Deep in the windswept volcanic plains of the majestic Laikipia county lies a few acres of land on which I rear sheep and goats or shoats as they are collectively termed. My neighbors are primarily subsistence farmers, although a few immigrant fellow city slickers have recently taken up farming residency in the area. Having grown my shoat flock slowly but consistently in the last few months, I decided to put up a more permanent structure for the animals and hired the services of an architect to design something for me. Being the consummate professional, he advised that we needed to submit the structural drawings to the county government to get approvals.

After muttering under my “Kenyan-accustomed-to-shortcuts” breath that I didn’t see why the county government needed to approve a small livestock structure, I submitted to the rules and waited. I received a very nicely packaged bill for rates, arrears for those rates and penalties from the Laikipia County Revenue Board. I did a double take. I’m sorry, what now? This was agricultural land, about forty rocky and black cotton soil filled kilometres from the nearest town, being Nanyuki. My rudimentary understanding of rates is that they are fees levied by a county government for provision of services such as sewage, roads, lighting, garbage collection, water and whatever other quality of modern life comforts that its citizens are supposed to enjoy.

I sputtered in indignant rage. “What do you mean, I have to pay rates? This is farm land, nowhere near the municipality!” The architect was adamant. We would not get our approvals unless the rates, arrears and penalties were paid. I started to do some research and discovered that mine was not a unique position. Since county governments in Kenya are tired of being cash strapped due to the perennial revenue allocation kerfuffle with the national government, they have resorted to finding ways and means of raising their own revenue.

Charging rates, which is well within their ambit, has become the latest way of generating income to fund their existence. So what if majority of communities outside a town are rural? They are breathing county air and are purportedly enjoying county services. Or are they? The Kenya National Bureau of Statistics has been doing God’s data work for decades. In a 2022 Laikipia County Statistical Abstract, which is the most recent specific data research I could find about my blessed adopted county,  total revenue for the county was Kes 5.9 billion, of which 70% or Kes 4.1 billion came from the national government. Land rates made up about 7% in the 2022/23 financial year accounting for about Kes 74 million out of total county sourced revenues of Kes 997 million. I can see why they would lick their chops at the thought of increasing revenue from rates. My farm is in the administrative unit known as Laikipia East. With a population of 109,063 or 34,161 households, I was amazed to find that the KNBS data claims that 56% or 19,334 households have access to piped water while 23% or a paltry 7,933 of households have sewer access. The assumption I am making here is that these services are enjoyed by those close to Nanyuki town and certainly not my community which the same statistical report describes as having rainfall in the range of 500 to 700mm a year with soils that don’t drain well and high evaporation rates. We. Need. Water.

The nearest water scheme to my farm, Tigithi Water serves a mere 718 households, of which none of my neighbors are part of. Our village roads are part murram and mostly black cotton cattle tracks that convert into World Rally Championship grade competitive sections the minute 2mm of out of the 500-700mm of annual rainfall appears. Sewer? What’s that? Pit latrines are the order of the day in my rural neighborhood. But we have now been folded into the wealth generating ambit of rate payers. Look, I can probably rub together a couple of coins and find the funds to pay, quibbling aside. But many of my neighbors cannot. Plus they are not even getting the public amenities that they are purportedly being charged for.

The impact of this hit to rural households will take a while to be felt as you will only feel it when you go to get services related to your land like building approvals, sale transfers or property sub divisions. But if you do have a little patch of land sitting upcountry somewhere and you’re thinking you are safe, you are not. This revenue collection system has been rolled out by other counties as well. Years of starvation from county revenue allocation is now biting us where it hurts most. Maybe this might be what slows down the land purchasing frenzy Kenyans are famous for.

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