WANJAWA: Kenya must resist the return of imperial presidency

When Kenyans voted overwhelmingly for a new Constitution in 2010, they were doing far more than approving a legal document.

They were rebelling against a political culture that had, over decades, concentrated extraordinary power in one office: the presidency.

The vote was, in essence, a national decision to dismantle the imperial presidency that had dominated Kenya’s political life since independence.

Under the old constitutional order, the presidency had gradually grown into a towering institution that overshadowed every other arm of government.

The occupant of State House was not merely the head of the Executive; he was the centre around which the entire political system revolved. Parliament existed, but its ability to check Executive power was weak and often compromised by political patronage.

The Judiciary existed, but its independence was frequently questioned. Public institutions existed, but many of them operated under the shadow of Executive influence.

The presidency controlled appointments across government, from senior civil servants to heads of public institutions. It wielded enormous influence over the distribution of public resources and the direction of development projects.

Provincial administration structures reported directly to the Executive, reinforcing a governance culture where authority flowed downward from the presidency rather than upward from the people.

In such an environment, the presidency became something larger than a constitutional office. It became an institution surrounded by myth, reverence and fear.

Criticism of the president was often equated with disloyalty to the state. Political survival frequently depended on demonstrating loyalty to the centre of power. Regions perceived to support the government were rewarded with visible development projects, while areas seen as politically hostile risked marginalisation.

Development, in effect, became politicised. Roads, schools, hospitals and other public investments were too often framed not as rights of citizenship but as favours dispensed by the leadership.

Citizens were subtly encouraged to view development as something that came from the goodwill of those in power rather than from their own sovereign authority as taxpayers and voters.

The framers of the 2010 Constitution sought to fundamentally change this political architecture. Their aim was not simply to limit the presidency but to redesign the Kenyan state in a way that dispersed power and strengthened institutions.

They recognised that the concentration of authority in a single office was not merely a legal problem but a structural one.

Several key reforms were therefore introduced. Parliament was given enhanced oversight authority, including the power to vet key public appointments and hold the Executive accountable through stronger committee systems.

The Judiciary was restructured to safeguard its independence, with new procedures for the appointment of judges and a stronger institutional framework, including budgetary independence, intended to protect it from political interference.

Independent constitutional commissions were also established to act as watchdogs in critical areas such as human rights, public service, elections and ethics. These agencies were meant to provide institutional guardrails against the abuse of power.

Perhaps the most transformative reform, however, was devolution. The establishment of county governments fundamentally altered the geography of power in Kenya.

Instead of development decisions being made exclusively in Nairobi, counties were given their own budgets, leadership structures and responsibilities for key services. Health, agriculture, local infrastructure and other essential functions were placed closer to the people.

Devolution was therefore more than administrative decentralisation; it was an attempt to break the historical monopoly of the presidency over development.

By guaranteeing counties a share of national revenue and constitutional authority over local priorities, the new system sought to ensure that development could no longer be weaponised as a tool of political loyalty.

Yet, despite these reforms, echoes of the old political culture continue to surface in public discourse. It is not uncommon to hear political leaders declare that they must “join government” in order to bring development to their people. Others openly argue that aligning with the ruling establishment is the only way to secure roads, schools, or infrastructure for their regions.

Such arguments reveal how deeply the mentality of the imperial presidency still lingers in Kenya’s political imagination. The idea that development depends on proximity to power contradicts the very spirit of the 2010 constitutional order.

Citizens must therefore be wary of narratives that subtly revive the imperial presidency under new political language. Constitutional democracy requires more than institutional reforms; it requires a shift in civic consciousness. Kenyans must reject the idea that development flows from individuals rather than from institutions.

At the same time, the defence of constitutionalism cannot be outsourced to courts, commissions or legislators alone. A constitution, however progressive, cannot enforce itself. Its strength ultimately depends on the vigilance and commitment of the people it serves.

If citizens grow indifferent, institutions weaken. If public accountability fades, power quietly reconcentrates. History has shown repeatedly that constitutional safeguards are only as strong as the public will that sustains them.

It is the people—their awareness, their courage and their insistence on accountable governance—who breathe life into its words. And in that sense, the most powerful guardian of the constitution is not the presidency, Parliament or the courts.

It is the citizen.