Kenyan Lens

For the police, it’s a man-eat-man society.

Kenya’s corruption saga is like a never-ending circus, a real-life soap opera in which we’re all unwilling actors. My father once told me, “Kenya is rotten to the core.” At the time, I dismissed it as one of those things older generations say when they’re frustrated after a long day battling bureaucracy to get certain documents. But as time has passed, I’ve realised just how accurate his words were.

Now, let’s talk about the Kenyan police force, often labelled as the most corrupt. It’s a familiar scene: you’re driving down the road, and a police officer waves you over. You already know what’s coming—you’ll be reaching for your wallet before he even finishes saying, “Habari yako.” And when your cousin gets caught after a night out, you’re calculating the “something small” it’ll take to set him free. This is the “man-eat-man” society at its finest, where corruption is so ingrained that we all become players in this game, often without considering the consequences.

Let’s peek behind the curtain. Did you know that in 2023, the Kenyan judiciary collected a staggering 2.66 billion shillings from court fines and fees? Sounds impressive, right? But here’s the twist—the judiciary’s budget was a whopping 21 billion shillings. So, where did the extra 18 billion come from? You guessed it—from the pockets of hardworking Kenyans through taxes. And here’s the kicker: the Ethics and Anti-Corruption Commission (EACC) reports that only a tiny fraction of police cases ever make it to court. The rest? They vanish into thin air through “kitu kidogo” transactions.

While the judiciary is busy pleading with the government for more funds—stretching the already thin wallets of “Mama mboga” nationwide—there could be more than enough funds if more cases actually made it to court. But thanks to our “friendly” police officers and their love for quick cash, the judiciary is left begging, and we all suffer the consequences.

But before we cast judgment on the police, let’s walk in their shoes. Picture tiny, rusty iron-sheet structures with no sewage systems or decent latrines. Some officers live there with their families! It’s no wonder that police officers, earning as little as 32,000 KSH a month, might find themselves caught in the web of corruption. They’re trapped in a system that pays them virtually nothing, with no means to escape or voice their frustrations. To put it in perspective, the amount they earn in a month could be spent in a single lunch by an MP during a sitting. They must stretch this modest sum to feed their families, clothe their children, and maintain some semblance of dignity. Yet, those in power, including President Ruto, continue to use these officers as pawns in their own elaborate game, protecting their privileged lives while the officers struggle in silence. And we blame them.

This issue goes beyond numbers; it’s a painful reality affecting real people with real families. The stark contrast between the lavish lifestyles of the powerful and the dire conditions faced by those meant to serve and protect is disheartening. We must recognize the profound human cost of this disparity and advocate for a system that honors the sacrifices of these officers with fairness and respect.

Amid all this gloom, there’s a glimmer of hope. Imagine a future where the police and judiciary are self-sufficient, running on funds generated by court fines instead of draining taxpayers. Imagine a future where police officers are paid well enough to resist the temptation of “kitu kidogo,” where they live in dignity, not squalor. For there is no honour in asking a tout for one hundred shillings, hiding it in your cap. It might seem like a distant dream, but as they say, “Aluta continua”—the struggle continues. And who knows? Maybe, just maybe, we’ll wake up to a Kenya where the vicious cycle of corruption is finally broken.