I was having a conversation with a friend and the question emerged: Do people of faith observe the Decalogue strictly in daily life? Let us speak plainly fellow sinners, for the sake of our Sovereign Republic. Every five years we gather at the altar of democracy, chant campaign slogans and then wonder why the sky falls the moment the winner is sworn in.
Prices spike. Roads remain half-built. Youth riots. Debts balloon like a politician’s belly at a harambee. And the prophets of doom on social media and in church WhatsApp groups cry judgement. But what if the judgement is self-inflicted? What if the real culprit is not the system, not Western nor globalist interests, not even tribalism, but the quiet, cheerful violation of the very first line in the Decalogue: Thou shalt have no other gods before me?
Because in Kenya, money is god. Not metaphorically. Literally. And the joke is older than our republic. Money is said to have been named after Juno Moneta, the Roman goddess of warning and advice. This connection came about because the first Roman mint was located in her temple on the Capitoline Hill in Rome.
Over time, the Latin word for the mint, moneta, became the word for the coins themselves, eventually evolving into the modern English word money. We have been worshipping at the feet of a pagan deity for two millennia and still act shocked when she demands her tithe. The cross-cultural deification of wealth isn't coincidence, it is evidence that money has always tempted people to elevate it to divine status.
We have replaced the jealous Yahweh with a far more accommodating idol whose name changes with every election cycle: Campaign Cash, the Great Provider of SUVs, bodyguards and facilitation envelopes. Politicians do not campaign; they perform high Mass for Mammon, complete with choirs of praise singers, miracle money that appears in sangwenya’s pockets, and false prophecies about free everything.
Observe the liturgy. Months before the polls, aspirants vanish into the temples of private banks, foreign investors and local tycoons. They emerge anointed with billions they can never repay through honest salary. The contract is simple: win, loot enough to settle the debt, and keep the change. The electorate? We are the collection plate.
A kilo of sugar here, a T-shirt there, a crisp five hundred bob note slipped into a grandmother’s palm while the pastor prays for peaceful polls. Every promise is not policy. It is the ancient art of baiting the faithful with visions of prosperity, exactly as the prophets of Baal once did on Mount Carmel.
And we, the congregants, lap it up. We know the game. We know the man promising to end corruption has three pending graft cases. We know the person vowing to fix healthcare just doubled her fleet of German cars. Yet we queue in the sun, ululate, and vote anyway. Why? Because deep down we too have converted. The god of money, Juno Moneta’s modern heir, whispers that this time the miracle will trickle down to us. We have made an idol of the very thing that will eventually devour us.
Then the election ends. The winner, having spent more than the GDP of a small county, must now recoup. Overnight the national till becomes a personal ATM. Tenders are inflated. Ghost projects multiply. The very MPs who swore to serve suddenly discover that legislating is secondary to facilitating their campaign investors. When the public complains, the answer is always the same: Let us move on. Move on from what? From the First Commandment we collectively trampled?
Look at the pattern. After every poll since multiparty democracy, the same symptoms appear: crippling public debt, runaway inflation, ethnic score-settling, and a sudden epidemic of “I don’t remember signing that contract.” Coincidence? Or the inevitable harvest of idolatry?
Even our churches have joined the pantheon. Bishops anoint candidates with oil and prayer breakfasts, then collect tithes from the same politicians who later raid the National Treasury. The message is clear: God helps those who help themselves—to the public purse.
Meanwhile the true God of all creation, the one who said “no other gods,” looks on omnisciently. So yes, the wailing after every election may not be mere incompetence. They may be the universe’s sarcastic way of saying: You wanted money first. Enjoy.
Perhaps it is time for a modest proposal. Next election cycle, let every candidate sign a public affidavit: “I swear that I will not put campaign cash before God, country or common sense.”
Until then, spare me the shock. We knew the price. We paid it in crisp, unmarked notes. And somewhere in the heavens, or perhaps just in a locked room stacked with wads of notes, the true god is counting its blessings upon the generational curse bequeathed by today’s receiving hands.
