I used to think leadership was earned — that a person rose to power through vision, sacrifice, and the will of the people. I thought elections were sacred rituals where truth defeated lies, where the best ideas triumphed over corruption. But now, as I sit back and replay what I have seen behind those heavy doors and dark corridors, I know that leadership in this country is not earned. It is bought — at a very high price, long before the first campaign poster appears on a wall.
The first thing you learn when you step into politics is that everything has a price tag — and I mean everything. The handshake of a party leader. The loyalty of a regional tribal kingpin. The endorsement of a bishop. Even the silence of a journalist. The more you move up the ladder, the more you realize that politics is not a competition of vision; it is a market of influence. You don’t win by convincing people; you win by outspending your rivals.
I have watched young aspirants walk into this marketplace with dreams shining in their eyes, only to leave bankrupt in both spirit and pocket. They come speaking of change, of fighting corruption, of bringing clean leadership. But when the gatekeepers meet them, the music stops. “Do you have the numbers?” they ask. “Do you have the financiers? Which church supports you? Which tycoon stands behind you? Which tribe will carry your votes?” If you don’t have the right names, you are politely shown the door. And so begins the bidding season — where integrity becomes too expensive and compromise becomes the currency of survival.
A friend of mine, an honest teacher from Gíthûya, once tried to contest for a parliamentary seat. He had no godfather, no business sponsors, no tribal connections — just a heart full of hope and a small group of young people who believed in him. When he visited the party headquarters to seek nomination, the officials laughed gently and asked him, “How much do you have to show your seriousness?” That day, I watched a good man die inside. He walked away, not because he didn’t love his country, but because he realized the country didn’t love honesty.
That is how it begins — the slow killing of genuine leadership. Every honest candidate is priced out of the game, every sincere dream buried under the weight of money and manipulation. By the time we get to the ballot, only those who can afford to pay remain standing. Those are the ones you see on TV, smiling beside the very tycoons who funded their campaigns. And once they win, they don’t serve the people — they repay their investors.
There’s a saying I once heard in a hotel lobby where deals are made: “Campaigns are not charity — they are business ventures.” The men who pour millions into a candidate’s campaign do not do it out of patriotism. They do it because they expect returns — through government contracts, appointments, and protection from the law. They don’t see a leader; they see an asset. The government becomes their repayment plan.
That is why, after every election, you see the same faces appearing in ministries, boards, and commissions. Men who never campaigned, who never faced the people, suddenly hold the highest offices. They were never elected — they were rewarded. Because in an auction, whoever pays the highest price gets the best seat.
Sometimes I think of the price we, the ordinary people, pay for this system. We lose our hospitals, our roads, our water, and our dignity — because someone somewhere had to refund his campaign investors. We watch taxes rise and services collapse, because the government is busy settling debts. Every tender inflated, every appointment compromised, every decision delayed — all because of the hidden invoice attached to power.
Once, during an election season, I sat in a noisy restaurant in Nyambarí where two politicians were negotiating a deal. One was seeking funding for his campaign; the other, a wealthy businessman, wanted assurance that once the man won, he would secure a major government contract. I listened as they discussed the price of a county, as if they were trading cattle. The businessman leaned forward and said, “My friend, I can give you twenty million, but once you get in, I must supply construction materials for all county projects.” The aspiring leader smiled and nodded. The handshake sealed it. At that moment, I realized we were all being sold — our schools, our hospitals, our dignity — all in that single handshake.
When the campaigns begin, you see colorful posters and loud rallies. You hear promises that touch your heart. You see candidates kneeling in churches, crying with mothers, dancing with youth. You think they are humble servants. But you don’t see the contracts already written in secret. You don’t see the investors waiting in the shadows, smiling as the crowds cheer. You don’t see the receipts of power.
I have come to understand that in this country, elections are not about who leads the people — they are about who owns the leader. The voters are only invited to make the purchase look legitimate. Their inked fingers become the decoration of deceit, proof that the auction was successful and peaceful. We celebrate democracy not because it works, but because it hides corruption in plain sight.
And so, we keep paying the price — every time a road collapses, every time medicine runs out in hospitals, every time a young graduate begs for a job that was already sold to a nephew or a donor’s son. We pay the price in silence, because we have been taught to clap for thieves who wear suits and call themselves “Your Excellency.”
Sometimes I ask myself: who will ever afford to buy honesty back? Who will restore leadership to the people who cannot pay for it? Who will dare to say, “Enough of the auction”?
I once believed elections were the heartbeat of democracy. Now I see them as the market days of betrayal. The price of power is no longer service, but sacrifice — not of self, but of the nation itself. As the posters fade and the speeches end, the people return to their daily struggles — waiting for miracles that never come. And somewhere in the city, behind the tinted glass of luxury cars, the winners count their profits. The bidding has ended, and the people — the very ones who queued for hours in the sun — are left holding empty promises in their hands.
The first thing you learn when you step into politics is that everything has a price tag — and I mean everything. The handshake of a party leader. The loyalty of a regional tribal kingpin. The endorsement of a bishop. Even the silence of a journalist. The more you move up the ladder, the more you realize that politics is not a competition of vision; it is a market of influence. You don’t win by convincing people; you win by outspending your rivals.
I have watched young aspirants walk into this marketplace with dreams shining in their eyes, only to leave bankrupt in both spirit and pocket. They come speaking of change, of fighting corruption, of bringing clean leadership. But when the gatekeepers meet them, the music stops. “Do you have the numbers?” they ask. “Do you have the financiers? Which church supports you? Which tycoon stands behind you? Which tribe will carry your votes?” If you don’t have the right names, you are politely shown the door. And so begins the bidding season — where integrity becomes too expensive and compromise becomes the currency of survival.
A friend of mine, an honest teacher from Gíthûya, once tried to contest for a parliamentary seat. He had no godfather, no business sponsors, no tribal connections — just a heart full of hope and a small group of young people who believed in him. When he visited the party headquarters to seek nomination, the officials laughed gently and asked him, “How much do you have to show your seriousness?” That day, I watched a good man die inside. He walked away, not because he didn’t love his country, but because he realized the country didn’t love honesty.
That is how it begins — the slow killing of genuine leadership. Every honest candidate is priced out of the game, every sincere dream buried under the weight of money and manipulation. By the time we get to the ballot, only those who can afford to pay remain standing. Those are the ones you see on TV, smiling beside the very tycoons who funded their campaigns. And once they win, they don’t serve the people — they repay their investors.
There’s a saying I once heard in a hotel lobby where deals are made: “Campaigns are not charity — they are business ventures.” The men who pour millions into a candidate’s campaign do not do it out of patriotism. They do it because they expect returns — through government contracts, appointments, and protection from the law. They don’t see a leader; they see an asset. The government becomes their repayment plan.
That is why, after every election, you see the same faces appearing in ministries, boards, and commissions. Men who never campaigned, who never faced the people, suddenly hold the highest offices. They were never elected — they were rewarded. Because in an auction, whoever pays the highest price gets the best seat.
Sometimes I think of the price we, the ordinary people, pay for this system. We lose our hospitals, our roads, our water, and our dignity — because someone somewhere had to refund his campaign investors. We watch taxes rise and services collapse, because the government is busy settling debts. Every tender inflated, every appointment compromised, every decision delayed — all because of the hidden invoice attached to power.
Once, during an election season, I sat in a noisy restaurant in Nyambarí where two politicians were negotiating a deal. One was seeking funding for his campaign; the other, a wealthy businessman, wanted assurance that once the man won, he would secure a major government contract. I listened as they discussed the price of a county, as if they were trading cattle. The businessman leaned forward and said, “My friend, I can give you twenty million, but once you get in, I must supply construction materials for all county projects.” The aspiring leader smiled and nodded. The handshake sealed it. At that moment, I realized we were all being sold — our schools, our hospitals, our dignity — all in that single handshake.
When the campaigns begin, you see colorful posters and loud rallies. You hear promises that touch your heart. You see candidates kneeling in churches, crying with mothers, dancing with youth. You think they are humble servants. But you don’t see the contracts already written in secret. You don’t see the investors waiting in the shadows, smiling as the crowds cheer. You don’t see the receipts of power.
I have come to understand that in this country, elections are not about who leads the people — they are about who owns the leader. The voters are only invited to make the purchase look legitimate. Their inked fingers become the decoration of deceit, proof that the auction was successful and peaceful. We celebrate democracy not because it works, but because it hides corruption in plain sight.
And so, we keep paying the price — every time a road collapses, every time medicine runs out in hospitals, every time a young graduate begs for a job that was already sold to a nephew or a donor’s son. We pay the price in silence, because we have been taught to clap for thieves who wear suits and call themselves “Your Excellency.”
Sometimes I ask myself: who will ever afford to buy honesty back? Who will restore leadership to the people who cannot pay for it? Who will dare to say, “Enough of the auction”?
I once believed elections were the heartbeat of democracy. Now I see them as the market days of betrayal. The price of power is no longer service, but sacrifice — not of self, but of the nation itself. As the posters fade and the speeches end, the people return to their daily struggles — waiting for miracles that never come. And somewhere in the city, behind the tinted glass of luxury cars, the winners count their profits. The bidding has ended, and the people — the very ones who queued for hours in the sun — are left holding empty promises in their hands.
