OPINION: Homa Bay’s dusty roads are not a failure of the Luo community

In the aftermath of a Linda Mwananchi rally in Homa Bay last weekend, images of dusty roads in Homa Bay circulated widely on social media, sparking a fierce debate that has dominated much of this week’s socioeconomic and political commentary. For some, the images revealed a shocking level of underdevelopment and quickly became an indictment of the people of Homa Bay, and the wider Luo community, for failing to hold their leaders accountable.

Much of this criticism, however, comes from the vantage point of privileged regions that have historically benefited from disproportionate access to state investment, infrastructure and economic opportunity. To interpret Homa Bay’s present condition without acknowledging these historical patterns of uneven resource allocation risks turning a history of structural inequality into a story of communal failure. There is an uncomfortable irony in seeing those who have benefited from the state’s largesse now using the consequences of that inequality as evidence against the communities that have borne its costs.

This is not an argument against accountability. Homa Bay residents have every right to demand better from their elected leaders. Elected officials should be judged by their stewardship of public resources and their ability to deliver services. But accountability should not become a convenient way of erasing history. Homa Bay’s dusty roads cannot be understood simply by looking at the politicians currently occupying county offices. They are part of a much longer story of how power and resources have been distributed in Kenya.

One of the questions repeatedly posed by these critics was; What has Homa Bay done with devolution? The question sounds reasonable until we consider the starting point. Thirteen years into devolution, Homa Bay is not the same county it was in 2013. Devolution has brought resources, services and development closer to residents. There has been some progress, albeit frustratingly slow, and it would be dishonest to suggest that nothing has changed. The fundamental problem with this criticism is that it assumes every county entered the devolved system from the same starting line.

They did not.

Some counties entered devolution with stronger road networks, established institutions, greater urbanisation, stronger commercial activity and decades of accumulated infrastructure. Others entered with significant deficits. Devolution could decentralise resources and decision-making, but it could not erase decades of unequal development overnight. More importantly, the historical inequality predates devolution by decades.

When Kenya became independent in 1963, the country inherited an economic geography profoundly shaped by colonial rule. Infrastructure, investment, education and commercial activity were concentrated in particular regions, while other areas were left with far weaker foundations for economic development. The post-independence state did not attempt to correct these disparities; in the decades that followed, political choices often reinforced them.

This was at the heart of the political disagreement between President Jomo Kenyatta and Jaramogi Oginga Odinga. Their differences reflected fundamentally different visions of how the resources of the new Kenyan state should be distributed and how quickly historical inequalities should be addressed. Jaramogi's insistence on a more egalitarian approach to land, resources and development increasingly collided with a political establishment that was consolidating power and economic opportunity around particular interests.

The publication of Sessional Paper No. 10 of 1965 must therefore be read within this broader context. African Socialism and its Application to Planning in Kenya articulated principles of equal opportunity and equitable development, while simultaneously confronting the reality of scarce resources and competing development priorities. The tragedy is that the egalitarian aspirations contained in the paper were not consistently reflected in the political and economic distribution that followed.

The pattern did not end with Kenyatta.

Under Daniel arap Moi, Nyanza remained politically distant from the centre for much of his presidency, particularly as the region became a stronghold of opposition politics. The experience of political repression and the concentration of development and state resources elsewhere reinforced a longstanding perception that political loyalty mattered in determining access to the state.

The transition to Mwai Kibaki's presidency brought new optimism, and his government presided over significant national development. Yet the historical imbalance did not disappear. Major infrastructure and economic investment continued to be unevenly distributed, while Nyanza's political relationship with the centre remained complicated.

Under Uhuru Kenyatta, the pattern again became visible in different ways. The Jubilee administration invested heavily in infrastructure in Central Kenya, and the distribution of major projects continued to generate questions about regional equity. The handshake between Uhuru Kenyatta and Raila Odinga in 2018 temporarily altered the political relationship between the centre and Nyanza, but it did not erase decades of accumulated developmental disparities.

This history matters because development is cumulative.

A region that receives roads, electricity, schools, hospitals and other infrastructure over several decades develops an economic foundation that makes further investment easier. Better infrastructure attracts businesses; businesses create jobs; jobs increase incomes; and increased economic activity generates further investment.

The reverse is equally true.

Regions that begin with inadequate infrastructure face higher costs and greater barriers to investment. A dusty road is therefore not simply a dusty road. It can be a symptom of decades of accumulated disadvantage.

County governments receive a constitutionally guaranteed minimum of 15 per cent of nationally raised revenue, while the overwhelming majority of national revenue remains at the national level. Counties therefore operate within a broader national system in which major infrastructure and investment decisions remain substantially influenced by the national government.

Devolution was never designed to magically equalise counties overnight. It was intended, among other things, to address historical marginalisation. But decentralising resources does not automatically undo the effects of decades of centralised development.

The people of Homa Bay did not choose the conditions under which their region entered independence. They did not determine the colonial distribution of infrastructure. And they did not control the national decisions that shaped the allocation of state resources over the subsequent six decades. The dusty roads of Homa Bay should therefore not become an indictment of the Luo people. They should be a reminder of a national development story in which some regions accumulated advantages while others struggled to catch up.

And until Kenya is willing to confront that history honestly, asking marginalised communities why they have not caught up will remain an exercise in blaming those who inherited the disadvantage rather than interrogating those who perpetuated it.