How Mutahi Ngunyi turned from Uhuru's adviser and defender to heckler

Mutahi Ngunyi did not emerge from the wilderness to comment on Uhuru Kenyatta. He was not an outsider. He was an insider, deep inside. He served as a presidential adviser. [File, Standard]

 Kenyan politics has a cruel afterlife. It does not simply retire its actors; it recycles them, often in undignified ways.

Power in Kenya is not merely exercised. It is remembered, resented, and weaponized long after it has left office.

This is why the recent public broadside by Mutahi Ngunyi against former President Uhuru Kenyatta is not merely a personal attack. It is a case study in political ingratitude, elite insecurity, and the moral confusion that afflicts those who once dined at the high table of power and now shout from the streets.

Let us begin with the first principles. When one retires from the presidency, do they cease to be Kenyan citizens? Do they forfeit the right to opinion, association, or political thought? Of course not.

Retirement from the office is not exile from the Republic. The Constitution does not impose political silence on former Heads of State. What it demands, though not legally, but morally, is restraint, dignity, and an appreciation of the symbolic weight such office carries even after power has moved on.

That is precisely why comparisons between Uhuru Kenyatta and Rigathi Gachagua, mockingly framed as “Riggy G 2.0” are not just crude; they are intellectually lazy. They collapse history, context, and constitutional reality into cheap provocation. They also betray a deeper contradiction in the critic himself.

Mutahi Ngunyi did not emerge from the wilderness to comment on Uhuru Kenyatta. He was not an outsider. He was an insider, deep inside. He served as a presidential adviser. He walked the corridors of State House. He spoke with the authority that proximity to power confers.

When Uhuru Kenyatta spoke, Ngunyi listened. When Uhuru decided, Ngunyi defended. When the second term ended, Ngunyi publicly announced that he had “cleared his desk,” a phrase meant to signal loyalty fulfilled, service rendered, and chapter closed.

More than that, Uhuru Kenyatta honoured him with the Order of the Burning Spear, one of the highest national decorations. States do not give such honours lightly. They are conferred to recognize service, contribution, and trust. At that time, there was no sarcasm, no mockery, and no “Riggy G” metaphors. There was only deference. “Yes, Your Excellency.” Those were the words of the day.

Fast forward to the present, and the tone has changed dramatically. The former adviser now speaks with casual disdain, even ridicule. Such reversals are not evidence of intellectual evolution; they are symptoms of political opportunism. They suggest not courage but convenience.

In political theory, there is a concept known as elite circulation. The movement of individuals in and out of power networks. In mature democracies, this circulation is moderated by norms of decency and institutional memory. In fragile political cultures, it becomes transactional and resentful. When proximity to power ends, some former courtiers reinvent themselves as radical truth-tellers, hoping that loud criticism will attract new patrons.

This is where the critique becomes unavoidable. The spectacle we are witnessing is not about principle. It is about positioning. It is about being noticed. It is about signaling availability to the new centre of power. In simpler language, it is political job-hunting disguised as moral outrage.

There is nothing wrong with seeking relevance. There is nothing wrong with criticism. But there is something deeply unsettling about attacking the very office and office-holder that once legitimized your own authority without acknowledging that shared history. It reeks of ingratitude, and worse, it erodes the thin ethical fabric that holds elite accountability together.

Former President Uhuru Kenyatta is not beyond criticism. No leader is. His record is mixed, his decisions debatable, his legacy contested. But criticism must be honest, proportionate, and grounded in substance. Not personal derision. More importantly, it should come from a place of intellectual consistency, not selective amnesia.

There is also a deeper danger here. When former advisers turn into hecklers, they normalise politics of betrayal. They teach younger generations that loyalty is temporary, honour is disposable, and service to the state is merely a stepping stone to the next appointment. This corrodes trust not just between individuals but within institutions.

Kenya needs a different political ethic, one where former leaders operate with quiet influence, not performative drama; where former advisers critique with humility, not hostility; and where disagreement does not require character assassination.

The late President Mwai Kibaki offers a useful contrast. Imagine if Kibaki had spent his retirement organizing opposition rallies against Uhuru Kenyatta, issuing daily political commentary, or mocking his successors. He did not. Not because he lacked opinions, but because he understood the power of restraint. He achieved more from the shadows than many achieve from podiums.

That lesson still matters. So yes, take it or leave it: criticism is legitimate, but ingratitude is not. Dissent is healthy, but opportunism is corrosive. And former power brokers should remember this simple truth, how you exit power often defines you more than how you entered it.