of the morning?

I took a leap of faith and entered the building from Kenyatta Avenue entrance. Forlorn faces of security guards at the ground floor gave the first indication of the terror that had visited the building

The lifts had been restored, one guard told me, after hours of outage. I stopped at the sixth floor. The reception area was cold. It had been ransacked.

I then walked up eight floors to 14^th. The KTN newsroom looked like a disorganized flea market.

That wasn’t the neat and tidy KTN newsroom I had left only hours before. Some computers monitors had been damaged or dropped on the floor.. Some were missing the central processing units. Telephone heads were upside down, with lines disconnected. Heavy duty printer yanked off from power and network cable. Broadcast copies of previous evening’s “KTN Prime” and “KTN Leo” news bulletins were strewn all over the floor. Desks disarranged and lockers broken into. Senior Manager’s offices showed signs of forced entry. Drawers ransacked. Camera room had been broken into and some equipment were reported missing. Even the damned chairs had been turned upside down.

Significant damage had been done to the 16^th floor broadcast studios. Cameras and news sets had either been damaged, vandalized or simply maliciously destroyed.

The transmission floor on 17^th floor was particularly targeted. It had taken the full hit, mechanically. They had switched off transmitters from this floor and taken the station off air.

Shortly afterwards, CCTV clips of balaclava-clad policemen, brandishing assault rifles, with reflector jackets labelled “QRU” emerged, showing technicians and other staff members being frog matched, assaulted and equipment being carted away. The room was dead silent as we watched the clips in utter disbelief. Those were my own colleagues being beaten and assaulted on CCTV camera, I told myself. Were they still around? A random cough from the door almost sent people scampering for safety.  The terrorists were of Caucasian origin, from their exposed hands, backed by what appeared to be Kenyan security officers.

It was now a few minutes after seven o’clock in the morning. By this time, the country had known that KTN was off-air. some parts of the city and towns around Kenya had not received their copies of the “Standard Newspaper”. Calls rang in the newsroom after the IT technicians had restored the lines. They mostly went unanswered. Muted silence among KTN and Standard Newspapers staff that had reported to work that morning. Line managers and editors were in a meeting on the company’s 12^th floor executive office. When they later emerged, they assured that engineers were busy working to get the station back on air.

I was left wondering if bad luck had followed me to KTN. Before being headhunted by KTN, I had just been made redundant as a program officer with “I Choose Life”, an NGO that had employed me whist an undergraduate student at Kenyatta University.

It later emerged that the raid was state sponsored by Mwai Kibaki’s government through the Ministry of Interior. Mwai Kibaki’s agent of impunity, John Michuki, had authorized it. A state-sponsored terrorism on a private, independent media house. Mwai Kibaki, in a bid to settle scores with the media house, on behalf of her crazy wife Lucy, had employed the services of Armenian mercenaries, the so-called Artur brothers – Artur Margaryan and Artur Sargasyan. Kibaki denied the allegations but the issue only sucked in his alleged mistress, Mary Wambui and her daughter, Mwai Kibaki’s alleged own daughter, Winny, just a short time later.

I mean, Armenian mercenaries? How different were they from Uganda’s Lord Resistance Army? Al Qaida? Al Shabaab? Taliban? Boko Haram? Were they hiding somewhere within the building waiting to pounce again?

Mwai Kibaki’s government had cleared the Armenian terrorists and designated them as Senior Police officers, with state resources to boot. They were untouchables and for almost four months, they roamed around the city and even shamelessly engaged a crowd of people outside the I&M building on Kenyatta Avenue. Mwai Kibaki and his government did not arrest them or even attempted to stop their wanton impunity.

The same government led by Mwai Kibaki that was fighting the Sabaot Land Defense Forces had imported a militia from Armenia and attacked my employer and the company and thereby jeopardizing my livelihood. My career. My young budding career in journalism, only five months old, was on the verge of being iced. My employment with the Standard Group was now uncertain. My income and job were under threat. No one knew what would happen in the coming days.

Years later, against official claims, it became clear that the raid was sponsored to bar, stop, frustrate and/or immobilize the Standard Group from ever associating Mary Wambui with Mwai Kibaki. That the alleged “series of stories that were damaging to the Government, and that would compromise national security” that were being prepared by the Standard Group were flimsy excuses. The Kibakis were settling personal scores with the media house.

Lucy Kibaki had earlier threatened the media against giving lawyer and politician Paul Muite a platform to associate Mary Wambui with Mwai Kibaki. The media fairly referred to Mary Wambui as “NARC Activist” and not Kibaki’s wife. They made efforts to correct any implied associations that were made, including on the blogs .  The coincidence was too much. Paul Muite had recently been given prominence, including a physical interview conducted within the premises, where he repeated those claims. Days before these claims were made, Mary Wambui, known to Mwai Kibaki and his close family members, had taken a whirlwind shopping spree around Muindi Mbingu street, with GSU security officers, state vehicles and machinery in tow. It was a show of defiance. Wambui wanted Lucy Kibaki to see that she was still in Mwai Kibaki’s life and she was going to use the media to pass along that message. She invited the media to her activities of defiance. She earned coverage based on her association with Mwai Kibaki, the president of Kenya. As a woman, she was craving for natural attention from the alleged father of her daughter, Winny. She badly wanted Mwai Kibaki to remember her existance, having been declared person non gratta in all state houses across the country and banished from visiting Mwai Kibaki in Muthaiga. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Mary Wambui, Kibaki’s alleged mistress, dragged the media along and fed the editorial monster. As professionals, journalists were duty bound to accord her coverage. Mwai Kibaki and Lucy Kibaki admonished journalists for that and even threatened litigation over this association. This only emboldened Kibaki’s second family and alleged Mistress Mary Wambui.

Later on, Mary Wambui’s daughter, Winny, would be seen dining and whining with the so-called Artur brothers – Artur Margaryan and Artur Sargasyan – in entertainment joints around the city. The media was on the beat. It nosed around and followed the scent and alleged association between the mercenaries, the drugs recently discovered and Mwai Kibaki. Kibaki denied again any association with Wambui, who also distanced herself from reports associating her with recent drug haul. The Kibakis threatened the media again, this time, saying authors of such reports would have to disclose their sources.

As president, Mwai Kibaki feigned ignorance as the terrorists ran amok in Kenya for three months, causing all manner of imaginable and unimaginable atrocities against the people of Kenya. One such report, which can be found here. Shows Mary Wambui’s daughter and Mwai Kibaki’s alleged daughter, Winy, getting cozy and touchy with the Armenian mercenaries.

Mwai Kibaki and his two crazy wives

Mwai Kibaki knew Mary Wambui. Mwai Kibaki married Mary Wambui. Mary Wambui loved Mwai Kibaki. Mwai Kibaki loved Mary Wambui. Mary Wambui and Mwai Kibaki loved each other. Mwai Kibaki loved Lucy Kibaki Lucy Kibaki knew Mwai Kibaki loved Mary Wambui. Mary Wambui knew Mwai Kibaki loved Lucy Kibaki. Or did he? Lucy Kibaki knew Mary Wambui. The two women knew they shared one man, Mwai Kibaki. Mwai Kibaki had married them all. They were a threesome. Mwai Kibaki knew he had a romantic relationship with Mary Wambui. They were married in a customary wedding in the 1970’s. Mwai Kibaki’s first wife, Lucy, once slapped an official state house MC for referring to Mary Wambui as “First Lady Mama Lucy Wambui”. Former vice president Moody Awori also mentioned, in alleged error, that Mary Wambui was “second lady”. Lucy Kibaki was almost admitted to Karen Hospital over this gaffe.

If Mary Wambui was not Mwai Kibaki’s wife, then why was Mary Wambui’s private residence in Lavington under the protection of the elite presidential guards? Why was she being driven around in pool vehicles belonging to the presidency?

Mwai Kibaki was married to two women at the same time. He knew it. His family fought over it. His children knew one another. His first wife Lucy was fully aware of the marriage. His second wife Mary Wambui lived the marriage.. State House knew about it. The presidency provided resources and allocated public funds to service the marriage. The military protected the polygamous family. The Roman Catholic Church in Kenya was aware of the affair.

But when the media attempted to report about it, the Kibaki’ flipped. His children and their Lucy Kibaki mother went berserk.

When the household of Mwai Kibaki become inhospitable,  Mwai Kibaki went to Consolata Shrine in Westlands to seek divine intervention against the wrath of his crazed wife, Lucy.

As President and a Roman catholic Church adherent, Mwai Kibaki couldn’t be seen publicly or thought to be associated with two women as wives. Not with psychotic wife Lucy Kibaki raiding media houses in the middle of the night. The Roman Catholic church would have excommunicated him from their midst, had they followed catechism in spirit and letter. At the altar of hypocrisy- see no evil, say no evil, the church overlooked Mwai Kibaki’s open polygamy for reasons that must be confessed before the day of judgement.

Polygamy by the president of Kenya was out of question. The law frowned at it. The optics looked bad for Mwai Kibaki and his out-of-control wife, Lucy. It is the reason Kibaki held press conferences to deny media reports linking him with Mary Wambui.

He also denied any association with Artur Margaryan and Artur Sargasyan- yet his own alleged daughter, Winy, by mistress Mary Wambui, was allegedly busy warming the terrorists’ beds and caressing their rocket propelled grenade testicles.  

When the media reported this or attempted to dovetail the story, Mwai Kibaki and his crazed wife Lucy would issue threats of litigation and other unspecified consequences. I know of journalists whose phones were allegedly tapped and movements closely followed. There were allegations that some journalists had in fact been recruited as spies by the National Security Intelligence Service to spy on fellow colleagues and report on any editorial content code named “pineapples”, meaning “explosive stories about GoK or Kibakis”.

In other words, those were difficult days for journalists in Kenya. The media space had shrunk badly and a few journalists opted to seek greener pastures into the corporate world due to official frustrations. Deep state agents were impatient with anyone who crossed Mwai Kibaki’s projected reputation as an economist and reformer. A golfer, a gentleman. A savior of some sort. Thika road superhighway visionary. Makerere University’s finest.

While the state house public relations propaganda machine was on the overdrive, Mwai Kibaki’s second wife Mary Wambui was unashamedly running around town with elite presidential guards after being scorned by her co-wife, Lucy Kibaki. It only took the presence of Paul Muite on television to activate Lucy Kibaki’s madness. I don’t know if it has anything to do with Paul Muite’s perceived ugliness.

Mwai Kibaki failed to tame the women in his life and household- and they all overshadowed him. They overran him and undermined his authority as the man of the house on the hill. This fallout ultimately leading to a state-sponsored terror raid on the Standard Media Group, to silence the media and gag it from amplifying, recording, reporting, broadcasting or archiving the escapades of the wild Kibaki family. Mwai Kibaki had drawn first blood against me and my young profession.

I shall write what they failed to say.

During the state funeral and burial ceremony in April 2022, no one mentioned this ugly past about Mwai Kibaki. Eulogist after another watched their tongues and measured their words. They all praised Mwai Kibaki. All of them. The choir drowned their hyprocrisy with melodious tunes, as mourners admired the golf club and Kibaki’s five-star general military outfit displayed by the military, as if to remind everyone that martial law was now in operation and mourners had to respect their fallen commander-in-chief.

No one mentioned that it was during his tenure as president that the freedom of the media and press in Kenya suffered greatest the threat. Dark period had engulfed the nation during the 70’s and 80’s era, but this was a different manifestation of that dark era. It was being televised and published as it unfolded in the new age, aided by evolving technology. Not a single media report I read before Kibaki was buried expressly, boldly and openly indicated that Mwai Kibaki eroded years of gains made to secure free speech in Kenya. By sponsoring a terrorist attack on a media house, Mwai Kibaki, he who moved the motion that made Kenya a single-party state by law in 1982, alongside his deranged wife Lucy- who left her matrimonial bed in State House in the middle of the night to stage a one woman raid on Nation Media Group just two months later- were the greatest threats to press freedom. I dare say that Mwai Kibaki was the enemy of the press. The deranged megalomaniacs even refused to release, publicly, the Shadrack Kiruki report on the activities of the controversial Armenian brothers, despite public money being used for the exercise.

 I suspect the findings of the commission were buried between the graves of Mwai Kibaki and Lucy Kibaki.

It was also during Mwai Kibaki’s time that tribalism and nepotism in the media and the newsrooms were highly visible. Harambee House-sponsored newspaper headlines and television rundowns were commonplace. Establishment journalist were shamelessly embedded to State House and other state agencies and  were rewarded for their sycophancy. Scribes and columnists deemed too critical or radical to the establishment were sacked or suspended from employment under flimsy excuses. Some newspaper stories and features, including investigative television exposes, thought to be “too hot” for Kibaki’s government, were axed from publication and dropped from broadcast. Some experience columnists, cartoonists, caricaturists and satirists were all dropped by leading newspapers because the media houses opted to self-censor and preserve the government advertisement budget. Some media houses that chose to go to bed with Mwai Kibaki’s government without editorial foreplay are still chasing payments for services rendered, years later. The ten years of Mwai Kibaki’s presidency offered a solemn soul-searching moment for journalists who had genuinely sworn to adhere to and honestly service their oaths to the profession.  

Mwai Kibaki was a prime suspect for crimes against humanity

When I thought I had recovered from the sponsored terrorism and impunity of Mwai and the controversial Armenian brothers in 2006, I found myself in another deathly crisis sponsored by Mwai Kibaki and his administration just a year later.

The horror played out in December. This time, Mwai Kibaki’s swore himself in at night on Sunday, 30^th December 2007 and plunged this country into its darkest moment in history.

And I reluctantly found myself in the front seat of that bloody period of anarchy and lawlessness.

This time, I met Mwai Kibaki through the resultant chaos of the Kenyan postelection violence that broke out shortly after 31^st December. 

What I saw in Mombasa during these short eleven days  remain indelible from my memory. I cried. I sobbed. I wailed. I mourned with strangers. My eyes were filled with tears. Tears from the bloodshed and sight of human suffering. Scenes of the dead and the dying. Blood of strangers mixing in a stream of death. The smell of death lingered in the air all around me.

Macabre death. Murder most foul. Rape. Decapitation. Amputations. Limbless bodies. Lifeless women, clutching at their babies in Bamburi.  Young men believed from Luo community bearing signs of forceful circumcision in their private parts in Mshomoroni. Women speaking Kikuyu language reporting being sexually assaulted at Nyali police station. Bodies floating in the Indian Ocean, having been dumped from Makupa Courseway , Nyali bridge and Likoni. Sight of scared survivors at police stations in Makupa, Nyali and Bamburi and Mtwapa. Mothers, toddlers and the elderly taking refuge at Kibarani Catholic Church and other areas. Sight of broken bottles splatted all over Port Reitz Road by rioting mobs, to keep police officers at bay  as they looted businesses and raided houses. I saw more than we ever filmed on camera. Every day, my cameraman and I woke up to despicable scenes. My cameraman saw them whilst filming. I edited the horror clips and voiced over scenes of violence and mayhem.

My innocence was stolen

I was on the verge of losing my mind. I didn’t not sign up for this. I was a specialist sports journalist, not a war correspondent. I didn’t know how to script for bloody scenes. I wasn’t prepared for it. I wasn’t trained for it. I was used to action in sports, not deathly running battles. I found pleasure conducting post-match interviews and reactions, not covering cries and wails of widows, orphans and grieving families.

My editorial boss at the time, Farida Karoney, now Lands Cabinet Minister, had not mentioned to me that I would cover death, human suffering and injuries. Neither had Kizito Namulanda or Katua Nzile, my other executive editors. Not even my line managers at the time.

My editors looked at some of my scripts upon submission and asked me, “is this your very best, out of the circumstances?”

What circumstances?

Heaps of dead bodies at Coast General Hospital morgue? Lifeless bodies at Pandya hospital? Wailing mothers and children, hurdled together at Bamburi police station? Chopped hands and limbs in Migadini? What circumstances? Scenes of the elderly with deep machete cuts on their head? Scene of young people with gouged-out eyes, with their hands tied behind their backs? Cries of people, some on verge of starvation- whilst running broke and passively starving myself? Taking cover behind anti-riot police lines – without body armor? Armed with only the microphone and a note book, was I safe from the projectiles and weapons being used by the aggressors against their targets? What about my own family back home, living in fear of attacks? My own mental health was taking a toll from having to see blood and death every day.

Mwai Kibaki’ decision to swear himself in at night that fateful December 30^th, 2007 completely changed my life. I have never been the same person ever since.

Mwai Kibaki ruined my mental health.

I have not been clinically diagnosed yet, but I suspect I suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. What then explains these flashbacks of death and violence each time I see Mwai Kibaki? I long stopped watching him on television. I would mute his speech on television. Why these nightmares each time politicians make reckless and dangerous remarks that borders on hate speech and incitement to violence? Can anyone tell me why I take cover each time sound of gunshot renders the air? Is it normal to keep thinking about the people I met at the internally displaced camps in Eldoret and Nakuru? Does it explain why I have probably become claustrophobic and don’t like camping, even by my own right as a hiker?  My own people think I have gone rogue.  Some of my own friends say I have become snobbish. That I don’t talk to people as I used to in college, yet I was a bubbling thespian and a crowd- favorite during my undergraduate days. For years after he left office, I created a Google alert about Mwai Kibaki. I wanted to find out, if as former president, he would make some public announcements about the post-poll chaos. I wanted to know if he would launch his own autobiography or biography. I scrubbed the floor of YouTube looking for a post-presidency interview from Mwai Kibaki. I even followed some media houses online, just in case they commissioned a story about Mwai Kibaki’s reflection during the dark period of his presidency. For four years, I got nothing.

Does it explain my alleged compulsive obsessive disorder with Mwai Kibaki’s health and wellbeing, over the last five years, through this Twitter thread?

I would have interviewed Mwai Kibaki in death.

I deliberately shunned the occasion of his state body viewing and state funeral because I couldn’t come to terms with seeing Mwai Kibaki again in person. Worse still, not when lying there in state. He was useless to me. He was not helpful to anyone. No, true. Not even to himself. Oh, yes. It’s true, he could not be of any use to anyone, lying there dead, cold and emotionless, while we needed answers when he was alive. He was just chilling there, just like Mavi ya Kuku.

Had I attended his state funeral, I would perhaps conducted a flash interview with him, as he lay inside the expensive state-procured casket. I would have whispered a question into his ears about his role in the post-election violence. Having been shielded from accountability, I would have taken that opportunity, as journalist, and placed a microphone or recorder near his mouth, and asked for his final thoughts ahead of his burial. I would have, perhaps, asked him, as he lay there quietly, donning a new pair of suit and a pair of expensive shoes, whether he was finally happy to taste death. To die. If that were the same death as those who died in the post-election violence. I would have asked Emilio if he were happy to be reunited with the people that died during the 2007/2008 post-poll chaos.

You look peaceful in death your excellency, those who were brutally murdered did not even get a decent burial, what do you have to say about that? I would have quipped.

As an ordinary Kenyan citizen, I would have seized that opportunity against all odds, to ask Mwai Kibaki if he were happy to be reunited with his evil friends- Samuel Kivuitu of the defunct Electoral Commission of Kenya- and Evans Gicheru, the corrupt Chief Justice who swore him into office under the cover of darkness. I know hawk-eyed military personnel were guarding his lifeless body, but as a Kenyan whose life was irreversibly changed by the post-election violence, I would have sought for a last-breadth confession from Mwai Kibaki. Do you regret burning Kenya, Mr. President? Are you sorry, Sir? Do you think the souls of the people killed by your greed for power will allow your own soul to rest in peace? Did you, Mr. President, like South Africa’s last segregationist president Frederik Willem de Klerk, leave behind a last-gasp video message, apologizing for pain, hurt, violence, blood, deaths, anarchy, loss of property and chaos that you caused, or made to be caused, during your time as third president of Kenya? What message of comfort or goodwill do you wish to leave behind, Mr. President, even as you die, to those whose mental health were severely impacted by your corrupt leadership?

I am sure before the military police could intervene, I would gotten a life-and-death opportunity to whisper to Mwai Kibaki, as he lay in state: “Are you a killer, Sir?

If the military had dragged me outside and tossed me out of parliament building,  I would dashed to Gikomba market and purchased a new outfit. I would then return, probably dressed like a priest, to seek more cut-throat confession. Are you a rapist, Mr. Kibaki? Do you consider yourself a suspect of crimes against humanity? Should you have been charged at the international criminal court, alongside President Uhuru Kenyatta, deputy president William Ruto, former head of the civil service Francis Muthaura, former police commissioner Hussein Ali, former Tinderet MP Henry Kosgey and Mr Joshua Sang? He would have called me “Bure Kabisa”, I suspect, or “Ovyo”.

Like the man who wanted the Roman Catholic priest to grant him only two minutes to address the mourners during Mwai Kibaki’s state funeral service at Nyayo Stadium, I would have asked Mr. Kibaki to apologize to the media fraternity in general and the Standard Media Group in particular for the 2006 state terror raid. I would have implored upon him, as he lay dead, to redeem his soul by offering his muted or silent apology on behalf of his wife Lucy for raiding the Nation Media Group in the dead of the night. I would have animated his labial frenulum on television to recreate a motion visual from beyond the dead. It would have been my modest professional contribution to the living, from the dead.

Mwai Kibaki was an enemy of the Kenyan media.

I would have done this because of what Stanley Emillio Mwai Kibaki greed for power did to the KTN newsroom during the post-election violence.

People that had worked together for years turned against each other on ethnic basis. News gathering and sourcing became a headache. Deployment of news talents was reduced into an ethnic affair for the safety of the journalists. After a number of colleagues survived machete attacks by Mungiki vigilantes in Kiambu and parts of central Kenya, assignment editors paired people from one ethnic community to go out to the field to gather news. For instance, Kikuyu-speaking crew would handle stories in Mungiki -controlled regions. Dholuo speakers would be paired for stories around Mathare and Kibera, for instance. Intelligence and deployment would follow similar patterns. Some stations were forced to drop their station identifying labels on microphones in order to guarantee safety of their staff members.

The KTN newsroom that I had left just weeks had dramatically changed. It had become as hostile as Kibaki’s relationship with the media. At one point, I saw two senior editors almost exchanging blows in the newsroom over graphic editorial content that had been received from violence-hit areas. Mwai Kibaki may have barricaded himself inside State House and ringed the premises with specialist forces after swearing himself into power that December, but the hatred he had sowed around the country was still simmering, weeks later, and spreading like bush fire.

The media had a turbulent period under Mwai Kibaki’s regime. The official intolerance was stifling. It was during Mwai Kibaki’s time that his own Minister for Justice and Constitutional Affairs Martha Karua fronted a retrogressive bill that required editors to disclose the names of persons included in but not named by media stories. Alongside the then Information and Communications minister  Mutahi Kagwe, Mwai Kibaki’s government was forced to withdraw two anti-media Bills, part of the the oppressive Kenya Communication (Amendment) Bill 2007. Mwai Kibaki loathed the media and detested the profession at every turn.

Flashes of Horror.

I got a few days off after the February 28th 2007 peace accord and power sharing agreement between Raila Odinga and Mwai Kibaki. I thought being away in from Nairobi and Mombasa would heal my fresh wounds, only to be told of similar horrors about how members of the Dholuo and Kikuyu communities had been killed and their bodies dumped into Chebloch Gorge in Kerio River, in Baringo/ Marakwet. Weeks after the clashes had ended, bodies were still floating in the gorge. Others had been eaten by crocodiles. I know of families that had lived alongside their Arror, Tugen and Lembus neighbors in Baringo for years, only to be uprooted, killed and displaced by the post-election violence of 2007. Again, Mwai Kibaki- instigated genocide had stuck with me, like an endless nightmare.

Mwai Kibaki was many things to many people…

But he was an evil man to me. He was cruel and fiendish. As a president, he was nauseatingly tribal. He failed this nation when it needed him the most. He was spineless and a coward. He lacked courage. The buck stopped with him as the head of state. He chose self-preservation at everyone’s expense. A lazy frog. A fence-sitter of despicable description. A loathsome man, a killer of his own people. Mwai Kibaki was divisive figure in life and in death.

I heard these last few months were horrible for Mwai Kibaki. That before he died, Mzee Mwai Kibaki was in too much pain and suffering. That allegedly, the family considered many options when Mzee’s health failed him completely.

Reports allege that he had completely lost his memory, that he had no recollection at all. Allegations have surfaced that he was in a vegetative state, in a round-the-clock palliative care. That he didn’t recognize anyone or remember anything. Quite normal for many 90-year-olds, but quite ironic, perhaps, for a man who had lived and seen too much in his long life.  But perhaps the blood, the tears, the suffering, the deaths of people who had died under his selfish tenure as the president were haunting him. Who knows? Mwai Kibaki probably died a long time than Kenyans were told and the family were mourning him in silence. In private, as he had lived his life after retirement.

 Mwai Kibaki must have suffered these few months, considering the pronouncements by those who suffered during the post-poll chaos. Believers of sanchita karma would probably allege that it had caught up with Stanley Mwai Kibaki.  I spoke to people who wished Mwai Kibaki a restless afterlife. Families of the post-poll chaos victims who had wished Kibaki an equally painful death as their own kin. I met people who vowed to never forgive Mwai Kibaki for his role in creating a chaotic environment that occasioned them loss of livelihood and life. Did Mwai Kibaki know peace during his last days? Did he mouth even have taste buds to enjoy his 90^th birthday cake? How would anyone know, when allegedly, Mwai Kibaki’s soul had long died before his death?

The octogenarian was the highest paid public official, but was robustly shielded from the public on account of his frail and failing health. Despite the alleged crimes he had committed against the people of Kenya, Mwai Kibaki and his first wife Lucy got the best medical care the Kenyan currency could offer. Quite ironical, for a man whose power-grab victims died like road kills in the post-election violence. Quite ironical, for a man whose victims of post-poll chaos lived in squalor for years, in makeshift camps and deplorable conditions while he retired with generous perks, including chefs, security guards, physiotherapists and Mary Wambui by his bedside.

Mwai Kibaki enjoyed top medical services to the last minute while people he caused to be displaced and maimed are still nursing horrible memories from his illicit act of December 30^th, 2007. Mwai Kibaki died surrounded by his family without giving journalists an opportunity to be heard. He waived his right of reply and died a condemned man. Mwai Kibaki breathed his last without apologizing to the families of the people his presidency killed in 2007/2008 through the post-election violence. He must have regarded the internally displaced victims of the Kenyan poll chaos as chicken poop. He must have held everyone else whose life he ruined through the impunity of his administration as mere mortals, dispensable pieces of excrement. Mwai Kibaki perhaps treated us all like Esther Waitherero, his own sister. To Mwai Kibaki, we were all expendables.

Deep State Shielded Mwai Kibaki from Accountability and Prosecution.

Mwai Kibaki was an evil man. He may have been shielded from accountability over his possible roles in the Kenyan post-election violence, but those who suffered during that time will not forget. If the wheels of justice had been efficiently serviced, Mwai Kibaki would probably have gone from being president to being a death row convict at King’ong’o maximum security prison. Mwai Kibaki would perhaps have been extradited to Guantanamo Bay detention camp for sponsoring state terror against the media in Kenya and his association and financing of Armenian terrorists . At the very least, for the crimes against humanity during the 2007 Kenyan post-election violence, Mwai Kibaki would probably have been tried and convicted by the victims of the post-election violence and jailed alongside Liberian warlord Charles Tailor for atrocities committed during his presidency.  

He may have been accorded a state funeral and burial, but nothing -in the eyes of the victims of the post-poll chaos- will illuminate his dark, lifeless soul. No military rituals or precision will make them forget that terrible moment. No religious cleansing will resurrect the dead. Nothing will cleanse that stained history, even if mourners and eulogists feigned selective amnesia during his burial ceremony. Nothing will excuse or justify Mwai Kibaki’s greed for power that led to bloodshed in Kenya. Nothing will erase the historical injustice that victims of the 2007-2008 post-poll chaos in Kenya have endured and continue to experience. No amount of prayers and thoughts will clear Mwai Kibaki’s tragic errors of commission and omission. No forgiving and forgetting on this one- not when people are dying slowly all these years from poor mental health. Not when Kibaki’s family imagine their silence will make people accept Mwai’s murderous leadership and just move on.

Let historians write Mwai Kibaki’s true legacy using an indelible ink, swiped against the bloodstains of the victims of the 2007 post-election violence, to fully and comprehensively capture the description and impact of Emilio Stanley Mwai Kibaki’s insane tenure as third President of Kenya.

Good Riddance, Toad.

 As to whether Emilio Stanley Mwai Kibaki’s soul should rest in peace, he has all the time in his grave to initiate and service that conversation with the souls of the victims of the 2007-2008 post-election violence .Who knows, perhaps, they could be seeking retribution by clobbering Mwai Kibaki sixteen feet under at this very moment. They are probably extracting a confession from him. Who knows, perhaps they have already beaten him to a pulp, having waited in vain for natural justice these fifteen long years . Can you imagine those estimated 800-1400 people killed during the two months of the chaos, each armed with crude weapons, taking turns or awaiting their turn, to clobber Emilio Mwai Kibaki in his grave? Mzee’s face has probably been smoothed to smithereens by now. Unlike when he was alive, there is no Kenya Defense Forces to protect him from the wrath of the restless souls of the victims of the 2007/2008 Kenyan post-election violence. It could probably be an eternal damnation.

All rights reserved. (C) <Sa_sha>

2.05.2022.

Robert Soi: Nope, just Roberto

Sometime in October 2005, a young, clueless man walked into the I&M building in Nairobi. The receptionist on 14^th floor, upon introducing myself, directed me to the sports desk at KTN newsroom and showed me to Mr. Robert Soi. That’s your work station, she said, and left.

For about five minutes, I sat on unoccupied desk opposite the desks facing Kenyatta Avenue, mesmerized by the galaxy of news and media superstars I had instantly recognized on my way in. I saw Lilian Muli. Swaleh Mdoe. Saddique Ndamwe. Mwanaisha Chidzuga. Anne Ngugi. Munira Muhammed. More TV-familiar faces, including renowned reporters, walked in shortly afterwards. On that Tuesday morning, I attended my first staff meeting at KTN and met almost an entire roster of talents at the time on KTN.  It was at this moment that I formally met Mr. Robert Soi.

Alongside Tony Gachukia, Idris Situma, Joshua Kemboi, Nick Mudimba and  Mike Okinyi, Robert Soi and I formed part of the sports team. Later on, others joined us, including Hassan Jumaa, Celestine Karoney, Joel Omotto, Mohammed “Jicho Pevu”Ali, Victor Ogale. At the time, the cut-throat competition and rivalry within the editorial departments at KTN was at its fever pitch. More in a moment.

That morning, Robert Soi co-chaired the sports desk and before the end of the week, he handed me my first ever editorial assignment- covering the Standard Chartered Nairobi Marathon.

That I how I began my journalism career, sixteen years ago. Over the course of six years, I worked under direct supervision of Robert Soi, mostly, after changes in the management of the desk. It was the most fundamentally challenging part of my career.

My first ever international assignment – the 2007 World Cross Country Championship in Mombasa- was fronted by Robert Soi. He’d introduced me to athletics and I found my niche in this field almost immediately. He’d later recommend that I proceed to Scotland to cover the 2008 World Cross Country championship and personally referred me to a contact at the Immigration Department for passport appointment. He’d be impressed with my dedication to work- despite many personal challenges, and approved my plan to travel to Germany in 2009 for the World Athletics Championship.

A year before, he’d narrated how he’d navigated the elements at the 2008 Olympic Games in Beijing. Hearing the tales of interaction with the world’s best athletes fueled my passion for athletics and I haven’t looked back ever since.

Robert never held grudges or harbored vengeful vendetta. He’d dispense with an instance of lateness on the spot, either through a verbal warning or a referral to another line manager for action. He seldom authored weight-throwing emails, but when he did, the recipients knew he’d hit the wall.

Roberto loved fast cars and motorsports. He introduced me to the sport in 2006 in Athi River and said to me, “Drive off the department’s coverage from here”. I think I did a good job with the years that followed with focus on Kenya National Rally Championship coverage around the country and in Uganda. He only requested me to stay off the Rhino Charge. That was his. We knew it. We respected it.

Sometime in 2010, an idea came to my mind. I told Robert that the late Ben Muchemi, a renowned rally driver, had challenged sports reporters to organize a media motorsport competition. Robert Soi immediately put a proposal to the Standard Group Management for funding and this was approved almost immediately. We became champions of the inaugural event and this pushed me further to competing in the KCB Safari Rally in 2010 under the company colours. There was no question about who managed the rally team.

Rough Cut

Robert always reminded  me of the need to stay “below the water’s surface”. When he thought I had “grown horns”, he’d sent me over to either Mr. Katua Nzile’s or Farida Karoney’s office for “factory settings reset”. No one ever wanted an appointment with the no-nonsense Farida Karoney, the Managing Editor at the time, or the Deputy Managing Editor, Mr. Nzile. Those visits were akin to making the long walk from Lake Ellis to Mintos camp in Mount Kenya. Trust me, I know this – because I’ve been there and done that.

Liked a scared orangutan, I found myself in the middle of established industry players when I set off in 2005. I was thrown into the deep end with people whose phones rang from news sources and news makers. Neck-deep with personalities whose reputation preceded their mention.  Big names who called the shots. Folks whose wardrobe flashed their lifestyles -and offered a glimpse of their paygrade.  It was an intimidating environment and frankly for weeks, I only stared in awe, at the news anchors and popular reporters, despite being a news anchor myself.

I severally found myself on the wrong side of things in the newsroom- from being late to work and failing to beat news delivery deadline within the first few months. I struggled to fit in and create my own niche, my own style and rhythm, in the middle of a fast-moving newsroom environment. I got into conflicts with bullies in the newsroom, keen on securing their shallow part of the pond. My managers must have thought I was unmanageable – and often combatant in nature- when I stood my ground in principle and conviction.  It was particularly tough standing up to arrogant and self-centered elements in the game- control freaks and abusive supervisors in the newsroom at the time. I almost quit at some point- and did not report to work for two days without notice. This earned me an official reprimand from the supervisors. I was stressed out, felt unsupported and frankly discouraged – especially when I learnt of the glaring pay differences between myself and the people I shared the KTN news set with.

When I got my first MEMO from the Managing Editor at the time, Katua Nzile, I opened up to Robert about my struggles within the newsroom ecosystem. I mentioned that my salary couldn’t support my new lifestyle. That I was broke, for days on end, and that was the reason I was often late to work. That despite being on television daily, I wasn’t eating a square meal, daily. I confided to him that my new job and its attendant publicity- was the source of my agony. That evening, Robert told me to wait for him to anchor the 9PM news and he drove me home to Jamuhuri estate.  He kept murmuring about how he needed to buy a bigger car, seeing how his tall legs struggled to control the pedals of the Toyota Starlet

Robert wasn’t a perfect man.

And so I am.

But he was a kind hearted and a good soul.

What stood out was a calm and composed demeanor of Mr. Soi. Roberto, as he insisted on being referred to, often calmed the nerves when egos clashed on the desk. More often than not, he would avoid direct confrontation and adopted a more diplomatic approach. For a fresh university graduate, this was a marked departure from the rugged orientation to problem solving I had been accustomed to.

Robert shielded me from harassment and bullying from some of my own colleagues at a time. When young people rise up in the newsroom due to their sheer hard work and industry, this troubles the old order. The newsroom “deep state” thrives on micromanagement and intimidation. When other line managers cross their jurisdiction, just to throw their weight around, Robert often deflected the attention away from this team- whilst seeking to solve the problem without creating ruckus around newsroom. He had a way with words- and often tempered his replies with humour . If you were friend with Robert, you’d know how to approach him, even in the middle of a crisis.

I benefited from this approach, especially in solving complex matters. Working in a pressurized environment, such as the newsroom, brings out the best and worst of egos and personality traits. A popular news anchor, knowns for his flashy lifestyle, once ejected me from a shared workstation at the KTN newsroom because he claimed the space.  Robert and others, including Ahmed Daruwesh and Wazir Khamsin, often shared their login credentials for use by the younger members of the team- so that they could benefit from full system access privileges granted to line managers. He believed in team work and promotion of individual strengths.

Despite having been in the game for a longer period than some talents, Robert remained humble and down-to-earth. He shunned the publicity and the stunts of the job and preferred a laidback outlook in a busy environment.  I must have learnt this from him and others. I know many other people who work in the newsroom- and are on TV sets almost daily- but who deliberately shun away from the allures and trappings of publicity and celebrity syndromes.

Rest in Peace, Roberto

I have lost a boss. I have lost a supervisor. I have lost a friend. A mentor and a fellow journalist. Those who knew him have lost a good man. I have lost a person with whom I worked in KTN and at China Global Television Network, (CGTN). He welcomed me warmly when I walked into K-Rep Centre offices of the CGTN in 2015, where as he did in KTN, he coincidentally sat on desk seat, near the window.

I have known Catherine Soi, his wife, my entire professional life. I worked alongside her and Robert in KTN for years.  Catherine may you find peace and solace at this difficult time. Roberto was everyone’s friend. We grief together this loss, fully sharing the good memories that Robert created with those who interacted with him. May Lord comfort Robert Soi’s family at this difficult moment. We share in your personal loss. We are forever grateful for the moments that we shared with Robert. Rest in Peace Robert Soi. May the Lord be pleased with you. May he forgive you and rest you in eternal peace.

Just as you led us, we’re all behind you. We just do not know our time and place of departure.

Asbel Kiprop Statement on ADRV charges against him.

Personal Statement by Asbel Kiprop, Three-time World 1500M Champion.

 

MY STATEMENT

ASBEL KIPROP

3^RD MAY 2018

NOTICE OF SAMPLE COLLECTION

1. I have noted the main media reports alleging that I have doped. I have also noted social media comments on the allegation. I vehemently deny any doping. I have remained faithful to my anti-doping convictions and I will be the last person to commit such an atrocious un-sports like thing. I recall that in 2016 I supported conviction of people guilty of doping. I have built for myself a clean sports career since 2007 and I cannot throw it away with such an act.
2. I am reluctantly responding to the main media and social media comments for lack of choice. The allegations are still under investigation and inquiry and I wish the comments could have awaited its finalization. I however note the overwhelming interest from all and sundry to know my reaction to the allegation. I also note that if I do not react persons of less than good will might treat it as true, and pass judgment.
3. On 26^th November 2017 I was notified by way of telephone call from an anti-doping agent, Mr. Simon Karugu “Mburu” to be available for doping test on 27^th November 2017 at my disclosed whereabouts, by then Iten. I availed myself. Messers Paul Scott and Simon Karugu “Mburu” came into the house alone being Doping Control Officers. I know them from previous samplings. They arrived when I was still sleeping at 7.50am to collect the urine sample, and left slightly past 8.20am after the urine sample was sealed. I declared my flu medication when the sample was being taken. I was in the house with a house-mate, a Mr. Kevin.
4. It is to be noted that under World Anti-Doping Rules I was not supposed to be given notice of the intended visit to collect the sample, especially where the test is “out of competition” like this one.
5. The sample was collected when I was not in any competition. This sampling is called “out-of-competition”. My next and planned competition was to be on 4^th May 2018 in Doha Qatar.
6. If I had wanted to dope then it would be less than clever to dope 7 months (in November 2017) long before my planned competition [in May 2018], when I would need the boost.
7. Further if I had any dope substance in my system then I would not make myself available for the sampling on 27^th November 2017 having been given notice on 26^th November 2017 of the intended visit for the sample collection. I could choose to miss the collection without any consequences. Consequences for missing sampling meeting arise only after missing 3 times. I had not missed previously.
8. I am told EPO is put into the body using injection. The last time I had an injection was in 2014 when I was given a yellow fever vaccination before travelling to Bahamas for a competition.

Monetary extortion

9. After the Doping Control Officers [Mr. Paul Scott and Mr. Simon Karugu “Mburu”] arrived at 7.50am, and after I had given them the urine sample Mr. Simon Karugu “Mburu” asked [for the first time in their visits] if I could give them some money. He did not specify how much they needed. At 8.11am I forwarded to them money through Mr. Simon Karugu “Mburu”’s phone using M-Pesa. As a police officer I found it wise to send by M-Pesa for record. I did not at the time expect that the request for the money had anything to do with the sample. At that time I did not see the money as inducement or bribe for anything. I gave it in good faith thinking they may have some need known to them. In retrospect I now clearly see the money as having a relation with the sample collected on that date, and even the irregular advance notice I was given. Mr. Simon Karugu “Mburu” acknowledged verbally and audibly receiving the M-pesa money while he was seated next to Mr. Paul Scott.
10. I remain perplexed on how my innocent sample could turn positive on the only time when money was extorted from me. It is not beyond my suspicion that my sample turned positive because I might have remitted less money than I was expected to remit.
11. After I had supplied the required urine into initial vessel I left the sample on the table where Paul Scott and Simon karugu “Mburu” were seated to go to my bedroom to look for cash money upon their request. However I subsequently decided to use M-Pesa. When I went to my bedroom to collect the cash I left the urine sample, open, on the sitting room, where as stated above, messers Paul Scott and Mr. Simon Karugu were seated with the samples. The M-Pesa was delivered when I was still at the bedroom.
12. I don’t know if my sample was interfered with while I was at the bedroom.
13. I don’t know if the amount I remitted could have been less than what was expected from me, and if it caused annoyance that may have resulted in the contamination of the sample.
14. After I came out of the bedroom my urine sample was split into 2 other containers [sample “A” and sample “B”] then sealed at 8.20am. Both Doping Officers left shortly after sealing the sample at 8.20am. They left probably around 8.30am.
15. The money I was asked for was remitted 9 minutes [at 8.11am] before the samples were sealed [at 8.20am].

I have been asked to admit and be rewarded with ambassadorial role

16. When I was told for the 1^st time that my sample turned positive on 3^rd February 2018 [4 months after sample collection on 27^th November 2017] I was extremely shocked. I was however very confident the mistake alleging I doped would be noted and I would be cleared. The nightmare has continued. However my faith in God, my trust in the goodness of humanity, and my clear conscience continue to sustain me. I do not seek any favors on the matter. I only yearn for fairness and justice beyond all schemes, politics, and machinations. I insist I am innocent even if I am forsaken.
17. I was told the process of investigation and evaluating the question of whether or not there was any dope in my sample would be confidential. I have seen one of the media outlet’s reference to AIU. I am therefore surprised at how the handlers of the issue have let it out to the main media and social media and to subject me to mob trial with a narrative designed to reflect me as guilty without my side of the story being reflected including all the above I have explained.
18. I have been asked to admit that I doped so that I would be made an ambassador of I.A.A.F on anti-doping. I have refused, as this is not only untrue but also a fraud. I do not need absolution on the allegations.
19. I have also noted individuals I held in the highest esteem lie out rightly about what they did and what they saw. This includes as to [how many people came into my house on 27^th November 2017, the money received, that I was not given advance notice, about the open sample left in their care, about a 3^rd party holding the lid to the sample’s vessel, where I was in the morning of the collection of the sample etc]. Others have suppressed clear facts very unfortunately.
20. I pray to be given the benefit of doubt even as I am cast into this lonely isolation. I know it may be impossible to defend myself from any accuser who has made up his mind and who would view my protestations as a mere denial. I however pray that all and sundry of good-will do not hasten to summarily make negative assumptions and judgment about me. I grave to be seen for who I am, what I have stood for and what I represent. However for the determined, before God and before man, I am innocent. I did not dope. I do not labour under the weight of the shame of doping.

 

_ENDS_

ASBEL KIPROP

 

You beat me once again, Ahmed Darwesh, even in death.

 

Allah says: “Innalilahi wa inna ilayhi rajioon” To Allah we belong and to Him we shall return.” (Quran Surat Al Baqarah 2:156)

And also:  “Every soul shall have a taste of death, then to us you will be ultimately returned.” (Quran Surat Al Ankaboot 29:57)

The demise of my friend, brother, mentor and former colleague at KTN Ahmed Darwesh has personified those words and reminded me- and it should remind you- on whose borrowed time we are living.

Television audiences and radio listeners knew and developed a relationship with humble, smiling man with  an astute command of the Kiswahili language. It was a steadfast, unwavering relationship that lasted more than a decade and which ended on Monday night, December 14^th, 2015.

Perhaps working closely and relating with him daily made us take his legendary status for granted. For his TV audience, it was an impersonal relationship. For some of us who knew him more, it was more personal.

But his death is just one of the many victories he has scored over me in the last decade.

He was almost the last person I met at KTN’s I&M building offices when, like a frightened duck walking into a lion’s den, I took my first step into the KTN newsroom, one fine morning in October 2005.

And it wasn’t a ceremonious encounter- he was in fact rushing to edit his story and whilst rushing to the 15^th floor, he shoved me off the way.

He would later apologize and explain that he was in a hurry. And to laugh it off, my good friend and boss Wazir Khamsin was also there. So we had a little chat and introduction. Then a word that would define our greetings for the next decade- “Ustadh wa Mochongoi”

Such words as Bingwa, Kigogo, Marondo would also be used interchangeably in our casual conversations. There was no guarantee he would use any of these words in that order. He has his way with the language.

When I joined KTN back then, the newsroom was full of bachelors and spinsters, mostly freshly out of college. But Ahmed Darwesh and Wazir Khamsin broke the deadlock amongst the youthful workdforce, led the way and got married.

The pressure started there.

The KTN newsroom emptied to Mombasa when he married his wife Hawa. Reading KTN Leo Michezo news that night, I couldn’t help but admire the beauty of the wedding. He would galvanize the entire newsroom when Lulu Hassan got married in Mombasa and many other people, whose wedding he would personally attend or donate his vehicles.

He had shown the way at an early stage. His conviction was unwavering.

Anchoring KTN Leo bulletin with him at a time was everyone’s dream. KTN was a strong brand. Number one station in Kenya. If Farida Karoney and Katua Nzile allowed you a mid cure or a sign off, let alone anchoring news, then you had the “it” factor.

Having lived under the shadow of Swaleh Mdoe, Ahmed Darwesh led a revolution of young and ambitious news readers, keen to chart their own path. He implored that unless we found our own feet, we would be only discussed in relation to others.

He was given a lowly rated Mbiu ya KTN and worked his way through the influence. Fast and furiosly that soon, together with Mwanaisha Chidzuga, they earned their rightful place on air.

This sufferer was meanwhile, left to scramble for the leftovers of time, perpetually made to say hi and bye due to time constraints. I thought of quitting many times, but having seen how other had worked their way up, I chanced again. And again. I had good company to look up to.

If it was not new programs, Darwesh would stir thoughts that  revived otherwise forgotten programs. He was a creative genius- alongside Kizito Namulanda and other team members- were crucial in formulating Kiswahili names for the features that aired daily on KTN Leo. We used to call him “Bwana Kamusi”.

While some lazy reporters would disappear for hours during lunch time, Darwesh would sit on this desk and translate stories for  Mbiu ya KTN from KTN News at One.

Folks who would wait for him to tire are still growing cobwebs. He was the backbone of the newsroom and the pillar of the team.

In my formative years at KTN, I used to make long trips from my house in Ruiru into Nairobi CBD daily. One rainy night, after reading KTN Leo and stranded outside the Season’s restaurant on Banda Street, I couldn’t walk to the number 145 stage somewhere in River Road. Darwesh, having just bought a Totoya Premio, offered to confront the chaotic traffic and dropped me off in Ngara, from where I connected. It would be one of the many volunteered lifts he would offer to me and many other people.

He would still, months later, offer to  drop me home in Ngumo and Jamuhuri estate and he would make his way home afterwards.

When I bought my first car, I gave it to him to “test”.

Naturally, I had been influenced by his car. I had planned to buy it from him, but he politely declined. So I ended up buying “Muchongoi” my first car.  Eight years later,  I still have that old contraption. But no sooner had I bought the car  than he sold his and upgraded to a Toyota Avensis.

He had beaten me again.

Then one time, he asked me, after the birth of his first daughter, whilst eating pilau at California’s Mpambe dishes joint ( which he introduced many of us to) :

“Ustadh wa Mochongoi, tunakula pilau lini? It was a leading question. Almost interrogative, but awakening. He meant, when would I get married?

Ambushed, I laughed it off.

Only for a few months. I then tied the knot.  And since he was on duty that day, he couldn’t attend my wedding. But I was lucky to have the guidance and support of my other brother, Wazir Khamsin.

I felt in good hands. And guess who joked about Ustadh wa Muchongoi “kupata jiko na kukweka kibaridi cha kusababisha kigugumizi”later on in evening on KTN Leo broadcast?

There was something about the holy months of Ramadhan in the KTN newsrooms.  One man would rally all Muslim and non Muslim colleagues to commit to the Ramadhan Iftar program.

Darwesh worked with many people , including Jamia Mosque, to ensure that breaking the fast in the KTN newsroom was a ceremony. Often, we were late to the broadcast because of this.

And speaking of broadcast.

One evening, the auto-cue prompter in the KTN studios failed just before the start of the bulletin. Whilst the news director was shouting herself coarse, Ahmed Darwesh took charge and read the entire 35 minutes news broadcast without the script.

He had earned himself the name “King of Adlib”. I  learnt from him and for the most part of my time in KTN, we were challenged by him to be news anchors- not news readers.

It would take a significant importance when one time in 2007, I decided to “shadow” Ahmed Darwesh, Ali Mtenzi and Wazir Khamsin at Nyayo stadium during one of the many live commentaries that were broadcast from the venue.

No script. No time to waste. Just years of polished command of the language and content. One time, when Ali Manzu joined us, the broadcast was so flawless that it is rumored the news director fell asleep  in the OB van whilst we were on air.

When a few years, work environment pressure and cut-throat competition engulfed KTN newsroom, necessitating departure of key talents, Ahmed Darwesh remained steadfast. He avoided controversies. He was overlooked many times by KTN during promotions , but he took it in his stride. And if there was an icebreaker during the editorial meetings with the revered former Standard Group Boss, Paul Melly, then Darwesh was the undisputed King. The Paul Melly equalizer.

One morning in 2012, Paul Melly called for almost dawn editorial meeting that was mandatory for all news anchors. His demeanor was telling, his mood was foul and his opening words were almost predictable.

Step forward Ahmed Darwesh.

“Bwana Mwenyekiti, leo hata nzi wakitua kwenye koti lako, lililopigwa pasi na kunyooka mithili ya upanga wa jemedari mwandamizi…..”

That is all that it took for the rest of us to breathe.

Paul Melly thundered with laughter, not at the language, but in sheer confusion at what Ahmed Darwesh just said. We shuddered to attend meetings involving Paul Melly without the physical presence of Ahmed Darwesh.

When a few years I contemplated purchasing another car, I looked around and considered a few options.

Having seen the dependability and tasted the generosity of spirit offered to me by Darwesh Ahmed long after I purchased my first car, I ended up in a familiar environment.

My pay at KTN couldn’t allow me to own a Mercedez Benz that Ahmed Darwesh drove. (Pst, there was almost a competition in the Mombasa Road Media House. It was almost difficult to keep tab with folks who had either upgraded or bought new cars that littered the compound).

I couldn’t afford nor maintain the 2.4 L Totoya Kluger that he owned either. So I looked back and settled on what he had previously owned and driven. Of course he recommended it.

I have not regretted the move, three years later.

Ahmed Darwesh was a man of faith. He would safely tuck his praying mat under his desk and always kept a copy of Quran next to his desk and in his car. His trip to Mecca for the Hajj was the hallmark of his spiritual life.

I felt beaten again in this front.

Sometimes, working in the media environment makes you think you are bigger than life, better than your viewers and gives you a false sense of personal importance. It is something that comes with the job- a still-birth celebrity syndrome.

A brief acquaintance  with Darwesh would deflate all that ego. He was one of the very few people who remained humble, down to earth and a people’s person-despite his reputation preceding him. He suffered no reputation crisis and would be pleased to introduce himself without prompt.

Like many people, I struggle in a place that Darwesh slid over like a slipperry surface.

Writing about Ahmed Darwesh’s influence in my life could take the length of my own life.

Both my wife and family have been immensely encouraged and benefited from his ways of life and selfless disposition.

His Uswazi Uswahilini restaurant at South B’s Plains view road is a popular place for many of us. There is nothing special about the place, to be honest.  It is another roadside eatery.

But it isn’t about the premises, it was about how we felt, how we were treated and made to feel at home. Both his wife and himself personally ensured their patrons left  with relishing satisfaction.

This past July, Ahmed Darwesh assembled a group of current and former KTN colleagues for Eid Ul Fitri lunch at his place. I was on my way to work when I passed by his restaurant for a quick bite, but was welcomed to his South B house. Laughter, reminisce,  food, warmth….mingled freely as we washed down memories of the good times with a bitter Swahili juice- “Ukwaju”- which he loved too much.

But he took me outside and opened the boot of his SUV and showed me fruits that he had harvested in his northern coastal house. He had taken to farming and showed me fresh kale plantations growing in his backyard.

Health, health, he intoned and emphasized. He was full of health despite his struggle with a debilitating condition.

Now a farmer? I felt beaten again.

Two Fridays ago, whilst rushing about town before my trip to West Africa, I saw him driving on Likoni Road towards Mombasa road. Light traffic day, there was no one on either side of the road. I swerved into his lane and made as if to stop him on his tracks.

“Wewe Ustadh wa Mochongoi, rally driver, nakuona utundu bado hajakwisha. Rudi mashindanoni na kina Carl Tundo”

Then his signature, almost comical laughter…. Hi hi hi hih hi….

That was our last meeting.

Ahmed Darwesh has gone back to his Maker. He came from his Maker. We all did. Allah has recalled a beautiful soul back home. His leaf has fallen to the ground, and the angel of death has had to comply with Allah’s command.

We shall never question Allah’s decision. Allah knows best. All the time. He has . Always. And forever will.

Ahmed Darwesh, you beat me to death.

You have done another first before me.  As you have always done.

As sure as the sun rises, me and many others people are just behind you. Just like you would appear on KTN Leo bulletin reading main news and I would join you later for KTN Leo Michezo, I know I am on the way. I know that for a fact. For sure. 100%. All of us are on the way. We are just behind you. Perharps held back by some divine traffic jam, which will shortly clear. You have tasted death and seen what many us have not, and will only experience individually, devoid of our fame, name, material, wealth and reputation.

I , nay, we are pleased to have known , worked and shared this life with you.

My friend, my Muslim brother, my mentor, my former boss.

May Allah be pleased with you. May he forgive your sins. May Allah have mercy on your soul and mine. May he be pleased with us too when our time comes. May he forgive our sins too and guide to the path that pleases Him and take us out of the path to damnation.

If you could look back, you may see another beautiful soul coming you way. It could be any of us. Now. Tomorrow or the hours to come.

We are all sojourners.

We just do not have an iota of an idea about the time, manner and place.

“And to Allah belongs the inheritance of the heavens and the earth…..” (Surah Aal-Imraan: 3:180)

 

 

 

The Petrol fumes and the resistance….

Ever since I started covering the Kenya National Rally Championship in 2005, I have deliberately resisted the urge to buy myself a turbo charged engine. The friends I keep have not aided that resolution. In any case, they have been pilling peer pressure throughout the period.

I said to myself the closest I would ever come to owning a turbo charged contraption is whilst filming for a television story. Then one day I accepted an offer to sit inside a rally car. The next time that happened, the wheels were being powered away by a few hundred horses. Then all that changed in 2010.

Ben Muchemi introduced me to rallying. The late rally ace said I had been in the sport for so long that I needed to drive the talk. I had condemned their mistakes while rallying for years, it was time to document my own and possibly air. I refused, initially.

But with probing and peer pressure, I navigated for the first time in 2010. Not event the crash course had prepared me for the three day Safari Rally.

Long story short, I did not finish that event, but five months later, I would hit the podium for my maiden finish in Kilifi during the last round of the championship that year.

Ben Muchemi was not done. He urged and encouraged that I needed more than just two attempts. He had thousands of mileage under his gloves, he said. I signed up for the media rally.

When I hit a tree whilst driving a battered 1990’s Subaru Legacy and nearly dislocated by spinal cord, I gave up rallying for health reasons.

That was five years ago.

I am not sure I can resist the urge not to fasten up the seat belt and read the pace notes, again.

Yup!

I have succumbed to the influence.
Damn you all my rally friends and drivers.

Damn you all.

But do I still have the fitness and mental strength to back me up?

Tears of the Sun

Shams.

It means “the Sun” in Arabic.

If there has been anything that has often defined my life, then is the “shams”. I have lived under it all my life. I have moiled and toiled under it all my life. And I am still under it, trying not to take cover from it, but to ensure that even the parts of me naturally designed not to be touched by the sham’s generosity at least feels its presence.

Not literally.

See, when, as a young boy attending Maddrassa, many, many  harvests ago, our Ustadh, Maalim Keno, May Allah grant him Jannat and grant me a meeting with him and my family during Yawm al-Qiyāmah, would ensure that we never missed a moment with the sun when we deviated from his stringent ways.

And he had a perfect solution for it.  If any cheeky learner would not have memorized the Quranic Ayaat Or verses or the Juzu Amma, or failed  to satisfactorily conduct the Salāt ’ (prayers) as taught, he would ensure that the culprit would see the sunset at noon.

Quite literally.

The old geezer would swipe his chin curtain beards, almost predictably twice, look up the sun and walk away to his house. Sometime he would walk into the madrassa in advance with his tool of trade in a clearly premeditated move. From his house, he would come back with an old Islamic literature book, a grey covered palm book that contained Arabic manuscript. He would then summon the offender before a group, in strategic move to educate and “remove the mistake” and encouraged the culprit to own up to his mistakes.

I was a constant member. A star attraction. A repeat offender. If noise making had not done me in, then it was contaminating Udhuu (ablution) water. Perhaps I had not memorized Suratul Fatiha. I had initial difficulty writing and reciting the Arabic alphabets.

On this sunny day, I had inadvertently left the Juzu Amma near the toilets as I played during break time. That was enough to earn me a starring role under the sun.

Maalim Keno summoned his brood into an assembly for a pre-trial session. Defending carelessness was an exercise in futility. My brothers – Saidi, Mohammed and Athman- sat pensively, withdrawn and helpless. My sister Ida- May Allah grant her Jannat- did not hide her anger with my repeat performance. My other sister Saida- may Allah grant her Jannat– was a rebel without a cause. She cared less. My elder brother Athman- May Allah grant him Jannat, was my partner in crime. He knew it would take a lot from him to make me cool down after the therapy session.

Clearing his voice to command immediate attention and to quell murmurs from girls watching from the second row, Maalim Keno thundered, “Sūrat ash-Shams”.

It  was a dreaded pronouncement. No amount of hands-on experience, literally, would have prepared anyone for a repeat round. Sūrat ash-Shams is a 91st chapter of the Qur’an meaning “the Sun”. The chapter is dreaded religiously for its revered mentions of astronomical phenomena and also talks of the wrath of God in case of disobedience.

It was befitting that I was a disobedient boy who deserved every punishment in the book of rules.

In   a routine formation, Madrassa children would form a circle around me, who by this time, had already resigned to the protocol of the situation-  sitting down and bowing my head firmly atop my knees in total surrender, with my hands wrapped around my legs for support.

Then Maalim Keno would start…..” Bismillah ar-rahman ar-rahim”…. Translated, this means “In  the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful”.

“Ya Rabbi be merciful to me,” I whispered as I positioned myself for the landfall.

“Washshamsi waduhaha…….” The chapter began. And it still does begin with that unmistakable introduction. The punishment began as soon as Imam Keno uttered the intro.  The first nail to make contact with my skin, I suspect, was from Osei, my neighbour. Then the rest of the team sunk in their sharp nails at their most immediate point of reach.

Maalim Keno would take his time to read the Chapter, agonizingly slow. And I suspect, he would stumble over the words and the verses deliberately. He would take them again, as dictated and demanded, and with each attempt, came renewed forces of mass destruction to my dermatological arrangement. The fifteen verses, as all verses of the Quran, must be pronounced and articulated  perfectly. Each verse came with significant teachings about the sun, the moon, the day and the night…and I must have gone through all the seasons of the sun by the time the chapter was done.

Gracefully, the skin have a way of regenerating new life from underneath it. Each time it is battered, it comes back defiantly and even leaves a mark as a reminder. Perhaps a memento. But the scars were nothing compared to the teachings. They were untenable. They were heavenly. They were divine in nature and physical in manifestation. Each round of notoriety was proof of lessons learnt. We had scars to show for it. We still do. And no one threw lemons our way to make any lemonade.

Each time I listen to Sūrat ash-Shams, as I have severally today, reminds me of my childhood. The life and times of my brother and two sisters who’ve gone ahead of me and the reader. The childhood games, the innocent plays, the unspoilt occasions of childhood enthusiasm and stubbornness. The life that I will never have back. The glorious era that was late 80’s and early 90’s. The life that feebly manifests itself each time I travel to the village. The life that my two daughters will sadly only read most of them about, having been born and brought up in the city , and perhaps partake of it in measured proportions.

Life is a sun. One big sun. Life is unpredictable as the sun, despite its assured rising and setting. You cannot stop the sun. You cannot even touch it.  You found it here. And you and I will most definitely leave it here when we are dead and gone. Try looking directly at the sun on a cloudless  midday without an anti glare. Who is boss? Just when you think the day is going to be bright, a thick layer of Nimbostratus clouds remind you who the calls the shots around and about town. Three decades later, I am reminded that Maalim Keno’s teachings still lives. He lives in them. His memory is intact. And so is the lesson that no one can ever predict how life will be, no matter how much, how hard and how far you plan and prepare for it.

There is no such thing as life. There is living.  I have clocked another personal milestone. I cannot celebrate, why should I? Have I been a good student of Maalim Keno? Have I upheld his teachings all these three decades? I may not have been pinched for the last twenty years in a madrassa sitting, but what has been the opportunity cost?

Which part of me has been sun-burnt? Which parts are yearning for sun’s rays? Will Allah be generous enough to allow all part of me to be illuminated by his shams? Time does not exist, I read somewhere, but clocks do. And so I ask myself, does the sun cry each time it rains?

Quite ignorant, eh? Science, I know, right?

Yup!

Perhaps I need not worry about anything other than what  Sūrat ash-Shams and other Ayahs say!

SADDIQUE SHABAN CCTV AFRICA APPOINTMENT

Friends, News Sources and media colleagues ,

I am pleased to inform you all that effective today, 4th May 2015, I am now associated with China Central Television  Africa- CCTV Africa as Sports Editor/ Reporter.

I would like to thank CCTV Africa for this appointment. I’m equally happy to be joining a team of experienced, renowned and highly qualified professionals from Kenya, China and around the world.

I look forward to working with all sportsmen and women from all over Africa in the coming year.

Importantly, I remain reachable to all in need of professional contact in as far as Sports in Africa and beyond is concerned.

The African sports story now moves even further across the borders. It will be  bigger in depth, substance, definition and reach.

Let the African story be told- from the African perspective!

Watch CCTV Africa on

DSTV Channel 409,

Zuku Channel 567

Star Times Channel 123 everyday at 1000GMT (1PM) or 1700GM (8PM)

Warm Regards.

_sasha_

Back On Air….

This Message appears as a matter of record.

Friends,

Over the last few months, a lot of you have asked me about my media whereabouts since  leaving Zuku Television’s Setting The Pace Program in late 2014.

It has been a handful period, handling a couple of projects in my professional capacity as a media communication expert. For this, I would like to very much thank my clients and project partners.

After a three month hiatus, I am back on the television. This time playing  in the Champions League!

I will shortly be making  a professional announcement about my new job in a few days.

I remain grateful to everyone for their faith and vote of confidence.

Regards,

_sasha_

I will write about this story, one day.

For years, I have written, read, recited and broadcast other people’s stories of success, jubilation, triumph, tribulations and trials.

The job always demanded that.

However, it is my considered view that I should pen down my own story.

The story of my living.

In a moment.

_ Courage Under Trial_