Once upon a time, in a bustling village nestled between rolling hills and dusty roads, there lived a boy named Kipchirry. Kipchirry was no ordinary boy; he was ambitious, sharp-tongued, and had a knack for climbing trees higher than anyone else in the village. Little did he know that his tree-climbing skills would one day translate into climbing the political ladder, all the way to the highest office in the land. Yes, Kipchirry became the President of Kenya, a title that came with a shiny sash, a fleet of cars, and the unenviable task of trying to fit a village boy’s soul into a city slicker’s suit.
When Kipchirry first arrived in the city, he was overwhelmed. The skyscrapers loomed like giant maize silos, the traffic roared like a thousand angry warthogs, and the people walked briskly as if they were late for a village meeting that didn’t exist. But Kipchirry was determined to make his mark. He looked around his new presidential palace and frowned. The thatched roof reminded him too much of his village hut, and the wooden floors creaked like his grandmother’s knees. “This will not do,” he declared. “I am a city man now!”
And so, the Great Renovation began. The thatched roof was torn down and replaced with a sleek, flat roof that Kipchirry believed screamed “modernity.” The wooden floors were ripped out and replaced with gypsum tiles so shiny, they reflected his face like a calm village pond. “Now this is progress! This is presidential!” he exclaimed, standing in the middle of his newly renovated palace, admiring his reflection on the floor. But no matter how much he changed the exterior, the village boy in him kept peeking through. He still preferred ugali over sushi, and his speeches were peppered with proverbs that left his city advisors scratching their heads.
But Kipchirry’s real challenge wasn’t the roof or the floors—it was the Opposition. Oh, the Opposition! They were like a stubborn thorn in his foot, always poking and prodding, questioning his every move. Kipchirry, ever the resourceful village boy, decided to tackle this problem the way he would handle a stubborn goat: by luring it with something shiny. And so, he created positions—blinding, glorious positions—that he dangled before the Opposition like a carrot before a donkey.
“Oh Position!” he would say, grinning as he appointed yet another critic to a cushy government job. “You wanted to fight me? Now you’re fighting for a parking spot at your new office.” One by one, the Opposition fell, seduced by the allure of titles, allowances, and the occasional state-funded trip abroad. Soon, the once-vocal critics were too busy attending meetings and signing memos to remember why they were against Kipchirry in the first place. “Oh Position!” they sighed contentedly, their voices now muffled by the weight of their new titles.
But as Kipchirry sat in his flat-roofed palace, gazing at his reflection on the gypsum floor, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. The city was polished, the Opposition was pacified, and yet, the village boy in him still longed for the simplicity of his roots. He missed the sound of roosters crowing at dawn, the smell of freshly tilled soil, and the warmth of a village fire. No matter how many flat roofs he built or how many “Oh Positions” he created, he couldn’t quite erase the village from his heart.
Yet, there was another, deeper conflict brewing within Kipchirry. During his campaign, he had promised to be a servant leader, a president who would work tirelessly for the people. He had spoken passionately about service, about lifting the nation from the trenches of poverty and inequality. But now, seated on the throne of power, he found himself intoxicated by the very thing he had vowed to resist. The intoxicating allure of power had begun to cloud his vision, and the lines between service and supremacy blurred.
“I was elected to serve,” he muttered to himself one evening, staring at the city lights from his palace balcony. “But why does it feel like I’m here to rule?” The displaced mentality gnawed at him. He had come to the city with a village boy’s heart, eager to serve, but the trappings of power had begun to reshape him. The flat roof and gypsum floors were not just renovations; they were symbols of his internal struggle—a desperate attempt to fit into a world that demanded power while his soul yearned for service.
And so, Kipchirry’s presidency became a curious blend of city sophistication and village charm—a flat roof with a thatched soul, a gypsum floor with creaky wooden memories. The people watched, some amused, others bemused, as their president tried to navigate the complexities of urban politics while secretly yearning for the simplicity of village life. In the end, Kipchirry learned that no matter how high you climb, you can never truly leave the village behind. And perhaps, that’s not such a bad thing after all.
But the question lingered: Would Kipchirry remember why he climbed so high in the first place? Or would the allure of power forever overshadow the call to serve? Only time would tell.