Every auction has its victims. In Gítithia, those victims are not the losing politicians, not the dismissed cabinet secretaries, not the businessmen whose deals went sour. The true losers are the people — the men and women who wake up before dawn to catch matatus, the farmers who bend their backs in dry fields, the mothers who queue at clinics without medicine, the students who dream of jobs that will never come. They are the nameless faces who clap at rallies and starve in silence. They are the spectators of power — present at every election, absent in every decision.
I have seen them in every corner of this country — faces hardened by years of betrayal, yet eyes still bright with foolish hope. They are told that the government is theirs, that they hold the ultimate power in their vote. But that vote, once cast, becomes a ghost. It disappears into the ballot box, never to be seen again, swallowed by systems that do not answer to the people but to those who funded them. The people remain in the same position, watching the same cars speed past their villages, carrying the same leaders who once begged for their attention.
I remember walking through a slum in Gathaití a few weeks after an election. The walls were still covered with campaign posters — smiling faces of men who had promised heaven and delivered nothing. A group of young men sat idly by a kiosk, their radio playing news of new cabinet appointments. One of them spat on the ground and said, “They have forgotten us already.” His friend replied, “They never remembered us in the first place.” Those words stayed with me — a summary of the Gítithian voter’s life: remembered only when needed, forgotten immediately after.
The people are the silent shareholders of a company that never pays dividends. They fund the government through taxes, endure the cost of corruption, and carry the burden of failed leadership. Yet they are told to be patient, to be loyal, to “respect the government of the day.” When they protest, they are beaten. When they complain, they are mocked. When they lose faith, they are accused of being unpatriotic. Patriotism, it seems, in this country, means suffering quietly.
In villages across the nation, the people live in a rhythm of broken promises. They see politicians arrive in motorcades before elections and disappear after victory. They are told that the economy is growing, but their pockets tell a different story. They are told that jobs are being created, but their children remain idle. They are told that the government cares, but their hospitals are empty. Slowly, their hope turns into resignation. They stop expecting better. They learn to celebrate small mercies — a few murram kilometers of road, an unfunctional borehole, a few pouches of fertilizer — even when they know they deserve far more.
I once visited a primary school in Lare that had no desks. The children sat on stones, their notebooks on their knees. The teacher told me they had been promised new desks during the last campaign. “They even brought us a sample for the photo,” she said. “The governor came, took pictures, and left. We never saw him again.” On the wall behind her hung a framed photo of the same governor, smiling beside the president. The children looked at it as they studied, unaware that their suffering was a photo opportunity in someone else’s success story.
This is what the auction has done — it has turned citizens into statistics. Their pain is data, their poverty is campaign material, their lives reduced to numbers in speeches. The government speaks of millions lifted out of poverty, billions spent on infrastructure, trillions in the economy. But those billions and trillions never reach the people who need them. Somewhere between the treasury and the village, hope evaporates.
And yet, the people keep forgiving. Perhaps it is because they are tired. Perhaps it is because they have learned that anger changes nothing. Or perhaps because they have been trained to find comfort in survival. They say, “At least there is peace.” Peace, in this country, has become a narcotic — used to numb the pain of injustice. We are told to choose peace over truth, calm over change, silence over resistance. And so, we remain peaceful — peacefully poor, peacefully ignored, peacefully oppressed, peacefully auctioned.
The youth suffer the most. They are told they are the future, but every door they knock on is locked by someone’s cousin, someone’s godfather, someone’s tribe. They watch politicians use their energy during campaigns and discard them afterward like campaign posters. Some turn to crime, others to drugs, others to despair. They chant slogans they don’t believe in, not because they are fools, but because hunger has silenced their pride.
In the rural areas, farmers toil endlessly while middlemen, protected by politicians, rob them blind. Their produce rots in markets as the government talks about “food security.” Mothers die in childbirth as leaders fly abroad for medical treatment. Students drop out as billions disappear in education budgets. The people suffer not because there isn’t enough — but because what exists is stolen before it reaches them.
I have seen the faces of disappointment in the eyes of old men who fought for independence. They speak of betrayal, of how the struggle was hijacked by those who came after. They look at the country now and say, “This is not what we fought for. In fact, we had better remain a colony. We shed blood for nothing. We carry unworthy scars.” But their voices are faint; they are no longer heard in a nation that glorifies power over principle.
Sometimes, I think the silence of the people is more tragic than their poverty. It is the silence of acceptance — the dangerous belief that nothing can change. It is what keeps the auction alive. For as long as the people remain quiet, the government hawkers will continue to trade their future. Every time we clap for a thief, every time we defend corruption because “he’s our man,” every time we trade our vote for a handout, we tighten the chains around our own necks.
And yet, despite it all, there is something unbroken in the Gítithian spirit. Even in silence, the people dream. They laugh, they build, they love, they endure. In the midst of betrayal, they still find ways to live. It is this resilience that the powerful exploit, but it is also the seed of rebellion that one day might awaken. For how long can a nation be auctioned before the people say enough?
I do not know when that day will come, but I know it will. Because even the most silent people eventually find their voice. And when they do, their cry will not be for tribes, not for parties, not for promises — but for dignity. That is what the auction has stolen from us the most: our dignity. The day we reclaim it, the tables will turn.
I have seen them in every corner of this country — faces hardened by years of betrayal, yet eyes still bright with foolish hope. They are told that the government is theirs, that they hold the ultimate power in their vote. But that vote, once cast, becomes a ghost. It disappears into the ballot box, never to be seen again, swallowed by systems that do not answer to the people but to those who funded them. The people remain in the same position, watching the same cars speed past their villages, carrying the same leaders who once begged for their attention.
I remember walking through a slum in Gathaití a few weeks after an election. The walls were still covered with campaign posters — smiling faces of men who had promised heaven and delivered nothing. A group of young men sat idly by a kiosk, their radio playing news of new cabinet appointments. One of them spat on the ground and said, “They have forgotten us already.” His friend replied, “They never remembered us in the first place.” Those words stayed with me — a summary of the Gítithian voter’s life: remembered only when needed, forgotten immediately after.
The people are the silent shareholders of a company that never pays dividends. They fund the government through taxes, endure the cost of corruption, and carry the burden of failed leadership. Yet they are told to be patient, to be loyal, to “respect the government of the day.” When they protest, they are beaten. When they complain, they are mocked. When they lose faith, they are accused of being unpatriotic. Patriotism, it seems, in this country, means suffering quietly.
In villages across the nation, the people live in a rhythm of broken promises. They see politicians arrive in motorcades before elections and disappear after victory. They are told that the economy is growing, but their pockets tell a different story. They are told that jobs are being created, but their children remain idle. They are told that the government cares, but their hospitals are empty. Slowly, their hope turns into resignation. They stop expecting better. They learn to celebrate small mercies — a few murram kilometers of road, an unfunctional borehole, a few pouches of fertilizer — even when they know they deserve far more.
I once visited a primary school in Lare that had no desks. The children sat on stones, their notebooks on their knees. The teacher told me they had been promised new desks during the last campaign. “They even brought us a sample for the photo,” she said. “The governor came, took pictures, and left. We never saw him again.” On the wall behind her hung a framed photo of the same governor, smiling beside the president. The children looked at it as they studied, unaware that their suffering was a photo opportunity in someone else’s success story.
This is what the auction has done — it has turned citizens into statistics. Their pain is data, their poverty is campaign material, their lives reduced to numbers in speeches. The government speaks of millions lifted out of poverty, billions spent on infrastructure, trillions in the economy. But those billions and trillions never reach the people who need them. Somewhere between the treasury and the village, hope evaporates.
And yet, the people keep forgiving. Perhaps it is because they are tired. Perhaps it is because they have learned that anger changes nothing. Or perhaps because they have been trained to find comfort in survival. They say, “At least there is peace.” Peace, in this country, has become a narcotic — used to numb the pain of injustice. We are told to choose peace over truth, calm over change, silence over resistance. And so, we remain peaceful — peacefully poor, peacefully ignored, peacefully oppressed, peacefully auctioned.
The youth suffer the most. They are told they are the future, but every door they knock on is locked by someone’s cousin, someone’s godfather, someone’s tribe. They watch politicians use their energy during campaigns and discard them afterward like campaign posters. Some turn to crime, others to drugs, others to despair. They chant slogans they don’t believe in, not because they are fools, but because hunger has silenced their pride.
In the rural areas, farmers toil endlessly while middlemen, protected by politicians, rob them blind. Their produce rots in markets as the government talks about “food security.” Mothers die in childbirth as leaders fly abroad for medical treatment. Students drop out as billions disappear in education budgets. The people suffer not because there isn’t enough — but because what exists is stolen before it reaches them.
I have seen the faces of disappointment in the eyes of old men who fought for independence. They speak of betrayal, of how the struggle was hijacked by those who came after. They look at the country now and say, “This is not what we fought for. In fact, we had better remain a colony. We shed blood for nothing. We carry unworthy scars.” But their voices are faint; they are no longer heard in a nation that glorifies power over principle.
Sometimes, I think the silence of the people is more tragic than their poverty. It is the silence of acceptance — the dangerous belief that nothing can change. It is what keeps the auction alive. For as long as the people remain quiet, the government hawkers will continue to trade their future. Every time we clap for a thief, every time we defend corruption because “he’s our man,” every time we trade our vote for a handout, we tighten the chains around our own necks.
And yet, despite it all, there is something unbroken in the Gítithian spirit. Even in silence, the people dream. They laugh, they build, they love, they endure. In the midst of betrayal, they still find ways to live. It is this resilience that the powerful exploit, but it is also the seed of rebellion that one day might awaken. For how long can a nation be auctioned before the people say enough?
I do not know when that day will come, but I know it will. Because even the most silent people eventually find their voice. And when they do, their cry will not be for tribes, not for parties, not for promises — but for dignity. That is what the auction has stolen from us the most: our dignity. The day we reclaim it, the tables will turn.
Until then, the people remain the silent losers of every election — paying for governments they never chose, clapping for leaders they never wanted, and surviving under systems they never designed. But silence is not consent; it is exhaustion. And one day, even exhaustion will rise.
