There comes a time in every nation’s life when deceit can no longer feed the people, when propaganda can no longer buy patience, and when fear loses its grip. That is the moment when the auction fails — when the buyers run out of lies, and the sellers run out of shame. Gítithia has not yet reached that moment fully, but I have seen glimpses of it — flashes of courage, whispers of defiance, and faces that no longer bow.
It begins, as all endings do, with hunger — not for food this time, but for truth. The people grow weary of being spectators in their own lives. They stop clapping. They stop singing at rallies. They stop believing in speeches. Slowly, the ground begins to shift under the feet of the powerful. The cameras still follow the politicians, but the crowds no longer do. The streets remain quiet on voting day, not because of peace, but because of protest through indifference. The people no longer show up to be lied to.
The first sign that the auction is failing is silence — not the silence of fear, but the silence of disinterest. When people stop reacting, when they no longer argue about who is better or who stole less, it means something deeper is breaking. The spell of tribal loyalty weakens. The slogans that once ignited crowds now echo into emptiness. The auctioneer raises his hammer, but no one bids. That is how revolutions begin — not with noise, but with withdrawal.
I remember the first time I saw this silence. It was during a by-election in a small Kaheria county where turnout was shockingly low. The reporters called it apathy, but I saw something else — exhaustion with the performance. One old woman told me, “Let them vote for themselves this time.” Her voice carried the weight of generations. She wasn’t angry; she was done. That, I realized, was power — the kind that cannot be manipulated.
As the auction weakens, cracks appear in the system. Deals fail. Money is spent but results don’t come. The tycoons begin to hesitate. The bishops become cautious. The brokers lose their charm. They sense that the people’s silence is dangerous — that it is not submission, but resistance in disguise. Suddenly, the very machinery that once controlled the people starts to turn against itself. Promises collide with expectations, corruption collides with exposure, and the walls begin to tremble.
You see it in the eyes of politicians who can no longer command loyalty with tribal slogans. They start to beg the same people they once ignored. They sponsor youth meetings, women’s events, charity runs — but the applause is weaker now. The people take their donations and walk away. They smile politely, but inside they are no longer impressed. Respect has evaporated. And when respect dies, control follows.
I once attended a national event where a high-ranking leader arrived to give a speech. He expected thunderous cheers. Instead, the crowd stood still — no songs, no clapping, no chanting of his name. He smiled awkwardly, waved, and began to speak, but even his voice betrayed uncertainty. For the first time, he realized what it meant to face a nation that has stopped listening. That is when the auction begins to crumble — when words lose their buyers.
When the auction fails, something beautiful happens: people start talking to each other again, not as tribes, not as rivals, but as citizens. The Manyonian sees his pain mirrored in the Kareran, the Kírengan feels the same wound as the Gíthûyan. They realize that poverty speaks one language, and corruption does not choose a tribe. They start to understand that the real enemy is not each other — it is the auction itself.
I once sat in a matatu and listened as passengers from different tribes discussed politics. Normally, such conversations would turn heated, but that day, there was no argument — only agreement. “These people are all the same,” one man said. “They eat together and leave us hungry.” Another added, “Maybe next time we should vote for someone who doesn’t belong to any of them.” There was laughter, but also truth. For the first time, I heard unity born from shared disillusionment. That is the heartbeat of awakening — when despair transforms into solidarity.
As the auction fails, fear also loses its hold. Journalists write stories that would once have been buried. Citizens record evidence, share documents, expose scandals. The powerful try to fight back with intimidation, but each attempt only fans the fire. The people no longer tremble; they talk back. Even the churches begin to split — some preachers returning to the gospel of truth, refusing to kneel before power. The old order begins to fracture, piece by piece, like a cracked wall under pressure.
The government, confused, responds the only way it knows how — with propaganda. It launches new slogans, new committees, new commissions. It announces reforms that mean nothing. But the people have heard these songs before. They smile faintly, unmoved. They have learned the melody of deception, and it no longer dances in their ears. The auctioneer’s voice grows hoarse, shouting into a void.
And then, slowly, something irreversible happens. The people begin to imagine a life without the auction. They start to dream again — not of handouts, but of fairness; not of representation by tribe, but of leadership by merit. The youth begin to organize without waiting for sponsors. They use art, music, and technology to tell their truth. Farmers form cooperatives that bypass corrupt middlemen. Civil servants quietly refuse to take bribes. Teachers teach the constitution. Pastors preach about justice. Change begins to grow from the ground up, like grass breaking through concrete.
When the auction fails, the rich begin to panic. They realize that the people they once manipulated are now awake. They try to buy time, but time no longer listens. The poor, once invisible, begin to see their reflection in each other — and that is the greatest threat to power. For a nation divided can be sold, but a nation united cannot be bought.
The auction fails not in a single day, but in moments — when a voter refuses a bribe, when a journalist refuses silence, when a youth refuses to fight for a politician, when a pastor refuses to pray for stolen money. Each refusal is a hammer blow on the walls of deceit. Each act of courage chips away at the foundation of corruption.
I often imagine the final day of the auction — the day the hammer falls one last time, and no one raises a hand to bid. The hall will be empty. The microphones will echo. The flags will hang still. The auctioneer will look around, confused, realizing that the game is over. And outside, the people will be walking — not to rallies, not to markets, but to rebuild their country. Not as tribes, not as buyers or sellers, but as owners.
That day will not be a day of anger. It will be a day of cleansing. The powerful will not fall by force; they will fall by irrelevance. The brokers will fade, the recycled faces will retire, and the people will write a new script — one where leadership is not a privilege to be bought, but a trust to be earned.
And when that day comes, our children will ask us how we survived the years of auctions. We will tell them that we endured because hope, even when buried, does not die. We will tell them that we woke up, that we learned, that we refused to be sold again.
When the auction fails, Gítithia will rise — not through revolution, but through redemption. For no amount of money can outbid the will of an awakened people. That, I believe, is how the story ends — not with applause, but with quiet victory. The kind of victory that does not need celebration because it feels like peace. The kind of peace that does not depend on silence, but on justice. The kind of justice that finally gives back to the people what was always theirs. And maybe then, the nation will breathe again.
It begins, as all endings do, with hunger — not for food this time, but for truth. The people grow weary of being spectators in their own lives. They stop clapping. They stop singing at rallies. They stop believing in speeches. Slowly, the ground begins to shift under the feet of the powerful. The cameras still follow the politicians, but the crowds no longer do. The streets remain quiet on voting day, not because of peace, but because of protest through indifference. The people no longer show up to be lied to.
The first sign that the auction is failing is silence — not the silence of fear, but the silence of disinterest. When people stop reacting, when they no longer argue about who is better or who stole less, it means something deeper is breaking. The spell of tribal loyalty weakens. The slogans that once ignited crowds now echo into emptiness. The auctioneer raises his hammer, but no one bids. That is how revolutions begin — not with noise, but with withdrawal.
I remember the first time I saw this silence. It was during a by-election in a small Kaheria county where turnout was shockingly low. The reporters called it apathy, but I saw something else — exhaustion with the performance. One old woman told me, “Let them vote for themselves this time.” Her voice carried the weight of generations. She wasn’t angry; she was done. That, I realized, was power — the kind that cannot be manipulated.
As the auction weakens, cracks appear in the system. Deals fail. Money is spent but results don’t come. The tycoons begin to hesitate. The bishops become cautious. The brokers lose their charm. They sense that the people’s silence is dangerous — that it is not submission, but resistance in disguise. Suddenly, the very machinery that once controlled the people starts to turn against itself. Promises collide with expectations, corruption collides with exposure, and the walls begin to tremble.
You see it in the eyes of politicians who can no longer command loyalty with tribal slogans. They start to beg the same people they once ignored. They sponsor youth meetings, women’s events, charity runs — but the applause is weaker now. The people take their donations and walk away. They smile politely, but inside they are no longer impressed. Respect has evaporated. And when respect dies, control follows.
I once attended a national event where a high-ranking leader arrived to give a speech. He expected thunderous cheers. Instead, the crowd stood still — no songs, no clapping, no chanting of his name. He smiled awkwardly, waved, and began to speak, but even his voice betrayed uncertainty. For the first time, he realized what it meant to face a nation that has stopped listening. That is when the auction begins to crumble — when words lose their buyers.
When the auction fails, something beautiful happens: people start talking to each other again, not as tribes, not as rivals, but as citizens. The Manyonian sees his pain mirrored in the Kareran, the Kírengan feels the same wound as the Gíthûyan. They realize that poverty speaks one language, and corruption does not choose a tribe. They start to understand that the real enemy is not each other — it is the auction itself.
I once sat in a matatu and listened as passengers from different tribes discussed politics. Normally, such conversations would turn heated, but that day, there was no argument — only agreement. “These people are all the same,” one man said. “They eat together and leave us hungry.” Another added, “Maybe next time we should vote for someone who doesn’t belong to any of them.” There was laughter, but also truth. For the first time, I heard unity born from shared disillusionment. That is the heartbeat of awakening — when despair transforms into solidarity.
As the auction fails, fear also loses its hold. Journalists write stories that would once have been buried. Citizens record evidence, share documents, expose scandals. The powerful try to fight back with intimidation, but each attempt only fans the fire. The people no longer tremble; they talk back. Even the churches begin to split — some preachers returning to the gospel of truth, refusing to kneel before power. The old order begins to fracture, piece by piece, like a cracked wall under pressure.
The government, confused, responds the only way it knows how — with propaganda. It launches new slogans, new committees, new commissions. It announces reforms that mean nothing. But the people have heard these songs before. They smile faintly, unmoved. They have learned the melody of deception, and it no longer dances in their ears. The auctioneer’s voice grows hoarse, shouting into a void.
And then, slowly, something irreversible happens. The people begin to imagine a life without the auction. They start to dream again — not of handouts, but of fairness; not of representation by tribe, but of leadership by merit. The youth begin to organize without waiting for sponsors. They use art, music, and technology to tell their truth. Farmers form cooperatives that bypass corrupt middlemen. Civil servants quietly refuse to take bribes. Teachers teach the constitution. Pastors preach about justice. Change begins to grow from the ground up, like grass breaking through concrete.
When the auction fails, the rich begin to panic. They realize that the people they once manipulated are now awake. They try to buy time, but time no longer listens. The poor, once invisible, begin to see their reflection in each other — and that is the greatest threat to power. For a nation divided can be sold, but a nation united cannot be bought.
The auction fails not in a single day, but in moments — when a voter refuses a bribe, when a journalist refuses silence, when a youth refuses to fight for a politician, when a pastor refuses to pray for stolen money. Each refusal is a hammer blow on the walls of deceit. Each act of courage chips away at the foundation of corruption.
I often imagine the final day of the auction — the day the hammer falls one last time, and no one raises a hand to bid. The hall will be empty. The microphones will echo. The flags will hang still. The auctioneer will look around, confused, realizing that the game is over. And outside, the people will be walking — not to rallies, not to markets, but to rebuild their country. Not as tribes, not as buyers or sellers, but as owners.
That day will not be a day of anger. It will be a day of cleansing. The powerful will not fall by force; they will fall by irrelevance. The brokers will fade, the recycled faces will retire, and the people will write a new script — one where leadership is not a privilege to be bought, but a trust to be earned.
And when that day comes, our children will ask us how we survived the years of auctions. We will tell them that we endured because hope, even when buried, does not die. We will tell them that we woke up, that we learned, that we refused to be sold again.
When the auction fails, Gítithia will rise — not through revolution, but through redemption. For no amount of money can outbid the will of an awakened people. That, I believe, is how the story ends — not with applause, but with quiet victory. The kind of victory that does not need celebration because it feels like peace. The kind of peace that does not depend on silence, but on justice. The kind of justice that finally gives back to the people what was always theirs. And maybe then, the nation will breathe again.
