It’s democracy by acclamation, facing Mount Kenya: thaaaiii!

A section of Mt Kenya Governors led by Mwangi wa Iria (Muranga) from left, Lee Kinyanjui (Nakuru) and Anne Waiguru (Kirinyaga) address the media on their way forward politically at the Sarova Panafric, Nairobi [Elvis Ogina}

It seemed preposterous that anyone would object to the Speaker of the National Assembly Justin Muturi’s coronation as a Gikuyu elder. But then, politics is a strange art and what you see isn’t always what you get.

So, for the uninitiated, the sight of Muturi draped in traditional regalia, walking tranced, pouring libation or chanting a prayer, would be a harmless gesture that should tolerated, even supported.

But the Murang’a Governor, Mwangi wa Iria’s saw something else, which he expressed as only wa Iria can. When he speaks, which is often, a spark springs to his eye—it’s discernible behind his tinted glasses— and his chubby cheeks twitch and his voice quivers. He can be excitable, this wa Iria man.

And although he’s driven to invoke cultural rituals as an affirmation of his political fortitude—he once dared some political honcho to challenge him if he was circumcised—he issued a threat of a different kind this time around.

Last week, wa Iria declared no one would set foot in “his” county to desecrate the hallowed abode of the Gikuyu, in a shrine called Mukurwe wa Nyagathanga. Wa Iria promised to mobilise every citizen of his county, and from the force of his words, one expected he’d mobilise even the donkeys of Murang’a to bray their protests and defend the sanctity of the shrine.  Now, that’s what Kenyans call kinyang’anyiro, and they never shied from a good kinyang’anyiro. In fact, they cherish such contestations, and things were heating up as the d-day approached. Muturi & Co promised to march on; the irony wasn’t lost on Kenyans that the man to be their “spokesman,” whatever that means, needed protection from the self-same people.

In the event, it was a no-show as wa Iria stayed clear of the path leading to the shrine, and his supporters were wise enough to know this wasn’t something worthy risking a life or limb for. They all watched from afar as the shrine was engulfed in smoke, where a burnt offering was being offered to appease the gods.

Muturi, fresh from a ten-day seclusion, during which he reportedly had to abstain from sex—I thought sex and politics go together— emerged. He did not have much to say, beside the cultural acclamation: Thaaaaiii!

And that’s when everything gained sense. The light-bulb moment, they call it, when the mist of confusion rises to give clarity to may have seemed discombobulating. The elders’ chant echoed Muturi’s work in Parliament, his solemn task of leading bands of dark-suited men and women in braying “ayeeeee” or “naaayyy” to endorse or reject a motion.

With one of the youngest populations on earth, young Kenyans who have neither heard “aye” nor “nay,” are unlikely to be swayed by incantations of “thaaiii,” facing any direction of the wind, so the idea of a cultural ritual to negotiate political power is as absurd as those vehemently opposed to it. Kenyans, after all, have a voice in their vote, and they know how to express it, without anyone’s prompting.