Sometime in the mid-1990s, a foreign journalist was shot to death at a popular Nairobi bar by a gang of robbers.
The irony was that this particular journalist had
evaded bullets in the most war-ravaged countries, including Rwanda and
Somalia.
He could have died in those countries, but in the
end, his life was taken by a criminal gang in what was then known as the
most peaceful country in the region.
That story served as a reminder that death can come to any of us at any time and when we least expect it.
Some people may call it destiny; many religions say
that one’s death is “written” and no amount of precaution can prevent
it from happening when it is meant to.
But it is also very likely that this particular
journalist threw caution to the wind in the belief that he was in the
relative safety of Kenya, not realising that in those days, Nairobi was
one of the most dangerous cities in the world.
At that time, while people in cities such as Kigali
and Mogadishu were more likely to be killed by militia, in Nairobi,
death often came at the hands of a violent robber.
The journalist, having escaped death so many times,
might have started to feel immortal — or very lucky. The last thing he
expected was to be killed in a bar while sipping a beer.
Many people will say that the accident that killed George
Saitoti, Orwa Ojodeh, Nancy Gituanja, Luke Oyugi, Thomas Murimi and
Joshua Tonkei was “written” — that no force on earth could have
prevented it because it was time for them to die.
But I am wondering whether the accident that killed
these people is not symptomatic of the recklessness that has become
pervasive in our politics.
Many of our politicians act as if they are
immortal. They seek power and wealth in the belief that these will
insulate them from death.
That is why, even when they have made enough money
to last them 10 lifetimes, they continue seeking power and the wealth
that comes with it.
But death is the ultimate equaliser. It does not recognise wealth or power. It is also a great unifier.
Who would have thought that the presidential
candidates who were at each other’s throats just the other day would
unite in mourning their fallen colleagues?
However, this particular accident raises disturbing questions.
First of all, I would like to know why the minister
of Internal Security felt it necessary to attend a fundraiser at a
small church in South Nyanza at a time when the country was on “high
alert” security status.
Surely, a harambee cannot be part of his
official duties. If the minister felt a personal need to contribute to
this particular event, why didn’t he just send a cheque with his
assistant?
In fact, given the precarious situation in the
country, wouldn’t it have been more prudent of him not to travel with
his assistant on the same aircraft? Isn’t that why ministers have
assistants and deputies — so that they don’t have to be at the same
place at the same time?
Secondly, I would like to know when harambees came back into fashion after being banned by the Narc Government in 2003.
Harambees were riddled with corruption during the Moi era, and contributed to much of the rent-seeking prevalent during those years.
Could it be that harambees, like funerals, are seen by politicians as opportunities for campaigning? Are political rallies being disguised as harambees?
The other question that arises is why helicopters
have become the preferred mode of transport under the Kibaki regime. I
don’t remember ministers criss-crossing the country on choppers during
the Moi era.
In those days, ministers used four-wheel drives to get to their destination, or flew business class on commercial airlines.
Maybe the use of helicopters says something about
the state of roads and infrastructure in the country’s rural areas. Or
maybe, like mistresses and palatial homes, they are status symbols for
our political elite?
In the last 10 years, three ministers, four
assistant ministers, four MPs, a DC and a human rights activist have
died in helicopter crashes. Maybe it is time to rethink their use.
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