There is a dangerous silence hanging over Lari. Not the silence of peace, but the silence of people who have slowly been taught not to ask questions.
For years, the people of Lari have watched their constituency run like a marketplace where everything is for sale — roads, schools, tenders, even the future of their children. Yet when you ask the simplest question — Who built this road? Who constructed this school? Who was awarded this project? — the answer is always the same, "The contractor is on site."
But who is the contractor? No one knows.
That is the strange tragedy of Lari. It is perhaps the only place where millions of shillings flow through projects whose owners are ghosts. Roads appear and disappear under layers of dust and broken stones. Culverts collapse with the first rain. Yet the people never see the companies responsible. They never meet the contractors. They only hear whispers that “work is ongoing.”
This is not development. This is an auction. Lari has been auctioned to invisible bidders.
Somewhere far from the villages of Lari/Kirenga, Kijabe, Kinale, Nyanduma, and Kamburu, deals are signed by people who have never walked the muddy roads they claim to build. Contracts are awarded to companies whose directors are strangers to the community. Money meant for Lari circulates among businessmen, brokers, and political financiers who treat the constituency like a feeding trough.
The people of Lari remain spectators to their own development.
Ask a resident of Kijabe who constructed the last road project in their ward. They cannot tell you. Ask in Kinale who supplied materials for the school building. No one knows. Ask in Nyanduma which company is responsible for the incomplete bridge that has remained unfinished for years. Silence. Yet millions were paid.
This is how the modern political auction works. The real contracts are not given to local people who understand the terrain and care about the outcome. Instead, they are handed to distant companies that subcontract the work cheaply. Those subcontractors then subcontract again, and by the time the work reaches the ground, the budget has already been eaten.
For years, the people of Lari have watched their constituency run like a marketplace where everything is for sale — roads, schools, tenders, even the future of their children. Yet when you ask the simplest question — Who built this road? Who constructed this school? Who was awarded this project? — the answer is always the same, "The contractor is on site."
But who is the contractor? No one knows.
That is the strange tragedy of Lari. It is perhaps the only place where millions of shillings flow through projects whose owners are ghosts. Roads appear and disappear under layers of dust and broken stones. Culverts collapse with the first rain. Yet the people never see the companies responsible. They never meet the contractors. They only hear whispers that “work is ongoing.”
This is not development. This is an auction. Lari has been auctioned to invisible bidders.
Somewhere far from the villages of Lari/Kirenga, Kijabe, Kinale, Nyanduma, and Kamburu, deals are signed by people who have never walked the muddy roads they claim to build. Contracts are awarded to companies whose directors are strangers to the community. Money meant for Lari circulates among businessmen, brokers, and political financiers who treat the constituency like a feeding trough.
The people of Lari remain spectators to their own development.
Ask a resident of Kijabe who constructed the last road project in their ward. They cannot tell you. Ask in Kinale who supplied materials for the school building. No one knows. Ask in Nyanduma which company is responsible for the incomplete bridge that has remained unfinished for years. Silence. Yet millions were paid.
This is how the modern political auction works. The real contracts are not given to local people who understand the terrain and care about the outcome. Instead, they are handed to distant companies that subcontract the work cheaply. Those subcontractors then subcontract again, and by the time the work reaches the ground, the budget has already been eaten.
The “big cake” disappears long before the first stone is laid. What remains is crumbs — poorly compacted roads, unfinished classrooms, and drainage systems that collapse before the ribbon-cutting ceremony photos even fade from social media.
Meanwhile, the sons and daughters of Lari are left doing the cheapest labor. They are hired for a few days to dig trenches or carry stones, while the real money flows upward to people they will never meet. The constituency becomes a worksite, but never a shareholder.
Lari builds the projects. Others own them in their pockets.
And the tragedy is deeper than bad roads or unfinished buildings. The real loss is accountability. When the people do not know who builds their infrastructure, they cannot demand quality. When the contractors are invisible, corruption becomes untouchable. Every failure can be blamed on “the system,” while the real beneficiaries remain hidden behind paperwork and political protection.
This is how communities are robbed quietly. Not through loud scandals, but through ordinary projects that collapse one after another while everyone pretends development is happening. But the deeper problem is not the contractors. It is the auction of political voice.
Every election cycle, the people of Lari are courted with promises. Speeches echo through markets and churches. Leaders pledge transformation, better roads, better schools, better services. Yet after the votes are counted, the constituency disappears from the conversation except when budgets are being divided.
The vote becomes the hammer that seals the auction. Once it falls, the buyers take possession.
For too long, Lari has been treated as territory rather than community — a place where political investors recover their campaign costs through contracts and tenders. Roads become repayment plans. Schools become financial instruments. Development becomes business. And the people? They remain the unpaid shareholders of a company they never agreed to join.
But history shows that auctions do not last forever. There comes a moment when a community begins to ask questions that politicians cannot answer. Questions like:
The people of Lari/Kirenga must demand to know who builds their infrastructure. The residents of Kamburu must insist that every project has a visible and accountable contractor. The citizens of Nyanduma must refuse to celebrate ribbon cuttings for projects that collapse months later. The voters of Kinale and Kijabe must stop accepting development that arrives without visibility.
Development without accountability is not progress. It is organized theft.
Lari deserves roads built by companies that stand behind their work. Lari deserves schools constructed by contractors whose names are known to the community. Lari deserves projects that belong to its people, not to political investors hiding behind briefcases and proxies.
Most of all, Lari deserves leaders who understand that public office is not an auction stall.
The people of Lari must remember one thing: A constituency or ward cannot be sold if its people refuse to be bidders.
The next time the campaign season comes — with songs, promises, and handshakes — Lari must ask one simple question before cheering: Who owns the contracts?
If that question is answered honestly, the auction will end. If it is ignored, the hammer will fall again — and Lari will once more be sold to the highest bidder.
Meanwhile, the sons and daughters of Lari are left doing the cheapest labor. They are hired for a few days to dig trenches or carry stones, while the real money flows upward to people they will never meet. The constituency becomes a worksite, but never a shareholder.
Lari builds the projects. Others own them in their pockets.
And the tragedy is deeper than bad roads or unfinished buildings. The real loss is accountability. When the people do not know who builds their infrastructure, they cannot demand quality. When the contractors are invisible, corruption becomes untouchable. Every failure can be blamed on “the system,” while the real beneficiaries remain hidden behind paperwork and political protection.
This is how communities are robbed quietly. Not through loud scandals, but through ordinary projects that collapse one after another while everyone pretends development is happening. But the deeper problem is not the contractors. It is the auction of political voice.
Every election cycle, the people of Lari are courted with promises. Speeches echo through markets and churches. Leaders pledge transformation, better roads, better schools, better services. Yet after the votes are counted, the constituency disappears from the conversation except when budgets are being divided.
The vote becomes the hammer that seals the auction. Once it falls, the buyers take possession.
For too long, Lari has been treated as territory rather than community — a place where political investors recover their campaign costs through contracts and tenders. Roads become repayment plans. Schools become financial instruments. Development becomes business. And the people? They remain the unpaid shareholders of a company they never agreed to join.
But history shows that auctions do not last forever. There comes a moment when a community begins to ask questions that politicians cannot answer. Questions like:
- Who exactly builds our roads?
- Which companies are winning Lari’s tenders?
- Why are projects incomplete?
- Why are locals only used as casual laborers?
- Where does the money go?
- Why are our leaders act like they do not have brains?
The people of Lari/Kirenga must demand to know who builds their infrastructure. The residents of Kamburu must insist that every project has a visible and accountable contractor. The citizens of Nyanduma must refuse to celebrate ribbon cuttings for projects that collapse months later. The voters of Kinale and Kijabe must stop accepting development that arrives without visibility.
Development without accountability is not progress. It is organized theft.
Lari deserves roads built by companies that stand behind their work. Lari deserves schools constructed by contractors whose names are known to the community. Lari deserves projects that belong to its people, not to political investors hiding behind briefcases and proxies.
Most of all, Lari deserves leaders who understand that public office is not an auction stall.
The people of Lari must remember one thing: A constituency or ward cannot be sold if its people refuse to be bidders.
The next time the campaign season comes — with songs, promises, and handshakes — Lari must ask one simple question before cheering: Who owns the contracts?
If that question is answered honestly, the auction will end. If it is ignored, the hammer will fall again — and Lari will once more be sold to the highest bidder.
