When Gítithia embraced devolution, I thought we had finally found the cure to the disease of central power. The dream was simple and pure: to bring government closer to the people, to make development local, to give each county control of its destiny. For once, it felt as though the long-forgotten villages, the dusty towns, and the neglected corners of our country would have a voice. But as the years passed, I watched that dream rot. What was born as devolution became duplication — a smaller, localized version of the same corruption, the same greed, the same auction that poisons the Gítithia national government.
I travel often between counties, and what I see breaks my heart. The same songs of change, the same speeches about service delivery, the same ribbon-cutting ceremonies for projects that never function beyond the launch. Governors who swore to serve the people now move with convoys longer than the president’s. County assemblies that were meant to be voices of accountability have become bargaining chambers for allowances. What we created were not governments of the people — we created seven smaller auctions, each one louder and greedier than the last.
In every county, power is traded like goods at a marketplace. The governor buys loyalty from Members of County Assembly with trips, cash, and contracts. The MCAs sell their silence. The executive buys the press. The contractors buy tenders. Everyone is bidding for something. By the time a project reaches the people, it has passed through so many hands that even a simple road becomes too expensive to complete.
I remember standing in a rural village in Kírenga, where the locals proudly showed me a billboard for a “modern hospital.” The smiling image of the governor was plastered across it. But when we walked to the site, there was nothing but a foundation filled with rainwater and weeds. The locals called it “our swimming pool.” Funds had been allocated, photos taken, a ribbon cut — and yet, there was no hospital, no medicine, no care. “They came with cameras and left with money,” one old man told me. That, I realized, was the story of devolution — money devolved, corruption decentralized and auction activated.
Counties were supposed to bridge the gap between government and the governed. Instead, they became feeding troughs for local elites. Each election brought a new crop of politicians promising to “bring development home.” But the development that arrived first was always personal — new cars, new mansions, new lifestyles. The governor becomes a mini-president, surrounded by bodyguards and praise singers, while his people continue to fetch water from rivers and light fires in the dark.
During one county budget meeting I attended, a young journalist asked the finance officer why a road project had cost four times the normal price. The room fell silent. The officer smiled and said, “That’s a question for the tender committee.” Later, the journalist told me he received calls warning him to drop the story. That is the silence money buys in the counties — silence of the press, silence of the oversight committees, silence of conscience.
County tenders are the new lottery. They are rarely advertised fairly, never awarded on merit. They are traded in hotels and bars, where a contractor buys not only a deal but protection. The more you pay, the more doors open. The more you resist, the more they close. And if you are too vocal, too honest, you are branded “anti-development.” Honesty in a county government is rebellion; corruption is culture.
I have seen entire county budgets discussed over dinner tables. Governors speak of “our partners” when referring to businessmen who fund their campaigns. In truth, these “partners” are the shadow governors. They dictate which projects are approved, which companies are paid, and who gets appointed. By the time money reaches the people, it has been divided like spoils of war. The school that was to be built becomes a ghost project. The health center becomes a billboard. The youth empowerment fund becomes a family affair.
In the counties, nepotism wears a local face. Jobs are no longer advertised, what you see in the media is formality, they are shared among relatives, tribes, and loyalists. A county becomes a clan. If you belong, you prosper. If you don’t, you watch from outside. The same disease that plagued the national government — favoritism, tribalism, patronage — now thrives at the grassroots, where it is harder to expose and easier to justify.
Once, I confronted a local MCA about a missing bursary fund meant for needy students. He shrugged and said, “My people also need to eat.” I realized then that corruption had changed language. It no longer hides behind excuses; it defends itself as survival. In the name of “our people,” leaders steal, exclude, and manipulate. The people cheer them on, because they believe that at least “our thief is eating with us.” That is how the county auction survives — by turning theft into pride.
And yet, not all hope is lost. I have met young county officers who genuinely want to serve, who fight daily against the rot. They are the ones who refuse kickbacks, who question irregular payments, who file reports knowing they may lose their jobs for it. But they are few, surrounded by wolves who call integrity “naivete.” Their efforts rarely make the news, but they exist — small lights flickering in a dark field.
The county assemblies were meant to be the watchdogs of the people. Instead, they became lapdogs of the executive. MCAs fight not for justice, but for allowances. They threaten to impeach governors not out of principle, but to raise their price. A governor once told me, half-joking, “An MCA’s anger is measured in millions — pay one, and you silence ten.” It sounded like humor, but it was a confession.
The tragedy of devolution is not that it failed — it is that it succeeded in replicating national corruption locally. It gave every county its own auction table. The same script is performed in seven theatres, with different actors but the same ending. The money flows, the promises echo, and the people remain spectators of their own plunder.
Still, the dream of devolution is not dead. It lies wounded, waiting for leaders who will treat it as service, not as business. For counties that will compete in integrity, not in extravagance. For citizens who will ask not which tribe the governor belongs to, but which projects he delivered. For journalists who will not be silenced, for auditors who will not be bought, for whistleblowers who will not be buried in shame.
I travel often between counties, and what I see breaks my heart. The same songs of change, the same speeches about service delivery, the same ribbon-cutting ceremonies for projects that never function beyond the launch. Governors who swore to serve the people now move with convoys longer than the president’s. County assemblies that were meant to be voices of accountability have become bargaining chambers for allowances. What we created were not governments of the people — we created seven smaller auctions, each one louder and greedier than the last.
In every county, power is traded like goods at a marketplace. The governor buys loyalty from Members of County Assembly with trips, cash, and contracts. The MCAs sell their silence. The executive buys the press. The contractors buy tenders. Everyone is bidding for something. By the time a project reaches the people, it has passed through so many hands that even a simple road becomes too expensive to complete.
I remember standing in a rural village in Kírenga, where the locals proudly showed me a billboard for a “modern hospital.” The smiling image of the governor was plastered across it. But when we walked to the site, there was nothing but a foundation filled with rainwater and weeds. The locals called it “our swimming pool.” Funds had been allocated, photos taken, a ribbon cut — and yet, there was no hospital, no medicine, no care. “They came with cameras and left with money,” one old man told me. That, I realized, was the story of devolution — money devolved, corruption decentralized and auction activated.
Counties were supposed to bridge the gap between government and the governed. Instead, they became feeding troughs for local elites. Each election brought a new crop of politicians promising to “bring development home.” But the development that arrived first was always personal — new cars, new mansions, new lifestyles. The governor becomes a mini-president, surrounded by bodyguards and praise singers, while his people continue to fetch water from rivers and light fires in the dark.
During one county budget meeting I attended, a young journalist asked the finance officer why a road project had cost four times the normal price. The room fell silent. The officer smiled and said, “That’s a question for the tender committee.” Later, the journalist told me he received calls warning him to drop the story. That is the silence money buys in the counties — silence of the press, silence of the oversight committees, silence of conscience.
County tenders are the new lottery. They are rarely advertised fairly, never awarded on merit. They are traded in hotels and bars, where a contractor buys not only a deal but protection. The more you pay, the more doors open. The more you resist, the more they close. And if you are too vocal, too honest, you are branded “anti-development.” Honesty in a county government is rebellion; corruption is culture.
I have seen entire county budgets discussed over dinner tables. Governors speak of “our partners” when referring to businessmen who fund their campaigns. In truth, these “partners” are the shadow governors. They dictate which projects are approved, which companies are paid, and who gets appointed. By the time money reaches the people, it has been divided like spoils of war. The school that was to be built becomes a ghost project. The health center becomes a billboard. The youth empowerment fund becomes a family affair.
In the counties, nepotism wears a local face. Jobs are no longer advertised, what you see in the media is formality, they are shared among relatives, tribes, and loyalists. A county becomes a clan. If you belong, you prosper. If you don’t, you watch from outside. The same disease that plagued the national government — favoritism, tribalism, patronage — now thrives at the grassroots, where it is harder to expose and easier to justify.
Once, I confronted a local MCA about a missing bursary fund meant for needy students. He shrugged and said, “My people also need to eat.” I realized then that corruption had changed language. It no longer hides behind excuses; it defends itself as survival. In the name of “our people,” leaders steal, exclude, and manipulate. The people cheer them on, because they believe that at least “our thief is eating with us.” That is how the county auction survives — by turning theft into pride.
And yet, not all hope is lost. I have met young county officers who genuinely want to serve, who fight daily against the rot. They are the ones who refuse kickbacks, who question irregular payments, who file reports knowing they may lose their jobs for it. But they are few, surrounded by wolves who call integrity “naivete.” Their efforts rarely make the news, but they exist — small lights flickering in a dark field.
The county assemblies were meant to be the watchdogs of the people. Instead, they became lapdogs of the executive. MCAs fight not for justice, but for allowances. They threaten to impeach governors not out of principle, but to raise their price. A governor once told me, half-joking, “An MCA’s anger is measured in millions — pay one, and you silence ten.” It sounded like humor, but it was a confession.
The tragedy of devolution is not that it failed — it is that it succeeded in replicating national corruption locally. It gave every county its own auction table. The same script is performed in seven theatres, with different actors but the same ending. The money flows, the promises echo, and the people remain spectators of their own plunder.
Still, the dream of devolution is not dead. It lies wounded, waiting for leaders who will treat it as service, not as business. For counties that will compete in integrity, not in extravagance. For citizens who will ask not which tribe the governor belongs to, but which projects he delivered. For journalists who will not be silenced, for auditors who will not be bought, for whistleblowers who will not be buried in shame.
Until then, the counties will continue to mirror the capital — smaller kingdoms of greed, run by governors who campaign as servants and rule as kings. Each one claiming to be the voice of the people, while auctioning their future behind closed doors. We wanted power to return to the people. Instead, it returned to their doorstep in handcuffs — guarded, priced, and sold.
