Come Thursday the 16th of July 2026, the good people of Ol’ Kalou will witness a tug of war unlike any other. A rope has been laid across the constituency, a red handkerchief tied at its centre, and two men have stepped forward to grip it. On one end stands Samuel Muchina Nyaga. On the other end stands Sammy Waiganjo Douglas Waweru Kamau Ngotho. The crowd has gathered. The dust is waiting.
In a proper tug of war, you do not send a fresh novice to anchor the rope against a man who has been digging his heels into the soil for over a decade. Muchina Nyaga comes to the pit with hands that know the feel of the rope. For 13 years he stood just behind the late David Kiaraho, watching, learning, and steadying the line.
Muchina was the trusted right-hand man, the one who knew where every knot should go and when to pull and when to breathe. Now he grips the rope himself, and his feet are planted in the very footprints his mentor left behind. He does not need to shout. He simply leans back, and the rope grows tight with well-trained strength.
Now cast your eyes to the other end. There you find Sammy Waiganjo Douglas Waweru Kamau Ngotho, a man whose sole grip on the rope comes from a brief turn as an MCA. He steps into the Ol’ Kalou pit with the wide red eyes of a man who has just been handed a rope far heavier than he expected. His hands search for a hold. His feet shuffle in the loose soil. He leans this way and that, hoping the rope will somehow pull itself.
Noticing that Sammy Waiganjo Douglas Waweru Kamau Ngotho despite having a basket-full of names is no match for Muchina Nyaga, the latter’s cheerleaders instinctively hold the rope behind him. They grip the rope behind him at odd angles, some pulling left, some pulling right, one fellow tugging with his eyes closed in fervent prayer.
They shout instructions that contradict one another, their feet slipping in the dust like dancers who have forgotten the steps. Without them, poor Ngotho would be left holding a limp rope and a great deal of embarrassment. With them, the rope jerks and wobbles, a thing of pity and laughter. The crowd points, cups hands over mouths, and chuckles ripple along the roadside. Even a passing goat stops to stare.
Meanwhile Muchina pulls his end with one steady song. The rope inches his way, slow and sure. No wild yanking, no furious scrambling. Just the victory of a one that knows his craft…
The beauty of a tug of war is that everyone sees the truth. There is no hiding a weak grip or a disorganised team. The rope tells the story in the mud.
On Thursday, the people of Ol’ Kalou will judge which side has the steady hands, the deep roots, and the single rhythm that moves a constituency forward. The rope will speak, and the crowd already knows which end will be left standing in the pit.
Go for it Muchina Nyaga!
By
Harriet Nyambura
