Warning to CS Murkomen: The day I met Bedel Bokassa's son in Geneva

While enjoying a walk in Geneva, Switzerland, in 1998, I decided to look for a chat with any fellow black man I would meet in the heartland of the white man’s country.

I approached one who worked in a small telephone and secretarial services shop. After introductory chats, I asked him: “Brother! Which country do you come from?”

“I come from Central African Republic,” he replied.

“Oh! You have also lived under a dictator like me,” I responded.

“Yah! That dictator of my country, Jean-Bédel Bokassa, was my father,” he said with a shy, humble smile that I would have wished Kipchumba Murkomen, the CS in charge of Interior, had witnessed.

His balding head and round face dramatised his resemblance to his father, Bokassa.

I tried to apologise, but he brushed me off. “My father messed our lives. I wish he had done a better job for our people. We very often get embarrassed by this kind of chat. He had 55 children. When he was overthrown, his property was taken away. So brother, I’m just here trying to survive.”

And so I decide to share this experience as a cautionary tale for those who take public office—such as the presidency—superficially, oblivious to the sanctity enshrined in their duties.

In the obsession of such men with power, they often forget the implications of their actions for generations that come after their term in office—sadly or happily, that sometimes includes their children.

In view of what happened last week, on June 25, those in power ought to be sleeping and walking at the drawing board. If they ignore or misinterpret what happened, the consequences will be felt by all who are in power now and those who come after.

The national spread of the June 25 phenomenon, the relatively similar composition of participants, and the spread of police brutality qualify any government for resignation.

In other countries, a sexual offence leads to the resignation of a president. Sadly, that’s not possible in “planet” Kenya.

Before the day of the demonstrations, national debate about the impending anniversary drew out our ethnic political fault lines. It was evident on social media through remarks by leaders and opinion shapers.

The divide was between the “eating” communities in power versus the rest, with some very few exceptions. With this mindset, discussions were a barren exercise. They would not yield any progressive consensus.

The case of the lord of the Iranian revolution of the 1970s, Ayatollah Khomeini, comes to mind with lessons for those who care to know.

The people of Iran did not want the Shah (the King) in power anymore.

Demonstrations were organised one after the other by the people. The Shah kept killing and suppressing the people. Every set of killings created a fresh case of commemoration for the victims by the people.

The violence against the people went on until the final protest march, as Khomeini was drawing closer to Iran from his self-exile in France. The King of Iran, a puppet of the West, totally rejected by the people, ran into exile as Khomeini took over Iran and turned it into the theocracy that it has since remained.

The current situation in Kenya substantially mirrors the Iranian revolutionary journey. Protests are building, increasing in capacity, quality and national spread. Past protests stopped at Uhuru Park. This time around, they are being stopped at State House Girls Secondary School—an institution that lies right next to the Presidential mansion.

The bravery one sees in the demonstrators is also suicidal. Some of the remarks and comments one comes across are that the protesters have “nothing to lose except their chains.”

Unlike in our days when we ran away from blood and the killed, our children—the Gen Z—rush to attend to the injured or those killed. That is not a good sign coming from the youth. It is the definition of a “revolutionary” moment.

The Gen Z innovativeness in protests is an insult to the intelligence of the police and the government.

The decision by the government to switch off television stations, unaware of the fact that the country’s youth have social media, was foolhardy. The Communication Authority needs to speedily align to a changing society.

In other examples that litter the global map of history, the stress we are going through has culminated in fractures in government, inviting dire consequences.

In 2007, I was in charge of the post-election protests in Bungoma. The last demonstration before the Kibaki–Raila handshake gave me an extraordinary experience.

A Kalenjin Officer Commanding Bungoma Police Station (OCS) came looking for me. We met at Ndekwe Hotel in Kanduyi, Bungoma. He ordered drinks and a kilo of choma on his bill—a strange thing.

“What do you want us to do about tomorrow’s demonstration?” I asked him.

“We have to fight those who stole our election. I have talked to William, our leader. Let’s work together,” he said.

The OCS and I came up with a few strategic resolutions. Five people had been killed by police officers a few days earlier. According to the OCS, those who did it were overzealous officers seeking to protect the presidency. Consequently, we resolved that policemen from the President’s community remain in the station during the demos as a way of saving our “people”.

When I suggested that we do a one-off show at the bus stage and disperse after he shoots in the air, he objected.

“Wacha tuzunguke town mimi nikipiga risasi kwa hewa nyinyi mkiendelea kupiga kelele ndiyo serikali ijue ni kubaya,” he said (Let us go round town as I shoot in the air, while you make noise, so the government knows things are bad).

Need I say this: justified protests by the masses often lead to fractures in a government. Normally, if organised, this either leads to a “revolution” or the collapse of the state as the worst-case scenario.

Nobody can deny that this disturbing process is well beyond the infancy stage in our country. What used to be whispers is now being discussed in open conversations at roadblocks, public places and on social media.

If the 50 or so advisors earning a million-plus each can’t see a problem, then we have a serious problem.

Despite the violent and hostile confrontations witnessed during protests, one captures incidents of cordial relations between the warring parties—protesters and the police. They share water to neutralise tear gas; an injury is felt by both sides and occasionally attended to by both sides, as was witnessed last week.

Most importantly, a policewoman encountered her son in the demos. They didn’t fight. They smiled at each other. That, in my opinion, was the most powerful signal to the government that it was losing the war.

The police and Gen Z are gradually evolving into “neighbours” whose safety is mutually dependent.

That the country is in a regime change situation is further evidenced by an illogical unanimity at the top. Like the proverbial fish, the head is sufficiently rotten. I mean both opposition and government. None of them, including formidable personalities in the opposition, have the courage to disengage from the system and call for Ruto’s resignation.

Those who join the protesters do so to neutralise them, as Okiya Omtatah claimed after the demos. “I joined to stop them from going to State House,” he kind of said.

In my endeavour to join the protests from Jogoo Road, I encountered a scenario without precedent. There was a crowd of over 50 thugs 30 metres from where the police were, looking for anyone from another social class to rob.

On our motorbike, we survived a deadly situation. In my times, thugs had a narrower target that excluded agitators for change. The population of the lumpen proletariat has increased. This constituency is a creation of economic conditions and has no moral bond with anybody. Like the Gen Z, they have no leader.

Does Ruto’s gun-wielding government have the brains to tackle the lumpen proletariat? How safe are police stations—and the guns in them—that these thugs need? This is food for thought.

The real challenge is that while the “wantam” rallying call is what is desired by the ruling class, the viable dream of the people’s rallying call is “Ruto Must Go.” The realisation of the latter, which is legitimate, is both an opportunity and a possible disaster. Regime change to a better government is possible. Statelessness is the other side of the coin.

The solution lies in leaders of all shades—not necessarily elected ones—rejecting neutrality and allying with forces seeking regime change. History does not confine us to 2027.

Even as we participate in legitimate demos, the police and the government should pray that the youthful agitators restrict themselves to stones as weapons of struggle.

I hear there are July 7 demos. I will participate.