Do we truly have rights or just conditional privileges? Kenyan elections must be fought on sober considerations.

 

If a bad president can come in and take away our rights, and we must wait five years for a “good” president to restore them, then perhaps what we have are not rights at all, but conditional privileges. That idea should unsettle us, especially in Kenya. Our Constitution of Kenya (2010) boldly declares that our rights and freedoms are inherent and inalienable. They are not gifts from State House. They are not favors from Parliament. They are not campaign promises to be redeemed after elections. Yet the lived experience of citizens often tells a different story. When freedoms expand or shrink depending on who is in office, when accountability is loud in opposition but quiet in power, we must confront an uncomfortable reality: the strength of our rights is tied to the character and competence of those we elect.

In theory, institutions protect us. Parliament makes laws. The Judiciary interprets them. The Executive implements them. Devolution disperses power. But institutions do not run themselves. They are animated by people — people with ambitions, fears, loyalties, egos, and incentives. If Parliament becomes an extension of the Executive rather than its overseer, rights weaken. If MPs treat oversight as a nuisance rather than a duty, accountability collapses. If leaders prioritize political survival over constitutional fidelity, the Bill of Rights becomes decorative. The system only restrains power when the individuals inside it respect restraint.

Kenyan elections, however, are rarely fought on these sober considerations. They are emotional spectacles. We gravitate toward charisma, energy, theatrics what many now casually call “aura.” We reward the politician who dominates headlines, trends on social media, and delivers fiery soundbites. We mistake volume for courage. We mistake confrontation for competence. We mistake visibility for productivity. Meanwhile, the quieter leader, the one who reads policy documents at midnight, who negotiates amendments clause by clause, who strengthens institutions without drama often goes unnoticed because their work does not make for viral clips.

There is something deeply human about this. We are wired for story. We respond to confidence. We are drawn to strength displays. In uncertain times, the bold voice feels reassuring. The performative leader gives us emotional stimulation; the working leader gives us structural stability. Unfortunately, emotional stimulation wins elections more easily than structural stability. A rally speech can electrify thousands in minutes. Institutional reform takes years and rarely produces applause.

This is where the danger lies. If we elect leaders based on spectacle rather than substance, we gradually weaken the very system meant to protect our freedoms. A performative Parliament may generate headlines, but it may fail to scrutinize budgets thoroughly. A hyped leader may project dominance, but neglect committee work, constitutional safeguards, or quiet coalition-building necessary to pass meaningful legislation. Rights erode not always through dramatic coups, but through negligence, shortcuts, and the normalization of shortcuts.

In Kenya, we often speak of “strong leaders.” But strength is misunderstood. True strength in leadership is not the ability to intimidate critics or command crowds. It is the discipline to respect limits. It is the humility to operate within constitutional boundaries. It is the courage to defend unpopular principles when party pressure mounts. A leader who refuses to compromise judicial independence is stronger than one who commands a stadium. A legislator who rejects unconstitutional amendments despite political cost is stronger than one who trends online.

The deeper insight is this: democracy is not self-executing. The Constitution is only ink and paper without leaders who internalize its spirit. When we elect hype, we weaken guardrails. When we elect competence, we reinforce them. When we choose personality over principle, we gamble with our freedoms. And when we reduce elections to tribal arithmetic, viral moments, or campaign aesthetics, we shrink our rights to the size of our political maturity.

Actual rights require a system where even a “bad” leader cannot easily dismantle protections. That means Parliament must be independent enough to push back. It means oversight committees must function seriously. It means citizens must value legislative diligence more than political theatrics. It means we must ask harder questions during campaigns: Does this candidate understand constitutional limits? Do they respect dissent? Have they demonstrated institutional discipline? Or are they merely skilled performers?

There is also a psychological comfort in believing that a heroic leader will “fix everything.” It absolves us from civic responsibility. It reduces democracy to savior politics. But no single individual can permanently secure rights. Only strong systems can do that. And systems are strengthened incrementally by lawmakers who may never trend, who may never command dramatic applause, but who consistently defend procedure, process, and principle.

Kenya stands at a crossroads where civic awareness is growing. Citizens are more vocal. Social media amplifies scrutiny. But awareness must evolve into discernment. We must learn to differentiate between aura and architecture between leaders who perform power and those who build frameworks that outlast them. Rights do not survive on charisma. They survive on boring, disciplined, institutional work.

If we truly want rights that cannot be taken away at the whim of whoever holds the reins, then we must become voters who reward substance. We must elevate the working type, the quiet reformer, the diligent committee member, the principled dissenter even if they lack spectacle. Because in the end, actual rights are not preserved by hype. They are preserved by systems. And systems are strengthened not by the loudest in the room, but by the most responsible.