Parliament was never meant to be a marketplace of cowards auctioning the future of a nation to the highest bidder, yet here we are, watching our so-called “representatives” kneel at the altar of Ruto’s bribes.

These MPs, Senators, and Women Reps were sent to Nairobi to speak for the people, but they arrived in the city and discovered a new religion: the Church of Brown Envelopes. And in this religion, the President is the god, the bribes are the sacraments, and the people are the sacrificed goats.

It is insulting to call them “leaders.” Leaders defend their people. These defend their stomachs. Leaders shield the poor from the greed of power. These sharpen the President’s knives and then hand them to him to butcher us with.

Every time they stand in Parliament, they don’t debate. They recite. They chant like parrots with one master’s script in hand. When Ruto sneezes, they all cough in unison. When he whispers, they all scream “Yes, sir!” louder than the next man.

They voted for the Finance Bill, a cruel masterpiece of taxation that even the devil would have hesitated to draft. They passed the Housing Levy, a daylight robbery dressed up as policy. They rammed through the Social Health Authority Act, stripping Kenyans of dignity in the name of “reforms.” And then, as if mocking us, they declared, “We did it for the President.”

Think about that for a second. Not “for our people.” Not “for the children of Kenya.” Not “for the single mothers who toil daily.” No, they did it “for the President.” This is no Parliament; it is a choir, a bad choir, singing hymns of loyalty to a man who insults them after every performance.

And Ruto does insult them. He calls them lazy. He calls them corrupt. He ridicules them in public rallies. He paints them as freeloaders. And yet, like whipped dogs, they still crawl back to him for crumbs. What greater shame can there be?

Do they not have spines? Do they not have dignity? Or were these surgically removed at the gates of State House when the first bribe was accepted?

I almost pity them. Imagine selling your soul for Sh200,000 in cash stuffed in a paper bag. Imagine reducing yourself from “Honourable Member” to “Dishonourable Errand Boy.” Imagine explaining to your children that you betrayed millions for a quick per diem.

But pity quickly fades when I remember the consequences. While they are feasting on bribes, Kenyans are feasting on hunger. While they enjoy fuel allowances, Kenyans are watching the price of fuel skyrocket. While they build mansions with blood money, Kenyans are sleeping under leaking roofs.

The stupidity is almost admirable. They fail to see that when Ruto mocks them, he is also mocking the entire institution of Parliament. He is mocking democracy. He is mocking us. And yet they clap for him like schoolchildren delighted to be insulted by the headmaster.

You wonder if these people even read. Do they understand the bills they pass? Or do they just line up like robots, press the green button, and then rush to Safari Park for a celebratory buffet?

When history writes about this Parliament, it will not use words like “distinguished” or “visionary.” No, history will call them what they are: slaves in suits, sellouts with titles, clowns with microphones.

The Senate is no better. Supposedly a House of “wisdom,” it has become a House of silence. Governors loot, counties collapse, but the Senate is busy asking Ruto how high they should jump. Wisdom has been replaced with wallet worship.

And the Women Reps? The office was meant to amplify the voice of women, to champion equality, to stand as a shield for the marginalized. Instead, it has become just another chorus line in Ruto’s orchestra of sycophancy. They sing for the President too, forgetting the mothers who buried their children because of poverty, the girls who dropped out of school for lack of fees, the women who died in childbirth because hospitals had no medicine.

It is tragic, but also comical, to see these people campaign so passionately for positions they have no idea how to use. They beg for our votes, promising heaven. We elect them. And the moment they reach Parliament, they start working for one man, not forty million.

We were told that Parliament is the people’s house. What a lie. It is Ruto’s house, furnished with our taxes, occupied by our enemies in our name.

If you doubt me, just look at how they react when we complain. When Kenyans took to the streets, these MPs did not listen. They called us “misguided.” They accused us of being sponsored. They said we don’t understand economics. Of course, we don’t understand economics — how can we understand theft masked as policy?

We have become spectators in our democracy. We pay the taxes, they eat the taxes. We cry from hunger, they laugh from excess. We scream for help, they scream, “Unga ni fifty bob cheaper in my constituency!” as if that solves anything.

Sometimes I wonder if these MPs ever go home to their villages. Do they walk the dusty paths? Do they drink water from broken boreholes? Do they sit in classes with no desks? Or do they only arrive in convoys, windows tinted, waving like visiting royals to peasants?

It is this disconnect that makes them dangerous. They no longer see us as humans with needs. We are just statistics, just faces to exploit during elections, just numbers to justify their salaries.

And so, I must say it plainly: we need elections. Now. Not tomorrow, not next year, not in five years. Now. Because these people do not represent us. They represent Ruto’s wallet.

Some will argue, “But the Constitution sets fixed terms.” True. But the Constitution also envisioned leaders with honor. It did not imagine this circus. It did not design Parliament to be a money-laundering club for presidential bribes.

Elections now would be painful, chaotic, and expensive. But continuing with this Parliament is suicidal. We cannot afford to be ruled by fools who cannot think beyond their next allowance.

Professional insult demands I put this delicately: our MPs are intellectually challenged. They confuse loyalty with servitude, bribery with legislation, and insults with mentorship. They are so dim that even when Ruto whips them in public, they thank him for the discipline.

If brains were distributed like bursaries, these MPs would be the perpetual applicants, always at the bottom of the list. Their speeches in Parliament prove this daily — shallow, rehearsed, and utterly devoid of thought.

We once believed education mattered. We once thought universities produced thinkers. Then you watch some of these “graduates” in Parliament and realize: degrees can also be receipts for purchased stupidity.

And yet, they strut around calling themselves “Honourable.” Honourable what? Honourable thieves? Honourable beggars? Honourable failures? Honour has left that House. All that remains is hypocrisy.

If only stupidity could be taxed, Kenya would have cleared its debt. Our MPs produce stupidity in such industrial quantities that we would be a surplus exporter. China would be importing Kenyan stupidity by the shipload.

But stupidity is not the worst crime. Betrayal is. These MPs betrayed the Constitution. They betrayed the people. They betrayed the very essence of democracy. They sold us to one man, and in doing so, they sold their souls.

The irony is delicious: they work for Ruto, and Ruto still despises them. He uses them, abuses them, and mocks them — and they smile back. It is political sadomasochism at its finest.

This is why we must rise. This is why we must demand elections. Because if we wait, these clowns will dance us into the grave.

Kenya deserves leaders, not jesters. We deserve thinkers, not parrots. We deserve defenders, not traitors.

Parliament is dead. Its obituary should read: “Here lies the 13th Parliament of Kenya, killed by bribes, buried by cowardice, forgotten by history.”

And so, my final word to these MPs is this: enjoy your thirty pieces of silver. Build your mansions, drive your Prados, sip your champagne. But know this — when the people rise, and they will rise, you will be remembered not as leaders, but as the clowns who sold a nation for pocket money.