I saved Kenyatta from assassins - twice

My name is Wambura wa Mugini, and the story I am about to tell you is one I have longed to give for years.

As you can see from the picture, I am in my sunset years, steadily approaching the century mark, and even though my back is stooped, my eyes failing, and my joints all creaky, my memory is as sharp as a razor, and so the thread of this yarn will run tightly throughout. I promise.

I could tell you a lot about my life, about the wars and the hungers, but I choose to tell you about my times with a man called Jomo Kenyatta — or, as I simply called him, Mzee.

I know you are now asking yourself what new information I could give you on the man, and you are probably right to question my story.

But before you brush me off completely, I have to tell you that I twice saved Kenyatta from being killed, watched other prison guards slap him, and that our times together helped us build a bond that remained till he passed on. Stay with me.

I had followed with interest the political activities of Jomo Kenyatta, Kung’u Karumba, Achieng’ Oneko, Bildad Kaggia, Fred Kubai, and Paul Ngei. However, it never occurred to me that I would be among the officers who would be tasked with guarding them when, eventually, they were jailed.

One day I was informed that I would be transferred to Kapenguaria from Nakuru. But in Kapenguria, we were told that we would be posted to Lokitaung.

During my first day in the new station, it dawned on me that the secluded jail that had never handled prisoners before would be the place where the famous Kapenguria Six would be under my watch for the next six-and-a-half years.

I talked with Kenyatta on the first day we met and instantly struck a rapport. He requested that I be the one allowed to take care of him.

Whenever Kenyatta needed something, he would request me to help him. Porridge was served sugarless, so occasionally I sneaked in some sugar to him. So were cigarettes, which I bought from an Asian dukawallah nearby.

The warders were harsh. Prisoners were occasionally slapped as they went about their punishment if they did not heed guards’ orders. Some of my colleagues had no respect whatsoever, even for Kenyatta’s advanced age. They maintained that a prisoner must be beaten to toe the line.

Initially Kenyatta was assigned kitchen duties, but he developed a problem of the legs and a doctor recommended that he be excluded from such chores.

The doctor also advised regular walks to exercise his legs. The authorities agreed and assigned him the task of arranging stones on the sidewalks and painting them.

Later he was exempted from all duties due to his advanced age. When they were brought in, all the Kapenguria Six used to share one room, but we removed Kenyatta after we realised that Paul Ngei was harassing him.

Ngei used to complain that Kenyatta was the cause of their imprisonment, and we knew it was a matter of time before the complaints turned violent.

One day three people — two white men and an African — requested to see Kenyatta. One of them adjusted his coat just before they reached my desk and at his waist I espied what looked like a pistol.

I interrogated them but they were not clear on where they had come from. At the time all visitors had to be cleared by the district commissioner, but it was evident that these gentlemen had not sought any permission to be at Lokitaung.

After an argument, they walked away. On the way out they were joined by a fourth person, and I could tell that they were arguing loudly as they left.

Their mischievous conduct had attracted the curiosity of other government officers around and they informed the DC. The local administration mobilised police officers to trace the strangers, but by sunset the officers had gathered little information.

Later, I heard senior officers whispering that there had been a plot to kill Kenyatta. The four men were the would-be assassins.

But the plot to kill Mzee was not over yet. The second attempt on his life lay in his mug. The schemers planned to poison Mzee’s breakfast porridge. When I got wind of it, I told him not to have breakfast on the targeted day. By then we had built mutual trust and he did not question the tip. I later sneaked some tea to him.

When I poured the porridge near the fence of the prison, some chickens that fed on it died instantly. I saw the anger in their owner’s face, but I knew that uttering any word would have caused a bigger problem.

Deep inside, I knew that the Kapenguria Six were not criminals; their cause was all about our independence. Kenyatta used to very pensive, he read a lot and always reminded us that his walking out of jail would usher in independence for the country.

At one time I was transferred, but it took only two days because my replacement got drunk and started shooting in the air. He was sacked and I ended up back at my old station.

When Kenyatta was released, I was transferred to Kitale and later to Mombasa’s Shimo la Tewa. That was the last time I would ever see Kenyatta as a prisoner.

But things took a great turn years later after Mzee became president. He was out doing his duties when he met a prison warder and enquired about my whereabouts.

Officials from State House, Nairobi, directed my senior officers to facilitate my travel to Nairobi so that I could meet Mzee. They panicked and asked me if I had committed any offence or written any letter to State House that could earn them a reprimand from the Head of State. I answered in the negative.

I remembered the cordial relationship we had when I guarded Mzee, so I did not panic. As I climbed the steps to State House, several guards were still not convinced that I, a mere junior warder, had an appointment with the President.

I had explained to them that I knew Mzee, but as we argued in the lush gardens of State House, it was clear that it was not going to be easy to meet Mzee.

They asked me how I knew Kenyatta, and I told them that he was my age mate. They asked if we had been to school together and I told them I had never been to school. A woman who witnessed the interrogation rushed to inform Kenyatta that I was around.

At that point, I was led to a secluded lawn within State House and here I came face to face with sheer power. Mzee was having a meeting with other leaders, among them current President Mwai Kibaki.

On seeing me, Kenyatta shouted my name, came over, and embraced me. Then he told his audience how we had met and how I used to sneak letters out of the prison for him.

As we caught up with what was happening in our lives, it was clear that fate had been kind to us. As a sign of goodwill, he ordered the Prisons Commander to promote me to sergeant, then we parted.

Years later, we met again at State House, where I told him that age had finally caught up with me and that I would like to retire from service. He look at me, smiled, and asked me to see him immediately I left the service.

I retired to my rural home and after a few days, I asked my MP, Mr Maisoli Tumbo, to help me see Mzee. Mr Tumbo was so shocked at the request that he cut off communication with me. He could not understand why I, of all people, would like to see the President.

Things got even tougher for me when my cattle were stolen and I sought help from the President. The local administration made sure that my attempts to reach State House failed, and so I decided to use emissaries to reach Kenyatta.

I had been told that Mzee’s fellow detainee Kung’u Karumba ran a business in Nairobi’s Nyamakima area, and so I boarded a train and headed for the city.

A Good Samaritan at the Nairobi railway station offered to take me to Karumba, where I narrated my predicament and explained why I wanted to see the President.

However, Karumba offered to take me to Vice-President Moi, who told me to go back home and give him time to think over my problem.

Nothing happened.

I travelled for a second time to Nairobi on a Thursday and met Karumba again and he informed me that Kenyatta would be attending a wedding the coming Saturday.

We agreed to see him there, but his guards cleared people out of his way. I kept pushing my way through the crowds to try to catch his attention in vain.

I almost gave up. Shortly after the wedding, he had a brief chat with a woman on the lawns of the church. I shouted his name and attracted his attention.

We hugged and exchanged pleasantries after he asked the guards to let me through. I then narrated to him how my cows had been stolen. He invited me to join him at the wedding reception, saying the issue of the animals was a minor one that he would handle later.

After having our meal, I told him that I wanted to leave. He wrote a note to one of the officers and told me to go home, promising that my problems would be solved in a week’s time.

The following Wednesday, a prominent businessman in Ntimaru came with government officers to my house and told me that I was needed in Kisii. I was asked whether I wanted cash or the cows.

I had told Kenyatta that all the 104 cows that had been stolen in the village were mine, so I was compensated for all of them but I later divided the money among all those who lost theirs.

On several occasions I got word that Kenyatta wanted to see me, but I knew it would be difficult to access State House.

That is why, when I learnt of his death years later, my heart bled for two reasons; I had lost a President, but more importantly, I had lost a friend.

It would have been better if I had the chance to bid him farewell, but when you are a retired peasant toiling the earth for a living, it is hard, almost impossible, to get frequent passes to State House.

I fought in World War II in 1946 before joining the Prisons Service in 1948, but the experiences of Lokitaung are the memories I could sit down and mull over, then with a glad heart, smile to myself and say: Well, that was worth it.

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