Long ago, in a village at the edge of the great savannah, the people lived well enough. They farmed, traded, and raised their children. But they had one great problem: the road to the market in the neighbouring town was broken and dangerous. During rainy season, it became a river of mud. Farmers watched their sorghum rot because they could not reach buyers in time. Traders lost goods. Children could not travel to the better school in the next village.
Everyone agreed the road should be fixed. But when the elders called a meeting under the ancient acacia tree, the trouble began.
"Let Juma fix it," said Ochieng the honey collector. "He has the most cattle. He can afford it."
"Why should I alone bear this burden?" Juma replied. "I did not break the road. And if I fix it, Ochieng will use it to carry his honey without paying anything."
"Let each person fix the portion in front of their compound," suggested Akinyi the trader.
They tried this. Juma fixed his portion with good stones. Ochieng filled his with sand that washed away in the first rain. Old Mama Nekesa could not fix hers at all. She had no sons and no money. The road remained impassable.
Then one day, a stranger came to the village. His name was Baraka, and he was very strong, a former wrestler who had travelled far. He saw the broken road and the bickering villagers and saw opportunity.
"I will fix your road," Baraka announced. "I will also protect you from the thieves who hide in the forest. In return, you will give me one-tenth of your harvest."
The villagers were tired of arguing. They agreed.
Baraka was true to his word, at first. He organised the young men, fixed the road, and drove away the thieves. The village prospered. Farmers reached the market. Trade increased.
But seasons passed, and Baraka changed.
One-tenth became one-fifth. "The road needs maintenance," he explained. Then one-fifth became one-third. "I need more men to keep you safe."
When Ochieng complained, Baraka's men burned his honey stores.
When Juma questioned where all the contributions were going, Baraka took his best cattle as "additional security fees."
When Akinyi asked for accounts of how the money was spent, Baraka laughed. "I am your protector. I do not answer to traders."
The village had traded one problem for another. The road was good, yes, but they lived in fear. Everything depended on Baraka's mood. When he was happy, there was peace. When he was angry, there was suffering. And everyone knew that when Baraka eventually died or grew weak, his lieutenants would fight over the village like dogs over bones.
One night, the elders gathered in secret at Mama Nekesa's compound.
"We made a mistake," said Juma. "We gave one man power over all of us because we could not agree among ourselves."
"What choice did we have?" asked Ochieng. "None of us alone could fix the road or fight the thieves."
Old Mama Nekesa, who had been silent, finally spoke. "The problem was never that we needed to contribute. The problem was that we had no system. No rules. No agreement that bound everyone equally, including whoever we put in charge."
The elders listened.
"What if," Mama Nekesa continued, "we create something that is bigger than any one person? Not Baraka's rule, but our village's rule. We agree together how much each household contributes, based on what they have, so the burden is fair. We agree together what the contributions are used for. We choose who manages the work, and we can remove them if they fail us. The rules remain even when the manager changes."
"But how do we remove Baraka now?" asked Akinyi.
"We don't fight him," said Mama Nekesa. "We outlast him. We build our system quietly. When enough of us are committed to it, we will have something he cannot defeat: an idea that lives beyond any single person."
It took time. Years. But the people of the village built what Mama Nekesa described.
They created a council of elders, with members chosen from different quarters of the village, so no single family dominated. They established that every household would contribute according to their harvest and their trade. Those with more gave more. Those with less gave less. But everyone gave something. They kept records, open for anyone to inspect, showing what came in and what went out. They agreed that contributions would fund only what the village decided together: the road, the school, the clinic, the night guards.
When Baraka finally grew old and weak, there was no succession crisis. The system did not depend on him. The council simply continued. Baraka's son tried to claim his father's position, but the villagers no longer needed a strong man. They had something stronger: an institution.
The village became famous across the land. Other villages sent delegates to learn their ways. "What is your secret?" they asked.
The answer was always the same: "We learned that the things we need together, we must build together. Not because one man forces us, but because we agreed to bind ourselves. Our contribution is not tribute to a master. It is investment in our own future. And the system we created answers to us, not the other way around."
What the people of that village understood, every lasting society must learn: that government is not the strong man who protects you at his pleasure, but the agreement among equals to solve shared problems through shared sacrifice. Taxation is not the price of being ruled. It is the proof that we have chosen to rule ourselves.
— David Apaflo, FCA, FCTI, FIMC
January 2026