I have watched elections in this country like a man watching a familiar play, one where the actors change costumes but the script never does. Every five years, we are called again to the theatre of democracy. The banners rise, the drums roll, the faces smile, and the promises rain like confetti on a weary crowd. But deep down, I know — the winner was already chosen before the first song was sung. The government we are promised is never the one we vote for. It is the one that has already been auctioned.
I remember the first time I heard that word whispered during a campaign meeting in a secret GÃtithia hotel. “The deal is sealed,” one man said. “The bishop has agreed to speak in church this Sunday. The tycoon from Manyoni has promised the logistics. Now we just need the tribes to sing the chorus.” That was the day I understood — we were not voting for leaders. We were bidding for buyers.
It always starts quietly, long before the posters flood the streets. In secret rooms, away from the smell of dust and hunger, men and women sit behind closed doors to trade what they don’t own — the people’s government. They speak in the language of millions and billions, not of values or vision. One offers money, another offers loyalty, another offers the weight of his tribe, another the blessings of his pulpit. And there, in that silent marketplace of influence, our democracy is sold like livestock at a dusty Suswa market.
By the time we stand in long lines under the scorching sun, sweating in hope and hunger, the auction hammer has already fallen. The government-to-be is already bought, parceled, and shared. Ministries have been promised to churches. Contracts pledged to businessmen and foreigners. Ambassadorships secured for loyal financiers. And as we mark the ballot paper, our votes are nothing more than the applause after the deal is done.
I used to believe in voting. I stood in queues with my torn voter’s card pressed to my chest like a badge of honor. I told my children that their future was hidden in that small piece of paper. I believed change came with ink on a finger. But how do you explain to a generation that their country was sold before they were born? How do you tell them that the “new faces” they see on television are just recycled souls, reshuffled by the same hands that pull the strings behind every election?
It is a cruel theater — one that mocks the pain of the poor and the faith of the hopeful. The slogans are printed in colors, but the deals are written in shadows. Behind every smiling aspirant is a crowd of sponsors — men who will never appear on the campaign posters but will own the candidate once he wins. They are the best bidders of power, and the rest of us are just bystanders, cheering as our freedom is sold again and again.
When the results are announced, people dance in the streets of Gitithia. They wave flags, blow whistles, and call it victory. But victory for who? For the tribes that were bought with cabinet slots? For the churches that traded prayers for tenders? For the businessmen who financed campaigns only to recover their investment tenfold in inflated contracts?
The real losers are not those whose candidates fail. The real losers are the voters — all of us — for we are the ones who pay the price of the deals we never made. And so every new government arrives with new faces we’ve never seen, people who never campaigned in our villages but suddenly hold the keys to our lives. They come dressed in designer suits, speaking polished English, driving black cars with tinted windows. We look at them and wonder: Who are they? Where did they come from? Who voted for them? But we never ask too loudly, because in this country, truth is often punished with silence.
I tell this story not because I hate my GÃtithia country, but because I love it too much to stay quiet. I have seen the auction tables, smelled the greed, heard the laughter of men who call themselves patriots but are really traders in power or government hawkers. I have seen churches turned into campaign halls, tribal elders into auctioneers, and civil servants into kunda ngûtume, errand boys of tycoons.
The government is no longer formed by ideas — it is purchased by interests. And we, the people, are not citizens anymore. We are the collateral of democracy. The bidding begins long before we know it, and by the time we celebrate the results, the auction is already over.
I remember the first time I heard that word whispered during a campaign meeting in a secret GÃtithia hotel. “The deal is sealed,” one man said. “The bishop has agreed to speak in church this Sunday. The tycoon from Manyoni has promised the logistics. Now we just need the tribes to sing the chorus.” That was the day I understood — we were not voting for leaders. We were bidding for buyers.
It always starts quietly, long before the posters flood the streets. In secret rooms, away from the smell of dust and hunger, men and women sit behind closed doors to trade what they don’t own — the people’s government. They speak in the language of millions and billions, not of values or vision. One offers money, another offers loyalty, another offers the weight of his tribe, another the blessings of his pulpit. And there, in that silent marketplace of influence, our democracy is sold like livestock at a dusty Suswa market.
By the time we stand in long lines under the scorching sun, sweating in hope and hunger, the auction hammer has already fallen. The government-to-be is already bought, parceled, and shared. Ministries have been promised to churches. Contracts pledged to businessmen and foreigners. Ambassadorships secured for loyal financiers. And as we mark the ballot paper, our votes are nothing more than the applause after the deal is done.
I used to believe in voting. I stood in queues with my torn voter’s card pressed to my chest like a badge of honor. I told my children that their future was hidden in that small piece of paper. I believed change came with ink on a finger. But how do you explain to a generation that their country was sold before they were born? How do you tell them that the “new faces” they see on television are just recycled souls, reshuffled by the same hands that pull the strings behind every election?
It is a cruel theater — one that mocks the pain of the poor and the faith of the hopeful. The slogans are printed in colors, but the deals are written in shadows. Behind every smiling aspirant is a crowd of sponsors — men who will never appear on the campaign posters but will own the candidate once he wins. They are the best bidders of power, and the rest of us are just bystanders, cheering as our freedom is sold again and again.
When the results are announced, people dance in the streets of Gitithia. They wave flags, blow whistles, and call it victory. But victory for who? For the tribes that were bought with cabinet slots? For the churches that traded prayers for tenders? For the businessmen who financed campaigns only to recover their investment tenfold in inflated contracts?
The real losers are not those whose candidates fail. The real losers are the voters — all of us — for we are the ones who pay the price of the deals we never made. And so every new government arrives with new faces we’ve never seen, people who never campaigned in our villages but suddenly hold the keys to our lives. They come dressed in designer suits, speaking polished English, driving black cars with tinted windows. We look at them and wonder: Who are they? Where did they come from? Who voted for them? But we never ask too loudly, because in this country, truth is often punished with silence.
I tell this story not because I hate my GÃtithia country, but because I love it too much to stay quiet. I have seen the auction tables, smelled the greed, heard the laughter of men who call themselves patriots but are really traders in power or government hawkers. I have seen churches turned into campaign halls, tribal elders into auctioneers, and civil servants into kunda ngûtume, errand boys of tycoons.
The government is no longer formed by ideas — it is purchased by interests. And we, the people, are not citizens anymore. We are the collateral of democracy. The bidding begins long before we know it, and by the time we celebrate the results, the auction is already over.
