Ash consciousness: When leaders forget they are dust, nation bleeds

As part of the season of Lent — the forty days leading to Easter — churches mark Ash Wednesday. It is not merely a date on the liturgical calendar; it is a sacred interruption. A pause. A call to reflective stillness. It passes quietly in some quarters, solemnly in others. A small cross of ash is traced on foreheads, and the ancient words are spoken again: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

In a country often intoxicated with power, those words sound almost rebellious.

Ash-consciousness is not self-devaluation. It is a reality check—an honest gaze at the inevitable. It does not exist to humiliate; it exists to cultivate humility until humility becomes a resident virtue—at best, the default informer of one’s attitude.

It reminds us that we are finite without making us feel futile. It lowers us without belittling us. Ash-consciousness does not shrink a person; it sizes them correctly. And in that right-sizing, pride loosens its grip and gratitude deepens.

We are finite. Our positions are temporary. Our titles are borrowed. That applause is seasonal. Even the most intimidating office in the land is occupied by a mortal.

Kenya’s political culture, however, is built on selective memory. Leaders rise to office and slowly begin to behave as though power has altered their chemistry. The ordinary citizen begins to feel very far away from those who govern in their name.

Ash-consciousness interrupts that illusion. It whispers what no protocol officer will ever announce: You are temporary. Ash-consciousness brings you closer to the ground; it binds you to the lowly. It reminds you that elevation is temporary, that status is fragile. In that awareness, compassion is no longer optional. The link between the needy and the endowed is not a special program to be launched in seasons of surplus—it is a necessary worldview. It is the natural posture of one who knows their origin and remembers their end. Ash-consciousness collapses artificial hierarchies. It whispers that what you have is entrusted, not possessed; that what you give is not charity, but justice shaped by humility.

What Kenya suffers from is not a shortage of brilliance. But intelligence without ash-consciousness becomes dangerous. It can morph into entitlement. It can justify excess. It can rationalise oppression.

When a leader forgets he is dust, he begins to treat public office as personal property. Authority becomes something to defend rather than something to steward. Energy that should be spent solving problems is spent managing optics and silencing critics. Oversight institutions weakened in the name of efficiency. Appointments made based on loyalty rather than competence. Public funds are deployed as political currency. Dissenting voices labelled enemies.

Ash-consciousness offers a corrective. It produces leaders who plan as though they will be succeeded. It encourages those in power to build systems that do not depend on their personality. It prioritises mentorship over monopoly. It asks a simple but unsettling question: What will remain when you are gone?

If you know you are dust, you do not waste time on petty rivalries. You do not spend your tenure settling scores. You do not weaponise the state against critics because you understand that history is patient and archives are unforgiving. You become careful with your words, because you know they will one day be quoted when you can no longer clarify them.

Mortality-awareness produces moral urgency. When you remember you are dust, you become less obsessed with appearing strong and more concerned with being just. You begin to ask whether the farmer, the hawker, the teacher, and the unemployed graduate are better off because you occupied that office.

Kenya’s public square often rewards spectacle. It confuses aggression with strength. But ash-consciousness reminds us that propaganda cannot silence the verdict of time. The ash is democratic. It does not distinguish between a hustler and a head of state. It levels us. It says that behind every title is a body with a limited lifespan. Behind every signature is a hand that will one day be still. This reality should not fuel fear – it should yield wisdom.

When a leader truly remembers he is dust, he becomes careful with people made of the same dust. Ash-consciousness breeds restraint. It disciplines authority without paralysing it. It produces courage that does not need cruelty and firmness that does not require humiliation.

Ash-consciousness also reminds citizens of their responsibility. For the forgetfulness we criticise in leaders is sometimes mirrored in the electorate. We, too, can reward arrogance if it is wrapped in charisma. We, too, can excuse excess if it benefits our tribe or faction. Ash-consciousness is not only for those in office; it is for a nation.

In moments of political competition, the temptation is to dehumanise opponents — to speak of crushing rather than convincing. But dust-consciousness reframes the battlefield. It says you are contending with another mortal, not a permanent foe. Today’s rival may be tomorrow’s ally. Today’s critic may be tomorrow’s conscience.

The absence of ash-consciousness breeds panic, and panic breeds pettiness. When a system feels threatened, it often reacts with disproportionate force. It mistakes insecurity for strength. It confuses suppression for stability. But leaders who remember they are dust do not panic easily. They understand that legitimacy is earned, not enforced.

Imagine a political culture in which leaders regularly asked themselves: If this were my last year in office, what unfinished injustices would I confront? Such a question has the power to recalibrate a nation -  shifting focus from short-term survival to long-term impact. It redirects energy from image management to institution building, encouraging justice systems that will outlast the designer.

One day, every convoy will park for the last time. Every siren will fall silent. Every title will be spoken in the past tense. Every portrait will gather dust. The question that will remain is painfully simple: What did you do with borrowed authority?

Kenya does not need immortal politicians. It needs mortal ones — leaders who govern with the steady awareness that they are passing through, not passing ownership. Leaders who understand that power is entrusted, not possessed. Leaders who recognise that history’s memory is longer than any term limit.

Ash Wednesday comes once a year. But ash-consciousness must be cultivated daily. It is the discipline of remembering. The refusal to be intoxicated by position. The courage to admit limitation. The wisdom to prepare successors. The humility to apologise. The restraint to refuse excess. The integrity to protect institutions even when they inconvenience you.

In the end, the ash tells the truth we spend careers avoiding.

We are dust. Presidents are dust. Senators are dust. Governors are dust. CEOs are dust. Bishops are dust. Voters are dust. Protesters are dust.

We are, all of us, dustmates.