Every election season, Gítithia becomes a marketplace of dreams. Streets that once echoed with silence and poverty come alive with color, music, and hope. Suddenly, every politician becomes a salesman, and every promise a product on display. The slogans are loud, the smiles rehearsed, and the air thick with conviction. But behind the laughter, behind the stage lights and dancing crowds, lies the cruelest truth of all — promises in this country are not made to be kept. They are made to be sold.
I have been in campaign tents where these promises are crafted, where words are chosen not for truth but for effect. You sit around a long table with strategists, publicists, and advisors. They call it “message development.” One man says, “Let’s promise free education.” Another adds, “Throw in universal healthcare — it sounds good.” Someone else suggests, “We must talk about jobs for youth; maybe we can call it Pesa kwa Vijana Reloaded.” They all nod, scribbling phrases that will never see daylight beyond the microphones. And when the speeches are done, they lean back, satisfied — not because the promises are realistic, but because they sound believable enough to sell.
Campaigns are not driven by vision anymore; they are driven by marketing. Each word is tested for emotional value, each image designed to seduce. Voters are not citizens — they are consumers, targeted with political advertising. The candidates speak of “empowerment,” “transformation,” “inclusivity,” “digital economy” — big words meant to dazzle, not to deliver. Every promise is currency, traded for votes and discarded once the ballot boxes close.
I remember attending a rally in Karera where a presidential candidate stood before a roaring crowd. He promised a revolution — factories in every county, jobs for every graduate, food for every family. The people screamed with joy; some even cried. They believed him. Hope flowed through the crowd like a fever. But I had seen the campaign budget. I knew how much it cost to rent those buses that brought the cheering crowds, how much the youth leaders were paid to chant, how much the local artists were given to perform. Even hope, it seemed, was sponsored.
Campaigns, I realized, are not movements — they are business ventures. There are suppliers, contractors, and investors. There are profit margins and risk assessments. Every banner, every T-shirt, every song is an investment. Those who fund it expect returns, and once the government forms, they collect. The promises made to the people are collateral for deals made in secret. When the politician wins, he spends his first years not fulfilling pledges, but repaying debts — political, financial, and moral.
Once, during a late-night meeting in a hotel room, I overheard a campaign financier speaking to a candidate. “Don’t worry about those promises,” he said. “We’ll manage the narrative after the election. Just make sure you win. The rest, we’ll handle in procurement.” The candidate laughed softly. “You mean tenders?” The man smiled. “Exactly. Promises are for the public; tenders are for the investors.” They clinked glasses, and I felt a sickness deep inside me. That moment captured the essence of our democracy — a deal disguised as destiny.
After the elections, the business continues. The campaign offices are transformed into appointment centers. Those who contributed millions come demanding their share — tenders, contracts, ambassadorial positions. The politician, now a leader, becomes a debtor. His speeches about reform vanish. The “people’s government” becomes a repayment plan. And so, the promises that built his campaign turn into dust in the mouths of the poor.
The saddest part is how easily we, the people, forgive. A leader lies to us, fails us, and we still cheer for him the next time he comes. He changes parties, changes slogans, changes colors — and we fall for it again. He comes back with a new slogan, new songs, new dance moves, and we clap like nothing ever happened. We have been conditioned to love the show more than the result. Politics here is theatre, not governance.
Every promise follows the same pattern: Phase One — Launch the dream. It begins with words like “We will,” “We must,” “We can.” Hope swells. Phase Two — Excuses. “The previous regime left us in debt and empty coffers.” “The system is against us.” “Be patient; change takes time.” Phase Three — Silence. The promise disappears from speeches, from documents, from memory. And then, just when the people begin to murmur, the next election season arrives, and the cycle begins again.
I have seen this cycle break hearts. I have watched mothers who waited for promised clinics still walking miles to dilapidated dispensaries. I have watched young men who believed in job creation end up as touts and boda boda riders. I have seen university graduates burning their certificates in protest, their futures traded for empty words. The politicians return to campaign in the same villages, standing under the same trees, speaking the same sentences — and the people still cheer, because hunger has made them gullible. They don’t vote for hope anymore; they vote for relief.
I once visited a market in Shauri during campaign season. A woman selling tomatoes said to me, “These leaders are all liars, but at least this one gave me a hundred bob last week.” She smiled faintly, arranging her tomatoes. That was it — the worth of her vote reduced to a single note. It struck me that promises have lost all meaning when hunger dictates morality. You cannot preach ideals to an empty stomach. Politicians know this; they exploit it perfectly. They promise food instead of justice, and we eat and forget.
In Gítithia, manifestos are written not for implementation but for persuasion. They are manuals for deception, designed to sound intelligent while committing to nothing. They talk about billions and timelines, but none of it matters. Once the power is secured, the document gathers dust in drawers, replaced by the reality of political survival. The “visionary leader” becomes a master of excuses, his campaign team promoted to positions they don’t deserve. The business of promises is complete — profits made, losses written off.
And yet, every election, we line up again. We listen. We believe. Because we want to believe. Hope, even when broken, is addictive. We convince ourselves that this time will be different, that maybe this one means it, that maybe this is the leader who will not sell us. We hold our breath, we clap, we sing. And as the motorcade drives away, we are left with dust and echo — the residue of another bought dream.
I have often wondered what would happen if politicians were required to refund every false promise — if broken pledges carried the same penalty as broken contracts. Maybe then, they would speak less and do more. But politics has no refund policy. It is a one-way sale — once you buy the dream, you own the disappointment.
I have been in campaign tents where these promises are crafted, where words are chosen not for truth but for effect. You sit around a long table with strategists, publicists, and advisors. They call it “message development.” One man says, “Let’s promise free education.” Another adds, “Throw in universal healthcare — it sounds good.” Someone else suggests, “We must talk about jobs for youth; maybe we can call it Pesa kwa Vijana Reloaded.” They all nod, scribbling phrases that will never see daylight beyond the microphones. And when the speeches are done, they lean back, satisfied — not because the promises are realistic, but because they sound believable enough to sell.
Campaigns are not driven by vision anymore; they are driven by marketing. Each word is tested for emotional value, each image designed to seduce. Voters are not citizens — they are consumers, targeted with political advertising. The candidates speak of “empowerment,” “transformation,” “inclusivity,” “digital economy” — big words meant to dazzle, not to deliver. Every promise is currency, traded for votes and discarded once the ballot boxes close.
I remember attending a rally in Karera where a presidential candidate stood before a roaring crowd. He promised a revolution — factories in every county, jobs for every graduate, food for every family. The people screamed with joy; some even cried. They believed him. Hope flowed through the crowd like a fever. But I had seen the campaign budget. I knew how much it cost to rent those buses that brought the cheering crowds, how much the youth leaders were paid to chant, how much the local artists were given to perform. Even hope, it seemed, was sponsored.
Campaigns, I realized, are not movements — they are business ventures. There are suppliers, contractors, and investors. There are profit margins and risk assessments. Every banner, every T-shirt, every song is an investment. Those who fund it expect returns, and once the government forms, they collect. The promises made to the people are collateral for deals made in secret. When the politician wins, he spends his first years not fulfilling pledges, but repaying debts — political, financial, and moral.
Once, during a late-night meeting in a hotel room, I overheard a campaign financier speaking to a candidate. “Don’t worry about those promises,” he said. “We’ll manage the narrative after the election. Just make sure you win. The rest, we’ll handle in procurement.” The candidate laughed softly. “You mean tenders?” The man smiled. “Exactly. Promises are for the public; tenders are for the investors.” They clinked glasses, and I felt a sickness deep inside me. That moment captured the essence of our democracy — a deal disguised as destiny.
After the elections, the business continues. The campaign offices are transformed into appointment centers. Those who contributed millions come demanding their share — tenders, contracts, ambassadorial positions. The politician, now a leader, becomes a debtor. His speeches about reform vanish. The “people’s government” becomes a repayment plan. And so, the promises that built his campaign turn into dust in the mouths of the poor.
The saddest part is how easily we, the people, forgive. A leader lies to us, fails us, and we still cheer for him the next time he comes. He changes parties, changes slogans, changes colors — and we fall for it again. He comes back with a new slogan, new songs, new dance moves, and we clap like nothing ever happened. We have been conditioned to love the show more than the result. Politics here is theatre, not governance.
Every promise follows the same pattern: Phase One — Launch the dream. It begins with words like “We will,” “We must,” “We can.” Hope swells. Phase Two — Excuses. “The previous regime left us in debt and empty coffers.” “The system is against us.” “Be patient; change takes time.” Phase Three — Silence. The promise disappears from speeches, from documents, from memory. And then, just when the people begin to murmur, the next election season arrives, and the cycle begins again.
I have seen this cycle break hearts. I have watched mothers who waited for promised clinics still walking miles to dilapidated dispensaries. I have watched young men who believed in job creation end up as touts and boda boda riders. I have seen university graduates burning their certificates in protest, their futures traded for empty words. The politicians return to campaign in the same villages, standing under the same trees, speaking the same sentences — and the people still cheer, because hunger has made them gullible. They don’t vote for hope anymore; they vote for relief.
I once visited a market in Shauri during campaign season. A woman selling tomatoes said to me, “These leaders are all liars, but at least this one gave me a hundred bob last week.” She smiled faintly, arranging her tomatoes. That was it — the worth of her vote reduced to a single note. It struck me that promises have lost all meaning when hunger dictates morality. You cannot preach ideals to an empty stomach. Politicians know this; they exploit it perfectly. They promise food instead of justice, and we eat and forget.
In Gítithia, manifestos are written not for implementation but for persuasion. They are manuals for deception, designed to sound intelligent while committing to nothing. They talk about billions and timelines, but none of it matters. Once the power is secured, the document gathers dust in drawers, replaced by the reality of political survival. The “visionary leader” becomes a master of excuses, his campaign team promoted to positions they don’t deserve. The business of promises is complete — profits made, losses written off.
And yet, every election, we line up again. We listen. We believe. Because we want to believe. Hope, even when broken, is addictive. We convince ourselves that this time will be different, that maybe this one means it, that maybe this is the leader who will not sell us. We hold our breath, we clap, we sing. And as the motorcade drives away, we are left with dust and echo — the residue of another bought dream.
I have often wondered what would happen if politicians were required to refund every false promise — if broken pledges carried the same penalty as broken contracts. Maybe then, they would speak less and do more. But politics has no refund policy. It is a one-way sale — once you buy the dream, you own the disappointment.
Promises have become the fuel of the auction, the sugar that sweetens deceit. They keep the people busy while deals are signed in silence. They are the opium that dulls our anger, the music that drowns our pain. And so, the business of promises continues — rich in profit, poor in delivery. Every election is a new marketing campaign, and the voters are the loyal customers who keep coming back for the same old product in new packaging.
