The rise and fall of Nairobi’s matatu king
meteoric that some onlookers suspected sorcery. These rumours were fuelled by the fact that he grew up at the coast, and tapped into the myth that there is a powerful form of wizardry that draws its magic from the Indian Ocean. Mbuvi did little to discourage this impression; he donned gold rings emblazoned with weirdlooking animals, believed to be the repository of voodoo powers.
Stepping into politics
By the time a parliamentary by-election arose in Nairobi’s Makadara constituency in April 2010, Mbuvi was already a powerhouse across Eastlands. He had risen to become defender-in-chief of all Eastlands matatus, which had elected him as chairperson. When the government attempted to relocate the pickup and drop-off points for Eastlands matatus from central Nairobi to the edge of the city in 2007, Mbuvi went to court and stopped the move.
Outside Eastlands, Mbuvi was still an enigma; the mysterious owner of the infamously rowdy Buru matatus. But soon Nairobi would come to learn plenty more about him.
Mbuvi’s interest in the Makadara by-election was stirred by the fact that, in his estimation, no one had the kind of network, manpower and infrastructure he had across the constituency with Buru shopping centre as its nerve centre. Moreover, he had stacks of cash to fund a campaign.
The dishonourable member
Mbuvi caused a splash in Nairobi’s staid political scene. Who was the skinny lad on the billboard, with the outrageous fashion sense? And who was he to call himself Sonko?
But word quickly got out that Mbuvi owned the infamous Buru nganyas, and then it all made sense. The nganyas made Mbuvi tons of money and being their proprietor accorded him immunity.
From that point, Mbuvi’s multiple faux pas stood forgiven because he was the embodiment of umatatu: a phenomenon characterised by brashness, vulgarity and braggadocio.
However, much as umatatu brought Mbuvi fame and fortune, it also attracted judgmental frowns. Kenya’s established political parties wouldn’t touch him. He did not play by the rules of the political elite, and was not welcomed there.
Despite going up against locals, Mbuvi won and Makadara had a new MP. He began his parliamentary term with a bang, keen on leaving a mark considering he had just more than two years before the 2013 general election. Mbuvi dished out bundles of crisp currency indiscriminately to destitute Nairobians whenever they caught his eye, conveniently broadcasting his generosity on social media. He rode around town in gold-plated SUVS, wore kilos of gold jewellery and dyed his hair golden. This attracted plenty of attention — not all of it welcome.
Allegations of corruption
Three months after his election, police raided Mbuvi’s office and Buru residence on suspicion that he was involved in drug trafficking. Playing hide and seek with the cops, he complained bitterly to parliament about police harassment.
But in a report, detectives said that Mbuvi had been afraid to meet investigators. When he did, they said, he denied being a drug dealer, but did confess to taking part in a multimillion-dollar land fraud syndicate, an admission which the police didn’t pursue further.
The report barely mentioned Mbuvi’s matatu empire, except to observe that “he operates several matatus christened ARTUR within Nairobi”. Mbuvi did indeed operate two nganyas named Artur, but the police were hinting at something.
It was one of those if you know, you know scenarios.
On 10 November 2005, two brash Armenians named Artur Margaryan and Artur Sargasyan landed in Nairobi. Posturing first as businessmen, then as playboys and then as security experts, over time the pair cultivated connections at the highest levels of Kenyan society. They proved so useful to their collaborators that they were both appointed as deputy commissioners of police.
The Arturs were repeatedly linked to drug dealing by Kenyan journalists. And so, although the police could not prove that Mbuvi was himself implicated in drug dealing, by pointedly mentioning his nganyas named Artur, they seemed to be implying that even if he weren’t guilty, Mbuvi’s fondness for suspected dealers was a tell-tale sign.
Deserved or not, the drug dealer label stuck to Mbuvi. Not that it seemed to do him any harm: his popularity was skyrocketing.
Mbuvi saw the drug-trafficking allegation as a warning shot, and knew he needed to find political protection — fast. His by-election win didn’t guarantee future political success, particularly as he had now set his sights on becoming the first-ever senator for Nairobi (a position created in Kenya’s 2010 constitution).
He needed to align himself with one of the two political parties. This time, his timing was exactly right.
Respect our president!
Uhuru Kenyatta, then one of two deputy prime ministers, was about to run for president on The National Alliance party ticket. Kenyatta, as his name suggests, is political royalty, but he had a major problem and needed all the friends he could find.
Kenyatta was facing crimes against humanity charges at the International Criminal Court in The Hague. These stemmed from the 2007 to 2008 post-election violence in which more than a thousand people are thought to have been killed.
Mbuvi cast himself as Kenyatta’s defender-in-chief. He flew to The Hague to lead demonstrations in support of Kenyatta whenever he appeared in court, always wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the words “Respect our Prezzo, Takataka nyinyi ghasia.” Respect our president, you pieces of shit!
Mbuvi’s support for Kenyatta paid off. During the 2013 general election, Kenyatta and running mate William Ruto won the presidency by a superslim margin. Riding this wave, Mbuvi became Nairobi’s inaugural senator with a staggering 808 705 votes. He was unstoppable. But Mbuvi realised he might have made a miscalculation. The job of senator is limited to oversight. The real power lay with governors, who controlled huge budgets.
So Mbuvi hatched a plan. He established a privately funded pro bono service-delivery entity known as the Sonko Rescue Team, which comprised ambulances, fire engines and water bowsers. He enlisted the services of hundreds of youth and got the organisation to pay people’s medical bills; in the event of a passing-on, Mbuvi used his famous Buru nganyas as free hearses.
No one, including the incumbent Dr Evans Kidero, could compete with Mbuvi’s apparent generosity.
Critics questioned how Mbuvi could afford all this, given that he earned less than $10000 a month as a senator. Mbuvi brushed off the haters and, taking their cue from their incorrigible boss, his bodyguards started showing up in public spaces wielding AK-47S, as if operating in a war zone. At a senate meeting, Mbuvi attempted to get into a fist-fight with Kidero, the man he wanted to unseat.
None of this hurt him. Mbuvi was untouchable. For now.
‘Operation Stop Mbuvi’
As much as Kenyatta didn’t seem bothered by Mbuvi’s umatatu, allowing his anarchist tendencies to slide on repeated occasions, a coterie of senior civil servants felt differently. Working with Kenya’s wealthiest business people, they hatched “Operation Stop Mbuvi”.
This involved a series of legal and technical roadblocks that would make him ineligible to run for office. First prize would be ensuring that Mbuvi didn’t obtain a certificate of good conduct from the police. Given his criminal record, this ought to have been an easy win.
However, the conspirators backed this up with their own candidate, Peter Kenneth. He was as different from Mbuvi as day is from night, well connected in all the right circles of business, politics and high society.
Mbuvi and Kenneth both ran under the Jubilee Party, a product of a merger between Kenyatta’s 2013 party and that of his deputy. As their competition intensified, Mbuvi’s criminal past surfaced. A disqualification looked likely. But then Mbuvi sought an audience with Kenyatta. He reportedly broke down, asking Kenyatta why he was betraying him when Mbuvi had stood with the president during his trial at The Hague.
The police issued a certificate of good conduct by 8am the next morning, and Mbuvi went ahead to win the party primaries.
With the president’s actions showing that Mbuvi had his ear, the senior civil servants and their patrons had to back down, slightly. And so they inserted a condition: Mbuvi would have a running mate of their choice. This was meant to keep Mbuvi’s umatatu in check by pairing him with a sober mind, but was also intended to secure certain commercial interests. Politics mattered, but money mattered more.
Polycarp Igathe, a loyal protégé who had cut his teeth in corporate Kenya, fitted the bill. The plan was simple. Mbuvi would win the votes. Igathe would govern, with the end goal being to push Mbuvi out of office, with Igathe as the governor.
Rather than fight right then, Mbuvi played realpolitik. He obliged to the demands of those arrayed against him, feigning a bonhomie with Igathe during the campaign period.
First victory, then control
The unlikely combination worked. Mbuvi won with 871974 votes, the bulk of them from the Eastlands proletariat.
Igathe waltzed into City Hall, scolding workers when he encountered filth in the basement parking lot. City Hall’s Igathe-led corporate takeover was officially in high gear.
But Mbuvi was a step ahead. He packed City Hall with loyal roughnecks from Eastlands. Most didn’t have job descriptions beyond being his eyes and ears. He then surrounded himself with a barrage of bodyguards, PAS and hangers-on from his matatu kingpin days.
People started looking over their shoulders. Nairobi was now being governed by paranoia. To enhance the chaos, Mbuvi maintained a handful of cellphones; he chose when to be accessible and when to go missing.
Afraid that an administrative maelstrom was looming, Igathe frantically attempted to unclog the City Hall bureaucracy. It was too late. Six months later, the man meant to keep Mbuvi in check and then replace him tweeted his resignation.
Another challenger
Mbuvi ought to have appointed a deputy. He didn’t. When the pressure to do so ratcheted up, he’d forward wildcard candidates for approval. They were automatically rejected, but each step bought time.
He then ensured every conversation was recorded; missiles that he released depending on the amount of damage he wished to cause.
The same Machiavellianism was practised in Mbuvi’s management of Nairobi. His cabinet walked on eggshells because he shuffled its membership every other week. In the spirit of keeping everyone at City Hall on their toes, Mbuvi ensured the majority of senior officials served in acting capacity.
It was governance by fear and blackmail on one hand; chaos and confusion on the other. Everything seemed to be going his way.
But the civil servants and businessmen had a new plan: a second apparatchik in Peter Kariuki, a lawyer and former civil society operative turned presidential adviser. After a stint at the president’s office, Kariuki was considered both an asset and an arsenal in curtailing Mbuvi, and was seconded to City Hall as county secretary. Mbuvi resisted the appointment, but when he was forced to give way, he employed the same antics he had used against Igathe.
Knowing he was the last man standing in the fight to curtail Mbuvi, Kariuki brawled on until he couldn’t.
Mbuvi seemed to have won again.
They’ve all got it in for me
With control seemingly total, Mbuvi and his umatatu did whatever they wanted. But on a Saturday morning in April 2018 they went too far.
A gang of enforcers stormed into Hotel Boulevard in Nairobi and disrupted a presser being addressed by Timothy Muriuki, a former boss of the Nairobi Central Business District Association. Considered a Mbuvi critic who needed to be taught a lesson, the men roughed up Muriuki as journalists scarpered.
One attacker attempted to throw the suited-up Muriuki into the hotel’s swimming pool. Desperately kicking and pushing, Muriuki freed himself from the man’s grip as journalists begged the attackers to not drown him. ‘‘Please read my statement,’’ Muriuki pleaded. ‘‘I wasn’t attacking the governor.’’
The goons then frogmarched Muriuki out of the compound. They shoved him into a puddle of mud and he fell. Muriuki managed to get back on his feet and attempt a sprint, only for the assaulters to resume their kicks and blows. He escaped when the journalists convinced guards at a nearby building to grant him refuge.
The Boulevard episode was one of the most embarrassing forms of public humiliation Kenyans had ever witnessed. And it was done in Mbuvi’s name.
The establishment strikes
As they watched Muriuki’s assault live-streamed on social media, many Nairobians would have agreed that electing Mbuvi was a blunder.
The civil servants and businessmen who had failed to dislodge him decided to try again. Using the press as pawns, Mbuvi’s detractors sponsored one unflattering headline after another. Before the ink could dry on these damaging stories — that he drank at work, ran City Hall like a mafia boss, never listened to his cabinet, and was going broke — the country’s anti-corruption agency struck.
Transactions in Mbuvi’s bank accounts were flagged as suspicious. To curtail his operations, Mbuvi’s Upper Hill residence was placed under investigation, on account that it had been acquired irregularly.
Determined to fight back, in May 2019 a fired-up Mbuvi pulled up at a TV station carrying more than 1000 title deeds and 150 logbooks, intent on proving he was already wealthy before going into politics. A tearyeyed Mbuvi attributed his troubles to the Kenyan aristocracy, which he said was displeased that a poor man’s son had risen to become Nairobi governor and was willing to share his earnings with people of Eastlands.
The arrest
But this did not divert the authorities. An arrest was planned at the end of 2019. Hearing that he would be facing charges, Mbuvi went on the run. His convoy was intercepted between Nairobi and Mombasa, and he was flown back to the capital. The show of power made it clear to everyone that the former matatu king was up against Kenyatta himself.
That escalation might have had something to do with Mbuvi forging an alliance with Ruto, who had since fallen out with Kenyatta and is campaigning to become president in 2022. By becoming Ruto’s ally, Mbuvi chose to become Kenyatta’s foe.
On being arraigned in court after his arrest, Mbuvi was slapped with $150 000 bail, and barred from accessing City Hall. In that moment of Mbuvi’s weakness, Kenyatta decided to go for the jugular.
The fall
On the night of 24 February 2020, Mbuvi received communication summoning him to State House. Kenyatta instructed Mbuvi to surrender a number of Nairobi County functions to the national government, including but not limited to planning, health, transport, public works and revenue collection. As consolation, Mbuvi would remain the governor, albeit a lame-duck one.
Mbuvi then appeared at a press conference with the president, eating humble pie as he signed away his mandate. The aspirant had been put in his place by people used to wielding power on a national scale.
In less than a month, Kenyatta created the Nairobi Metropolitan Services, declared an extra-constitutional entity by the courts, which now effectively runs Nairobi. Kenyatta appointed Major General Mohamed Badi to lead the entity.
And, just like that, Kenya’s largest city and capital had lost its elected governor and was now being run by a tough talking military general.
Mbuvi now rebelled. He refused to sign funds to the Nairobi Metropolitan Services, but Kenyatta struck back, engineering Mbuvi’s December impeachment by the Nairobi County parliament.
Out of work and disgraced, Mbuvi leaked a phone recording in which the president’s younger sister is alleged to be lobbying Mbuvi to appoint her friend as deputy governor. Mbuvi then joined Ruto on his rallies, standing on podiums and attributing major corruption scandals to the president’s family.
The attack pushed Kenyatta and his mask slipped.
The president owned up to having orchestrated Mbuvi’s ouster. ‘‘I tried to help my friend the other day … he eventually declined my offer for assistance because he wanted to keep wearing goggles and boasting, and keep stealing … so I told him, if that’s the case, then goodbye.’’
Mbuvi countered the president’s remarks within an hour. And speaking at a rally in February, he played Kenyatta’s speech on loudspeaker, before calling the president a drunkard with whom he used to smoke marijuana. “What my friend is not saying is that he is the one who introduced me to goggles [sunglasses] back when we used to smoke marijuana together,” Mbuvi said. “He taught me to put on goggles to hide my bloodshot eyes after smoking.’’
Mbuvi’s umatatu had finally crossed the president’s red line.
Mbuvi was arrested 48 hours later and held in custody for more than a month, charged with terrorism. The state alleges that Mbuvi runs a private militia that poses a threat to national security.
Umatatu had worked for Mbuvi until it didn’t. And those that he sought to defeat — the businessmen and hereditary politicians — had outmanoeuvred him.
The matatu king has fallen.
‘He wanted to keep wearing goggles and boasting, and keep stealing … so I told him, if that’s the case, then goodbye’