By Muchiri Muchoki

OB Number 39/19/03/10 Industrial Area Police Station Nairobi – a dreadful  journalists’ assault

The date is 19 March 2010 at 10am. I am headed to the Kenya National Trading Corporation (KNTC) Headquarters along Yarrow Road off Nanyuki Road. Today, this Government owned corporation is launching a strategic plan as well as a website.

As a Business Journalist, I have been assigned to cover this event. With me, I have the company of my Photojournalist Derek Lugalia.

We are using public service means. As we alight at the Lunga Lunga – Nanyuki Road junction, I quickly notice the many petroleum tankers that are either parked around while others are gaining access to a nearby gate.

There are a dozen of shadily clad men with saddles on their feet, rolled up trousers and big improvised containers. They seem to be dealing with black market oil.

Our business at the KNTC is brief. The receptionist tells us that the main event is not at the headquarters but rather at Kenyatta International Conference Center (KICC). What a miscalculation. We have to go back to the Central Business District as soon as we can.

Once again, we have to cover the short walking distance; from the unmarked Yarrow Road to Nanyuki Road and finally Lunga Lunga Road where there is a bus stop.

But as fate would have it, we do not make it to the bus stop.

We are walking past the very stop where we saw an oil scramble a few minutes earlier.

This time round though, the scene is different; there is a petroleum tanker that is gaining access to an adjacent gate. Now the shadily clad men are running after it with their containers.

The track is moving real slowly for the men to access the side taps. This is oil siphoning at its best!

The mood is tense. We seem to be the only strangers in this area. This is not good for us. If these guys think that we could be a threat to their shady business, they can harm us real bad. As journalists, perhaps we might just as well be their number one enemies. But the name ‘Press’ is not written all over our faces.

Now, apart from the men who are running after the trucks, there are others: Indeed, everyone else apart from some two ladies who are selling some chapatis appear to be part of this dangerous cartel. Keeping vigil.

As we hasten towards Lunga Lunga Road; we are intercepted by a man who doesn’t seem as oily; but he is holding a metal bar by his right hand.

He is repeatedly sticking the metal bar against the palm of his left hand; as if rehearse a lethal move.

My photojournalist stops on his track. I’m slightly behind him and I follow queue. “Nyinyi ni nani?” (Who are you?) He promptly ask us.

I quickly make a mental access on myself and am suddenly frightened!

On my shirt pocket, is a protruding thick reporters’ note book. I am also helping my photojournalist to carry his pocket size camera. Besides, my press card is tacked right next to the big note book.

I am now consoling myself that not unless these thugs are bright enough, they won’t take it like we pose any threat to them at all. If anything, though our hearts were earlier throbbing to have a few shots of what was happening, we didn’t engage the shuttle button of an unseen camera.

Before I could think of any word to mutter; the war cry goes up into the heavens. “Ndio hawa watu wa habari!” (There they are; the journalist!)

True to my suspicion, there is more to the number than the oily clad men. All are running towards us baying for our blood.

I remember making some desperate pleas that were all landing on grease filled ears!

“Sisi hatuna ubaya,” (We mean no harm) I tried to appeal. But the mob was getting more agitated. Using some container, one of them was trying to scoop some sewage waste the road. Threatening to splash it on me.

I’m in the middle of a crowded mob, and I can not tell where my photojournalist is.

By now, there are so many hands that are all over me. Manhandling me. I can feel some hands that are tearing into my pockets. My shirt pocket and my trouser pocket. “Hii ni journalist” (this is a journalist) I can barely hear some voice accusing me: Holding my press card!

Whatever these black market oil siphoning thugs have against journalists! For now, there is no difference between hard news business journalists and investigative journalists – like the KTN’s Jicho Pevu.

Right, these guys must have been busted by Jicho Pevu and they now think that this is a follow-up. They have an intention to eliminate those who are keen to eliminate them.

I may not recall all the details that happened next. Apart from another voice that I heard exclaiming something like ‘these are they moneyed employees from town’ – struggling to frisk my wallet while at it!

By now I am being stamped right, left and center. Like a typical mugger facing a mob justice in a typical Nairobi street.

Somehow, there is an argument on whether to finish off with me or not. Some are for it; others are against.

I bet I could hear the voices of God and Satan concurrently. Somehow, those who were against managed to drag me off the spot – towards a waiting vehicle. A matatu.

By now, I can only see a blurred world around me: Of empty gazes from people from very far; helpless gazes.

Soon I barely craw into the matatu – escorted with blows. Some of the thugs also accompany me into the matatu. The driver soon takes off at high speed.

Apparently, his vehicle risks being stoned for ‘helping out the traitors’. My comrade in trouble; my photojournalist is already inside this matatu. He seemed to have cheated his way off the blood thirsty goons.

He tells me that he pleaded that he was not a press guy and that he did not know me. They frisked him and they didn’t find any incriminating evidence. I thank him immensely. He contributed to saving my life by pleading with the matatu driver to wait for me, as I was being pushed towards Lunga Lunga.

There are about four hooligans who are inside the matatu as it cruises towards Jogoo Road. They are daring enough as they continue threatening to beat us up. One of them even strikes me on the left thigh with his dirty boot.

I don’t mind the dirt now; if anything I am dirty enough. I deep my trembling hand into my pocket just for a confirmation; that the Digital Camera, my Nokia smart phone and money are all gone.

Soon the hooligans drop off at some point. Even the matatu operators can’t stand them. They are the rulers of this obnoxious world. As the driver speeds off, he tells us that we are extremely lucky. He tells us of another couple of journalist who almost got lazed at the same spot. According to him, they were saved by some Administration Police officers who happened to be passing by.

He tells us of another incidence that involved stoning of a matatu that plies this route – Number 71.

According to him. This is an underground cartel that involves the siphoning hooligans, the track drivers and some filthy rich black market oil dealers. They are so established that they can now dare organize a day-light upfront against those they deem as a threat to their wicked but lucrative dealings.

Some four hours later, I am at Jamaa Mission Hospital – Nairobi where Dr Bernard Muritu is examining possible fractures on me.

He is also checking out the effects of the petrol that was splattered on me. Particularly on my head.

Clearly; someone was keen to see me dead. The doctor tells me that I was pretty lucky. On my part I know I was not lucky. Luck by itself could not have sneaked me out of the death trap that I had experienced just a while earlier. There must have been a bigger power that was at play; bigger than luck.

Later on; Dr Muritu writes for police reference thus; “The above mentioned person (that’s me) was attended at our health facility after being assaulted by a mob…”

Police officer number 81384 attached to the Industrial Area Police Station had earlier advised me to seek medical attention; ostensibly before a further investigation was carried out.

His boss, OCS Fred S Natala seems to understand just how complex it is to purge these oil siphoning hooligans. He is quit aware of this dragon’s many and powerful tentacles.

This begs a question: Who can possibly kill a dragon whose head seats right at the top of the protected dais?

-Kenya London News