There are days when I wish politics was only about politicians — men and women seeking office and making promises. But that would be too easy, too innocent a lie. Politics in this country is not driven by leaders; it is engineered by brokers — the unseen middlemen who hold no public office yet own the soul of our democracy. They are the priests at the altar of power, selling blessings, votes, and influence to the highest bidder.
They move quietly, but their presence is everywhere. They are the bishops who turn pulpits into campaign podiums, the tribal elders who declare whole communities as political property, the tycoons who finance rallies and own the outcome, the media owners who choose what truth the public should hear. They are the ones who decide who rises and who falls, long before the voter ever steps into a polling station.
I first met a broker when I was helping a young politician campaign in Kírenga. He was full of passion, a man who wanted to bring change, a son of a farmer who had tasted poverty and wanted to reform the system. One morning, we received a call to meet a “senior adviser.” We went, thinking it was about strategy. Instead, we found three men seated in an office filled with expensive furniture and the smell of imported cigars. One of them smiled and said, “We can make you win, but you must understand — politics is not about dreams, it’s about deals.”
He slid a paper across the table. It listed the cost of “endorsements” from different groups — so much for the church council’s support, so much for the regional youth group, so much for airtime on certain radio stations, so much for the blessing of a tribal elder. “This,” the man said, “is how you build numbers.” My friend looked at the paper, then at me, and whispered, “So this is what democracy costs.” I had no words for him. Because deep inside, I knew he was right.
The brokers thrive where hope is desperate. They come wearing the faces of saviors but carry briefcases of bargains. To them, every institution is an investment and every principle a negotiable price. They know how to speak the language of the poor while counting their profits in boardrooms. When elections come, they are the first to be seen whispering into the ears of candidates, promising tribal votes, church blessings, or corporate money. A politician cannot breathe without them. They are the connectors — the ones who link power to money, religion to politics, and corruption to legitimacy.
In the villages, the tribal elders act as local brokers. They gather under the shade of old trees, wearing their ancestral authority like crowns. They summon candidates to “seek blessings,” but blessings have a price. Goats, cows, envelopes — the rituals of endorsement that sell communities like commodities. Once the elders speak, the people are told how to vote, who to trust, and who to hate. And when the election is over, the elders are rewarded with trips, contracts, and envelopes — a repayment for the loyalty they auctioned.
Then there are the church brokers, perhaps the most painful to witness. I have seen bishops stand on altars, laying hands on politicians who fund their crusades. I have seen pastors command their flocks to vote for a “God-chosen” leader — the same leader who met them the night before, not for prayer, but for payment. The pulpit becomes the new auction floor, the incense of worship replaced by the smell of dirty money.
One Sunday, I attended a service in a packed church in Gíthirioni where a popular candidate was being “anointed.” He stood before the congregation, weeping and holding a Bible high. The pastor declared that the Spirit of God had chosen him. The people clapped and shouted amen. But outside the church, I overheard the ushers counting bundles of notes — a “thank-you” gift from the same man they had just declared God’s servant. I walked home heavy, realizing that faith too had been bought and sold.
Then there are the business brokers, the shadow financiers of politics. They are the faceless men behind campaign billboards, the owners of printing companies, logistics firms, and media outlets. They don’t need to stand on a podium — their influence flows through cheque books. They fund both sides of the political divide because it doesn’t matter who wins; what matters is that they stay in business. They are the ones who know that after every election, there will be tenders to repay the debt.
It’s a perfect system of control — tribal brokers deliver votes, church brokers deliver legitimacy, and business brokers deliver money. Together, they make democracy look alive while keeping it safely locked in the hands of the few.
And what about the voters? The voters are the audience — watching a show they paid for but never directed. They are the ones who line up at rallies, chanting names they barely understand, singing for men who never sang for them. They clap when told to clap, and when the brokers have secured their deals, they are forgotten until the next season of auction.
Sometimes, late at night, I ask myself — how did we get here? When did our elders trade their wisdom for envelopes? When did our pastors trade their altars for campaign banners? When did our business leaders become the invisible kings of state? Perhaps it began the day we confused influence with leadership, and power with purpose.
The brokers are not villains in their own eyes; they are survivors. They will tell you that politics has always been about negotiation, that you cannot win without compromise. And maybe they are right — but the cost of their compromise is a nation crippled by debt and division.
I once heard a foreign leader say, “Every government must have shareholders.” He meant it literally. Every powerful church, tribe, and businessman buys their share before the election. And after the election, they demand their dividends — contracts, appointments, protection, and silence. That is why when scandals break, no one is punished. How can you arrest your shareholders?
The brokers have mastered the art of making the people believe they are free while holding the chains behind the curtain. They have auctioned not only governments, but also faith, culture, and conscience.
I often imagine what would happen if, just once, the brokers were ignored — if the people voted not by tribe, not by church, not by bribe, but by truth. Would the system collapse? Or would the country finally rise? But I know this is just a dream. Because every time an election nears, the brokers return — polishing their smiles, sharpening their promises, and counting their profits. And once again, the nation walks willingly into the auction hall, singing songs of change while bidding for the same old chains.
They move quietly, but their presence is everywhere. They are the bishops who turn pulpits into campaign podiums, the tribal elders who declare whole communities as political property, the tycoons who finance rallies and own the outcome, the media owners who choose what truth the public should hear. They are the ones who decide who rises and who falls, long before the voter ever steps into a polling station.
I first met a broker when I was helping a young politician campaign in Kírenga. He was full of passion, a man who wanted to bring change, a son of a farmer who had tasted poverty and wanted to reform the system. One morning, we received a call to meet a “senior adviser.” We went, thinking it was about strategy. Instead, we found three men seated in an office filled with expensive furniture and the smell of imported cigars. One of them smiled and said, “We can make you win, but you must understand — politics is not about dreams, it’s about deals.”
He slid a paper across the table. It listed the cost of “endorsements” from different groups — so much for the church council’s support, so much for the regional youth group, so much for airtime on certain radio stations, so much for the blessing of a tribal elder. “This,” the man said, “is how you build numbers.” My friend looked at the paper, then at me, and whispered, “So this is what democracy costs.” I had no words for him. Because deep inside, I knew he was right.
The brokers thrive where hope is desperate. They come wearing the faces of saviors but carry briefcases of bargains. To them, every institution is an investment and every principle a negotiable price. They know how to speak the language of the poor while counting their profits in boardrooms. When elections come, they are the first to be seen whispering into the ears of candidates, promising tribal votes, church blessings, or corporate money. A politician cannot breathe without them. They are the connectors — the ones who link power to money, religion to politics, and corruption to legitimacy.
In the villages, the tribal elders act as local brokers. They gather under the shade of old trees, wearing their ancestral authority like crowns. They summon candidates to “seek blessings,” but blessings have a price. Goats, cows, envelopes — the rituals of endorsement that sell communities like commodities. Once the elders speak, the people are told how to vote, who to trust, and who to hate. And when the election is over, the elders are rewarded with trips, contracts, and envelopes — a repayment for the loyalty they auctioned.
Then there are the church brokers, perhaps the most painful to witness. I have seen bishops stand on altars, laying hands on politicians who fund their crusades. I have seen pastors command their flocks to vote for a “God-chosen” leader — the same leader who met them the night before, not for prayer, but for payment. The pulpit becomes the new auction floor, the incense of worship replaced by the smell of dirty money.
One Sunday, I attended a service in a packed church in Gíthirioni where a popular candidate was being “anointed.” He stood before the congregation, weeping and holding a Bible high. The pastor declared that the Spirit of God had chosen him. The people clapped and shouted amen. But outside the church, I overheard the ushers counting bundles of notes — a “thank-you” gift from the same man they had just declared God’s servant. I walked home heavy, realizing that faith too had been bought and sold.
Then there are the business brokers, the shadow financiers of politics. They are the faceless men behind campaign billboards, the owners of printing companies, logistics firms, and media outlets. They don’t need to stand on a podium — their influence flows through cheque books. They fund both sides of the political divide because it doesn’t matter who wins; what matters is that they stay in business. They are the ones who know that after every election, there will be tenders to repay the debt.
It’s a perfect system of control — tribal brokers deliver votes, church brokers deliver legitimacy, and business brokers deliver money. Together, they make democracy look alive while keeping it safely locked in the hands of the few.
And what about the voters? The voters are the audience — watching a show they paid for but never directed. They are the ones who line up at rallies, chanting names they barely understand, singing for men who never sang for them. They clap when told to clap, and when the brokers have secured their deals, they are forgotten until the next season of auction.
Sometimes, late at night, I ask myself — how did we get here? When did our elders trade their wisdom for envelopes? When did our pastors trade their altars for campaign banners? When did our business leaders become the invisible kings of state? Perhaps it began the day we confused influence with leadership, and power with purpose.
The brokers are not villains in their own eyes; they are survivors. They will tell you that politics has always been about negotiation, that you cannot win without compromise. And maybe they are right — but the cost of their compromise is a nation crippled by debt and division.
I once heard a foreign leader say, “Every government must have shareholders.” He meant it literally. Every powerful church, tribe, and businessman buys their share before the election. And after the election, they demand their dividends — contracts, appointments, protection, and silence. That is why when scandals break, no one is punished. How can you arrest your shareholders?
The brokers have mastered the art of making the people believe they are free while holding the chains behind the curtain. They have auctioned not only governments, but also faith, culture, and conscience.
I often imagine what would happen if, just once, the brokers were ignored — if the people voted not by tribe, not by church, not by bribe, but by truth. Would the system collapse? Or would the country finally rise? But I know this is just a dream. Because every time an election nears, the brokers return — polishing their smiles, sharpening their promises, and counting their profits. And once again, the nation walks willingly into the auction hall, singing songs of change while bidding for the same old chains.
