We live with a lovely Labrador Retriever I affectionately call Luncy, short for Loonatic, which is in itself a corruption of another name.
We bought Luncy because she had manic energy as a puppy, never sitting still for a second. As a baby being house-trained, she rarely calmed long enough to learn much, so she took longer to get most things. When she got really excited, she committed the worst crime possible for a house puppy—she peed all over the place. Her life was a series of excitement and misery.
In the counties, there must be some heady moments, perhaps the equivalent of that poor puppy’s excitement, leading to misery: Folks have executive power of government, perhaps for the very first time in their lives. They have the ability to cause major impact in the lives of the people around them, they feel empowered, indestructible, all-knowing, all-wise, all-patriotic, all-powerful. Scores are being settled, “useless people” are being cut off, deals are being dreamed up, dreams are being dreamed, plans are being made.
Child of three counties
I am a child of three counties: Meru, Nairobi and Kilifi. I’m associated to Meru by belonging, to Nairobi by necessity—all the big stuff happens here—and to Kilifi by unrequited love. Meru is mine by right and by ancestral law. Nairobi, who cares? We just have to make it a good place because this is where we live and where our investments are. I love Kilifi but I don’t think, barring a few friends, there is a single soul in the county who gives a hoot about me. They would probably be very happy if I disappeared off to upcountry and never showed my ugly face there again.
Well, we have to love even those who don’t love us. So, here is my contribution to the new administrations as they settle in office. I learnt some of these lessons as the leader of a public sector board.
Government is perpetual
First, government is perpetual. It does not come to an end because a former governor is no longer in office. It means the government, its power, wealth and debt, lives on, irrespective of who is in office.
To put it bluntly, the debt incurred by the previous administration is now your debt; you don’t get to choose what to inherit and what to reject. Unless there is evidence that it’s fake or odious as established by a lawful process, you discharge all the obligations entered into by your government, irrespective of who was in office then. Unless you’re eroding confidence in, and the authority of, your government and, therefore, shooting yourself in both feet.
Secondly, government is formal and is governed by a forest of rules and regulations, all of which you must demonstrably obey. That means the government is not your property, its processes are not subject to your emotions, it has everything to do with you as an officer and nothing as a person. You must keep and preserve records, you must learn and respect the limit of your authority and you must respect the authority of others whether you like them or not and whether you like their decisions or not.
Actions have consequences
Thirdly, your actions have consequences, some stark and scary, and beyond your control. Don’t be misled by the rumour that there is impunity in government, or that you can buy your way out of trouble. Those privileges are way above your pay grade. I understand your desire to make a little money. Find a legal way to do it; know the rules, obey them and preserve the evidence of your obeying them.
Fourth, you are everyone’s dad/mum now, especially those who hated you so much during the campaigns that they composed songs to defame you and your spouse and children. They don’t give a hoot about you—as a matter of fact, they still hate you—but it’s your job to make their lives better, to protect their health and make them rich and more powerful. Your duty as a public officer is to serve everyone, not just those who love you.
Lastly, impact comes from having a ruthless set of priorities. There aren’t enough hours in the day, you don’t have enough money and you are not clever enough—nobody is—to fix everything. Choose the most consequential issues in your county and bet everything on them. In Kilifi, I’d invest in tourism—build beach roads, fight land crime and train workers—but I’d reserve the bulk of the budget for education; a universal bursary fund from kindergarten to tertiary level, a school feeding programme for primary school children and their parents and free medical care for students and their families. I’d also put money in post-secondary training to build a pool of skills to support education, health and key sectors of the economy.
In Meru, I’d put my money in marketing (for processed agricultural and industrial goods, tourism and so on), industrial and technical training and health. I’d be betting on the hypothesis that, if you open markets, build a cheap but competent labour pool, the investment will come.
In Nairobi, I’d go to the bank, withdraw the entire budget and put the lot in prayer. BY DAILY NATION