OPINION: Fundraising nightmare for political aspirants

As Kenya edges toward another general election, the campaign machinery is beginning to whirr into life. Posters will soon appear on every available wall, convoys will clog rural roads, and aspirants will fan out across constituencies in the familiar ritual of handshakes, funerals, church visits, and fundraising dinners. Yet beneath this spectacle lies a shared and rarely discussed anxiety that cuts across party lines and positions: how to pay for it all.

I have been involved, directly and indirectly, in political fundraising in Kenya and the wider region for many years. The lesson is brutally simple. For most aspirants, politics is an investment with no guaranteed return. Lose the election, and the capital—financial, social, and reputational—is largely unrecoverable. Win, and the scrutiny begins immediately, particularly when campaign spending bears little resemblance to what an elected official can legally earn in office.

Campaign financing in Kenya has long occupied a grey zone between regulation and reality. Official limits exist, and institutions such as the Ethics and Anti-Corruption Commission (EACC) routinely point out the glaring mismatch between authorized earnings and actual campaign expenditure.

Estimates suggest that a credible bid for a National Assembly seat can cost at least KSh40 million. In competitive constituencies, particularly for first-time aspirants without an established political network, the figure can be significantly higher. Multiply this across gubernatorial, senatorial, and presidential races, and the sums involved run into the hundreds of millions of shillings.

This financial pressure distorts behavior long before a vote is cast. Campaign spending in Kenya is rarely about policy communication or voter education. It is dominated by what is politely called “facilitation”: funeral contributions, school fees, medical bills, transport allowances, and, in its most corrosive form, outright bribery.

These practices are not accidental. They are the predictable outcome of a system that treats elections as transactional exchanges rather than democratic choices.

Yet the old assumptions are beginning to fray. The Kenyan voter is changing faster than the political class realizes. The dramatic emergence of the Gen Z protest movement—including its audacious breach of Parliament, one of the country’s most secure institutions—was not just a security failure. It was a political signal. Deference is eroding.

Patronage no longer guarantees loyalty. Increasingly, voters are willing to accept money and still vote according to conscience, ideology, or anger. As the Latin phrase has it: pecunia non omnia emit; money does not buy everything.

This shift makes the fundraising challenge even more acute. Traditional methods, such as church harambees and last-minute appeals to wealthy patrons, are proving insufficient for serious campaigns. They are episodic, unpredictable, and poorly aligned with modern voter expectations. More importantly, they encourage short-term thinking—raising cash to survive the next rally rather than building a campaign that can win on credibility and message.

What consistently undermines Kenyan campaigns is not merely a lack of money, but a lack of planning. Fundraising is often treated as an emergency response rather than a core strategic function. Few aspirants develop a clear fundraising plan. Fewer still assemble professional teams capable of donor mapping, compliance management, digital outreach, and narrative framing. Instead, responsibility is delegated to loyal friends or relatives whose main qualification is proximity to power.

In mature democracies, political fundraising is institutionalised. Campaigns invest heavily in data, compliance, and messaging. Donors are segmented, expectations are managed, and spending is tracked meticulously. None of this eliminates money’s influence, but it imposes discipline. In Kenya, by contrast, fundraising is personalized and opaque, creating fertile ground for corruption and post-election disillusionment.

There is also a deeper economic reality at play. Kenya’s political campaigns are financed largely from private wealth in an economy marked by inequality. This raises uncomfortable questions about representation. If only the wealthy, or those backed by wealthy patrons, can afford to compete, electoral politics risks becoming an elite club masquerading as mass participation. The result is a Parliament and county governments that struggle to reflect the lived experiences of the majority.

Reform is often discussed, but rarely implemented with seriousness. Enforcing spending caps, strengthening disclosure requirements, and reducing the cost of campaigns would help. So would expanding public funding tied to transparent criteria. But regulation alone will not solve the problem. Aspirants themselves must rethink how they approach campaigns—shifting from consumption-driven politics to persuasion-driven politics.

That requires courage. It means telling voters uncomfortable truths, resisting the pressure to monetize every interaction, and investing in ideas rather than theatrics. It also requires professionalizing fundraising—not as a desperate scramble for cash, but as a disciplined, ethical, and strategic process aligned with democratic values.

Kenya stands at a crossroads. The country’s elections are vibrant, competitive, and deeply consequential. But unless the financing model changes, they will continue to reward excess over substance and money over merit.

For aspirants, the nightmare is not simply raising funds. It is navigating a system where the price of entry is high, the rules are bent, and the returns—both moral and financial—are increasingly uncertain. Money may still matter in Kenyan politics. But it is no longer enough. And that, for the country’s democracy, may be the most hopeful sign of all.

The Author is an Independent Fundraising Expert and CEO for Kenya Veterans for Peace