KAIKAI'S KICKER: Of Kenya’s ‘Government Inspector’ development model

On my kicker tonight, I recently was an accidental witness to events when the presidential motorcade rolled into town. You know, it’s normally quite a spectacle. For whatever reason, everyone appears to be in a rush; even those standing still have this frantic appearance of a rocket on a launchpad.

And talking of a launch, who in the athletics world can beat Kenya? Well, from my roadside fly-on-the-wall position, I observed the big day as it unfolded. There was a tent, complete with a VIP red carpet in the middle of nowhere. I have previously seen a donkey pulling a cartful of water jerricans on that spot. But on this day, the place was a sharp contrast hours apart.

I rolled down my window for a clearer view, and all I could see was a live replay of that timeless Russian epic called ‘The Government Inspector’. For those not familiar with that title, ‘The Government Inspector’ is the title of a play written by Russian playwright Nikolai Gogol. It was a comedy about a little town that was preparing to receive a revered government inspector, and the comedy revolved around frenzied preparations to receive some powerful and much-feared government inspector. In Nikolai Gogol’s unnamed provincial town, it was a stampede as frightened government officials scampered to ensure everything was in good order for the eyes of the visiting government.

Exactly 190 years later, it was thrilling to watch the Government Inspector play being staged live before my eyes somewhere in Kenya. The hands of an enthusiastic police officer were almost flying out of his shoulders as he wished away vehicles that were not required on this day. An Indian-made three-wheel contraption coughed its way up. The cop shouted orders and its engine stopped. In a split second, it was lifted off the road, with its driver in place.

On the other side of the road, a workman on an adrenaline overdose swung in with two chairs on either side of his hidden head. The wood and red leather seats bore government emblems and are normally seen in presidential or other high-level government functions.

From the adjoining dust road, a water bowser roared in, firing jets of water of the kind we can only wait to see during the oncoming rains. Dust had no chance on this day. Not a speck. Not on that road. Not on this day.

Then came the poleman; or what shall I call a man carrying such long flagpoles? One each on his shoulders. White, freshly painted or just thoroughly polished. Two flags were quickly hoisted next to the tent.

Inside the tent, national and county government officials collapsed into an efficient event-organising machine. The VIP tent in the middle of nowhere was turning into a high-profile field office.

Then, it became clear that my fly-on-the-wall position would be required too – so I drove away from the big tent.

Further up the road, unbelievable scenes. A road construction signboard went up and, as if to prove this is no drill, a nearby murram road was getting a fresh layer of rock live on the Government Inspector.

I read the signpost. It bore the date of the launch of construction and the date of expected completion. I counted the months. The road will be ready in six months. Yes. According to the signboard.

On days like this, movement of persons and vehicles is restricted. I needed to leave and escape the oncoming lockdown.

Another freshly erected road construction signpost ushered me to a newly spruced-up exit. It is also earmarked for tarmacking.

From a distance, I could hear the sirens of police cars – the Government Inspector was approaching.

This is not somewhere in Russia in 1836. This is somewhere in Kenya in 2026. Two towns, 190 years apart.