Sarakasi at midnight as witnesses in DP's drama star in Senate theatre

I wanted to write about the rise and fall, or is it fall and rise, of Deputy Prezzo Rigathi Gachagua aka Riggy G, whose reign was scheduled to unexpectedly end, or begin, last night at midnight. But I was drawn to the riveting drama that has gripped the nation over the last few days, as the Senate was designated official site of TikTok short films.

It’s part of a nationwide government to promote creative economies in the 47 counties, and they are starting with Nairobi. It was so confounding when I returned, after a brief trip, to a city in the grip of such riveting drama.

In the spirit of accountability, let me clarify my trip was at no cost to the taxpayer. The reason for my discombobulation was that I had left town when Riggy G was DP in capital letters, and returned when his replacement was being sought, even before his case was presented for hearing.

That’s a misrepresentation of facts, if I may apply the few legal jargons picked from the sarakasi in the Senate; no court was willing to hear Riggy G out, even after filing cases from dawn to dusk, and vice versa, so judges were constrained to sleep ploughing through his truckload of documents or rise deeply submerged in the same space.

But since I have learnt nothing should be taken on face value, it stands to reason that we need corroborative evidence that the judges actually read through the tomes to reach similar conclusions: Let the Senate decide.

So, it is to Senate that Riggy G delivered his truckload of evidence to dispel the 11 charges levelled against him, and which were the basis of his impeachment. And I said to myself: Folks in our country are reputed for kuregarega, when did they prepare these thousands of pages?

And there they were, men in fine robes and Italian shoes stepping onto the big stage with glaring lights, delivering a play-reading that will be remembered long after the proceedings are concluded and the Senate, which stirs to life only occasionally in its decade-old life, bubbled with enchanting performances well after midnight.

“Do you know what’s a bidder?” Asked a man with a handlebar moustache in a voice that grated the ears. His pronunciation sounded like a ‘beader’, which, in my estimation, was more appropriate because the man he was interrogating had a bead of sweat on his forehead.

The anonymity of the cast is not intended to disguise their artistic capabilities; almost all performers wore masks or garbs that disguised their identity. Even crooks and thieves and raggamuffins paraded in elegant robes.

In many instances, well-known personalities were simply addressed as ‘Mr Witness’. What was enticing was the repeated instruction for those acting as witnesses to read specific paras and confirm their meanings.

“Can you comment on the meaning of that sentence…” said one actor. “I can’t comment…” the other started. “You will comment…” came the rejoinder, an edge of threat creeping in. Incidentally, the interlocutor was seeking to dispel a claim of bullying on the part of his client.

“I don’t know,” Mr Witness returned. “What don’t you know…?”

But the actor who takes the biscuit is the main character, one whose identity was revealed as Mwengi Mutuse, and who did not seem to know answers to the many questions posed to him.

He will be remembered for his sheepish smiles and facial gestures that affirmed a certain vulnerability and sincerity: he didn’t know much, and he said as much, even in his silence.