YVONNE'S TAKE: What does it take to resign in Kenya?

In Canada, a man can lose his job for not speaking the right language at the right time. Not for causing a tragedy. Not for mismanaging a crisis. But for failing to address a nation in both of its official tongues—English and French.

That is what confronted Michael Rousseau, the CEO of Air Canada, after a national moment demanded national communication, and he fell short.

Because in Canada, language is not a courtesy. It is not a matter of preference. It is the law. It is identity. It is a constitutional obligation, anchored in the Official Languages Act.

And when you fail to meet that obligation, even symbolically, there are consequences. Real ones.

Its bilingualism was not born out of politeness or progressive instinct. It was forged in conflict, in conquest, in the uneasy coexistence of two founding cultures—English and French—after the Seven Years' War. It was a political compromise, later reinforced during moments of real anxiety that the country could fracture along linguistic lines.

In other words, Canada takes language seriously because it has had to, because it understands, from experience, what happens when identity is mishandled.

A country with its own constitution. Its own declared values. It's own hard-earned lessons written in blood and memory.

The Constitution of Kenya 2010 is clear: Kiswahili and English are the official languages of the republic. Not optional. Not situational. Not dependent on the crowd you are addressing.

And yet, on national platforms, in rallies carried live across the country, leaders routinely abandon that obligation. They slip—no, not slip, but lean into ethnic languages, not to include, but to exclude. Not to unify, but to signal allegiance. To draw the line, however subtly, between “us” and “them.”

We are not a country guessing at the dangers of ethnic mobilisation. We have lived it. We have buried its victims. We have rebuilt from its ashes.

The 2007–2008 post-election violence in Kenya was not an accident of history. It was the consequence of political choices—of rhetoric, of division, of leaders who understood exactly what they were doing. And still, nearly two decades later, the playbook remains in use.

So again, the question: what does it take to resign in Kenya?

Not the billions questioned in the Arror and Kimwarer dams scandal. Not the outrage that followed the NYS corruption scandal. Not the countless other inquiries, audits, and headlines that flare up, then fade away—usually without consequence.

In fact, resignation here often feels like an alien concept. A foreign practice. Something other democracies do. Here, the script is different: deny, deflect, politicise, survive.

And if necessary, retreat into the comfort of ethnic solidarity—speak to your base, in their language, and ride out the storm.

Which is what makes the Canadian example so jarring. Because it tells us that in some systems, the “small” things are not small at all, that symbolism matters. That constitutional principles are not decorative—they are enforced, expected, lived.

That leadership is not just about avoiding catastrophe, but about embodying the values that hold a country together.

In Kenya, we often speak of unity as an aspiration—a goal, a seasonal message rolled out on public holidays and moments of crisis.

But unity is not built only on Madaraka Day or Jamhuri Day. It is built on choices. On whether a leader, standing on a national stage, chooses to speak in a language that includes every Kenyan, or one that draws a boundary.

On whether the constitution is treated as a binding document or a convenient reference. On whether accountability is real, or rhetorical.

Because if failing to honour something as fundamental as a nation’s official languages cannot even trigger a conversation here—let alone consequences—then we must ask ourselves, honestly:

And perhaps more dangerously, what have we quietly decided to tolerate?