Life. Seasoned with perspective
“In moments of rising tension and uncertainty, leadership carries the weight of a nation’s direction. It urges responsibility, unity, and mindful use of words in shaping the future.”
Dear Mr. President,
For the past two weeks, I have watched the political environment in Kenya with growing unease. It has left me with a familiar feeling. One I have felt before. The last time this feeling crept in, many people got hurt. Time has passed, yes. Wounds may have healed. But the scars are still with us.
My name is Kibisu Mulanda. I have been a communicator for over twenty-one years. Thirteen of those were spent in two of the biggest newsrooms in this country. Politics, as you know, dominates our news cycles. In that time, I interacted with many leaders, including yourself.
Mr. President, 2007 and 2008 are years I wish I could forget. Unfortunately, they shaped me. They changed how I see leadership, power, and responsibility.
Let me paint a picture.
The tension did not begin in 2007. It started years earlier, around 2003, when promises made began to feel unfulfilled. By 2005, the Orange and Banana referendum had exposed deep cracks in our national fabric. Lines were drawn. Sides were chosen.
By 2007, I was still early in my career. Yet even then, I could feel the shift. The country was deeply divided. The media, too, was not immune. There were clear leanings. Political interests. Ethnic undertones.
At the station where I worked, I was assigned to outside broadcasts. My team and I spent long days at political headquarters, broadcasting live. I remember the language. It was sharp. It was divisive. It was dangerous.
As the election drew closer, campaign messages became more aggressive. Radio and television adverts took on a mocking tone. Crowds sang chants that were no longer playful. They were loaded. There was laughter, yes. But underneath it, something darker was growing.
Then came December 30, 2007.
I was on day shift and planned to head home to Woodley. I never made it. Ngong Road had turned into a battlefield. Fires burned. Groups of young men took over the streets. Movement was impossible.
That night, my colleague, who was also my neighbour, and I slept in our office library on a carton box. It became normal for many days.
Back in the newsroom, footage poured in from across the country. I saw things I wish I had never seen. My role was to edit out the worst parts before broadcast. But in doing so, I consumed everything. Every image. Every cry. Every moment.
Two of our journalists almost lost their lives.
One, in Kakamega, was hunted down because of his ethnicity. A crowd demanded he be handed over. Their intention was brutal. The only reason he survived was because a helicopter was sent to rescue him.
Another, in Kisumu, escaped through a stranger’s house. A woman he had never met risked everything to hide him, then helped him escape through a toilet window while a mob searched outside.
Mr. President, these are not stories from history books. These are memories. Real. Heavy. Permanent.
Even in Nairobi, I watched businesses burn. I heard gunshots in the night. I remember the tension in the air. The fear. The uncertainty.
And today, when I listen to the tone of our politics, I feel that same unease creeping back.
Mr. President, I am worried.
What I am seeing and hearing feels like a slow return to a place we should never go back to. Words are becoming sharp again. Lines are being drawn again. Emotions are rising.
This is not just politics. This is the foundation of our country.
I am not writing to you as a critic. I am writing to you as a citizen. As a father. As someone who has seen what happens when leadership loses control of the narrative.
You are human, yes. But the office you hold is bigger than any individual. Article 131 of our Constitution is clear. You are a symbol of national unity. You are entrusted with promoting and protecting that unity.
This is one of those moments where leadership is tested, not by how loud it speaks, but by how wisely it acts.
History has shown us where careless words can lead. But it has also shown us the power of restraint. The power of calm. The power of choosing unity over division.
Mr. President, this is a moment to rise above the noise.
To speak to the nation, not to factions.
To calm, not to inflame.
To unite, not to divide.
Because when things go wrong, it is not leaders who suffer first. It is ordinary citizens. Families. Young people trying to find their place in this country.
As I write this, I think about the future. About the kind of Kenya, we are building for the next generation.
We have been here before. We know how that story ends.
We do not need to repeat it.
Mr President, the country is watching. The youth are listening. And history is quietly taking notes.
This is your moment to choose the direction.
And I hope, for all our sakes, that you choose peace.
Respectfully,
Kibisu Mulanda
About the author:
Kibisu Mulanda is a media executive and strategic communicator with over 20 years of experience in television, NGO storytelling, and youth-focused content. He is the Acting Head of Switch Media Ltd and teaches media at the Kenya Institute of Mass Communication (KIMC). A Certified SIYB Trainer, he blends storytelling with strategy to drive social impact.
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