Life in a kakistocracy is not for the faint-hearted. It is a full-contact sport. A live theatre production. A travelling circus with no refunds and compulsory attendance.
One moment, billions evaporate from the government’s eCitizen portal, that is, digitally kidnapped, like goats in a well-organized village raid. The next moment, the education sector is found lying by the roadside, pockets turned inside out, muttering about CBC and lost dignity. Then, just as you are adjusting your expectations downward, the healthcare budget is discovered to have been mugged in broad daylight—by men in suits, of course, because professionalism matters.
You would think the scriptwriters would rest.
They do not.
Recently, the nation was treated to a rare and exotic spectacle: arrests. Not the usual arrests of hawkers, boda boda riders, or the occasional unlucky protester who happened to breathe near tear gas—but arrests of actual, proper, high-ranking officials. The kind who usually arrest others.
The managing director of the Kenya Pipeline Company. The director general of the Energy and Petroleum Regulatory Authority. The Principal Secretary for Petroleum. Big men. Men whose signatures alone can move billions—or make them disappear politely.
They were arrested for supplying substandard fuel.
Not only did they allegedly supply substandard fuel, but that same fuel is already in circulation. It is in your car. It is in your neighbour’s car. It is currently negotiating with your engine, whispering threats. Mechanics are preparing spiritually. Insurance companies are revising their prayers.
Kenyans, therefore, are not just driving—they are gambling. Every ignition is an act of faith.
Will it start? Will it knock? Will it explode into an economic metaphor?
Stay tuned.
But the story does not end there, because in this country, it never does. The fuel was not only substandard—it was also overpriced. This is important. We suffer, yes, but we suffer expensively. There must be standards.
Global oil prices went up, and somewhere in a well-lit office, a deal was made in “total darkness,” as government mandarins prefer. It was decided that Kenyans must feel this increase personally, spiritually, and generationally.
Super petrol shot up. Diesel followed obediently. Kerosene, that faithful companion of the poor, was left untouched—not out of kindness, but perhaps out of oversight.
We are told the new price of petrol is about Kshs 206 per litre.
This is the official story.
Meanwhile, in the remote town of Ilbissil, in Kajiado County, petrol is retailing at Kshs 450 per liter. At that price, you do not buy fuel—you invest in it. You ask yourself whether movement is really necessary.
Before this theater, petrol was comfortably lounging at around Kshs 176 per litre. That was yesterday.
To calm the masses, the government reduced VAT from 16% to 13%. Three percent. A heroic gesture.
Because the real story—the one whispered quietly, like a secret passed between conspirators—is that nearly 80% of the cost of petroleum products is made up of taxes and levies. The government taxes the fuel, taxes the transport, taxes the thinking about the fuel, and would tax your dreams if they could be metered.
And yet, we persist.
Which brings us to a dangerous question: why, in the 21st century, are we still kneeling at the altar of petrol?
Now we enter the sacred forest of alternative truths, forbidden technologies, and historical amnesia.
In the early 1900s, Nikola Tesla, the patron saint of misunderstood geniuses, built a car that ran on free energy. Not petrol. Not diesel. Not your salary. Air. Ether. The invisible generosity of the universe.
The science is simple: the Earth is a battery. All one needs is to plug in using an antenna. No noise. No smoke. No monthly statements from petroleum companies reminding you that survival is a subscription service.
This technology, naturally, disappeared after his death.
Why?
Because somewhere along the way, oil was discovered, and powerful families decided that free energy was a terrible business model. You cannot invoice God. You cannot tax the wind. You cannot regulate the sky.
So history was edited. Ether was removed from textbooks and the periodic table. Scientists became confused. Engineers became obedient. And humanity returned to digging ancient sunlight from the ground and setting it on fire.
Progress.
We are also told of the Babcock electric car of 1909, which traveled over 1,200 miles on a single charge. Compare this to the modern electric car, proudly advertised as the future, struggling to cross 400 miles before begging for a socket like a phone with commitment issues.
Then there is Henry Ford’s hemp car—a vehicle stronger than steel, running on hemp ethanol. Imagine that. Growing your fuel in the backyard. Harvesting your commute.
This, too, was discouraged. Banned. Forgotten. Because again, self-sufficiency is bad for business. Dependency (on oil), on the other hand, is highly profitable.
And then comes the tragic opera of Stanley Meyer, the man who built a car that runs on water. The same substance we spill casually while arguing about politics. His dune buggy could travel over 100 miles on a gallon of water. He was offered a billion dollars by the oil and automobile cartels to buy him out.
He refused to sell his invention. He believed in humanity. This was his first mistake. He was invited to lunch. Poisoned and died.
The end.
Or rather, the beginning of another footnote in the long history of ideas that were “not commercially viable.”
Back home, in the less-documented but deeply inventive corners of Kenya, miracles continue quietly. In Nanyuki, there once existed a setup where croton seeds—those innocent, fallen gifts of nature—were turned into fuel. No billion-dollar lab. No international consortium. Just a machine resembling an oversized posho mill and the stubborn brilliance of simple engineering.
Vehicles came. They fueled. They left.
Drivers swore by it. Said it ran better. Lasted longer. At the time, petrol was Kshs 90 per litre. Croton fuel? Kshs 30.
Do the math.
Then forget the math, because nothing happened. Innovation, in our part of the world, is often like a brilliant child born in a house with no electricity—full of potential and permanently in the dark.
Still, hope refuses to die quietly.
Enter the modern alchemists: engineers turning plastic waste into fuel. Yes, the same plastic choking our rivers, decorating our landscapes, and starring in environmental documentaries narrated by concerned voices.
One Kenyan engineer, through curiosity and accidental discovery, found that melting plastic produces a strange jelly-like substance. Most people would panic. He leaned closer.
Today, that curiosity has evolved into a process that converts plastic into usable diesel and petrol equivalents. Machines can run. Generators can hum. His car runs on the plastic fuel. Waste can become value. He has patented his invention.
But here is the question nobody asks loudly: what happens to such innovations in a system that thrives on inefficiency? Do they scale?
Or do they quietly join the museum of almosts?
Then, across the border, we hear of a young Zimbabwean inventor — Maxwell Chikumbutso—who has built a vehicle that requires no fuel, no charging, and no external input—just the quiet harvesting of ambient radio frequencies. Infinite energy. Unlimited range. Freedom from the tyranny of bills.
Its energy system gives it an unlimited drive range with a top speed of 220 km/h and it comes equipped with modern features such as self-parking and an advanced driving system.
He has escaped several assassination attempts by American cartels. Powerful forces that do not appreciate disruptions to profitable suffering.
The deeper truth remains: people are desperate for alternatives. And desperation is fertile ground for innovation.
Meanwhile, back in our beloved republic, no one has been convincingly charged for the fuel crisis. Investigations will proceed. Committees will be formed. Reports will be written in impeccable English and filed in cabinets that close softly but permanently.
Life will go on. Prices will rise. Engines will knock. Citizens will adjust.
And somewhere, quietly, the symbol of the wheelbarrow will begin to make perfect sense. Not as a metaphor.
As a plan.
Because if things continue as they are—if fuel becomes a luxury, if innovation remains ornamental, if leadership continues to treat governance as a competitive sport in extraction—then the wheelbarrow will not just be a campaign symbol.
It will be your next car. Manual transmission. Zero emissions. Fully taxed, eventually.
Welcome to the future
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