By Morris Wambua

The Saints of the Hustler Nation

Here in the land of Hakuna matata, spirituality is as abundant as broken promises and as deep as the Great Rift Valley. Religion occupies a special place in the hearts of the people. This is not lost on the nation’s cunning politicians, who have long realized that the quickest route to a voter's heart
is not through tangible policy or economic reform, but through the well-trodden path of religious rhetoric. Our esteemed (mis)leaders have elevated the art of divine persuasion to near-saintly levels, turning the political stage into a pulpit where sermons replace manifestos and hymns drown out any dissent. These virtuous saints of the hustler nation, who often moonlight as politicians, have taken it upon themselves to remind us that governance is a calling—one that is apparently answered by those with the loudest prayers and the most public displays of piety. In a country where the line between religion and politics is thinner than the pages of a Gideon’s Bible, Kenyan politicians
have mastered the delicate dance of divine manipulation, wielding faith as both shield and sword in their never-ending quest for power.
The Gospel According to Politicians

Let us begin with the holy scriptures of Kenyan politics—not those ancient texts passed down through millennia, but the modern-day Bible of electioneering, where every verse is a carefully crafted sound bite designed to resonate with the deeply religious electorate. Our politicians have become veritable theologians, interpreting scripture with the skill of a seasoned preacher, albeit with a slight twist that serves their own interests. "Ask, and it shall be given to you," they declare from the campaign trail, their voices rising in a crescendo of divine conviction. But the real question remains: who exactly is doing the giving? The voters left to decipher the cryptic message, can only hope that it’s not another empty promise or a cleverly disguised bribe. "Knock, and the door will be opened to you," they continue, though the door in question often leads not to the promised prosperity but to a labyrinth of bureaucratic red tape and political patronage. Yet, the faithful
follow, convinced that their leaders are divinely appointed to lead them into a new era of milk and honey—or at the very least, subsidized maize flour.

PHOTO CREDIT: Babs

Miracles and Manifestos: Feeding the 5,000 (With Empty Promises)

The Bible tells of Jesus feeding 5,000 people with just five loaves and two fish, a miracle that has inspired countless generations. Kenyan politicians, too, have their own version of this miraculous event. It’s called the "Manifesto Miracle," a phenomenon that occurs every five years like clockwork. During campaign season, our leaders become miracle workers, multiplying jobs, housing, and infrastructure projects faster than a televangelist can declare, "You are healed!" At rallies, which often resemble revival meetings, politicians dish out promises with the same fervor that a street preacher delivers fire-and-brimstone sermons. The crowd, drawn by the allure of free t-shirts and the promise of a better tomorrow, listens in rapt attention as their leaders paint a picture of a utopian future where every Kenyan will have a job, a house, and three meals a day. But, as is often the case with fake miracles, the Manifesto Miracle is short-lived. Come election day, the loaves and fishes disappear, and the crowd is left to wonder whether they were ever real in the first place. The grand promises, so convincingly delivered just weeks before, vanish like manna from heaven, leaving the electorate to fend for themselves in a desert of unfulfilled expectations.
The Anointing of the Political Elite

In Kenya, politicians are not just leaders; they are the anointed ones, chosen by a higher power to guide the nation through turbulent times. At least, that’s what their spiritual advisors would have us believe. These men and women of the cloth, who always seem to materialize around election time, offer their blessings to the candidate who can best fill their collection plates. It’s a divine quid pro quo: the politician receives the anointing, and the pastor receives a new church wing—or perhaps just a new car. "God has chosen this leader!" they proclaim, as if the Almighty has been poring over ballot papers in heaven. Never mind the suspicious timing of these revelations—just a few weeks before the polls. Surely, divine wisdom takes time to manifest, right? The anointing process is a solemn affair, often conducted in full view of the media. The chosen candidate kneels before the pastor, head bowed, as a symbolic gesture of humility. The pastor, armed with a vial of oil and a
well-rehearsed prayer, declares the candidate to be God’s chosen instrument on earth. The politician rises, now clad in the invisible armor of divine favor, ready to face the slings and arrows of the campaign trail. Of course, the anointing comes with certain expectations. The politician is now expected to uphold the moral and spiritual values of the church—or at least pay lip service to them. In return, the church throws its full support behind the candidate, mobilizing its congregation to vote in what is framed as not just a civic duty but a spiritual obligation. After all, who would dare vote against God’s chosen leader?
Pulpit Politics: Where Religion and Campaigns Intersect

The church has become more than just a place of worship; it is now a battleground for political endorsements, where candidates vie for the favor of pastors and priests as zealously as they do for votes. Every Sunday during the campaign season, politicians trade their campaign trails for church aisles, taking up front-row seats with Bibles in hand and carefully staged expressions of piety on their faces. The atmosphere in these services is electric, charged with an undercurrent of political ambition. Pastors, ever the skilled orators, subtly shift their sermons to align with the politician’s agenda, skillfully weaving in phrases that sound suspiciously like campaign slogans. "Let us pray for peace in our nation," a pastor might intone, as he glances meaningfully at the candidate who recently donated a sizable sum to the church’s building fund. These pastors, ever mindful of the power they wield, often frame their sermons in ways that directly or indirectly influence the political leanings of their congregations. A veiled endorsement can be more powerful than any campaign ad, especially in communities where religious leaders are seen as moral and spiritual guides. In such settings, questioning the pastor’s implicit political advice is almost as taboo as questioning the scriptures themselves. For the politicians, these church visits are as much about securing divine favor as they are about getting their message out to the voters. Kneeling at the altar, they pray for peace, prosperity, and, most importantly, electoral victory. The sight of a politician on their knees, head bowed in prayer, is a powerful image—one that is eagerly captured by photographers and broadcast to the masses. It’s a moment of manufactured humility, a carefully orchestrated display meant to signal to the voters that this candidate is not just a politician but a man or woman of God. But there is a darker side to this holy alliance. Churches, which should be sanctuaries of impartiality, become entangled in the murky world of political patronage. Pastors, enticed by the promise of financial support, find themselves in the uncomfortable position of endorsing candidates whose actions might not align with the teachings of the very Bible they preach from. This unholy marriage between the pulpit and the political podium erodes the church’s moral authority, leaving it vulnerable to the same cynicism and distrust that plague the political class.
Crucifixion Complex: The Politics of Persecution

Kenyan politicians, ever the masters of drama, are quick to adopt the mantle of martyrdom whenever the winds of scandal begin to blow in their direction. It’s a tactic that never fails to resonate in a country where religious narratives of suffering and redemption hold deep cultural significance. The moment a politician is accused of corruption, mismanagement, or any number of
misdeeds, they immediately position themselves as victims of persecution—martyrs in the battle for truth and justice. "I am being crucified for standing up for the truth," they declare, casting themselves as the modern-day equivalents of Christ, unjustly condemned by a corrupt system. It’s a narrative that is as audacious as it is effective. By framing themselves as persecuted saints, these politicians divert attention away from their alleged crimes and instead focus public sympathy on
their supposed suffering. Their followers, ever loyal, rally behind them with a fervor that would make any preacher envious. In this narrative, the politician’s legal battles are not the result of their own actions but are instead seen as trials of faith, tests of their commitment to the people. The courts are reimagined as modern-day Pilates, delivering unjust verdicts against these virtuous leaders. Every court summons becomes a nail, every accusation a thorn in their side. Of course, this crucifixion complex conveniently overlooks the fact that many of these politicians are more likely to be sinners than saints. But in the world of Kenyan politics, perception is often more important than reality. By adopting the language and symbolism of religious persecution, politicians are able to transform their personal failings into public triumphs. They emerge from these trials not as disgraced leaders but as redeemed heroes, ready to continue their divine mission.
Heavenly Campaigns: The Election as the Final Judgment

As election day approaches, the rhetoric on the campaign trail reaches a fever pitch, with politicians casting the upcoming vote as nothing less than a battle between good and evil. The ballot box is no longer just a tool of democracy; it is framed as the final judgment, where the future of the nation—and indeed the very soul of the people—will be decided. "Choose wisely," they warn, their voices heavy with foreboding. The implication is clear: a vote for the opposition is a vote for chaos, poverty, and moral decay. The election becomes an apocalyptic showdown, where the stakes are nothing less than the survival of the nation as we know it. It’s a narrative designed to tap into deep-seated fears and anxieties, to turn what should be a rational decision into an emotional and moral imperative. In this cosmic battle, the opposing candidate is nothing short of the Antichrist, a harbinger of doom who must be stopped at all costs. Political rallies take on the tone of revival meetings, with candidates delivering fiery speeches that sound more like sermons than policy statements. Their supporters, whipped into a religious frenzy, chant and sing hymns, convinced that they are not just participating in an election but in a holy crusade. The media plays its part in this drama, casting the election as the ultimate test of the nation’s faith. Headlines scream of impending disaster should the
"wrong" candidate win, while pundits pontificate on the moral and spiritual implications of each candidate’s platform. The election becomes not just a political contest but a spiritual reckoning, where voters are called upon to make a choice that will determine the nation’s fate for generations to
come. But beneath the apocalyptic rhetoric lies a more mundane truth. For all the talk of good versus evil, of divine missions and spiritual battles, the election is ultimately about power. And in the pursuit of power, there are no saints—only sinners who have mastered the art of appearing holy.
Deliver Us from Deception

As the election dust settles and the fervent prayers for victory fade into the background, Kenyans are left to ponder the divine comedy they’ve just witnessed. The holy spectacle of the campaign season, with its sermons and sanctimonious promises, gives way to the harsh reality of governance. The once-pious politicians, their hands now firmly on the levers of power, seem to forget the religious fervor that propelled them into office. The churches, too, are left to reckon with their role in the drama. Having thrown their weight behind certain candidates, they now find themselves entangled in the very political machinations they once claimed to stand above. The moral authority they once wielded is compromised, their sermons on integrity and righteousness ringing hollow in the wake of their political endorsements. For the voters, the realization is a bitter one. They were promised a deliverance, a new dawn of prosperity and justice, yet find themselves once again wandering in the wilderness of unfulfilled promises. The divine rhetoric that once stirred their hearts now feels like a cruel joke, a reminder of the gap between the sacred and the profane. But perhaps there is a lesson to be learned from this divine comedy. Maybe, just maybe, it’s time to separate the church from the campaign trail, to demand that our leaders be judged not by their prayers but by their actions. After
all, a leader’s true faith is not measured by how loudly they pray in public but by how faithfully they serve in private. Until that day comes, we will keep our Bibles close, our rosaries closer, and our voter cards at the ready. For in Kenya, where the line between the sacred and the political is as thin as a politician’s promise, the divine comedy of election season will continue to play out—over and over again. Ama namna gani? Salaaale!