I did not write Government Auction to curse my nation of Gítithia, but to confront its truth — to hold up a mirror so that we might finally see what we have become. We have mistaken elections for freedom, slogans for progress, and handouts for leadership. We have allowed greed to disguise itself as governance and tribalism to masquerade as patriotism.
For decades, we have queued under the hot sun, believing that ink on a finger could erase corruption written in contracts long before we voted. But how long shall we pretend not to see that the government we elect is already auctioned before we arrive at the polling station?
The truth is bitter, but necessary: our democracy has been on sale for far too long. Tycoons buy ministries, churches bless thieves, tribal 'chiefs' trade loyalty for favors, and businessmen purchase access to the treasury. And we — the citizens — have watched, cheered, and prayed for blessings from men who auction our future with smiles and speeches. Yet, even in this darkness, there is a stirring, a small fire that refuses to die. It is the awakening of a people who are tired of being buyers of promises and sellers of silence.
Change will not come from those who profit from the auction. It will come from those who refuse to bid. It will come from a new kind of citizen — one who asks questions, one who demands receipts, one who votes not by tribe but by truth. It will come from churches that preach conscience over convenience, from journalists who refuse to be bought, from youth who turn their anger into action instead of violence. It will come from each of us — when we finally decide that this country is not for sale.
One day, the auctioneer’s hammer will fall for the last time. The room will be empty — no bidders, no brokers, no cheering crowd. Outside, the people will stand together, no longer divided by tribe or religion, but united by memory, by suffering, and by purpose. They will not demand miracles; they will demand justice. They will not beg for leaders; they will become them.
For decades, we have queued under the hot sun, believing that ink on a finger could erase corruption written in contracts long before we voted. But how long shall we pretend not to see that the government we elect is already auctioned before we arrive at the polling station?
The truth is bitter, but necessary: our democracy has been on sale for far too long. Tycoons buy ministries, churches bless thieves, tribal 'chiefs' trade loyalty for favors, and businessmen purchase access to the treasury. And we — the citizens — have watched, cheered, and prayed for blessings from men who auction our future with smiles and speeches. Yet, even in this darkness, there is a stirring, a small fire that refuses to die. It is the awakening of a people who are tired of being buyers of promises and sellers of silence.
Change will not come from those who profit from the auction. It will come from those who refuse to bid. It will come from a new kind of citizen — one who asks questions, one who demands receipts, one who votes not by tribe but by truth. It will come from churches that preach conscience over convenience, from journalists who refuse to be bought, from youth who turn their anger into action instead of violence. It will come from each of us — when we finally decide that this country is not for sale.
One day, the auctioneer’s hammer will fall for the last time. The room will be empty — no bidders, no brokers, no cheering crowd. Outside, the people will stand together, no longer divided by tribe or religion, but united by memory, by suffering, and by purpose. They will not demand miracles; they will demand justice. They will not beg for leaders; they will become them.
That is the Gítithia I dream of — a nation where power is not bought but earned, where government serves rather than trades, where the ballot is sacred again. The day we buy back our country, not with money but with integrity, will be the day the auction ends — and the Republic finally begins.
END
