“‘We shall, every one of us, drop his (ballot) paper for Marcus... Tell Marcus he has our papers and our wives’ papers too. But what we do say is that two shillings is shameful.’ He brought the lamb close and tilted it at the money before him as if to make sure he had not mistaken its value. Yes, two shillings is too shameful.
If Marcus were a poor man — which our ancestors forbid — I should be the first to give him my paper free, as I did before. But today Marcus is a great man and does his things like a great man. We did not ask him for money yesterday; we shall not ask him tomorrow. But today is our day; we have climbed the iroko tree today and would be foolish not to take down all the firewood we need.’”
These words from Chinua Achebe’s 1972 short story, The Voter (in the anthology Girls at War and Other Stories), become ever relevant as the 2027 elections loom large, like a disembodied hand — floating, beckoning, threatening — mid-air. There is also, as in every election cycle, the cautious heartbeat of a country. There are mornings when the country’s promise of a better tomorrow feels almost benign — when the air, raw and damp, is thick with possibility.
The hum of the generators coming on. The wail of sirens threading somewhere near Nairobi’s Uhuru Highway to offer emergency help. The low murmur of television sets behind shuttered windows. A flickering bulb, a safe street home. However, invisible but inescapable, the mood seems to grow feral — and desperate —as we move closer to Kenya’s decisive moment, conjuring the ghosts of old political battles.
In The Voter, Achebe charges straight for our culture of handouts for votes. It’s a short I wish every Kenyan aspirant would read before collecting nomination papers. The main character is Rufus Okeke —nicknamed “Roof” — the campaign agent of Marcus Ibe, a former mission-school teacher who has risen to become Minister of Culture and now lives in a great house with the trappings that ministers acquire. Election season returns to Umuofia, and Roof goes from home to home at night, distributing his master’s money to the elders.
Politicians have perfected the use of handouts for political leverage.
Photo credit: Shutterstock
The elders have one complaint: the sum of two shillings each, they say, is shameful. Had Marcus been a poor man, they would have given their votes freely, as they once did. But Marcus is now a great man and must behave like one. They asked him for nothing yesterday and will ask for nothing tomorrow. But the head of the leaders declares, “Today is our day; we have climbed the iroko tree today.”
A man who has climbed so high would be a fool not to carry down all the firewood he needs. The thinking is that the minister has eaten for five years; election day is the single day in the cycle when the river flows backwards to the villagers, and the wise villager fills his pot. The vote is not valued by the candidate’s vision but by the candidate’s wealth. The richer the man, the higher the price. That perfectly mirrors our situation in Kenya. Most voters look with utter contempt and scowling faces at candidates with little or no money who can’t give them handouts.
Dr Fred Matiang’i, one of the presidential aspirants, complained recently about our culture of handouts. He said that if you are an aspirant, “Everywhere you go, everywhere, if you park your car and go to the supermarket, there are people around your car, saying, ‘Mkuu sasa unatuwacha namna gani?—Honourable, how are you leaving us? One term, the sixth.’ They want you to give them money. When is this culture going to end?”
Unfortunately, the culture of handouts is entrenched in Kenyan politics. As leaders of political parties navigate moments that threaten the collapse of their negotiations, soothing egos, cajoling holdouts, and promising everything short of sainthood to keep their coalitions from imploding, they must also deal with our culture of handouts.
This culture must stop because of various reasons. Firstly, with this culture of handouts, we lose our only hold on leaders. The vote is the one moment every five years when an ordinary Kenyan citizen has power over the people who govern them.
When we sell it for a few hundred shillings, we give that power away cheaply. Secondly, the money ultimately comes out of our pockets. A candidate who spends millions on handouts will try to get it back once in office through inflated tenders, stalled roads, and dispensaries with no drugs.
Thirdly, the worst candidates win. Voters stop asking who has the vision and the capacity to lead and ask who has the deepest pockets. Honest, capable people can’t compete and stay out. Fourthly, we can’t demand accountability later. A leader who bought our vote owes us nothing once the money has changed hands. Fifthly, our children pay the price. We eat the money in one day, and they live with the leader we chose for five years. We are mortgaging the future our children will live in.
We hope that 2027 will be the year we’ll vote for real leaders who will make positive change and not just those with the most money to give.
