“Hell is empty and all the demons are here—William Shakespeare.
It is a well-known truth that a politician’s main duty is to steal public funds on behalf of his masters; the rent-seeking African elites, and the western goons who give us loans.
It follows a familiar mantra. First you impoverish the masses. Then you rent them. Two hundred shillings. Five hundred. A thousand if the job is messy. Crowds appear on command. Cheers and violence can be bought.
Poverty is not failure. It is by design. Political rallies are not gatherings. They are survival zones.
An insider, not the kind who leaks documents, has seen the patterns that repeat enough to learn it is a ‘normal’ activity in democracies. Also nown as demon-cracies.
He says. In the old days, villagers went hunting with dogs. The dogs were strong, fast, and capable of bringing down animals far larger than themselves. They did the hard work. They made the kill.
But when the hunt ended, it was the men who carried the meat home. The dogs followed beside them, alert, loyal, fiercely guarding the prize they would never truly own.
At home, the men slaughtered the animal, cooked it, and invited neighbors who had not participated in the hunt. There was laughter, feasting, and celebration. Meat passed from hand to hand. Plates overflowed. Outside, the dogs waited.
After the feast, that’s when the dogs are remembered.
Bones are gathered. Dropped into a sufuria. Boiled into something that looks like food. A little ugali thrown in. The dogs fight over it—gratefully.
They don’t know they made the kill. Or maybe they know—but hunger is louder than memory. Ordinary Kenyans have been reduced to the dog cadre.
“When you are poor, you are like the dog that only eats once a day. The dogs ate their last meal the previous evening, then went hunting in the morning and came back in the evening with the kill. They will wait for everyone to eat before being given their soup, bones, and some ugali.”
After feeding to his fill, the man of the house will leave the dogs outside as he goes to sleep. The dogs will protect him and his family to the death, with all their strength and energy. They don’t know anything better than the hustle because the master has made them depend on him without knowing they could go to the wilderness and hunt for their own food.
Political rallies are filled with bodies that have not eaten well in days. A convoy passes, and money is thrown around. People surge forward—not because they are foolish, but because hunger has stripped choice down to instinct.
Recently, during one such moment, an old man—ninety-seven years old—Mzee Ombui Orandi, died in a stampede during chaos that erupted when residents were scrambling for cash handouts of 200 bob. Equivalent to a packet of maize flour.
The crowd closed in. The money disappeared, and so did he.
Elections are coming up in 2027, and the country’s citadel of power has been turned into a marketplace. Not of ideas. Of buyers. Racketeers and gangstas.
The political field is flooded with every shade of criminal: gamblers, sugar barons, human traffickers, body organ traffickers, murderers, pedophiles, oil cartels, mining cartels, arms cartels, drug dealers, … Money moves quietly—under tables, through proxies, and across borders. Alliances are built not on ideology but on transaction. Opponents are not defeated; they are acquired.
Meanwhile, young men gather in backrooms and open fields, waiting for instructions. Videos circulate of impoverished youth being handed cash and jobs that will never materialize—unless they’re of a violent nature
There are roles for everyone. Team vurugu to break things, including bones. Some to intimidate and stab.
The MCA, of Lucky Summer Ward in Ruaraka, Victor Omondi Ochola, commonly known as Ringo was recorded in a video addressing his jeshi.
“I don’t like cowards in my team,” he said. “I want people who are fearless because there are different jobs, a job for slaughtering people, to stab people… And some—he pauses here—“to do worse.”
He has never been arrested.
Poor men and women from church group, and youth groups have been lining up in their thousands to get a thousand-bob boost from politicians and their agents.
Reports have emerged that some individuals are allegedly willing to kill fellow citizens for as little as a hundred shillings—barely enough to buy a loaf of bread and a 200ml packet of milk.
The spotlight on goonism came into sharp focus on April 8, when Senator Godfrey Osotsi was seriously injured after goons descended on him in broad daylight inside a café. The images spread quickly.
So did another video of his assailants bragging. Laughing. Hinting at powerful backers.
A few arrests were made. Then silence. The case has since faded from public attention.
A goon’s day does not begin in the morning. It begins with a primal need. If there’s no money for supper, he mugs someone in the inky darkness. Usually, he wakes up hungry. Eats whatever is left from the night before. Drinks tea without sugar. Without milk. By mid-morning, he is already looking for work.
“Iko form?” he asks.
Sometimes there is. A small advance is given. Enough to create momentum. Enough to bind him to the task. By afternoon, he is with others like him—smoking, drinking, waiting.
Then the transport comes. Buses. Motorbikes. Groups of three on boda boda taxis, packed tight like cargo. They are taken to where they are needed. A protest, a meeting, a street that needs to be “disciplined.”
The instructions are simple: create fear.
And always, there are police uniforms nearby—not stopping them, not chasing them. Watching. Sometimes guiding.
Afterwards, payment is completed by the agents. The day dissolves into smoke and cheap liquor, and finish the night with a malaya.
Tomorrow, it begins again as young men boast of powerful patrons while activists, bloggers, and writers are silenced.
Their bosses, the politicians’ breakfast is a performance.
Avocado toast. Fresh fruit. Smoked salmon. Eggs folded into delicate shapes by trained hands. Nutritionists calibrate energy. Chefs curate indulgence. Decisions are made over coffee that costs a day’s wages for the men outside.
Then there are the bosses’ bosses. The movers and shakers. Their menu is not on the table. They eat money. Loans are signed and projects announced. Billions vanish into spaces too complex—or too protected—to trace.
Euro bonds and commercial loans are gobbled like njugu karanga. Even the auditors lose the trail.
The World bank-run national treasury has been taking loans even before projects were ready. In one case of wanton robbery, the treasury took a loan for the Kenya Power company to lay underground cables, only for Kenya Power to reveal that they were not aware of such a project.
Sometimes, a project appears fully formed for a presidential visit. Trucks, equipment, activity. Cameras flash. Promises are made. Then they get into the helicopter, and the project is dismantled, heading to another location.
Rinse and repeat.
Meanwhile, concerns have persisted over abductions and killings involving individuals believed to be acting with state protection or complicity. In 2025, a young author Moses Atsulu Libendi went missing on August 5, shortly after publishing a novel critical of the government, inspired by the killing of activist Albert Ojwang by security forces.
Moses’ disappearance occurred during the CHAN football tournament, which some observers have described as a moment when heightened public distraction may have enabled such incidents to go unnoticed.
Why this urgency?
It is the scale.
The hurried collapse of the economy is because Kenya has 970 varieties of minerals and rare earth elements valued at over 52 trillion dollars. Wealth buried deep enough to attract attention from far beyond Kenya’s borders. And this is the problem with Kenya.
The African resource curse on steroids.
Violence has been normalized. Not always loud or visible. But present. There are stories—too many, too frequent.
Meanwhile, there are quieter fears. Disappearances and abductions. Stories that circulate in whispers. Too many to ignore. Too unclear to prove.
Across towns and cities—Kikuyu, Kisumu, Kitale— Reports persist of armed groups attacking civilians. The response is slow. Accountability is slower.
Arrests remain elusive, and promised disciplinary action has failed to materialize as rogue elements within the security services operate with impunity.
It seems destruction of the economy—using the West’s Kenyan puppets—is the only solution for the Western cabal to grab the country.
Our local elite goons steal taxes left and right. For instance, a road project worth Kshs 160 billion with a French consortium under the former president was canceled and awarded to a Chinese firm for Kshs 200 billion by the current government.
Then the country reportedly paid Kshs 7 billion to the French consortium as compensation for the cancellation.
At one time there was even a proposal to create a brand new 5000 note so the weight of stolen money would be reduced.
With nothing to offer Kenyans they have now turned the country into a slave labor market for Europe and the Middle East where many Kenyans return in coffins. Government-affiliated employment agencies were involved in the Russian-Ukrainian recruitment scandal.
Allegations of politically linked violence are not new in Kenya. During the presidency of Daniel arap Moi, the outlawed Mungiki sect was widely reported to have operated during periods of political tension, particularly around elections.
Similar accusations resurfaced during the tenure of Uhuru Kenyatta, who later became the first sitting head of state to appear before the International Criminal Court over charges related to post-election violence.
Including the current president.
The cases were ultimately terminated due to insufficient evidence.
In recent years, you must speak carefully, as if the truth might overhear you and change its mind.
There are always “groups.” Picture young men with idle afternoons and urgent needs. They gather at corners where hope forgot to arrive. When unrest comes, they are suddenly everywhere—organized enough to be useful, invisible enough to be denied.
Old names return like unfinished conversations. Mungiki is mentioned again, sometimes as a rumor, sometimes as a warning. The country does not bury its past; it folds it and keeps it close.
Beyond the borders, the map becomes uncertain. Jubbaland appears in whispers—recruitment, movement, and connections. Officials dismiss these claims. Still, they linger, because suspicion travels faster than proof.
Larger shadows follow: Al-Shabaab, Rapid Support Forces. Their names carry weight, even when evidence does not.
Meanwhile, the economy tightens its grip. Taxes multiply, licenses expand, and businesses learn the art of survival. Some fail quietly. Others are erased more visibly, cleared away with reasons that arrive too late.
Debt grows, numbers rising beyond ordinary comprehension. Reports question, officials respond, and the cycle continues orderly on paper and uncertain in practice.
For how long will they push our patience we might ask? For how long will this madness continue mocking us? To what depths of devastation will the unbridled audacity hurl this country?
Without a doubt, the biblical Jesus’ words ring true, “the god of this world is satan.”
Satan lives in Kenya and now ordinary folks have been reduced to dogs in a country that brims with intellectual talent and promises boundless prosperity for all.
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