In a blistering display of political bravado that has electrified the arid landscapes of northern Kenya, Isiolo County Assembly Speaker Abdullahi J. Banticha has issued a resounding rebuke to Marsabit Governor Mohammud Ali, branding his overtures as nothing short of “fitina politics“—a toxic brew of division and premature electioneering designed to destabilize Isiolo’s fragile peace.
The confrontation, unfolding against the backdrop of escalating inter-county rivalries and the looming shadow of the 2027 general elections, underscores the high-stakes power plays gripping Kenya’s pastoralist heartlands, where tribal loyalties, resource scarcity, and national alliances collide in a high-wire act of governance.
Banticha, a towering figure in Isiolo’s Borana-dominated political arena, did not mince words during a raucous public address that drew a fervent crowd of supporters, elders, and youth.
His voice booming like thunder over the savanna, he issued a stark warning to the Marsabit leader: “Usiletee ile fitina umeweka Marsabit hapa! Unajaribu njama ya kufunga Isiolo? Mbona Marsabit ijafungwa wakati hadi curfew iliwekwa sababu ya leadership collapse and conflicts?”
Translated from the raw patois of local Swahili, Banticha’s salvo translates to a pointed accusation: Don’t import the chaos you’ve unleashed in Marsabit to our doorstep. Why try to sabotage Isiolo when your own county has been crippled by curfews born of failed leadership and unending strife?
The Speaker’s unyielding stance is more than mere rhetoric—it’s a calculated defense of Isiolo’s sovereignty in the face of what he perceives as predatory meddling.
“Your Excellency,” Banticha thundered, addressing Governor Abdi Guyo directly, “give no audience to the Marsabit Governor on anything concerning Isiolo. He is nobody here and not welcome.”
This declaration arrives at a pivotal moment, mere days after Banticha secured ironclad endorsements from the Borana Council of Elders, a constellation of senior clan patriarchs, and a cadre of influential Borana professionals.
These pillars of community authority have not only rallied behind Banticha’s stewardship but have also extended their protective shield to Governor Guyo, shielding both from a barrage of recent political broadsides that have tested the resilience of their administration.
At the heart of this escalating feud lies a deeper narrative of loyalty and betrayal within Kenya’s Kenya Kwanza coalition, spearheaded by President William Ruto.
Banticha, ever the steadfast ally, reaffirmed his—and by extension, the Borana community’s—unwavering allegiance to both Guyo and the head of state.
“The majority of the Borana community and its leadership stand firmly with Governor Abdi Guyo and President William Ruto,” he proclaimed, his words laced with the fervor of a man defending not just a political pact, but a legacy of transformative governance.
In a pointed critique of his detractors, Banticha lambasted those he accused of peddling falsehoods at the highest levels of power.
“How can we abandon a government that has given Isiolo and the Borana community more development, recognition, and inclusion than ever before?” he challenged, invoking a litany of achievements under Ruto’s watch—from infrastructure upgrades snaking through the Chalbi Desert to enhanced security measures that have quelled banditry and fostered economic inclusion for marginalized pastoralists.
He reserved special scorn for the “desperate and roaming State House corridors” operatives, whom he dismissed as opportunistic agitators lacking both grassroots support and a coherent vision.
“Those desperate and roaming State House corridors have no ground and no strategy, that’s why they are restless,” Banticha sneered, painting a vivid portrait of rivals reduced to frantic lobbying in Nairobi’s corridors of influence, their threats of mass defection ringing hollow against the tide of tangible progress.
This latest salvo is inextricably linked to the seismic shifts roiling Isiolo’s political landscape following a botched impeachment attempt against Governor Guyo earlier this year.
What began as a high-drama bid by disgruntled Members of County Assembly (MCAs) to oust the governor—fueled by allegations of mismanagement and ethnic favoritism—ultimately crumbled under the weight of unified opposition.
Banticha hailed the episode as a watershed moment, one that exposed the fragility of the anti-Guyo faction and solidified the governor’s dominance.
“The impeachment failure only revealed the strength of Governor Guyo’s camp,” he asserted confidently. “MCAs, strategists, and the ground have already realigned with the winning team—Team Guyo.”
Adding fuel to the fire, Banticha spotlighted the burgeoning alliance between Governor Guyo and his predecessor, Godana Doyo—a political matrimony he dubbed “a lethal combination and a sure bet for 2027.”
Doyo, a veteran Borana leader whose tenure laid foundational stones for Isiolo’s devolved governance, brings gravitas and a network of cross-cutting alliances that have left rivals scrambling.
This partnership, Banticha argued, transcends mere electoral calculus; it’s a bulwark against the centrifugal forces threatening to fracture northern Kenya’s unity.
In a region perennially scarred by inter-clan skirmishes over grazing lands and water points—exacerbated by climate change and arms proliferation—the duo’s synergy promises stability amid volatility.
For context, the bad blood between Isiolo and Marsabit is no recent flare-up. These neighboring counties, both cradles of the Borana and other Cushitic communities, have long navigated a delicate balance of shared heritage and competitive resource claims.
Marsabit, under Governor Ali since 2022, has grappled with its own demons: recurrent ethnic clashes, a controversial curfew imposed in 2024 amid escalating insecurity, and accusations of governance lapses that have drawn national scrutiny.
Ali’s forays into Isiolo—perceived by Banticha as unsolicited endorsements or critiques—strike at the nerve of local autonomy, especially as 2027 approaches and alliances solidify along ethnic and national lines.
Banticha’s broadside also serves as a clarion call against the broader scourge of “fitina politics” in Kenya’s devolved system.
In an era where county bosses wield unprecedented power over budgets exceeding billions of shillings annually, premature campaigning often devolves into sabotage, with rivals leveraging tribal fault lines to erode incumbents.
Banticha’s intervention reframes the discourse, positioning Isiolo not as a battleground for external agitators, but as a beacon of progress under Ruto’s inclusive agenda.
“We are in Ruto’s government to stay,” he concluded with defiant eloquence. “The rest can continue crying for dissolution, but Isiolo is moving forward under unity, stability, and leadership.”
As the dust settles on this verbal joust, eyes across Kenya’s northern frontier turn to the Borana heartland. Will Governor Ali’s ambitions find fertile ground beyond Marsabit’s borders, or has Banticha drawn a line in the sand too deep to cross?
With 2027 on the horizon, one thing is clear: in the game of Kenyan politics, loyalty is the ultimate currency, and Isiolo’s guardians are spending it wisely.
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