“The last drop of urine does not obey the law of “gravity”—Kenyan proverb
There are ordinary towns. Then there is Ol Kalou, a town whose name means the place of safari ants. Recently, however, a completely different species of ants descended upon it—well-fed political ants carrying briefcases stashed with leaves of cash and marching in neat convoys.
Money rained as government honchos distributed cash, gifts, and development promises in an energetic attempt to persuade residents to vote for the government’s preferred candidate. It was Christmas, Easter, and Black Friday rolled into one glorious political clearance sale. Thousands of six-kilogramme LPG cooking gas cylinders appeared. Mattresses arrived in truckloads. Two motorized fishing boats costing 5 million each somehow found themselves in a county better known for dairy farming than deep-sea adventures. Twenty thousand fish fingerlings followed, proving that campaign logistics occasionally possess a richer imagination than geography itself.
The generosity did not end there. Development projects suddenly accelerated at Olympic sprinting speed. There was the revival of the Nairobi–Nyahururu railway—and a train to match. The 37-kilometer Ithangani–Ngorika–Kanyiriri road was showcased. Ol Kalou Market acquired translucent roofing. Water pipes, electricity poles, and food aid appeared with such miraculous timing that one wondered whether elections should simply be held every quarter.
One day, the town was discussing milk prices, school fees, and whether the rains would keep their promises. By the next morning it had become the political equivalent of Dubai during a shopping festival. Convoys multiplied. Security officers materialized in impressive numbers. Campaign vehicles created permanent traffic jams. Every guesthouse filled overnight. Villages quietly reinvented themselves as Airbnb destinations. Spare bedrooms acquired hourly rates. Residents discovered that hosting campaign teams briefly outperformed agriculture as the area’s fastest-growing industry.
Elections remain the only season when money appears to fall from the sky without first consulting the Kenya Revenue Authority.
For several glorious weeks, a forgotten market centre became the centre of the Kenyan political universe. Cabinet Secretaries descended from helicopters that hovered overhead with the persistence of confused dragonflies. Politicians rediscovered roads they had successfully ignored since the previous election. Every pothole became a national emergency. Every villager became a strategic stakeholder. Every handshake transformed into what politicians lovingly describe as “an investment in democracy.”
Tea no longer cost the price written on the menu. Everyone produced a thousand-shilling note. Campaign season imposes its own inflation. The roadside kiosk suddenly acquires the confidence of a five-star hotel. Even the local goat looked suspiciously optimistic.
Everyone smiled.
The politician smiled because every handshake supposedly represented growing public support. The voter smiled because democracy had finally remembered where they lived. Somewhere between the two smiles lived the oldest political secret in Kenya: never reveal your vote until the ballot box has swallowed it.
Nothing demonstrates governmental efficiency quite like the possibility of losing an election.
Campaign gifts deserve their own Cabinet ministry. Some elections are remembered for speeches. Others for manifestos. Many are remembered for T-shirts, and caps.
Perhaps the greatest comedy is how politicians suddenly rediscover ordinary citizens. The resident who spent three years discussing potholes with fellow sufferers now finds senior leaders remembering not only his name but also his grandmother’s arthritis.
Old women become national treasures. Farmers become strategic partners. Boda boda riders become indispensable stakeholders.
If elections occurred every six months, Kenya might accidentally achieve universal development.
Then, as quickly as the laughter arrived, it disappeared.
The festive atmosphere changed after the ruling regime reportedly realised that many residents were happy to receive campaign gifts but appeared less enthusiastic about voting for its candidate. The political romance suddenly resembled a jilted lover discovering expensive gifts do not guarantee affection.
Celebration gave way to confrontation.
Residents reported that government-funded masked goons began terrorising parts of the town. On voting day, intimidation intensified. Men wearing balaclavas and bulky jackets allegedly concealed pistols, assault rifles, and tear-gas canisters beneath their clothing. Witnesses said civilians were handcuffed and shocked with Tasers while journalists and voters were among those targeted.
Despite the operation unfolding in broad daylight, the government maintains it does not know who the armed men were.
Young, old, and sickly voters, nevertheless, turned out in large numbers despite the tense atmosphere surrounding several polling stations. Cameras quickly became unwelcome guests. Journalists and residents documenting events reported intimidation as the day unfolded.
Gunshots echoed through the air while heavily armed masked men moved around polling centres. Witnesses said the show of force appeared intended to frighten voters and influence the electoral process.
According to witnesses, the armed groups concentrated around polling stations attracting the highest voter turnout. Access roads were reportedly blocked in some locations, making it difficult for residents to reach polling centres. Long delays followed as confusion spread.
Witnesses also reported the arrival of water cannon trucks before repeated volleys of tear gas drifted through roads and neighboring estates. Crowds scattered, only for many voters to regroup and return to the queues once the gas dispersed.
Several Toyota SUVs were reportedly seen moving between polling stations. Witnesses alleged that some vehicles carried missing, concealed or altered number plates, making identification difficult.
The 16 July Ol Kalou by-election transformed the normally sleepy town into what many residents described as a war zone. Motorbikes were vandalised. Boda boda riders were assaulted. Polling centres resembled security operations rather than celebrations of democracy.
Yet intimidation appeared to produce the opposite effect. Many residents simply queued longer, treating fear as another unofficial tax imposed upon citizenship. The only government programme that seemed to arrive ahead of schedule was the security deployment.
Modern Kenyan politics has evolved into an extraordinary marketplace. Today’s voter is presented with household goods, spectacular promises requiring environmental impact assessments, campaign merchandise in industrial quantities and development projects unveiled with breathtaking urgency.
One almost expects candidates to begin distributing giraffes for livestock improvement.
Meanwhile, the voter performs one of Kenya’s oldest political dances: smiling warmly at everybody while revealing absolutely nothing. Political analysts call it the undecided voter.
Kenyans simply call it wisdom.
A voter may wear one party’s cap, wave another party’s flag, accept tea from a third candidate and quietly vote for somebody entirely different.
Election strategists spend billions trying to understand this mysterious behavior. Ordinary Kenyans solved the puzzle long ago.
“It is our turn to eat.”
Kenyan voters possess one quality that continues to bewilder politicians: they remember. They know campaign miracles usually arrive with expiry dates. They understand promises remain the cheapest natural resource ever discovered.
They can distinguish generosity inspired by public service from generosity inspired by approaching polling day. They quietly enter a polling station, mark one box, fold one ballot paper, and remind the political class of an inconvenient truth.
Power may arrive by helicopter, convoy, or television cameras, but it is measured inside an ordinary cardboard ballot box.
In Ol Kalou citizens were casting ballots while calculating escape routes.
When the votes were finally counted, the ruling party was defeated by a massive landslide despite the gifts, the spending, and the violence that reportedly left two people dead and several others injured.
The most fascinating part is not how quickly these development projects appear. It is how expertly they disappear after voting. Across Kenya, citizens have become experts in observing this remarkable migratory behaviour.
It remains a joke Kenyan politics never quite understands. Governments may campaign with helicopters, money and convoys, but elections are still decided by the smallest and cheapest object in the entire operation.
A ballot.
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