Together in the Water, Divided at the Ballot

 

During the weekend I saw an image that has refused to leave my mind. A group of about ten people were walking through floodwater that had risen to their necks in Nairobi, a sad sight indeed. They moved slowly, carefully, in formation, each person holding the hand of the next so that no one would fall or drift away. In that moment, survival depended on unity. No one was asking huyu ni tribe gani? No one cared whether the person beside them came from the mountain, the lake region, the coast, or the north. What mattered was simple and immediate: we get through this together, or we don’t get through it at all.

It was a powerful reminder of something deeply true about Kenya. When crisis strikes when floods rise, when accidents happen, when tragedy hits a community, Kenyans instinctively come together. In those moments, we remember something fundamental: that we are human beings first. We help strangers push cars out of flooded roads. We contribute money for hospital bills through harambees. We rescue people trapped in disasters without stopping to check their surnames or their ethnic backgrounds. The solidarity is real, spontaneous, and deeply moving.

Yet something strange happens when the crisis fades and politics returns. The same people who would clasp hands in neck-deep water suddenly begin to see each other through the narrow lens of tribe and political identity. Suspicion replaces solidarity. Neighbors who would help each other in an emergency become political rivals divided by ethnicity, loyalty, and historical grievances. It is as though the unity we show in moments of danger disappears the moment we enter the voting booth.

This contradiction says a lot about the political culture we have allowed to grow in Kenya. On the ground, in everyday life, most Kenyans coexist peacefully. Markets are full of traders from different communities. Schools bring together children from diverse backgrounds. Cities and towns are shared spaces where people work, socialize, and build lives side by side. The reality of daily life is cooperation. But during elections, politicians resurrect old divisions and encourage citizens to retreat into tribal camps.

The tragedy is that many voters accept this narrative even though their own experiences contradict it. We know from our everyday lives that tribal divisions are often exaggerated. We know that the person who helps us fix a tire, treat an illness, or rescue a child from danger could come from any community. Yet on ballot day, we sometimes allow ourselves to be persuaded that our survival depends on voting for “our own.” The unity we demonstrate in moments of crisis suddenly becomes fragile when political rhetoric enters the conversation.

Why does this happen? Part of the answer lies in the way political power has been structured in the country. For decades, leadership has often been framed as a zero-sum game: if one community wins power, another loses. This narrative encourages fear and competition rather than cooperation. Politicians exploit these fears because they know that identity politics is a powerful mobilizing tool. Convincing voters to see each other as rivals is often easier than convincing them to evaluate policies, track records, or competence.

But the image of those ten people walking through floodwater challenges this entire logic. In that moment, survival did not depend on tribal identity. It depended on trust. Each person relied on the strength and balance of the others. If one person let go, the entire chain could collapse. Their safety came from solidarity, not separation. The lesson is simple but profound: the things that sustain us as a society are cooperation, empathy, and shared responsibility.

If Kenyans can instinctively understand this truth in moments of danger, then surely we can apply it to the choices we make as citizens. Elections should not be moments when we abandon our common humanity. They should be opportunities to strengthen it by choosing leaders who serve the entire nation rather than narrow interests. When we vote along tribal lines without questioning competence, integrity, or vision, we undermine the very unity that helps us survive crises.

The cost of this pattern is visible in many areas of national life. Poor governance persists because leaders know they can rely on tribal loyalty rather than performance. Corruption flourishes when accountability is replaced by ethnic solidarity. National development becomes uneven when resources are distributed based on political alliances instead of genuine need. In the long run, everyone loses, even those who believe they are temporarily benefiting from tribal politics.

The truth is that Kenya’s greatest strength has always been its people. Our diversity, when embraced, enriches the nation. Different cultures, languages, and histories create a vibrant social fabric that has the potential to be a source of unity rather than division. The problem is not diversity itself; it is the way political narratives manipulate diversity for short-term gain.

That is why the image of those people walking through floodwater matters so much. It reminds us of the Kenya that already exists beneath the noise of politics. A Kenya where strangers hold hands in moments of crisis. A Kenya where survival depends on cooperation rather than suspicion. A Kenya where humanity overrides tribal identity.

The challenge is to carry that spirit into the voting booth. To remember, when the time comes to choose leaders, that the person standing next to us in line is not an enemy but a fellow citizen. To resist the voices that try to divide us for political advantage. To vote with wisdom rather than fear.

Because if we can stand together in neck-deep water, surely we can stand together at the ballot box. And if we do, we might finally begin to build the kind of country where unity is not reserved for emergencies but becomes the foundation of our politics as well.