Committing a crime doesn’t pay. But witnessing a crime can be costly.
On 7th February 2015, George Muchai, the Kabete MP and his three were shot dead in Nairobi. Police described it as a “well planned” attack. Morris Njuguna, a taxi driver ferried the three suspected murderers from the scene of crime.
Not a criminal himself. Njuguna now bears the burden of a haunted criminal.
Guns went silent. Criminal investigation experts swung into action. Leading politicians made their rhetorical statements. Police and Statisticians added Muchai’s name into Kenya’s database of unresolved murders.
His gruesome murder blared on media waves as Kenyans woke up on 8th February. Seven years and three magistrates later, the case hasn’t been resolved. Full Trial of the accused begins in December 2023. But that’s not my story today.
Njuguna was the unlucky taxi driver. He was winding down his night-shift. Around 4am, one of his regular clients called in. Asking to be picked from Kikuyu, along the Nairobi-Naivasha highway (A104).
The extra cash for the night pushed him to take the job. Uber business hadn’t been so good. Thanks to the runaway economy and rampant inflation. This was way before the current GOK’s multipronged taxation regime.
Njuguna picked the client. His identify is anonymous due to the ongoing case.
Inside the vehicle, his client was on phone with another individual whom they were going to pick further, on the same road. A hooded guy, with a mboshori (marvin). He took the co-driver’s seat. Both, his client and the mboshori guy engaged in some banter about some accomplished business of the day.
Typical of taxi drivers, Njuguna eavesdropped on an unfolding drama.
He was oblivious that the spectacle would throw a huge curve ball into his life. The mboshori guy asked Njuguna to change the route around Eka Ithano, slightly past Muguga. You wonder who or what these places were named after!
They veered off into some forest trail, for about two kilometers. Picked some two guys with rucksacks that looked like golf bags. Who plays golf at 4am? Protruding from one of the bags was the muzzle of an AK-47 gun.
Seeing this, Njuguna shuddered to the core. His legs were shaking. He wet his pants, as he quickly connected the dots. This wasn’t another Nollywood movie. But a reality that he needed to check-out quickly. He was asked to open the car boot, where the paraphernalia was stashed. The journey continued.
His immediate thought was to tell his client that he was running out of fuel. Unsmilingly, he was directed, “Young man, get to the next fuel station!” He was no longer in charge of the car or the destination of the four-gang members.
Off they drove past Zambezi, heading back to Kangemi. Where he was commandeered to get off the road around Stage 87 to join Kiuru road. He drove in an endless circus. Until some place in between the crime-hideouts of Uthiru and Kinoo.
Three guys got off. Took their gunny bags and disappeared, just like they came.
Njuguna was left with his client, who asked the fare for the ride. He couldn’t estimate well, as the ride wasn’t being tracked by the Uber app. He muttered some Ksh.1,500, which his client promised to send via M-pesa.
He warned him. Whatever he had seen or heard, should remain in that car.
It had been an extremely confusing one and half hour. He agonized over his life and the unfolding drama. He returned the car to the parking lot (aka shimo) for his day-shift colleague to pick it up at 5:30am. The curse of a 24-hour economy.
Intuitively, he checked the car boot where he found a tiny piece of metal with an awful smell. In his awe of whatever that could be, he wrapped it in a tissue paper and put under the driver’s seat.
Going back home, he narrated his early morning ordeal to his wife. She was just waking up into the day. Also mentioning the odd piece of metal he hid under the driver’s seat, its awful smell and the dilemma it left him in.
Unbeknownst to them, they were staring at a jig-saw puzzle that would rip them apart.
She moved on into her day. He slipped into bed. His mind simmering the issues he couldn’t solve while awake. Two hours later, his wife woke him up to news screaming on TV. A Member of Parliament had been gruesomely killed. His killers were at large.
Expectedly, the police invited members of the public to share any information they had.
Njuguna’s sleep vamoosed. He was caught between disclosing what he knew and staying mute. Wondering if DCI folks could track anything back to his taxi.
His wife urged him to remain silent. Imaginary ghosts advised him to the contrary.
A few minutes into the thought, his client called. He asked whether he had spotted any piece of metal in the car. He declined. Saying nothing and regretted picking his call.
Immediately, he called Lelei, an OCS friend, in charge of Kabete Police Station (then). He narrated his ordeal, what he saw on the TV, the piece of metal in his car boot and the morning call from his client. Lelei asked him not to share that information further, as he sought guidance from the Flying Squad and DCI headquarters.
Around 11am, Njuguna looked for his day-shift colleague and pulled out the piece of metal without his knowledge. He knew that he was handling sensitive but unclassified material. Despite its ghastly smell, he took it to his house. By this time, Lelei had called back. Asking they meet at DCI, on Kiambu road.
He learnt that the awful smelling this was a safety pin used on G3 and AK47 rifles.
His life was no longer his. He was put on a pedestal of re-tracing and retelling his steps that morning. His questioner was Ndegwa Muhoro, the battle-hardened detective and crime buster. He was at the helm of DCI between 2013 and 2020.
For his troubles and inconvenience, Ndegwa gave him Ksh.20,000 in cash.
Fast forward. The Flying Squad accompanied him to the the crime-hideouts where he dropped the murder suspects. Using Safaricom lines and intelligence software they traced the phone number and suspect to be in that hood at the time.
Swiftly, Njuguna was handed over to the Witness Protection Agency (WPA). They were to facilitate his relocation from Nairobi, to a hideout outside the country. At the time, his wife was heavily pregnant with their first child.
As they relocated, DCI swung into action and apprehended the suspects.
Going forward, Njuguna adopted the name Fatuma, every time s/he appeared in court. He wore a hijab covering his head. His voice was muffled. A guest of the State. All because he bore important clues that would incriminate the suspects.
Again, for their troubles and inconvenience, the WPA gave them Ksh.100,000 in cash
A young man, barely is his thirties with a young family was relocated to one of the ASALs counties in Kenya. Out of the country, became out of the county. Plans shifted and he found himself in the unforgiving heat of Garissa.
After signing WPA papers, he secure a monthly stipend of Ksh.22,500
A year and a half whiled away as they hid in Garissa. Just before his witness protection duration lapsed, his wife was due with their second child. Scanty details are available on how protected witnesses are re-integrated back into normalcy.
WPA agents attempted to make him sign some documents. He decline, citing lack of clarity. This was until his OCS friend called him. Urging him to sign the documents, as that was normal protocol.
On signing, Njuguna was given Ksh.190,000. A token of appreciation, to move on.
Just like that! He was bundled out of witness protection. Perhaps he thought he would remain a guest of the State the rest of his life. He wasn’t ready to rebuild his former life. He hoped to be shipped and settled out of the country.
Such dreams are invalid.
Hearing this sudden shift of status, his wife went into early labor. Delivering a premature baby. She stayed in hospital for two weeks. Further consuming their token.
Relocating back to Nairobi cost half of the token, in ferrying their items and family. A few months later, he was at ground zero, literally. Going back to his taxi shimo, was haunting. His former fellow drivers were still there, eking a living.
Taxi driving is one of industries that experiences minimal transition. In fact, there’s a saying out there that taxi drivers don’t retire. They pass on the driving button to their children’s children.
Back in his hood, Njuguna got back into the trade he knew best. Word went out and soon he was being tracked and called by strange numbers.
Crooks in Kamiti prison tortured him with threatening messages and calls.
He engaged his OCS friend, who by this time wasn’t as enthusiastic in picking or returning his calls. His last advise to him was to change his trade. Move houses and get a new phone number.
Basically, he was haunted. A man running away from his shadow.
Two weeks in town, his day-shift driver was carjacked. His badly tortured and mangled body was found at some remote location in Ukambani. What other proof did he need?
His life was in danger. All because, he spoke up where he should have shut up.
Stripped to the bare, by his own speech. Is the cost of whistleblowing worth it?
With no income, his prospects dwindled. He and his wife agreed to send their son and daughter upcountry as they navigated their new normal.
With kids out of the way, his wife got a housekeeping job in Saudi Arabia. You know the drift. She supported Njuguna and the kids for the first four months, before the demons of the Gulf showed up.
On her last WhatsApp voice note, she shared an intimate conversation with her newfound love in Saudi. She didn’t want to support a man like him. She had moved on.
The late Muchai’s family awaits justice to be served. Full trial begins in December. Njuguna wishes to be out of this world. He has been threatened enough. He is destitute. His two children live with his mother. His estranged wife blocked his number.
Psychologically, he is tortured by the phantoms of his client in remand.
Njuguna’s advise: when in a crime scene, RUN for your life or SHUT UP! He says, he was in the wrong place, at the right time.
Remember the slain journalist-cum-whistleblower, William Munuhe. His life was snuffed out in 2003 as he lay traps to nab Felician Kabuga, Rwanda’s genocide mastermind.
At the time, FBI had placed a $5 million bounty on Kabuga’s head. His family has no closure on his death. They are still hopeful for the reward and justice, 20 years on.
Same script of whistleblowing. Different actors. Munuhe exits; Njuguna enters.
Is silence is better than the unnecessary drama caused by speech. Solomon said, “Wise (people) say very little. Those with understanding stay calm. Even fools seem to be wise if they keep quiet; if they don’t speak, they appear to understand.”
Joseph Ngaara is inspired by people’s life experiences. This is a true story. Views and opinions expressed are mine. Do you have an intriguing life story and need to share your triumph or tragedy? Email: j.mungai@hotmail.co.uk
So to be a witness is a crime😳