This is Part Two of a series reflecting on lessons from my political journey — from councillor to governor — written at the kind request of Prof Kivutha Kibwana. Last week, I spoke about student politics. Today, I reflect on the humble yet demanding office of a councillor (known today as Member of County Assembly).
Twenty-six years ago, I was among 58 University of Nairobi students who were suspended after protesting what we believed were discriminatory admission policies. Sometimes I ask myself: would I take that risk again if I went back in time? Perhaps not.
The Bible, in Proverbs 4:7, reminds us, “Wisdom is the principal thing; therefore, get wisdom.” Losing even a year of learning is no small sacrifice.
Yet life often writes straight with crooked lines. What seemed like a setback slowly revealed itself as providence? Years later, the very issues we protested were corrected. University courses were opened to all students, and admission timelines were harmonised. In that sense, history quietly vindicated the cause.
Still, the suspension divided opinion at home. My father, a devout Christian with a strong sense of justice, understood my activism. He reminded me that leaders such as James Orengo had once been suspended from university for challenging injustice but later rose to national prominence. “That is how society treats those who fight for rights,” he told me. “Stand firm.”
My mother saw it differently. With the wisdom of a parent who worries about tomorrow, she asked a question: “Fighting for people? First, think about your education.”
In hindsight, both were right. As an African proverb says, “Wisdom is like a baobab tree; no single person can embrace it.”
We went to court to challenge the suspension, but the case dragged on. Meanwhile, I stayed at home studying accounting privately and managed to pass two sections. Still, a restless mind rarely sits still for long.
Soon, I applied to study law at Newcastle University in the UK. Admission came quickly. Hope rose. But the fees gave me a reality check. My mother gently reminded me that the cost was beyond our reach.
Then an unusual idea came to mind—becoming a reggae music promoter. At the time, reggae music carried stereotypes. Some associated it with idle youth from the slums. Yet beneath its rhythm lay powerful messages about African liberation, the legacy of slavery and colonialism, and the struggles of unemployed youth. It invoked heroes like Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X and Marcus Garvey.
I began organising concerts, travelling with artistes. One memorable night, we hosted Teddy Dan, famous for the song United States of Africa. The grounds were packed with energetic youths swaying under the night sky. After one such show, a few young people pulled me aside. “Why don’t you run for councillor?” they suggested. I was only 21 years old. Youth, however, sometimes possesses a courage that experience later tempers. As Scripture encourages, “Let no one despise your youth.”
Against the odds, I ran—and won. Soon after, fortune smiled again. The newly elected National Rainbow Coalition government reinstated previously suspended students. Suddenly, I found myself living two lives at once: serving as a councillor while also returning to university as a student. I tried to bridge the two worlds.
Through friendships with medical students, I organised medical camps in the ward, collecting modest donations from pharmacies and volunteers. They were small initiatives, but they taught me something profound: leadership often means connecting those who can help with those who need help. Looking back, several factors may have contributed to that early electoral victory. First was youth. Voters often reward young aspirants with hope.
Second was education. Communities tend to place a high value on learning, believing it equips leaders with better judgment. Third was social character and family background. My parents’ religiosity built trust among the elders. Though involved in music promotion, I remained a teetotaller. That small discipline quietly reassured many voters.
Finally, my experience in campus politics had trained me in organisation, persuasion and resilience. But the greatest lesson came after the election. Serving as an MCA (or councillor at the time) requires immense emotional intelligence because the office sits at the heart of what political scientists call retail politics.
Accessible symbol of government
Unlike national leaders who operate through media and grand rallies, the MCA operates face-to-face with the people. Residents meet you at funerals, church services, markets and village barazas. They come with requests for bursaries, hospital bills, jobs, water connections or the repair of a small road. In short, the MCA becomes the most accessible symbol of government.
This closeness builds trust — but it also carries heavy expectations. Sometimes the people assume the MCA possesses powers that belong to other levels of government. Balancing compassion with honesty becomes essential. As another proverb reminds us, “The one who carries the village drum must endure its noise.” That is explains why the current government of Murang’a County has community projects programmes intended to nudge the public to see MCAs as drivers of development as opposed of patronage.
They identify Early Childhood Development and Education centres that need renovations, villages needing water pipes, and the county renders support.
During my term. We confronted several challenges. We opposed excessive business licence fees and resisted attempts to increase local taxes that burdened small traders. We also fought land grabbing. At one point, our local stadium had allegedly been taken over by a powerful minister. We organised demonstrations, were arrested and taken to court.
Public service sometimes resembles the story of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego — thrown into the furnace yet somehow preserved (Daniel 3). At other moments, it feels like Daniel in the lions’ den (Daniel 6), where courage must walk hand in hand with faith.
There were quieter victories, too. Through persistent lobbying, we helped establish the ward’s first public library—a modest building perhaps, but one that symbolised opportunity for many young minds. By 2007, however, my thoughts were beginning to wander toward new challenges. I had completed university, joined the Kenya School of Law and was admitted to the bar.
Friends encouraged me to run for Member of Parliament for Kiharu. Tempting as the idea was, I concluded my chances were minimal. I stepped aside—a decision that disappointed some supporters. Instead, I turned to legal practice between 2008 and 2011.
Then one quiet evening, while seated in my bedroom watching television, a news story flashed across the screen. It concerned allegations involving the then Deputy Chief Justice Nancy Baraza and a security guard. The reported words— “You should know people”—stirred something deep in my instincts.
Little did I know that moment would ignite a political journey that would soon lead me back to the ballot. But that story, dear reader, is for next week.
