POLITICAL SURVIVAL

 POLITICAL SURVIVAL

Honorable Mwangi stared out the window of his Kileleshwa penthouse. It was only 5:00 AM, but his phone was already buzzing relentlessly on the nightstand. For Mwangi, this was not a sign of duty toward his constituents, but the raw hum of political survival. A new day of maneuvering had begun, and honesty was a luxury he could not afford. His first meeting at 6:30 AM took him to the dim, discreet corner of a luxury hotel in Westlands. A foreign investor sat waiting, flanked by a nervous local real estate developer. The objective was simple: clear a protected urban wetland for a massive shopping mall project. Mwangi sipped his cup of coffee as the developer slid a heavy, bulging manila envelope beneath the table. "The first tranche, Mheshimiwa," the man whispered. Mwangi felt the weight of the crisp, tightly banded one-hundred-dollar notes. He flashed his well-rehearsed, fatherly smile, patted the envelope, and promised that the NEMA environmental clearance certificates would be on their desks by the next day. ‘The frogs and birds of the swamp had no vote in the upcoming election, but this cash would certainly translate into votes.’ Mwangi thought. By 10:00 AM, Mwangi’s swapped his designer jacket for a collarless Kitenge shirt. Escorted by a convoy of three pitch-black, tinted V8 SUVs, he rolled into a dusty, impoverished settlement in his constituency. He had planned a meeting with local leaders in the area social hall. The hall was full when he got up on the stage to address them. He explained how corruption in past regimes had left ordinary citizens to starve but that he and the government were working day and night to fix things up. The crowd roared and cheered. After the meeting, safely shielded behind the tinted glass of his vehicle, he gestured for a local youth gang leader to step inside. Mwangi pulled a thick stack of cash and pressed it into the young man's hand. "My rival is holding a rally here on Saturday," Mwangi whispered coldly. "Make sure it gets loud, chaotic, and disruptive. No casualties, but enough commotion to dominate the evening news." The afternoon was reserved for state bureaucracy, the most lucrative discipline of all. At 2:30 PM, Mwangi sat in the air-conditioned boardroom of a government ministry. On the table was the allocation of a multi-million-shilling tender for specialized medical equipment. The chairman of the procurement committee, a loyal ally that Mwangi had personally placed in that seat, gave him a knowing nod. This deal going as planned would have thirty percent of the total project value wired as a kickback to an offshore account in Mauritius for Mwangi. The fact that the equipment was substandard and likely to fail under pressure was a problem for future patients, not him. By 7:00 PM Mwangi arrived at an exclusive, members-only cigar lounge in Kilimani to meet his digital strategist. On the laptop screen before them lay manipulated audio clips and fabricated financial documents framing his primary political opponent in a career-ending scandal. He had to end the rival’s career in good time before elections and things were going as planned. It was well past midnight when his V8 finally turned into the heavily guarded driveway of his mansion in Runda. In his wood-paneled study, he poured a glass of whiskey, walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, and looked down at the glittering lights of the city below. He had lied, cheated, compromised the environment, financed political violence, and jeopardized public healthcare all in a single day's work. He raised his glass to his own reflection and smiled. It had been a highly productive day in Kenyan politics and tomorrow, he would do it all over again because, how else would he defend his seat in the coming elections? Survival was key.

©Stephen Mungai