Kenya’s Colonial Medals: Symbols of Servitude, Not Honor: Honoring Ngũgĩ, is Betraying His Spirit: The Irony of a Medal from the System He Defied”

Medals and state decorations in Kenya were meant to symbolize merit, bravery, and national service. Yet in truth, they remain among the most enduring relics of colonial mentality, glittering emblems of obedience to power rather than symbols of service to humanity. Every year, as the President pins metallic ornaments on the chests of selected politicians, police chiefs, and well-connected businessmen, the ceremony mirrors the imperial pageantry of the British Empire that once rewarded local chiefs for their loyalty to the Crown. The medals may have changed names, but the spirit behind them has not, to glorify those who serve authority, not those who challenge it.

Kenya’s medals are colonial in both structure and philosophy. The categories, Moran of the Order of the Burning Spear, Elder of the Golden Heart, Head of State Commendation, echo the hierarchy of British knighthoods, orders, and commendations. They create an artificial aristocracy in a republic that claims to have liberated itself from monarchy. These so-called honors are distributed not on merit but on political allegiance. Civil servants who bow to the ruling regime receive them; those who question or expose corruption never do. The irony is painful, a teacher who shapes a generation in hardship remains invisible, while a corrupt official who praises the President in a speech walks away with a medal pinned on his lapel.

In this sense, the medals function as instruments of colonial continuity. They preserve a culture of submission to authority, teaching citizens that validation must descend from above. They also perpetuate inequality, for they elevate a chosen few to symbolic nobility while ignoring the collective contribution of ordinary Kenyans who build the nation quietly, daily, and without ceremony. Just as the British once decorated African chiefs to legitimize their empire, modern Kenyan leaders decorate loyalists to sustain their own political empires.

Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea offers a perfect metaphor. Santiago, the old fisherman, endures tremendous struggle to catch a magnificent marlin, only to have sharks devour it before he reaches shore. In the end, he returns home exhausted, with nothing but the skeleton of his achievement. Similarly, Kenya’s political elite cling to their medals as hollow prizes, proof of a battle fought for self-glorification rather than national good. The decorations are like Santiago’s skeleton, glittering yet empty, symbols of effort wasted on vanity.

Equally instructive is Ferdinand Oyono’s The Old Man and the Medal, where the protagonist Meka, after years of servitude to colonial masters, is awarded a medal that becomes the ultimate symbol of humiliation. He realizes too late that the medal is not a reward but a mockery, a token meant to remind him of his subjugation. That same frustration haunts Kenya today. When the State parades medals to honor great thinkers like Professor Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o posthumously, it reenacts Oyono’s tragedy. To honor Ngũgĩ now, after ignoring and exiling him in life, is to decorate a corpse for courage it once despised.

How ironic that President William Ruto, who never responded to Ngũgĩ’s open letter pleading with him to stop selling Kenya cheaply to foreign powers, now finds the audacity to drape his name in posthumous honor. Ngũgĩ’s letter was not a plea for recognition but a cry of conscience a call for moral leadership in a nation bleeding from corruption and betrayal. To ignore that letter in life and then offer a medal in death is the ultimate insult. It is political theatre disguised as tribute, the same colonial hypocrisy that Ferdinand Oyono immortalized, a system that rewards submission while punishing truth. Ngũgĩ would never have accepted such a medal, for he understood, as Meka did, that colonial decorations are chains polished into symbols of gratitude.

A true republic must redefine honor. Recognition should not flow from State House but from the people. Imagine a “People’s Order of Service” awarded to teachers in remote counties, doctors in understaffed hospitals, volunteers feeding street families, or journalists exposing corruption. Such recognition would restore dignity to genuine service, shifting reward from political loyalty to social contribution. Kenya could learn from countries that have democratized national honors, where local communities nominate citizens for extraordinary service, ensuring that medals reflect real human impact, not presidential favor.

The continuation of colonial medals is not just a harmless tradition, it is an ideological statement. It signals that Kenya, six decades after independence, still measures greatness through the eyes of its former masters. It sustains the illusion that honor must come wrapped in metal and ribbon, handed down by power rather than earned through principle. It numbs the moral imagination of the nation, teaching youth that servitude is the path to prestige.

If Kenya must honor anyone, let it be those who serve in silence. Let us celebrate courage, not compliance. Let us immortalize integrity, not influence. The time has come to melt those colonial medals, recast them into monuments of memory, and engrave upon them a new creed: Honor belongs not to those who serve power, but to those who serve the people.

Disclaimer:
The views expressed in this editorial are solely those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the official policy or position of The Diaspora Times or its affiliates. This commentary is intended to provoke thought and public dialogue on Kenya’s post-colonial identity, governance, and value systems. Any resemblance to specific individuals or institutions is purely coincidental and serves the broader purpose of social critique and historical reflection.