In Kenya, we don’t just live with hypocrisy. We wear it like a badge of honour. It is the glue of our politics, the rhythm of our relationships, and the soundtrack of our social lives.

Here, moral grandstanding is not a rare event; it is the default setting. Everyone is outraged, everyone is self-righteous, and everyone is blind to their own reflection.

Take a stroll through any social media platform. You will see citizens blasting politicians for poor service delivery, then proudly posting photos of the new water meter they installed after bribing a county official.

People denounce exam cheats, yet scramble to leak KCSE papers for their children. Landlords hike rent while mourning the cost of living.

Churchgoers curse the devil in Sunday sermons, then plot land grabs, extramarital affairs, and tender frauds over lunch.

Even our most intimate spaces are not spared. Couples publicly accuse each other of emotional abuse and gaslighting.

Yet in private, both partners engage in manipulation, silent wars, and emotional blackmail.

One spouse shouts about being “tired of being unappreciated,” while never acknowledging their own cruelty, negligence, or double standards.

This moral duplicity is most flagrant in our politics.

Kenyan leaders love to claim the moral high ground, especially when they have already poisoned the well.

One minute, they are condemning state capture. The next minute, they are handing tenders to cousins and cronies.

A senator tweets about the high cost of unga, then jets off to Dubai on taxpayers’ money. A governor warns youth against alcoholism, only to be caught stumbling drunk in a nightclub, flanked by armed bodyguards.

Let us not forget the parastatal heads and permanent secretaries who sing about “cleaning up the system” while cooking the books.

Or the MP who lectures boda boda riders on patriotism, even as he holds offshore accounts fattened by proceeds from ghost projects.

Yet no one ever admits wrongdoing. “It wasn’t me.” “I was misquoted.” “It’s politics.” Denial is our national anthem.  

The media is not exempt. Some of our most passionate TV analysts decry government corruption by night and act as brokers by day.

Journalists ask tough questions on air, then attend closed-door dinners with the very people they critique.

Editorials speak truth to power, but the ads sandwiched between them are paid for by that same power.

Even civil society, our supposed watchdogs, are not immune. NGOs preach transparency and good governance while misusing donor funds, inflating project budgets, and hosting endless conferences that achieve nothing beyond per diems.

We must begin by admitting that our crisis is not just about leadership. It is about character.

Systems fail when the people who run them lack integrity. Change does not begin with shouting. It begins with silence, reflection, and radical honesty.

Until we stop living double lives by condemning theft while stealing, preaching virtue while lying, and demanding change while voting for the status quo, we will remain trapped in this toxic performance.  

The writer is a PhD Student in international relations.