Mũndũ a vaa nĩ atige kwania ngai nda! — Embu Proverb
(Never boast to your God about your full stomach.)
You may have heard, recently, a man—a president no less—boasting that it was his turn to eat meat, and the turn of others to salivate. This, as if he had seen meat for the first time, given that he was brought up in the State House. State House, I am compelled to remind you, is not known for want of meat. Meat supplied to the State House made Muguku rich. Njenga minted millions supplying charcoal for State House jikos.
But such hubris, from one who feels he has “arrived,” is not new. Let me explain.
A long time ago, in the African Reserve of Kagaari North, there lived a man who became extremely rich. Rich, in those days, meant he owned and ran a hotel. Not just any hotel—a six-item menu hotel: chai, mandaci, kafu, ndumbuiya, cavaci, and tosti-mafuta.
In comparison, every other “hotel” in Kanja—including Mukawa wa Njerũ Njambũri—and even in neighbouring centres of Mbũĩ-Njerũ, Mũkũũrĩ, and Mũgũĩ, offered only two items on their menu: cai and mandaci. That alone set him apart.
At Independence, life in these parts was far from rosy. During the war for independence, people had been uprooted from their farms and confined to villages so colonial authorities could isolate Mau Mau fighters. After the war, the new government faced a different challenge: how to send people back to their land.
An idea was born—to reward the African who resettled fastest and built the best dwelling. Let me tell you, even in those days, people loved free things, and men loved sport. If only for sport, men built. Build the finest house, move back quickly, and win a prize.
People got to work. Soon, the countryside shimmered with shiny iron-sheet roofs. From Siakago looking upwards to Kanja and Kianjokoma, you would have been forgiven for imagining you were seeing stars. So striking was the change that their neighbours, the Mbeere, quipped:
“ĩ mwembu arumia mũcũngũ, mũcũngũ akũmũtumĩra nyomba ya ĩcaa, arumi.”
(Alas! Behold, after beating up the white man, he has built iron-sheet-roofed houses for the Embu!)
One of the Kanjanites who joined the fray was the hotelier, and he was a man of means. In no time, he put up a huge bungalow. The house, made of offcuts imported from Karatina, where the nearest sawmill was located, had a striking red concrete floor. That detail alone elevated it. He won the coveted prize: KSh 4,000
In those days, government officials stole less—or perhaps just more modestly.
So when the money came, they dutifully stole half and gave him the rest. He walked home with KSh 2,000 in crisp one-hundred-shilling notes, a smile, and a new name: Kithiringi. That, my friend, was kuinuliwa. Kuhomoka. A real rise.
But humility did not rise with his fortune.
In celebration, he was heard to declare:
“I have left poverty behind me by seven corners.”
If you’ve ever run cross-country, you understand what that means. To be seven bends ahead is to be untouchable. From GPO to Yaya Centre is barely five corners; to Westlands, three. Seven? That is another world entirely.
Yet, while poverty never quite caught up with him, it gave him a run for his money.
So, what am I getting at?
Jukistopia reminds me that it is foolhardy for anyone to imagine that we, as a country, have left dictatorship, despotism, and tyranny behind “by seven corners.”
The 2010 Constitution was our collective attempt to bury those ghosts—to entrench human rights, promote equity, end tribalism and cronyism, curb corruption, and restrain executive excess.
But constitutions do not enforce themselves. People do.
And today, the signs are troubling. Inter-ethnic intolerance is rising. Those who wield state power increasingly feel entitled to unleash it on anyone perceived as a threat to their access to resources.
It is easy to cheer when the tear gas is not in your eyes.
Easy to applaud when the boot is on someone else’s neck.
But tables turn. And when they do, the dance is no longer enjoyable.
You may not agree with those being silenced, dispersed, or punished—but let them be. The principle is larger than the person.
“I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend your right to say it.”
A nation stands or falls on such principles.
In Chuka, they say:
“When digging battle trenches, dig both deep and shallow ones—you do not know how the battle will go.”
In other words, never build a system that only protects you when you are winning. Privilege is not eternal.
It is therefore wrong—dangerously wrong—for a president to dismiss dissenters, especially with the arrogance that “it is our turn to eat.” That kind of thinking is not new either.
It is exactly what brought down KANU.
And history, unlike our boastful hotelier, is never seven corners behind.
