There is something deeply indecent about a powerful person laughing at the struggles of the poor. Poverty is not a punchline. Hunger is not a political prop. The inability to pay rent is not evidence of laziness. A parent choosing between school fees and food is not a failure of character. These are human wounds, and anyone who has been entrusted with public power should approach them with humility, seriousness and compassion.
Political privilege can create a dangerous illusion. A leader wakes up behind gates guarded by public officers, enters a government vehicle, moves through traffic in a convoy, eats without checking the balance in a mobile wallet and spends the day surrounded by people trained to say yes. It becomes easy, from inside that bubble, to forget how brutally expensive ordinary life can be. It becomes easy to talk about sacrifice when somebody else is doing the sacrificing.
But leadership is not the art of becoming insulated from the suffering of citizens. Leadership is the discipline of feeling that suffering even when you no longer personally experience it. The higher a leader rises, the more deliberate that leader must become about staying connected to the ground. Power should increase empathy, not erase it.
A struggling Kenyan does not need to be lectured by someone whose transport, security, medical care, office, travel and many daily comforts are protected by the same public purse that the struggling Kenyan helps to finance. That citizen does not need mockery. That citizen needs an economy that rewards work, a government that respects effort and institutions that do not punish people simply for being born without connections.
Poverty is often discussed in politics as though it is a statistic with no face. Yet poverty has names. It is the mother who wakes before sunrise to sell vegetables and still returns home worried about supper. It is the graduate who has sent hundreds of applications and now avoids family gatherings because everyone keeps asking when a job is coming. It is the small trader whose business is alive in the morning and nearly dead by evening because every shilling has already been allocated to rent, stock, transport, debt and food.
It is the father who smiles in front of his children while silently calculating which bill can be postponed for one more week. It is the young entrepreneur who is not asking the government for a handout but only for a fair chance to build something without being suffocated by unpredictable costs, bureaucracy and a market that rewards proximity to power more than persistence. It is the elderly person who worked for decades and now depends on children who are themselves struggling.
These people do not need a politician to tell them that life is hard. They know. They carry that knowledge in their bodies. They feel it at the supermarket shelf, at the pharmacy counter, at the petrol station, at the school office, at the landlord’s door and inside the silence of a home where children have learned not to ask for too much.
This is why mockery from political leaders cuts so deeply. It does not merely offend. It reveals distance. It tells citizens that the people who should understand their pain have become spectators to it. It suggests that hardship is entertainment for those protected from its consequences.
There is no courage in laughing at a person who cannot fight back. There is no intelligence in humiliating the unemployed. There is no leadership in ridiculing a hungry population. Real courage is confronting the systems that keep people trapped. Real intelligence is designing policy that expands opportunity. Real leadership is being disturbed by the fact that millions work hard and still struggle to live with dignity.
Public office should never become a throne from which ordinary citizens are judged. It is a temporary desk entrusted to a servant of the people. The car can disappear. The title can disappear. The bodyguards can disappear. The applause can disappear. Power is borrowed. What remains is the record of how that power was used.
History rarely remembers the size of a leader’s convoy. It remembers whether children had a better chance because that leader served. It remembers whether businesses could grow, whether jobs were created, whether hospitals worked, whether justice was protected, whether public money was treated as sacred, and whether people were left with hope instead of humiliation.
The most dangerous stage in political privilege comes when leaders begin to mistake access for achievement. Because they can enter any office, they assume everyone can. Because a phone call can solve their problem, they assume citizens are exaggerating theirs. Because they do not queue, they forget what broken public services feel like. Because they have people to open doors for them, they forget that many citizens spend their entire lives knocking.
That is how arrogance grows. Slowly at first, then publicly. The jokes become crueller. The language becomes colder. Citizens are blamed for conditions they did not create. Those who complain are called lazy, ungrateful or impatient. Eventually, leadership stops asking why people are suffering and starts asking why suffering people are making so much noise.
A decent society must reject that attitude completely. We must insist that poverty is not a moral defect. Sometimes people make bad choices, yes. But many people are poor because opportunity is uneven, wages are inadequate, businesses collapse, illness strikes, jobs disappear, families face emergencies or institutions fail. A serious government does not reduce all of this complexity to a slogan. It studies the problem, listens to people and acts.
The true test of a political leader is not how warmly the wealthy receive them. It is how seriously they treat the citizen who has nothing to offer them in return. Can they listen to a market woman without cameras present? Can they respect a boda boda rider when no election is near? Can they sit with an unemployed graduate without turning the conversation into a speech? Can they hear criticism without sending insults back? Can they look at poverty without blaming the poor?
That is leadership with humanity.
Kenya does not need leaders who romanticise poverty either. There is nothing noble about a child studying hungry. There is nothing inspirational about a family being evicted. There is nothing patriotic about a young person giving up on a dream because opportunity has been captured by a small circle. Poverty should neither be mocked nor celebrated. It should be fought.
And the fight requires more than speeches. It requires competent economic management, a serious commitment to production, support for small businesses, affordable access to capital, predictable taxation, functioning public services, respect for the rule of law and a national culture that understands that dignity is an economic issue too.
A government may not be able to make every citizen rich. No government can. But it can create conditions where effort has a fair chance. It can stop making survival unnecessarily expensive. It can spend public money responsibly. It can remove barriers that punish enterprise. It can protect citizens from corruption and arbitrary power. It can build institutions that work even for people who know nobody important.
Most importantly, leaders can choose their language carefully. Words from power carry weight. When a politician mocks the poor, supporters often repeat the cruelty. When a leader treats citizens with contempt, contempt travels down the system. Soon the clerk despises the applicant, the officer humiliates the complainant and the institution treats the public as an inconvenience.
But dignity can also travel downward. A leader who listens creates a culture of listening. A leader who apologises makes humility respectable. A leader who treats the poorest citizen as worthy of respect reminds every public servant that government exists for people, not the other way around.
If you are fortunate enough to hold political office, never forget that the person you are tempted to mock may be financing your comfort through taxes paid from a painfully small income. The trader you dismiss may have contributed more honestly to the country than people seated at your table. The jobless young person you ridicule may be carrying qualifications, talent and ideas that the economy has simply failed to absorb. The mother you ignore may have survived challenges that would break many powerful men.
Privilege should make you grateful, not cruel. Authority should make you responsible, not arrogant. Success should deepen your compassion, not shrink it.
And for citizens, we must stop rewarding politicians who turn suffering into theatre. A leader who humiliates the poor is telling us something about their character. We should listen. Elections should not only be contests of slogans, tribe, party, money and spectacle. They should also be moral examinations. How does this person speak about people with less power? How do they behave when challenged? Do they understand the price ordinary people pay for bad policy? Do they see citizens as human beings or merely as votes?
The answer matters because power does not usually create character from nothing. It amplifies what is already there. A person who is casually contemptuous before gaining more power may become dangerously contemptuous after gaining it. A person who cannot respect the poor while campaigning may not suddenly discover empathy after victory.