AND THEN THEY SAID THAT I WAS MAD ..... EPISODE 7

AND THEN THEY SAID THAT I WAS MAD

By Njonjo Mue

PART SEVEN

PREQUEL TWO

STAY ON YOUR LANE

I stared at the letter from the Rhodes Trust for a long time, fearing that I was dreaming and I would soon have to wake up to continue my search for scholarships.

When I returned from the kitchen where I had gone to get myself a cup of tea and found the letter still sitting on my desk, I began to will myself into believing that my exceedingly good fortune was actually real. I also allowed myself the luxury of reflecting on the journey that had led me to this memorable day, Friday, December 7th 1990.

As I have stated before, I have always had an uneasy relationship with the law as practiced in Kenya. However, I have always found lawyers to be quite fascinating. And so, as I quietly sipped my cup of tea and savoured my success at being awarded this prestigious scholarship on this Friday afternoon, I could not help recalling some of those lawyers who had, in one way or another, shaped my own career so far.

First there was Githu Muigai. He was my teacher at university. My first encounter with him, when he was a young, suave, lecturer newly returned from Columbia University with a Masters Degree, was not a pleasant one. It was towards the end of my First Year during the moot court when I first met him. Githu was acting as the presiding judge sitting on a panel together with Okech Owiti and Dr. David Gachuki.

I recall that I did not have the money to buy myself a suit by the time of the moot court. I therefore dressed as smartly as I could in the circumstances, in grey trousers, a grey sweater, a white shirt and a red tie.

Judge Githu’s opening remarks were directed at me, “Counsel, you are outrageously dressed!” This elicited guffaws of laughter from my classmates who were required to be part of the audience. But it deeply embarrassed me.

I wondered whether to tell Githu that I did not yet own a suit, or I should just ignore him and proceed with my submissions. Time being limited, I did the latter, but I cost my team comprising Harun Ndubi and Lucy Mugo some marks for being “outrageously dressed.”

Although I felt embarrassed by Githu at the time, his remarks may well have ensured that I was got the Rhodes scholarship three years later. For some time after I was elected scholar, I learned from an associate at Kaplan & Stratton whose father sat on the selection committee that there had been stiff competition between myself and another candidate. Eventually, the committee had chosen me over him.

What was the tiebreaker? The other candidate had come for the interview wearing a sweater instead of a jacket and tie.

Looking back, I am therefore grateful that Githu had pointed out, even if not so subtly, that I was “outrageously dressed,” for it taught me that first impressions last, and it is possible for one’s dress to speak so loudly that one’s audience cannot hear one’s message. To this day, I often remember that incident when I sit on interview panels and observe some young people show up inappropriately dressed for interviews.

My other interaction with Githu came about during our second year when he taught Jurisprudence, which was an optional subject. I attended a few of his lessons before I dropped the subject for being far too complicated for me. But that was not before I heard Githu explaining to us the difference between murder and assassination. I am not sure now what the relevance of this was, but I shall never forget his hilarious illustration:

“If a mad man should burst into this lecture room right now, wielding a machine gun, and shoot us all dead,” he said and paused for effect, the pause also giving me time to think that he'd probably been in America too long.

Then he continued, “Tomorrow’s headlines would read, ‘Students gunned down, as Professor is assassinated.”

He referred to himself as Professor long before he earned that title and even before he got his doctorate. But no one complained because many of his students loved him, admiring his command of the law, his polished English, his wit, and his sense of humour.

And then there was the real Professor, Jacton Boma Ojwang who taught First Year constitutional law. He actually taught the other class in the double-intake that had enabled our A-level class of 1986 to catch up with the class of 1985 when we were admitted together in 1987.

Although he was not my lecturer, I would gate-crash his classes once in a while just to understand how the other half lived. On the whole, he was an excellent teacher and a deep thinker, but I struggled with his theory that the President of an African country had other sources of authority other than the Constitution.

These extra-constitutional sources of power, JB argued, were based on the President’s charisma that he exuded among his people. To me, this was a high-sounding justification for the argument that in Africa, the President was above the law. I could not agree with that. I stopped gate-crashing his classes.

I was to run into another JB during my clinical attachment at the Thika law courts during the long vacation at the end of our second year in 1989. I was seconded to my home town of Thika together with my classmates Ann Mwangi and Muthoni Kariuki. The clinicals were tailored to give students exposure to courtroom proceedings. The presiding senior magistrate, in our case Mr. JB Muturi, the future Speaker of the National Assembly, would have one of us in turns sit with him as he heard cases. This gave us, at least me, a sense of power over the hapless litigants, many of whom started speaking in awe of us referring to us as "The new judges."

The magistrate also gave us the opportunity to draft judgments for cases that were coming to an end. I noticed that when I drafted a judgement for him, JB hardly edited it before delivering it. This made me feel very proud of myself and even start to imagine that I could, after all, contribute to the practice of law from the Bench rather from the Bar. But this feeling did not last long after the clinical programme had ended.

Back at Kaplan & Stratton, two of my favourite partners were Fred Ojiambo and Amos Wako. I had known Fred since my days at Alliance High School when he was a favourite guest preacher in Chapel. I was now delighted to be working with him and learn from him and to notice the consistency of his faith and character despite being one of the most senior partners in one of the most prestigious law firms in the country.

Amos Wako had been one of the three partners that had come to Parklands Campus for interviews to recruit pupils when I was selected. When I reported for pupillage and we were being shown around the firm and introduced to partners and staff by Mr. Wainaina, the partner in charge of pupillage, Mr. Wako had said that he had an open-door policy and that we should feel free to pop in at any time. I took him quite literally.

I would therefore go to his office early in the morning before the workday began and pick up any subject that struck my fancy and engage him in robust debate on law and politics. We argued, for instance, about why, as a UN Special Rapporteur, he was always so quick to issue statements condemning human rights violations in far-flung places like South Africa and East Timor while maintaining a loud silence when it came to calling out the brutality of the Moi regime.

From 8.30 a.m. every morning, Wako was my boss. But before that time, we were equals and he encouraged me to challenge him on any topic. I lived for those moments.

My land law lecturer in First Year of university had been one Smoking Wanjala, another one who insisted on being referred to as ‘Professor’ in the absence of a PhD, or simply by faith that it was on its way. His opening sentence on the first day of the first lesson was to explain to us that despite what we had read on the class schedule, ‘Land Law’ was a misnomer. “The subject I am here to teach is called ‘the Law of Property in Land’.” He assured the class that this was not merely a distinction without a difference. I am not sure I understood him.

Wanjala was one of my favourite lecturers. He knew how to work hard but also, being still relatively young, how to play hard. During the week, he would be a serious lecturer who did not take lightly any missed deadlines for submitting assignments or any indication that one had not completed their assigned reading. But over the weekend, we would often bump into him at Boulevard Hotel having drinks with friends. At such times, his generosity always assured us of an extra beer or two, which were much appreciated by a group of often broke students.

Wanjala also supervised my dissertation during my Third Year during which season I developed a close friendship with him. I will always remember that it was him who, over drinks at the Hotel Boulevard one Friday evening, introduced us to then newly released Les Wanyika song, ‘Afro’, actually taking the time to teach us the lyrics which he thought represented the most sublime poetry. He then requested the DJ to play the song several times until, by the time I left the bar, feeling rather tipsy after probably having one two many, I sang the chorus all the way to my room at Parklands campus:

Afro wa Kirinyaga Sagana e eeeh

Usiniweke pembeni mama aaah

Ingawa wako wengi wazuri mami 

Lakini nimekuchagua wewe eeeh

Tabia zako sawa na sura yako

Nimeridhika kuwa na wewe eeeh

Sagana unipeleke mama oh oh

Nikawaoune wazazi wako mama aaa

Na Tz pia tufike mami iii

Ukawaone baba na mama eeeh

Mengine mengi sisemi Afro

Uamuzi nakuwachia wewe eeeh

Mwisho nakuombea salama Afro

Mpaka siku tutako onana mami

Oh

'Afro' has remained an all-time favourite of mine ever since.

And then there were my peers including Keriako Tobiko with whom I overlapped briefly as he completed his pupillage at Kaplan & Stratton before heading off to Cambridge for his Masters, and Kioko Kilukumi who was also in the same cohort with Tobiko at Kaplan.

By the early 1990s, all these friends and colleagues had already started making a mark in society through their illustrious careers. Later, at the height (or should I say the depth) of my depression, thinking about them and their diverse successes would only illustrate to me how far I had fallen. It would make me wonder where I had taken a wrong turn so that I was not able to claim my place among the great.

As I started recovering, however, the memory of these successful lawyers and the time I had spent with them became a pillar to lean on as I reminded myself that I had, after all, not cheated my way into their illustrious company during those happier times, but I had earned the right to be there.

Much later, after what I consider now to be my complete recovery, I am able to celebrate each one of them without thinking any less of myself because I finally recognise the fact that in life, there is really no competition.

We are each assigned our own lane, and God shall not judge me based on not performing like any one of them or any of the countless other very successful individuals that I have had the privilege of working with over the years.

[ END OF PREQUEL TWO ]

[COMING UP IN PREQUEL THREE... I will finally have the honour of properly introducing you to the Proverbs 31 woman that I was privileged to call my mother and to take you back to a time and place when and where I first encountered the disease that dares not speak its name, long before the condition hopped on to the genetic code and found its way into the highways and byways of my own beautiful bipolar mind.  ]