𝗕𝘆 𝗞𝗲𝗹𝘃𝗶𝗻 𝗡𝘆𝗮𝗺𝗮𝗰𝗵𝗲
To the future Presidents of Kenya—whoever you may be, wherever you are reading this from,
I write this with full knowledge that I, too, may be among you. I write it not to flatter myself with prophecy, but because I have lived long enough in this country, watched long enough from the margins, and suffered long enough under the weight of misguided leadership to know that a time will come when we must repair what was recklessly handled. I do intend to run for that office, and if fortune and the will of the people converge, I intend to serve—not rule.
This letter is addressed to you, but it is also addressed to me.
We are a nation wounded by its own inheritance. Our sickness has been misdiagnosed, not because it is complex, but because those in power have lacked either the will or the courage to name it honestly. The problem is not just unemployment, or hunger, or debt. These are symptoms. The disease is a presidency that has grown too fond of itself and too forgetful of the people. A presidency that imagines power to be a throne and not a responsibility.
As I write this, we are under the burden of a leadership that does not seem to hear. The young have cried. The poor have cried. Those in classrooms, markets, offices, and kitchens have all cried. Yet the silence at the top has become deafening. We are governed by a president whose ear is pressed against the wall of foreign lenders rather than the hearts of citizens. We are being suffocated. Steadily. And we simply want it to end.
A president must know when the people are tired of being ignored. When leadership becomes a performance and the nation becomes an audience that cannot clap, something has gone terribly wrong. We now watch our government with suspicion rather than hope. That is a tragedy.
To those who shall one day hold that office, begin here: never think that power was meant for your comfort. It was designed to discomfort you. The presidency is not a reward. It is a burden. The man or woman who occupies that house on the hill ought to sleep less, speak less, and listen more.
Do not surround yourself with mirrors. A cabinet full of flatterers will never tell you when the people are bleeding. They will serve their own futures, not your conscience. Appoint men and women who will argue with you in the morning and still serve diligently by evening. That is loyalty—not silence.
Do not think your face on a billboard means the people trust you. The trust of Kenyans is earned in decisions, not in posters. Reduce the size of government. Pay your debts. Walk among the people without preparing the road the night before.
When the nation cries, do not quote scripture. Fix the problem.
Do not offer metaphors when food prices rise. Lower them.
Do not congratulate yourself while children study without desks.
And should you feel tempted to extend your term—resist the temptation. There is nothing more grotesque than a president who clings. Leave honourably. Leave with your books in order and your conscience intact.
You will find yourself lonely. That is the nature of leadership. You will be misunderstood. That, too, is its nature. You may not be celebrated. That is no tragedy. But you must be faithful.
You will be asked to protect the corrupt. Decline.
You will be asked to look away. Look instead.
You will be begged to do nothing. Do something.
If your presidency ends and you are remembered for simple things—clean streets, well-equipped hospitals, teachers who smile on pay day—you will have done well.
Let no child in Kenya look up and say, “He lived well while we suffered.”
Let no mother ask, “Must I suffer so that State House may thrive?”
Let no citizen feel like a trespasser in their own country.
I say this as one who hopes, one day, to ask for the privilege to serve in that office. If I do, hold me to this letter. And if I fall short, remind me of it. Power should never protect itself. It must serve or perish.
So to all future presidents—including myself—do not think Kenya owes you anything. You owe her everything.
