If you’ve been paying close attention to the corridors of William Ruto’s State House, you may have stumbled upon the lingering ghosts of the late Wanyoike Thungu — a phantom figure whose image transcends time, quietly orchestrating power plays and engineering notoriety.
In the annals of Jomo Kenyatta’s presidency, Thungu was paradoxically both a nobody and a towering figure — a shadowy politico who loomed over Kenya’s fledgling state, crafting the template for unchecked impunity.
In doing this, Thungu walked around as an Assistant Commissioner of Police, yet his training was highly in doubt. Around the presidency, Thungu’s word was law. His ‘No!” was emphatic – and left no room for negotiation. He knew the art of intimidation and was one of the few ex-Mau Mau fighters around Kenyatta.
There was a reason for that according to Duncan Ndegwa, Kenya’s first African head of the Civil Service.
“The appointment of Kimani Kariuki and Wanyoike Thungu, two former Mau Mau guerrillas, as Kenyatta’s bodyguards provided a constant, tangible reminder to his detractors that he still had Mau Mau links,” Ndegwa writes in his autobiography, Walking in Kenyatta’s Struggles.
If ever there was a figure synonymous with the anguish of ex-Mau Mau fighters, Wanyoike Thungu stood unrivalled. Consider the events of 1968, when freedom fighters from Nakuru District, led by Kimunya Kamana, united with a noble vision: to pool their resources and purchase three settler farms — Marwa (1,110 acres), Lusiru Farm (2,800 acres), and Engashura/Menengai Farm (7,700 acres) — to settle the landless.
Their initiative, the Nakuru District Freedom Ex-Fighters Organisation (Ndeffo), was meant to be a beacon of hope and justice. Instead, it became Thungu’s theatre of infamy — a stage for swindling and betrayal.
Following Mzee Kenyatta’s declaration that “there is no land for free,” the freedom fighters raised an impressive Sh800,000 from their membership. But when they sought to buy land they reportedly encountered fierce resistance from Kenyatta’s inner circle, who also coveted the same properties. However, to navigate the labyrinth of approvals, they invited Thungu, as an ex-Mau Mau, into their fold. He was rewarded handsomely with a colonial farmhouse and free shares in the company — an arrangement made without consulting the membership.
Once entrenched, Thungu quickly positioned himself as an insider. Alongside the directors, he began to wield impunity, flagrantly disregarding company laws. Whispers of corruption turned into cries of alarm when rumours of an impending auction of the group’s hard-earned properties surfaced.
Shock turned to outrage when auction notices appeared in the newspapers. But Thungu used his position to protect the corrupt directors and the farmhouse he had acquired without members’ approval. Frustrated, the membership voted to oust the old board. In response, Thungu led the dismissed directors to State House Nakuru, presenting Mzee Kenyatta with a distorted version of Ndeffo’s internal struggles. That crisis would turn Ndeffo farms into a shareholders’ battlefield – bloody and chaotic.
Within Ndeffo, a chilling phenomenon emerged as Thungu organised a terror group targeting members. Those opposed to Thungu, and the directors also organised a counter-group named Withare — Kikuyu for “run for your life.”
When an extra-ordinary meeting was called, Thungu arrived in police uniform, his demeanour commanding and confrontational ready to stop the meeting. Koigi wa Wamwere captures this in his book, People’s Representative and the Tyrants.
But before he could finish that sentence, an angry voice interjected: “Kenyatta did not buy this farm for us!”
“What?” Thungu bellowed, his eyes narrowing. “Did anybody say something?”
“Yes!” came the reply. “We are telling you that Kenyatta did not buy this farm for us. We know who you really support here!”
“Shut up!” Thungu thundered, his voice echoing through the tense gathering. “I am not here to listen to nonsense from any of you! If you are truly a man, contradict me again, and you’ll see what happens!”
It was only the District Officer’s quick intervention that prevented the situation from spiralling into violence, as he urged Thungu to sit down. The few policemen present would have been powerless against a full-scale brawl.
Meanwhile, the opposing group, refusing to be silenced, organised a protest at State House Nakuru, before Mzee Kenyatta. They carried placards with bold accusations: ‘Wanyoike Thungu: Stop Killing Our Women and Children!’ The mastermind behind this demonstration was none other than Koigi wa Wamwere. But the fight came at a cost—shortly after the protests, Koigi was detained as the crisis deepened. It took several years before Thungu’s battalion would be ejected out of Ndeffo leadership.
That was not all. In 1967, an MP had alleged in Parliament that Thungu was “closely associated” with the assassination of Pio Gama Pinto and in 1975, he was also named by the probe committee that was investigating the murder of JM Kariuki as a person of interest. However, and this was confirmed by the Committee members later, Mzee Kenyatta asked for two names to be deleted from the report: Mbiyu Koinange, the Minister of State and Wanyoike Thungu – who was then hovering around the president as a bodyguard even though there was an aide-de-camp. It was later alleged that Thungu was the man who pulled the trigger on JM Kariuki.
At times, Thungu’s name would be listed as a director of a company to intimidate others. A notable example was Property Growth International, a pyramid scheme run by Morrison Bano, a Nigerian national, and Olga Habankova, a Czech citizen. They had incorporated the company alongside Thungu, George Ndebe, James Mwangi Mureithi, and Mrs Sarah Wanjiru Bano, who served as the company secretary.
When the company’s fraudulent activities first came to light, then-Attorney General Charles Njonjo, who held no regard for individuals like Wanyoike Thungu, dismissed the scheme outright, declaring: “Hii ni kampuni ya wezi — these are bogus thieves.” Njonjo went as far as describing Habankova as a “communist.”
According to Njonjo, the company duped people by charging a registration fee with the promise of offering loans. After collecting money from many unsuspecting victims, the company abruptly closed its offices, and its directors disappeared without a trace. Thungu, however, was still in Nairobi – and nobody arrested him.
Interestingly, while Njonjo named the company’s directors in Parliament in June 1975, he conspicuously left out Thungu’s name. It was only six years later, in June 1981, that his successor, Kamau Kamere, revealed Thungu’s connection to the company. Kamere, however, clarified in Parliament that Thungu was likely unaware that his name had been used in the incorporation of the fraudulent enterprise.
Like other power-brokers who hailed from Gatundu, Mzee Kenyatta’s constituency, Thungu carried all the symbols of entitlement with him – and if there was a figure of hate within the Kenyatta presidency, he carried the trophy like a champion. If you look at most of Kenyatta’s images as he stepped out of his limousine, you won’t miss Thungu, either holding the door or standing there like a statue. He never smiled – and was like the thin-skinned politicians of the Ruto presidency who criminalise humour.
Today, Wanyoike Thungu’s name may not headline the annals of history, but his ghost walks through Kenya’s power structures. From the shadows of Kenyatta’s presidency to the echoes in Ruto’s, Thungu is a haunting reminder of how impunity was born, nurtured, and perfected. In Ruto’s State House, there is a Wanyoike Thungu. Your guess is as good as mine.
It was Thungu, and we have stated this here before, who raided Jumapili Farm in Kiambu and stole 210 tonnes of coffee as two youngsters, Ashok Shah and his brother watched in disbelief. They reported to the police, who could do nothing about it. That is how Ashok and his brother were forced out of coffee farming to a new venture: insurance.
Thungu was also a member of Mangu Investment Company, notorious for forceful acquisition of coffee farms. He was for many years holding an inconspicuous appointment. Between January 1968 and 1970s, President Kenyatta appointed him as a member of the Kiambu Liquor Court.
On paper, it was an unremarkable position. But behind the scenes, Thungu’s influence was seismic. By the time he ceased to be an Assistant Commissioner of Police on December 14, 1980, his legacy was cemented — not as a mere officer but as an architect of silent, calculated power.
