(Ten O clock in the morning at Kimende Market. Chickens clucking. Vendors shouting. Children chasing one another through market stalls. Women bargaining loudly over tomatoes and potatoes. A drunk man sleeps peacefully near a sack of cabbages. The atmosphere is noisy, chaotic, alive. Mzee Kihoto steps slowly to center stage.)
Mzee Kihoto: Election season in Lari is a miraculous time. A season when; unfinished roads suddenly receive signboards, church donations multiply mysteriously, and even the village drunkard acquires a manifesto. (Soft laughter.) Promises grow faster than kales during rainy season. Watch carefully. Our heroes…our opportunists…and our clowns…are beginning to gather.
(Enter Gichuka Waithera carrying; a faded notebook, loose papers, and a cheap pen. He clears his throat nervously.)
Gichuka Waithera: Good people of Lari…I greet you. I am Gichuka Waithera. Today I stand before you not on wealth…nor tribal arithmetic…but on ideas.
(A child laughs loudly. A goat bleat aggressively. Some vendors pause briefly. Others continue arranging vegetables without interest.)
Gichuka Waithera: I believe leadership is service. I believe in accountability— (Goat bleats again loudly, interrupting him.) even the animals appear politically engaged today.
(Small laughter.)
Nyina wa Wanja: Eeh, you have said you are Gichuka son of Waithera; a woman…we have heard such speeches before. Do you have something small for tea?
Gichuka Waithera: I do not buy votes.
(Immediate silence. Then instant disinterest.)
Kíondo Woman: Then please do not disturb business hours.
(People return to market activities. Nobody listens anymore. Gichuka Waithera stands awkwardly alone.)
Gichuka Waithera: (quietly to himself) Ideas cost nothing…yet somehow, they remain too expensive for hangry voters.
(Lights shift suddenly. Drums. Whistles. Music. Campaign convoy approaching. Lari Hall. The stage explodes with energy. Crowds dancing. Women ululating. Youth waving branches and party flags. Mungai enters like a celebrity. Confident. Relaxed. Dangerously charming.)
Crowd: Mungai! Mungai! Our son! Our tribe! Our hope!
Mungai: (raising hands dramatically) My people! I come with; love, loyalty, and one hundred shillings for each of you!
(The crowd erupts wildly. Women scream joyfully. Youth push each other excitedly.)
Mzee Kihoto: This man understands the people! He speaks our language! His clan gives birth leaders.
Mungai: Leadership is simple. Step one; Love your tribe. Step two; Feed them occasionally. Step three; Shout louder than your opponents. And shouting is not about mouth but pocket.
(Huge laughter and cheering.)
Kamau: What is your development agenda?
Mungai: Agenda? (Laughs loudly.) First things first. Come collect your one hundred shillings.
(Immediate chaos. People rush forward aggressively. Stampede energy. Everyone pushing.)
Mzee Kihoto: (aside to audience) Mungai…a masterpiece of empty charisma. Like a drum; very loud…but hollow inside.
(Lights shift. Muiru’s Mansion. Large leather chair. Expensive curtains. A polished table. Everything cold and elegant. Muiru studies polling papers angrily. His Assistant stands nearby nervously.)
Muiru: Look at these polls. I am educated. Experienced. Qualified. Yet somehow these villagers still prefer noise.
Assistant: Sir…they expect facilitation.
Muiru: I refuse to reduce myself to voter bribery. Let them vote for quality leadership.
Assistant: Sir…this is not a job interview. This is politics.
Muiru: Still. I remain a man of principle.
Assistant: (quietly) Principles do not usually win elections, sir.
(Lights shift again. Lari ya Kîanda. A small forgotten gathering. Only twelve villagers seated lazily. Muiru stands behind a tiny podium. Trying very hard to appear hopeful.)
Muiru: Thank you all for coming. I have a comprehensive strategy for; healthcare, infrastructure, youth empowerment—
Nyandûma Man: Will you build a road for our village?
Muiru: Of course. Development must reach even the smallest communities.
Kambûrû Woman: We love you, Muiru. But our numbers are too small. We are like raindrops inside Lari bucket.
Muiru: Then let each drop matter.
Mzee Kihoto: But democracy counts numbers…not wisdom. And numbers mean people you can feed.
(And unfortunately…Muiru was born in the wrong geography. In the sleepy Kamburu and Nyanduma area. Later that evening. Gichuka Waithera sits alone beneath a tree reviewing notes. The market quieter now. Campaign music heard faintly in distance.)
Kamau: (approaching slowly) You spoke well today.
Gichuka Waithera: Nobody listened.
Kamau: That is because hunger interrupts philosophy.
Gichuka Waithera: Must politics always become a marketplace for people with money?
Kamau: In poor places…everything eventually becomes one.
(Long silence.)
Gichuka Waithera: Then how does honesty survive?
Kamau: Slowly. Painfully. And usually without campaign money. But it must start with the people and Lari is not ready for that.
(Soft laughter.)
Mzee Kihoto: (stepping forward slowly) And so the candidates prepared themselves; the man of ideas, the man of slogans, the man of pride, and the man trapped by geography. Each believing he understood Lari. But, only one truly did. (Distant campaign music rises again.) Because in every election…there are candidates who run to lead…and others who simply accompany the groom to the wedding.
(Lights dim slowly. And somewhere beneath the noise…democracy quietly prepared another disappointment.)
Mzee Kihoto: Election season in Lari is a miraculous time. A season when; unfinished roads suddenly receive signboards, church donations multiply mysteriously, and even the village drunkard acquires a manifesto. (Soft laughter.) Promises grow faster than kales during rainy season. Watch carefully. Our heroes…our opportunists…and our clowns…are beginning to gather.
(Enter Gichuka Waithera carrying; a faded notebook, loose papers, and a cheap pen. He clears his throat nervously.)
Gichuka Waithera: Good people of Lari…I greet you. I am Gichuka Waithera. Today I stand before you not on wealth…nor tribal arithmetic…but on ideas.
(A child laughs loudly. A goat bleat aggressively. Some vendors pause briefly. Others continue arranging vegetables without interest.)
Gichuka Waithera: I believe leadership is service. I believe in accountability— (Goat bleats again loudly, interrupting him.) even the animals appear politically engaged today.
(Small laughter.)
Nyina wa Wanja: Eeh, you have said you are Gichuka son of Waithera; a woman…we have heard such speeches before. Do you have something small for tea?
Gichuka Waithera: I do not buy votes.
(Immediate silence. Then instant disinterest.)
Kíondo Woman: Then please do not disturb business hours.
(People return to market activities. Nobody listens anymore. Gichuka Waithera stands awkwardly alone.)
Gichuka Waithera: (quietly to himself) Ideas cost nothing…yet somehow, they remain too expensive for hangry voters.
(Lights shift suddenly. Drums. Whistles. Music. Campaign convoy approaching. Lari Hall. The stage explodes with energy. Crowds dancing. Women ululating. Youth waving branches and party flags. Mungai enters like a celebrity. Confident. Relaxed. Dangerously charming.)
Crowd: Mungai! Mungai! Our son! Our tribe! Our hope!
Mungai: (raising hands dramatically) My people! I come with; love, loyalty, and one hundred shillings for each of you!
(The crowd erupts wildly. Women scream joyfully. Youth push each other excitedly.)
Mzee Kihoto: This man understands the people! He speaks our language! His clan gives birth leaders.
Mungai: Leadership is simple. Step one; Love your tribe. Step two; Feed them occasionally. Step three; Shout louder than your opponents. And shouting is not about mouth but pocket.
(Huge laughter and cheering.)
Kamau: What is your development agenda?
Mungai: Agenda? (Laughs loudly.) First things first. Come collect your one hundred shillings.
(Immediate chaos. People rush forward aggressively. Stampede energy. Everyone pushing.)
Mzee Kihoto: (aside to audience) Mungai…a masterpiece of empty charisma. Like a drum; very loud…but hollow inside.
(Lights shift. Muiru’s Mansion. Large leather chair. Expensive curtains. A polished table. Everything cold and elegant. Muiru studies polling papers angrily. His Assistant stands nearby nervously.)
Muiru: Look at these polls. I am educated. Experienced. Qualified. Yet somehow these villagers still prefer noise.
Assistant: Sir…they expect facilitation.
Muiru: I refuse to reduce myself to voter bribery. Let them vote for quality leadership.
Assistant: Sir…this is not a job interview. This is politics.
Muiru: Still. I remain a man of principle.
Assistant: (quietly) Principles do not usually win elections, sir.
(Lights shift again. Lari ya Kîanda. A small forgotten gathering. Only twelve villagers seated lazily. Muiru stands behind a tiny podium. Trying very hard to appear hopeful.)
Muiru: Thank you all for coming. I have a comprehensive strategy for; healthcare, infrastructure, youth empowerment—
Nyandûma Man: Will you build a road for our village?
Muiru: Of course. Development must reach even the smallest communities.
Kambûrû Woman: We love you, Muiru. But our numbers are too small. We are like raindrops inside Lari bucket.
Muiru: Then let each drop matter.
Mzee Kihoto: But democracy counts numbers…not wisdom. And numbers mean people you can feed.
(And unfortunately…Muiru was born in the wrong geography. In the sleepy Kamburu and Nyanduma area. Later that evening. Gichuka Waithera sits alone beneath a tree reviewing notes. The market quieter now. Campaign music heard faintly in distance.)
Kamau: (approaching slowly) You spoke well today.
Gichuka Waithera: Nobody listened.
Kamau: That is because hunger interrupts philosophy.
Gichuka Waithera: Must politics always become a marketplace for people with money?
Kamau: In poor places…everything eventually becomes one.
(Long silence.)
Gichuka Waithera: Then how does honesty survive?
Kamau: Slowly. Painfully. And usually without campaign money. But it must start with the people and Lari is not ready for that.
(Soft laughter.)
Mzee Kihoto: (stepping forward slowly) And so the candidates prepared themselves; the man of ideas, the man of slogans, the man of pride, and the man trapped by geography. Each believing he understood Lari. But, only one truly did. (Distant campaign music rises again.) Because in every election…there are candidates who run to lead…and others who simply accompany the groom to the wedding.
(Lights dim slowly. And somewhere beneath the noise…democracy quietly prepared another disappointment.)
