It has become increasingly difficult for Rigathi Gachagua to play fair with others. His politics is marked by a pattern of unilateral declarations, inflated mandates and a constant urge to dominate spaces that should ideally be shared. At one rally, he bluntly stated that “Dr. Matiang’i must first bring the Kisii vote to the table before being considered for opposition torch bearer,” reducing coalition building to a crude transactional bargain. In Nairobi, he went ahead and allocated his DCP party all the major seats, insisting that there was an agreement with Kalonzo Musyoka’s Wiper Party, a claim Kalonzo dismissed as pure fiction. And in Mt. Kenya, he repeatedly declares he is the “sole custodian of eight million votes,” as though the region’s political destiny is padlocked inside his briefcase. These are not just political missteps. They point to a man whose psychology makes shared power feel like a threat.
To understand this behaviour, you must look at the environments that produced Gachagua and the battles that hardened him. His upbringing and schooling were not the soft, liberal spaces of today but the tough, disciplinarian classrooms that shaped an entire generation. It was an era where authority was never questioned, competition was brutal and survival depended on being louder, tougher and more stubborn than everyone else. Gachagua chose assertiveness as his armour, and that edge still colours his voice today. When he speaks, you hear the echoes of a young man who learned that the only way to be heard was to push, dominate and insist.
His defining mould, however, was the provincial administration of the Moi era. As a District Officer, Gachagua served inside a system that rewarded command over consultation. A D.O. did not persuade; he announced. He was the state’s face, carrying instructions from above and enforcing them without debate. In that world, authority flowed one way, and the leader who hesitated lost control. This explains why, even today, Gachagua talks like a man addressing a baraza rather than a national constituency that expects negotiation. His instinct is to direct and warn, not to seek consensus. There have been moments in opposition planning meetings where he abruptly shut down colleagues mid-sentence, declaring, “This matter is closed. I have decided.” To him, leadership is demonstrated through firmness, not shared thinking.
His long legal battles only deepened his defensiveness. Years of court appearances, frozen assets and public accusations created a man who sees hidden enemies everywhere. Whether he was guilty or targeted is for history to decide, but psychologically, the impact is visible. He views political criticism as an attack and even friendly advice as a trap. He once snapped at a senior ally during strategy consultations, telling him, “Don’t teach me politics. I have survived worse.” It is the voice of a man who believes the world is permanently conspiring against him.
The bitterness from his brother Nderitu’s time as Nyeri Governor also lingers. Gachagua operated as a powerful gatekeeper in his brother’s administration, feared and courted in equal measure. When his brother died and many of those who once depended on the family vanished overnight, he internalised a deep suspicion of the political elite. This moment cemented his belief that loyalty is rare and betrayal is inevitable. It is partly why he reacts with fury whenever he senses shifting winds around him.
Across the three presidents he has served, the pattern repeats. Under Moi, he learned blind loyalty. Under Uhuru, he suffered exclusion and turned that pain into political anger. Under Ruto, he found a fellow survivor, but as tensions rise, Gachagua takes it as personal betrayal rather than shifting political realities. His belief that relationships must be permanent makes political adjustments feel like stabs.
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Even his ethnic messaging, often criticised as outdated, comes from an older worldview where tribe is a survival unit. When he insists that “Mt. Kenya must not be scattered” or that his community must remain at the centre of national politics, he is replaying the lessons of a political generation raised on ethnic blocs as shields.
Gachagua’s politics is not madness; it is muscle memory. It is the behaviour of a man trained by rigid systems, wounded by political loss and convinced that survival requires confrontation. His speeches may rattle the polished elite, but to him they are simply the language he knows best. He fights because he believes he must. He commands because he was never taught to negotiate. And he mistrusts everyone because, in his world, betrayal is never more than one handshake away.
