It's Our Turn to Eat (30 page)

 

By early September 2005, John had compiled a ninety-one-page, 40,000-word dossier. Should Anglo Leasing ever come to trial, it was the kind of document any prosecutor would fall upon with cries of appreciation, half his job done for him. Reading, in many ways, like a
real-life thriller, the dossier followed the course of John's growing enlightenment chronologically, incident by incident, conversation by conversation, weaving in quotes from his diaries, citing numbered tape recordings and supporting official documents. He would keep adding nuance and detail to this report as the months went by, but the bulk of his evidence was now in place. In his own mind, John had finally crossed his ‘t's and dotted his ‘i's.

Yet while he'd been working on this dossier, events back in Kenya conspired to flummox him.

In mid-September, Kenya's electoral commission named 21 November 2005 as the date for the country's long-promised referendum on a new constitution. What Kibaki had pledged to deliver in the first hundred days of his presidency had taken nearly three years, and the final version was a world away from what the Kenyan people had once envisaged. It was true that on issues such as land ownership, women's inheritance and the role of religious courts, the proposed constitution offered radical change. But in the eyes of its critics–who happened to include six members of the NARC cabinet–it failed to deliver on the critical issue that had blighted politics in Kenya since independence. Whereas the first Bomas draft had proposed dividing executive powers between a president and an executive prime minister, the final version included a non-executive prime minister, subservient to a still-supreme president. For Luo leader Raila Odinga, this was the ultimate betrayal. Once again, the wily Kikuyu had shown that they could not bear to share. The Memorandum of Understanding signed on the eve of the 2002 election had been violated, the faultline at the heart of a hastily assembled coalition exposed. And if much of the rest of the country felt distinctly nervous about the idea of Raila as prime minister, they were far from happy at NARC's sleight of hand. A historic opportunity to place the country's system of government on a more equitable footing had been missed. Both the cabinet and the country divided along ethnic lines, with the Kikuyu, Meru and Embu rallying behind a ‘Yes' vote, symbolised by a banana, while every other community called for a ‘No', represented by an orange.

These were violent times in Kenya, as the Orange and Banana camps clashed on the campaign trail. Bombarded with information from his sources, John felt pulled this way and that. This, he finally decided, would be the worst possible time to come out with a corruption dossier. If he went public before the referendum, it would be seen as a blatant political move, aimed at boosting the Orange campaign. It was frustrating, but he did not want his dossier reduced to campaign fodder. He stowed it in a safe deposit box and prepared to wait the referendum out.

Unaware of this decision, the Mount Kenya Mafia extended an agitated feeler. Lands and settlement minister Amos Kimunya and Dr Dan Gikonyo, Kibaki's personal physician, turned up in Oxford to negotiate a quiet understanding. A smooth-talking Kikuyu, Kimunya was regarded by diplomats as a representative of a promising breed of young statesmen rising through the ranks in Kenya. A US-trained Kikuyu cardiologist, Gikonyo was a doctor with a political profile. He had always been close to the Democratic Party, patching up opposition activists beaten by security forces during the Moi years, and had been constantly at Kibaki's side since his near-fatal campaign car crash. His practice had thrived, and he was about to open a 102-bed, four-storey private hospital in Karen, boasting state-of-the-art scanners and TVs in every room. Coincidentally, Gikonyo was also physician to Joe Githongo and, via that association, to John himself. That no doubt explained why he had been sent with Kimunya to woo John–who but a priest can rival a doctor for leverage over a trusting patient?

They booked a table at Brown's, one of Oxford's most popular restaurants, a few minutes' walk from St Antony's. The evening started cordially, with broad smiles all round, but deteriorated when the emissaries began delivering their message. As voices rose, the waiters exchanged glances and lifted eyebrows, wondering whether the evening might end in blows. Kimunya and Gikonyo were there to make sure John did nothing to blow the referendum campaign off course. ‘They kept saying, “SWEAR to us, SWEAR that you won't spill the beans before the referendum. You must swear, John.”' Sensing
resistance, Kimunya made the mistake of appealing to John's supposed ethnic loyalties. ‘Do you really think uncircumcised people can rule Kenya? We are going to sack all these Jaluos in government, replace them with other Jaluos and Kenyans will just forget.' Kimunya had just encapsulated the thought process–that Kikuyu assumption of a divine right to rule–that repelled the rest of Kenya. ‘These were guys who went to university,' says John, ‘educated people with international experience, not uneducated villagers from the sticks, talking like that. I lost my cool, I admit, I got very emotional.' Kimunya followed up the crude tribal rallying cry with a stark reminder of the reality of Kenyan politics. Break your silence, said the minister, and ‘Your grandchildren will regret.' It was a traditional Kikuyu way of saying, ‘If you don't cooperate, there won't
be
any grandchildren to succeed you.'

The encounter left a sour taste in John's mouth. With the referendum less than a month away, it was too late now to spring into action. But he hated the sense that, through his inaction, he had played into these men's hands. ‘I felt very angry. I said to myself, “What have I done? I've quit the stage and left it to these buggers.”'

The delegation to Oxford might have got what it wanted, but it made no difference to the referendum result. Nor did the vast sums of stolen Anglo Leasing money spent attempting to secure the vote. Referendum day became a poll on the very principle of Kikuyu rule. John stayed up to monitor the various Kenyan newspaper websites updating their results throughout the night. To his delighted amazement, Kenyans showed that while they were willing to be paid, they could not be bought. In the privacy of the polling booth, they cheerfully voted against those who had bribed them. Over 58 per cent rejected the new constitution consolidating the presidency's supremacy. Out of eight provinces, only one–Central Province, GEMA's heartland–voted ‘Yes'. The country had delivered a stinging slap to an ethnic group whose leaders believed themselves born to rule. The text messages from excited friends back in Kenya came so thick and fast, John's mobile gave up the ghost. ‘I think it just melted. It couldn't take any more,' he chuckled.

A devastating rebuke of ethnic conceit, it was an appalling result for the Mount Kenya Mafia, and one that caught them unprepared. Kibaki immediately dissolved his fractured cabinet and suspended parliament. John gave one of his barrel laughs when he began receiving text messages from desperate government officials begging him–
him
of all people–for advice. A siren call came from one adviser in Nairobi, a seasoned political observer. If ever there was a chance for a leader to learn the error of his ways, he argued, this moment between the dismissal of the old government and the appointment of a new one was it. Punished by the electorate, surely Kibaki would recognise he had fallen into bad company, ditch the Mount Kenya Mafia and open his arms to true reformers? John fell for the old seduction one last time. ‘I was excited, although my gut told me not to be. He'd sacked his entire cabinet, this was an opportunity.'

The day after the referendum, John distilled his ninety-one-page dossier down to a thirty-six-page summary. Tailor-made for a man with a packed diary and a short attention span, it was a document that could be digested in less than an hour and a half. ‘This is my statement of events leading up to my resignation in February 2005…' it began. Addressed to ‘Your Excellency', it was full of poignant reminders that none of what was being described was in fact unfamiliar to the person for whom it was intended, reminders that in themselves should have alerted John to the futility of the exercise. ‘I briefed you on all these matters…' he wrote, ‘I briefed you on this…', ‘I updated you…' The mini dossier was effectively the last of his many presidential briefings. ‘Here, in black and white,' John was telling his boss, ‘is what I know, what I told you and what you should have acted upon–and still can.' Crucially, it contained no reference to the existence of any tape recordings. But then, Kibaki had already been told about those long ago, so why repeat himself?

Having dispatched the dossier, John used his informers network to reach into the entrails of State House, monitoring each stage of its progress. Even now the old Kibaki magic held him in thrall–before he could go any further, he needed to
know
, with absolute certainty, that the president had read the dossier. The whispers kept him
abreast. The dossier had been placed on the president's desk. The president had spent an entire afternoon reading it. The dossier had been replaced on the desk without comment. Silence.

On 7 December 2005, Kibaki named his new government. With the sole exception of Chris Murungaru, all the key ministers associated with Anglo Leasing were reappointed to cabinet. There had been no attempt to heal the wounds opened by the referendum or to distance himself from his administration's biggest scandal. Instead, those who had led the Orange campaign, including Raila Odinga, were summarily ejected. Stuffed with trusted Kibaki cronies, the government could no longer be described as a broad-based coalition. It had become a narrow expression of Mount Kenya power, with a few opportunistic ethnic outsiders tagging along for the ride. Far from seizing an opportunity to reform, General Coward had withdrawn even further into his ethnic citadel.

Failing to win a response from Kibaki, John had also sent a copy of the dossier to Justice Ringera, asking to be invited to Kenya. ‘I'd told him, “I'm ready to come and share incontrovertible proof with you, just ask me.”' It can't have surprised him when the head of the KACC, the man who had helpfully passed on threats to his life, failed to respond. ‘“That's it,” I thought. “There's no one else to talk to now.”'

One last option remained–the media. His depression lifted. A born hack, he always felt at his best when things were on the move, when he had a defined target and a pressing deadline. After the long months of waiting, he felt a surge of adrenalin. I could gauge his gathering excitement in a growing tendency to resort to journalistic cliché. ‘I'm keen to get this monkey off my back,' he told me.

Headquartered in one of Nairobi's most eccentric buildings–a zebra-striped, twin-pillar folly which bears more than a passing resemblance to a giant liquorice allsort, the
Daily Nation
is not Kenya's oldest newspaper. It is, however, its largest and its best, flagship of a vibrant media group whose radio studios, television stations and newspapers are sprinkled across Uganda, Tanzania and Kenya. Curiously, East Africa's version of Rupert Murdoch is the Aga Khan, spiritual head of the Ismaili religion, whose influence over the region is quirkily out of kilter with the modest size of the community he represents.

Under Moi, the
Nation
was a must-read for any thinking Kenyan. When cautious diplomats buttoned their lips and nervous international lending institutions kept their mutterings private, it often seemed that only the
Nation
had the guts to denounce the latest abuses. But when NARC came to power, the
Nation
lost its moorings. Top management, heavily Kikuyu, was close to the former opposition leaders now running the country. ‘The message from the NARC government was: “Look, we're on the same side. You want change, we have an agenda for change, give us a chance,”' a
Nation
editor told me. New instructions came from the top: in future, there were to be no more scoops quoting anonymous ‘government sources'. If the sources
couldn't be named, the story would not be printed. The instruction effectively closed down most reporting on government sleaze. One Western diplomat in the habit of leaking titbits noticed the change. ‘Even the good guys were scared stiff. They wouldn't publish anything unless I could provide documents to back it up. And things that would have been really easy to follow up just weren't.' Readers noticed that their favourite sharp-tongued columnists were either leaving the newspaper or wrote far less. ‘These days you have to read the
Standard
to know what is going on,' a friend told me. ‘You just can't trust the
Nation
.' So how would management react when John, one of the Nation Group's former columnists, dangled the scoop of the decade under its nose?

The link with the
Nation
was one of the many relationships John had been careful to maintain since leaving Nairobi. It had flared into vibrant life after the referendum, whose outcome had demonstrated how out of touch the
Nation
's board was getting with public sentiment. Falling circulation figures showed Kenyan readers were snubbing a newspaper increasingly perceived as a Kikuyu-dominated government mouthpiece. In mid-December, Joe Odindo, the Nation Group's managing editor, confirmed that he and editorial director Wangethi Mwangi had persuaded their bosses to send them to Oxford to find out what the anti-corruption chief had to say. ‘The train has left the station,' John told me.

For John, those febrile four and a half days together were as cathartic as any Catholic confession. ‘All this time, you know, except for you and Michael and a couple of others, no one has actually known what happened,' he told me. Unburdening himself was not only a massive relief, it allowed him to confirm the significance of his material. Compiling the dossier, John had become numbed to its intrinsic shock value. Now he watched the faces of the two journalists, hunched in their headphones in his study, as they followed his emotional itinerary, their expressions moving from perplexity, through disbelief, to horrified acceptance. ‘These were veteran journalists, very hardnosed guys, and they were stunned to hear guys openly discussing stealing money.'

The fight against corruption had always been handicapped by a lack of evidence, he told them. This was no longer true, and the
Nation
was being given the chance to scotch a pattern of behaviour that dated back to independence. ‘If we can strike a blow against that way of doing things, confuse it, disorientate it, I see that as a major contribution.' Breaking the story, he argued, was a patriotic duty. The continent's regeneration could not be left to outsiders, whose low expectations of Africa were part of the problem. ‘It's our country. Let's do this. If we act on the premise that, “Oh, this is African politics,” then it's a self-fulfilling prophecy.'

Putting in fifteen-hour days, interrupted only by short walks along North Parade to clear their heads, the three planned a fortnight's worth of coverage. The Kenyan public, the newsmen agreed, would be hit by day after day of devastating exposures. ‘It can't just be one set of headlines. We must rub it in, and rub it in endlessly,' urged John. He had essentially given them the story, but the
Nation
still needed to build it, block by block. In view of the Official Secrets Act, the dossier could serve as no more than a backbone, a skeleton to which the
Nation
would attach flesh, sinew and skin. The paper's chafing battalion of journalists must be let loose to dig out the quotes, anecdotes and details that would not just corroborate John's tale, but take it to a higher level.

Carrying the dossier with all the reverential care of two Knights of the Round Table bearing the Holy Grail, Wangethi and Odindo flew back to Nairobi and immediately on to Mombasa, where a member of the board was spending his Christmas holidays. ‘We must do this, or we are finished,' was his reaction. The managing board and the Aga Khan swiftly concurred, and a team of reporters was assigned. Time was of the essence. State House was certainly aware of Odindo and Wangethi's trip to Oxford, and would soon, thanks to its contacts on the newspaper, learn of the
Nation
's plans.

Braced for the storm, John suddenly received a blow from the most unexpected quarter. For months he had been discussing what was to come with Mary, his girlfriend. Yet clearly she had never really taken in his words. Now, belatedly, she panicked and alerted his parents,
who tried to stop the speeding juggernaut. ‘You'll destroy the family firm,' said Joe. It was far too late, and Mary's loss of nerve was a setback from which the relationship would never totally recover. ‘It's like someone using a walking stick, and the walking stick is suddenly knocked away,' recalled John. ‘I had no words. It was huge.'

The story finally broke in the last week of January 2006, days before the first anniversary of John's departure. Having tried so carefully to stage-manage the scoop, John found his plans sabotaged by messy reality. Aware that the story was about to break–he had been sitting on a copy of John's dossier for weeks, after all–KACC director Justice Ringera did his best to neutralise its impact by cannily announcing an impressive-sounding blitz of Anglo Leasing-related interrogations. Those called for questioning included vice president Moody Awori, finance minister David Mwiraria, justice minister Kiraitu Murungi and former internal security minister Chris Murungaru. Simultaneously, an officer at one of Nairobi's biggest embassies invited a handful of British journalists to read a copy of the dossier that had been quietly circulating in diplomatic circles. Obliged to double check every allegation, the
Nation
had taken too long, allowing itself to be scooped by a recently-arrived Western reporter who had never even met the anti-corruption chief, Xan Rice of
The Times
.
³⁴

John would in future be constantly berated for making his revelations in the international rather than Kenyan press, a bitterly ironic accusation given the lengths he had gone to to provide the
Nation
with an exclusive. But the deed was done, and its impact was not to be denied. ‘It was,' in the words of US ambassador William Bellamy, ‘like a grand piano falling out of the sky.' The
Nation
released its meticulously prepared stories, and its rivals and every Kenyan radio station buzzed with the details John had so long kept to himself: the regular briefings with Kibaki, the death threats, the attempts by colleagues to block his work, their open admissions of guilt.
³⁵
Opposition MPs called for the government to be dissolved, civil society and the Catholic Church demanded top-level sackings. In one of many surreal attempts at face-saving, lands minister Amos Kimunya, the very man
who had gone to Oxford to beg John's silence, issued a statement inviting him back to share his evidence. This was somewhat undermined by the leaking of a report commissioned by the government, recommending that John be charged with high treason upon arrival.

The first head rolled on 1 February, with the resignation of David Mwiraria, the finance minister. Was it the first time in Kenyan history a minister had resigned over corruption? Most people thought so. By then I was in Nairobi. ‘Congratulations on your first scalp,' I texted John in Oxford. ‘The first one bites the dust,' was his reply, hinting at a previously unseen streak of vindictiveness. Others proved harder to dislodge. Revealing the hard core of self-interest beneath his cuddly image, vice president Awori announced he was staying put. As Kiraitu, too, dug in his heels, John pulled a second pistol from its holster and took aim. On 9 February BBC World broadcast a long interview between John and Fergal Keane in which his recording of the Kenyan justice minister's clumsy blackmail attempt was played. He had initially offered the tape to the Nation Group, but they had not had the courage to broadcast it. Since the Kenya Broadcasting Corporation routinely relays BBC World's programmes, the interview went out on prime-time television, not once, but repeatedly. Later that evening, viewers were treated to the spectacle of Kiraitu Murungi scampering down a corridor as a female correspondent chased after him, shouting, ‘Mr Minister, Mr Minister, are you going to resign?' On 13 February he too agreed to ‘step aside'. With him went presidential aide Alfred Getonga and George Saitoti, the education minister whose name had been repeatedly mentioned in connection with the Goldenberg scandal.

Withdrawing into near-total silence, Kibaki was jettisoning ministers like ballast in an attempt to keep his balloon aloft. The message of the joint resignations was clear: if I'm going to be punished for Anglo Leasing, then my predecessors will be punished for Goldenberg. It had taken thirteen years for a minister to resign over Goldenberg, but only a few weeks for heads to roll over Anglo Leasing. Perhaps some things in Kenya were speeding up.

For those in government, the discovery that John had taped his conversations felt like a heart-stopping kick to the stomach. Remembering overly frank exchanges, they felt the nausea of real fear.
Just how much did he have?
For ordinary Kenyans, the revelation came as a hilarious moment of liberation. Accustomed to the brain-numbing exchange of accusation and counter-accusation that followed every corruption scandal, they could hardly believe someone had thought to collect the proof. ‘Is this true? Is this true?' asked my driver. ‘Did he tape them?' ‘Yes, that's what he did.' He slapped his hand on the steering wheel, marvelling at John's ingenuity. ‘Oh, this is a man! This is a straight man!'

Commentators who had dismissed John as a sell-out revised their opinion. ‘I used to criticise John Githongo for being a vain man, a naïve man, in accepting that job,' acknowledged columnist Wycliffe Muga. ‘I was wrong. What he has done shows that he was, in fact, the right man for the job.' Over their lunches, office workers speculated whether Githongo had gone the whole hog and done the unspeakable: taping the president himself. Pundits joked that in future civil servants and politicians would have to attend meetings naked, in order to ensure no one was wearing a wire. Everyone had an opinion now, for the BBC had posted the thirty-six-page Githongo dossier on its website. A report originally written for presidential eyes could now be downloaded and pored over at any internet café. John had acquired the status of a Grand Confessor, implacable arbiter of truth. In Nairobi bars, the occasional drinker, growing belligerent over his fourth beer, could be observed wagging a finger at a friend and pronouncing: ‘I tell you, I would say this
even if Githongo were here
.' In western Kenya's opposition stronghold, there were reports of newborn babies being baptised ‘John Githongo'.

Retribution was something Kenyans had not experienced before, and they found they liked the flavour. Having tasted three ministerial resignations in a fortnight, they hungered for more. In the foyers of offices and hotels, staff gathered around television screens, watching their discredited ministers attempt to justify themselves before sceptical interviewers. ‘It's getting better,' my newsagent told me, pointing
to the resignation headlines on the newspapers he was handing over. ‘But we are expecting more. Now it's time for the vice president and attorney general to go.'

The reaction was not overwhelmingly approving, however. ‘The image of a traitor who fled to enemy territory to abuse his motherland can't quite leave my mind. I could feel something clogging my throat,' wrote one
Nation
reader. ‘No matter how useless we are as a country, can't we be spared this international embarrassment?' Columnist Edith Macharia warned John in the same newspaper not to ‘expect any laurels for airing the country's dirty laundry'. ‘I fear he will go the way of all informers and snitches–ignominiously,' she sniffed. It was noticeable that the angriest attacks on John came from Kenyans with Kikuyu names, like Macharia, appalled that a kinsman should have exposed the House of Mumbi to such ridicule. The real vitriol was reserved for the Kikuyu websites, where members of the community tore into one another. While some hailed John as ‘God's gift from heaven', others accused him of running into the arms of the
mzungu
. ‘Enjoy your BBC moment, 'cos you're done for, Githongo,' wrote one. ‘May you rot in hell.' Wycliffe Muga was not alone in offering me some quiet advice. ‘If you are one of John's friends, tell him not to come back. If the Kikuyus found him they would kill him without even waiting for instructions from above. They are very, very bitter.'