By Makau Mutua Professor at SUNY Buffalo Law School and Chair of the KHRC.What you need to know:
It will be doom and gloom for some, a bonanza and renaissance for others. But some hearts will be more severely broken than others. Given the state of the race today, I believe Deputy President William Ruto will be among those for whom August 9 will be akin to Armageddon.
A day of utter devastation. Please don’t ask me why because you know the reason. But if I must tell you, it’s because Mr Ruto’s loss will be heavier than the side opposite.
You can even see it in his eyes, demeanour and speech. He believes a loss – which will doubtlessly be his lot – is akin to physical death. This brings me to the subject matter of this column. Let’s imagine Mr Ruto’s diary after August 9.
To do so, we need to fully appreciate his daily routines and life since 1997 when at the age of 31 he was elected MP for Eldoret North.
He has been in government in one capacity, or another, either as MP or a member of the Executive. Today, he sits atop the state as the second most powerful official, a position he’s husbanded for the past decade. That’s a total of 25 years, or a quarter century, that Mr Ruto has suckled at the breast of the state uninterrupted. Mr Ruto is addicted to the state’s largesse. He’s hooked on it.
State largesse
Wait a minute. Let’s unpack the state largesse, or rather, its bosom. The state is that institution that the taxpayer funds, but on which officials live large. In the upper echelons of the state, anything goes. It’s like picking a free mango from the many mango trees by the roadside in Kitui.
It’s yours for the taking – only that with the state you must be an official, and presumably of a certain station.
At the level of the deputy president, you virtually have the carte blanche to cut your own check. Free housing, food, hordes of security personnel, a fleet of high-end vehicles, including aerial vehicles, and boundless wands of cash. You pay for nothing.
There’s more, which is much more important. In Kenya, when you are at the level of a deputy president, you have a licence to loot, if you are so inclined.
And loot with impunity. The National Treasury is your piggy bank, your personal wallet. Every government contract is at your disposal. You can demand a cut, or an inflated cost, by placing a two-minute call. Money is often delivered to your doorstep in sacks every evening. This doesn’t just apply to the Office of the Deputy President (and I am not talking about Mr Ruto here).
It virtually encompasses all senior state officials from judges to MPs and apparatchiks in the Executive, independent commissions, and the civil service. It’s an orgy of wanton looting. On August 9, if Mr Ruto loses – as I believe he will – he will be cut off from the feeding trough. He’ll be disconnected from the official money, power, and resource supply for the first time in a quarter century. I mean severed from the country’s “juice”. Some of us have never worked in such an environment, and so we’ve always been on our own.
We don’t know the taste of free taxpayer shillings. We only know what we’ve earned the old-fashioned way – by the sweat of our brow.
On August 9, Mr Ruto – an obscenely wealthy man – will have to start paying for some of his comforts. For starters, he will be kicked out of his Karen government house. His security detail will be reduced. A large number of his fleet of cars will go back to the government. He will be placed under fixed retirement income as determined by law for ex-Deputy Presidents. He won’t have the power to interrupt official government business to demand a favour or a cut.
The official money supply will dry up. He has massive investments and so he may not feel the pinch.
Still, he will personally pick up the tab. But his days will be punctuated by fewer servants, waitpersons and sycophants.
No more salutes, or fawning admirers. It will be a lonely life. In other words, he will be cut off from the daily routines he’s always known for decades.
Withdrawal symptoms
Mr Ruto will suffer withdrawal symptoms like a ganja addict suddenly cut off from his dealer.
It’s true Mr Ruto’s UDA, of which he’s party leader, will have officials elected to the Senate, governors, MPs and MCAs. This will be an army for him. But he will be a general without a sword. The elected officials will often defy him or constructively dump UDA and work with Azimio. Mr Ruto will be like Samson – with the body but without the hair. His power will be gone since there’s no Leader of Opposition for him to occupy. His daily calendar – diary – will be at the mercy of others.
Makau Mutua is SUNY Distinguished Professor and Margaret W. Wong Professor at Buffalo Law School, The State University of New York. @makaumutua.
- Given the state of the race today, I believe Deputy President William Ruto will be among those for whom August 9 will be akin to Armageddon.
- If Mr Ruto loses – as I believe he will – he’ll be disconnected from the official money, power, and resource supply for the first time in a quarter century.
- Mr Ruto will suffer withdrawal symptoms like a ganja addict suddenly cut off from his dealer.
It will be doom and gloom for some, a bonanza and renaissance for others. But some hearts will be more severely broken than others. Given the state of the race today, I believe Deputy President William Ruto will be among those for whom August 9 will be akin to Armageddon.
A day of utter devastation. Please don’t ask me why because you know the reason. But if I must tell you, it’s because Mr Ruto’s loss will be heavier than the side opposite.
You can even see it in his eyes, demeanour and speech. He believes a loss – which will doubtlessly be his lot – is akin to physical death. This brings me to the subject matter of this column. Let’s imagine Mr Ruto’s diary after August 9.
To do so, we need to fully appreciate his daily routines and life since 1997 when at the age of 31 he was elected MP for Eldoret North.
He has been in government in one capacity, or another, either as MP or a member of the Executive. Today, he sits atop the state as the second most powerful official, a position he’s husbanded for the past decade. That’s a total of 25 years, or a quarter century, that Mr Ruto has suckled at the breast of the state uninterrupted. Mr Ruto is addicted to the state’s largesse. He’s hooked on it.
State largesse
Wait a minute. Let’s unpack the state largesse, or rather, its bosom. The state is that institution that the taxpayer funds, but on which officials live large. In the upper echelons of the state, anything goes. It’s like picking a free mango from the many mango trees by the roadside in Kitui.
It’s yours for the taking – only that with the state you must be an official, and presumably of a certain station.
At the level of the deputy president, you virtually have the carte blanche to cut your own check. Free housing, food, hordes of security personnel, a fleet of high-end vehicles, including aerial vehicles, and boundless wands of cash. You pay for nothing.
There’s more, which is much more important. In Kenya, when you are at the level of a deputy president, you have a licence to loot, if you are so inclined.
And loot with impunity. The National Treasury is your piggy bank, your personal wallet. Every government contract is at your disposal. You can demand a cut, or an inflated cost, by placing a two-minute call. Money is often delivered to your doorstep in sacks every evening. This doesn’t just apply to the Office of the Deputy President (and I am not talking about Mr Ruto here).
It virtually encompasses all senior state officials from judges to MPs and apparatchiks in the Executive, independent commissions, and the civil service. It’s an orgy of wanton looting. On August 9, if Mr Ruto loses – as I believe he will – he will be cut off from the feeding trough. He’ll be disconnected from the official money, power, and resource supply for the first time in a quarter century. I mean severed from the country’s “juice”. Some of us have never worked in such an environment, and so we’ve always been on our own.
We don’t know the taste of free taxpayer shillings. We only know what we’ve earned the old-fashioned way – by the sweat of our brow.
On August 9, Mr Ruto – an obscenely wealthy man – will have to start paying for some of his comforts. For starters, he will be kicked out of his Karen government house. His security detail will be reduced. A large number of his fleet of cars will go back to the government. He will be placed under fixed retirement income as determined by law for ex-Deputy Presidents. He won’t have the power to interrupt official government business to demand a favour or a cut.
The official money supply will dry up. He has massive investments and so he may not feel the pinch.
Still, he will personally pick up the tab. But his days will be punctuated by fewer servants, waitpersons and sycophants.
No more salutes, or fawning admirers. It will be a lonely life. In other words, he will be cut off from the daily routines he’s always known for decades.
Withdrawal symptoms
Mr Ruto will suffer withdrawal symptoms like a ganja addict suddenly cut off from his dealer.
It’s true Mr Ruto’s UDA, of which he’s party leader, will have officials elected to the Senate, governors, MPs and MCAs. This will be an army for him. But he will be a general without a sword. The elected officials will often defy him or constructively dump UDA and work with Azimio. Mr Ruto will be like Samson – with the body but without the hair. His power will be gone since there’s no Leader of Opposition for him to occupy. His daily calendar – diary – will be at the mercy of others.
Makau Mutua is SUNY Distinguished Professor and Margaret W. Wong Professor at Buffalo Law School, The State University of New York. @makaumutua.
Source: Sunday Nation, tomorrow.
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