The Fog, the Fire, and the Choice Before Us

 So here I am—another year older, seated quietly, celebrating the little joys of life. A gift from God, of course. Who am I not to be grateful, even when times are tough? Ni January, my friend. Much has been said about me.

But what about you?

My Taita people.

Is it WANTAM… or have we quietly slipped into TUTAM?

Across the country, there’s a thick fog in the air. Smoke everywhere. You can’t see the fire, but you can feel it—burning slowly, deliberately. Campaign fires have been lit once again. And though my eyes are teary, I can still hear. I can still sense. The blindness that covered us in previous years—madongo gha funywa—is lifting.

This time, something feels different.

For once, we are saying—in one voice—that those who know must educate those who don’t. That ignorance is no longer an excuse. That change is not optional. It is necessary. But for change to come, we need clarity of purpose.

I hear names being whispered loudly now.

Mwashako of Wundanyi.

Senator Mwaruma.

They are said to be eyeing the county’s top seat.

Are they fit for it?

It’s a question I’ve asked myself repeatedly—and I’m yet to settle on an answer. But perhaps the more important question is this: Who is truly right for the County CEO position? Not who is popular. Not who is loud. Not who has the biggest posters. But who understands the weight of leadership in a county that has stalled for far too long.

The Senate race? Ah. A familiar script.

New faces mixing with old ones.

Some fresh ideas.

Some tired mascara faces that desperately need rest.

I hear even Mshapa is sharpening his claws again, ready for another round.

As for me, I’m sharpening something else—my writing kits and my wits. Because this season, Voice of Taita Taveta returns with intention. I am ready to educate. Ready to analyse. Ready to interrogate every contestant, one by one.

This is a cruel world we are navigating—an Animal Farm of sorts—where rebelling dogs are sent to the slaughter, only to re-emerge later as toothless sheep, barking at their own shadows. We stay quiet, and the county remains stagnant. Stagnant water. The kind that smells. You travel to other counties and suddenly realise just how stuck in the past we are.

So who is to blame?

The voters?

Or the leaders we voted in?

Let me not stir the stagnant water too violently—lest the pungent smell robs us of sleep and gives us even worse days. But make no mistake: I am ready to stir it. Slowly. Deliberately. A bit at a time.

Our weekly editions are back.

Change is coming.

And this time, I pray to God that we will hear the voice crying in the wilderness—and finally make the right call.

This is the Voice of Taita Taveta.

Peace out.