Wanjiku, the famed symbol of the common man’s or woman’s voice in Kenya’s constitutional reform struggle, is in her mid 20s now.
She happened on the scene in the 1990s when then President Daniel arap Moi, dismissive of the idea of a popular reforms initiative, asked at a public meeting: “What does Wanjiku know about the Constitution?”
The reforms movement cleverly used the name Wanjiku to mobilise for what they called a people-driven process, as opposed to an elite dance reserved for legal experts and the political class.
In truth, the elite in all their shades were always in control of the process – be they organised civil society at posh hotel talk shops, the religious leaders at Ufungamano House press conferences, the business lobby at state dinners or political parties on parliamentary select committees.
The make-believe Wanjiku narrative remains popular, entrenched by the requirement of public participation in legislation and other key policy making under the 2010 Constitution and judges liberally dishing out favourable decisions to litigants.
Yet in reality, the notion of a key role for the common man in the Constitution is often only conveniently used by the elite class to advance its own interests.
Many of the public-interest cases before the courts and impeachment trials by the Senate bear the marks of elite schemes executed in the name of Wanjiku.
The more obvious ones are those challenging the award of state tenders filed by this or the other ‘Nairobi businessman’, citing lack of public participation.
The so-called Nairobi businessman is often a procurement hitman acting at the behest of a rival bidder.
In a recent impeachment trial of a governor before the Senate, MCAs said they had invited residents to present their views to the county assembly in a newspaper advert.
The daily newspaper circulation in that county is one of the lowest in Kenya, making it unlikely Wanjiku was informed about the plan to impeach her governor.
But perhaps the worst plot ever hatched by the elite in the name of Wanjiku so far is the inclusion of a clause in the Elections Act requiring aspirants for elective posts to have university degree qualifications.
The Independent Electoral and Boundaries Commission has made public its intention to enforce the degree rule –presumably meant to improve the quality of debate in Parliament – in the 2022 elections.
Critics of the rule rightly argue that it will deny the vast majority of Kenyans their political rights in a country where degree holders are thought to be between one and 3.5 per cent of the population.
But who in their right frame of mind believe the so-called Wanjiku told the politicians, the bureaucrats or the organised civil society elite behind that law that she wanted to trade her political rights for a fanciful thing called quality of debate in Parliament?
