In a heated Senate session on Wednesday, the impeachment trial of Deputy President Rigathi Gachagua erupted into a fierce legal battle, with high-stakes claims and a relentless defense grabbing the nation’s attention. The courtroom brimmed with anticipation as Kibwezi West MP Mwengi Mutuse, who spearheaded the impeachment motion, took the stand. Mutuse was not just there to make his case; he was about to face a rigorous cross-examination from Gachagua’s legal team, ready to challenge the very accusations that threatened to remove the Deputy President from office.
Mutuse had presented several serious accusations against Gachagua, but the most striking was that Gachagua had amassed a Ksh.5.2 billion fortune in just two years since taking office. For many, the figure seemed astronomical, impossible for a public servant to legally accumulate in just 2 years of holding office. Yet, as Mutuse was pressed on the details, the numbers that once seemed so damning began to look shaky.
Advocate Elisha Ongoya, leading Gachagua’s defense, was calm but unrelenting. His first target? The Ksh.5.2 billion figure. He asked Mutuse, pointedly, how the number had been arrived at.
“Who gave you this value of Ksh.5.2 billion?” Ongoya asked, his voice steady but probing. Mutuse, seemingly caught off guard, hesitated before responding, “We said it’s estimated at Ksh.5.2 billion.” The word “estimated” was crucial—it suggested guesswork, not certainty. Ongoya didn’t let the uncertainty go unnoticed.
“Who gave you that estimated value?” Ongoya pressed again, giving no room for evasion. Mutuse struggled to offer a definitive answer, explaining that the figure had been calculated by estimating the current value of Gachagua’s properties and adding them up. But as Ongoya continued to probe, it became clear that Mutuse wasn’t basing his claims on any formal valuations. He was making assumptions—rough estimates of property values based on what he described as a “reasonable man’s test.”
It wasn’t enough. Gachagua’s lawyer seized on the weakness, asking whether Mutuse, a lawyer by profession, had now become a property valuer. Mutuse, under pressure, didn’t have a solid response. The cross-examination was beginning to feel less like a legal exchange and more like a slow unraveling of the impeachment case’s foundation.
One of the most critical blows came when Mutuse was asked about one of the properties he had linked to Gachagua: the prestigious Vipingo Beach Resort in Kilifi. According to the impeachment motion, this luxurious coastal resort was part of Gachagua’s fortune. But when Ongoya presented documents, they told a different story. The property wasn’t owned by the Deputy President at all—it belonged to the estate of Gachagua’s late brother, James Nderitu Gachagua.
“Who is indicated as the owner of all those 10,000 shares?” Ongoya asked, pointing to the official ownership documents. Mutuse, now visibly flustered, replied softly, “The late James Nderitu Gachagua.” It was a pivotal moment. One of the cornerstone accusations in the impeachment motion had just fallen apart under the weight of facts.
But Ongoya wasn’t finished. The lawyer turned his attention to another damning accusation: that Gachagua had used proxies to secure a Ksh.3.7 billion mosquito net tender through corruption at the Kenya Medical Supplies Authority (KEMSA). According to Mutuse, Gachagua had pressured officials to award the tender to Crystal Ltd, a company that allegedly submitted a fake bid bond to fraudulently secure the contract. But once again, when pressed for evidence, Mutuse couldn’t provide the clear, irrefutable proof needed to make the claim stick.
The tension in the room grew as Ongoya shifted to one of Gachagua’s most controversial public statements, where he had compared the country to a company with shareholders. Mutuse had pointed to this as evidence of Gachagua’s favoritism, implying that the Deputy President only served those he considered “shareholders” in the nation. But the defense countered by presenting the Kenya Kwanza coalition agreement, which laid out, in black and white, the shares of political power given to different parties in the ruling coalition. It wasn’t just rhetoric—it was part of the coalition’s governance structure.
Despite the blows, Mutuse fought to keep his case alive. He listed other properties allegedly acquired by Gachagua—hotels, vast tracts of land in Nyeri and Meru, and even a dairy farm in Nyandarua. But as Ongoya continued his line of questioning, it became apparent that much of the case rested on assumptions about property values and ownership, rather than hard evidence.
One of the most explosive allegations was that Gachagua had used his influence to redirect a contractor working on a public road to instead build a private road leading to Vipingo Beach Resort. Mutuse argued that this was a blatant misuse of taxpayer funds for personal gain. He also claimed that millions had been wasted on extravagant renovations to Gachagua’s official residences in Karen and Mombasa. But again, the defense team wasn’t convinced by the evidence—or lack thereof.
By the end of the cross-examination, the impeachment case that had seemed so strong at the start of the trial had begun to look fragile. The accusations were serious, but the evidence needed to back them up was missing, incomplete, or based on rough estimates. Mutuse, once confident in his position, now seemed less sure, his claims picked apart by a defense team that had come prepared for battle.
As the trial continues, one thing is clear: this isn’t just about Deputy President Gachagua. It’s about the bigger question of power, wealth, and accountability in Kenya. The country watches closely, waiting to see whether this impeachment will lead to real consequences or whether it will become just another political spectacle in a long history of high-profile trials.