IT IS THE RULING CLASS THAT OWNS A DEVELOPING NATION

For more than six decades, Kenya’s political and economic life has been shaped by a narrow ruling elite. Since independence in 1963, power has rotated among a small circle of leaders and their networks, entrenching a system of patronage, crony capitalism and institutional capture. Control over the levers of government has often translated into control over land, capital, public procurement, and access to opportunity — the very “factors of production” upon which national prosperity depends — while millions of Kenyans remain trapped in poverty.

From independence to the present day, five men have occupied the presidency: Jomo Kenyatta (1963–1978), Daniel arap Moi (1978–2002), Mwai Kibaki (2002–2013), Uhuru Kenyatta (2013–2022), and William Ruto (2022–present). Collectively, this leadership chain spans over 60 years. Several of these figures also served as vice presidents or deputy presidents before assuming the top office, further consolidating their influence across successive administrations. The result has been remarkable continuity at the summit of power, even when electoral politics suggested change.

This concentration of authority has had profound consequences. Political competition has often been personality-driven rather than policy-driven. Economic mobility has been constrained by networks of privilege that favour the politically connected. Public institutions — from procurement bodies to regulatory agencies — have too frequently been susceptible to elite interests. Land allocation controversies, high-level corruption scandals, and the disproportionate accumulation of wealth among politically exposed families have deepened public distrust and widened inequality.

Around the presidency sits a web of loyalists: senior civil servants, well-placed business figures, security chiefs, and regional powerbrokers. These actors form the machinery that sustains elite dominance. Through strategic appointments, state contracts, and access to credit and licences, the ruling class reproduces itself, ensuring that opportunity flows upward rather than outward. Meanwhile, the majority contend with unemployment, underfunded public services, and rising living costs.

Kenya’s democratic framework — strengthened by the 2010 Constitution — aspires to accountability, devolution, and the rule of law. Yet constitutional ideals alone cannot dismantle entrenched patronage. Genuine transformation requires independent institutions, transparent governance, competitive markets, and civic vigilance strong enough to hold power to account.

A nation does not belong to its ruling class; it belongs to its people. If Kenya is to fulfil its democratic promise, power must cease to be the preserve of a few families and become a trust exercised for the common good. Equity, equality and justice are not political slogans — they are enduring moral imperatives that must anchor the republic’s future.

Do we defect if our candidate isn’t chosen to unseat President Ruto?

By Joseph Lister Nyaringo

For three electric days, Gusiiland pulsed with colour, song and anticipation as opposition leaders traversed Kisii and Nyamira counties. Markets slowed, towns swelled and villages emptied as thousands gathered for what many saw as a defining political moment. The climax felt less like a routine rally and more like a coronation. Supporters cast it as the symbolic anointment of Dr Fred Matiang’i as their foremost national standard-bearer. Beneath the chants lay a deeper hope: that this might finally be the community’s turn to stand at the centre of Kenya’s political stage and draw closer to the highest office in the land.

Kenyan politics has long revolved around ethnic mobilisation, regional bargaining and proximity to State House. The presidency is often viewed not merely as a constitutional office, but as recognition, leverage and a guarantee of influence in the distribution of opportunity and development. Access to power is equated with security and visibility. Yet this raises an uncomfortable question: if Dr Matiang’i is not chosen as the opposition’s compromise candidate, do his supporters defect? And if similar calculations arise in Western Kenya around George Natembeya, in Ukambani around Kalonzo Musyoka, or in Mount Kenya as it recalibrates after 2022, what becomes of the broader opposition project?

As the next general election approaches, the central issue is not simply who will challenge incumbent President William Ruto. It is whether the opposition can subordinate ambition to unity — and whether voters are prepared to do the same. In a system where elections are often decided by narrow margins and intricate ethnic arithmetic, fragmentation is not a minor misstep. It is an electoral gift to the incumbent. A divided opposition splits votes, muddles its message and saps momentum, while the ruling side benefits from comparative cohesion.

Recent history underscores this reality. In 2013 and 2017, opposition disunity diluted momentum and advantaged better organised rivals. Even in 2022, divisions and inconsistent messaging weakened the attempt to block Dr Ruto’s ascent to State House. Presidential politics rewards coalitions that are disciplined and expansive. It punishes ego and parallel centres of mobilisation. A divided house may command attention, but it rarely commands a majority.

Opposition leaders are rightly urged to swallow their pride and rally behind a compromise candidate with broad national appeal. Yet unity cannot remain confined to elite negotiations. Communities whose sons and daughters harbour presidential ambitions must also prepare to subordinate personal preference to collective strategy. Political maturity requires citizens to support the consensus candidate, irrespective of regional origin. The decisive consideration should be leadership capacity, integrity and national reach — not shared ethnicity. If unity at the top is essential, unity at the ballot box is indispensable.

Kenya may be an ethnicised society of more than forty-five communities, but it remains a single republic governed by one president at a time. The Constitution reflects this. A presidential candidate must secure not only a plurality of votes but at least 25 per cent in more than half of the counties. This threshold compels national coalitions and discourages narrow ethnic bids anchored in regional strongholds. It is a constitutional reminder that no community can govern alone without alliances across the republic.

In Gusiiland, Dr Matiang’i is widely regarded as a capable administrator whose tenure in senior ministries projected firmness and technocratic competence. For many Abagusii voters, his potential candidacy symbolises long-awaited national recognition. The enthusiasm during the recent tour expressed accumulated aspiration. Yet murmurs that the region might drift towards President Ruto should Dr Matiang’i fail to secure the opposition ticket reveal the enduring pull of transactional politics. Such a move would not merely weaken the opposition; it would entrench the ethnic bargaining that has often impeded issue-based governance.

The same principle applies elsewhere. Governor Natembeya’s supporters in Western Kenya may see generational renewal and assertive leadership. Mr Kalonzo Musyoka’s base in Ukambani may consider his experience overdue for endorsement. In Mount Kenya, voters continue to weigh alliances amid economic pressure and political realignments. These are legitimate democratic calculations. What is dangerous is the belief that if “our son” is not chosen, the broader coalition must be punished or abandoned.

Kenyan elections are rarely won by enthusiasm in one region alone. They are won by assembling a mosaic of support across the Rift Valley, Coast, Northern Kenya, Western and Mount Kenya, persuading undecided voters and consolidating swing constituencies. An opposition alliance must therefore select the candidate most capable of transcending strongholds and attracting cross-regional backing. That choice may not favour the most popular figure within a single community, but it must favour the one with the clearest path to a national majority.

Dr Ruto’s political journey illustrates the dividends of cohesion. His 2022 campaign was anchored in a disciplined alliance and a resonant narrative. Whatever one’s judgement of his record in office, he benefited from opponents who were not fully synchronised. To repeat that pattern would be to ignore recent lessons.

Ultimately, opposition unity is not a favour to any individual leader; it is a strategic imperative for citizens seeking alternation of power and policy direction. Communities with viable contenders must resist equating personal ambition with collective destiny. If consensus produces a single flagbearer, that decision must be defended consistently at the ballot box, not supported conditionally.

Kenya’s democracy will not be strengthened by perpetual ethnic brinkmanship or threats of defection when expectations are unmet. It will be strengthened when voters choose nation over narrowness and substance over identity. The months ahead will test not only the humility of opposition leaders but also the maturity of the electorate. Mounting a credible challenge will require more than choreographed rallies and elite agreements. It will require Kisii, Kikuyu, Kamba, Luhya and every other community to accept that unity sometimes demands sacrifice.

Anything less will fragment the vote, and in that fragmentation, the incumbent will almost certainly find his path renewed.

 

Practising Christianity in Kenya and the United States- A Spiritual Contrast

By Joseph Lister Nyaringo

Christianity is described as a universal faith, transcending borders and cultures. Yet how it is practised is shaped by history, politics and economics. The contrast between Kenya and the United States makes this clear. Both nations profess large Christian populations. Both invoke Christ in public life. Yet the priorities, pressures and controversies surrounding the faith differ sharply, even as certain temptations remain the same.

In Kenya, Christianity is vibrant and highly visible. Worship is energetic. Services overflow with song, testimony and passionate preaching. Churches are not merely houses of prayer; they are social anchors. In a society marked by inequality, unemployment and political uncertainty, they offer belonging and hope. Alongside historic denominations such as the Catholic Church, the Presbyterian Church of East Africa, the Seventh-day Adventist Church and the Anglican Church of Kenya, countless independent ministries have emerged.

Over time, however, parts of this landscape have taken on the character of a marketplace. The aim is not always pastoral care but expansion, spectacle and revenue. Dramatic miracle claims and constant appeals for tithes dominate some pulpits. International branches in Europe or North America are portrayed as evidence of divine favour. Global travel by church founders is equated with spiritual authority. In some cases, ambition appears to eclipse mission.

At its worst, this culture has proved deadly. The Shakahola tragedy forced the country to reflect painfully. Paul Mackenzie, leader of Good News International Church, was linked to the starvation deaths of followers convinced that extreme fasting would secure salvation: many abandoned families, work and medical care under apocalyptic instruction. The episode exposed how easily fear and desperation can be manipulated in a weakly regulated religious environment.

Other controversial figures — including Victor Kanyari, associated with the KSh 310 televised “seed” scandal, James Maina Ng'ang'a and Ezekiel Odero have also faced scrutiny. When the pulpit becomes a stage for profane outbursts, public humiliation, staged miracles or opaque fundraising, the Gospel’s credibility suffers. Scripture sets a clear test: “By their fruits you shall know them” (Matthew 7:16). Christ measures leadership not by drama but by humility, integrity and love.

Yet Kenyan Christianity cannot be reduced to scandal. Churches run schools, hospitals and charities that serve millions. In a society burdened by poverty, promises of miraculous financial or medical breakthroughs are understandably compelling. The danger lies in exploitation disguised as faith.

Across the Atlantic, Christianity in the United States faces a different challenge. Mainstream Protestant churches and the Catholic Church operate within structured systems and established doctrine. Worship is often restrained. Miracle spectacle is less central. Roughly 64 per cent of Americans identify as Christian, but adherence is falling, particularly among younger generations. Many congregations struggle to sustain membership. In Kenya, by contrast, nearly 85 per cent identify as Christian and churches are growing, especially among the youth.

The theological tone also diverges. American churches increasingly adopt progressive positions on LGBTQ+ rights and social justice. Kenyan churches largely uphold conservative teachings on marriage and morality.

American Christianity is increasingly entangled in partisan politics. The rise of Christian nationalism seeks to merge national identity with a narrow reading of the faith. This movement gained force during the presidency of Donald Trump, as many conservative believers embraced the “Make America Great Again” banner as a shield against secularism. Yet when allegiance to Christ is blurred with allegiance to party, the Gospel risks becoming a campaign slogan rather than a transforming truth.

Commentators such as the late Charlie Kirk, pastor Paula White-Cain, and Robert Jefress, among others, have invoked Christianity while making remarks about America’s “whiteness” that many consider racially charged.

When immigrants are demeaned or refugees portrayed as threats, the tension between political rhetoric and Christian teaching becomes stark. Scripture affirms that all people are made in the image of God (Genesis 1:27). Paul insists that in Christ “there is neither Jew nor Greek” (Galatians 3:28).

More troubling is the readiness of some Christian leaders to sanctify military action. Franklin Graham, son of Billy Graham, publicly praised President Trump for strikes against Iran, framing them as a stand against an “evil empire”. The language was celebratory, not cautious. When prayer accompanies bombing campaigns, and faith is invoked to justify force, the line between spiritual conviction and state power grows thin.

The Sermon on the Mount offers a different vision. “Blessed are the peacemakers” (Matthew 5:9). “Love your enemies” (Matthew 5:44). Christ calls for mercy and humility, not triumphalism. When asked about the greatest commandment, he replied: love God wholeheartedly and love your neighbour as yourself (Matthew 22:37–39). He went further: “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13). The Lord’s Prayer teaches dependence on God and forgiveness, not domination.

Measured against this standard, both commercialised religion in Kenya and politicised Christianity in America fall short. In one context, the temptation is financial power; in the other, political power. In both, faith risks losing its centre.

The contrast between practising Christianity in Kenya and in the United States is therefore spiritual, not merely geographical. It reveals how easily faith drifts when captured by spectacle or supremacy. The major question, therefore, is this: does our Christianity reflect the humility, justice and self-giving love of Christ?

If Christianity loses its centre — love of God and love of neighbour, it may retain crowds, wealth or influence. But it forfeits its soul.