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Kenya’s 2007 Election: Democracy, Violence, and the Shadow of Foreign Hands

Kelvin  ·  April 19, 2025

The bloodletting that engulfed Kenya after its 2007 general election left over 1,100 people dead and hundreds of thousands uprooted from their homes. A nation lauded as East Africa’s bastion of stability suddenly seemed to tear itself apart along ethnic lines. The standard narrative holds that an allegedly rigged vote sparked outrage, which spiraled into inter-ethnic violence pitting communities of the two main candidates – incumbent Mwai Kibaki and challenger Raila Odinga – against each other. But beneath these bleak headlines lay a more complex web of influence and interference. In the aftermath, whispers grew that Kenya’s trauma was not an isolated domestic failing, but partly the handiwork of foreign actors manipulating a“zombie” state – a nation walking under the will of others.

Critics like author Richard Poe would go so far as to claim that the 2007 election and its violent aftermath were orchestrated by external powers. Poe points to a shadowy convergence of international NGOs, leaked dossiers, Western diplomats, and even the early exploits of WikiLeaks founder Julian Assange as evidence that the convulsions in Kenya were not merely a spontaneous combustion of local tensions​. According to this view, both of Kenya’s major political camps – Kibaki’s Party of National Unity (PNU) and Odinga’s Orange Democratic Movement (ODM) – played into foreign agendas, wittingly or unwittingly, as global powers jockeyed for influence. In this retelling, Kenya appears less as the pilot of its destiny and more as a pawn – a “zombie” animated by the hands of distant puppeteers, from former colonial masters in Britain to American geopolitical strategists and international financiers.

Is this just another grand conspiracy theory grafted onto Kenya’s very real troubles? Or does it reveal uncomfortable truths about how deeply enmeshed foreign players were in Kenya’s worst political crisis since independence? To critically examine these claims, we must peel back the layers of Kenya’s political landscape before, during, and after 2007 – scrutinising the role of local elites as collaborators, the behaviour of both PNU and ODM in courting external backing, the question of “who benefited” from the chaos, and the aftermath in which international justice sought to intervene. In doing so, we enter a narrative as complex as any in modern African history as we consider Kenya’s postcolonial fate: a story of hope and betrayal, of agency and neo-imperialism, and of a people caught between their own aspirations and the maneuvers of far greater powers.

A Fragile Sovereignty

On the surface, Kenya in 2007 was a proud republic gearing up for its tenth multiparty election. Since gaining independence from Britain in 1963, it had its own flag, anthem, and government – all the trappings of sovereignty. Yet independence had come with heavy strings attached. Cold War rivalries saw Kenya’s first decades warped by outside influence; Western powers propped up the regime of Daniel arap Moi for 24 years in exchange for staunch anti-communism, despite Kenya sliding into autocracy and kleptocracy. By the early 2000s, the country was deeply in debt to international lenders, dependent on foreign aid, and subject to the policy prescriptions of the IMF and World Bank. In short, the halls of Kenyan power often echoed with the voices of Washington, London, and other capitals. The state’s economic, political, and even security apparatus had been penetrated by foreign advisors and institutions, leaving Kenyans to question how much real sovereignty remained behind the performances of self-rule.

This was the backdrop to 2002, when Mwai Kibaki’s opposition alliance swept to victory on a wave of optimism. Kibaki promised a break from the past – an end to corruption, ethnic favouritism and subservience to foreign dictates. But those hopes dimmed as his administration soon became entangled in grand corruption scandals and power struggles reminiscent of the old regime. Crucially, many Kenyan elites continued to maintain cosy ties with foreign patrons. Western donors remained kingmakers behind the scenes: funding development projects in key constituencies, sponsoring governance initiatives, and bankrolling local NGOs that kept up pressure for reforms. Kenyan commentators often noted that it was hard to tell where Kenyan policy ended and donor influence began. As one reflective observer put it, Kenya at times felt like “an independent flag flying over dependent politics” – its leaders free to do as they pleased only within parameters tacitly accepted by the international community.

Into this picture steps the provocative metaphor of Kenya as a “zombie-vassal state.” The term suggests a country that appears alive and sovereign, but is in fact under the control of external forces – much like a zombie animated by a sorcerer’s will. In 2007, multiple facets of Kenyan society bore the fingerprints of this influence. The economy was largely structured by programmes from Bretton Woods institutions; the military and counterterror units worked closely with American and British advisors in the “War on Terror”; and the political discourse was saturated with slogans of “democracy” and “good governance” promoted by Western-funded civil society groups. Kenya was not unique in this – across Africa, many postcolonial states navigate similar entanglements – but Kenya’s strategic importance (a regional economic hub and Western security partner) made it especially susceptible to intensive foreign interest.

Local Kenyan elites were hardly passive victims in this arrangement. In truth, they were active participants who had learned to leverage foreign power for their own ends. Over decades, a pattern emerged: when out of favour at home, opposition leaders would court Western sympathy by donning the mantle of “reformers”; once in power, the same leaders might shield themselves from Western censure by offering cooperation on economic or security matters. The political class became adept at speaking the language of donors and diplomats. Some would secure personal or family business interests abroad, effectively tying their fortunes to external benefactors. Others welcomed foreign advisors into their campaigns or governance teams, trading a slice of sovereignty for a dose of international legitimacy or financial backing. By 2007, both President Kibaki and his main challenger Raila Odinga had entourages that included consultants, lobbyists and confidantes from beyond Kenya’s borders. The scene was set for a showdown in which outside forces would inevitably insert themselves – whether invited or not – at critical moments.

“The Holy Grail of Kenyan Journalism”: WikiLeaks, the Kroll Report and Political Timing

Months before the first ballot was cast in December 2007, foreign meddling arguably made its grand entrance into Kenya’s electoral drama. On August 30, 2007, a shadowy website then little-known to the world – WikiLeaks – published a bombshell document titled “The Missing Kenyan Billions”. It was a leaked copy of a secret report by international risk consultancy Kroll Associates, detailing how former president Daniel arap Moi and his cronies had looted an astonishing sum (over £1 billion) from Kenya’s coffers and stashed it abroad. The Kroll report read like a financial crime thriller: shell companies, offshore bank accounts, properties in London and New York, even an Australian ranch – all linked to Moi’s 24-year kleptocracy​.

What made this leak so explosive was its timing and political implications. The report had been commissioned in 2003 by none other than President Kibaki himself, as part of his anti-graft platform after taking over from Moi​. Yet Kibaki’s government had shelved it, claiming it was incomplete and unreliable​. By 2007, Kibaki had formed an alliance with the very man investigated in the report – Daniel arap Moi. In a stunning about-face, Moi endorsed Kibaki for re-election just three days before the leak went public​. Thus, when WikiLeaks splashed the dirty secrets of the Moi era across the internet (and global media like the UK’s Guardian newspaper amplified it the next day​), the subtext was clear: Kibaki was consorting with a grand looter and betraying the fight against corruption.

Julian Assange, WikiLeaks’ enigmatic founder, later referred to the leaked dossier as “the holy grail of Kenyan journalism”​. He revealed that he had personally traveled to Nairobi in 2007 to “get hold of it,” working with local sources to obtain the document​. Those sources included the Kenyan NGO Mars Group, run by Mwalimu Mati – a former Transparency International official – who said an informant simply “dumped it on our laps”​. Mars Group, notably, was partly funded by the UK’s Department for International Development (DFID) and happened to share a Nairobi P.O. Box address with WikiLeaks itself​. In fact, WikiLeaks had quietly registered its domain in Nairobi in late 2006 under an assumed name – evidence that Kenya was an early beachhead for Assange’s whistleblowing enterprise​. This convergence was more than coincidence: it strongly suggests that elements of the international anti-corruption network, supported by British aid money, actively facilitated the leak. As one investigative report observed, the UK-funded Mars Group essentially “published [the report] via Wikileaks” to ensure maximum exposure while masking the true leakers​.

Assange himself made little secret of the political calculus at play. When asked why the Kroll report’s publication had been rushed out in late August 2007 – barely 100 days before Kenya’s election – Assange answered bluntly: “Political timing”​. He later boasted that the leak “swung the election” by shifting an estimated 10% of the vote away from Kibaki, effectively “changing the world”​. These are grand claims, to be sure, but they align with perceptions on the ground. Revelations of Kibaki’s pact with the corrupt old guard galvanized Odinga’s ODM base and lent credence to his crusade against “the Mount Kenya Mafia” (a nickname for Kibaki’s Kikuyu elite circle). The leak became campaign fodder, casting Kibaki as the betrayer of reform. In Poe’s analysis, this was the opening salvo of a foreign-orchestrated “color revolution” in Kenya: information warfare designed to weaken an incumbent and empower the opposition. For Assange and his backers, it was a trial run of WikiLeaks’ ability to influence real-world power dynamics – something Assange later proudly highlighted, noting that WikiLeaks had “changed the result of the Kenyan general election” in 2007​.

To be clear, exposing grand corruption was in the Kenyan public interest. Many local journalists hailed the Kroll leak for shining a light on impunity – an issue around which Kenya’s foreign donors had long pressed for action. Yet the selectiveness and timing of the leak raised eyebrows. Only parts of the 110-page report were released, with several pages mysteriously omitted​. Some targets of the investigation were left out entirely, prompting questions about whose names were being protected and why. In other words, someone – whether the leaker or those facilitating publication – appeared to be calibrating the impact to hit certain political figures while sparing others. This lends credence to the idea that the leak was not a neutral act of transparency but a strategic gambit. If so, who stood to gain?

At first glance, Raila Odinga and his ODM benefited most from the Kroll exposé. Odinga had been a member of the very anti-graft committee that commissioned the Kroll investigation back in 2003​. He thus could claim vindication and wrap himself in the mantle of reformer that Kibaki seemed to have dropped. But Odinga was not acting alone. Western institutions had at least two dogs in the fight: the virtue of “good governance” on one hand, and geopolitical leverage on the other. By torpedoing Kibaki’s anti-corruption credibility, the leak served notice that Western actors (be they NGOs, media, or intelligence outfits) would not hesitate to intervene if Kenya’s leadership reneged on promised reforms. It’s notable that Britain’s High Commission in Nairobi had privately expressed frustration with Kibaki’s slow pace on corruption crackdowns, and the Kroll affair put that issue front and center publicly. At the same time, weakening Kibaki right before the election made it more likely that a new regime – potentially more malleable to foreign influence – could come to power or that Kibaki would owe a debt of legitimacy to international brokers if he survived.

In the span of a few days, Kenya’s campaign narrative was re-scripted. What began as a referendum on Kibaki’s economic record (he had presided over strong GDP growth) morphed into a morality play about integrity and change versus continuity of a tainted old order. This suited Odinga, whose camp adopted the slogan of wanting to deliver a “Second Liberation” for Kenya – implying the first liberation from colonialism in 1963 had been betrayed by corruption and tribalism. International media eagerly picked up this storyline, often favorably profiling Odinga as an agent of change. It is here that we see local agency and foreign framing intersect: Kenyan opposition figures consciously used the language of Western democracy advocacy, while external actors provided them with ample platform and validation. In effect, Kenyan voters were being influenced not only by the rallies and tribal elders at home, but by narratives shaped in London newsrooms, Washington think-tanks, and the reports of foreign-funded NGOs.

The Election Day and Diplomatic Duels: When Two Masters Quarrel

The general election on December 27, 2007, was one of the most closely contested in Kenya’s history. As results trickled in, early tallies had Raila Odinga leading, only for a suspicious last-minute surge in votes from Kibaki’s strongholds to tip the scales. Amid allegations of vote tallying fraud – some constituencies showed implausibly high turnouts and inflated totals – the Electoral Commission declared Kibaki the winner. What followed in the next 48 hours was a study in how foreign influence can both ignite and attempt to douse a political fire, depending on which foreign actor you ask.

Within minutes of the disputed announcement, Kenya witnessed two starkly different reactions from its major Western partners. Britain, the former colonial ruler, broke with diplomatic nicety and issued a sharp joint statement via its Foreign Office and DFID expressing “real concerns” about electoral irregularities​. The British essentially refused to rubber-stamp Kibaki’s victory, aligning themselves with European Union observers who cited specific evidence of result tampering (one EU monitor noted a pro-Kibaki tally being inexplicably inflated by 25,000 votes in the final announcement)​. Across the Atlantic, however, the United States initially struck a different tone: Washington congratulated Kibaki on his “re-election,” effectively endorsing the official result and urging Kenyans to accept it peacefully. A U.S. State Department spokesman blandly called for calm and respect for the declared outcome, even as plumes of smoke from burning kiosks were already rising over Nairobi’s slums​.

Why this divergence? The quick congratulations from the U.S. likely reflected Kibaki’s status as a reliable partner in America’s counterterrorism efforts. Since 9/11, Kenya had become an important ally for the U.S. in East Africa, sharing intelligence and quietly allowing operations against Al-Qaeda suspects in the region. Kibaki’s government had cooperated in the crackdown on Somalia’s Islamists and helped disrupt terrorist plots on Kenyan soil. In Washington’s calculus, continuity in Nairobi meant a stable front in the “War on Terror.” The British, while also allies in counterterrorism, were more openly invested in Kenya’s democratic trajectory and perhaps more willing to reprimand an African ally over governance issues – especially one in their traditional sphere of influence. Moreover, London had maintained closer ties with Odinga’s camp (Odinga had personal connections and enjoyed support from UK-based pro-democracy networks). Some analysts whispered that Britain would not have minded seeing a post-Kibaki order, given frustrations with his drift from reform and his turn towards China for big infrastructure deals. As one insider observed, it was almost as if the Anglo-American alliance momentarily split its playbook: the US emphasising security and stability, the UK emphasising democracy and credibility. Caught in between were the people of Kenya, now facing a leadership crisis with two presidents – one sworn in by law, the other claiming the mantle of the people.

That split did not last long. As violence erupted in the streets, the U.S. recalibrated its position within days. News footage of police firing on protesters and mobs hacking innocent civilians to death forced all parties to acknowledge that Kenya was teetering on the edge of something unthinkable. Washington quickly backed off its early endorsement of the result, instead joining calls for mediation and power-sharing. In effect, the U.S. moved closer to the British/EU stance, pressing Kibaki’s government to negotiate with Odinga’s opposition. Jendayi Frazer, the U.S. Assistant Secretary of State for African Affairs, flew to Nairobi and openly stated that there had been “grave concerns” about the vote tally. Washington’s priority shifted to preventing a full collapse of order – a scenario in which Kenya’s considerable economic and security roles in the region would be shattered, benefiting no one (except perhaps extremist groups or rival powers).

For their part, Kibaki and Odinga both sought to leverage international sympathies. Kibaki, feeling betrayed by Western observers, courted the support of the African Union and discreetly reached out to less-critical partners like China and several African presidents, hoping they would validate his victory in the name of state sovereignty. Odinga’s ODM, meanwhile, launched a vigorous international charm offensive – giving press interviews to Western media, briefing diplomats, and hiring prominent figures to lobby on their behalf. (It was reported that ODM enlisted the services of a foreign public relations firm to help get their message to Washington and London, a move that underscored how even Kenya’s contest for legitimacy was being fought on foreign public relations terrain.) Each side accused the other of being a puppet: government hardliners painted Odinga as a stooge of Western left-leaning financiers and NGOs, while ODM figures accused Kibaki of having sold Kenya’s soul to foreign business interests and fallen back into the arms of former colonial apologists (a bitter irony, given the UK’s stance).

In truth, both PNU and ODM were willing to embrace foreign agendas insofar as they helped their quest for power. Kibaki’s camp, for instance, leaned on the “anti-terror” narrative, implying that an Odinga regime might be less dependable or even sympathetic to radical Islam (a spurious claim, but one aimed at Western fears). Odinga’s camp, conversely, wrapped itself in the cloak of “democracy” and human rights, encouraging the narrative that they were victims of a stolen election – a cause Western liberals could rally behind. It was a classic case of instrumentalizing foreign policy goals in local politics: anti-terror vs. democracy promotion. As Kenyan writer Murithi Mutiga astutely noted at the time, each side conveniently picked an American or European priority to hitch its wagon to – turning Kenya into an ideological battleground for outsiders by proxy. “Our leaders have learned to speak to Washington in its own tongue,” one Kenyan commentator observed wryly, “even while their foot soldiers slaughter neighbours back home.”

Orchestrating Chaos or Fueling the Fire? Post-Election Violence and the “Who Benefits” Test

When Kenya plunged into violence in early 2008, it seemed at first a spontaneous eruption – neighbours turning upon neighbours in wrath over the election dispute. But investigations later revealed an uncomfortable truth: much of the bloodshed was not random, but organized. Local elites on both sides had planned or at least incited violence, preparing for the contingency of a lost or stolen election. In the Rift Valley, ODM-aligned politicians and power-brokers had months earlier mobilised youth militias from their ethnic groups, anticipating a need to “resist rigging” – which translated into attacking communities seen as pro-Kibaki if Odinga was denied victory. Meanwhile, in central Kenya and Nairobi, influential figures from Kibaki’s camp (including members of the Kikuyu business elite and even police commanders) prepared to defend their hold on power, allegedly even to the point of arming sectarian gangs for retaliation. In one infamous episode, a Kikuyu militia called the Mungiki was reportedly unleashed to exact revenge in the Nakuru area, leading to brutal massacres. This choreography of violence was deeply rooted in Kenya’s internal elite dynamics – land disputes, historical grievances, and ethnic mistrust that politicians cynically exploited.

Where, then, do foreign actors come into this horrific picture? One cannot credibly claim that British diplomats or American NGOs instructed Kenyan youths to burn homes or rape women; the agency for those crimes lies squarely with the Kenyan perpetrators and the local leaders who guided them. However, foreign interests intersected the violence in two key ways: funding and framing.

First, consider funding. The claim by Richard Poe and others is that organisations linked to billionaire George Soros – specifically the Open Society Initiative for East Africa (OSIEA) – covertly financed and directed ODM’s protest movement when Odinga cried foul over the election​. In a November 2010 exposé, Poe alleged that Soros’s foundation had been funneling money into grassroots mobilisation against Kibaki’s regime, essentially stoking the post-poll upheaval. If true, this would mean a foreign entity materially abetted one side of the conflict. OSIEA flatly denied these allegations in the Kenyan press, calling them a fabrication​. Independent verification is hard to come by – donor funding is often opaque – but it is public record that OSIEA and similar Western donor agencies supported many Kenyan civil society groups at the forefront of election monitoring, voter education, and later, human rights reporting on the violence. For example, the Kenya Human Rights Commission (KHRC) and Kenya National Commission on Human Rights (KNCHR), both of which documented atrocities and spoke out vehemently against Kibaki’s government, have historically received significant funding from Western sources including the Ford Foundation and OSI. These groups were not partisan per se, but their work invariably aided the ODM cause of challenging the election outcome (since evidence of state-perpetrated violence and rigging bolstered Odinga’s position). On the other side, Kibaki’s government had its own quiet foreign backers: reports later emerged that wealthy international businessmen with stakes in Kenya (some with ties to the old Moi network) helped fund PNU’s operations and possibly even the “protection” of its interests during the chaos.

Thus, foreign money coursed through Kenyan networks on both sides of the divide, like unseen fuel lines feeding a raging fire. To the average impoverished youth in a tinderbox slum, it mattered little who ultimately paid for the machetes or the bus fare to a protest – but foreign hands may well have indirectly greased the wheels of violence by empowering local actors. A chilling question to ask is: cui bono, who benefited from the violence? Ostensibly, no one – Kenya was brought to its knees, its economy tanked, its people suffered. Yet in the cold logic of power politics, the post-election violence achieved a kind of stalemate that forced a negotiated settlement. Neither Kibaki nor Odinga could govern without some accommodation once the streets ran with blood. And in that outcome, arguably, certain foreign agendas found a silver lining.

For Western democracy promoters, the crisis became an opportunity to push through long-sought reforms under the banner “never again.” A team of eminent African and international mediators led by former UN chief Kofi Annan arrived, backed strongly by the United States, UK, and EU, to broker a peace deal. Under intense pressure – including threats of aid suspension and travel bans for intransigent politicians – Kibaki and Odinga agreed in February 2008 to form a Grand Coalition government, with Kibaki as President and Odinga taking a newly created Prime Minister post​. This power-sharing was essentially midwifed by the West (though fronted by African negotiators), and it came with conditions: the coalition had to implement an ambitious reform agenda addressing the underlying causes of the violence. New constitutional reforms, electoral reforms, and transitional justice mechanisms were put on the table. In effect, Kenya’s political class was put under a form of international tutelage in the wake of their own failures. Donors pledged massive funds to support the reform process and assist victims, further entrenching their influence in Kenya’s internal affairs.

From one perspective, the negotiation was a humane intervention that saved Kenya from civil war. From another, it represented the ultimate validation of the “zombie-vassal” concept: when push came to shove, fundamental decisions about Kenya’s leadership were not made solely by Kenyans but were brokered in conference rooms under the watch of foreigners. The “people’s will” – whether it had been for Kibaki or Odinga – ended up subservient to an imposed compromise that fit the international community’s interest in stability and a semblance of democracy. Some Kenyan critics lamented that the West had forced a marriage that denied true justice (if Odinga indeed won, why not insist he be made president? If Kibaki did, why dilute his mandate?) – but Western diplomats argued that a coalition was the only way to stop the killing. In truth, both Kibaki and Odinga were by then willing to split power, because the violence threatened to consume everything. They too had become, in a sense, puppets of circumstance, dancing to a tune partly called by Washington and London who held the purse strings and international legitimacy.

The “who benefits” analysis at a geopolitical level yields interesting if cynical answers. The immediate beneficiary of ending the violence was of course the Kenyan people, who desperately needed peace. But beyond that, foreign powers gained too. The U.S. and UK got a stable Kenya that could continue as a key trade and security partner – a collapse or prolonged conflict would have jeopardised their economic investments (Kenya hosts many multinationals, and is a transport hub) and security arrangements (naval access, intelligence cooperation, etc.). By helping craft the coalition, they also earned goodwill and influence with both Kenyan camps. Indeed, the new arrangement positioned Odinga – long seen as more anti-establishment – within the system where he could be moderated and engaged. China, which had been quietly increasing its footprint in Kenya through infrastructure loans, stayed largely aloof during the crisis and thus did not gain the same political capital; if anything, Beijing’s model of non-interference looked less attractive in an emergency where Kenyans saw active Western shuttle diplomacy bringing relief. Western nations could also tout the resolution as a victory for “democratic institution-building,” having facilitated the creation of new laws and eventually a new constitution in 2010. And for champions of international justice and human rights, the handling of Kenya set a precedent: it showed that even a relatively strong African country could be held to account through global mechanisms (or so it seemed at first).

That precedent would soon be tested in the courts of The Hague.

The ICC Intervention: Justice or Geopolitics?

One of the key pillars of the post-violence agreement was accountability: those who orchestrated or financed the mayhem were supposed to face justice. When it became clear that Kenya’s own institutions were too compromised or unwilling to prosecute the high-ranking culprits (Parliament infamously defeated a bill to establish a local tribunal, with some MPs chanting “Don’t be vague, let’s go to The Hague!”), the burden fell on the International Criminal Court (ICC). In 2010, at the behest of Kofi Annan who handed over a sealed envelope of suspects’ names, ICC Prosecutor Luis Moreno Ocampo opened cases against six prominent Kenyans from both sides of the political divide​. These included William Ruto and Henry Kosgey from ODM, and Uhuru Kenyatta and cabinet secretary Francis Muthaura from PNU – as well as an opposition-aligned journalist (Joshua arap Sang) and a former police chief. The charges: crimes against humanity, including murder, forcible displacement, and persecution. The ICC accused them of being the masterminds and inciters of the violence that nearly tore Kenya apart.

At face value, this was international justice holding Kenya’s elite to account, a triumph of principle over impunity. But the ICC process quickly became entangled with politics – both local and international – illustrating again the “zombie-vassal” dynamic in a new form. To begin with, it was pressure from Western governments and NGOs that had pushed Kenya down the ICC path. European diplomats in Nairobi warned that failure to pursue justice would risk sanctions or at least pariah status. Prominent human rights groups (many funded from the West) gathered and handed over evidence to the ICC. The message was clear: the world (or at least Europe and America) was watching, and Kenya would not be allowed to simply bury the past. In the eyes of many ordinary Kenyans who had despaired of their own courts, this was welcome – a chance for justice beyond the reach of domestic corruption. But others saw it as a new form of imperial overreach. Suddenly, decisions about who to prosecute for a national tragedy were being made in Dutch courtrooms by foreign judges and prosecutors. Kenya’s sovereignty, some argued, had been outsourced; the country was effectively on trial in front of an international audience.

The ICC cases revealed much about internal Kenyan elite dynamics. In a dramatic twist, two of the indictees – Uhuru Kenyatta and William Ruto – announced a political alliance ahead of the 2013 elections. These were men from opposite camps of 2007 (Kenyatta had been aligned with Kibaki’s side, Ruto with Odinga’s), now joining forces ostensibly for ethnic reconciliation but transparently also to bolster their defense against the ICC. In Nakuru, a city that had witnessed horrific violence between Kikuyu and Kalenjin communities (the respective support bases of Kenyatta and Ruto), the two stood together at rallies, shaking hands and proclaiming a “unity” ticket​. Their message to their communities: let’s forgive each other and move forward – and their unspoken message to the world: we are popular leaders, you cannot prosecute us without displeasing the Kenyan electorate. Indeed, Kenyatta and Ruto rode a wave of nationalist sentiment, casting the ICC as a neo-colonial meddler and themselves as patriots unfairly targeted. In March 2013, they won the presidency and deputy presidency, a result that left Western capitals in a bind. They wanted to respect the will of Kenyan voters (or at least be seen to do so), yet here were the very men they had pushed to charge with heinous crimes now at the helm of a key ally. Western policy quickly adjusted to this reality. While the ICC continued its legal course, diplomatic engagement with the Kenyatta-Ruto government resumed, albeit with some awkwardness (initially, countries like the UK adopted a “minimal contacts” policy, but this thawed especially as Kenya cooperated in regional security matters).

The ICC trials themselves struggled. Over the next few years, one by one, the cases fell apart. Witnesses recanted testimony or disappeared; evidence was deemed insufficient. By 2016, the ICC Prosecutor had withdrawn charges against Kenyatta due to non-cooperation by Kenyan authorities and alleged witness interference​, and the case against Ruto and Sang was vacated after judges ruled there was insufficient evidence to continue. No convictions were secured. This outcome showcased the limits of international justice when faced with determined local resistance and geopolitical pragmatism. ICC prosecutors complained of a “steady and relentless” campaign of intimidation and bribery of witnesses, and of the Kenyan government stonewalling requests for crucial evidence like phone records. Indeed, the ICC’s own judges noted Kenya’s failure to cooperate, though they stopped short of referring Kenya for sanctions. In essence, once Kenyatta and Ruto had the reins of state power, they used that power to undermine the cases against them – an outcome perhaps predictable, yet it underscored that sovereignty, however weakened, can reassert itself when incumbents close ranks.

Foreign interests were woven through this saga. The ICC, while an independent court, is often seen as reflecting the will of its member states – in this case, mostly European nations and Canada (the U.S. is not an ICC member, though it quietly supported the Kenya cases diplomatically). African critics frequently pointed out that all ICC prosecutions at that time were of Africans, prompting accusations of bias. Kenyatta leveraged this in diplomatic forums, rallying the African Union to pass resolutions against ICC’s handling of African cases and even threatening collective withdrawal from the Rome Statute. Kenya found sympathy from countries like South Africa and Uganda, who themselves had gripes about perceived Western double standards. This became another front of foreign policy: Western nations defending the ICC’s pursuit of justice, African governments accusing them of trampling sovereignty. In 2013, the UN Security Council (where Western powers hold sway) refused an AU request to defer the Kenya cases, revealing a clear rift – Russia and China, interestingly, sided with Kenya’s position. The stage was thus set for a classic East-West tug-of-war, with Kenya’s victims and suspects caught in between.

In the official court records of the ICC, you won’t see entries reading “orchestrated by Britain” or “egged on by America” – international courts deal in individual criminal responsibility. But the subtext of the Kenya cases, as reflected in many testimonies and diplomatic cables, does hint at foreign dimensions. For instance, some witnesses alleged that certain NGO staff helped them craft accounts to fit the ICC charges – claims that, if true, suggest overzealous external involvement in securing convictions. Meanwhile, U.S. embassy cables (exposed by WikiLeaks in a twist of fate) showed American diplomats strategising on how to handle Kenyan leaders post-violence, discussing who could be trusted or not. One cable by Ambassador Michael Ranneberger in early 2010 warned that Kenya’s “culture of impunity” among the ruling elite (including both Kibaki and Odinga) could lead to worse violence. It specifically mentioned that without accountability, the country might face an even more violent crisis in the future. This reveals the mindset of Kenya’s Western partners: they saw the ICC as a tool to break that cycle of impunity and also to fracture the elite cartel if necessary (Ranneberger spoke of working “hairline fractures” in the Kenyan old guard to induce real change).

In the end, the ICC cases collapsed – a fact that some cite as proof that there was no grand foreign “script” after all, since the supposed puppets freed themselves. However, others see the outcome as simply the elite outmaneuvering an international intervention, leaving the deeper dynamics unchanged. Kenya’s leaders survived prosecution, but the country did implement many reforms (a new constitution, police reforms, electoral commission overhaul) that arguably made future foreign meddling less necessary or less effective. By 2013 and 2017 elections, Kenya had better institutions and a more vigilant citizenry, and although disputes remained, the scale of violence did not repeat. It’s notable that both Western and African actors became warier too: the West avoided the appearance of partisan meddling in subsequent elections, and African diplomacy (through the AU) took a more leading role in preventive diplomacy. Perhaps the trauma of 2007-08 taught all sides a lesson: that the brinksmanship of power, if coupled with external interference, can produce a disaster neither side truly controls.

Conclusion: A Dance of the Puppets and the Puppet-Masters

In a reflective mood, one might picture Kenya’s 2007 crisis as a tragic dance on a stage far bigger than its own boundaries. On that stage twirled Kenya’s politicians – some cynical, some idealistic, all ambitious – moving to the music of public slogans and private schemes. Yet above the stage, scarcely visible, were the puppet-masters’ strings: subtle tugs from foreign capitals, NGO boardrooms, donor roundtables and intelligence briefings, all pulling the performance in certain directions. The result was a choreography of chaos – one that nearly consumed the dancers themselves.

Kenya in 2007-2008 exemplified how a state can be both the author of its fate and the subject of outside authorship. Local agency and culpability are undeniable: Kenyan leaders stoked ethnic divisions for votes, hardliners plotted violence rather than accept defeat, and once violence broke out, it was Kenyans who swung machetes and fired guns at each other. The nation’s wounds were largely self-inflicted, rooted in unresolved historical injustices and power struggles. And yet, as we have seen, foreign actors were intimately woven into the fabric of this crisis at every critical juncture. They leaked damning information that swayed political momentum; they jump-started and later halted the spiral of electoral illegitimacy through public pronouncements; they provided both the funds and the moral narratives that lubricated the gears of confrontation; and when things fell apart, they swooped in to broker a settlement and impose a judicial reckoning from afar. In doing so, they both mitigated and exacerbated the situation – fueling opposition fervor here, checking excesses there, ultimately helping put Kenya back together, albeit in a new, altered form.

So, was Kenya’s post-election violence orchestrated by foreign hands? The evidence suggests influence and intervention rather than outright orchestration. Kenya was not a mindless zombie with foreigners pressing a remote control; it was more like a patient in a hospital, with various doctors administering potent drugs – some helpful, some experimental – while the patient’s own immune system alternately fought and succumbed to illness. The foreign “doctors” in Kenya’s case had their own intentions: one could argue Britain cared most about restoring a version of democratic order (and its own credibility in its former colony), the U.S. cared about a stable ally against terror, the international NGOs cared about justice and human rights (in line with their missions, but also aligning with Western liberal values), and the ICC cared about its mandate to punish atrocity. Each would claim to be acting for Kenya’s good, and indeed Kenya did benefit in some ways (a grand coalition arguably avoided civil war, a new constitution emerged, impunity was at least challenged). Yet Kenya also paid a price in sovereignty and in truth – as certain narratives were privileged over others, and accountability was selective.

Local collaborators made the foreign influence possible and effective. Men like Mwalimu Mati of Mars Group, who handed Assange the “smoking gun” of the Kroll report, or politicians who relayed insider info to diplomats, were consciously enlisting outsiders to fight their battles​. Raila Odinga and Mwai Kibaki each had entourages deeply enmeshed with donor organisations and international advisors; they opened the door for external interests to permeate their strategies. Even at the grassroots, Kenyan activists and media partly relied on donor funding to operate – one prominent local monitoring group, the Kenya Elections Domestic Observation Forum (KEDOF), had significant Western support. In that sense, many Kenyan elites were fluent in the language of dependency. But they also understood that foreigners could be played. Kibaki bet (almost correctly) that anti-terror cooperation would earn him a blank check – it did, until the violence made him too much of a liability. Odinga bet that international sympathy for democracy would force Kibaki to compromise – and indeed, it got him half a loaf in the coalition government. Kenyatta and Ruto bet that waving the flag of sovereignty and Pan-African solidarity could undermine the ICC – and they walked free. These bets paid off not because foreigners omnipotently ordained it, but because Kenyan actors maneuvered within the constraints and opportunities foreigners presented.

If there is a single lesson to draw from examining Kenya’s 2007 election through this lens, it is that simplistic narratives do not suffice. The violence was neither a purely home-grown tribal bloodlust nor a puppet show entirely engineered by CIA, MI6, or Soros-funded operatives (as the extremes of opinion often suggest). It was a toxic brew of the two – a Kenyan tragedy exacerbated by global interests. Western talk of “democracy promotion” rang hollow when the same West swiftly endorsed a dubious election in the name of security​. Conversely, rhetoric of “sovereignty” by Kenyan leaders rang hollow when it was they who had invited foreigners into every aspect of their governance in preceding years. In the end, Kenya survived by asserting a kind of hybrid solution: embracing reform (to satisfy and actually improve under donor guidance) while also reasserting national unity against external prosecution. It navigated between the puppeteer’s strings and its own volition, neither fully cut loose nor fully bound.

Renowned writers like Chinua Achebe often reminded us that postcolonial nations navigate an ambiguous terrain, where the past’s shadow lies long on the present. James Baldwin wrote of the “burden of history” that shapes actions beyond what is immediately seen. In Kenya’s story, the burden of colonial and Cold War history is evident in how foreign powers still felt entitled or obligated to step in, and how Kenyan society remained stratified in ways the colonists engineered. Yet history is not destiny. Kenya’s people demonstrated resilience: they demanded a new constitution, they voted again and again, they held peaceful protests, they started dialogues across communities to heal. These grassroots efforts, though less sung, were crucial in ensuring that no foreign agenda could ultimately trump the Kenyan desire for peace and normalcy. Arguably, that deep desire – of ordinary citizens, church and civic leaders appealing “No more violence, let’s live together” – was the decisive factor that pushed the politicians to compromise in 2008 and marginalised those urging continued conflict.

Kenya today remains a partner of both East and West, a recipient of donor aid and advice, and occasionally a subject of international scrutiny (for example, recent anti-corruption drives or security cooperation are often donor-influenced). In that sense, the “zombie-vassal” condition has not entirely lifted; foreign influence is a reality of our interconnected world. But Kenya is also a country that learned from the abyss – it has held subsequent elections that, while contentious, have not recaptured the same nationwide carnage. That alone is a testament to Kenyan agency overcoming the fate of a permanent proxy battleground.

Richard Poe’s claim, viewed critically, is a valuable provocation. It forces us to ask uncomfortable questions about how power really operated in the 2007 crisis and to acknowledge that neo-colonial interference is not a fantasy but part of the fabric of how modern states interact, especially unequal ones. However, to lay the tragedy solely at the feet of “foreign puppet-masters” would be to absolve the local actors who lit the fire and those who failed to douse it in time. Kenya’s 2007 election violence was a shared failure – of leadership at home and of ethical restraint abroad. Its aftermath, likewise, was a shared effort – of Kenyans and outsiders – to piece the nation back together.

In the end, one hopes that Kenya will continue to strengthen itself such that next time it faces a major internal test, it can handle it within its own just and democratic institutions, requiring less intrusive external arbitration. True sovereignty, after all, is not just about flying a flag; it’s about being able to solve your country’s problems in a way that reflects the will and welfare of your own people, not the whims of others. The story of 2007 is a cautionary tale of what happens when that sovereignty is compromised – economically, politically, socially. Kenya’s challenge, like that of many African states, is to escape the zombie trance of dependency and patronage and to walk on its own feet, alive to both its promise and its responsibility. The dance of puppets and puppet-masters must give way to a march of Kenyans – forward, together, and truly free.

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