The fourth estate has always been an important wing of society, right back from the town crier of Roman city states, to the village wag in the African villages to the current suave and technology-savvy print and electronic media that exists today. The press has always been at hand to make sure that the rest of us who are way to busy to follow other people around get our fill of “news” whether it be fact or gossip. Indeed it has elevated itself to the level of being the unofficial fourth arm of government, putting a check on the excesses of the executive, legislature and the judiciary merely by dangling the threat of public exposure of their wickedness. Its all good for most of us until we get into what is termed as a “confrontation with the press” where suddenly an entity of very inquisitive persons (not necessarily the press per se) demand certain information from you and are determined to wring it from you with a hell-bent determination that leaves you entirely mortified and being inducted among the list of The Enemies of the Press, and by extension, Enemy of the Common Man.
My first Confrontation with the Press was rather premature and as unexpected as one of those pregnancies by 7yr olds. It was my first day in Standard One at a primary school near you. Everyone was huddled up in their own private space, pondering this new situation and wondering if the teachers here would still smile at us if we peed on ourselves. I was entertaining such thoughts when suddenly, a boy that I used to have Nursery school beef with (long story), something reminiscent of Israel and Hamas, came up to me with lightning speed and tugged at my brand new shirt, dislodging a few buttons in the process, and shoved quite a number of HUGE odedes (locusts) below the shirt, giving them full exposure to my infantile chest. Now am not afraid of grasshoppers but the suddenness of this uncalled for act of terrorism sent certain impulses to my brain that immediately brought the fear in torrents ("Could they be mutant odedes that are carnivorous???" , those kinds of thoughts). The corresponding reaction could have been none less than that of counter-terrorism. Screaming the war cry from Shaka Zulu, I stripped of my shirt while surveying the ground for a suitable weapon. I selected a stone that looked like a mini-frisbee and aimed it at my assailant.
Naturally, given my ancestral roots, the projectile was perfectly destined to land on the terrorist’s head but somehow in those milliseconds before contact, the terrorist acquired a reflexes that even George Bush would envy and missed the projectile in true Matrix fashion. The events that follow can only be recounted in slow motion.There I am watching in disappointment as the projectile flies on and blasts a window followed by screams. I stood still watching the scandal unfold, shirtless and confused. All of a sudden I am surrounded by a crowd of about fifty kids chanting:
Indeed, the voice of the masses eventually carries the day. The class teacher, who had been dozing half the time, sprung into instant action and did her quick math. Brocken window plus shirtless boy equals to guilty verdict. She reached for my left ear,held it in a firm G-clamp grip and led me to the Headmasters office, as I tried to mumble a story about a grasshopper-wielding terrorist. Of course nobody believed my allegedly preposterous side of the story. The fact that my only evidence, the grasshoppers, had flown away and the testimony of The Press (ie. The kids and their chants of Haiya Makanjo as they pointed at my shirtless chest) was deemed to be that of a very competent witness heavily discredited me. The Headmaster, perhaps trying to imitate Lord Denning and after two swigs of his morning tea, finally held :
It was a traumatizing experience which even though it earned me a proper spanking, at least cured me from the disease of unnecessarily telling on other people at an early age and also gave me this fascination with hard words. However, this was not the last time I played poker with the Press. The next encounter was a few years later when a mysterious man bribed me and a couple of peeps to accept to be photographed dangling from water pipes that served the entire neighbourhood. The following week, I returned from school to find my old man at the door holding a cane in one hand and a copy of the day’s newspaper in the other. Apparently the mysterious man was a photojournalist doing a piece on “Who is to Blame for the Perpetual Water Shortage”, with our picture occupying a dominant position, the caption reading: ‘Members of the public vandalizing water inlet pipes to sell.” It earned me yet another beating but that was the point my distrust of The Press began to take root…
However, the mere common man cannot escape the whims of The Press so easily. Returning back to school after one of those successful high school funkies (when once in a while, some girl didn’t turn down your worst pick up line and yes the Saphire sachets had been in very high supply), we were in a good mood and had taken to edging on our equally intoxicated bus driver to step on the gas some more. The mood was nothing short of orgasmic and looking at the trees fly by outside so fast gave me the sudden illusion that I was in a Bugatti with this dame on the passenger, or that Durango 95 in A Clockwork Orange – Alas, real horrorshow fast! The illusion was cut short just a few kilometers from Gilgil. We rammed into an oncoming lorry in a near fatal impact. No need to describe the other details but the accident was ugly. Even before we could get over the shock, a KTN crew had already arrived.
Sensing the apparent danger The Press posed to the reputation of the school, our teacher huddled us up into a group and , looking nervously behind, gave us the sharp warning : “None of you should dare talk to any of *pointing* those people, you hear me? Immediate suspension for anyone who does!” He directed another look at the TV crew and stopped mid-sentence. Approaching us with the mic in hand was an exquisite female reporter (nowadays she does the presenting at KTN Prime) in her signature sexy formal skirt and matching red and black top. Watching that cat walk seemed to shove the reality of the accident far, far, far away…To hell with suspension, each one of us , including the teacher was hustling to talk to the dame, hoping that somehow her business card would slip from her back to the palms of our , no MY hand. Sigh, they always find a way, these people!
My first Confrontation with the Press was rather premature and as unexpected as one of those pregnancies by 7yr olds. It was my first day in Standard One at a primary school near you. Everyone was huddled up in their own private space, pondering this new situation and wondering if the teachers here would still smile at us if we peed on ourselves. I was entertaining such thoughts when suddenly, a boy that I used to have Nursery school beef with (long story), something reminiscent of Israel and Hamas, came up to me with lightning speed and tugged at my brand new shirt, dislodging a few buttons in the process, and shoved quite a number of HUGE odedes (locusts) below the shirt, giving them full exposure to my infantile chest. Now am not afraid of grasshoppers but the suddenness of this uncalled for act of terrorism sent certain impulses to my brain that immediately brought the fear in torrents ("Could they be mutant odedes that are carnivorous???" , those kinds of thoughts). The corresponding reaction could have been none less than that of counter-terrorism. Screaming the war cry from Shaka Zulu, I stripped of my shirt while surveying the ground for a suitable weapon. I selected a stone that looked like a mini-frisbee and aimed it at my assailant.
Naturally, given my ancestral roots, the projectile was perfectly destined to land on the terrorist’s head but somehow in those milliseconds before contact, the terrorist acquired a reflexes that even George Bush would envy and missed the projectile in true Matrix fashion. The events that follow can only be recounted in slow motion.There I am watching in disappointment as the projectile flies on and blasts a window followed by screams. I stood still watching the scandal unfold, shirtless and confused. All of a sudden I am surrounded by a crowd of about fifty kids chanting:
Haiya , Haiya!
Haiya Will Press!
Umevunja window!
Haiya! Haiya!
Indeed, the voice of the masses eventually carries the day. The class teacher, who had been dozing half the time, sprung into instant action and did her quick math. Brocken window plus shirtless boy equals to guilty verdict. She reached for my left ear,held it in a firm G-clamp grip and led me to the Headmasters office, as I tried to mumble a story about a grasshopper-wielding terrorist. Of course nobody believed my allegedly preposterous side of the story. The fact that my only evidence, the grasshoppers, had flown away and the testimony of The Press (ie. The kids and their chants of Haiya Makanjo as they pointed at my shirtless chest) was deemed to be that of a very competent witness heavily discredited me. The Headmaster, perhaps trying to imitate Lord Denning and after two swigs of his morning tea, finally held :
“Even though there is overwhelming evidence that the accused broke the window, the actus reus is not coupled with mens rea given that the evidence of the prosecution’s witness is inadmissible having been tendered by infant witnesses…However as a deterrent to such negligent behaviour, the parents of the accused shall bear the costs of repairing the window.”
It was a traumatizing experience which even though it earned me a proper spanking, at least cured me from the disease of unnecessarily telling on other people at an early age and also gave me this fascination with hard words. However, this was not the last time I played poker with the Press. The next encounter was a few years later when a mysterious man bribed me and a couple of peeps to accept to be photographed dangling from water pipes that served the entire neighbourhood. The following week, I returned from school to find my old man at the door holding a cane in one hand and a copy of the day’s newspaper in the other. Apparently the mysterious man was a photojournalist doing a piece on “Who is to Blame for the Perpetual Water Shortage”, with our picture occupying a dominant position, the caption reading: ‘Members of the public vandalizing water inlet pipes to sell.” It earned me yet another beating but that was the point my distrust of The Press began to take root…
However, the mere common man cannot escape the whims of The Press so easily. Returning back to school after one of those successful high school funkies (when once in a while, some girl didn’t turn down your worst pick up line and yes the Saphire sachets had been in very high supply), we were in a good mood and had taken to edging on our equally intoxicated bus driver to step on the gas some more. The mood was nothing short of orgasmic and looking at the trees fly by outside so fast gave me the sudden illusion that I was in a Bugatti with this dame on the passenger, or that Durango 95 in A Clockwork Orange – Alas, real horrorshow fast! The illusion was cut short just a few kilometers from Gilgil. We rammed into an oncoming lorry in a near fatal impact. No need to describe the other details but the accident was ugly. Even before we could get over the shock, a KTN crew had already arrived.
Sensing the apparent danger The Press posed to the reputation of the school, our teacher huddled us up into a group and , looking nervously behind, gave us the sharp warning : “None of you should dare talk to any of *pointing* those people, you hear me? Immediate suspension for anyone who does!” He directed another look at the TV crew and stopped mid-sentence. Approaching us with the mic in hand was an exquisite female reporter (nowadays she does the presenting at KTN Prime) in her signature sexy formal skirt and matching red and black top. Watching that cat walk seemed to shove the reality of the accident far, far, far away…To hell with suspension, each one of us , including the teacher was hustling to talk to the dame, hoping that somehow her business card would slip from her back to the palms of our , no MY hand. Sigh, they always find a way, these people!
