7. The Nation

The news and nothing but the news

Imoved to the General News department. The transition was smooth. I brought Norman Da Costa from the lowly Sunday Post and later Polycarp Fernandes joined the Sports Department. Michael Wright had joined the sports department many months before. As the new boy, I had to cover the bottom of the diary (the jobs for the day) stories, which often did not make the paper. I covered the Rotary and Lions Club lunches, openings, launches, minor motor accidents, chased fire engines and sometimes wrote the horoscopes. I made a brief attempt at writing about youth, music and the nightclub scene. Work started around 8 in the morning and I rarely went to bed before 3 or 4 the next morning.

The first real story I covered was the murder of an Ismaili family in Nairobi West. I heard it on the radio and headed for the scene of the crime. As I entered the home and saw the corpses, I was emotionally smashed. It was like a scene from the horror movies screened today. The parents and two children were dead. To this day, I don’t think the killer or killers have ever been caught. After that story, my situation improved considerably. The late Brian Tetley was an alcoholic but a wonderful and very humorous writer. He birthed the ‘Mambo’ column and all its hilarity: it was an instant success. When he left, I inherited the column but I doubt I ever matched Brian’s brilliance. His inter-

view with British comic genius Spike Milligan, published in the London Guardian, remains the best I have read anywhere. Spike spoke with the speed of lightning, a joke, a funny line, and hilarity every nanosecond. It was impossible to have a serious interview with him, but Brian Tetley managed.

Some other folks who changed my life were Michael Parry, a proofreader with the Nation. Another self-taught journalist, Mike went on to adorn journalism in his own, very special way. He was also good with the camera. He and I were appointed to lead the court reporting team at the same time. Thus began many years of intense rivalry. We also headed the teams that covered the annual grueling East African Safari, which attracted many international drivers. Kul Bhushan was another outstanding member of the Nation team.

My best pal at the Nation then was Philip Ochieng. I admired his intellect and his speed in finishing The Times and Daily Mail crosswords. Philip remains a respected author and political analyst. Later, the ever smiling and funny Joe Kadhi and I always met for a beer at the nearby Sans Chique. Not far behind was the handsome Adrian Grimwood, who has had an eternal affair with Kenya’s coast, especially Mombasa, Malindi and Lamu, and who continues to edit Coastweek. He is a walking, talking encyclopedia of everything coastal Kenyan. Adrian is one of life’s gifts: a great journalist, he is generous, very funny and a pleasure to have a beer with. I met him after 40 years and he had not changed a bit, just clocked up the years.

The best journalist at that time was without a doubt Hilary Ng’weno. In today’s parlance he was a cool dude; in journalistic terms a clean skin. He was the man for Kenya’s tomorrow, not tied down by the rampant tribalism or the rampant corruption. Hilary has gone on to carve out a career that has him at the pinnacle of African and international journalism. He was appointed Editor-in-Chief of the Nation Group in 1964 but left a few months later. Hilary would not tolerate crap from anyone, certainly not from a White guy or a Black politician. He was never comfortable at the Nation. He was too brilliant for the Nation of that era.

Azhar Chaudhry, a brilliant photographer, was another special

friend. He lost a leg that had become infected from the coral at a Mombasa shoot of President Jomo Kenyatta. Azhar was a wildlife essayist as well as a brilliant news photographer. He had this uncanny knack of seeing the subject in a unique way, frame by frame. While his cousin Akhtar Hussein was a creative genius of the set up picture and went on make a name for himself as a Royal Photographer, Azhar was always better in the moment. The ornamental Sashi Vassani, the Nation’s first Chief Photographer, preceded them. A quiet man,without the flamboyance of Hussein or Chaudhry, Sashi was Mr. Reliable. He had a heart attack while sitting in the sofa opposite the News Editor’s desk and died in hospital. Anil Vidyarthi was another special photographer and a cando kind of guy who would not let anything or anyone stop him from getting the gun shot.

Boaz Omori, the Nation’s Editor-in-Chief, was a gentleman. He gave me some huge breaks and also enabled me to travel the world. Joe Rodrigues and I rarely spoke about work. We used to have a beer at the Lobster Pot at 7 o’clock each evening. I think he was quietly proud of me. Many years later when I showed him my debut features page design, he said ‘wonders will never cease’. He never was one for handing out compliments. But I still think he was a great Goan journalist with few, if any, flaws. Henry Gathigira, as News Editor, was a gentle but grand journalist, especially his knowledge of local politics. He was a Kikuyu. He assigned me to some of the best, if sometimes the toughest, stories. It was Henry who appointed me the Nation’s representative on VoK2 television’s ‘Meet the Press’ programme. To say that I got the plum jobs is an understatement.

Karo, our office driver, and I travelled thousands of miles, chasing story after story. He became my honorary assistant because he was a

2 Voice of Kenya. Currently called the Kenya Broadcasting Corporation (KBC), the state-run media organisation of Kenya. Started in 1928 when Kenya was a British colony. In 1964, after Independence, its name was changed to Voice of Kenya, and reverted to KBC in 1989.

big help talking in Kikuyu with people at the scene of an incident. He brought potential witnesses to me. He was a beautiful man who had a heart as large as the horizon and the greatest smile in the world.

My single most unforgettable memory of Kenya was driving through an African village in Central Kenya (Kikuyuland), Nyanza (Luo), Western Province (Abaluhyia), Rift Valley (Kalenjin) or any village in Kenya and seeing the welcoming smiles from everyone, especially the women and children. Those smiles live in my heart.

Chief sub-editor, the late Allen Armstrong (a Geordie from England’s North), was my biggest fan. If we were short of a Page One lead or a major story, he would say ‘Don’t worry, Skip will turn up with something.’ As I passed his desk and briefed him, he would say ‘ten pars please.’ Ten paragraphs he would get and not a word more, another very special person.

Northern Irishman Jim Glencross, Editor of the Sunday Nation, was a real pal. First, he gave me a real column, ‘Fernandes on Sunday’, and later taught me the art of editing. Features editor Trevor Grundy had a lot of faith in me, and after I had had enough of news, he introduced me to the art of page design. Neil Graham was another special friend. Jack Beverley, founding Editor of Sunday Nation, was a hard man to like but he had an eagle eye for detail and was a respected journalist. In one of my stories, I had begun, ‘In a brief five minute interview...’ He asked ‘How brief is five minutes?’ Touché! Jack’s sidekick, Gerry Loughran, was probably the most likeable person I knew and a grand journalist to boot. Buddy Trevor was a great beer drinker.

Nostalgia aside, I will tell you about just one more guy, and what a guy! Mike Chester was hired from England as news editor. Mike was a revelation. A suave guy, he was also a tough taskmaster. Above all he was a brilliant journalist. He taught me the art of writing a crisp, 25-words or less intro, the first paragraph of any story. The opening paragraph said what the story was all about and usually provided the sub-editor with an instant headline. Mike also brought me to tears one day. He made me rewrite the intro to a story 25 times. In disgust I told him after the twenty-fifth time, ‘That’s my best and if it is not good enough you had better find someone else to write it.’ I went to chief

sub-editor Allen Armstrong and asked if he had received the story. ‘I sent the story off over an hour ago,’ he said. He had used my original story. So I asked Mike why he had put me through those 25 attempts. ‘You zip into the office, light your cigarette and speed-type your story. Think how much better it would be if you gave it a little more thought before you rushed into type.’ What he did not know was that I was in the habit of doing all my thinking on the way back to the office and usually had it pat by the time I got to my desk. A few weeks later, he said, ‘forget all that stuff I told you. You are an intuitive reporter, stick with it.’

The first week Mike was there, I handed in an expense chit for 20 shillings. ‘Come over here,’ he said as he headed for my typewriter, ‘let me show you how a White man writes his expenses.’ My humble 20 shillings chit was turned into 200.

‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘You are in the chair.’

‘What chair?’

‘You are buying the drinks at the Sans Chique’. The back door of the Nation, across a lane, led to the back door of the SC. He called me his shotgun rider. If there was a troublesome story, he sent me. He loved his Tusker lager as much as he loved women. I had some of my best times with Mike as a journalist and was sorry to see him wrongly deported. He was a stringer for the London Financial Times and had for a long time chased the story of the Kikuyu Mau oathing ceremonies that had begun surfacing.

If John Bierman was the polished diamond, Mike was a rough one, though a diamond nonetheless. John Bierman was truly a fearless editor, even a renegade of sorts. But he did it with a heart and soul that was dedicated to the greater good of man and the truth. As brilliant as he was, he, too, was flawed. But during his tenure, the Nation was as fearless as he could make it. When the clinically true history of Kenya is written, it may judge him to be a mere mortal at a time when history demanded him to be immortal. I loved the man.

Individually, I did not think that George Githii was the best man for Editor-in-Chief, not only because of his strong connections to President Kenyatta. He saw in me someone who needed taming to toe his

flawed line. I could never do that. When George was good, he wrote brilliant editorials. He was not afraid to challenge the government or minsters. When he was bad, it was pretty obvious. He had two stints at the job and he was sacked during the second.

Editors, in my mind, are inspirational flag-bearers, guardians of the truth, innovators, brilliant analysts, warrior ambassadors leading where others followed. I always felt that George was something of a thug. Thugs do not make good editors. Besides, he broke the first rule: he had personal agendas. He was blessed with some moments of brilliance when he fought for the truth like a crazed warrior. I always felt it was a little bit like the devil fighting for something good, godly even. He was an impostor, a mad man, unpredictable and dangerous. The handgun he a carried was known to fall from his person on more than one occasion. He was a huge opponent of Foreign Minister Njoroge Mungai. I had worked closely with Mungai on several UN and Commonwealth campaigns. Mungai was part of the GEMA group that wanted to stop Vice President Daniel arap Moi from succeeding Jomo Kenyatta. Quite rightly, Githii, himself a Kikuyu and a former righthand man for Kenyatta, opposed this with considerable help from the so-called Black Englishman Charles Njonjo. Githii was like a man possessed. I left after few months. I could not work with him.

If the cancer of corruption emitted a purse of money, millions and millions, then the worst corruption was political corruption. To this day, that is the legacy that generations of Kenyans will have to live with. But life goes on and many beautiful and wonderful things continue to bless Kenya.

Gerard Loughran, in his brilliant book Birth of a Nation: The Story of a Newspaper in Kenya, focused on what he thought was the journalist’s hard news revelations, but in the process forgot all the small people who made the Nation what it was. Without them there would be no Nation. Notice that there is no mention of the Features section especially the gorgeous Barbara Kimenye, who is now a famed Kenyan author, or the sports writers (including me) Norman Da Costa, Polycarp Fernandes, the late Monte Vianna who died young in a plane crash near Voi, Alfred Araujo, a sub-editor who went on to greater things in the

UK, Olinda Fernandes, the first Goan woman to venture into journalism, Kul Bhushan, who was always busy, and the greatest gentleman or journalist Sultan Jessa who was our man in Dar es Salaam. Sadly, there has been no celebration of the people who made the Nation what it was: a world where most everyone lived and worked in harmony.

Modern Nairobi. Photo courtesy of Alamy.

Yet, the Birth of a Nation is a testament to Gerry’s brilliance as a journalist. He burrowed deep into the soul of archival and reportage material to write on issues we never dared to speak of let alone write. For anyone who has the slightest link with Kenya, Birth of a Nation is required reading.