The Theatre of Absurdity

There’s a certain je ne sais quoi about our 13th Parliament that compels one to classify it not as an institution of serious national governance but rather a grand theatrical stage. 

It is the ultimate black comedy, where the line between reality and farce has not only blurred but been trampled on, danced upon, and thrown into a gully somewhere along Mombasa Road.

The latest act? Oh, nothing serious, just the impeachment of Deputy President Rigathi Gachagua, served up on a silver platter as the country watches in half-hearted disbelief. But let me not spoil the plot too early; this is but one scene in a much larger production—one that involves auctioning airports, police abductions, the NHIF/SHIF circus, and some truly absurd laws that, if they weren’t real, would surely be an exaggerated script penned by an over-caffeinated playwright.

Now, I’m no fan of spoilers, but here’s a quick sneak peek into the current parliamentary blockbuster. The story revolves around the sudden push to impeach Deputy President Gachagua. Don’t ask why. In a country with pressing issues such as skyrocketing food prices, universities facing collapse, and the auctioning of airports, surely the most urgent matter on the agenda must be Gachagua’s impeachment, right?

Who needs economic recovery plans or concrete steps to address insecurity when we can have the drama of an impeachment trial? It’s like watching a soap opera with a poorly written script—where the main character is embroiled in convoluted plots that distract from the crumbling backdrop of a once-thriving household (aka Kenya).

Meanwhile, somewhere in the background, JKIA is being quietly auctioned off to Adani Group, an Indian conglomerate that probably didn’t think they’d get into the airport business this easily. But hey, Kenya ni ya wenyewe, right? The urgency of this airport auction hasn’t exactly sparked much public outrage as I had hoped. Maybe we have become numb to such things—like people who’ve grown so accustomed to absurdity that we’ve lost the energy to care. Or perhaps we're just glued to the impeachment show because, let’s be honest, nothing screams "important governance" like internal political drama.

And now, let’s pivot to what can only be described as a comedy of errors. Goodbye NHIF, Hello SHIF! If you’re scratching your head in confusion, you’re not alone. What’s SHIF, you ask? Well, it’s the Social Health Insurance Fund—not to be confused with the National Health Insurance Fund, which did the actual work of insuring people.

In a bizarre twist that only the 13th Parliament could script, NHIF has been rebranded, reshuffled, and re-shambled into SHIF. They say it's a necessary change, but in classic Kenyan bureaucratic style, no one quite knows what the difference is beyond the new letterhead and possibly more complicated forms.

Yet as the health insurance system gets its shiny new acronym, thousands of Kenyans continue to die from preventable diseases due to lack of access to healthcare. People are dying while MPs debate the importance of their new offices, meanwhile wondering if SHIF will pay for their cholesterol meds. It’s theatre at its finest—a Kafkaesque health insurance system where you can’t tell if you’re covered until you get to the hospital and find out you’re not.

Let’s not forget the education crisis. Our universities—once the pride of the nation, churning out leaders, thinkers, and, let’s face it, the occasional Instagram influencer—are now in dire straits. The Higher Education Loans Board (HELB) has about as much money left as your grandmother’s sugar jar at the end of the month.

While the government selectively channels funding to a few institutions (some animals are more equal than others), students from marginalized communities are left to figure out how to pay tuition—perhaps by auctioning off their kidneys to Adani, who seems to be buying everything else anyway.

The absurdity of it all is so on the nose that it’s almost like watching a stand-up comedy routine, but with a bitter twist. The universities are underfunded, lecturers are underpaid, students are frustrated, and HELB is as reliable as a matatu that promises to take you to town in 20 minutes. Anyway, who needs education when we have plenty of Instagram tutorials and TikTok philosophers?

If there’s one thing the 13th Parliament has given us, it’s a newfound appreciation for the unpredictability of life. Step outside your door, and you might just find yourself on the next episode of “Disappeared: Kenya Edition.” The plot is simple—hooded men in plain clothes whisk away unsuspecting citizens, often activists or anyone who dares question the powers that be.

Imagine living in a country where your chances of being abducted by men in balaclavas are higher than the police responding to a robbery call. It’s almost like the Thanos snap but with more paperwork and fewer superheroes.

At this point, even abductees are tired. One activist was heard muttering, “At least they could’ve given me a warning,” as he was shoved into an unmarked car. The police killings and arbitrary arrests, however, are no joke—an ongoing nightmare for many who dare to exercise their right to freedom of expression. But don’t worry, Parliament is on it. By that, I mean they’ve discussed how to beef up their own security because they don’t want to end up in the back of a Subaru either.

And now, a brief intermission for some agricultural comedy! Kenya’s farmers, once hailed as the backbone of the economy, are currently being told what they can and cannot plant. Because, you know, that makes sense. Seed laws have made it increasingly illegal for small-scale farmers to trade or plant uncertified seeds, effectively criminalizing the very act of farming.

I suppose the goal is to boost productivity and safety, but what it really means is that farmers who’ve been growing crops for generations are now at risk of imprisonment for planting their own seeds. I can already picture the court scene:

Judge: “You’re charged with growing uncertified maize.”

Farmer: “But it’s maize. It’s always been maize.”

Judge: “You should’ve bought it from our approved dealers.”

Farmer: “But it’s been in my family for generations.”

Judge: “That’s what they all say.”

If this isn’t peak absurdity, I don’t know what is. While the rest of the world is embracing food sovereignty and indigenous farming techniques, Kenya is doubling down on bureaucratic nonsense that benefits a few well-connected agro-companies. I can’t decide if I should laugh or cry.

Of course, no column on the 13th Parliament would be complete without a nod to the absurd laws they’ve passed. From regulating social media to introducing taxes on bizarre things like bread flour and cooking gas, our Parliamentarians have proven that if something exists, they can find a way to make it more difficult and expensive.

There’s even a proposal floating around that could tax digital content creators for merely existing. “Influencers shall henceforth pay tax for every post made on Instagram, TikTok, and Facebook, because clearly, you’re making more money than the government,” goes the unofficial tagline.

But the crown jewel of this legislative theatre has to be the new policy on sleeping in Parliament. Yes, instead of penalizing MPs for nodding off during sessions, they’re considering implementing a structured napping schedule. Because nothing says public service like ensuring our representatives get their beauty sleep.

As the curtain falls on this chaotic farce, we’re left with a country that’s slowly being sold off piece by piece. JKIA, which is now set to be owned by Adani, might be the first of many public assets to go. Who knows what’s next? Perhaps Uhuru Park will become the Adani Park & Ride. Maybe Kenyans will soon have to pay toll fees just to use the bathroom at City Hall.

In this absurdity, it seems the 13th Parliament’s misplaced priorities are their only true consistency. They’ve mastered the art of distraction, deflecting from the real issues with a perfect balance of political drama and ludicrous laws. Yet, as the nation crumbles under the weight of poor governance, inflated taxes, and growing insecurity, one can’t help but wonder—how long can this theatre of absurdity keep the audience entertained before the curtain comes crashing down?

In the end, we’re all extras in this bizarre production, watching as our leaders fumble through their lines and trip over the plot. But as the airport gets sold, healthcare becomes a confusing acronym, and hooded men patrol the streets, we can’t shake the feeling that this play isn’t going to have a happy ending.

Unless, of course, they decide to sell that too. Auction to be held next Tuesday—cash only, no questions asked.