'Raila will not win this by the backdoor!': In the words of Wafula Chebukati

In this personal account of an encounter with the fallen electoral body chairman just days before the General Election in 2022, Bernard Mwinzi says he could not understand why Chebukati was not taking the challenge of maintaining impartiality and a cool demeanour in the face of overwhelming political or media pressure at the time. But maybe, he adds, he expected too much of him. He was human, after all. And, in the circumstances, the line between heroism and villainy was a constantly shifting one, defined not just by his actions and those of his team, but by the shifting tides of political power and public perception. Yes, it was just days to the General Election, and in that volatile and charged environment, Chebukati could perhaps be excused for forgetting that, in the eyes of many, he was both a servant of the people and a prisoner of their biases

I arrived in town at the shocking news of the passing of Wafula Wanyonyi Chebukati, the man who chaired the Independent Electoral and Boundaries Commission from January 2017 to January 2023. The first thing that crossed my mind when I heard of his death at Nairobi Hospital was my last meeting with him just a few days before the General Elections in August 2022. I had been called for a meeting with the IEBC following a series of articles I had authored for the Daily Nation, specifically a Page 1 headline I had written that had summed up the upcoming polls as ‘The Making of an Opaque Election’. As I walked to the small boardroom at the Bomas of Kenya, where preparations for the elections were in top gear, I knew I was in for a thorough hiding. But I was wrong. This was not going to be a hiding; it was going to be a brutal roasting.

I had hoped to meet him alone, to perhaps argue over a cup of coffee and call a truce. Again, I was wrong. I was accompanied by two senior managers from the Nation, even though this was going to be my party. Chebukati walked into the room accompanied by several commissioners. He looked at me with absolute disdain as he settled into his seat at the farthest end of the room. His deputy, Juliana Whonge Cherera, sat to his right, while the then IEBC chief executive officer, Marjan Hussein Marjan, sat to his left.

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I had studied him as he walked in. I wanted to measure him up, to understand him even in the reticence and awkwardness of the moment. To size him up. He moved like a man carrying the weight of a thousand petitions on his back, his slight stoop suggesting both the burden of responsibility and the quiet amusement of a referee watching players trip over their own feet. His eyes were slightly watery yet unnervingly piercing.

When he settled down and called the meeting to order, he spoke softly, his voice measured, almost detached, as though he were merely an observer in the grand circus unfolding before him. Yet, woven into that gentleness was an acerbic edge, the kind that could slice through bluster with a single phrase. He, perhaps, had perfected the art of delivering punches that sounded like casual observations during his stint at his law firm, Cootow and Associates Advocates, which he had run as a sole proprietorship for 20 years before resigning, to avoid  conflict-of-interest accusations, after he was appointed by President Uhuru Kenyatta to the commission in 2017. I found him hard to bear, but I still respected him as a man, an elder and a senior public servant. His words, noncommittal yet somehow absolute, felt like reading tea leaves — open to interpretation, but ultimately binding.

READ: Hero or villain: Chebukati rode many storms to his very last day

Chebukati’s position at the IEBC was, in all estimations, an unenviable job. Charged with overseeing one of the most contentious and politically volatile processes in the nation, he had dived head-first into a furnace. I have always thought that it was easy to understand his motivations and the gusto with which he took to the role in 2017; at first glance, the role of the chairperson is straightforward: to ensure free, fair, and transparent elections, and to safeguard the democratic principle that underpins the very idea of governance. However, the Kenyan reality is far more complex. The philosophy of electoral management in our part of the world is inextricably bound to our tumultuous political history, deeply entrenched ethnic divisions, and an electoral system marred by controversy and mistrust. The chairperson, thus, becomes both a symbol of integrity and, often, the scapegoat for any perceived failure or fraud in the process.

The weight of this responsibility cannot be overstated. It is not simply about managing ballots and counting votes; it is about managing the hopes, frustrations, and passions of millions of Kenyans. For someone in this role, the line between heroism and villainy is thin and often blurred. In the court of public opinion, electoral commissioners are seldom viewed with neutrality, and that was the lens through which we all viewed Chebukati as well. When an election is contested, as is so often the case in Kenya, the person at the helm is scrutinised to an almost unbearable degree. The toll this takes on electoral managers is both personal and professional, as they navigate the complex terrain of power, perception, and public expectations.

To understand why many thought Chebukati had taken up a thankless job, we need to examine the philosophy of electoral management in Kenya. At its core, the IEBC projects a philosophy of neutrality. And that is expected of them, for an electoral body is supposed to be above the political fray — independent, impartial, and transparent. Heck! The IEBC even has the word “independent” in its title. What many people forget, however, is that Kenya, like many post-colonial nations, is a place where politics is never just about policy or governance; it is about power, identity, and survival. The country’s history of ethnic conflict, often exacerbated during elections, complicates the notion of impartiality. Thus, our electoral cycles are rarely just contests of ideas; they are often a battleground for ethnic and regional loyalties.

It is in such a polarised environment that Chebukati attempted to walk a tightrope. On one hand, the role demanded adherence to democratic principles, which meant running elections that were fair, free, and transparent. But, on the other hand, the political landscape of 2022 was one where loyalty, ethnicity, and influence often trumped merit. Seeking to uphold the sanctity of the election process was always going to be seen as heroic by some, but also as villainy by others—especially if the outcome didn’t favour one of the entrenched political elites.

ALSO READ: Wafula Chebukati: The man who stoked controversy with praise and condemnation in equal measure

Chebukati’s job, thus, was a moral and intellectual quagmire. The philosophical ideal of electoral management—where the commission simply administers elections in an apolitical vacuum—was almost unattainable in such a charged environment. The very structure of Kenyan politics, with its winner-takes-all mentality, ensured that the commission’s decisions would be viewed through a highly partisan lens. On these shores, a decision to validate or annul results is often interpreted not in terms of fairness or legality, but through the filter of political loyalty or opposition. Thus, any action taken by the chairperson is always a gamble: one that might win the commission praise from some quarters but ignite outrage in others.

But the risks of heading the IEBC are not limited to political retribution or public scorn. The toll on electoral managers, particularly on Chebukati, was profound and personal after the last General Election. Caught in the snare of public scrutiny and ridicule, he was the focal point for all the anger, suspicion, and frustration that accompanied President William Ruto’s victory.

And he took it all in his stride. Chebukati’s tenure was marked by intense controversy, especially following the 2017 general election, which was declared invalid by the Supreme Court due to irregularities. His role in the aftermath of that decision, and his subsequent handling of the 2022 elections, has led to an ongoing debate about where to place him on the spectrum of Kenya’s political heroes and villains.

In many ways, Chebukati’s position was the ultimate test of the philosophical and ethical dilemmas that come with the role of IEBC chairperson. On one hand, he kept saying that he was steadfast in his commitment to oversee an election free from political interference. His defiance in the face of what the William Ruto camp termed as intense pressure from various political factions and his resistance to manipulation during the 2022 elections, earned him praise from those who saw him as a guardian of democracy. To them, Chebukati was a hero, a figure who stood firm in the face of unprecedented challenges and upheld the integrity of the electoral process.

Yet, for others, Chebukati represented the failures of the electoral system itself. The same rigidity that earned him respect from some critics made him a villain to others. His role in the disputed 2017 election, the bungled handling of certain procedural aspects, and the perception of his commission as unable to reform or act decisively left many Kenyans with lingering doubts. For these critics, Chebukati’s tenure is seen not as one of heroic leadership, but as a missed opportunity for true electoral reform.

So, was this man a hero or a villain? I will be careful here. In the extremely polarised world of Kenyan politics, it is hard to say definitively whether Chebukati was a hero or a villain. He was both a product of his environment and a key player within it, a figure who, for all his commitment to neutrality, could never escape the deep partisan divides that characterise Kenyan electoral politics.

That was the man I faced at the Bomas of Kenya. I didn’t know whether he understood it at the time, but, to me, the role he served at the helm of the IEBC was both a philosophical ideal and a political reality, a position of immense responsibility that was never going to be free from risk or controversy. I couldn’t understand why he was not taking the challenge of maintaining impartiality and a cool demeanour in the face of overwhelming political or media pressure at the time. But maybe I expected too much of him. He was human, after all. And, in the circumstances, the line between heroism and villainy was a constantly shifting one, defined not just by his actions and those of his team, but by the shifting tides of political power and public perception. It was in August; just days to the General Election, and in that volatile and charged environment, I wondered whether he could be excused for forgetting that, in the eyes of many, he was both a servant of the people and a prisoner of their biases.

ALSO READ: God told me my son would be a great man; Chebukati's father speaks

At Bomas, after we all settled in, he started by explaining the circumstances of our meeting. He pointed out that the commission was not happy with our journalism, with my journalism specifically, and that I was doing a great disservice to this great nation by attempting to disparage the upcoming election. He told me, too, that the commission had resolved to deny NMG advertising revenue until I put the house in order. I made a feeble attempt to explain myself, but he calmly told me my time would come, so I should sit pretty and let the commission express its dismay. He then handed me to Cherera, who embarked on a long moralistic preachment binge and called me a few colourful names, then handed me over to Marjan. By the time every commissioner had finished with me, I had been beaten to a pulp.

Then, after they finished wiping the Bomas floor with my bum, they asked me to talk. I mumbled a few sentences about why journalism sometimes hurts, why it’s never personal, why it’s a bad idea to withhold advertising in an attempt to force journalists to tow the line, and so on and so forth. At that moment, however, I wasn’t interested in what had been, but what was to be. I had exclusive audience with the entire commission, and I wanted to know what they thought of the upcoming elections. So I asked them what they thought of the process so far.

“Raila will not win this one by the backdoor!”  Chebukati shot at me.

“What do you mean ‘by the backdoor’?”, I enquired.

“You know… those court cases against the KIEMS kits, the small matter about a manual register, and such things,” he said. “Mark my words, it won’t happen.”

Raila had gone to court to challenge the use of KIEMS kits during the election, saying they could be used to rig the election. He wanted the IEBC to use a manual voter register, which he considered safer and more fool-proof. I had been working on two scenarios: a Ruto win, and a Raila win. I called the newsroom and asked the editors to go slow on the Raila scenario and start examining the Ruto scenario.

“Why?” they asked me.

“Because, from what I have heard, we should all prepare for a Ruto presidency,” I said.

And that, folks, is the Chebukati I remember: slightly stooped, a man who had seen it all, said little, but ensured that, in the end, it was his word that stood.

Rest in peace, Sir.

Bernard Mwinzi is a prominent journalist and former Editor at the Nation Media