Kenyan politics has become pure performance art — loud, flashy, and mostly empty. Every five years, like clockwork, we find ourselves clapping for the same recycled cast of political showmen. They roll out grand manifestos and lofty promises, speaking with the confidence of messiahs and the sweet consistency of conmen. They swear to fix everything: corruption, unemployment, broken hospitals, potholes, even heartbreaks.
And we buy it, over and over. Hypnotised by the drama, we fall for the stagecraft, only to wake up years later to the same reality: broken promises, ballooning debt, and a country running on fumes.
This is likely the reason former Chief Justice David Maraga’s presidential pursuit feels foreign to most of us. Some of us feel like he’s making a mockery of politics. “That’s not how you do politics,” you’ll hear someone terribly undone by “master of politics” William Ruto. How dare Maraga show up, measured, principled, and almost allergic to the spotlight? How dare he not play to the crowd? Why won’t he shout, or pander? And when he speaks, why is it not dazzling? Why is it always about delivery? Where are the grand promises? Surely this should be more entertaining, right? Wrong.
In a political culture drunk on theatrics, Maraga’s quiet conviction feels almost radical. He’s not promising heaven. He’s promising what he can actually do, and backing himself to do it. That kind of honesty can be jarring in a system designed to reward noise over nuance.
Kenya’s political machine thrives on drama. Campaigns aren’t conversations; they’re circus acts. Politicians don’t speak; they sermonise. Their rallies are scripted shows where every promise is bigger than the last. You hear things like “We’ll double the economy in five years,” or “We’ll eliminate corruption overnight.” They’re not plans. They’re fantasies. And we’ve always eaten it up, cheering like it’s gospel, forgetting the last season’s script was almost identical.
Loudest voices in our politics
The 2022 campaign cycle proved it again. Candidates didn’t run on strategy—they ran on slogans. “Hustler Nation” was less of a policy platform and more of a marketing stunt. On social media, Kenyans now openly mock the very narratives that once captured their hopes. The charm has worn off. The gap between promise and reality has become too obvious to ignore.
And the cost we pay is not just emotional fatigue—it’s real and bloody. Lives, our very rights and freedoms. This is what happens when political theatre masquerades as real leadership for so long. And the people pay. In cash. In blood. In dignity. With their lives.
That is why Maraga matters. As CJ from 2016 to 2021, he didn’t just talk about justice—he delivered it, even when it was dangerous. He nullified a presidential election in 2017. He stood up to the Executive. He didn’t sell hope. He defended the law. And now, post-retirement, he’s still pushing for accountability—calmly, surgically, and without the usual fanfare. Even when he drops sound bites, he just does it in a matter-of-factly way. “The president (…) needs to resign” and very casually and goes about his day.
Compare that to the loudest voices in our politics. People who specialise in chaos and charisma. Their campaigns are full of music, colour, and fire, but bereft of substance. Every five years, we get a fresh theme: “Digital Government” in 2013. “Big Four” in 2017. “Bottom-Up” in 2022. Different paint, same broken wall. These aren’t strategies, but storylines.
That’s the trap: we’ve been conditioned to trust. So when someone like Maraga shows up—soft-spoken, no gimmicks, just work—we second-guess him. We think, “He’s too quiet. Can he lead?” But that quietness? That restraint? It’s discipline. It’s clarity. And it’s exactly what we need in a country ripped apart by charismatic presidents over the past 13 years.
Maraga’s not offering a miracle, but a reset; restoring Kenya to the rule of law, rebuilding trust in our institutions and having measurable outcomes. In a country painfully paying the price for buying into theatrics, that’s the real revolution.
How we choose our leaders
You can feel the shift, especially among youth — there’s a growing rejection of political drama. They’re not looking for heroes. They’re demanding accountability. They’re not asking for handouts, but for systems that work. And in that context, Maraga’s style of leadership—steady, grounded, unapologetically boring—is finally getting the respect it deserves.
His call for a less theatrical politics isn’t just a critique of those in power—it’s a challenge to all of us. We get the leaders we reward. If we keep falling for slogans and stunts, we’ll keep ending up with the same disappointments. But if we start rewarding truth, integrity, and delivery, we can change the culture—for good.
We need to rethink how we choose our leaders. Elections shouldn’t feel like a country’s five-year festival cycle. The loudest person on the stage isn’t necessarily the most capable.
Let’s stop obsessing over rallies and start reading track records. Let’s ask harder questions and accept smaller promises, especially when they are realistic.
This country needs a come-to-God moment. It has been crying for a generation that will leave entertainment to DJs, comedians, actors and musicians — so that leaders can focus on the tedious, boring work that bureaucrats do.
Kenya is at a crossroads. The chaos and mistakes of the past decade have led us to this moment. A moment where we have a genuine chance at fixing this mess once and for all. We can either double down on the circus or step into something better. Less drama, more discipline; fewer promises, more results.
