By Morris Wambua

In public life, few forces have proven as enduring or as destructive as political mythology. These are not mere fabrications, nor innocent misunderstandings. They are deliberate constructions. Ideological tools wielded with precision by those who understand that control over the public mind precedes control over the public purse.

Across nations and regimes, myths function as a form of soft tyranny, more enduring than barbed wire, and more intoxicating than nationalism. They blur the boundary between aspiration and illusion. Their purpose is not to clarify, but to confound; not to empower, but to pacify.

The myth is the anesthetic of power.

Nowhere is political mythology more pervasive than in Kenya, where politics has degenerated into a perverse ritual of deception. In place of visionary leadership, we are given pageantry. In place of truth, we are served slogans. And at the altar of myth-making, the Kenyan citizen; beleaguered, hopeful, and frequently betrayed is expected to bow, cheer, and vote.

To appreciate the potency of political mythology, let's wander for a minute, and think about the so-called “American Dream.” That seductive myth that any individual, through diligence and resilience, can ascend the rungs of economic and social success.

It is a gospel that has crossed oceans, infiltrating not only American consciousness but also the aspirations of countless societies under the spell of neoliberal enchantment. But the brutal truth is that the American Dream has long since curdled into a cruel parody. Social mobility in the United States is now statistically more likely in parts of Europe than in the land of liberty itself.

The poor remain poor, not because they lack drive, but because they are trapped in structural quicksand; crippled by a system designed to reward inheritance, not innovation; speculation, not sweat. But the myth persists. Not because it is true, but because it is useful.

This is the function of political myth: to mask the grim underbelly of power with the cosmetic of promise.

In Kenya, we too have our own local myths crafted with care by political operatives and lapped up with zeal by a population both starved of leadership and seduced by hope.

One of the most pervasive myths is that of the“servant leader.”

Every election cycle, candidates emerge draped in the vocabulary of humility and service. They promise to be “custodians of the people’s will,” “guardians of public interest.” Sadly, immediately upon ascension, their rhetoric evaporates.

In its place comes a regime of self-service: inflated allowances, dubious contracts, nepotistic appointments, and a predatory appetite for public coffers. The Kenyan political class does
not serve; it exploits. Its core concern is not governance, but survival. Its foremost preoccupation is not the welfare of the citizen, but the maintenance of a status quo that guarantees access to state resources and immunity from accountability.

And yet, the myth of the servant leader continues to thrive.

Why? Because it is easier to believe in personal saviours than to confront systemic decay. It is more comforting to vote for personalities than to interrogate policies. And so, every five years, we suspend our disbelief, allow ourselves to be seduced once more by recycled messiahs, and confuse charisma for character.

Then there is the myth of “development.” It is the preferred lexicon of post-colonial regimes desperate for legitimacy.

In Kenya, the term has been co-opted by the political elite and recast into a fetish for concrete: highways, towers, stadiums, and flyovers. These projects are paraded as proof of progress, the infrastructural sacrament of the modern state. But the development agenda, as it is presently constituted, is largely performative. It prioritizes the visible over the valuable, spectacle over substance.

A superhighway that bypasses a starving village is not development. A digital hub in a county without stable electricity is not progress. Development must be people-centred, not vanity-driven. But the Kenyan political class has redefined it to suit their narrative.

It is not about improving livelihoods; it is about commissioning projects that allow for inflated procurement, lucrative tenders, and photo opportunities. And the people, desperate for any signal of movement in a stagnant system, often buy into this illusion.

Corruption, too, has its own mythology. Whenever the rot bubbles to the surface, we are told that these are “isolated cases,” that the system is fundamentally sound, save for a few errant individuals.

This is perhaps one of the most pernicious myths of all: that corruption is the work of a handful of “bad apples.” But Kenya’s corruption is not an anomaly; it is the architecture.

It is embedded in the DNA of our institutions, lubricating the machinery of state, greasing the hands of bureaucrats and politicians alike.

It is systemic, structural, and self-replicating.

The myth of the rogue official serves only to shield the system from scrutiny.

It suggests that once a few culprits are removed, the system will course-correct.

But this is a lie.

The orchard is rotten, not just a few apples. And the tragedy is that the public, conditioned to celebrate every arrest and indictment as a sign of reform, rarely asks why convictions are so rare, and reforms so cosmetic.

Perhaps the most dangerous myth of all is the one that frames Kenya’s politics as tribal destiny. We are told, subtly and sometimes overtly, that tribal allegiance is political wisdom. That the best way
to protect our “interests” is to vote for “one of our own.”

This narrative is deployed every election season to divide and distract. It is the most potent political tranquilizer ever invented on Kenyan soil. But it is a myth that masks a cruel truth: that while ordinary citizens are conditioned to view each other through the prism of ethnicity, the elite class that engineers these divisions is united across tribal lines. Intermarried, interlinked, and interdependent.

They share business interests, political bargains, and even legal counsel. The ordinary Kikuyu
farmer in Nyeri has more in common with the Luo fisherman in Kisumu than he does with the Kikuyu CEO of a parastatal. Yet, political rhetoric continues to suggest otherwise. The result? We remain perpetually mobilized against each other and immobilized against the elite.

Then there is the myth of constitutionalism. Kenya’s 2010 Constitution was a monumental achievement. It promised devolution, transparency, and human dignity. But in practice, it has been hollowed out.

Institutions that were meant to act as checks on executive overreach have been captured or co-opted. The judiciary, under pressure from both within and without, is increasingly timid. The legislature is now more a rubber stamp than a watchdog. Devolved governments have become mini-dictatorships, echoing the corruption and impunity of the national executive.

The Constitution remains a remarkable document. But it is no longer a living instrument. It is a ceremonial relic quoted in speeches, but ignored in practice. And so, we are left in a state of dangerous delusion. Governed by myths, exploited by the architects of those myths, and increasingly numb to the dissonance between rhetoric and reality.

What is the way forward?

We must begin by dismantling the machinery of myth. This requires a citizenry that is not only informed, but intellectually militant. A citizenry that refuses to be placated by slogans, seduced by tribe, or distracted by infrastructure that serves political ambition rather than public need. It requires civic education that moves beyond the rote learning of rights and into the rigorous interrogation of power.

We must demand a politics of substance. Not one of personalities, but of policies. Not one of tribes, but of values. Not one of blind allegiance, but of principled resistance.

We must cease to be spectators in our own democracy.

Because the longer we allow ourselves to be governed by myth, the deeper we sink into a political slumber from which there may be no awakening. The Kenyan story is not yet doomed, but it is dangerously adrift. If we do not confront the lies that sustain our politics, then we will continue to live not in a republic, but in a hallucination; one authored by those who fear a truly conscious and mobilized citizen.

And history does not forgive the perpetually deceived!

Amkeni ndugu zetu!

Kenya istahili heshima.