It's wrong for politicians to turn disaster zones into campaign platforms

Work continues at the site of an 18-storey building that collapsed in Eastleigh, Nairobi, as four bodies are recovered on November 5, 2026. [Wilberforce Okwiri, Standard]

There is something deeply performative about the African political class and tragedy. Somewhere between the sirens, blood stains and cries of ordinary citizens, a convoy of black SUVs inevitably appears — and lately, helicopters. Men in dark suits jump out. Police officers begin shouting. Roads are blocked. Cameras are repositioned. Suddenly, the dead, the injured and the traumatised become secondary characters in a carefully choreographed theatre of power.

Kenya has mastered this grotesque ritual.

A building collapses in Nairobi, a tanker explodes in western Kenya, floods sweep away families in Budalang’i, or a grisly road accident occurs along the Nairobi-Nakuru highway. Before rescue teams can establish operational order, politicians arrive in branded jackets and heavy security details, eager to be seen 'on the ground.' In reality, the ground operation immediately ceases to be about saving lives and becomes about managing egos.

VIP culture is one of the most under-discussed obstacles to effective emergency response in Kenya and across Africa.

Disaster management literature is clear on one principle: During the golden hour of an emergency, coordination, speed and operational clarity save lives. Yet in our republic of optics, that golden hour is often sacrificed at the altar of political symbolism. Police officers who should be securing perimeters are redirected to crowd control for politicians. Ambulance routes are disrupted to create secure passage for convoys. Rescue commanders abandon active operations to brief governors, Cabinet secretaries and MPs who possess neither the technical expertise nor operational discipline required at such scenes.

The incident stops being an emergency. It becomes a press conference.

The irony is painful. The same leaders who underfund county fire departments, neglect public hospitals and loot disaster preparedness budgets are often the first to arrive for televised sympathy. In Kenya, grief has become an extension of political branding. Tragedy is now a campaign opportunity.

One remembers the chaos witnessed during major accident scenes in recent years, where crowds surged not because of rescue coordination, but because 'mheshimiwa amefika.' Even journalists, themselves guilty of amplifying spectacle over substance, instinctively pivot cameras from victims to VIP arrivals. The nation begins discussing who visited the scene rather than why the tragedy occurred in the first place.

This obsession with visibility reflects a deeper pathology within postcolonial African governance. Our leaders still operate under the logic that authority must be physically seen to be believed. It is why governors distribute wheelbarrows personally, why ministers inspect potholes with photographers present, and why presidents tour flood victims surrounded by helicopters and television crews. Governance here is not institutional; it is performative monarchy disguised as democracy.

But emergencies are not rallies.

The most effective leaders during crises are often invisible to the public eye. In developed emergency management systems, political leaders coordinate resources from command centres while trained responders work uninterrupted. The firefighter does not pause to salute the prime minister. The surgeon does not abandon surgery because a governor has arrived for pictures. Systems function because institutions, not personalities, matter.

Kenya must learn this lesson urgently.

At disaster scenes, the most important person is not the politician. It is the paramedic trying to stabilise a bleeding child. It is the firefighter cutting through mangled metal. It is the diver searching flooded rivers at midnight. It is the exhausted Red Cross volunteer carrying bodies no family should ever have to identify.

VIP visits should only occur after operational stabilisation, and preferably away from active rescue zones. Leaders can issue statements, mobilise resources, visit survivors in hospitals and provide accountability afterwards. But they must resist the narcissistic temptation to convert national pain into political choreography. Because sometimes leadership is not about arriving dramatically with sirens and cameras.

Sometimes leadership is simply knowing when to stay away.