My first job ... then a journalist!

 

My First Job

With freedom from school, I did not know what to do. I caught the No. 44 bus and headed for the city centre via Pangani Chini. At Barclay’s bank I had to do a lot of fast-talking before I was allowed to see Mr. Williams my fishing buddy. When I got to his office his secretary, condescendingly told me that the “office boys entrance was at the back of the bank”.

“Madam, I am not an office boy, I am here to see Mr. Williams,” I told her quite politely.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked quite angrily.

“No. He said I could drop in any time,” I said, keeping my fingers crossed.

“You cannot see him without an appointment. He is much too important a person to see you …” Before she could finish her sentence, I had already opened the door with her in hot pursuit.

“He just barged in. I am sorry. I will get the office askaris,” she pleaded with Mr. Williams.

“No, no. I know Mr Fernandes. I will see him,” Williams told her.

He motioned me to the chair in front of his desk.

“How are you Mr Fisherman, thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” I said somewhat cheerily but I was actually nervous as hell.

“How’s the fishing? What can I do for you?” he asked, somewhat informally, putting me at ease.

“I am at the lowest point in my young life. I am desperate beyond words, and I have come to you because you are my last resort,” I told him.

“What do you need, money? Are you in any kind of trouble?” he said, seemingly very concerned.

“I need a job to save my life,” I begged.

“That’s easy. How old are you?” he lit up my face.

“Twenty-two,” I lied.

He got up from his chair and said: “Follow me.”

He led me to an amazing large room filled with 35 white girls all busy typing away at their accounts register business machines. The closest I had come to a white person were the priests and nuns at school, and of course those British soldiers. Working in a room full of beautiful white girls seemed a very unnerving prospect.

The arrogant me thought, what the heck, they are only people, even if they are white.

He introduced me to the head of the department, a medium-sized, matronly red-haired woman called June.

He told June: “This is Cyprian Fernandes your new recruit.”

He turned to me and said: “Good luck. Here you can take your first steps to a brilliant career in banking.”

Nobby Rodrigues, a fellow churchgoer would give me a lift to and from work on his Vespa scooter. He lived a minute or two from our place in Eastleigh.

I spent a blissfully happy nine months at the bank, rising quickly to be June’s assistant. There was no socializing, we kept our distance in that department.

Then, disaster hit. I allowed the girls to go home early one trial balance day, provided they all finished their work. They had pleaded with me so that they could see the final performance of a show.

At first glance, the trial balance looked OK, but when we looked in detail there were a million shillings missing. June and checked and rechecked and in the en,d we were forced to call Mr. Williams.

While he was checking our work, I walked around the room flicking the files on the desks and there were the little blighters, one million shillings worth of cheques that had not been debited to the relevant accounts. The girl responsible had created a kind of mirrored suspense account that fooled us. She put the cheques into her secret place. She planned to deal with them first thing the next morning.

The next morning, I was in Mr Williams’ office.

“Well, Mr Fisherman, it would seem the figures that are going on in your head are not the type that would suit the bank. You can hang around until you find a new job. Sorry, it has to be that way,” he said somewhat regretfully.

I went back to my desk and telephoned a family friend and a fellow Goan Oscar D’Mello Kenya’s then star soccer goalkeeper who worked for Oxo, a canned food wholesaler. Oscar was a family friend and a special kind of guy.

Oscar called me back later that day and said I had a job as a stock clerk in the warehouse in Nairobi’s Industrial Estate. So there I was, seated at my desk in this vast warehouse of canned foods. Lunch was on the house, just open any can and note it in the stock book. After four months, I treated myself to a beautiful Italian made creamy white sports jacket with spots of black. It was stunning and looked almost like a dinner jacket. I paid for it from the little savings I had been putting away.

The next month I was out of the place. The reason for my dismissal apparently was that the guys were jealous of my white jacket. I finished at Oxo on a Friday and I started at the Kenya Probation and Remand Home Service as a clerk on Monday. Within a few months I had my own office and the lofty title of Colony Statistical Officer. My tasks were to produce the annual reports and keep a monthly review of each probation officer. The probation officers came from all over Kenya. Some young, some not so young, some closing in on their 60s and there I am at 14 years old demanding they “Explain this continued trend of absconders. What do you propose to do to arrest the situation?” Questions came spouting out of my mouth to such an extent that I was cautioned I was a hard taskmaster. Soon things improved and the job became routine.

I also filled in as a juvenile probation officer. My first day in court was a classic. In the dock was an exile, snot running down his lips and chin. He was 12 years old but looked more like eight and scared out of his shredded pants. He was nabbed for repeatedly stealing candy from the local Woolworths. He was a street kid like so many thousand others in Nairobi.

The magistrate, Mrs. Riceborough, was almost five feet square, with no neck with a mop of greying hair and a voice that straight out of some London drama school.

The Police Prosecutor: “Your Honour, the boy has admitted to the offence and as you can see he is in a pretty poor state. I recommend probation.”

Mrs. Riceborough: “I agree entirely. Why is there never a probation officer on hand when we need one?”

I put up a finger and I slowly got up and said: If it pleases your honour …

Mrs. Riceborough: “What is it, are you related to the accused?”

“No your Honour, I am the probation officer,” I replied rather sheepishly.

Mrs. Riceborough: “My God! they do breed them young these days don’t they? Report back in two weeks?”

I said: “Your Honour, might I humbly suggest a remand home or an orphanage since the accused is homeless and a street kid?”

Mrs Riceborough:  “Mind your lip young man; I will do the suggesting around here. You just do what I ask of you. Yes, liaise with the Police and find a suitable shelter.”

“Thank you, your Honour, Madam,” I said.

Mrs. Riceborough: “By the way, how old are you?”

“Twenty two,” I lied again.

Mrs Riceborough: “You don’t look much older than the thief. Oh, well.”

Mrs Riceborough became a real friend and taught me as much as she could about everything that went on in the Kenyan courts system. That gave me a head start when I became a court reporter. She was brilliant.

It was also during this phase that I regularly met some of Kenya’s greatest legal minds, among them Madan Lal and A. R. Kapila.

For the rest of my life living on the edge was the only way for me. I was addicted to living by my wits and by the seat of my pants.

 

How I became a journalist

During one of Father Hannan’s absences, a relief headmaster had been impressed with my essays and compositions. He asked if I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. I said I wanted to be a criminal lawyer. He gave me a copy of the London Times and The Sydney Morning Herald. I was fascinated with the quaint rigidity of the Times but felt a lot happier with the SMH. The Times sounded many centuries old, while the SMH, although rough around the edges, seemed more alive.

“See what you think of that,” he had said.

“That’s newspaper reporting, journalism” he added. From that moment the thought of becoming a journalist would stay with me until I achieved it.

The Colony Statistical Officer bored with his job had gone on a walkabout for a week without reporting in. When I reported back, the sombre, almost statue-like Principal Immigration Officer simply shook his head and held out his hand to say goodbye. Suddenly living on the edge or by my wits seemed a load of crap at such an early age. I was not that disappointed with losing the job. I had been telling myself for months that I was only acting the part. I was neither old enough nor experienced to put those probation officers on the carpet. My leaving home forced my younger brother to quit school and help support the family, something he never forgave.

This was the hardest time for me. For the next four or five months, I bludged and lived off my friends and their folks… until a wonderful day in 1960 in the snooker parlour at the Queens Hotel. The snooker parlour remained a regular haunt for a long time. Besides the snooker, they served the best rare roast beef sandwiches, the crispest chips and Heinz tomato sauce, the expensive brand.

I was sitting with Julio Menezes who was at university, and he asked me what the heck I was going to do with my life. “What did I really want to do?”  “I wanted to become a criminal lawyer,” I told him.

“You won’t be able to do that without a High School Certificate and years at university, besides you can’t afford it,” said.

I shot back: “Well, the next best thing would be journalism.”

He said firmly: “Get off your butt and go and become a journalist. Do it today.”

The Aga Khan Media Group owned the Daily Nation and Sunday Nation. Both were in their infancy in 1960. The East African Standard was supposedly the best newspaper in Africa but they did not employ African or Asian reporters. It had to be the Nation. That afternoon I went into the typesetting and compositing room of the Nation in Victoria Street.

I asked to see the editor and was pointed to the works manager: Stan Denman. He was a tough, imposing guy, a former British Royal Commando.

“What do you want …” he asked.

I told him: “I need a job in journalism.”

He asked what my age was, and I told him: “22” I was 16   skinny and tall.

“Come with me,” he said. And I followed him into what turned out to be the paste-up room. The Nation was the first newspaper in Africa to use computer-generated copy. This proofread final computer print came in long strips and had to be trimmed perfectly to fit the sub-editor designed page. The composed page was proofread and finally approved to be photographed. The negative produced an aluminium plate that fitted onto a drum of the litho-offset printer. One drum, one page. Computer-generated printers were more expensive, though faster, the Nation also used linotype-originated lead type and the pages were composed in the traditional fashion.

“Do you think you could do that?” he asked pointing to the composition of the computer type.

The first thing that flashed through my mind was: This is not the kind of journalism I am thinking about. I told him: “No thanks. I didn’t come here to paste up little bits of paper. I want to be a journalist.” Perhaps a simple “no” might have done the trick. He kicked me out of the place. As I licked my wounds and soothed my bottom, it struck me that I could have been a lot more diplomatic.  Never mind. There is always Plan B. The next morning I awoke and went to church to find God again. I think I found Him, because I cannot think of any other reason than that for what follows. I went back to the Nation. Only this time I went to the Editorial department where Marina an angry receptionist interrogated me.

“What do you want,” she asked.

“I would like to see the editor, Mr. John Bierman,” I told her somewhat meekly.

“You can’t. Go away,” she insisted, almost like swatting a pesky fly. Political correctness, had not been invented.

“But I have to see him,” I pleaded.

“In what other language can I tell you? You cannot see him; he is a very busy man. At best leave him a note,” she was getting a bit tired with me, I could tell.

“Mr. Bierman wants to see me,” I persisted.

“Are you sure of that,” she asked with those raised eyebrows.

“Yes,” I said somewhat meekly. Grinning broadly.

“Speak to his secretary,” she ordered.

The secretary, a gorgeous red head with whom I fell head over heels in love with instantly, sat in a little cubicle just behind the reception desk.

“Yes. What can I do for you,” she asked, those pretty red lips moving in some kind of elegance.

“I have an appointment with the editor,” I told her quite confidently.

“Which editor …” she mused.

“John Bierman,” I beamed back.

She: No, you don’t have an appointment.

Me: Yes I do. I spoke to him yesterday.

She: I make all the appointments. No one else makes them, not even he. There is no appointment.

Me: Yes there is, I spoke to him.

She: No you didn’t. No one speaks to him without first talking to me.

Me: You must have been away from your desk.

She: You have an appointment, do you? You are sure of that? What time is your appointment?

Me: 10 am.

She: It is 9:45, you are too early.

Me: I always come at least 10 minutes early for an appointment.

She was smiling a little now and said: “Well, Mr. Bierman is right behind you.”

I turned around and there was this there was this guy with movie star looks with his hands hanging on to part of the metal frame above the doorway. And he was smiling.

“Cyprian Fernandes, Mr. Bierman,” I stuck out my hand.

“Ten minutes early, I like that,” he said, a full moon smile pasted on his face.

“Thanks for seeing me,” I said.

“So you spoke to me yesterday and I agreed to see you today? I must be suffering from amnesia because I cannot recall talking to you yesterday or ever,” he said quite firmly but the smile was still there.

“I lied,” I confessed.

“What, you little bleeding blighter …” he pretended to be very angry.

“Well I am getting my interview, aren’t I?” I said rather cheekily smiling back at him.

“So what can I do for you? By the way, how old are you?” he asked.

“Twenty-two,” that lie again.

“Education?” he queried.

“High School Certificate,” another lie.

“What would you like to do in journalism?” the question I had been praying for.

My 18 point by-line flashed in front of me: By Cyprian Fernandes and I blurted out: “Court Reporter, Municipal Reporter, Social Reporter, Political Reporter, General News Reporter,” and myriad other titles.

“Got nothing like that,” he said.

“What have you got?” I asked with terror in my eyes, the golden opportunity seemingly disappearing when he said: “A sports reporter, maybe.”

“I will take it,” I said even before he had finished talking.

“Hang on, hang on, not so fast. Come with me,” he led and he introduced me to Sports Editor Tom Clarke, one of the most wonderful guys I have ever met.

“Tom, this is Cyprian Fernandes, your new sports junior or the biggest conman I have ever met,” he said with that smile even larger now.

I had played a little soccer as a child, a goalkeeper in full black from head to toe copying the great Russian goalkeeper Lev Yashin. I knew very little of the other sports.

Tom went through the introductory ropes of how the Sports Department functioned. He was the boss and I was his only reporter. Free-lance contributors provided some copy and the rest came from news agencies. He gave me a sheet of wire stories and said: “Rewrite one of these and make it bright and interesting, use a little fiction if you need to, just this once.”

 I wrote something like this:

“United’s babes boot Spurs out of the park”

A bunch of kids, some not old enough to be out of school, ran circles around the older professionals of Tottenham Hotspur in the English League yesterday. Manchester United’s Busby’s babes, led by the genius of Bobby Charlton, the only survivor of the 1958 Munich air crash that killed eight United players, won 3-nil. It could have been 10 or 12.

Tom had a quick look and took it to John Bierman, who was standing a few feet away and they both cracked up in hysterics. Tom came back and asked how good I was on cricket?

Know the game, know the rules, can report.

“OK. Tomorrow there is the annual Asians v Europeans match at the Nairobi Club. I want you to cover it and write a trial report. Take the rest of the day off and prepare for tomorrow. By the way you are hired,” he said with a broad grin on his face. We shook hands, but that was not the only thing shaking, so was the rest of my body. “Thanks a million, I said in a quiet voice, I won’t let you down”.

“Don’t worry, I will look after you,” he promised.

As I passed Marina, I said: “I got the job.”

“Good for you,” she said, with a smile I have never forgotten and from that moment we became friends for life.

I ran outside and jumped for the sky. Yes!

Cricket. The only cricket I knew, having never played, was listening to Test cricket on British Forces radio, BBC’s Sports Round-Up or commentary on my tiny crystal set. I never missed a Test, especially the Ashes. I went to the nearest bookshop and asked for a comprehensive book on cricket. There was only one, a fairly thin one but it was just what I needed.

It contained:

The MCC(Marylebone Cricket Club) Rules of Cricket. The MCC was the supreme authority on the game.

The various fielding positions which I drew the first page of my notebook to which I was to refer to again and again with each shot and until I had learnt it all by heart.

Taking guard (lining up with the three stumps at the other end of the pitch), 1, 2 and off stump, a short commentary on the different guards.

The art of batting, cutting, driving, square, through the covers, and the various fielding positions.

Fast and medium pace bowling.

Spin bowling.

One of the rules was a lengthy piece on no-balls.

As I was to learn in later years, the booklet provided only the basics and was really meant for cricket ignoramuses, like me. For the moment, I thought that was enough. Cricket in Kenya was played on jute matting, as opposed to turf wickets which mowed down to almost dirt. What else could there be?

Next I called the Kenya Cricket Association. I eventually got the names of the two teams and the respective captains. The match was due to start at 10 am; I got there at 9 am. I was the only one there, as other folks arrived, I introduced myself and gleaned their thoughts on the games and various players. At 9:30 I got into the dressing rooms and spoke to the individual captains:

How is it looking for your team?

What is the batting like?

Who are your mainstays?

What is your attack like, pace and spin, and who are you looking to for the breakthroughs?

What would be a good score?

Which batsmen are you looking to get out quickly?

If I was writing a preview, I thought, I had enough for a half decent story.

It was a fine day and the weather would not have any effect on the game. There was no such thing as a press box. You just sat where you thought was most comfortable, especially from the sun. I did not know if there were other journalists there. I met a couple of guys at lunch but they did not identify themselves as journalists or contributors. I was fortunate enough to sit with a couple of die-hard former cricketers and gleaned much for my notes. At the end of the match I copied the scores and interviewed the two captains. I went back to the office, said a prayer, and typed my story on a typewriter chained to the desk. Before the chaining, typewriters ghosted away regularly.

When I handed Tom my story, he asked me to hang around.  A few minutes later he showed me some of the sub-editing changes he had made. “Be back at 9 am from now on … by the way you are no longer a junior, you are a senior sports reporter,” he said. Thus began a journey that would take me to the four corners of the world, allow me to meet Presidents and Prime Ministers, Cabinet Ministers, dance with a Princess and become a household name in print, radio and television.

Reporting soccer came easily. Writing came fairly easily as did asking the tough or awkward questions. In my reports I was complimentary as much as I was critical and was never afraid to question the form of a player or why he should not be dropped. I was also never afraid of challenging the establishment or seeking out fraud or indiscretions like nepotism or tribalism. I always made sure I knew the answers to the questions I was asking, making further investigation more fluent. I was never put off by the proverbial “no comment”.  I got to the bottom of the story after digging and digging, one source after another.

I got caught out once on the radio when I had accused the Football Association of misuse of funds after they had shown a strange loss. Reg Alexander, who was affiliated to the association, asked me: “Have you got any proof?”

“I have an eyewitness who has seen the evidence. Let me have the books and I will have them independently audited,” I said. I was told by “my sources” that not all the gate-money taken at the matches was ending up in the Football Association’s coffers.

 The problem persisted for several decades. Reg was dismissive. I never got caught out like that again. I had not based my allegations on the fact that corruption was institutionalized. Most people in high positions or power had their hands into something or the other

Consequently, the association canned my press facilities. Undaunted, I was a paying customer and reported on the match from the grandstand. A few months later, the ban was inexplicably lifted.

I had never played hockey and remain indebted to international hockey umpire Oscar D’Souza for tutoring me in the rules of the game. I am also grateful to international Hilary Fernandes for teaching me the finer points of the game. I refined my knowledge by picking the brains of various international players and coaches. I was lucky enough to ask the right questions most of the time. But it was an unforgettable time. The 1960s were the heyday of the classic hockey stick work game, unlike today’s long-passing, boring power-hitting game. Today, those deft dribbling skills continue to impress in the women’s game (2010). Argentina’s Luciana Ashmar and the Netherland’s Van As are brilliant exponents. India and Pakistan dominated the game then and Kenya usually gave them a good run for their money. Among the Kenyans, I will remember most are: Alu Mendonca (the best Goan player) Hilary Fernandes, Silu Fernandes, Edgar Fernandes, Egbert Fernandes, Avtar Singh, Surjeet Junior, Reynolds D’Souza, Franklin Pereira, Anthony Vaz, Reynolds D'Souza, Dunstan Rodrigues, Leo Fernandes, Pritam Singh, and Cajie Fernandes (with Alu arguably the greatest). Bringing my soccer style of reporting to hockey, was unheard of before, I soon earned respect from the players and from my editor Brian Marsden, who rewarded me with a weekly column on the subject. I didn’t make too many friends with the management of the sport, which was dominated by Sikhs. Nevertheless, I fought for and won selection for players who were not on the selectors’ radar.

Soccer, hockey, athletics, cricket and tennis gave me great pleasure, but I also reported on rugby until Michael Wright took over, and golf or any other sport on a slow day. Sports also gave me instant access to several ministers, many of whom I had already known before, and going to the top on any issue was not a big deal. For example, Seraphino Antao, a Commonwealth Games double gold medalist, was Kenya’s greatest athlete many decades before Kenyan African athletes dominated the world. On one occasion, weeks before the then Commonwealth Games, the athletics chiefs had denied him the services of his regular coach, Ray Batchelor. I spoke to the relevant Minister and the problem was solved in a couple of minutes, with the Minister making the funds available immediately.

Life as a young sports reporter was one of perpetual learning. My addiction to reading several books a day came in handy. I had contacts who regularly tipped me off. One blemish: In December 1963, Ghana All Stars wrecked Kenya’s Uhuru soccer celebrations. The All-Stars were 6 or 7 nil at half-time. Jomo Kenyatta left in disgust at half-time. I was stunned. Every Kenyan was stunned. Back at the office, I froze at my typewriter. Thankfully sports editor Brian Marsden helped me save the day as he wriggled the story out of my shell- shell-shocked brain.

 

 

The Munich Olympics, death and golden glory

In 1972, one of my junkets took me to Germany, to the Olympic stadium in Berlin, the scene of Jesse Owens’ 1936 Olympic four gold medal successes. Jesse, a black athlete was the man Hitler would not recognise or shake hands with. Jesse won the 100, 200 metres double, the long jump and was part of the 4X100 metres relay team. In Munich, I spent a whole morning with the great yet very humble man. The junket, which would end in Munich just before the start of the Olympics, was made up of journalists from many parts of the world including Australia and New Zealand.

Once we got to Munich, I realised I would be the only one going home. I thought it would be a shame to have come so far and miss being at the Olympics. I was not supposed to be in Munich; Norman Da Costa was covering for the Nation. I went into the Press Room and sought out the Chief-Press-Officer, a likeable guy called Wolfgang, and asked if I could get press facilities. He was sorry but every available press pass had been issued months before. In that case, I said, could I have somewhere to stay since all the hotel accommodation in Munich was booked out. No problem, he said, but it would be expensive. I took the offer.

That afternoon I attended a press conference by the African head of Olympic organisations. I asked him: “Now that Idi Amin has thrown out all the Asians and killed any chance of multiracial sports, will you ban Uganda from taking part in the Games?”

There was numbed silence followed by an uproar of sorts, including encores of “answer the question”. I asked a few more touchy questions before the African chiefs left in disgust. A lot of English-speaking journos tapped me on my shoulder and said “good question”. Later that afternoon, there were a couple more press conferences and I made a similar impact. At the end of these, Wolfgang came and put his arms around my shoulder and led me away. When we had reached a certain point, he said: Stand here and smile. He stood a little away from me. Moments later he handed me my premium press pass, press kit and a whole bunch of other stuff, free of charge. “You are a good journalist, I wish you good success,” he said.

I had worked for the German radio station Deutsche Welle off and on for a while, mainly political reporting and daily commentary and analysis whenever I was in Bonn. The next day I headed for the DW studio and they welcomed me by handing me a couple of large tape recorders. I also contacted the BBC World Service and their Africa Service and they agreed to take any feeds I could provide. Eventually, I would go from station for them to copy material from my tape recorders. My plan was simple: I would interview former greats like Jesse James, Emil Zatopak (one of the greatest long-distance runners of all time), Mal Whitfield (an Olympic quarter miler who had been attached to the US Embassy in Nairobi) and ask them just one question: How would you run their pet event/events, who were their likely opponents, and what tactics would best suit the Munich track? I had to find my subjects and update the tapes after the finalists emerged following the heats. I also spoke to a whole bunch of coaches.

The stations would use sound bites in their previews of races to come and also slot them in during the actual races. Almost every broadcasting unit bought my tapes. Some used the material unchanged; others used the model to create their own stuff relevant to their audiences. Most of them paid cash in US dollars. I did not talk to many of the Kenyan athletes but provided my own analyses.

The Israeli siege followed by the massacre opened up an opportunity to provide live feeds to several stations. A Kenyan athlete was a telecom technician and he wired up a whole bunch of phones to help me speak to several programs live. I shared my material with anyone, whether they wanted to pay for it or not. Interviews, too. The journalists who were on that junket with me particularly appreciated my feeds. I never had to pay for a drink at the Press pub. I was almost drowned in free grog.

So there I was in the press stand, a computer telephone and enough paper info to save the ozone layer and enough journalists to start a nation of their own. Suddenly I found myself redundant. As I sat there half watching a procession of the early heats, I was taken in by the sheer beauty of the games, the German one-way precision, change no lanes, do not adapt, and follow the plan like a train timetable. It all looked so good. The only out-of-place thing I noticed was that the inside stadium perimeter wall was lined up with folks in their wheelchairs.  That gave me an idea

At last, I struck gold. I got a couple of my buddies to virtually carry me into the Games Medical Emergency Room. I faked severe pain in my legs. After various scans and tests, the doctors said I should be hospitalized.  No. No. I pleaded that I was a journalist and had to cover the track and field events.

“What else can we do?” the doctor asked.

“Fill my butt with pain-killing injections and give me a pair of crutches,” I cried. “And a letter saying that I was in great pain.”

That did the trick. I walked out of there with those wonderful crutches and sports journalism history: the first journalist in the world to interview medal winners and commentate on the track. Nobody stopped me as I stepped inside the Olympic arena.

When Ugandan John Aki Bua won the 400 metres Gold Medal I ran halfway around the track interviewing him. He just could not stop running. I will never forget the broadest smile in Games: Australia’s Raelene Boyle after she won silver in the sprints epitomised the beauty of the joy of climbing her own personal Everest. American Frank Shorter, who could barely speak after winning the marathon, said: “I am not sure I am alive. I hit a wall some kilometers back and I am sure I died there.”

I sat for three hours with the great Kenyan long-distance champion Kipchoge Keino in the medical testing room. He just could not provide a urine sample; it took an eternity to do so. A favourite for the 1500 metres, he won silver but then shocked everyone by winning the 3000 metres steeplechase. And he was not happy at all. I hurdled like a punda (donkey) he told me. Several years before I had watched him run his first sub four-minute mile on a grass track at the Medical Sports Ground in Nairobi. I was the only one who interviewed the winners at the moment of their great exhilaration.

After the closing ceremony, I went to the Press bar and my last unforgettable moment came with a tap on my shoulder and turned around to see the beaming face of Wolfgang, the chief press officer. He continued to shake my hand and tap my shoulder with his other hand. “Wunderbar unt danke,” he said, “you no pay for anything,” or something that sounded like that as he walked away, waving his hand in farewell. I sent some money home and took off for some much-needed R&R in Scandinavia: lots of Aquavit, Courvoisier and caviar, not necessarily in that order.

 

 

The news and nothing but the news

I moved to the General News department before attending the Munich Olympic Games. 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 more often did not make the paper. I covered the Rotary and Lions Club lunches, openings, launches, sometimes wrote the stars, minor motor accidents, chased fire engines. 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. 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 interview with British comic genius Spike Milligan (of The Goon Show fame) 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 nano second. 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 very own 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 gruelling East African Safari, which attracted many international drivers. Kul Bhushan was also an 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 continues to edit Coastweek. He is a walking, talking encyclopedia of everything Kenyan coastal. Adrian is one of life's gifts, a great journalist, he was 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 black politician. He was never comfortable at the Nation. He was too brilliant for the Nation of that era.

Azhar Chowdhry, 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 brilliant news photographer and a wildlife essayist. 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 for 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 Chowdhry, Sashi was Mr. Reliable. He had a heart attack while sitting in the sofa opposite the News Editor's desk and died in a hospital. Anil Vidyarthi was another special photographer and a can-do kind of guy who would not let anything or anyone stop him from getting the gun shot.

Boaz Omori, Nation Editor, was a gentle man. 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 VoK television’s ‘Meet the Press program’. 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 big help talking in Kikuyu with people at the scene of an incident. He brought potential witnesses to me. 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 any 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, 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: 10 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 welcomed me to the art of page design. Neil Graham was another special friend. Jack Beverley, founding Editor Sunday Nation, was a hard man to like but with an eagle eye for detail and 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, 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 25th 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 Kikuyu Mau 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. Someone who needed taming, someone to toe his flawed line. I could never do that. When George was good, he wrote brilliant editorials. He was no 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 to flag. 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 Kenyatta right-hand man, opposed this with considerable help from the so-called black Englishman Charles Njonjo. Githii was like a man possessed. I left within 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 (me included) 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.

Yet 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.

 

A bullet with my name on it

Death threats aimed at journalists and other prominent people were fairly standard in Nairobi during the late 1960s until my departure in 1974. As a political journalist in Kenya, you had to walk the political tightrope with the precision of a brain surgeon. It was common to be picked up by the Special Branch for interrogation.  One lived with fear of deportation every day. To survive one placed his or her faith in the truth, as proclaimed by the masthead of the Daily Nation: The Truth Shall Make You Free. The truth made a prisoner of you rather than set you free. There were not too many editors who were brave enough to publish. If one fell through the cracks, watch out. For example, if you exposed the President, Jomo Kenyatta, and his Kikuyu cronies for exploiting a loophole in the Constitution such as freely sharing out Crown Land you would be deported. If you were a black Kenyan, though, you would probably be dead. In later years, the wailing was: “But it is Kenyatta who set up the system. We are only following in his footsteps.”

Kenyatta could do almost whatever he pleased, he reigned in an era, when the democratisation principle was not so compelling. He stamped out any opposition, especially in the media and in Parliament especially probes into land grabbing and wealth exploitation by mainly his ministers and Kikuyu associates. As a dictator, he was much loved and much respected. Those who knew better were forced into silence. So, the message was: don’t mess with Jomo Kenyatta if you value your life. The bottom line was that if you were foolish enough to challenge Kenyatta or his Ministers, you would most likely be on the next plane out or a corpse.

The Crown land freebies have been spoken of and written about sparsely, but only after Jomo Kenyatta’s death in 1978. Before his death, however, publication of the story would have surely resulted in death both for the writer and publisher. The publication would have been banned for life and its non-Kenyan employees would be deported on the spot.

In the absence of a story of that magnitude, I cannot recall any journalists being killed, but plenty were deported for revealing the truth or being associated with digging up the truth such as the Mau Mau oathing ceremonies post-independence. On the other hand, as far as the world knew, thanks to friendly nations with interests such as Britain and the U.S., Kenya was great example of an emerging African country. It was to a large extent at peace with itself, even though in the broadest of terms. A single party administration is no substitute for democracy. However, multiracialism of sorts was on view, tourists thronged in the thousands as did billions in foreign aid. To the outside world, mainly by the tourist telegraph, Kenya was idyllic. The reality was that Kenyatta was an autocrat, even a demi-god. His will was always done, whether it was constitutional or not. I must confess I could not get my best stories published. Forget about publishing, I could not even talk about them to my fellow journalists.

The white journalists, too, knew to push political stories only so far but moaned about it like hell, surely in denigration of a black system. Kenyatta knew no fear. He verbally flogged errant ministers with a torrent of four letter words in Swahili in front of thousands of Kenyans and visitors alike at rallies such as those that marked Independence in December 1963. In front of Kenyatta, ministers and members of parliament all cowered. All except his eternal nemesis, Jaramogi Oginga Odinga, who vied for the Presidency. The token Vice-Presidency at Independence was never to his liking, he was always uncomfortable in the job. If Cabinet Ministers and Members of Parliament cowered in the presence of Kenyatta what hope was there for humble journalists or anyone else for that matter?

Kenyatta was not a very tall or large man but he exuded charm and power in equal quantities. White settler biddies swooned as he passed by, like teenagers at an Elvis Presley or Beatles concert. He was always impeccably elegant, a rosebud the standout decoration in his lapel. This also underscored his love of roses. Consider the political scenery: The North Western Kenya leader, Oginga Odinga, had come in as Vice President at independence in 1963 and was gone by May 1966. He would go to his grave opposed to Kenyatta and all things Kikuyu.

The Goan-Maasai Joseph Murumbi held the Vice Presidency for a few months in 1966 and left later disillusioned, fearing that his political best friend Pio Gama Pinto had been murdered by the Kiambu Kikuyu mafia  ruling Kenya under Kenyatta. Murumbi was in a dark place because he was alleged to have coerced his life-long friend Pio out of hiding.

Ronald Ngala, the leader of Kenya’s coastal people, and the king of the Kalenjin, Daniel arap Moi, split the African representation into Kenya African Democratic Union (KADU) on one side, and the Kenya African National Union, which included Tom Mboya and members of the Kiambu mafia on the other. In 1966, Daniel arap Moi succeeded Murumbi. Ronald Ngala was to die in a tragic road accident in 1978, but he was a spent political force on the national landscape, although he continued to hold sway in his constituency of the Kenyan coast. In 1966, Oginga Odinga formed the Kenya People’s Union, signaling a head-on clash with Kenyatta and the Kikuyu.

Pio Gama Pinto was one of two Kenyan Goans who were true African nationalists. The other was barrister Fitz De Souza. Joe Murumbi was neither Goan nor Maasai; he hovered somewhere in between, the twilight of the half-caste. While he was a nationalist, I was never convinced that his whole heart was in it. Perhaps by the time I met him he was so disillusioned that he would have rather forgotten about his political past. He spoke very little about himself anyway. He was happiest talking art and music, especially African art. He quietly cancelled himself off the political scene and found solace in the beauty and comfort of the arts instead.

Tom Mboya, who continued to grow in stature and popularity since independence, was not a Kikuyu favourite. He was out of favour with Kenyatta, who had sent him to negotiate independence in October 1963; instead Mboya was suspected of engineering December 1963. Even before that, Mboya was on the outs because he would not give up his parliamentary seat for Kenyatta. He was tolerated for his immense popularity not only at home but also in the West. More importantly he was a sworn enemy of his fellow Luo, Oginga Odinga. That left Kenyatta who was going to die any day now, Daniel arap Moi (who was going to succeed him), Njoroge Mungai (who was going to try and stop Daniel arap Moi) and Charles Njonjo (who was going to stop Mungai). Not in the inner sanctum, but with considerable political clout, were the very likeable Mwai Kibaki and Jeremiah Nyagah.

Tom Mboya was cruelly gunned down in the doorway of his chemist’s shop in broad daylight on a Saturday morning, July 5, 1969. His passing had shocked the country. Oginga Odinga was not a threat either, but he continued making political noises of sorts on the outer fringes of the political spectrum, without any real muscle. He was the resident communist (a capitalist at heart really) with purported strong leanings to the Soviet Union and China. There was a supposed friendship with Tanzania’s President Julius Nyerere, a self-confessed socialist and a China-fancier--after all they built him a railway to Zambia. However, the West was encouraged to accept Odinga as the face of and threat of communism in Kenya. Nobody except Odinga argued. Odinga did not pose a threat because a reasonably strong Kenya Army, backed by unlimited military support from the UK, made sure there was no threat to the security of the country or a coup. J.M. Kariuki, a fast rising Kikuyu star who claimed alliance with Tom Mboya and who was the only Kikuyu on Rusinga Island for Tom’s funeral, once said that Kenya did not want 10 millionaires and 10 million beggars. He was assassinated in March 1975. J.M’s public persona was exaggerated. He promised lots of money to self-help groups and delivered little. Robert Ouko, another Luo and former foreign minister who had better entrées than most presidents in the US Oval Office, was murdered in 1990. There are others, like Agriculture Minister Bruce McKenzie, whose passing has been documented elsewhere. I did not know Bruce all that well.

I first met Tom Mboya in 1960 at a Luo soccer club match at the Nairobi Stadium. From that day on, I was in regular contact with him. He introduced me to his top specialists in the Planning and Development Ministry and told them I had carte blanche on free-to-air information. He was definitely Africa’s answer to John F. Kennedy, if Africa had allowed him the miracle. It never did. If I was star struck, it was with due credibility. US educated with intellect, charisma and friendly persuasion galore, he had access to the inner sanctums of the US, Britain, Germany, UN and a bunch of other European and African power brokers. China and the Soviet Union considered him a black capitalist.

Ironically, Tom’s resume mirrors that of Foreign Minister Dr Njoroge Mungai, another presidential aspirant and more importantly a Kikuyu. Like Tom, Mungai was another brilliant contact. My wife and I were the only Goans invited to a private party for the then Prince Charles and Princess Anne hosted by Mungai. Naturally, we were the only Goans invited to his wedding. Mungai opened doors to every president and prime minister in Africa. I did not spare him any tough questioning at press conferences, but I also got the inside running on major scoops. I travelled the world with him; our visits to the world’s capitals usually ended with R&R at the nearest sauna with Aquavit, champagne and caviar. Naturally it led to many people associating me with Mungai and I am not ashamed to admit him as a great source. I would even call him a friend if pure journalism permitted it. Both Mungai and Mboya were handsome devils; suave and polished they attracted women like bees to honeysuckle. Both married beautiful women. Both were US educated. Mboya facilitated the transportation of hundreds of young Kenyans to the US where they were granted scholarships. Then there was Attorney General Charles Njonjo: the black Englishman and man most likely to influence Jomo Kenyatta. Njoroge Mungai may argue the toss on that one. Njonjo was Kenya’s front door key to the British cabinets of both Labour and Liberal. And finally the charming Daniel arap Moi, with all the caring, poise and understanding of the teacher that he was. He never said much but he was always a president-in-waiting. I went on a few overseas trips with him, especially in Africa. I found him an easily likeable man, though always a wary one. Most analysts reckon his presidency from 1978-2002 was the worst in Kenya’s history. In cahoots with members of his family and associates he is alleged to have looted and plundered billions from the country’s coffers. It was also a period when Kenya suffered a foreign investment drought as well as a foreign aid drought. Many were killed in political skirmishes and many more went into hiding or created new underground movements. Yet, the man Kenyans once called a sheep stood tall… very defiant.

I had established my credibility assets with all the top players and I thought I enjoyed their confidence. So why then the bullet with my name, you may well ask? I pored over every nook and cranny of my own brain and never found answer. In response to the growing death threats  Police Commissioner Bernard Hinga had tried to look into one or two with no mention in the Daily Nation or to its editor. There were also the crank calls that poured abuse over the phone lines. More often than not, these ended with my putting the phone down. The first time I received a death threat, I must admit I was shaken a bit, but these were the days of the sweet bird of youth, the wind in your hair and an unshakeable belief in your mission in life. Besides, they don’t shoot journalists in Kenya, I told myself. Did the death threats impinge on my freedom? No. I continued to proceed with as much caution as intuition would allow me. Foolishly, I convinced myself that I had friends in high places.

You develop a thick skin and eventually the threats are reduced to empty words although, as I said, one really should not take a death threat lightly anywhere in Africa. My only crime would have been that I gave each of the top players the exposure they deserved in a balanced story. There was no bias. I was not the news, they were. I was merely the humble scribe, the messenger.

The crunch came one day in May 1974. After dinner that night, my wife said: “Cyprian we need to talk.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked somewhat nonchalantly.

She explained: “You have always said that I was the perfect journalist’s wife. Before we married you took me to the Nation offices and pointed to your blue Olivetti portable typewrite and said: there’s my first wife. I have never argued this point. I have watched you absolutely immersed in one crisis after another. I have shared with you agonies and ecstasies of journalism. We made new friends and travelled far and wide. It has been a heck of a ride. But I have to say STOP now.”

I held her and comforted her as she sobbed and tears ran down her cheeks.

“Why?” I asked

“Because, they are going to kill you,” she sobbed.

“Who? Who is going to kill me,” I asked.

“I don’t know. But I was told today, they are going to kill you,” she said.

“Who told you?” I wondered.

“This insurance salesman came to see my boss. He asked me for my name and when I told he and he said he had a friend called Fernandes. Does your husband write for the Nation? He asked and I said “yes,” she explained.

She continued: “Suddenly his smiling, happy face was ashen. He ran to the door, checked the corridor, shut the door quietly, and said: Dear lady, dear lady. Get him out of this country today. They are going to kill him. They have a bullet with his name on it.”

She asked him: “Who is going to kill him?”

He said: “I can’t tell you. I must not say.”

She explained: “Before I could say anything else he had bolted out of the door. I was shattered. I told my boss. I told my sister Delfine who also worked in the Education Department.”

I said: “He must have been another nut.”

“Nut or not, we are leaving Kenya. If you don’t want to come, I am taking the children and going to Canada or England,” she was adamant and she was still sobbing uncontrollably.

“When do you want to leave?” I asked.

“Tomorrow, the day after, as soon as we can,” she begged.

I said: “How about in four weeks?”

She replied: “Do it as quickly as possible.”

I called Dr. Njoroge Mungai and explained to him what had happened. He said that nothing had been raised at the weekly Cabinet meeting at State House Gatundu but he had heard a few sniggers about the editorial. His attitude was that it was not a serious matter and that Githii was old enough to look after himself and did not need the Minister for Information to bend any elbows. He told me not to worry about it. A few days later I met Charles Njonjo in Parliament and raised the subject with him. He did not see any issues but, as usual, he ended the conversation with: “Be careful.”

In my own life as a reporter there were many occasions when Dr. Mungai pulled me out of sticky situations, defended me in Cabinet on very sticky subjects such as accusing a minister of pilfering famine relief maize for his personal and tribal benefit, or accusing another of being Mr. 10 percent (he allegedly charged 10 percent of the total invoice for import/export licences). There were several instances when the Special Branch escorted me to Gatundu and after hours of waiting, wondering if was I was going to live or die, I would be released, thanks to Dr. Mungai, Charles Njonjo, Mwai Kibaki, or Daniel arap Moi standing up for me. There were other times when I was taken to other secret destinations, held for and an hour of two and told never to speak about my experience.

There was only one decision. Within four weeks we were out of Nairobi. Earlier in the year, I had been to Canada for interview with the Toronto Globe and Mail. I secured an understanding that I would be in-waiting for the Foreign Editor’s chair when I migrated. We had planned to stop over in England for a week but ended up staying five years and moved to Australia instead at the first opportunity.

In 2014 I finally wrote the stories that could have got me killed in 1974.