In Lari, we are quick to complain about outcomes, but painfully slow to question origins. We speak loudly about potholes, impassable roads, and struggling social programs. Yet we rarely ask the questions that matter most: Where is the money going? Who is allocating it? Who is utilizing it? And how?
We do not follow how public resources are used. We do not question where Lari funds are being pumped. And, thus the whole process is like pumping a girl with Nexplanon or being fucked by a vasectomized man; there is nothing that can be born. We only question what we can see.
Take our roads, for example. We do not question the money allocated to road construction and maintenance. We do not ask who builds our roads, how contractors are selected, or whether value for money is achieved. Yet we are always on the frontline, passionately discussing the poor state of those very roads.
But if we do not question what matters most — allocation and utilization — then there is little need to complain about outcomes. Poor outcomes are often the result of poor processes.
The same troubling pattern is visible in our bursary program. I am a beneficiary of the Lari bursary. It helped me pay school fees. For that, I am grateful. But gratitude must not replace accountability. We must ask a deeper question: How many people in Lari have benefited in a way that truly changed their lives? Benefit is not merely about paying fees. It is about transformation.
How many young men and women can boldly say, “I received a Lari bursary, and it altered the course of my life”? Unfortunately, year in year out, bursaries are allocated in peanut-sized portions to many applicants, yielding little tangible result. If I may borrow from my mother tongue: “andû maheagwo bursary makamÃnyuithia maÃ.” A bursary is supposed to empower generations. It should be a ladder, not a walking stick.
Any student who receives a bursary should work so hard that his or her children will never have to queue for one. That is what empowerment looks like — breaking dependency, not recycling it.
Yet in Lari, we see a troubling cycle. Grandparents schooled with bursaries. Their children schooled with bursaries. Their grandchildren are still depending on Lari bursaries. If nothing changes, the cycle will continue indefinitely. This is not empowerment. It is maintenance of dependency.
The same logic applies to other public resources, including social programs. If year after year beneficiaries remain in the same position — needing the same support: tûkûrwe, mbegû, fertilizer, hema, itÃ, mboco, mûtu, etc — then we must ask whether the programs are designed to uplift or merely to sustain.
Accountability does not begin with protests about visible failures. It begins with curiosity about invisible processes. As residents of Lari, we must shift from being spectators of outcomes to interrogators of systems. We must ask:
· How much is allocated?
· Who decides?
· Who benefits?
· What measurable transformation is achieved?
Public money is not charity. It is our collective investment. And investments are evaluated not by how often they are distributed, but by the returns they generate. If we fail to question allocation and utilization, we surrender the right to complain about results.
Lari does not lack resources. What we may lack is sustained civic vigilance.
It is time we demand not just roads that look good for two days, but roads that last. Not bursaries that only pay fees, but bursaries that break generational poverty. Not social programs that recycle dependency, but systems that create independence.
Until then, we will keep talking about potholes — while ignoring the policies that create them.
We do not follow how public resources are used. We do not question where Lari funds are being pumped. And, thus the whole process is like pumping a girl with Nexplanon or being fucked by a vasectomized man; there is nothing that can be born. We only question what we can see.
Take our roads, for example. We do not question the money allocated to road construction and maintenance. We do not ask who builds our roads, how contractors are selected, or whether value for money is achieved. Yet we are always on the frontline, passionately discussing the poor state of those very roads.
But if we do not question what matters most — allocation and utilization — then there is little need to complain about outcomes. Poor outcomes are often the result of poor processes.
The same troubling pattern is visible in our bursary program. I am a beneficiary of the Lari bursary. It helped me pay school fees. For that, I am grateful. But gratitude must not replace accountability. We must ask a deeper question: How many people in Lari have benefited in a way that truly changed their lives? Benefit is not merely about paying fees. It is about transformation.
How many young men and women can boldly say, “I received a Lari bursary, and it altered the course of my life”? Unfortunately, year in year out, bursaries are allocated in peanut-sized portions to many applicants, yielding little tangible result. If I may borrow from my mother tongue: “andû maheagwo bursary makamÃnyuithia maÃ.” A bursary is supposed to empower generations. It should be a ladder, not a walking stick.
Any student who receives a bursary should work so hard that his or her children will never have to queue for one. That is what empowerment looks like — breaking dependency, not recycling it.
Yet in Lari, we see a troubling cycle. Grandparents schooled with bursaries. Their children schooled with bursaries. Their grandchildren are still depending on Lari bursaries. If nothing changes, the cycle will continue indefinitely. This is not empowerment. It is maintenance of dependency.
The same logic applies to other public resources, including social programs. If year after year beneficiaries remain in the same position — needing the same support: tûkûrwe, mbegû, fertilizer, hema, itÃ, mboco, mûtu, etc — then we must ask whether the programs are designed to uplift or merely to sustain.
Accountability does not begin with protests about visible failures. It begins with curiosity about invisible processes. As residents of Lari, we must shift from being spectators of outcomes to interrogators of systems. We must ask:
· How much is allocated?
· Who decides?
· Who benefits?
· What measurable transformation is achieved?
Public money is not charity. It is our collective investment. And investments are evaluated not by how often they are distributed, but by the returns they generate. If we fail to question allocation and utilization, we surrender the right to complain about results.
Lari does not lack resources. What we may lack is sustained civic vigilance.
It is time we demand not just roads that look good for two days, but roads that last. Not bursaries that only pay fees, but bursaries that break generational poverty. Not social programs that recycle dependency, but systems that create independence.
Until then, we will keep talking about potholes — while ignoring the policies that create them.
