It begins quietly — not with riots in the streets or the thunder of gunfire, but with whispers in the markets, murmurs in matatus, sighs over evening tea. It begins when the people start to see through the curtain, when they begin to understand that the powerful are not gods but men who eat from their sweat. That is how awakening always comes — silently at first, like dawn breaking after a long and sleepless night.
I have seen it in the eyes of the young, in the way they now question things their parents accepted. They are no longer fooled by slogans or charmed by tribal chants. They scroll through their phones and see the truth — not the edited speeches on television, but the videos of what their leaders do when the cameras are off. They have begun to see patterns — the recycled faces, the broken promises, the same colonies feeding on their future. Their laughter is tinged with cynicism now, and their applause no longer comes easily. The spell is breaking.
One afternoon in Gíthûya, I met a group of university students who were organizing what they called a “Citizen’s Audit.” They were not waiting for the Auditor-General; they were collecting records of local projects, comparing what was promised to what was delivered. They had spreadsheets, photographs, and testimonies. When I asked them why, one young man said, “We are tired of being fooled. If we don’t check our leaders, who will?” That is what awakening looks like — the moment people stop waiting for saviors and start saving themselves.
In another village, I met a women’s group that refused to sing for politicians during campaigns. “They pay us to dance for them,” one woman told me, “but what do we get afterward? Nothing. Let them find someone else to sing.” They now use their gatherings to discuss local budgets, health services, and bursaries. They no longer wait for leaders to bring change; they demand it. That, too, is awakening.
The voters have begun to understand their power. They have realized that their hunger has been weaponized against them, that the money given at rallies is not generosity but a bribe for silence. They have started to whisper to each other, “We can take the money and still vote our way.” It may seem small, but it is rebellion in its purest form — a refusal to be owned.
I have watched this awakening grow like fire under dry grass — slowly, invisibly, but unstoppable once lit. It burns through the lies, through the divisions, through the fear. It makes people talk in ways they never dared before. It makes them question the myths they were born into — the myth that tribe determines destiny, the myth that power is inherited, the myth that corruption is unstoppable. Each question is a crack in the wall.
The awakening is not loud yet, but you can feel it. You can hear it in the boldness of journalists who refuse to be silenced, in the determination of whistleblowers who speak even when it costs them their jobs. You can see it in the churches that have begun to repent publicly for their silence, in the youth who are forming movements that reject tribal politics. It is not a revolution of fire — it is a revolution of consciousness.
But awakening is painful. It strips illusions, exposes betrayal, and forces the people to face how long they have lived in deception. Many resist it. Some cling to the comfort of their chains because freedom demands responsibility. But once truth touches the heart, it cannot be untold. You can close your eyes, but you cannot unsee.
I remember an old man in Kíanjahí who said to me, “We have been voting for the same men, expecting different results. Maybe the problem is not them — it is us.” His words cut through me like lightning. He was not bitter, just awake. That kind of wisdom is spreading, quietly but steadily, across Gítithia.
Even among politicians, something is shifting. A few have begun to realize that the old tricks no longer work. The people no longer kneel as easily. They ask for results, not gifts. They record what is said, they share it, they hold receipts. Fear has moved from the governed to the governors. That is how all awakenings begin — not when the people stop fearing power, but when power begins to fear the people.
I have felt this new courage in rallies where hecklers now ask real questions instead of chanting slogans. I have seen youth refusing to be rented for violence. I have seen mothers challenge leaders publicly about water, schools, and hospitals. I have heard boda boda riders talk politics with precision that would shame a cabinet. The ordinary Gítithian is learning to see the pattern behind the performance — the auction behind the applause.
Of course, the system is fighting back. It tries to distract, to divide, to remind us of tribe and religion and old wounds. It floods us with propaganda, with endless promises of reform. But awakening cannot be undone. Once the people taste awareness, deception loses its flavor. The auction is trembling, not because it is collapsing, but because the buyers are being watched.
The change will not come in one grand moment; it will come in ripples — in counties where citizens demand audits, in schools where students question their leaders, in villages where farmers refuse to sell votes for handouts. It will come when Gítithians realize that unity is not in tribes but in suffering, that every hungry child, every broken hospital, every lost job is a national wound, not a tribal one.
One night, as I traveled by bus from Kabunge to Roromo, I sat next to a young woman reading a worn copy of the Constitution. I asked her why. She said, “I want to know what they don’t want us to know.” Her voice was soft, but her words were thunder. That is the new generation — weary of waiting, hungry for truth. They may not have the power yet, but they have the will. And will is the first seed of revolution.
The awakening will not be televised, because it will not need cameras. It will happen in hearts. It will begin when a teacher refuses to forge results for a politician’s child, when a pastor rejects a donation from a corrupt leader, when a journalist chooses truth over safety, when a voter walks into a polling station and votes with conscience, not fear. That is how nations are reborn — not through noise, but through conviction.
I no longer fear the auctioneers. Their time is ending, even if they don’t see it yet. Power built on deceit cannot last forever. The people are stirring. The silence is breaking. The whispers are joining, the murmurs are rising, and soon they will become a single voice — one that no amount of money, tribe, or propaganda can silence.
The day that voice roars, it will not be a coup or a riot. It will be the awakening of a nation — a quiet reclaiming of dignity, the end of an era of being sold, the beginning of being seen. And when that day comes, the auctioneer’s hammer will fall for the last time — not to sell, but to signal the closing of a long, painful chapter in our history.
I have seen it in the eyes of the young, in the way they now question things their parents accepted. They are no longer fooled by slogans or charmed by tribal chants. They scroll through their phones and see the truth — not the edited speeches on television, but the videos of what their leaders do when the cameras are off. They have begun to see patterns — the recycled faces, the broken promises, the same colonies feeding on their future. Their laughter is tinged with cynicism now, and their applause no longer comes easily. The spell is breaking.
One afternoon in Gíthûya, I met a group of university students who were organizing what they called a “Citizen’s Audit.” They were not waiting for the Auditor-General; they were collecting records of local projects, comparing what was promised to what was delivered. They had spreadsheets, photographs, and testimonies. When I asked them why, one young man said, “We are tired of being fooled. If we don’t check our leaders, who will?” That is what awakening looks like — the moment people stop waiting for saviors and start saving themselves.
In another village, I met a women’s group that refused to sing for politicians during campaigns. “They pay us to dance for them,” one woman told me, “but what do we get afterward? Nothing. Let them find someone else to sing.” They now use their gatherings to discuss local budgets, health services, and bursaries. They no longer wait for leaders to bring change; they demand it. That, too, is awakening.
The voters have begun to understand their power. They have realized that their hunger has been weaponized against them, that the money given at rallies is not generosity but a bribe for silence. They have started to whisper to each other, “We can take the money and still vote our way.” It may seem small, but it is rebellion in its purest form — a refusal to be owned.
I have watched this awakening grow like fire under dry grass — slowly, invisibly, but unstoppable once lit. It burns through the lies, through the divisions, through the fear. It makes people talk in ways they never dared before. It makes them question the myths they were born into — the myth that tribe determines destiny, the myth that power is inherited, the myth that corruption is unstoppable. Each question is a crack in the wall.
The awakening is not loud yet, but you can feel it. You can hear it in the boldness of journalists who refuse to be silenced, in the determination of whistleblowers who speak even when it costs them their jobs. You can see it in the churches that have begun to repent publicly for their silence, in the youth who are forming movements that reject tribal politics. It is not a revolution of fire — it is a revolution of consciousness.
But awakening is painful. It strips illusions, exposes betrayal, and forces the people to face how long they have lived in deception. Many resist it. Some cling to the comfort of their chains because freedom demands responsibility. But once truth touches the heart, it cannot be untold. You can close your eyes, but you cannot unsee.
I remember an old man in Kíanjahí who said to me, “We have been voting for the same men, expecting different results. Maybe the problem is not them — it is us.” His words cut through me like lightning. He was not bitter, just awake. That kind of wisdom is spreading, quietly but steadily, across Gítithia.
Even among politicians, something is shifting. A few have begun to realize that the old tricks no longer work. The people no longer kneel as easily. They ask for results, not gifts. They record what is said, they share it, they hold receipts. Fear has moved from the governed to the governors. That is how all awakenings begin — not when the people stop fearing power, but when power begins to fear the people.
I have felt this new courage in rallies where hecklers now ask real questions instead of chanting slogans. I have seen youth refusing to be rented for violence. I have seen mothers challenge leaders publicly about water, schools, and hospitals. I have heard boda boda riders talk politics with precision that would shame a cabinet. The ordinary Gítithian is learning to see the pattern behind the performance — the auction behind the applause.
Of course, the system is fighting back. It tries to distract, to divide, to remind us of tribe and religion and old wounds. It floods us with propaganda, with endless promises of reform. But awakening cannot be undone. Once the people taste awareness, deception loses its flavor. The auction is trembling, not because it is collapsing, but because the buyers are being watched.
The change will not come in one grand moment; it will come in ripples — in counties where citizens demand audits, in schools where students question their leaders, in villages where farmers refuse to sell votes for handouts. It will come when Gítithians realize that unity is not in tribes but in suffering, that every hungry child, every broken hospital, every lost job is a national wound, not a tribal one.
One night, as I traveled by bus from Kabunge to Roromo, I sat next to a young woman reading a worn copy of the Constitution. I asked her why. She said, “I want to know what they don’t want us to know.” Her voice was soft, but her words were thunder. That is the new generation — weary of waiting, hungry for truth. They may not have the power yet, but they have the will. And will is the first seed of revolution.
The awakening will not be televised, because it will not need cameras. It will happen in hearts. It will begin when a teacher refuses to forge results for a politician’s child, when a pastor rejects a donation from a corrupt leader, when a journalist chooses truth over safety, when a voter walks into a polling station and votes with conscience, not fear. That is how nations are reborn — not through noise, but through conviction.
I no longer fear the auctioneers. Their time is ending, even if they don’t see it yet. Power built on deceit cannot last forever. The people are stirring. The silence is breaking. The whispers are joining, the murmurs are rising, and soon they will become a single voice — one that no amount of money, tribe, or propaganda can silence.
The day that voice roars, it will not be a coup or a riot. It will be the awakening of a nation — a quiet reclaiming of dignity, the end of an era of being sold, the beginning of being seen. And when that day comes, the auctioneer’s hammer will fall for the last time — not to sell, but to signal the closing of a long, painful chapter in our history.
