Why the Luhya nation needs unity, assertive 'tribal' king

Let me begin with the immortal words of the late Philip Ochieng, that towering giant of Kenyan journalism whose mind cut through nonsense like a panga through overgrown bush in the thickets of Nambale. I shall not quote him verbatim — the dead deserve better than lazy verbatim — but I will capture his essence: He once wrote, “When you present yourself before the state to apply for an identity card, they will demand several particulars. But there is something particularly particular about the particulars they will ask. That particular thing is your tribe.”

Ochieng, in his infinite wisdom, was not celebrating tribalism. He was stating a fact so obvious that only the intellectually dishonest pretend not to see it. The Kenyan state, for all its pretensions to nationhood, has always wanted to know where you come from, who your people are, which linguistic cluster you call home.

They do not ask this out of anthropological curiosity. They ask because in Kenya, tribe is currency. Tribe is destiny. Tribe is the silent arithmetic that often determines who eats and who watches others eat.

Let me paint you three snapshots:

Snapshot One: It is February 2026. The President has nominated Francis Ole Meja as Chairperson of the Public Service Commission. Within hours, Members of Parliament from the Maa community gather before television cameras, their faces arranged in expressions of gratitude.

They thank the President for remembering the Maasai. They speak of being considered, of being included, of finally getting a seat at the high table. Nobody accuses them of tribalism. They are simply doing what every community in Kenya does—watching out for their own.

Snapshot Two: For decades, Luo Nyanza has stood resolutely behind Raila Odinga through presidential elections lost, through marches in the battle-ridden streets of Nairobi and Kisumu; through nights in the cold insults and horrendous epithets. They have been called names—radicals, rebels, perennial outsiders. But when the Gen Z demonstrations shook the foundations of the state, and Ruto needed to steady his ship, who did he turn to?

He turned to Raila. And suddenly, appointments began flowing towards Luo Nyanza. Roads started being tarmacked. Factories proposed, bridges built. Economic goods, as if by magic, found their way to the shores of Lake Victoria. There has been no lecture on tribalism, only the quiet rationalising of what we all know to be true.

Snapshot Three: Cast your mind back to the pre-election pact that brought Musalia Mudavadi and Moses Wetang’ula into the governing fold. The promise, whispered in corridors and sealed with handshakes, was 30 per cent. Thirty per cent of appointments, 30 per cent of development, 30 per cent of the national cake, baked fresh for the Luhya people. The less said about how that promise has been honoured, the better. The less said about what has actually trickled down from Nairobi to Busia, Kakamega, or Bungoma, the kinder I will be.

Tribal game

Now, I am not here to cast stones. Every community plays the game as it is structured. The Kalenjins have consolidated around Ruto with a discipline that would make a Prussian general weep with admiration.

The Kikuyus, for all their little squabbles, know how to rally around a flag—be it Kibaki, Uhuru or Gachagua—when the moment demands it. The Kisiis have found their champion in Matiang’i. And the Luo, though still reeling from the sad reality of a Raila-shaped vacuum, stand a better chance of finding a new voice than we do—if we do not wake from our slumber soon enough.

What happened to the spirit that rallied the Abaluhya around Masinde Muliro? Around Wamalwa Kijana? We lazily accept the accolade of being the second-largest ethnic community in this nation, but do little to make our numerical potential count in the national arithmetic.

We have produced leaders who rush to State House not to demand anything for their people, but to demonstrate how little they will ask for, how reasonable they can be, how different they are from those “tribalists” from other communities.

And while we have been busy being reasonable, while we have been busy proving our nationalist credentials, while we have been busy playing the gentlemen and ladies of Kenyan politics, other communities have been eating, not through malice, but through the simple logic of political organisation.

They understand something that we have refused to understand: that in the marketplace of Kenyan politics, if you do not demand, you will be ignored. If you do not assert, you will be forgotten. If you do not consolidate, you will be divided and conquered.

The great Chinua Achebe, drawing on the folk wisdom of his people, told us that until the lion learns to write, then the story of the hunt will always glorify the hunter. For too long, the Luhya have allowed others to write our story. We have allowed ourselves to be depicted as passive, as content with crumbs, as a community that does not mind being taken for granted. It is time for us to pick up the pen. It is time for us to tell our own story.

And the first chapter of that story must begin with the recognition that we need a voice. A single voice. A voice that can sit at the negotiating table and say, without apology or embarrassment: “This is what the Luhya people require. These are the appointments that must go to our sons and daughters. These are the roads that must be built in our counties. These are the schools that must be upgraded in our villages.”

This man, Sifuna

At this moment in our history, that leader appears to be none other than Edwin Sifuna. I say this not as a partisan, but as an observer of political reality. Watch him in the well of Parliament: his tongue is a blade, his mind a fortress. When he rises to speak, even his adversaries listen—not because they agree, but because they know they will be challenged.

He has shown, in the trenches of Nairobi politics, the courage to stand alone, to vote against his own side when principle demands it, to refuse the seductive whisper of expediency. While others chase favours, he has remained consistent—a rare commodity in a marketplace of political prostitutes. He possesses something rare in Luhya leadership: the willingness to confront, to demand, to stand firm even when it is not convenient. He understands that power respects only those who are willing to fight for it.

But let me be clear. I am not proposing that we retreat into ethnic cocoons and abandon the dream of a united Kenya. I am not suggesting that we become tribalists in the negative sense of that word. I am simply recognising reality. In Kenya, as it is presently constituted, communities that organise themselves politically get ahead.

The Luo have shown us the way. Through decades of opposition, through years in the political wilderness, they never abandoned their champion. And now, they are reaping the rewards of that fidelity. Not all of them are benefiting, to be sure. But enough are benefiting to make a difference.

The Kalenjins have shown us the way. They rallied around Ruto when he was dismissed as a junior minister, when everyone said he would never make it. And now they occupy the highest offices in the land. I say ‘they’ knowing that there is the risk of faulty overgeneralisation, but realising what it means.

It is time for the Luhya to learn these lessons. It is time for us to put aside our internal differences, to stop competing to see who can be the most reasonable, to stop proving that we are different from those “tribalists.” We are not different. We are human beings who love our children, who want our communities to thrive, who deserve our fair share of the national cake. And to get that fair share, we need a voice. A single voice. A voice that says: “We are here. We matter. We will not be ignored.”

If that makes us tribalists, so be it. I would rather be called a tribalist with roads in my county than a nationalist with nothing but speeches to show for it. The time for gentlemen’s agreements that benefit only the other side is over. The time for the Luhya to take their rightful place at the high table is now.