365 QUESTIONS TO THE BALLOT BOX

 365 QUESTIONS TO THE BALLOT BOX

The countdown clock at the election headquarters clicked down to exactly 365 days. There was one year left until the General Election. Outside, the city of Nairobi was full of nervous energy. A tense electioneering period was starting. At a busy bus station in Downtown Nairobi, 34-year-old Osoro adjusted the mirror of his 14-seater minibus, nicknamed The Future. Painted on the back was a new slogan: The Youth Vote is Not for sale. "One year left, Osoro," shouted Marcus, a driver from a rival route. "Are you ready for the drama?" "The drama has been here for months, Marcus," Osoro replied, tapping his steering wheel. "But this time, we aren’t just cheering from the sidelines. We are calling the plays." Osoro belonged to a large network of young entrepreneurs and digital content creators seeking to influence voting patterns of the youth. For years, they watched the same old politicians change alliances. But 2026 was different. The hard economic times had forced new political spaces open. This year, young people did not care about political personalities. Instead, they cared about food prices, digital taxes, and tech jobs. A few kilometers away, inside a high-tech digital room in Kilimani sat Malik, a senior strategist for the ruling government party, stared at a wall of screens. The monitors showed real-time data from TikTok and X. Suddenly, a red alert flashed on his screen. "Sir," one of Malik’s colleagues said quickly. "The SisiNiNumbers hashtag just passed two million views. They are sharing a public audit on the cost of living." Malik rubbed his temples. In the past, campaigning was simple. You just made alliances with local leaders, hosted big stadium rallies, distributed free t-shirts, and won the votes. But now, more than half of the voters were under thirty, and they lived online. "Run our counter-story," Malik ordered. "Talk about our big road projects in the West and Central Kenya." "We tried, sir," the analyst replied quietly. "They replied with drone videos of the many other stalled road projects." The war was on in digital spaces that looked likely to influence the coming polls. In Mombasa, Chef Yusuf looked out at his crowded restaurant. Political workers from a political rally sat at separate tables. They all ordered his famous coastal food while loudly promising to improve the business sector. Yusuf just smiled and focused on his cooking fire. He knew that for the next year, everyone would be hungry for power and so, promises would keep on coming but for him, his work took priority. In his sitting room in Bungoma, Sikhole watched TV with so many election stories focused on political alignments just one year away from elections. For him, there were more than 365 questions in mind regarding that election. His mind raced. How different would it be? Are these political alignments not only for power hungry politicians? Would there be a digital influence by the youth? Would the youth vote or just keep making noise on social media? Will any Presidential candidate be strong enough to remove Ruto? Do alternative voices have meaningful agendas? How about the church? Will the church again be used as a mobilizing platform? Will we ever have a leader that does not lose trust after elections? Sikhole could not answer most of the questions, but he hoped that the future would be better for future generations. 

Back in Nairobi, Osoro drove ‘The Future’ through the thick evening traffic. His phone buzzed with a notification from the SisiNiNumbers app. It showed a digital countdown clock that matched the official election clock. 364 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes.

He later parked his minibus in his CBD pick up point for the last trip as he looked at the crowd of commuters rushing home. The long walk to the voting booth had officially begun.

©Stephen Mungai

OF ELDERS, ROLE AND RECOGNITION

 OF ELDERS, ROLE AND RECOGNITION

Electricity problem was yet to be fixed by KPLC for the third day now. In Baba Kamau’s living room, the kerosene lamp flickered, casting long shadows across the walls on every corner. Around the wooden table sat Baba Kamau, a village elder for thirty years—and some family members. News of the State House announcement had traveled fast, and the village was awake with debate. "Three thousand shillings," Baba Kamau said, holding up three fingers. His voice trembled slightly, not from age, but from quiet pride. "For thirty years, I walked these ridges to settle land disputes and comfort grieving families for free. Now, the government sees us. They will even pay for hospital cards for us and our families." Kamau, the son, a 28-year-old motorcycle taxi rider, leaned forward, his helmet still resting on his knee. He didn't share the old man's warmth. "Three thousand a month, Baba?" Kamau asked, tapping his fingers on the table. "That is one hundred shillings a day. It cannot even buy a packet of maize flour and a packet of milk anymore. How does the government celebrate giving you the price of a loaf of bread for a whole day's work?" Wanjiku her last born daughter who was a schoolteacher, nodded in agreement, though her concerns ran deeper than the math. She thought of the smartphones that the elders had been promised. "It is not just the money, Kamau," Wanjiku said softly. "Think about the timing. The big election is next year. Suddenly, one hundred thousand elders across Kenya are being given state phones and money. When the politicians come campaigning, whose side will the elders take? The side of the village, or the side of the person signing the payroll?" The room went quiet. The elders had always been the moral compass of the community, trusted because they belonged to the people, not the state. Mama Kamau, now an older woman, who was sitting direct opposite side of her husband broke the silence from the corner. "My worry is the treasury," she sighed, adjusting her shawl. "We have seen the cash transfers for the orphans and the elderly delay for months. If the government is struggling to pay those who are already on the program, where will they find billions of shillings every year to sustain this new list?" Baba Kamau looked down at his calloused hands. The questions hung heavy in the air, transforming a moment of celebration into a mirror of Kenya's wider anxieties. The stipend was a historic recognition, but in the hearts of this family, it came wrapped in the heavy price of living, the shadow of politics, and the uncertainty of tomorrow. And as the debate goes on, many questions remain unanswered; Are there enough elders still available and respectable enough to guide the younger generation? Do they actually do it? Do they command enough respect to be heard and to lead? Maybe a monthly payment would bring back the elders as guide to the people towards good living community relationships. Is the role of the elders still active in communities and villages. What about in cities? Is the role better played in churches? All questions standing, a good standing of elders in society will be positive for everyone. That is also so in the bible where like 1 Peter 5:1–3, the elders are charged to be shepherds of God’s flock, watching over them, not lording it over those entrusted to them, but being examples to the flock. What’s your thought?

©Stephen Mungai

A SLICE OF TOMORROW

 A SLICE OF TOMORROW

The quantum-rail shuttle hummed smoothly, gliding into Nairobi Central Station at precisely 08:00 AM, exactly as the digital timetable predicted. Katiku stepped onto the platform, breathing in the crisp morning air, which was completely free of the diesel exhaust that had choked the city just a few years ago. He commuted daily from his home in Kibwezi which was now a 40 minutes trip. The efficient rail system and the superhighway roads were only a dream in the past. Much water had gone under the bridge and unlike his father's days on road, there were no bribes to pay to police officers demanding cash at arbitrary checkpoints on the trip that then took about 4 hours. As he walked from the station, above him were towering vertical gardens that filtered the sunlight, casting a dappled green glow over thousands of commuting citizens. Since the implementation of the decentralized ledger system in 2034, every public shilling, corporate contract, and government tender was logged on an unalterable, open-source registry. Corruption had not just been outlawed; it had been made structurally impossible. As a senior technician at KPLC, Katiku’s job was to monitor electricity distribution hitches in Nairobi metropolis and respond with quick fixes. He walked through the sparkling glass atrium of Kenya power centre, his footsteps echoing on recycled obsidian tiles. Kenya was now the primary tech and green energy hub of the continent, a beacon of efficiency where public funds actually built public infrastructure. He sat at his desk and activated his regional grid surveillance interface. A minor flag danced on his screen—an anomaly in the east region that meant power blackout for several customers. In the old days, such a discrepancy would have meant a lorry with field technical staff is sent to the area after repeated customer complaints who would have been in the dark for days or weeks. Katiku tapped the anomaly, zooming into the blinking area and within seconds, the system diagnostics revealed damage to northlink distribution substation. On a few commands into the system, the automated maintenance drone had already been dispatched and was three minutes from completing the repair. No human energy, just machine response tools. The rest of the day was to keep eye incase a mishap cropped up again. When evening came, he smiled, closing the system knowing that his work kept the capital city metropolis fully powered. Later on, he was back in the train on his way home to Kibwezi. The high-speed rail line cut a sleek path toward Mombasa, cutting through a landscape where the forests were expanding, the schools were fully funded, and the future belonged equally to every citizen. Kenya had finally become the nation its ancestors had dreamed of—whole, prosperous, and entirely transparent. So is the faith and to it, we add hope because hope does not dissapoint as Rom 5: 5 better said.

@ Stephen Mungai

NAVIGATING THE MAZE

 NAVIGATING THE MAZE

In a few minutes David was in the next Matatu towards Kahawa Wendani and alighted a few minutes later. His mind raced. Kahawa Wendani was a chaotic maze of high-rise apartments, narrow alleys, and unmarked shops. Finding one hidden room without an address was close to impossible. He dialed Sarah’s phone again. “The subscriber you are trying to reach is currently unavailable.” Switched off. "Come on, Sarah! Pick up!" David said silently. He now needed a lead and from Joyce would it probably be. Joyce knew the campus social circles. He called Joyce, the friend Sarah had been angry at. "Hey, David? What's up?" Joyce answered rather casually. "Joyce, where is Sarah? Do you know any illegal clinics in Wendani? The ones students talk about?" David asked, his voice full of panic. Joyce's tone also shifted to an instant panic, "What? Why would I know— wait, is Sarah...?" "She’s at one right now, Joyce! Her phone is off. If you know anything, any building, any name, tell me now!" David said, now sounding impatient. "There’s... there’s a place people whisper about near the Matatu stage, behind the grocery shops. A multi-story flat with green gates. They call the guy 'Doc,' but he isn't a doctor. David, don't let her go in there" David ran past the food stalls, his eyes scanning the maze of concrete buildings. Every alley looked the same. Dusty paths, hanging laundry, and hundreds of doors. "Green gates... green gates..." He spotted it—a faded, rusting green metal gate tucked behind a row of wooden kiosks. The building looked rundown, with no signage. He sprinted inside the courtyard, his heart in his throat. He didn't know which floor, which room, or if he was already too late. He pounded on doors and shouted Sarah's name on every floor, but his cries only met blank stares from residents and other business owners. When he finally forced open the door to the hidden clinic on the third floor, the room was empty except lab coats, and a stethoscope hanging on the wall above the table, cluttered with all manner of things. Sarah was already gone. Panic turning into cold dread, David raced back down to the main road and hailed a motorbike to Sarah's apartment complex. He took the stairs to her third-floor unit in a desperate blur, his hands shaking so violently he could barely slide his spare key into the lock. He threw the door open and stopped dead in his tracks. Sarah was there, sitting on the edge of her small sofa, wrapped tightly in a thick fleece blanket despite the afternoon heat. She looked utterly drained, her face completely pale, staring blankly at a cold cup of tea on the coffee table. "Sarah!" David choked out, dropping his keys as he rushed to her side and knelt on the floor. She flinched slightly at the sound, her eyes slowly focusing on him. A tear rolled down her cheek, but her voice was a flat, exhausted whisper. "I almost did it, David. Sarah said sobbing. "The Doctor threw me out after you called" David embraced her and let out a long sigh of relief. "Am really sorry Sarah" David said, " Thank God you are safe"

©Stephen Mungai

POLITICAL SURVIVAL

 POLITICAL SURVIVAL

Honorable Mwangi stared out the window of his Kileleshwa penthouse. It was only 5:00 AM, but his phone was already buzzing relentlessly on the nightstand. For Mwangi, this was not a sign of duty toward his constituents, but the raw hum of political survival. A new day of maneuvering had begun, and honesty was a luxury he could not afford. His first meeting at 6:30 AM took him to the dim, discreet corner of a luxury hotel in Westlands. A foreign investor sat waiting, flanked by a nervous local real estate developer. The objective was simple: clear a protected urban wetland for a massive shopping mall project. Mwangi sipped his cup of coffee as the developer slid a heavy, bulging manila envelope beneath the table. "The first tranche, Mheshimiwa," the man whispered. Mwangi felt the weight of the crisp, tightly banded one-hundred-dollar notes. He flashed his well-rehearsed, fatherly smile, patted the envelope, and promised that the NEMA environmental clearance certificates would be on their desks by the next day. ‘The frogs and birds of the swamp had no vote in the upcoming election, but this cash would certainly translate into votes.’ Mwangi thought. By 10:00 AM, Mwangi’s swapped his designer jacket for a collarless Kitenge shirt. Escorted by a convoy of three pitch-black, tinted V8 SUVs, he rolled into a dusty, impoverished settlement in his constituency. He had planned a meeting with local leaders in the area social hall. The hall was full when he got up on the stage to address them. He explained how corruption in past regimes had left ordinary citizens to starve but that he and the government were working day and night to fix things up. The crowd roared and cheered. After the meeting, safely shielded behind the tinted glass of his vehicle, he gestured for a local youth gang leader to step inside. Mwangi pulled a thick stack of cash and pressed it into the young man's hand. "My rival is holding a rally here on Saturday," Mwangi whispered coldly. "Make sure it gets loud, chaotic, and disruptive. No casualties, but enough commotion to dominate the evening news." The afternoon was reserved for state bureaucracy, the most lucrative discipline of all. At 2:30 PM, Mwangi sat in the air-conditioned boardroom of a government ministry. On the table was the allocation of a multi-million-shilling tender for specialized medical equipment. The chairman of the procurement committee, a loyal ally that Mwangi had personally placed in that seat, gave him a knowing nod. This deal going as planned would have thirty percent of the total project value wired as a kickback to an offshore account in Mauritius for Mwangi. The fact that the equipment was substandard and likely to fail under pressure was a problem for future patients, not him. By 7:00 PM Mwangi arrived at an exclusive, members-only cigar lounge in Kilimani to meet his digital strategist. On the laptop screen before them lay manipulated audio clips and fabricated financial documents framing his primary political opponent in a career-ending scandal. He had to end the rival’s career in good time before elections and things were going as planned. It was well past midnight when his V8 finally turned into the heavily guarded driveway of his mansion in Runda. In his wood-paneled study, he poured a glass of whiskey, walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, and looked down at the glittering lights of the city below. He had lied, cheated, compromised the environment, financed political violence, and jeopardized public healthcare all in a single day's work. He raised his glass to his own reflection and smiled. It had been a highly productive day in Kenyan politics and tomorrow, he would do it all over again because, how else would he defend his seat in the coming elections? Survival was key.

©Stephen Mungai

DIGNITY A DAY

 

DIGNITY A DAY

It was still dark as his alarm went off and footsteps outside were already increasing as it was normal at the hour for people to rush to their workplaces. Inside his ten-by-ten timber room, Juma sprang from bed, wiped his body with a wet rag and dressed up. He adjusted the collar of his crisp, white shirt. It was frayed at the edges, but he had spent an hour the night before pressing it with a charcoal iron box until the seams were sharp enough to cut. Juma was a security guard at a high-end mall in Nairobi’s Westlands area. Every day, his journey was a stark transition between two completely different Kenyas."Baba Mwangi, please hurry up so that you are not late for the work," his wife, Wanjiku, called out gently, handing him a plastic cup of tea. "I think I have enough time. With early police control nowadays, traffic is not that bad on Juja road," Juma replied with a small smile. He drank the tea quickly, hugged his young daughter and stepped out into the bustling Nairobi morning. By 8:00 AM, Juma was standing at the entrance of the gleaming glass mall. His job was simple yet exhausting: stand straight for twelve hours, smile, and scan every luxury vehicle that passed through the security barrier. To many of the drivers, Juma was invisible, just a uniform that opened gates. They would roll up their windows, ignore his polite "Habari ya asubuhi," and drive past without a glance. At 2:00 PM, a sleek black SUV pulled up to the gate. Juma stepped forward, holding his handheld metal detector. He bowed slightly, maintaining his professional posture. “Good afternoon, sir. Kindly roll down the rear window for a quick check," Juma said in clear, courteous Swahili. The driver, a well-dressed businessman on a Bluetooth call, didn't look at him. He tapped his steering wheel impatiently and revved the engine. "Young man, open the gate. I am in a hurry. Do you know who I am? “Juma felt the familiar sting of humiliation. It was a phrase he heard too often—an attempt to erase his presence and worth because of the uniform he wore. But Juma looked the man directly in the eye, his expression calm and resolute. “I respect your time, sir," Juma said, his voice steady and polite. "But my job is to keep everyone inside this mall safe. That includes you. “The businessman paused his phone conversation. For the first time, he looked at Juma. He saw the immaculate alignment of the guard's nametag, the unyielding posture, and the quiet pride in his eyes. The tension in the air softened. The driver slowly rolled down the back window, allowed the check, and as the barrier lifted, he gave Juma a brief, respectful nod. “Thank you, officer," the driver said. Those three words carried a massive weight. Juma stood a little taller as the car drove through. Later that evening, the heavy Nairobi rain began to pour, turning the city roads into gridlock. Juma’s shift ended at 8:00 PM, but by the time he navigated the flooded roads and crowded matatus back to Mathare, it was nearly midnight. His boots were caked in thick, dark mud, and his shoulders ached from the hours of standing. He scraped the mud off his shoes at the doorstep before entering his dark room. Wanjiku was awake, waiting by the small kerosene stove. She poured warm water into a plastic basin so he could wash his feet. As Juma sat on the edge of the bed, watching the steam rise in the small room, he looked at his clean shirt hanging on the wall. He did not own the land he lived on, and he did not have a wealthy title to his name. But as he looked at his family sleeping safely, he knew that his dignity did not depend on the cars he scanned or the wealth of the people he served. It was carried in his honesty, his resilience, and the unshakeable respect he demanded for his labor and his humanity.

©Stephen Mungai

THE ANSWERED CALL

 THE ANSWERED CALL

The phone kept vibrating, the buzzing sound scraping against Sarah’s raw nerves. The practitioner stepped closer, his face darkening with impatience. "I told you to turn that off. Now." He said. Sarah’s hand shot out. Instead of hitting the end-call button, her thumb slid across the green icon. She pressed the phone tightly to her ear, her knuckles white. "David?" Sarah whispered frantically. "Sarah? Sarah, please don't hang up. I’m so sorry. I know I’ve been distant. I’ve been terrified, but I talked to Tabitha. She made me see things clearly. We need to talk. I’m coming over to Wendani right now." David was on the other end, his voice breathless and cracked with emotion. "David, you're too late. I’m... I’m not at the bedsitter." Sarah said softly, a sob escaping her throat. On the other side of the line, David heard the sharp, metallic clink of a tray moving. He stopped walking. "What do you mean you're not home? Sarah, where are you? What is that noise?" David sounded very worried. "Hang up that phone! Are you crazy? You want to bring the police to my doorstep?" The practitioner tried snatching Sarah's arm, his voice a harsh whisper. David heard the strange man's voice through the speaker. Panicked, he began to shout. "Sarah! Who is that? Are you at a clinic? Don't do anything, please! Tell me where you are!" Sarah was now crying openly, shrinking away from the practitioner "I couldn't face my parents, David. You weren't picking up... I didn't know what else to do." The Practitioner aggressively grabbed the phone from her hand "This session is over." He said. He disconnected the call, throwing the phone onto the chair. He glared at Sarah, his demeanor completely stripped of any professional pretense. "Get your things and get out. You are a liability. I don’t risk my business for dramatic University students" The line went dead with a sharp click. David stood frozen on the pavement, the phone still pressed to his ear, his heart hammering against his ribs. The cold panic in Sarah’s voice and the harsh, threatening tone of the man in the background echoed in his mind.“I didn't know what else to do.” He knew exactly what she was doing. He had heard the rumors on campus about the shady backstreet rooms hidden inside the residential blocks of Kahawa Wendani. He stood still in a moment of shock and confusion. He knew that he needed to act very fast to save the baby or atleast save sarah from the risky procedure. He felt a heavy hate on himself for abandoning her. "Stupid, David. So stupid. You left her alone." He kept muttering to himself and immediately decided he would look for her. He sprang up and ran towards matatu stage, praying that he would make it before the damage was done. 

@Stephen Mungai