Kenya: The Republic Of No Consequences That Nurtures Evil Of Society And Abhors What Is Right & Good

A nation that does not punish its criminals is not a nation—it is a playground for the wicked. Kenya, in its wisdom, has perfected the art of looking the other way, of yawning at the spectacle of impunity, of turning injustice into an Olympic sport where the gold medalists dine in State House. Here, the law is not blind; it is merely winking at those with power, reminding them that the scales of justice can be tipped with the right amount of money or threats.

We live in a country where bad behavior is not just tolerated; it is rewarded with tenders, motorcades, and television interviews where the culprits laugh in our faces. Steal billions from a hospital meant for cancer patients, and you will be honored as a “hustler” who made it. Murder a journalist who dared expose the truth, and your only punishment will be an expensive holiday abroad, sponsored by taxpayers. Here, consequences are a myth told to scare children, not a reality that applies to the powerful.

Our politicians, ever the pioneers of delinquency, have mastered the art of audacity. They rig elections with the subtlety of a bulldozer, stuffing ballot boxes like a Christmas turkey while daring us to “go to court.” They embezzle funds meant for schools, leaving children to study under trees, and then shamelessly deliver “development promises” with the same stolen money. And the people? Oh, the people cheer them on, clapping like trained seals in a circus, because in Kenya, the line between victim and enabler is thin, and often, nonexistent.

Justice here is a luxury item, only available to those who can afford it. If you steal a loaf of bread because your child is hungry, expect the full wrath of the law to descend upon you like a biblical plague. But if you steal public funds meant for a million hungry children, the law will politely look away, busy with “procedural technicalities.” The prisons are full of petty offenders, while the grand criminals sit in boardrooms, sipping aged whisky and drafting new ways to plunder.

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There is a reason our leaders behave like medieval kings—because they know they can. Impunity is their birthright, and we, the citizens, have made it so. We laugh at their scandals, making them trending topics instead of legal cases. We defend them along tribal lines, forgetting that corruption does not discriminate in its destruction. We even re-elect them, as if rewarding theft with another term in office will miraculously turn thieves into saints.

And so the rot deepens. A senator sexually assaults a colleague in broad daylight, and the outrage lasts only as long as a news cycle. By next week, we have moved on, distracted by a new scandal or a celebrity wedding. A businessman launders drug money through tenders, and instead of investigations, he is invited to fundraise at a church, where the priest blesses him as a “philanthropist.” The courts, ever so efficient in delaying justice, will ensure that by the time a case is concluded, both the victim and the witnesses have either died, disappeared, or forgotten what they were fighting for.

In this land, the Constitution is a well-written fairytale, quoted only when convenient. Laws are mere decorations, useful for intimidating the powerless but entirely optional for the influential. The police, underpaid and overfed on bribes, are more interested in protecting criminals than prosecuting them. The judiciary, always eager to “respect due process,” will drag a corruption case for 20 years, only to rule that the evidence is “inconclusive.”

It was once said that a society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they will never sit under. In Kenya, our leaders uproot those trees, sell the land, and then blame climate change when we all suffocate. Every election cycle, we are promised reform, yet all we get is a fresh batch of looters with better PR teams. They tell us to be patient, to “trust the system,” but how can we trust a system designed to fail?

The truth is, we are a country addicted to injustice. We know who the criminals are, we see them flaunting their wealth, yet we do nothing. We have accepted corruption as a way of life, shrugged at rigged elections, and excused sexual predators with the infamous phrase, “Huyo ni mtu wetu”—as if loyalty to a tribe should override basic human decency.

And so, the cycle continues. The thieves get richer, the victims get silenced, and the citizens get poorer. We tell ourselves that things will change, but change does not happen in a vacuum. It requires anger, action, and the courage to demand better. It requires making impunity expensive, not a free pass. It requires consequences—real, tangible, unavoidable consequences.

But until that day comes, Kenya remains what it has always been: a paradise for the guilty and a prison for the innocent.

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