Before the government spends billions of shillings changing police uniforms, it must answer one simple question: What exactly is wrong with the uniform our police officers wear today? Not what could be made prettier. Not what could be redesigned. Not what another country is wearing. What operational policing problem has become so serious that changing the uniform of tens of thousands of officers must now rank among Kenya’s priorities? That question matters because government does not have unlimited money.
President William Ruto acknowledged this reality himself at Kiganjo on August 28. He spoke about the conditions under which our police officers work and correctly observed that society cannot keep demanding professionalism, integrity, and sacrifice while neglecting officers’ remuneration, housing, healthcare, equipment, career development, and psychological well-being.
Precisely. So why are we buying new uniforms? If the President acknowledges that police officers need better housing, why is clothing taking priority? If officers need better healthcare, why not put the money there? If police stations lack vehicles, fuel and basic infrastructure, why are we redesigning uniforms?
Maternity wear is not a reason for new police uniforms
This is not an argument against police officers looking professional. They should. It is an argument about priorities. Government has cited, among other considerations, the need for appropriate maternity wear for pregnant female officers. That is a perfectly legitimate concern. Female police officers should not be forced into uncomfortable or inappropriate uniforms during pregnancy.
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But surely Kenya does not need to replace the uniforms of tens of thousands of officers to solve that problem. Design maternity wear compatible with the existing uniform. Problem solved. Instead, we appear to be embarking on another massive procurement exercise whose potential cost runs into billions.
Available estimates suggest that a complete working uniform kit could cost approximately Sh25,000 per officer, with ceremonial attire adding perhaps another Sh30,000. Across roughly 60,000 officers, we could easily be discussing expenditure approaching Sh3 billion.
What Sh3 billion could actually buy
That is where this stops being a fashion discussion. It has become a public-finance question. Three billion shillings can transform policing. It can rehabilitate police stations. It can improve police housing. It can buy patrol vehicles and motorcycles. It can provide fuel. It can strengthen communication systems. It can purchase protective equipment. It can improve mental health and counseling services. It can improve medical support for officers and their families.
Imagine an officer stationed somewhere in rural Kenya. The police station has no reliable vehicle. The roof leaks. Electricity has been disconnected because they haven’t paid the bills. There is no running water. The officers contribute money from their own pockets for fuel. Then Nairobi sends them new uniforms. Are we serious? What exactly has improved? When someone reports a robbery twenty kilometres away, will the new trousers transport the officer to the crime scene? Will the redesigned shirt fuel the police vehicle? Will a ceremonial jacket repair the leaking station? Will new fabric improve criminal investigations? That is the absurdity we must confront.
A culture of replacement, not repair
The larger issue, however, goes beyond police uniforms. Kenya is developing a dangerous governance culture in which every administration appears determined to replace what it inherited. New uniforms. New agencies. New systems. New platforms. New branding. New programmes. New acronyms. And inevitably, new tenders.
We rarely begin with the most basic question of public administration: Can what already exists be repaired? That is how a responsible government should operate. Before replacing something, diagnose it. Before abandoning a system, audit it. Before creating another institution, establish why the existing one cannot perform the function. Before spending billions, demonstrate the public benefit. And before awarding a tender, show taxpayers why that procurement was necessary in the first place. Otherwise, citizens are entitled to wonder whether the problem being solved is merely the need to create another procurement opportunity.
Publish the tender file
That question matters even more because media reports have raised concerns about the company linked to the police uniform procurement and alleged connections to individuals close to the First Family. Such reports do not by themselves establish corruption. But they absolutely justify scrutiny. The government can settle the matter easily. Publish everything. Who tendered? How many companies competed? What prices did they quote? Who evaluated the bids? What criteria were used? Who are the beneficial owners of the successful companies? Were conflict-of-interest declarations made? What is the final contract value? How many uniforms are being supplied? What is the unit cost? And perhaps most importantly: who decided that changing uniforms was a national policing priority?
These are not opposition questions. They are taxpayers’ questions. Every Kenyan who pays VAT when buying unga has standing in this conversation. Every boda boda rider paying fuel taxes has standing. Every employee whose salary is raided by PAYE and multiple levies has standing. Government is spending its money. And this government has repeatedly told Kenyans that money is scarce.
Austerity for citizens, procurement for the state
Citizens have been asked to tighten their belts. Taxes and levies have increased. Businesses are struggling. Families are cutting expenditure. Young graduates cannot find jobs. Government cannot preach austerity to citizens while treating procurement as though resources are unlimited.
President Ruto himself recently remarked, in substance, that people cannot elect someone they believe to be a thief and then expect that person not to steal. That statement creates an interesting standard of accountability. If citizens must be vigilant about whom they elect, they must be even more vigilant about what elected leaders do with public resources.
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So let us apply that vigilance here. Maybe the police uniform procurement is completely legitimate. Maybe every shilling will be accounted for. Maybe the supplier was selected through impeccable competition. Maybe there is a compelling operational reason why tens of thousands of officers urgently require new uniforms.
Fine. Then show us. Transparency should not frighten an innocent government. Open the procurement files and allow Kenyans to see for themselves. Because this debate is ultimately not about whether the new police uniform looks attractive. It is about whether government understands the difference between appearance and reform. You can put an officer in the finest uniform in Africa, but if that officer is poorly paid, poorly housed, psychologically exhausted, inadequately equipped and stationed at a police post without a vehicle, you have not reformed policing. You have merely dressed up its problems.
Three questions before the first stitch
Before spending billions to change the police uniform, answer three questions: What was wrong with the old one? Why couldn’t it simply be improved? And who ultimately benefits from replacing it? Until those questions are answered, Kenyans have every reason to keep asking whether this is really about policing or procurement.
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