In Kenya, there is no legal requirement dictating how long one must reside in a constituency before seeking to be elected there. The Constitution is clear on eligibility, but silent on emotional belonging. Ultimately, the decision of who becomes Member of Parliament lies squarely with the voters.
Yet as I reflect on my home, Lari Constituency, one uncomfortable truth stands out: in Lari, we elect whoever we want — and often for the wrong reasons.
We do not scrutinize where a candidate was born, raised, or schooled. We do not ask how long they have lived among us. We do not even ask whether they understand the daily struggles of our villages, farmers, youth, and traders. Instead, too often, the unspoken metric becomes painfully simple: who has the deepest pockets? In Lari, the leaner your wallet, the slimmer your chances of becoming MP.
This reality has created an open invitation — particularly to ambitious politicians hovering around Nairobi who may be uncertain where to vie. If you are searching for a constituency where residency history is negotiable and community roots are optional, Lari might seem like fertile ground.
As a resident of Lari by birth, I say this not with pride, but with concern. We have elected individuals who purchased land in Lari barely months before elections. Five or six months of visibility — enough to attend funerals, sponsor a few church harambees, and shake hands in markets — can suffice. We have elected leaders who trace their connection to distant ancestors said to have lived in the area during the colonial era, as though historical footnotes substitute for present commitment.
We have elected people who never attended a single school in Lari — not primary, not secondary, not even kindergarten. We do not ask about their classmates. We do not inquire about their childhood footprints on our dusty roads. We do not demand to know their roots.
What we demand — too often — are money bags. And this is where the problem of Lari’s leadership begins.
Historically, the constituency itself carries a political backstory. Lari Constituency was formed in 1966, widely viewed as a political reward for J. M. Koinange, who at the time had no clear political base elsewhere. Whether one agrees with that characterization or not, the perception has lingered for decades: that Lari can be politically assigned, rather than politically earned.
J. M. Koinange had no direct connection to Lari before representing it. That origin story, fair or unfair, seems to have shaped a culture where attachment to the land matters less than access to power. And so, election after election, we repeat the cycle.
Campaign season arrives with convoys of vehicles, branded T-shirts, handouts at trading centers, and pledges wrapped in generosity. Voters, burdened by economic hardship, understandably respond to immediate relief. But once the ballot is cast and the noise fades, the deeper questions return: Who truly represents Lari? Who carries our long-term interests? Who will stay when the cameras leave?
The right to vote is sacred. It is the one instrument that places power directly in the hands of ordinary citizens. But when that power is reduced to short-term financial exchange, democracy becomes transactional rather than transformational.
Lari deserves leadership rooted not just in temporary presence, but in genuine commitment. We deserve representatives who understand our history, walk our roads long before campaigns begin, and remain accountable long after elections end.
The law may not demand years of residency. But conscience should demand loyalty. Vision. Integrity.
Until we shift from electing the highest bidder to electing the most capable leader, Lari will continue to struggle with leadership that arrives loudly — and governs lightly.
The choice, as always, remains ours.
Yet as I reflect on my home, Lari Constituency, one uncomfortable truth stands out: in Lari, we elect whoever we want — and often for the wrong reasons.
We do not scrutinize where a candidate was born, raised, or schooled. We do not ask how long they have lived among us. We do not even ask whether they understand the daily struggles of our villages, farmers, youth, and traders. Instead, too often, the unspoken metric becomes painfully simple: who has the deepest pockets? In Lari, the leaner your wallet, the slimmer your chances of becoming MP.
This reality has created an open invitation — particularly to ambitious politicians hovering around Nairobi who may be uncertain where to vie. If you are searching for a constituency where residency history is negotiable and community roots are optional, Lari might seem like fertile ground.
As a resident of Lari by birth, I say this not with pride, but with concern. We have elected individuals who purchased land in Lari barely months before elections. Five or six months of visibility — enough to attend funerals, sponsor a few church harambees, and shake hands in markets — can suffice. We have elected leaders who trace their connection to distant ancestors said to have lived in the area during the colonial era, as though historical footnotes substitute for present commitment.
We have elected people who never attended a single school in Lari — not primary, not secondary, not even kindergarten. We do not ask about their classmates. We do not inquire about their childhood footprints on our dusty roads. We do not demand to know their roots.
What we demand — too often — are money bags. And this is where the problem of Lari’s leadership begins.
Historically, the constituency itself carries a political backstory. Lari Constituency was formed in 1966, widely viewed as a political reward for J. M. Koinange, who at the time had no clear political base elsewhere. Whether one agrees with that characterization or not, the perception has lingered for decades: that Lari can be politically assigned, rather than politically earned.
J. M. Koinange had no direct connection to Lari before representing it. That origin story, fair or unfair, seems to have shaped a culture where attachment to the land matters less than access to power. And so, election after election, we repeat the cycle.
Campaign season arrives with convoys of vehicles, branded T-shirts, handouts at trading centers, and pledges wrapped in generosity. Voters, burdened by economic hardship, understandably respond to immediate relief. But once the ballot is cast and the noise fades, the deeper questions return: Who truly represents Lari? Who carries our long-term interests? Who will stay when the cameras leave?
The right to vote is sacred. It is the one instrument that places power directly in the hands of ordinary citizens. But when that power is reduced to short-term financial exchange, democracy becomes transactional rather than transformational.
Lari deserves leadership rooted not just in temporary presence, but in genuine commitment. We deserve representatives who understand our history, walk our roads long before campaigns begin, and remain accountable long after elections end.
The law may not demand years of residency. But conscience should demand loyalty. Vision. Integrity.
Until we shift from electing the highest bidder to electing the most capable leader, Lari will continue to struggle with leadership that arrives loudly — and governs lightly.
The choice, as always, remains ours.
