1998 was a World Cup year to remember for a bunch of random reasons. I was a fresh-faced sophomore proceeding on Judicial Attachment prior to my third year of studies. I was designated to endure this unit at the Kapsabet Law Courts.
Nandi district was still reeling from the euphoria of vindication and triumph, when, after long years of bitter complaint and fervent petition by our KANU supremos, the court station was finally elevated from a Senior Resident Magistrate’s to a Principal Magistrate’s court.
A newly promoted Charles Moitui presided, and F M Kinyanjui was the senior resident magistrate.
We sat on the bench with the magistrates, and ‘heard’ a variety of cases, civil and criminal, involving parties who were represented, and the hapless souls who were not represented.
There, in our cheap suits, manfully subduing a delirious mélange of exhilaration and bewilderment, we experienced first, no, second-hand, the diversity of human cruelty and deceitfulness, as well as the endless spectrum of vulnerabilities.
In chambers, we experienced different modalities of mentorship. Moitui was bashfully bookish, with roguish humour.
A teetotal Christian, he generously shared his insights and always showed us an intriguing book he happened to be reading. On Fridays, he would assemble us for debrief, share bus fare with us and command us to be nice gentlemen.
On the other hand, F M Kinyanjui was, at heart, the quintessential litigation lawyer. His entire manner was that of a parsimonious master rigorously imparting skills to his pupils. Like our dean, F X Njenga, he was a chain smoker, hard drinker, and kept an open house.
We frequented the place for nourishment. An intrepid mate even billeted himself in a spare room one night after a late World Cup viewing binge, and somehow never left. He is now a very senior magistrate who smokes, drinks and, perhaps as we speak, is watching the world Cup with law students at his official residence.
In those days, the road to Kaptumo was the worst. It’s surface was deeply gullied earth whose red clay was an inescapable hyper-adhesive in the rain, and a pervasive coat of ferrous powder when dry.
It lies along the infamous Kipsigak-Serem-Shamakhokho stretch where Nyayo would mobilise Mugoya Construction to unleash heavy equipment in large numbers as bait for Aldai voters, then spirit them away before the New Year.
During my judicial attachment the rains were heavy, and public transport scarce. Having connections in the PSV sector was a super power worthy of the ‘deep state’. My lawyerly ambitions finally earned me a certain visibility within the district elite.
It turns out that our elites are invariably litigious. I could now count on getting a ride with these fine people and, occasionally, an invitation to partake of certain truly ghastly beverages in the afterhours.
Social capital is exponential. Within a short period, I had access to the small library of our District Officer, a Mr Richard Kirundi, I believe.
We would sit on his veranda on those long afternoons as we took apart the formidable Indian scholarship on Mahatma Gandhi, and the satyagrahi project.
He also introduced me to Marathwada, not the embryonic political unit, but the national icon of the sub-continent, Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar Marathwada, after whom the famous university is named.
It seems that as a mere boy, I had washed my hands and could dine with KANU-era parochial ‘kings’. The grueling rigmarole of rural TV watching, involving long rides to charge fickle car batteries, and squeezing in cramped rooms, was firmly behind me. This is how I made an inspired bet with the DO and a Mr Cheruiyot of ‘intelligence’, that France would win.
It is also how I met a gentleman with a dream. He wanted to obtain a letter from the Ministry of Environment, allotting him 150 acres of planted forest. Thereafter, he would obtain an order from Kenya Power to supply millions of cross-arms.
Cross-arms for transmission poles were like gold bullion in those days. That done, he would would find an Asian to buy the allotment and purchase order at a discount. Filthy rich from the proceeds of this magical trade, he would purchase at a concessionary price a tea estate whose lease, he assured us, had expired, from the county council.
Finally, he would acquire a red Mercedez Benz, and install himself in one of the sprawling colonial bungalows in the estate, ordinarily occupied by directors.
This gentleman narrated his ambition in such a gripping manner, we were all entranced. Some even became invested in it. In fact, a bitter row arose between a couple of chaps vying to be his chauffeur, and unprintable epithets issued liberally from another, who was prospectively denied the privilege of riding in the red Mercedez.
I do not have to tell you that no component of this ambition ever materialised. Sometimes, I reflect on Raila Odinga’s political ambitions while watching the World Cup and, all of a sudden, it is 1998 again.
