By Johnson Muthama
Moments of political confrontation often become defining chapters in a nation’s democratic journey, not merely because of the disruption itself, but because of how citizens interpret what they witness. The recent incident during a Sunday service at Witima ACK Church in Nyeri County, where tear gas disrupted worshippers while former Deputy President Rigathi Gachagua was present, once again places Kenya at the uneasy intersection of politics, security and public life.
A church is ordinarily a sanctuary of peace, prayer and unity. When disorder erupts in such a sacred space, it carries symbolism that extends far beyond the immediate event. It generates fear, heightens political tension and shapes public perception. In politically charged seasons, perception can become as influential as fact.
Kenya has witnessed similar episodes before. In October 2020, during President Uhuru Kenyatta’s administration, a church service at the African Independent Pentecostal Church of Africa in Kenol, Murang’a County, attended by then Deputy President William Ruto and other leaders, was disrupted with tear gas and live bullets fired inside the church, resulting in one death and serious injuries. In August 2021, another confrontation occurred during the burial of Mahoo Ward MCA Ronald Habel Sagurani in Taita Taveta County before Dr Ruto’s arrival. Each of these incidents quickly acquired political meaning beyond the immediate circumstances.
These events raise an uncomfortable but necessary question: does chaos help someone win an election, whether it is triggered by state excess or strategically exploited for sympathy?
Experience suggests that when a political figure appears to be mistreated, humiliated or unfairly targeted, public sympathy can shift in their favour. In William Ruto’s case, repeated images that suggested he was isolated within government or publicly undermined helped reinforce a narrative of a leader battling powerful forces. For many citizens who felt excluded from opportunity and influence, that storyline resonated. Whether intentional or incidental, those moments strengthened his political identity and arguably contributed to his eventual electoral success.
Yet it would be simplistic to assume that chaos is a reliable pathway to victory. Sympathy is rarely automatic and almost never permanent. Voters may initially respond emotionally, but they ultimately seek stability, credibility and workable solutions to economic hardship. If incidents appear exaggerated, repetitive or choreographed, the public can quickly become sceptical. Outrage can turn into fatigue, and sympathy into doubt.
This leads to a second, more delicate question: if perceived mistreatment strengthened Ruto politically, would similar scenes today generate the same outcome for others? Not necessarily. Kenya’s electorate has evolved. Citizens are more politically conscious and increasingly alert to the possibility of political theatre. What may have been effective in one electoral cycle may not yield the same impact in another. Repetition can dilute emotional power, especially where motives are questioned.
There is also a deeper concern. If allegations were ever substantiated that disruptions at political gatherings were stage-managed to manufacture sympathy, the implications would be deeply troubling. It would suggest that fear and instability are being instrumentalised for electoral advantage. It would also raise serious security questions: who are the individuals executing these disruptions? How do they obtain weapons or tear gas? Why are they able to operate with apparent impunity?
Are such acts the work of rogue groups, or are they manifestations of state overreach? If they are the work of hired goons, who arms and finances them? If they stem from official excess, who is held accountable? These are questions that cannot simply be brushed aside as partisan noise.
The state bears a constitutional obligation to guarantee security for all citizens and leaders, whether in government or opposition. Political actors must be able to worship, campaign and assemble without intimidation. If violent groups are infiltrating public events, security agencies must investigate impartially and decisively. Failure to do so fuels perceptions of selective justice or political shielding.
At the same time, political leaders outside government have responsibilities of their own. Escalatory rhetoric, dramatization of every incident and the conversion of every confrontation into campaign material only deepen division. Democratic competition cannot mature if instability becomes a recurring feature of political strategy.
Ultimately, the issue is one of political maturity. Every Kenyan has the right to seek office and to canvass for support across the country. Leadership should be earned through persuasion, policy and performance, not through intimidation, disruption or emotional manipulation.
The lessons from Kenol and Witima are sobering. Chaos may command headlines and shape short-term narratives, but it does not substitute for governance. Electoral legitimacy is sustained not by dramatic confrontations, but by trust, competence and inclusivity.
Kenya’s democracy remains a work in progress. Its strength will be measured not by how fiercely politicians clash, but by how securely citizens can exercise their rights without fear. Political competition must be robust, but it must also be peaceful. Only then can leadership be determined not by spectacle, but by the informed and freely expressed will of the people.
Mr Muthama serves as a Commissioner of the Parliamentary Service Commission
