The past two weeks have seen a great deal of what might be described as the “high-octane politics” surrounding the impeachment of Deputy President Rigathi Gachagua.
The voting, first in the National Assembly, then in the Senate.
The sudden medical emergency and the subsequent hospitalisation of Gachagua.
The withdrawal of about 100 government cars from the DP and those state officers who worked directly under him.
Gachagua emerging from his hospital bed to make a defiant speech.
All this made for exceptional political drama.
Now most of us would be satisfied with following the unfolding of this historic impeachment on our TV screens or on social media.
But that would not be the case with the true politician: the man or woman addicted to politics.
If currently out of office, they would curse the fact that they were not in Parliament (or the Senate) to make a powerful speech.
Or at the very least, to engage in deep discussion with their fellow legislators, arguing for one viewpoint or another.
In other words, the true politician – the person addicted to politics – loves to be at the centre of events, and will usually be very miserable, if reduced to being a mere observer.
Even those things which many of us would consider to be a bother, for them are quite enjoyable, provided these things make them feel that they are important and are engaging with “the people”.
I have in the past given examples of how Kenyan elected leaders and other Kenyan VIPs behave when enjoying the trappings of office on a visit to a foreign country.
And how if a Kenyan journalist is invited to cover a conference overseas, at which one of the keynote speakers is a top Kenyan government official, the two will be treated much the same.
For example, they will often stay at the same hotel, and so are likely to meet at the lavish breakfast spread every morning.
Well, here let me give a purely local example of how our elected leaders love the sense of being at the centre of events:
This is a story I have told my friends very often, but I think I have never written about it.
So, there we were, Mheshimiwa and myself, at an afternoon garden party hosted by a prominent diplomat of that time.
It was my first meeting with this man, who was to later become a good friend of mine.
I should also specify that he was what I must call “an ordinary MP” and not one of those top VIPs who leave their phones with their drivers and personal assistants to answer, when attending events of this kind.
My new friend had his phone on him.
What I noticed was that every few minutes, he would take out his phone; gaze at the screen; frown at it and click on the keys a few times; and then return it to his coat pocket and continue talking as though nothing had happened.
After he had done this about a dozen times, I said to him, “You know Mheshimiwa, if you have an important message to respond to, you should feel free to take the call.”
He laughed out loud and told me that none of those text messages or attempted calls were important.
But he had to keep checking just in case the person trying to reach him was someone he could not safely ignore.
So far there had been no such important message which he had to respond to.
Naturally, I asked, “So who are all these people trying to reach you?”
They were mostly his constituents who had somehow got hold of his personal mobile phone number, asking for assistance of one kind or another.
He usually got at least 30 such messages every hour.
The interesting thing is that he did not say this in a depressed or troubled tone.
He was smiling broadly.
He was glad that his constituents still turned to him when they needed help – he loved the feeling of being needed.
In all that time, my own phone – also on ‘vibrate’ just like his – had only buzzed once.