My First Vote

A Political Awakening

They say turning 18 is a milestone. A rite of passage. The universe hands you a certificate that says “Congratulations, you are now an adult” and then immediately refuses to explain what that means. No manual. No orientation. Just a national ID, some new responsibilities, and suddenly everyone expects you to have opinions about fiscal policy. The audacity.

But 2022? 2022 was different. 2022 was the year I, a certified Luhya from the great diaspora of Western Kenya, would cast my first vote. Democracy was calling. Civic duty was whispering. And frankly, the promise of 6,000 shillings a month was practically screaming.

The Great Pilgrimage Begins

For the uninitiated, let me explain something about Luhya people. We do not require a major reason to travel. A minor inconvenience, say an uncle who nicked himself with a slasher, is sufficient grounds for a full family convoy. We load up shuttles like we are fleeing something. We speak in Kiswahili phrases like “kwa minajili” na hio ndo mdomo chetu with the gravitas of men who have seen things. And every election season, we make the sacred 6 to 8 hour pilgrimage back to Kakamega in vehicles that were not designed for human comfort.

My father’s family had already begun the great migration along the A105, heading home for what we affectionately call the “election holidays.” I, however, had exams. The one time being academically responsible genuinely inconvenienced me. So I let the family have a head start, did my exams, picked up my Nike bag, and set off for Luhya land alone, like a young wildebeest crossing the Mara.

Raila said we were going to Canaan. I was going to Kakamega. Tomayto, tomahto.

The Ballot Paper Decorations (AKA The Other Candidates)

Now, the 2022 election was, let’s be honest, a two-horse race. But Kenya, being a generous democracy, also provided some supporting characters: men and women who ran for president with the same energy as someone who shows up to a potluck with just a fork.

First, we had Bishop David Wahiga and Ruth Mutua, running under Agano Party, which is Swahili for Covenant. A bishop, very holy, very committed. And his son? Only Waihiga Mwaura, news anchor at Citizen TV. Imagine your dad running for president and you have to report on it professionally every evening with a straight face. The restraint required alone deserves a medal.

Then there was the man, the myth, the manifesto: Professor George Wajackoyah, who proposed to save Kenya’s economy by legalising the herb and selling hyenas’ testicles on the international market. I am not making this up. His running mate was Justina Wambui. Together they were something between an economic theory and a nature documentary. An environmentalist for our times, truly.

Then came “Pippth” William Samoei Ruto, said in full Kalenjin accent, a man whose tongue is sharper, smoother, and more flattering than a freshly oiled luo man’s at a wedding. He was paired with Rigathi Gachagua, the poet laureate of Kenyan politics. “Honey Among Rocks” remains an all-time bar.

And finally, the legend himself: Raila “Agwambo” Tinga Odinga, the Gustavo of all Gustavos, paired with the Iron Lady Martha Karua. NASA, Jubilee, Azimio, doesn’t matter which coalition, the ODM faction has always delivered political bangers. Onyi Jalamo’s Tibim song? That is heritage. That is culture. That is a song that makes you feel like you could overturn a government with your bare enthusiasm alone.

I was, as you can probably tell, a Baba man. I know Sifuna went with the DJ. But honorary mention to the Nasa Tibim song still my favourite political song.

Kijana wa Nairobi Goes Upcountry

I arrived in the village. The village did not care. The village had opinions about governance, about candidates, about the price of unga, and absolutely zero interest in my city aesthetic.

But here is where things turned. My dad had a nduthi. And your boy? Your boy knows a nduthi is a chick magnet in the village.

Suddenly I was a completely different person. I became a man of the people. I conducted an informal survey across the sublocation, the one at the back of my ID, on my father’s motorbike, wind in my dreads, civic duty in my heart. I went past my old primary school, the government one, confirmed I was registered, and began to take this whole democracy thing very seriously.

The Household Civil War

Now. The presidential decision. This is where the plot thickens.

My mother, a staunch, devout, God-fearing woman, had been thoroughly convinced that William Samoei Ruto was The Chosen One. He talked about the church. His wife is a committed Christian. My mother had decided: this was the Lord’s candidate. I could not argue with her. She has the “nilikuzaa” card in her back pocket at all times and she will play it the moment she senses she is losing a debate. It is an unethical card. It is also devastatingly effective.

My father, a calm, collected man with a distinguished stomach shaped like the letter D upon which he rests his hands while reading his newspaper under the tree, was Team Raila. For the 6K monthly stipend promised to every household. Logical. Grounded. Economically motivated.

My sister had joined forces with my mother.

I had joined forces with my father and his stomach.

The household was divided. The TV became contested territory. KTN was for Ruto. Citizen Royal Media was for Raila. My mother and sister wanted KTN. My dad and I wanted Citizen. Every evening became a diplomatic crisis over the remote control, with two people switching channels and two people unswitching them, all while pretending we were calmly watching the news.

It had the energy of the deputy presidential debate, specifically the moment Rigathi Gachagua pulled out that mwakenya cheat sheet. Chaotic. Tense. Deeply Kenyan.

Election Day: Six Pieces of Paper and a Permanent Marker

Election morning. I climb on the nduthi. No queue at the polling station. I go back, collect my father like an Uber driver who is also very invested in the outcome. We arrive. He immediately begins socializing, becomes an MCA within three minutes, talking to every villager, laughing, handshaking, completely unbothered. Classic.

I, focused and mission-oriented, join the queue, get to the biometric kit, they scan my fingerprint, and hand me six ballot papers. Six. I felt like a project manager. I marked each one carefully, deposited them box by box, got my finger inked with the permanent marker, and walked out into the sun feeling like a citizen of the world.

Then I went back, picked up my mum, brought her to vote. Civic duty: complete. Democracy: served.

The Night Democracy Broke My Heart

That evening, the counting began. Two screens. Two families. One TV. The next 48 hours were psychological warfare in a rural living room.

We watched Bomas of Kenya. The choir performed. Wafula Chebukati built suspense like a man who understood the assignment. There was fracas. There was drama. There was the kind of tension that makes you realize your heartbeat is genuinely tied to a man you have never met.

And then Chebukati walked out and announced William Ruto as President.

I felt like Arsenal had won the league. God forbid.

I went into immediate denial. I looked at my father. He looked at me. The 6,000 shillings evaporated before our eyes like morning mist over the Nzoia River. My sister was already celebrating in a way that I considered excessive and frankly unsportsmanlike. My mother was probably thanking God.

The Final Scorecard

When all the results came in, I assessed the damage. Every single person I had voted for had lost.

Every. Single. One.

Except one glorious exception: the Bullfighter of Kakamega himself, Boni Khalwale. Standing tall. Victorious. A beacon of hope in an otherwise complete electoral defeat for my household choices.

2027: I’m Coming Back

As we prepare for the next election, while fighting for our basic rights in the streets and watching commodity prices climb daily like they are training for a marathon, I urge you: register as a voter. Choose wisely. The decisions made in those polling stations are felt in your pocket, your kitchen, and your future.

I’ll be voting for the second time in 2027, slightly wiser, slightly more cynical, and still stubbornly full of hope.

See you at the ballot box.

A Reformed Raila Supporter Who Will Not Be Emotionally Manipulated By Monthly Stipend Promises Again (Probably)

REMEMBER TO REGISTER AS A VOTER. Your sublocation needs you. Kenya needs you. And frankly, the family TV debate needs more voices.