ADVERT 
Yesterday in Nangata village, Bumula Constituency, what should have been a solemn burial turned into a revealing political moment. Kimilili MP Didmus Wekesa Barasa was reportedly heckled by sections of mourners during the funeral of the brother to Bumula MP Jack Wanami, in an event attended by Governor George Natembeya and Senators Edwin Sifuna and Godfrey Osotsi.
But amid the noise and competing accounts, one detail risks being deliberately overlooked: as Barasa left, a notable section of the crowd rose and walked out with him.
That duality—heckling on one hand, visible followership on the other—captures the uncomfortable complexity of Kenya’s political psychology. Yet, in the immediate aftermath, partisan commentary has leaned heavily toward one narrative, amplifying the rejection while muting the loyalty.
Why?
Because acknowledging both would force a more difficult conversation—not just about Barasa, but about the electorate itself.
Niccolò Machiavelli, in The Prince, wrote that power is sustained through perception as much as through virtue. Leaders who project decisiveness—sometimes even confrontation—often command deeper, more instinctive allegiance. People, especially in charged environments, are drawn to figures who appear strong, unbending, and willing to take risks others avoid.
Modern political psychology supports this view. In moments of tension or uncertainty, many citizens gravitate toward dominant personalities. Strength becomes a shorthand for capability. Defiance is read as courage. Even controversy can be reframed as proof of a leader’s willingness to “fight.”
This helps explain the Bungoma paradox.
At the same event, Barasa could be heckled—and still be followed. Rejected by some, affirmed by others. It is not contradiction; it is coexistence. A fractured public responding through different lenses.
Yet this pattern also raises harder questions.
Barasa has faced a widely publicized case linked to the fatal shooting of a political opponent’s aide during the 2022 elections. Embakasi East MP Babu Owino, in a separate case, was charged in connection with the shooting of a disc jockey in 2020. In both instances, the initial public outrage was intense, but over time, political support in significant quarters endured.
This is where Machiavelli’s observations take on a more troubling relevance.
When societies begin to admire strength without consistently demanding accountability, a quiet shift occurs. The moral threshold for leadership changes. Actions that should weigh heavily on public judgment become secondary to perceptions of boldness or resilience.
To be clear, the Bungoma incident does not suggest a society that uniformly embraces excess or disregards ethics. The heckling itself is evidence of resistance—of citizens willing to push back when boundaries are crossed, especially in spaces that demand decorum, such as a burial.
But the followership matters just as much.
When a leader exits under pressure and still draws a crowd behind him, it signals that for a segment of the public, allegiance is anchored less in incident-specific conduct and more in identity, perception, and perceived strength.
Equally concerning is how these moments are being reported and discussed.
By focusing exclusively on the heckling, some commentators present a picture of total rejection. By ignoring the walkout, they erase a critical dimension of the event—the persistence of loyalty. This is not merely omission; it is narrative construction.
And narrative, as Machiavelli understood, is power.
The events in Bungoma are not just about Didmus Barasa. They are about the electorate’s evolving relationship with authority. They reflect a society negotiating the tension between principle and power, between accountability and allegiance.
The truth is not neat. It rarely is.
A leader can be challenged and still be followed. A crowd can reject and revere in the same breath. And a single moment can expose both the resilience and the vulnerability of democratic culture.
Yesterday, in a quiet village in Bungoma, the crowd did not speak with one voice.
But in its divided response, it may have said more about the state of our politics than any speech ever could.
