A nation, they say, is a family. But if that is true, then why are the citizens always sent outside when the feast begins? Why are they the ones watching the smoke rise from the kitchen of power while their stomachs twist in hunger? If a country is a home, then it is one where the lights shine brightest in the master’s bedroom while the servants sleep in darkness. I have lived in such a home, and I have walked in such a nation. The difference between the two is only in size.
When I look around, I see the same pattern repeated from house to house, office to office, church to church — and finally, across the borders of a whole land. The few eat meat; the many eat bread. Some chew steak with golden forks, while others lick the bones of promises. It is a hierarchy of hunger built so perfectly that people forget it is not normal.
The poor in a nation are not always those with empty pockets; they are those with empty power. They wake before dawn to till the soil, to drive the buses, to build the roads, to clean the offices. They hold the nation on their shoulders, yet the load is disguised as loyalty. They are the backbone of prosperity but are paid in speeches. Their voices are heard only during elections and forgotten right after.
Every five years, they are remembered. Campaign songs rise like the smell of meat roasting in a faraway kitchen. The politicians dance, smiling their holy smiles, shaking hands with those they will never meet again. They promise change, they promise meat, they promise dignity. The poor cheer, wave flags, and hope — because hope is the cheapest meal to give the hungry. Then, when the votes are cast and the power shifts, the tables are rearranged, but the menu remains the same. The few still eat meat; the many still eat bread.
I remember once walking through Nairobi city at dawn. The streets were waking up. Women were setting up stalls, men pushing handcarts, children hurrying to school. The city looked alive, but under that movement, I could smell fatigue — the kind of tiredness that never sleeps. I realized then that this is what a hungry nation looks like: full of effort, empty of reward.
The poor in a nation are not lazy; they are tired of running in circles. They work, but their work feeds the powerful. The taxes they pay build palaces they will never enter. The resources of their land are sold in boardrooms they will never see. They are told to be patriotic while watching their dreams exported. They are taught to sing the anthem loud so they won’t hear the sound of their chains.
And yet, the poor in a nation are its most faithful citizens. They do not flee when the economy crashes. They do not hide when crises strike. They are the ones who stay — the farmers who still plant, the nurses who still show up, the teachers who still teach, the workers who still build. They carry the flag even when the flag has forgotten them.
Sometimes I think of leadership like cooking. Those in power are supposed to prepare the nation’s meal. But many of them have learned to eat while cooking. They taste the stew before serving it. They say, “We are working for the people,” while licking the spoon. The poor, like kitchen staff, keep stirring, hoping one day the food will reach them. But the leaders are always full, and the pot is always half-empty.
The saddest part is how easily people adapt to this imbalance. We start saying things like “that’s how life is” or “God will provide.” We pray for what we should be demanding. We excuse injustice with faith. The poor in a nation are often the most prayerful because prayer is the only thing they can still afford. But even heaven must weep at how much they have been taught to accept what can be changed.
I have seen mothers line up for hours at public hospitals, holding sick children, waiting for doctors who may never come. I have seen fathers sitting on construction sites during lunch break, sharing bread and soda, laughing to hide their despair. I have seen young graduates walking from office to office, carrying CVs like rosary. And still, the leaders drive past them in tinted cars, waving from windows that never open.
And when the poor cry out, they are told, “Be patient. Development takes time.” But patience has become the national diet — we have been chewing it for generations. Development comes, yes, but it comes in the form of headlines, not in homes. Roads are built, but lives remain unpaved. Skyscrapers rise, but hearts sink deeper.
The poor in a nation live near pots of meat, too. They see the wealth around them. They hear of billions in budgets, of aid, of projects. They even help build them. But they are told to wait their turn — a turn that never comes. They are like servants who cook the feast of prosperity but are dismissed before dinner begins.
What pains me most is how power turns leaders into misers of mercy. They forget where they came from. They forget the dust that shaped their beginnings. Power has a way of erasing memory — of making the once-hungry ashamed of hunger. Some of them even preach humility while building walls of luxury. They pray on national television but never touch the poor they pray for. The holy smile of politics is just another mask for greed.
But nations, like people, can awaken. A time comes when bread no longer satisfies. When the poor realize that without them, the rich cannot eat. When they understand that the hands that build palaces can also build their own homes. When they stop cheering for crumbs and start demanding a share. That awakening does not come through violence; it comes through awareness — through remembering that the people are the kitchen, and the kitchen feeds the house.
Sometimes I wonder, what would happen if the poor stopped believing in scarcity? If they realized that abundance exists, only misplaced? That the land, the labor, the creativity, the potential — all belong to them too? A nation begins to heal the day its people stop begging for meat and start owning the pot.
I have watched the poor feed the nation and yet be blamed for its hunger. When prices rise, they are told to “tighten belts.” When scandals erupt, they are told to “move on.” When elections come, they are told, “your voice matters,” but afterward, it is silenced again. Still, they wake up every morning, pushing forward — stubbornly alive, miraculously hopeful. There is something divine in that persistence.
The poor in a nation are the ones who keep faith alive. They still sing at funerals, dance at weddings, plant trees, build houses, love their children, and believe that tomorrow might be better. They are the country’s heartbeat — bruised, but steady. They are the bread-bakers, the road-sweepers, the street vendors, the dreamers. They are the unthanked builders of civilization.
But let no one mistake their humility for ignorance. The poor are watching. They are learning. They are awakening. The same way Israel once left Egypt, the day will come when the workers, the farmers, the teachers, and the cleaners realize that the nation cannot live without them. That’s when tables will turn — not through rebellion, but through redefinition. When they stop living “near pots of meat” and start building their own kitchens, justice will smell like roast.
And I, once poor in a house, poor in a church, poor at work, have seen the pattern. It starts small, but it spreads wide. The cure must also start small — in the heart of each person who dares to see. A nation changes when its citizens stop fearing their own hunger and start naming it. When they stop glorifying their oppressors. When they stop praying for crumbs and start planting for themselves.
The poor in a nation are not its curse; they are its conscience. They remind us that power without compassion is poverty. That governance without justice is theft. That a flag without fairness is just colored cloth.
And so, I write this not as a complaint but as a mirror. Because I, too, have lived as one of the poor in a nation. I have eaten the bread of survival and smelled the meat of privilege. I have served at tables I could not sit at. But I have also learned that nations are built not by those who dine, but by those who rise before dawn to prepare the meal.
When I look around, I see the same pattern repeated from house to house, office to office, church to church — and finally, across the borders of a whole land. The few eat meat; the many eat bread. Some chew steak with golden forks, while others lick the bones of promises. It is a hierarchy of hunger built so perfectly that people forget it is not normal.
The poor in a nation are not always those with empty pockets; they are those with empty power. They wake before dawn to till the soil, to drive the buses, to build the roads, to clean the offices. They hold the nation on their shoulders, yet the load is disguised as loyalty. They are the backbone of prosperity but are paid in speeches. Their voices are heard only during elections and forgotten right after.
Every five years, they are remembered. Campaign songs rise like the smell of meat roasting in a faraway kitchen. The politicians dance, smiling their holy smiles, shaking hands with those they will never meet again. They promise change, they promise meat, they promise dignity. The poor cheer, wave flags, and hope — because hope is the cheapest meal to give the hungry. Then, when the votes are cast and the power shifts, the tables are rearranged, but the menu remains the same. The few still eat meat; the many still eat bread.
I remember once walking through Nairobi city at dawn. The streets were waking up. Women were setting up stalls, men pushing handcarts, children hurrying to school. The city looked alive, but under that movement, I could smell fatigue — the kind of tiredness that never sleeps. I realized then that this is what a hungry nation looks like: full of effort, empty of reward.
The poor in a nation are not lazy; they are tired of running in circles. They work, but their work feeds the powerful. The taxes they pay build palaces they will never enter. The resources of their land are sold in boardrooms they will never see. They are told to be patriotic while watching their dreams exported. They are taught to sing the anthem loud so they won’t hear the sound of their chains.
And yet, the poor in a nation are its most faithful citizens. They do not flee when the economy crashes. They do not hide when crises strike. They are the ones who stay — the farmers who still plant, the nurses who still show up, the teachers who still teach, the workers who still build. They carry the flag even when the flag has forgotten them.
Sometimes I think of leadership like cooking. Those in power are supposed to prepare the nation’s meal. But many of them have learned to eat while cooking. They taste the stew before serving it. They say, “We are working for the people,” while licking the spoon. The poor, like kitchen staff, keep stirring, hoping one day the food will reach them. But the leaders are always full, and the pot is always half-empty.
The saddest part is how easily people adapt to this imbalance. We start saying things like “that’s how life is” or “God will provide.” We pray for what we should be demanding. We excuse injustice with faith. The poor in a nation are often the most prayerful because prayer is the only thing they can still afford. But even heaven must weep at how much they have been taught to accept what can be changed.
I have seen mothers line up for hours at public hospitals, holding sick children, waiting for doctors who may never come. I have seen fathers sitting on construction sites during lunch break, sharing bread and soda, laughing to hide their despair. I have seen young graduates walking from office to office, carrying CVs like rosary. And still, the leaders drive past them in tinted cars, waving from windows that never open.
And when the poor cry out, they are told, “Be patient. Development takes time.” But patience has become the national diet — we have been chewing it for generations. Development comes, yes, but it comes in the form of headlines, not in homes. Roads are built, but lives remain unpaved. Skyscrapers rise, but hearts sink deeper.
The poor in a nation live near pots of meat, too. They see the wealth around them. They hear of billions in budgets, of aid, of projects. They even help build them. But they are told to wait their turn — a turn that never comes. They are like servants who cook the feast of prosperity but are dismissed before dinner begins.
What pains me most is how power turns leaders into misers of mercy. They forget where they came from. They forget the dust that shaped their beginnings. Power has a way of erasing memory — of making the once-hungry ashamed of hunger. Some of them even preach humility while building walls of luxury. They pray on national television but never touch the poor they pray for. The holy smile of politics is just another mask for greed.
But nations, like people, can awaken. A time comes when bread no longer satisfies. When the poor realize that without them, the rich cannot eat. When they understand that the hands that build palaces can also build their own homes. When they stop cheering for crumbs and start demanding a share. That awakening does not come through violence; it comes through awareness — through remembering that the people are the kitchen, and the kitchen feeds the house.
Sometimes I wonder, what would happen if the poor stopped believing in scarcity? If they realized that abundance exists, only misplaced? That the land, the labor, the creativity, the potential — all belong to them too? A nation begins to heal the day its people stop begging for meat and start owning the pot.
I have watched the poor feed the nation and yet be blamed for its hunger. When prices rise, they are told to “tighten belts.” When scandals erupt, they are told to “move on.” When elections come, they are told, “your voice matters,” but afterward, it is silenced again. Still, they wake up every morning, pushing forward — stubbornly alive, miraculously hopeful. There is something divine in that persistence.
The poor in a nation are the ones who keep faith alive. They still sing at funerals, dance at weddings, plant trees, build houses, love their children, and believe that tomorrow might be better. They are the country’s heartbeat — bruised, but steady. They are the bread-bakers, the road-sweepers, the street vendors, the dreamers. They are the unthanked builders of civilization.
But let no one mistake their humility for ignorance. The poor are watching. They are learning. They are awakening. The same way Israel once left Egypt, the day will come when the workers, the farmers, the teachers, and the cleaners realize that the nation cannot live without them. That’s when tables will turn — not through rebellion, but through redefinition. When they stop living “near pots of meat” and start building their own kitchens, justice will smell like roast.
And I, once poor in a house, poor in a church, poor at work, have seen the pattern. It starts small, but it spreads wide. The cure must also start small — in the heart of each person who dares to see. A nation changes when its citizens stop fearing their own hunger and start naming it. When they stop glorifying their oppressors. When they stop praying for crumbs and start planting for themselves.
The poor in a nation are not its curse; they are its conscience. They remind us that power without compassion is poverty. That governance without justice is theft. That a flag without fairness is just colored cloth.
And so, I write this not as a complaint but as a mirror. Because I, too, have lived as one of the poor in a nation. I have eaten the bread of survival and smelled the meat of privilege. I have served at tables I could not sit at. But I have also learned that nations are built not by those who dine, but by those who rise before dawn to prepare the meal.
And one day — when truth grows louder than fear, when fairness becomes more valuable than fame — the poor will no longer eat bread alone. They will sit at the table, not as servants, but as sons and daughters of the land. And the nation will finally taste justice.
