Before judging Northern Kenya, follow the money trail

“Let them eat cake.”

The phrase is commonly attributed to Marie Antoinette, the French queen who supposedly responded to news that ordinary people could not afford bread by suggesting they eat cake instead. Historians continue to debate whether she ever uttered those words. What matters is what the phrase has come to represent: a powerful elite passing judgment on people whose realities they neither understand nor experience.

More than two centuries later, the sentiment remains familiar.

Whenever Northern Kenya enters Kenya’s national conversation, many of the loudest voices speak with certainty about what is wrong, who is to blame, and why the region remains behind. Corruption is cited. Mismanagement is alleged. Entire communities are judged through assumptions and stereotypes.

The accusation changes with time. The presumption does not.

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When things were going negatively for Somalis, it was insecurity. After their fortunes changed, it was piracy. Then remittances. Then Al‑Shabaab. Today it is corruption. The storyline evolves, but the conclusion is always the same: Northern Kenya is responsible for its own challenges

It is a convenient narrative.

It is also an incomplete one.

Under Kenya’s Constitution, county governments receive only a fraction of nationally raised revenue, while approximately 85 per cent has remained under the control of the national government.

Yet whenever Northern Kenya is discussed, public debate focuses almost exclusively on the 15 per cent.

Before asking what Northern Kenya did with its share, Kenya must answer a much larger question: What happened to the other 85 per cent? The answer matters because Northern Kenya did not come into being in 2013.

For decades after independence, the region occupied the margins of state investment. Roads were scarce. Schools were few. Health facilities were limited. Water infrastructure lagged far behind the rest of the country. Marginalisation was not an accident of geography. It was the result of policy choices made over generations.

The next time someone asks who failed Northern Kenya, the answer should not begin in 2013. It should begin in 1963. Actually, well before 1963. But that is a story for another day.
This is not an argument against accountability. It is an argument for consistency. The reality on the ground demonstrates why. Before devolution, Wajir had only three secondary schools serving an entire county. Today there are approximately 90 secondary schools and more than 350 primary schools. Access to healthcare was equally limited. In 2013, Wajir had only one medical officer. Currently, the county has 174 registered health facilities and more than 76 doctors serving its population. No serious observer can look at those numbers and claim nothing has changed. That is not perfection; it is progress.

Residents of Garissa, Wajir, and Mandera understand better than anyone that corruption remains a challenge. They know the roads not built, the projects delayed, and the opportunities lost. They are not asking for corruption to be ignored. What many object to is selective accountability. Indeed, some of the loudest voices lamenting corruption in Northern Kenya appear more concerned than the people who actually live there. To borrow an old expression, they are often more Catholic than the Pope.

A governor should explain every missing million. A ministry should explain every missing billion. The same standard must apply everywhere.

Yet some unscrupulous cabal often mislead unsuspecting Kenyans and are hiding in plain sight. When success emerges from Northern Kenya, they ask where the money came from. When wealth emerges elsewhere through political proximity and state connections, admiration frequently replaces scrutiny. It is an open secret that Kenyan billionaires have been, and are, overwhelmingly politicians who own high-end skyscrapers; not a single skyscraper in Eastleigh is owned by a governor from the North. The question is not whether corruption exists; rather, the question is whether accountability is being applied fairly.

An example of this inconsistency is the frequent demand that governors construct major highways and trunk roads, despite the fact that such infrastructure is primarily the responsibility of the national government. Those who invoke the Constitution when demanding accountability often ignore it when assigning blame.

If corruption is truly the concern, then let us compare Auditor-General reports across every county. Let us also compare investigations, prosecutions, and convictions arising from those reports. The use of the EACC as a political tool to whip compliance does not prove corruption; convictions do.

The same inconsistency appears in the implementation of the Equalisation Fund. Article 204 of the Constitution specifically created the fund to address historical marginalisation. Yet implementation was delayed for years while communities continued waiting for water, electricity, roads, and healthcare.

Those who are now shedding crocodile tears for Northern Kenya rarely explain why constitutional remedies arrived so late with so little.

Northern Kenya does not need sympathy. It needs fairness. It does not need stereotypes. It needs investment. And it does not need selective accountability. It needs equal accountability.

If measurable progress has been achieved with roughly 15 per cent of public resources, then Kenya should be asking a far bigger question about national development. It begs the question: What happened to the other 85 per cent?

History will remember those who stole, but it will also remember those who neglected, excused neglect, and then blamed its victims.

Before judging Northern Kenya, follow the money; that is where the real story begins—and where the real accountability should start.

- Dahiye is a Governance/communication expert and a PhD candidate