Kabelo

Peace & Good Governance Advocate📌

[Kabelo @AKabelo]

Dear CS @kipmurkomen i notice the govt has made great effort in eradicating illegal arms in RV but please note that disarmament removes the gun from illegal owners but development removes the reason to pick it up again. Disarming should not be the end.

[Kabelo @AKabelo]

@DeboraBarasa In Kipsaina we have a 2m/yr capacity nursery

[Kabelo @AKabelo]

Trans Nzoia Launches Climate Literacy Campaign Ahead of August Environmental Week https://t.co/eGCvCHnUXd

[Kabelo @AKabelo]

Only Chief Kosi could explain mortality with such logic.Only him could make death sound funny. At least he was the only one who openly admits he was afraid and still make everyone around him laugh. That was who he was. A powerful man who never pretended to be brave. A man who wore his fears openly. A man whose humor softened every difficult truth.

Sadly, he eventually returned to Modogashe and one day, the very fate he feared caught up with him there. Last week, I stood beside his grave. The same grave he spent years saying he never wanted. The same grave he could never quite understand.

I stood there quietly and offered a prayer. And as I looked at the heap of soil before me, I couldn't help but smile. Not because death had won but because even now, years later, Chief Kosi Fayo was still making me laugh.

May Allah forgive him. May Allah widen his grave. May Allah illuminate it with His mercy. And may He grant Jannatul Firdaus to a man who taught us that sometimes the best way to face life's greatest fears is to laugh at them.

[Kabelo @AKabelo]

KOSI FAYO- THE CHIEF WHO RAN AWAY FROM DEATH

A few days ago, I returned to my hometown and embarked on a deeply personal journey. I sought out my late father's friends and age mates. Those still living and those who have since returned to their Creator. I sat with the living, listened to their stories and for the departed, I stood by their graves and offered prayers.

One grave, however, stirred memories unlike any other. It belonged to Chief Kosi Fayo of Modogashe. Those who grew up in Northern Kenya in 80s during the era of the Provincial Administration will understand the kind of authority chiefs wielded. A chief was not merely a government officer; he was the government itself. His word carried weight. Back then, when someone acted too powerful or intimidating, people would often ask: "Sitt dio mo disi?" "Are you a DO or a DC?" It was the ultimate measure of authority.

In Modogashe, one of the most prominent chiefs of that era was Chief Kosi Fayo. Across the Garissa side, his counterpart was Chief Hussein Gure. The two were close friends and respected administrators. But Chief Kosi was different. Very different. Despite his authority, he was one of the most approachable men you could ever meet. He loved people. He loved children even more. Above all, he loved laughter. You could sit with him for five minutes and leave holding your stomach from laughing too much.

As a child, I deliberately looked for opportunities to be around him. Not because he was a chief but because he was funny.
Exceptionally funny. Yet beneath all that humor was a fear that everyone knew about. Chief Kosi feared graves. He rarely attended funerals. Whenever people questioned him, he would shake his head in disbelief and say he simply could not understand how human beings buried their loved ones deep inside the ground and put all that soil on him. To him, it seemed inhuman. "Even animals don't do that," he would argue. Many times, he jokingly warned his friends, "When I die, don't put me in that hole. Just place me on top of a tree and let the birds eat me." People would erupt with laughter. But he was serious or at least as serious as Chief Kosi could ever be.

Years later, I met him unexpectedly in Isiolo. He had just arrived on a lorry from Modogashe. The moment he saw me, he shouted loudly: "Abera Adan! Abera Adan!" I turned around.
There he was. I ran towards him and hugged him in the traditional yoyo embrace that a child reserves for someone he loves and respects. He held my shoulders, looked at me carefully and said: "Abera Adan, I hear you have become a big man nowadays just like Konso Hallos' son. Buy me tea."
He was referring to Mohamed Konso, the current BCE Chairman, who at the time was one of the most successful NGO professionals around. I laughed and took him to Masha Allah Hotel and told him to order whatever he wanted. As he enjoyed his meal, I asked him what had brought him to Isiolo yet he was retired. His answer nearly made me choke. Without hesitation, he said: "I am running away from death."
I stared at him. Running away from death? He noticed my confusion and leaned closer. "Do you know Haji Falansa has died?" "Yes," I replied. "And Dida Naqata?""Yes." He nodded gravely. Then I understood. Both men were his neighbors and age mates.

One after another, the people in his circle were departing.
To him, death was moving closer. He lowered his voice and declared: "My turn is coming. I decided not to wait for it in Modogashe." I laughed. Then I reminded him. "But Chief, even in Isiolo people die." Without missing a beat, he replied: "Yes, but in Isiolo death takes turns." I looked at him. He continued.
"One day it takes a Turkana. Another day a Meru. Then a Somali. Then someone else." He paused dramatically. "But in Modogashe, the circle is too small." I laughed so loudly that people across the tables turned to look at us.

[Kabelo @AKabelo]

AMERICA DENIED HIM ENTRY BUT THEY COULDN'T DENY HIM HIS DESTINY.

For more than twenty years, Somali referee Omar Artan pursued a dream that every football official longs for, to stand on the world's biggest stage and officiate at the FIFA World Cup in the United States that kicked off yesterday. Then came the crushing blow. His visa was denied. Just like that, a journey that had taken decades of sacrifice, discipline, training and perseverance appeared to come to an abrupt end. Many people would have broken down but Omar being a muslim took solace in the revelation from Allah in surat Al-Baqarah which says "Perhaps you dislike something and it is good for you and perhaps you love something and it is bad for you. Allah knows, while you do not know." Allah here tells us of events that initially appear unfortunate but later reveal unexpected benefits and opportunities.

He accepted the setback with dignity and grace, trusting that not every closed door is a rejection. Sometimes it is simply a redirection.

What happened next is a lesson bigger than football. When he returned home, he was welcomed like a hero. Thousands lined the streets of Mogadishu to celebrate him. He was embraced not as a man who had failed, but as a man who had represented the hopes of an entire continent.

A Somali presidential candidate rewarded him with $50,000 an amount that reportedly exceeds what he would have earned from the entire tournament. Somalis across the world has began mobilizing support. From Mogadishu to Minneapolis, from London to Nairobi, voices united behind one of their own. Discussions of raising up to $1 million is on as the global Somali community turned disappointment into solidarity.

Away from the visa denial, UEFA has selected Omar Artan to officiate one of the most watched matches in the world, the UEFA Super Cup. The man who was told "no" by one door suddenly found a wider door opening into an even bigger stage. Many believe he could be among the leading candidates for future AFCON tournaments.

Back to Suratul Baqara Allah teaches us not every setback is a loss. Not every closed door means the journey is over.
Sometimes God removes you from one stage because He has prepared a larger audience elsewhere.

Omar Artan's story is not really about football. It is about faith. It is about resilience. It is about refusing to let one disappointment define your destiny. The visa was denied.The dream was not.

And perhaps the greatest lesson of all is this is when God has written your name next to a blessing, no embassy, no official, no obstacle and no human being can erase it. What is meant for you may arrive by a different road, but it will arrive.

[Kabelo @AKabelo]

@OnyiDas Yes Onyi

[Kabelo @AKabelo]

Get the moral lesson here

Once upon a time, the Lie said to the Truth, "Let's take a bath together, the well water is very nice."
The Truth, still suspicious, tested the water and found out it was nice. So they undressed and took their bath.
But suddenly, the Lie leaped out of the water and fled, wearing the clothes of the Truth. The Truth, furious, climbed out of the well and ran after lie to get her clothes back.
But the world, upon seeing the naked Truth, looked away with anger and contempt.
Poor Truth returned to the well and disappeared forever, hiding her shame.
Since then, the Lie runs around the world dressed as the Truth and the society is very happy because the world has no desire to know the naked Truth.

[Kabelo @AKabelo]

I penned this story over a year ago. Last Madaraka in Wajir sealed it...

The Naivasha Moment: Why Northern Kenya is not getting off the Kenya Kwanza bus

There comes a point in every journey, be it personal, political or communal when you pause, breathe and recharge. That milestone is what I call the 'Naivasha moment'. It’s not the end, but it’s a significant place of rest, reflection and readiness for the road ahead.

This Naivasha moment theory is from a touching story of a 16-year-old Nairobi girl who, having never met her extended family in Kakamega, insisted one holiday to visit them. Her mother finally gave in, packed her a small suitcase, a lunchbox and waved her off at the Nairobi matatu stage with a stern instruction: “Don’t alight until you reach Kakamega. Eat your food when you get to Naivasha.”

She sat right behind the driver, curious and eager. But barely past Kangemi, she leaned forward and asked, “Driver, is this Naivasha?”
He chuckled, “No, this is Kangemi.”
Again at Limuru—“Is this Naivasha?”
“No, not yet,” came the reply.
By the time they reached Kijabe, her repeated questions had agitated the driver off. He barked gently, “Little girl, I will tell you when we get to Naivasha. Please relax.”

Relieved, she slumped into her seat, clutched her bag and fell asleep.

But the driver, distracted by the road and passengers, forgot his promise. They passed Naivasha unnoticed. When the girl woke up hours later, she asked again, “Tumefika Naivasha?” The driver froze. Guilt slapped him hard. Against all logic and protests, he turned the matatu around, drove all the way back to Naivasha and pulled over at the stage. The conductor opened the door. Passengers parted way for her to pass like the Red Sea did for Moses.

But to everyone’s shock, the girl didn’t alight. She reached into her bag, took out her lunchbox and started calmly eating.
“But why aren’t you getting off?” someone asked.
She replied, “My mom told me to eat my food when I get to Naivasha. I’m still going to Kakamega.”

The matatu roared with mixed reactions, amusement, disbelief, and mild fury. But the girl was unbothered. She had arrived at her Naivasha moment. She refreshed, refueled and prepared for the rest of her journey.

This, right here, is the story of Northern Kenya.

For 60 years, we’ve been back-end passengers on a national bus where others have had their Naivasha moments. Time in the spotlight, positions of power and development. We watched from the window, ignored, excluded, uncounted and often treated like outsiders.

Now, under the Kenya Kwanza government, the story has changed. Doors are opening. Development is coming home. Our people are getting IDs, jobs and dignity. We’re occupying key leadership positions. This is our Naivasha moment. And we are not getting off this bus.

Let others fume, protest and demand why we’re not disembarking or wasting time. They had their time and snacks. They stretched their legs. Now it’s our turn. And like that little girl, we will sit back, eat what we’ve been given, and look forward to the destination.

To those shouting from the sides or trying to pull us off, no thank you. We’ll enjoy this ride. You may alight if you are tired of Naivasha. But we’re staying on till Kakamega (KK).

Because Northern Kenya has finally reached Naivasha like the rest and we’re not getting off.

[Kabelo @AKabelo]

WE ARE IN A LINE WE CANNOT SEE

Every minute, someone leaves this world. Not only the old. Not only the sick. Not only the weak. Someone. Somewhere. Age has nothing to do with it. Life does not always send a warning. The truth is we are all standing in a line. A line we did not choose. A line we cannot see the end of. And the strange thing is, most of us don't even realize we are in it. We wake up every morning thinking we have time. Time to hate. Time to fight. Time to compete. Time to prove we are better than someone else. But the line is moving. Quietly. Patiently. Relentlessly. And every day, someone steps out of it. We never know how many people are ahead of us. We never know when our name will be called. We cannot move to the back of the line. We cannot step out of it. We cannot pause it. And no amount of money, power, fame or connections can halt its progress. So, while we are still standing here waiting for our turn, let us make peace. Let us forgive. Let us stop carrying the heavy bags of anger and hatred. Let us do good. Not tomorrow. Not when it is convenient. But now. Let us tell the truth, even when lies seem easier. Let us be honest, even when honesty comes at a cost. Let us show kindness to people who may never be able to repay us. Because one day, whether we like it or not, we will leave this world. That is the one appointment no human being can cancel. So what is the point of holding a grudge against someone who could leave tomorrow or you could leave before them? Why boast about money when money has never stopped death? Why boast about status when titles disappear the moment life leaves the body? Why deceive yourself with power and connections when countless powerful people stood in this same line before you and still had to leave? Why fight your own brother over land when the earth itself will one day cover both of you? At the end of life, nobody asks how much money you had in your bank account. They ask how many lives you touched. They remember whether your presence brought peace or pain. Whether you lifted others up or pushed them down. Whether you built bridges or burned them. So while we are still alive. While our hearts are still beating. While our feet are still moving in this mysterious line called life, let us do good. Let us love more. Let us forgive faster. Let us help those who cannot help themselves. Let us use the little time we have not only to build our lives but to uplift humanity. Because when our turn finally comes and we step out of this line, the only thing that will remain is the good we did for others? May Allah guide our hearts to what is right, forgive our shortcomings, fill our lives with sincere goodness and grant us a beautiful ending when our time comes. Aameen.

And that is the UNCOMFORTABLE TRUTH

[Kabelo @AKabelo]

ONE HUNDRED CAMELS: A GIFT BEYOND EGH MEDALS

Today in Wajir, during the Madaraka Day celebrations, President @WilliamsRuto received a gift that many outside the pastoral world may not fully understand: The significance of one hundred camels.

To some, it may look like a simple token of appreciation but to those who know the Somali way of life and indeed to many pastoral communities, it was something far deeper. A camel is not merely an animal, it is a symbol of wealth, survival, prestige, identity and honor.

Among Somalis and Rendille, camels occupy a place in society that few possessions can match. If cattle are important in Borana culture, camels stand even higher in traditional Somali life. They are the bank account of the nomad, the insurance policy of the family, the pride of the household and the guarantee of survival when drought strikes like it often does.

The Somali people are often described as resilient. That resilience is no accident. For centuries, they have walked side by side with an animal equally resilient. When others perish in harsh environments, the camel and the herder endures. When water becomes scarce and pasture disappears, the camel continues. In many ways, Somalis and camels have shaped each other, learning the same lessons of patience, endurance and survival.

It is therefore no surprise that Allah Himself draws attention to the camel in the Holy Quran: "Do they not look at the camel, how it was created?"

Among pastoral peoples, the camel is not just admired. It is revered. In Somali and Arab poetry, camels are celebrated in verses of beauty and courage. A graceful camel is compared to a beautiful woman. A strong camel is compared to a heroic warrior.

Camels are instruments of social harmony. They are paid as dowry to establish marriages and unite families. They serve as compensation to aggrieved parties and heal wounds that might otherwise last generations. Somalis say "Geel la'aan waa nolol la'aan." "Without camels, there is no life."

A gift of camels is among the highest honors a guest can receive in Somali culture. Such a gift is not measured by market prices or auction values. Its true worth lies in what it means. The message today to Ruto is not you are welcome or appreciated. It means you are deeply honored.

In many ways, the one hundred camels carry a significance greater than medals, decorations and ceremonial titles. The state may confer honors such as EBS or EGH, but a camel gift by pastoralists overides all that.

The message was unmistakable: You arrived as a guest.
You departed as a deeply honored and trusted person. @WajirKE @Ahmedkadar1 @ole_abdinoor @CODKABULSHADA

[Kabelo @AKabelo]

Comedy of MCAs benchmarking trip to Geneva that missed the bench

Today I want to share an encounter ten years ago, I was at Geneva Airport waiting to board a flight to Schiphol airport in Amsterdam. The check-in queue was long, but we had time nobody was worried. Europeans queue like they are attending a funeral procession, quiet, disciplined and emotionally unavailable. Africans, on the other hand, queue like people attending a wedding. Noise, laughter and excitement.
A group of about eight Africans stood few feet ahead of me. They were happy, loud and animated in their talk. Every one of them dragging two giant suitcases. Their voices echoed across the airport terminal like political campaign speakers. I heard them speak Kiswahili.

I moved closer and greeted them warmly. “Hambojambo wakenya wenzangu!” They all turned smiling “Hatujambo!” they answered almost in chorus. Immediately we became relatives. That is the African way. Abroad, meeting another Kenyan automatically upgrades you from stranger to cousin. We began chatting. Who are you? Which county? What brought you to Switzerland?

They were MCAs from Kabarnet on a benchmarking trip. Yes benchmarking, the most misused English word ever introduced into Kenyan politics after devolution. The moment a county government says “benchmarking,” just know taxpayers are about to finance tourism disguised as development.

Now, let me tell you something about Geneva. That city is expensive enough to make your bank account develop chest pains. Even breathing there feels taxable. A cup of coffee can cost the same as a goat in Isiolo. Yet here were our honourable leaders roaming the city carrying suitcases full of shoppings back home.

Curious, I asked them what exactly they had learnt from Switzerland. One MCA smiled and said: “This city is very clean.” Another added: “And the roads are beautiful.” A lady among them nodded "and the trains keep time.”

No policy insights. No governance lessons. No urban planning discussions. Just roads, cleanliness and trains behaving responsibly. At that point, I knew Baringo taxpayers were sponsoring very expensive sightseeing.

But wait the real drama had not even started. The group finally reached the check-in counter. One by one they proudly handed over their tickets to the young Swiss lady behind the desk. She clicked on her computer. Paused. Looked again.
Then calmly delivered the kind of sentence capable of collapsing governments. “Sorry, your plane left last night.” Silence. The MCAs stared at her. She stared back. The airport itself seemed to pause and wait. Then confusion exploded.
“What do you mean the plane left?” shouted one man.
“How can a plane leave without us passengers?” screamed another. A lady shouted “Surely! You are joking!”

The Swiss lady remained calm. I suspect they are trained for handling such emotional outbursts. “Yes it departed yesterday evening,” she repeated politely. The honourable members could not accept it. To them, this is deliberate betrayal.
They protested loud enough to cause commotion.

I wanted to explain that planes operate on time, not on respect for leadership titles. Back home, meetings, weddings, fundraisers wait for politicians. Even funerals delay burial until Mheshimiwa arrives. But airplanes do not care whether you are MCA, governor, senator or village elder. When boarding closes, khalas.
The queue behind us watched the unfolding drama with sympathy and mild entertainment. Airport security soon arrived and gently pushed the delegation aside before they could declare war on Swiss airport.

I left my line and joined them and advised: “My brothers and sisters, quickly buy another ticket. Maybe you can still catch your Nairobi connection in Amsterdam.” Then I added what was already boiling inside me: “Besides, this entire trip was unnecessary. Please buy the tickets using our money again and stop embarrassing Kenya in foreign capitals.”
They looked at me badly. But deep inside, they knew I was right.

[NEMA Kenya @NemaKenya]

Are you a YOUTH in Climate Action?

Would you like to be a PANELIST during the #WorldEnvironmentDay2026 Webinar?

Here is your Chance,
Register: https://t.co/8i0AKv8PcE

#WorldEnvironmentDay #NowForClimate #ClimateActionKe @UNEP

[NEMA Kenya @NemaKenya]

Did you know that World Environment Day (WED) will be celebrated on 5th June 2026 in Cherangany, Trans Nzoia County?

A National Steering Committee is in place with a series of scheduled meetings at NEMA Headquarters, planning for the event.

This year’s theme is, “A Global Call for Climate Action,” and the slogan is “Climate Crisis and Solutions,” focusing on addressing climate challenges through strengthened community engagement.

The committee constitutes representatives from various Government Ministries, SAGAs, and stakeholders from the private sector. #WorldEnvironmentDay #ClimateActionKe #TimetoActKe

[Kabelo @AKabelo]

@WEjersa @BonayaHappi @StateHouseKenya @MOH_Kenya @Kemsa_Kenya Hongera Daktari. So proud of you.

[U.S. Embassy Dar es Salaam @usembassytz]

Applications are now open for the 2027 Fulbright Programs!

The Fulbright Program offers outstanding opportunities for academic and professional growth in the United States.

The Fulbright Foreign Student Program supports talented individuals seeking to pursue master’s or PhD level studies in the United States. Deadline to apply is June 1 at 11:59 PM.

The Fulbright African Research Scholar Program invites researchers who already have a master’s or PhD degree to advance their research, collaborate with leading institutions, and strengthen the impact of their work. Deadline to apply is June 30 at 11:59 PM.

Take the next step in your academic journey and contribute to innovation, research, and global collaboration. Click the links to review eligibility requirements and begin your application.

Application links: Fulbright Foreign Student Program: https://t.co/B0kxy7QXNS
Fulbright African Research Scholar Program: https://t.co/xO2RkfB0oC

[9Scholarships @9scholarships]

Canada, Germany, France, Australia, New Zealand, Spain, Portugal, the Netherlands, Italy, USA, England, and Japan. Scholarships for studies in the most exotic places in the world!
Apply for scholarships online now

[Kabelo @AKabelo]

From marginalisation to mismanagement:
Is devolution a revolution that lost its soul?

For nearly half a century, Kenya was a nation orbiting a single sun: Nairobi. From that centre, development was not just planned, it was rationed. It flowed where power willed, not where need demanded. Under the long shadows of Jomo and Moi, the system worked with precision to reward loyalty, favouring their backyards and leaving the rest to survive on leftovers.

In places like Northern Kenya, development was not a right, it was an occasional favour. The kind that appeared only when the presidential motorcade was expected. That is why, in a moment that captured both frustration and truth, former MP Billow Kerrow once asked in Parliament when the President would visit Mandera so that at least the hospital might get new bedsheets and the road to it be gravelled.

That was Kenya then.

And so, weary of exclusion and tired of begging , the country embraced devolution. A bold promise written into the Constitution. Power, it declared, would no longer sit in Nairobi. At least 15% of national resources would move closer to the people. Decisions would be made not in distant offices but with the communities. Hope was reborn.

But over a decade later, that hope feels betrayed.
Counties like Isiolo, once symbols of marginalization, should have become models of transformation. Instead, they have become case studies of missed opportunities. Not because devolution was wrong but because it was led by weak leadersip thatt cannot execute any meaningful agenda. The reality is what was meant to bring services closer has, in many places, simply brought corruption closer. Public funds no longer disappear into distant offices. They vanish right before the people’s eyes. Governors, once envisioned as servants of the people, now operate like untouchable kings. Accountability has been weakened. Oversight is compromised. The promise of development has been replaced by wasteful expenditure and open theft of public resources. Devolution did not fail. Leadership did.

And perhaps the greatest tragedy is as counties continue to misuse the 15% allocated to them, Kenyans have taken their eyes off the bigger picture of the 85% of resources that still remains at the centre. The same centre that for decades defined inequality still eats comfortably, while the county mandarins also feast. A double loss through a greedy centre and reckless counties. So now we are stuck in a dangerous middle where both the centre and the counties escape scrutiny.

But what if we dared to rethink the system? If Raila Odinga was alive, I suspect he would not stay silent. He would be agitating and forcing uncomfortable reforms as he has always done.

What if governors were not directly elected by popular vote?
What if citizens only elected their MCA, the closest representative to the people? Then let MCAs in turn select or vet governors through a structured, transparent process like public servants recruitment? A system where governors are answerable not just to voters every five years, but to a people’s assembly every single day. Would that deepen accountability?
Would it strengthen the voice of the ordinary citizen?
Would it finally tame the culture of impunity that has taken root at the county level?

Isn't it time the nation reflected on these realities because the truth is moving power closer to the people is not enough. You must also ensure it remains in their hands. Otherwise, devolution becomes nothing more than a change of eating location.

[Kabelo @AKabelo]

Poverty is one of the underlying causes of conflict and also one of its consequence.