I have just discovered with shock that Harambee One, our version of Air Force One, was bought in 1995. That’s thirty years ago, my friend. A kid born that year already has some youngsters in a CBC class.

And to rub salt on the wound, it wasn’t even brand new. It was pre-owned, a fancy term for mtumba. A secondhand presidential jet!

If I close my eyes, I can almost see its former life: born sometime in the eighties, bought by a flashy Miami drug billionaire with a gold chain thicker than a boda-boda exhaust. I picture him snorting fine Colombian dust right off the leather seats, flanked by blonde ‘warembo’ in bikinis smaller than handkerchiefs.

Then one day, the engines started leaking oil like an old Probox. So they dusted of the cocaine from the seats, repainted the plane shiny white and hung a “On sale, slightly used!” sign on it. Later, it was offloaded to the only buyer who was naïve enough-Kenya.

And here I was thinking my jalopy with a missing side mirror and a blinking headlamp was embarrassing! How can the biggest economy in East Africa, the land of the Big Five, and the global marathon powerhouse ferry it’s Commander-in-Chiefs in a flying museum piece?

Tuko na mchezo sana!