Editor’s note: In this opinion piece, Kimutai Kirui reflects on why he believes that when power relies on intimidation, imported influence, and the casual abuse of “orders from above”, democracy is not defeated in a single moment—it is slowly engineered into submission.
From land frauds, ethanol, second-generation alcohol, and narcotics to elections, a troubling pattern is emerging where goon politics, political name-dropping, and compromised institutions blur the line between authority and impunity, turning public power into control rather than service.
It’s almost a sacred calling that “People of the Rift Valley” have a clear political direction: the re-election of the president, not the rehearsal of the personal ambitions of a few individuals close to power disguised as “empowerment”.
Today, empowerment forums are increasingly viewed as early political staging grounds rather than genuine development spaces—platforms for influence, alignment, and the quiet shaping of future power structures.
Within this reading, Hon Oscar Sudi is referenced in political discourse as a key player in aligning local leadership networks, interpreted by some as part of broader political consolidation linked to the good CS of the interior, Hon Onesmus Murkomen.
Empowerment forums risk becoming political sorting arenas where empowerment is repurposed into pre-determined outcomes rather than public choice.
So are our artists’ mobilisation tools. Artists are empowered to mobilise for politicians.
Across Nakuru, Uasin Gishu, Nandi, Kericho, and Bomet, what is branded as ’empowerment’ is scripted political theatre—managed spaces where voices are curated, and outcomes appear pre-decided.
At the same time, institutions—especially within enforcement—are seen to drift from their constitutional mandate.
Instead of anchoring governance in the rule of law, they are increasingly shaped by political patronage.
In many investigations handled by the DCI and other agencies, the president or senior officials are quickly invoked as being “behind” operations. Yet, in numerous cases, no directive originates from the State House or the head of public service.
Investigations proceed, arrests are made, and due process runs its course without such intervention.
What often happens instead is the strategic misuse of the president’s name by individuals close to power—used to intimidate investigators, frustrate justice, or create the illusion of protection.
It is a tactic designed to instil fear, not reflect authority.
Over time, the presidency becomes a convenient shield for evading accountability.
The real problem lies with a small network of political brokers who exploit proximity to power to settle scores, influence outcomes, and legitimise illegality.
If institutions respected constitutional limits over political patronage, there would be far less space for impunity disguised as presidential authority.
Even within enforcement agencies, the phrase “orders from above” is frequently used to justify inaction or selective enforcement.
While interference may occasionally exist, more often it becomes institutional folklore—an excuse for hesitation, failure, or avoidance of responsibility.
Ultimately, one of the greatest distortions of executive power is not what the president does but what others claim in his name.
Across West Pokot, Baringo, Nakuru, Narok, and Trans Nzoia, recurring land disputes reveal a consistent pattern: when powerful interests are involved, institutions hesitate, records shift, investigations stall, and justice becomes negotiable.
Where resistance emerges, transfers or reshuffles often follow.
What is unfolding in parts of Kuresoi, Nandi, and Uasin Gishu is no longer subtle—it is a refined political machinery operating in plain sight. Allegations of organised mobilisation and selective enforcement have strengthened perceptions that proximity to power can bend accountability.
This is not politics as service.
It is politics as choreography—crowds staged, optics managed, participation engineered.
When informal networks, political actors, and coercive elements overlap with formal institutions, a parallel order emerges within the state. Enforcement becomes transactional—applied when useful, withheld when inconvenient.
Coercion becomes part of the system rather than an exception.
This is how institutions decay: not through sudden collapse but gradual entanglement, where legality and influence become indistinguishable.
The most dangerous actor in such a system is not the outsider but the insider who uses public office as cover while turning institutions into accomplices. A captured institution is more dangerous than open lawlessness because it gives injustice the appearance of legality.
States do not fail because they lack laws.
They weaken when those tasked with enforcement become custodians of impunity instead of justice.
Ultimately, the danger is not chaos—it is coordination without accountability.
And when that becomes normalised, the state is not destroyed; it is quietly repurposed from within.
To Sudi, leadership is not defined by force, wealth, or intimidation but by character, trust, and service. A true leader walks among their people without fear or coercion.
Where intimidation, intolerance, and violence become routine responses to dissent, leadership loses moral grounding.
Power detached from integrity corrodes institutions and reduces public office to personal control.
The question remains: if leadership is legitimate, why does it rely on fear?
And if it is genuine, why does it need coercion to sustain itself?
Kalenjin—rise. Reject impunity. Reclaim your destiny.
The author is Kimutai Kirui, a Kenyan political analyst and human rights activist known for his work in Uasin Gishu County, where he has championed justice in cases ranging from police brutality to land disputes affecting widows.
Views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not represent the editorial position of news9.africa.
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