Our journey to meet the "great leader" of the great Jahmahiriya

By NZAU MUSAU

Muammar al-Gaddafi is notoriously mercurial. He often avoids making eye contact during the initial portion of meetings, and there may be long, uncomfortable periods of silence. Alternatively, he can be an engaging and charming interlocutor. Wikileaks

OUR eventful journey to meet the self styled intellectual and philosopher- Muammar Gaddafi begun on June 21st, 2007 at Jommo Kenyatta International Airport.
Nosy intelligence officials snooped about us- a group of twelve Kenyans drawn from diverse backgrounds who had been invited by the Libyan government to rally support for the “Brother Leader’s” idea of United States of Africa.
In the delegation was myself, then a journalist based in Mombasa, the venerable Maendeleo Ya Wanawake chair Rukia Subbow, then Law Society of Kenya chair Okongo Omogeni, scholar Dr. Israel Kodiaga, then North Mugirango/Borabu MP Godfrey Masanya, former Kasipul Kabondo MP Tom Obondo and former university student leader G.M Ichenga.
Also in the team was civil society personalities Ken Njiru, Awuor Odhiambo, Collins Ogutu and upcoming artiste John Akwa. The unnecessarily lengthy flight to Tripoli through Doha Qatar would have been boring were I not seated next to the inimitable Dr. Kodiaga, a man who had seen the inside of our jails severally for among other things, perceived association with Libyans.
From up there thousands of feet, confessions streamed on Libyans role in the 82 coup and at times, what I considered “elevated discussion” ensued on early science in Egypt’s Valley of Kings and generally Egyptology.
Our arrival at Tripoli International Airport the following day was a story in itself and a pointer to the rest of our encounters in Libya. Unlike other airports, I was told, Libyan authorities had no business being courteous.
And even if they wanted to, they could not relate with us well because they all spoke in Arabic and had no translators. As the bureaucratic red-tape rolled, we took comfort in the characteristic Kenyan political discussion.
Rather than deal with our passports, the Libyans took custody of half of them, including mine, and told us to venture. We were picked in state-of-the-art buses and driven into the heart of the city through smooth roads dotted at every junction with unmistakable huge portraits of the “the leader.”
That year, Gaddafi was celebrating his 37th year at the helm. Serious attempts had been made to green the lawns besides the main road leading to Tripoli airport and much of the city was littered with these portraits including the entrances of all state-run hotels.
“Prepare to be slow, forget about schedules and time. This is Libya, the Colonels territory and here, the elements of unpredictability and surprise are highly valued,” Kodiaga announced from the back of the bus as we were shuffled from one hotel to another.
We were eventually booked at Bab Al-Jadeed hotel but the Libyans wouldn’t allow us to even freshen up after a night-long flight. Amid difficulties in translation- since no one including our guide a Mr. Ali knew English, we were meant to understand we had ton go meet the leader.
Again, the drama continued. In Libya and especially when the Leader is involved, meeting venues are never known but to a few of his inner sanctum. No one, including our guide had an idea where we were headed.
Amid our grumbling, especially from our more conservative and elderly part of the delegation- Hon. Masanya and Hon. Obondo, were driven around in circles. I particularly sympathized with the two because they wielded with them some status which the Libyans didn’t seem to recognize or care.
We surfaced at a seemingly unlikely venue, sort of a town hall where many other such delegations from all African countries turned up bus by bus, and led into the meeting hall where all were frisked of any recording materials.
They took away all cameras, phones, notebooks and pens. I sneaked in my notebook and pen and would later turn out the odd one out writing while the leader talked to us. They said something to the effect that the leader’s meetings are never recorded, there are no rapporteurs, no programme… nothing!
Gaddafi himself pulled by in a bus accompanied by his bevy of female bodyguards and dressed in a light-green flowing shirt emblazoned with dark map of Africa with the Libyan territory beaming in green. He slipped in unnoticed and entered the venue through the back-door.
In his presence, his sycophants took over the show likening the man to Kwame Nkrumah, the pioneer Pan Africanist and branding him the messiah who had come to liberate the continent from the hopelessness of division. One Senegalese minister even labeled him “the quintessence of African guide.”
The leader himself appeared impressed by these little vanities and exuding a heavy show of self importance smiled brightly in acknowledgment, sometimes mildly clapping at his own psalms.
All this served to prepare us for the long harangue that the leader gave in a speech spanning one and half hours on the theme of African unity and which left me musing over his energy and philosophy on African unity.
Terming our meeting a “popular gathering,” he begun by explaining that he had invited us to stoke unity fires in our capitals ahead of the then oncoming Accra AU summit where the idea of immediate unity was going to be thrashed out once and for all.
“Those who believe in unity believe in something after reality. This belief is powerful. Those who disbelieve accept the circumstances,” he said while chest-thumping that “we will confront them with such popular conferences as this.”
He also spoke of the need to take away the debate of African unity from the “tens of the presidents” in halls to the “millions of people” in the streets. He dismissed the idea of an African Commission saying its both unpopular and powerless.
He described as “short-sighted, hired and envious” the African presidents who were delaying unity: “You should know them; they are not responsible and we are therefore entitled to uncover their plans for Accra.”
His speech was constantly interrupted by supporters who rose up chanted up his own psalms as he grinned from the podium and let them have their way. At first instance, I had thought it was a heckler but after patterns developed and drew closer to me, it sunk home.
The strongman signed out with what he probably considered would be our clarion call: “From here, we say to all people of Africa including its leaders; we want unity!”
The “quintessential African guide” slipped back through the same door he had used and the conference was as good as closed in his absence. As we tried to make way through the confusion, we spotted a flapping pennant of the Kenyan flag and sprinted after it like babes.
Tired, worn out, hungry and disenfranchised, we needed encouragement and the Libyans were not offering any. We were missing our country systems and ways. That moment, that minute I came to appreciate of the importance of pride in ones nation.
Ambassador Eliphaz Ngare is as warm as they come; true diplomats. He received us like lost brothers- embracing us warmly and explaining all the “discrepancies” we had noted in a very courteous and diplomatic way.
“I am sorry but this is how they do it here,” he politely summed it up before promising to give us the “Kenyan feel” if we honored the invitation to visit the “Kenyan House”, the official embassy residence the following day.
We were ferried back to the hotel where we lounged the entire afternoon away chit-chatting and catching up. Strange enough, the hotel staff did not bother to hide the fact that they had no incentive to be nice to any one.
They needed not be nice since Libya had for a very longtime been considered a pariah state and there were not many visitors in the country until recently. Their lack of hospitality was perhaps exhibited best by a waiter who threateningly brandished a fork to one of us after he persistently requested for salt.
The following day was to be the last day of the conference which very few took part in. While the rest of delegation left for the venue, I was enjoined in another African delegation with no clear indication of where we were being taken.
After being driven around the town, we ventured into the outskirts of the city and were driven into a government establishment where we found a battery of waiting journalists. The Libyan officials had noticed from passport that I was a journalist.
It later turned out that the venue was a negotiation base for then ongoing Western Darfur-Chad peace talks where a truce was being signed between the sides. Later that afternoon, our delegation was made to understand that a meeting had been arranged with the leader.
Anticipating the meeting, the delegation composed itself and those who had brisk sharp suits like Tom Obondo donned them, Tripoli heat notwithstanding. It later turned out that we were duped and that the meeting was of some secret movement that advances Gaddafi’s cause across Africa.
Through out the meeting, they sang praises on the Leader and chided the West over the deliberate infection of Libyan children with HIV/Aids painting so grim a picture of the situation that one was easily swallowed into the cause.
They wanted satellite branches of this network in all the capitals but we were too disappointed to give it a thought. We returned back to our hotel downcast, joking about it and contemplating making an official complaint with the embassy the following day.
On our final day in Tripoli on June 22nd, we held a meeting at Bab Al Bahr hotel where the possibility of an official complaint at our being spurned thus was discussed. Obondo put up a very good and reasonable argument on why we should simply swallow it all and move on.
Later on we drove to the embassy where we drowned all our sorrows at being warmly received by Eliphaz’s charming wife, Mr. Ashioya the head of the chancery, Mr. Mwangi the accountant and the secretary a Ms. Jane.
Behind the walls of the Kenyan house, we discussed our sorrows, sang and danced. Later on, the ambassador himself drove all of us back to Tripoli where the last act of the drama awaited us. The half of us whose passports were left at the airport were temporarily detained.
The rest of our group had proceeded to board the Qatar plane to Doha hoping our detention was a procedural matter. No explanation was made to us and our persistent asking for what was wrong only served to anger the airport officials.
Noting the huge time lapse since our colleagues left and minding our flight schedule, we resigned to our fate and relaxed. That was before one official hurriedly took us through to the flight’s entrance where after a brief altercation with the officials manning it, we were let in.
Inside the airbus, hundreds of eyes scorned at us. We had delayed the flight! But it was not over yet; just when we had settled down at our respective seats, an announcement streamed through to the effect that the six who had just entered were wanted outside.
There was no way we were going to get out again and my seat mate mama Rukia made that clear to me. We held our ground and as a result, two armed Arab men spotting dark sunglasses stormed the plane and demanded we get out.
In her ingenuity, mama Rukia grabbed hold of my passport and sat on it just when one of the men was closing in on me. The other five pulled more or less similar acts and unable to locate the late entrants, the two men slipped out of the flight before it took off.
With the flight airborne, I sighed relief especially after being told of a story of another Kenyan held at the airport for a month after being forced to miss his flight in circumstances more or less similar to ours.
Up to this day, we have never known what the problem was with our passports. It may as well be that three years later, we are still wanted in Libya!