For Every KES 1 BOB Kenya Kwanza Donates in Churches, Is KES 1 BOB Less in a Hospital Near You
The Holy Spirit must now have an M-Pesa till number, because the offering bags are bulging — not with the sweat of peasants, but with our taxes. Yes, our taxes, redistributed with the sanctity of theft and the holiness of impunity. Every coin dropped in the offertory during televised Sunday charades is a coin siphoned from your nearest maternity ward. It is no longer given to Caesar what belongs to Caesar, but rather, give Caesar everything, and let God deal with the rest.
The government doesn’t steal anymore. That would be too crude. It launches. There are plaques, ribbon-cuttings, tents, sodas, and speeches filled with vocabulary borrowed from World Bank reports. Fake launch events are now our new factories — the only thing they produce is photos for Twitter. Every bob spent on these launch ceremonies is a bob less in your child’s classroom, where teachers still use blackboards older than the Constitution.
Let’s discuss the Presidential Working Tours: a euphemism for countrywide looting disguised as inspection. A convoy of fuel-guzzling cars meanders through drought-stricken villages, distributing promises and harvesting praise. But each kilometre of this political safari costs Kenyans a functioning borehole. Every flower laid at the feet of a visiting bigwig is a child without immunisation.
And have you noticed how our MPs suddenly became builders? They are now constructing churches, sponsoring weddings, building toilets — all with money that’s not theirs. Constituency Development Funds have transformed into Cash Development Funds for Families and Friends. Meanwhile, students in public schools share textbooks like contraband in a prison.
Oh, and the State House dinners! Lobster, lamb chops, and imported wines. The President must taste Paris to understand poverty. Each mouthful at these elitist feasts could feed a hungry family in Turkana for a week. But here we are, toasting to Vision 2030 with the stomachs of the poor.
Let’s not forget the ghost projects. Bridges that don’t exist. Roads that evaporated after elections. Dams that swallowed money but refused to hold water. These are not failed projects — they are well-executed heists dressed in high-level technical jargon.
Parastatals? More like parallel governments. Every CEO is a demi-god, and their board meetings are ritualistic celebrations of procurement magic. Auditors scream every year, but the only consequence is a transfer, not to jail, but to another ministry where the loot is fatter.
Counties, oh, our devolution dreams! Governors now live like oil sultans. Helicopters, official residences larger than schools, and benchmarking trips to Malaysia to learn how to run countries that can’t even run garbage collection. Wanjiku’s tax funds these holidays of gluttony.
Then there’s the Supplementary Budget Syndrome. Every financial year ends with an emergency — not a flood or famine — but a sudden urge to redirect funds to “urgent” needs. Urgent here meaning luxury cars, state funerals for thieving officials, or backdoor contracts to relatives.
The “youth empowerment” programmes? A masterclass in robbery with PR. Billions allocated to training unemployed youth in “ICT skills” with zero trace of who was trained, where, or when. But the money? Very traceable. It ends up in Dubai, buying apartments.
Loan scandals are the new national anthem. Chinese-built projects are mortgaged to your unborn child. We borrowed for a train, but are repaying for elite holiday trips disguised as infrastructure tours. Each loan agreement is a death sentence to your future.
Let’s talk medical equipment. Billion-shilling leasing deals signed without county approval. Machines delivered to facilities without electricity. Meanwhile, Kenyans are told to carry their cotton wool to public hospitals. The irony is hemorrhaging.
Corruption is no longer hidden. It is televised, printed, and sung in praise and worship. Pastors receive it as a tithe, politicians parade it as philanthropy, and citizens… we clap. We clap like hypnotised seals at a circus, forgetting we’re also the act.
Where did the money for COVID-19 go? Ask the Ministry of Health, and they’ll say “urgently utilised”. We bought PPEs worth a mansion, and masks priced like Gucci. The virus was invisible, but the theft was clear as day. No arrests. No shame.