In Gítithia, we do not have political parties — we have tribal armies dressed as parties. Every election, the country splits into fragments of loyalty, each tribe rallying behind its chosen son. It is not ideology that drives the masses, nor policy, nor vision. It is bloodline, language, and ancestral memory. The ballot is not a symbol of choice; it is a declaration of tribe. That is how the auction begins — not with money this time, but with identity.
When I was younger, I believed that tribalism was dying, that urban life and education were curing us. But the older I grew, the clearer I saw that it had only changed clothes. It no longer speaks in the open, but it controls every whisper behind closed doors. Every political handshake, every coalition, every cabinet appointment carries the scent of tribe. The faces may change, but the arithmetic never does — how many ministries for this tribe, how many for that? How many ambassadorial posts for one region, how many state corporations for another? The government is not formed; it is distributed.
I have sat in rooms where leaders spoke of tribes the way traders speak of goods. “We must secure the Manyonians vote,” one said. “What about the Thikimu bloc?” another asked. “The Karera elders are restless — find them something.” Nobody mentioned citizens, or workers, or the poor. Only tribes. And in that moment, I understood that the nation itself had been auctioned — not to individuals this time, but to ethnic shareholders.
This auction is silent but deadly. It shapes everything we do. When a president takes office, his first task is not to select the most competent team, but to balance tribes. It is called “regional representation,” but it is really political insurance. Each tribe is given a slice of the government pie to keep them quiet, to keep them loyal, to keep them believing they have “their man” in power.
But a government divided by tribe can never serve the nation. It serves the tribal brokers who claim to speak for their people. They are the middlemen of ethnicity — self-appointed chiefs who trade their communities’ loyalty for contracts and appointments. They hold press conferences, threaten unrest, and then disappear into meetings where they negotiate their silence.
Once the deals are made, the news headlines change. Suddenly, the angry tribe is “consulted,” and the leaders emerge smiling beside the president. They call it unity, but it is purchased peace — peace built not on justice, but on bribes.
Tribalism, I have learned, is the most profitable business in Gítithia. It requires no capital, only fear. It is sold every election season, repackaged in new slogans. “Our time has come,” “We must protect our own,” “They have eaten for too long.” And people, desperate for identity in a nation that ignores them, buy it. They chant, they march, they kill, believing they are defending their tribe. But in truth, they are defending the seats of the same few men who profit from division.
I remember the violence of an election year — the way neighbors who shared food suddenly turned against each other because politicians had redrawn the lines of belonging. I saw houses burnt, shops looted, and mothers fleeing with babies tied to their backs. Later, when calm returned, the same leaders who incited the hatred met at a luxury hotel and shared tea. The people buried their dead; the leaders shared positions. That was when I realized — tribal conflict is not spontaneous; it is negotiated.
And so, the pattern repeats. The ruling coalition is formed not from ideology but from arithmetic — how many tribes can fit under one umbrella. If you can deliver your community’s votes, you are welcomed to the table. You don’t need principles, only numbers. But when the government forms, the ordinary people from those tribes see nothing. Their roads remain broken, their schools underfunded, their youth unemployed. Their share of the government exists only on paper, never in reality. The benefits remain trapped at the top, among the tribal elites who speak their language but do not share their life.
The irony is that when corruption scandals break, they are also defended tribally. A thief from my tribe is not a thief; he is “our son.” If he is arrested, it is “political persecution.” If he is exposed, it is “targeting our community.” We have replaced moral judgment with ethnic loyalty. We have become hostages of our own identities.
I have seen bright young Gítithians — educated, articulate, full of potential — surrender to this madness. They know better, yet they say, “Let’s vote for our own, we’ll reform him later.” But later never comes. The auction house keeps running, because as long as the tribes are bidding, the brokers stay rich.
The truth is bitter: no leader wins in Gítithia without tribe. The first question every candidate is asked is not “What is your plan?” but “Which region are you from?” The answer determines who funds you, who endorses you, who betrays you. Tribe is the password to power.
I once asked a senior politician why he always aligned himself with his tribal base even when it contradicted his conscience. He smiled sadly and said, “You can’t build a house on borrowed land.” In his world, the nation was borrowed land — tribe was the only home. That is the tragedy of Gítithia’s politics: we have built a state on the fragile soil of tribal loyalty, and every election threatens to tear it apart.
Sometimes, I imagine what would happen if, just once, we voted as a nation, not as tribes. If we looked at manifestos instead of surnames. If we asked what a candidate stands for, not who his father was. If we refused to be herded into tribal enclosures like livestock waiting for branding. Perhaps the auction would finally collapse. Perhaps Gítithia would finally become one country, not five competing corporations of ethnicity.
But until that day, every election will remain an auction of tribes — a bidding war disguised as democracy. The politicians will shout about unity while carving the nation into ethnic fiefdoms. They will preach brotherhood while calculating tribal margins. They will speak of inclusivity while dividing the spoils among their “people.”
When I was younger, I believed that tribalism was dying, that urban life and education were curing us. But the older I grew, the clearer I saw that it had only changed clothes. It no longer speaks in the open, but it controls every whisper behind closed doors. Every political handshake, every coalition, every cabinet appointment carries the scent of tribe. The faces may change, but the arithmetic never does — how many ministries for this tribe, how many for that? How many ambassadorial posts for one region, how many state corporations for another? The government is not formed; it is distributed.
I have sat in rooms where leaders spoke of tribes the way traders speak of goods. “We must secure the Manyonians vote,” one said. “What about the Thikimu bloc?” another asked. “The Karera elders are restless — find them something.” Nobody mentioned citizens, or workers, or the poor. Only tribes. And in that moment, I understood that the nation itself had been auctioned — not to individuals this time, but to ethnic shareholders.
This auction is silent but deadly. It shapes everything we do. When a president takes office, his first task is not to select the most competent team, but to balance tribes. It is called “regional representation,” but it is really political insurance. Each tribe is given a slice of the government pie to keep them quiet, to keep them loyal, to keep them believing they have “their man” in power.
But a government divided by tribe can never serve the nation. It serves the tribal brokers who claim to speak for their people. They are the middlemen of ethnicity — self-appointed chiefs who trade their communities’ loyalty for contracts and appointments. They hold press conferences, threaten unrest, and then disappear into meetings where they negotiate their silence.
Once the deals are made, the news headlines change. Suddenly, the angry tribe is “consulted,” and the leaders emerge smiling beside the president. They call it unity, but it is purchased peace — peace built not on justice, but on bribes.
Tribalism, I have learned, is the most profitable business in Gítithia. It requires no capital, only fear. It is sold every election season, repackaged in new slogans. “Our time has come,” “We must protect our own,” “They have eaten for too long.” And people, desperate for identity in a nation that ignores them, buy it. They chant, they march, they kill, believing they are defending their tribe. But in truth, they are defending the seats of the same few men who profit from division.
I remember the violence of an election year — the way neighbors who shared food suddenly turned against each other because politicians had redrawn the lines of belonging. I saw houses burnt, shops looted, and mothers fleeing with babies tied to their backs. Later, when calm returned, the same leaders who incited the hatred met at a luxury hotel and shared tea. The people buried their dead; the leaders shared positions. That was when I realized — tribal conflict is not spontaneous; it is negotiated.
And so, the pattern repeats. The ruling coalition is formed not from ideology but from arithmetic — how many tribes can fit under one umbrella. If you can deliver your community’s votes, you are welcomed to the table. You don’t need principles, only numbers. But when the government forms, the ordinary people from those tribes see nothing. Their roads remain broken, their schools underfunded, their youth unemployed. Their share of the government exists only on paper, never in reality. The benefits remain trapped at the top, among the tribal elites who speak their language but do not share their life.
The irony is that when corruption scandals break, they are also defended tribally. A thief from my tribe is not a thief; he is “our son.” If he is arrested, it is “political persecution.” If he is exposed, it is “targeting our community.” We have replaced moral judgment with ethnic loyalty. We have become hostages of our own identities.
I have seen bright young Gítithians — educated, articulate, full of potential — surrender to this madness. They know better, yet they say, “Let’s vote for our own, we’ll reform him later.” But later never comes. The auction house keeps running, because as long as the tribes are bidding, the brokers stay rich.
The truth is bitter: no leader wins in Gítithia without tribe. The first question every candidate is asked is not “What is your plan?” but “Which region are you from?” The answer determines who funds you, who endorses you, who betrays you. Tribe is the password to power.
I once asked a senior politician why he always aligned himself with his tribal base even when it contradicted his conscience. He smiled sadly and said, “You can’t build a house on borrowed land.” In his world, the nation was borrowed land — tribe was the only home. That is the tragedy of Gítithia’s politics: we have built a state on the fragile soil of tribal loyalty, and every election threatens to tear it apart.
Sometimes, I imagine what would happen if, just once, we voted as a nation, not as tribes. If we looked at manifestos instead of surnames. If we asked what a candidate stands for, not who his father was. If we refused to be herded into tribal enclosures like livestock waiting for branding. Perhaps the auction would finally collapse. Perhaps Gítithia would finally become one country, not five competing corporations of ethnicity.
But until that day, every election will remain an auction of tribes — a bidding war disguised as democracy. The politicians will shout about unity while carving the nation into ethnic fiefdoms. They will preach brotherhood while calculating tribal margins. They will speak of inclusivity while dividing the spoils among their “people.”
We will keep hearing the same empty words — “our government,” “our turn,” “our region.” And we will keep forgetting that a nation divided into shares is no nation at all. As long as tribe remains the currency of politics, merit will remain bankrupt, and Gítithia will continue to pay the terrible price of its own fragmentation.
