Luther12
Elder Lister
Part II: The dishonourable member
Mbuvi immediately caused a splash in Nairobi’s usually staid political scene. Who was the skinny lad on the billboard, with the outrageous fashion sense? And who was he to call himself Sonko?
But word quickly got out that Mbuvi owned the infamous Buru nganyas, and then it all made sense. The nganyas made Mbuvi tons of money — hence Sonko — and being their proprietor accorded him immunity.
From that point onwards, and throughout his theatrical decade in politics, Mbuvi’s multiple faux pas stood forgiven on account that he was the embodiment of umatatu: an anarchist phenomenon characterised by brashness, vulgarity and braggadocio, and personified by carefree matatu crews.
However, much as umatatu brought Mbuvi fame and fortune, it also attracted judgmental frowns. Kenya’s established political parties wouldn’t touch him, despite Mbuvi’s repeated overtures. He did not play by the rules of the political elite, and was not welcomed there.
Despite going up against locals, Mbuvi won and Makadara had a new MP.
Mbuvi began his parliamentary term with a bang, keen on leaving a quick mark considering he had just more than two years before the 2013 general election. Personifying the name Sonko, Mbuvi dished out bundles of crisp currency notes indiscriminately to destitute Nairobians whenever they caught his eye or ear, conveniently broadcasting his generosity on social media. To keep the streets talking, he rode around town in gold-plated SUVs, wore kilos of gold jewellery and dyed his hair golden.
This attracted plenty of attention — not all of it welcome.
Allegations of corruption
Three months after his election, police raided Mbuvi’s office and Buru residence on suspicion that he was involved in drug trafficking, after a tip-off from the US embassy (the minister for internal security owned up to parliament about this leak from the Americans). Playing hide and seek with the cops, Mbuvi complained bitterly to parliament about police harassment.
In a subsequent police report, detectives said that Mbuvi had been afraid to meet investigators. When he did, they said, he denied being a drug dealer, but did confess to taking part in a multimillion-dollar land fraud syndicate, an admission which the police didn’t pursue further by charging Mbuvi with fraud. The scams involved working with government officials to grab parcels of land whose leases are about to expire and secretly transferring these title deeds from original owners to fraudsters who use them to con buyers.
The report listed three companies — Casuarina Club, Primix Enterprises and Tungwa Brand Design — as businesses registered under Mbuvi’s name, none of which was duly paying taxes. Possibly trying to protect her and their businesses, Mbuvi told investigators that his wife Primrose was actually his sister.
The report barely mentioned Mbuvi’s matatu empire, except to observe that “he operates several matatus christened ARTUR within Nairobi”.
Mbuvi did indeed operate two nganyas named Artur, but the police were hinting at something.
It was one of those if-you-know-you-know scenarios.
On 10 November 2005, two brash gold-chain-wearing Armenians named Artur Margaryan and Artur Sargasyan landed in Nairobi. Posturing first as businessmen, then as playboys and then as security experts, over time the pair cultivated connections at the highest levels of Kenyan society. Ultimately, they proved so useful to their collaborators in whatever shadowy shenanigans they were involved in that they were both appointed as deputy commissioners of police.
The Arturs were repeatedly linked to drug dealing by Kenyan journalists. And so, although the police could not prove that Mbuvi was himself implicated in drug dealing, by pointedly mentioning his nganyas named Artur — even writing ARTUR in capital letters — they seemed to be implying that even if he weren’t guilty, Mbuvi’s fondness for suspected dealers was a tell-tale sign.
Deserved or not, the drug dealer label stuck to Mbuvi (perhaps that’s why he decided to formally change his name in 2012, from Mbuvi Gidion Kioko to Mbuvi Gidion Kioko Mike Sonko). Not that it seemed to do him any harm: his popularity was skyrocketing.
Mbuvi saw the drug-trafficking allegation as a warning shot, and knew he needed to find political protection — fast. Similarly, his by-election win didn’t guarantee future political success, particularly as he had now set his sights on becoming the first-ever senator for Nairobi (the position was created in Kenya’s 2010 constitution).
He needed to align himself with one of the two political parties. This time, his timing was exactly right.
Respect our president, you pieces of shit!
Uhuru Kenyatta, then one of two deputy prime ministers, was about to run for president on The National Alliance party ticket. Kenyatta, as son of Kenya’s founding father Jomo Kenyatta, is political royalty, but he had a major problem and needed all the friends he could find.
Kenyatta was one of four Kenyans facing crimes against humanity charges at the International Criminal Court in The Hague. These stemmed from the 2007 to 2008 post-election violence in which more than a thousand people are thought to have been killed.
Mbuvi cast himself as Kenyatta’s defender-in-chief. Mourning more than the bereaved, Mbuvi went as far as asking his barber to curve Kenyatta’s name on his head. He flew to The Hague to lead demonstrations in support of Kenyatta whenever he appeared in court, always wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the words “Respect our Prezzo, Takataka nyinyi ghasia.” Respect our president, you pieces of shit!
Mbuvi’s support for Kenyatta paid off.
During the 2013 general election, Kenyatta and running mate William Ruto — who was also facing crimes against humanity charges at The Hague — won the presidency by a super-slim margin. Cases against both leaders were subsequently dropped.
Riding this wave, Mbuvi became Nairobi’s inaugural senator with a staggering 808 705 votes: the highest number of votes ever cast in Kenya for a single politician who wasn’t running for president. Mbuvi was unstoppable.
Like most of the new senators-elect, Mbuvi realised he might have made a miscalculation. Much as the title is grandiose, the job itself is limited to oversight. The real power lay with governors, who controlled huge budgets and could, therefore, affect lives and livelihoods.
So Mbuvi hatched a plan. He established a privately funded pro bono service-delivery entity known as the Sonko Rescue Team, which comprised ambulances, fire engines and water bowsers. He enlisted the services of hundreds of youth to operationalise the entity, and asked them to pick up litter at the same time. He got the new organisation to pay the medical bills of those needing specialised treatment in Kenya and abroad; and, in the unfortunate event of a passing-on, Mbuvi used his famous Buru nganyas as free hearses.
No one, including the incumbent Nairobi governor Dr Evans Kidero, could compete with Mbuvi’s apparent generosity.
Critics questioned how Mbuvi could afford all this, given that he earned less than $10 000 a month as a senator. Mbuvi brushed off the haters: he told the city that he would be Nairobi’s next governor, and at a public rally declared himself to be Kenya’s third-most powerful man, behind only the president and his deputy. He was not afraid to use this power: whenever a government official got in his way, Mbuvi would get Kenyatta on the phone, putting the call on loudspeaker as the ever-present media cameras rolled.
Taking their cue from their incorrigible boss, Mbuvi’s bodyguards started showing up in public spaces wielding AK-47s, as if operating in a war zone. At a senate meeting, Mbuvi attempted to get into a fist-fight with Kidero, the man he wanted to unseat.
None of this hurt him. Mbuvi was untouchable. For now.
Mbuvi immediately caused a splash in Nairobi’s usually staid political scene. Who was the skinny lad on the billboard, with the outrageous fashion sense? And who was he to call himself Sonko?
But word quickly got out that Mbuvi owned the infamous Buru nganyas, and then it all made sense. The nganyas made Mbuvi tons of money — hence Sonko — and being their proprietor accorded him immunity.
From that point onwards, and throughout his theatrical decade in politics, Mbuvi’s multiple faux pas stood forgiven on account that he was the embodiment of umatatu: an anarchist phenomenon characterised by brashness, vulgarity and braggadocio, and personified by carefree matatu crews.
However, much as umatatu brought Mbuvi fame and fortune, it also attracted judgmental frowns. Kenya’s established political parties wouldn’t touch him, despite Mbuvi’s repeated overtures. He did not play by the rules of the political elite, and was not welcomed there.
Despite going up against locals, Mbuvi won and Makadara had a new MP.
Mbuvi began his parliamentary term with a bang, keen on leaving a quick mark considering he had just more than two years before the 2013 general election. Personifying the name Sonko, Mbuvi dished out bundles of crisp currency notes indiscriminately to destitute Nairobians whenever they caught his eye or ear, conveniently broadcasting his generosity on social media. To keep the streets talking, he rode around town in gold-plated SUVs, wore kilos of gold jewellery and dyed his hair golden.
This attracted plenty of attention — not all of it welcome.
Allegations of corruption
Three months after his election, police raided Mbuvi’s office and Buru residence on suspicion that he was involved in drug trafficking, after a tip-off from the US embassy (the minister for internal security owned up to parliament about this leak from the Americans). Playing hide and seek with the cops, Mbuvi complained bitterly to parliament about police harassment.
In a subsequent police report, detectives said that Mbuvi had been afraid to meet investigators. When he did, they said, he denied being a drug dealer, but did confess to taking part in a multimillion-dollar land fraud syndicate, an admission which the police didn’t pursue further by charging Mbuvi with fraud. The scams involved working with government officials to grab parcels of land whose leases are about to expire and secretly transferring these title deeds from original owners to fraudsters who use them to con buyers.
The report listed three companies — Casuarina Club, Primix Enterprises and Tungwa Brand Design — as businesses registered under Mbuvi’s name, none of which was duly paying taxes. Possibly trying to protect her and their businesses, Mbuvi told investigators that his wife Primrose was actually his sister.
The report barely mentioned Mbuvi’s matatu empire, except to observe that “he operates several matatus christened ARTUR within Nairobi”.
Mbuvi did indeed operate two nganyas named Artur, but the police were hinting at something.
It was one of those if-you-know-you-know scenarios.
On 10 November 2005, two brash gold-chain-wearing Armenians named Artur Margaryan and Artur Sargasyan landed in Nairobi. Posturing first as businessmen, then as playboys and then as security experts, over time the pair cultivated connections at the highest levels of Kenyan society. Ultimately, they proved so useful to their collaborators in whatever shadowy shenanigans they were involved in that they were both appointed as deputy commissioners of police.
The Arturs were repeatedly linked to drug dealing by Kenyan journalists. And so, although the police could not prove that Mbuvi was himself implicated in drug dealing, by pointedly mentioning his nganyas named Artur — even writing ARTUR in capital letters — they seemed to be implying that even if he weren’t guilty, Mbuvi’s fondness for suspected dealers was a tell-tale sign.
Deserved or not, the drug dealer label stuck to Mbuvi (perhaps that’s why he decided to formally change his name in 2012, from Mbuvi Gidion Kioko to Mbuvi Gidion Kioko Mike Sonko). Not that it seemed to do him any harm: his popularity was skyrocketing.
Mbuvi saw the drug-trafficking allegation as a warning shot, and knew he needed to find political protection — fast. Similarly, his by-election win didn’t guarantee future political success, particularly as he had now set his sights on becoming the first-ever senator for Nairobi (the position was created in Kenya’s 2010 constitution).
He needed to align himself with one of the two political parties. This time, his timing was exactly right.
Respect our president, you pieces of shit!
Uhuru Kenyatta, then one of two deputy prime ministers, was about to run for president on The National Alliance party ticket. Kenyatta, as son of Kenya’s founding father Jomo Kenyatta, is political royalty, but he had a major problem and needed all the friends he could find.
Kenyatta was one of four Kenyans facing crimes against humanity charges at the International Criminal Court in The Hague. These stemmed from the 2007 to 2008 post-election violence in which more than a thousand people are thought to have been killed.
Mbuvi cast himself as Kenyatta’s defender-in-chief. Mourning more than the bereaved, Mbuvi went as far as asking his barber to curve Kenyatta’s name on his head. He flew to The Hague to lead demonstrations in support of Kenyatta whenever he appeared in court, always wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the words “Respect our Prezzo, Takataka nyinyi ghasia.” Respect our president, you pieces of shit!
Mbuvi’s support for Kenyatta paid off.
During the 2013 general election, Kenyatta and running mate William Ruto — who was also facing crimes against humanity charges at The Hague — won the presidency by a super-slim margin. Cases against both leaders were subsequently dropped.
Riding this wave, Mbuvi became Nairobi’s inaugural senator with a staggering 808 705 votes: the highest number of votes ever cast in Kenya for a single politician who wasn’t running for president. Mbuvi was unstoppable.
Like most of the new senators-elect, Mbuvi realised he might have made a miscalculation. Much as the title is grandiose, the job itself is limited to oversight. The real power lay with governors, who controlled huge budgets and could, therefore, affect lives and livelihoods.
So Mbuvi hatched a plan. He established a privately funded pro bono service-delivery entity known as the Sonko Rescue Team, which comprised ambulances, fire engines and water bowsers. He enlisted the services of hundreds of youth to operationalise the entity, and asked them to pick up litter at the same time. He got the new organisation to pay the medical bills of those needing specialised treatment in Kenya and abroad; and, in the unfortunate event of a passing-on, Mbuvi used his famous Buru nganyas as free hearses.
No one, including the incumbent Nairobi governor Dr Evans Kidero, could compete with Mbuvi’s apparent generosity.
Critics questioned how Mbuvi could afford all this, given that he earned less than $10 000 a month as a senator. Mbuvi brushed off the haters: he told the city that he would be Nairobi’s next governor, and at a public rally declared himself to be Kenya’s third-most powerful man, behind only the president and his deputy. He was not afraid to use this power: whenever a government official got in his way, Mbuvi would get Kenyatta on the phone, putting the call on loudspeaker as the ever-present media cameras rolled.
Taking their cue from their incorrigible boss, Mbuvi’s bodyguards started showing up in public spaces wielding AK-47s, as if operating in a war zone. At a senate meeting, Mbuvi attempted to get into a fist-fight with Kidero, the man he wanted to unseat.
None of this hurt him. Mbuvi was untouchable. For now.
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