The Mt Kenya Times 
Lawyer Njonjo Mue
By Njonjo Mue
Worth Noting:
- I also learned lessons from anti-apartheid activists who had worked from exile to mobilize international public opinion against the racist regime, and I became very active in mobilizing advocacy on Kenyan issues among Kenyans in the Diaspora.
- Whenever President Moi or any of his ministers were due to visit South Africa, we would lobby the South African government to cancel such visits and when we failed, we would organise peaceful demonstrations to oppose the visit as well as issue press statements and appear on TV explaining that Moi and his officials had no business celebrating South Africa’s young and vibrant democracy while back home they were busy clobbering any group which dared to express a different viewpoint other than their own.
When I relocated to South Africa following six months of heightened civic engagement in Kenya, I felt really lonely and isolated with a serious case of withdrawal symptoms.
There were no more demonstrations, no confrontations with the police, no rubber bullets, no batons, and no teargas.
Then I remembered my father’s counsel ahead of the demonstrations when he would beseech me not to participate in street battles with the police but rather contribute to the struggle through my writing.
When I was back home in the midst of all the action, I could not agree with him. But now that I was far from home and was physically prevented from taking part in the action, it occurred to me that I could now actually take his advice, largely because I really had no choice.
I started writing on a whole range of subjects, mainly regarding the politics of Kenya and her current affairs.
There was no social media at the time and so I would send these articles to a few friends by email and they would in turn forward the articles to their friends, and before I knew it most of my writings would go viral with some ending up being published in Kenyan newspapers and sparking off intense debate back home.
I was therefore able, even without intending it, to influence the course of events in Kenya from a distance.
I also learned lessons from anti-apartheid activists who had worked from exile to mobilize international public opinion against the racist regime, and I became very active in mobilizing advocacy on Kenyan issues among Kenyans in the Diaspora.
Whenever President Moi or any of his ministers were due to visit South Africa, we would lobby the South African government to cancel such visits and when we failed, we would organise peaceful demonstrations to oppose the visit as well as issue press statements and appear on TV explaining that Moi and his officials had no business celebrating South Africa’s young and vibrant democracy while back home they were busy clobbering any group which dared to express a different viewpoint other than their own.
One day as we were busy planning to disrupt an upcoming visit by a Kenyan minister, I got an unexpected call from a woman who introduced herself as Greta Bezuidenhout. She said that she worked with the South African Intelligence Service and requested me to meet with her at her office a few blocks away from our offices in Johannesburg.
I was apprehensive at first, given the brutal reputation of Kenya’s equivalent body, the Special Branch, but she assured me that all she wanted was to chat and to get more details regarding the press statement that we had issued regarding the Kenyan minister’s forthcoming visit.
When I got to her office at the Braamfontein Centre on Jorrisen Street later that afternoon, I was warmly welcomed by a tall lean athletic white woman with well cropped reddish hair and a disarming smile.
She looked anything but what I had expected. One would not easily guess that she was in the intelligence service. There was none of the intensity and meanness that I had come to associate with her counterparts back home in Kenya.
“So, what objection do you have against the visit of the Kenyan minister?” she asked after introducing herself and serving me a cup of rooibos tea.
She was holding a copy of our press statement which we had issued just a few hours before.
I explained to her that I was the spokesperson of the Kenyan Democratic Initiative in South Africa (KENDISA) which comprised a number of Kenyans and friends of Kenya in South Africa and that we were doing precisely what South African exiles had done for years in opposition to apartheid rule – mobilizing international public opinion in opposition to a brutal system in place back home.
True to her word, once we had finished our tea and I had explained our campaign, she told me that I was free to go.
Over time, she and I became something of friends of necessity. We agreed that rather than her team having to invest resources collecting intelligence on us, I would simply routinely inform her office when we were planning an event or campaign since we had nothing to hide and what we were doing was not illegal under the new South African Constitution.
I had grown up in Kenya during the Kenyatta and Moi years, where the state was totalitarian, and its leaders, to borrow the words of Henry Kissinger, “knew how to rule with the help of the secret police, but not with the secret ballot”.
The Kenyan security intelligence service, which was then known as the Special Branch, was a very important tool of the government, aimed at repression and control of its own citizens. It achieved this by arbitrary arrests of dissidents, torture in the basement of Nyayo House, prosecution on trumped up charges, imprisonment, even assassination of government critics.
During the time I worked with Ms Bezuidenhout, not only did I grow to admire her for her professionalism, I also learned to appreciate the role of the intelligence service in a democracy, which is to defend the state against genuine threats to its national security.
Siku ya giza
In October 1998, as President Moi was celebrating 20 years in power with no indication that he ever intended to retire, we in Johannesburg organised an event which we called ‘ Siku ya Giza ’ (Day of Darkness).
Moi’s anniversary celebration coincided with a particularly difficult season for Kenyans back home.
The endemic corruption at the monopoly Kenya Power and Lighting Company had led to a near collapse of the parastatal and seriously compromised its capacity to provide electricity to all its customers. The country therefore suffered severe power shortages that compelled KPLC to ration power to most households.
Siku ya Giza was meant to give Kenyans in the Diaspora an opportunity to stand in solidarity with our brethren back home.
“The first step to resolving a problem is to understand it,” we wrote in our explanatory brochure. “And the best way to understand it is to experience it.”
We, therefore, invited fellow Kenyans in the Diaspora to switch off their electricity, running water and other utilities for a period of 24 hours.
We also invited them to undertake a fast for the same period in order to invite divine intervention in resolving the multifaceted problems facing our country.
At the end of the 24 hours, which happened to be a Friday evening, we encouraged people to meet together in groups of friends and share a meal.
We then invited them to drive to the Kenyan High Commission in Pretoria for an overnight peaceful vigil to protest Moi’s presidency and pray for its downfall.
A number of colleagues called me to apologise that they could not take part in the Siku ya Giza vigil because they were, at that time, undocumented migrants and did not want to get into trouble with the authorities. They feared that the South African government would certainly take an interest in our activities and they did not want to get into trouble with immigration, including possibly being deported.
I was tempted to give a knee-jerk reaction to their concerns by telling them that their fears were wholly unfounded, but a higher wisdom prevailed.
“Do you have a car?” I would ask, to which most of them replied in the affirmative.
“Can you offer to drive a number of people to Pretoria and then pick them up at the end of the vigil without having to take part in the vigil yourself?”
Most of them were happy to do so. And so they made a great contribution to the cause without having to take what they considered to be unnecessary risks.
I learned a great lesson that day. If someone is afraid of doing something, instead of arguing with them and telling them that there was nothing to fear, it was more useful to understand and acknowledge their fear from their point of view and to offer them an alternative way to contribute to the struggle without crossing any lines that they were uncomfortable crossing.
An Island of Hope
In November 1998, I visited Cape Town to meet one of our donors. It was my first visit to ‘the Mother City’, the legislative capital of South Africa where the national Parliament is based.
After I was done with the business of the trip, I stayed on for a few more days on holiday during which I visited Table Mountain, Cape Point on the southern tip of Africa, and Robben Island.
I wrote an introspective letter to my friend, Ann Mbuthia, in London expressing some initial thoughts about the city and its history. In the letter, I wrote to her in part:
“…. It (the city of Cape Town) was the gateway that ushered in not just the Portuguese (at least they just stopped by and passed on), but also the Dutchman Jan Van Riebeeck, the forefather of Africa’s only white tribe, the Afrikaners, who landed in 1652 and stayed. I need not recount the sad link between van Riebeeck and Jan Smuts, D.F. Malan, Hendrik Verwoerd, John Vorster, P.W. Botha and F.W. De Klerk, and four hundred years of white domination of black people, and apartheid.”
Following my visit to Robben Island, I wrote in my letter to Ann, about “that other place of pain and hope off the Coast of Cape Town…. I made the half hour crossing between Cape Town and Robben Island.… followed by a memorable tour of the island and the prison – including cell number 5 – the womb from which sprang forth the democracy and equality I now enjoy alongside the forty million black and white South Africans.
“Being at Nelson Mandela’s cell,” I reflected, “is almost a spiritual experience for any human rights activist.”
On getting back to the mainland, I had lunch at the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront where “the glaring inequalities of modern South Africa returned to haunt me” as I noted that 95% of the shoppers and diners were white, while most almost 100% of the workers were black. And this was replicated elsewhere in South African society.
“Although there is no longer any law telling people where they can or cannot go on the basis of colour,” I noted sadly, “simple economics ensures that the colour-bar is maintained firmly in place. And it will be a long time before black people can participate in the fortunes of this country on the basis of full equality.”
In my letter to Ann, I expressed the opinion that after spending twenty seven years in prison followed by eight years of steering the transition to democracy, Nelson Mandela had done his part, and the challenge to complete the transformation of the country now lay with a new generation of leaders led by Deputy President Thabo Mbeki, as well as the South African people in general.
“I am blessed to be here to see how they rise up to the challenge,” I wrote. Nor was I merely a spectator in all that was taking place around me, for I believed that God had brought me to that place and time to teach and prepare me to participate in a transition that was taking place all over Africa.
The torch was passing on to us and the future of our continent now lay in our hands.
Before concluding my letter to my friend, I once again referenced Mandela’s wisdom:
“… our challenge to those (Kenyans) of you currently resident abroad,” I stated, “is the same one that Nelson Mandela gave a group of young South Africans who were about to flee into exile in 1963, just before Mandela began his life sentence. – ‘We shall need your skills when the time comes; go and prepare.’
“Among the group hearing this was a young Thabo Mbeki, who took those words to heart and is now preparing to take over from Mandela as President when the latter retires next year.”
My letter from Cape Town to my friend Ann in London ended on a hopeful note:
“And so as I sit in the shadow of Table Mountain looking across the Atlantic Ocean to an island of despair–turned–into–a–symbol–of- hope, I cannot help but reflect on what our country, and our continent, could truly become. A place of hope, and a destination for anyone seeking to know how accidental divisions of tribe, colour, gender and race, can blend together in a symphony of brotherhood, sisterhood, equality, fairness and justice for all.
(To be continued…/)
****
Previously in our on-going series on the life and times of lawyer activist Njonjo Mue:
In Episode One , we sat with Njonjo at Uhuru Park in August 2010 as he joined a multitude of excited Kenyans in celebrating the promulgation of the new Constitution of Kenya. In Episode Two , Njonjo took us to a time before the beginning of his lifelong journey advocating for democracy and social justice, where we met his parents and grandparents, the rocks from which he was hewn.
In Episode Three , we were transported to Njonjo’s hometown of Thika where he enjoyed a magical childhood that laid the foundation of the man he was destined to become. In Episode Four , Njonjo spoke of the early years when he began to hear echoes of injustice that he found impossible to ignore and that would eventually transform him from a curious child into a restless activist.
In Episode Five , Njonjo explained that despite his Alma Mater, Alliance High School having a mixed record as far as its contribution to the fortunes and foibles of Kenya is concerned, he was proud to have been counted among a short list of those alumni who have pushed back against dictatorship and oppression, and advocated for democracy, good governance and social justice in independent Kenya. After six years at Alliance, Njonjo joined the University of Nairobi’s Law School for his LL.B degree. In Episode Six , Njonjo took us back to 1989, a momentous year when the world was engulfed in revolutions that toppled autocratic communist rule in Eastern Europe and threatened despotic one-party dictatorships in Africa. It was also a momentous year for Njonjo as he attended an exchange programme with American students, travelled abroad for the first time, and engaged in his own personal act of resistance against empire by working in London without a work permit.
In Episode Seven , Njonjo took us back to February 1990, a time when he took part in the first of many peaceful demonstrations when he joined other university students in condemning the gruesome assassination of Foreign Minister Robert Ouko. In Episode Eight , Njonjo spoke about his upbringing in a Christian home, attending a Christian school and his own journey towards finding faith.
In Episode Nine , as the world marked the thirtieth anniversary of the first assassination of an elected leader in post-colonial Africa, Patrice Lumumba of Congo, and as allied armies gathered for the mother of all battles against Saddam Hussein in the Persian Gulf, Njonjo’s love for music drew him in to a church meeting where, in spite of his best laid out plans for that warm Thursday evening, God finally caught up with him and he surrendered his life to the saving power of Jesus Christ. In Episode Ten Njonjo shared his pilgrimage from a purely personal faith to embracing the wholistic salvation of the true gospel of Jesus Christ who is King and Lord of all and who presides not just over individual lives, but also reigns over everything from galaxies and governments.
In Episode Eleven , after graduating with an LL.B degree from the University of Nairobi, Njonjo is awarded the prestigious Rhodes Scholarship and is full of high expectations of conquering the world as he leaves for Oxford University for his further studies, but his hopes are quickly dashed when he gets there only to realize that, in the opinion of the academic powers that be, he may be good, but not good enough. In Episode Twelve , after one and a half years out of residence, Njonjo returned to Oxford to begin a season that turned out to be as different from his earlier sojourn as day is from night, as he embraced a life of scholarship balanced with co-curricular activities, maintained a busy travel schedule that took him to Israel, Europe, Scandinavia and America, and as he found himself hopelessly drawn to a passionate cross-Atlantic love interest.
In Episode Thirteen , Njonjo zoomed in on the time when he returned to Oxford where in addition to working hard, he decided to seize the day and to suck all the marrow out of the bone of life and narrated how the end of his Oxford years was marked by the anticlimax of failing his final exams in the shadow of battling ill-health. In Episode Fourteen , we accompanied Njonjo as he escaped the dullness of his early career in legal practice to join Civil Society and as he sought to join those who used their training and expertise to help amplify the voice of Wanjiku in the contested process of constitution making.
In Episode Fifteen , Njonjo answers the call to duty in the service human rights in the continent of Africa as he relocates to Johannesburg to head the regional office of the Freedom of Expression Watchdog, ARTICLE 19. In Episode Sixteen, Njonjo shared his reflections on the historic mission of his generation that were inspired by a chance but cherished meeting with President Nelson Mandela as he also paid tribute to Mama Winnie Madikizela Mandela.
In This Episode , finding himself suddenly in exile, Njonjo learns to make the best of the situation by spearheading advocacy against the Moi dictatorship from Johannesburg, Pretoria and Cape Town, and challenging fellow Kenyans in the Diaspora to do their part to hasten the dawn of democracy in their motherland. ]
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