Every election season, Gítithia dresses herself anew. Billboards rise overnight, plastered with smiling faces promising a new dawn. The radio stations hum with campaign jingles, the air thick with slogans of change, unity, and hope. You would think the nation was about to be reborn. Yet, as the smoke clears and the votes are counted, we realize it is the same cast wearing new suits, speaking new slogans, but carrying the same old hunger for power.
We call them the recycled faces — men and women who never leave the stage, who retire today and reappear tomorrow as if politics were a revolving door. They have been ministers, senators, governors, ambassadors, and back again. They survive every scandal, outlive every administration, and somehow always find a way to crawl back into relevance. The people call it experience, but I call it addiction — the addiction to privilege, to titles, to power itself.
I have watched them age under the cameras, their hair greying but their greed refusing to die. Some have switched political parties more times than they’ve switched their phone numbers. Today they are reformists, tomorrow they are loyalists. They speak of revolution while dining with the same men who ruined the country years ago. They are the permanent government — the system that never changes, no matter who sits in State House.
The truth is painful, but clear: we do not elect leaders; we recycle power. Every new government is stitched together with the remnants of the old. The same names appear on the appointment lists, reshuffled and repainted. The minister who failed in education becomes the head of transport. The governor who looted his county becomes an ambassador abroad. The scandalized parastatal head becomes a presidential adviser. It is as if failure is the entry ticket to a better office.
One time, I met an old political operative in a small bar in Rukuma. He was half-drunk but honest in his weariness. “My friend,” he said, “in this country, we don’t punish thieves; we promote them.” He laughed, but there was bitterness in his voice. “You see that man on TV being sworn in? I campaigned against him ten years ago. Now he’s back, older and richer. The people never remember — they only forgive.”
That sentence burned into my mind: The people never remember — they only forgive. It is how the recycled faces survive. They feed on our short memories. They know that our anger dies quickly, that our hunger for change is easily silenced by handouts and promises. They disappear after elections, only to return when time has washed away the shame of their last betrayal.
And so, we keep seeing them — the same voices giving the same speeches, the same hands waving from panoramic sunroofs, the same promises wrapped in new language. They come with slogans that sound fresh but smell of decay. One government promises “Digital Transformation,” the next one promises “Economic Revival,” the next one promises “New Gítithia,” but it is the same cabal managing the same broken system.
Sometimes I think of them as ghosts — political spirits that refuse to rest. Even when the country tries to move forward, they haunt our progress. They sponsor the youth, but never let the youth lead. They speak of transition, but never let go. They are the bridge between corruption and continuity.
I remember one particular election night. The air was thick with excitement; everyone said the old guard was finished. The young candidate had won, or so we thought. He had captured the hearts of the youth, spoken truth to power, and promised to bring new faces into leadership. For a moment, it felt real — a new dawn.
But when the new government was announced, the cabinet list read like a roll call from the past. Same surnames, same families, same dynasties. The young man we had trusted had filled his team with his father’s friends. The revolution died in its cradle. I realized then that the recycled faces do not simply survive; they inherit governments. They own the political bloodlines that keep power circulating within a chosen few.
They say politics is about numbers, but here, it is about networks. A new face must first pledge loyalty to an old one. Every fresh politician must kneel before the kingmakers. If you refuse, they brand you rebellious. They starve you of resources, isolate you, and eventually destroy your career. The young leaders who survive do so by serving as apprentices to the old masters.
This cycle has crippled our imagination as a nation. We have grown accustomed to believing that only a handful of people are capable of leading us — as if the country’s wisdom is trapped inside a few aging heads. We have normalized the recycling of incompetence. We call it stability. We mistake familiarity for safety.
And yet, every recycled face carries the ghosts of past failures. The same people who mismanaged our hospitals are now planning our economy. The same ministers who plundered our funds are now lecturing us on accountability. They return not with shame, but with arrogance, daring us to challenge their “experience.” And we, weary from disappointment, accept them again.
Once, in a rally, I heard a young woman shout from the crowd, “We need new leaders!” The politician on stage smiled and replied, “Experience matters.” The crowd clapped. I realized that day how deeply we have been conditioned to fear change. We have been trained to believe that power is a family heirloom, not a public trust.
The recycled faces are not just individuals — they are symbols of a decayed system. They represent the death of renewal, the corruption of legacy, the burial of hope. As long as they remain, Gítithia as a country will keep moving in circles — new governments, same problems, different slogans.
And yet, we cannot entirely blame them. They return because we allow them to. We elect them again and again, hoping that this time they will change. We treat politics like forgiveness therapy, voting for our abusers in the name of peace. We do not demand accountability; we crave familiarity. And so, the cycle continues.
I sometimes dream of a Gítithia where new leaders emerge — where ideas matter more than names, where competence outweighs connections, where youth are trusted, not tokenized. But each election reminds me that the dream is still distant. The system has already been auctioned, and the recycled faces are the loyal buyers who keep it alive.
They will return in the next election, older and smoother, promising to fix what they themselves broke. And we will clap again, because our memories are short and our hope eternal. That is how the auction sustains itself — not just through money, but through the recycling of our trust.
We call them the recycled faces — men and women who never leave the stage, who retire today and reappear tomorrow as if politics were a revolving door. They have been ministers, senators, governors, ambassadors, and back again. They survive every scandal, outlive every administration, and somehow always find a way to crawl back into relevance. The people call it experience, but I call it addiction — the addiction to privilege, to titles, to power itself.
I have watched them age under the cameras, their hair greying but their greed refusing to die. Some have switched political parties more times than they’ve switched their phone numbers. Today they are reformists, tomorrow they are loyalists. They speak of revolution while dining with the same men who ruined the country years ago. They are the permanent government — the system that never changes, no matter who sits in State House.
The truth is painful, but clear: we do not elect leaders; we recycle power. Every new government is stitched together with the remnants of the old. The same names appear on the appointment lists, reshuffled and repainted. The minister who failed in education becomes the head of transport. The governor who looted his county becomes an ambassador abroad. The scandalized parastatal head becomes a presidential adviser. It is as if failure is the entry ticket to a better office.
One time, I met an old political operative in a small bar in Rukuma. He was half-drunk but honest in his weariness. “My friend,” he said, “in this country, we don’t punish thieves; we promote them.” He laughed, but there was bitterness in his voice. “You see that man on TV being sworn in? I campaigned against him ten years ago. Now he’s back, older and richer. The people never remember — they only forgive.”
That sentence burned into my mind: The people never remember — they only forgive. It is how the recycled faces survive. They feed on our short memories. They know that our anger dies quickly, that our hunger for change is easily silenced by handouts and promises. They disappear after elections, only to return when time has washed away the shame of their last betrayal.
And so, we keep seeing them — the same voices giving the same speeches, the same hands waving from panoramic sunroofs, the same promises wrapped in new language. They come with slogans that sound fresh but smell of decay. One government promises “Digital Transformation,” the next one promises “Economic Revival,” the next one promises “New Gítithia,” but it is the same cabal managing the same broken system.
Sometimes I think of them as ghosts — political spirits that refuse to rest. Even when the country tries to move forward, they haunt our progress. They sponsor the youth, but never let the youth lead. They speak of transition, but never let go. They are the bridge between corruption and continuity.
I remember one particular election night. The air was thick with excitement; everyone said the old guard was finished. The young candidate had won, or so we thought. He had captured the hearts of the youth, spoken truth to power, and promised to bring new faces into leadership. For a moment, it felt real — a new dawn.
But when the new government was announced, the cabinet list read like a roll call from the past. Same surnames, same families, same dynasties. The young man we had trusted had filled his team with his father’s friends. The revolution died in its cradle. I realized then that the recycled faces do not simply survive; they inherit governments. They own the political bloodlines that keep power circulating within a chosen few.
They say politics is about numbers, but here, it is about networks. A new face must first pledge loyalty to an old one. Every fresh politician must kneel before the kingmakers. If you refuse, they brand you rebellious. They starve you of resources, isolate you, and eventually destroy your career. The young leaders who survive do so by serving as apprentices to the old masters.
This cycle has crippled our imagination as a nation. We have grown accustomed to believing that only a handful of people are capable of leading us — as if the country’s wisdom is trapped inside a few aging heads. We have normalized the recycling of incompetence. We call it stability. We mistake familiarity for safety.
And yet, every recycled face carries the ghosts of past failures. The same people who mismanaged our hospitals are now planning our economy. The same ministers who plundered our funds are now lecturing us on accountability. They return not with shame, but with arrogance, daring us to challenge their “experience.” And we, weary from disappointment, accept them again.
Once, in a rally, I heard a young woman shout from the crowd, “We need new leaders!” The politician on stage smiled and replied, “Experience matters.” The crowd clapped. I realized that day how deeply we have been conditioned to fear change. We have been trained to believe that power is a family heirloom, not a public trust.
The recycled faces are not just individuals — they are symbols of a decayed system. They represent the death of renewal, the corruption of legacy, the burial of hope. As long as they remain, Gítithia as a country will keep moving in circles — new governments, same problems, different slogans.
And yet, we cannot entirely blame them. They return because we allow them to. We elect them again and again, hoping that this time they will change. We treat politics like forgiveness therapy, voting for our abusers in the name of peace. We do not demand accountability; we crave familiarity. And so, the cycle continues.
I sometimes dream of a Gítithia where new leaders emerge — where ideas matter more than names, where competence outweighs connections, where youth are trusted, not tokenized. But each election reminds me that the dream is still distant. The system has already been auctioned, and the recycled faces are the loyal buyers who keep it alive.
They will return in the next election, older and smoother, promising to fix what they themselves broke. And we will clap again, because our memories are short and our hope eternal. That is how the auction sustains itself — not just through money, but through the recycling of our trust.
