Kenya, 12 January 2026 - The Deputy Chief of staff in State House, Eliud Owalo’s resignation from State House landed like a political storm, not because technocrats never quit, but because of what it symbolised: the first open walk-away from President William Ruto’s own kitchen.
In a brief but pointed letter, the former Deputy Chief of Staff for Delivery and Government Efficiency declared that his continued stay in office after announcing a presidential bid was “no longer tenable,” arguing that “the pursuit of a national mandate cannot be reconciled with the obligations of an appointed executive role.”
With those words, Owalo converted a whisper of ambition into a full-blown rupture.
The law and political convention left him little choice.
Kenya’s electoral framework draws a bright line between appointed power and partisan competition.
Once a public officer seeks an elective office, especially the presidency, the expectation is resignation—both to prevent the abuse of office and to protect the integrity of the contest.
Owalo acknowledged this reality, saying he was stepping aside “to avoid any perception of conflict of interest and to uphold the principles of fair competition.”
In other words, he could not be referee and striker in the same match.
But the legal necessity only explains half the drama. The other half is the politics of defiance.
Owalo was not just any technocrat; he was embedded at the heart of Ruto’s delivery engine, tasked with tracking promises, unblocking bottlenecks and keeping ministries on performance leash.
So by declaring that he would challenge the very president he served, Owalo crossed from loyalist to rival.
Staying on would have meant daily proximity to the state’s nerve centre while plotting a campaign against it—an untenable contradiction even in the rough-and-tumble of Kenyan politics.
His resignation letter was careful, even respectful, yet unmistakably assertive.
He spoke of a “duty to the Republic” that now required him to “seek the people’s mandate,” and of a conviction that “leadership must be renewed through open competition.”
Those lines are not just procedural; they are ideological.
They frame his exit not as betrayal but as democratic fidelity, an appeal to the constitutional idea that public office is a trust, not a stepping-stone to personal power.
Still, the move detonates inside Ruto’s coalition. For months, the president has laboured to project unity and momentum, even as cost-of-living pressures and political realignments test his grip.
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Owalo’s leap into the 2027 race punctures that aura. It signals to ambitious insiders that the succession conversation has begun—and that it can begin without Ruto’s blessing. That is why the resignation matters far beyond one man’s job.
The statutes behind Owalo’s decision are designed to keep elections clean. They insist that appointed officers who wish to vie must first shed the authority of office so they cannot tilt the field with state resources, privileged information or bureaucratic muscle.
Courts have repeatedly reinforced this logic, warning that a politicised public service corrodes constitutional values of impartiality.
Owalo’s letter echoes that jurisprudence, promising to “separate public duty from political ambition” as he steps into the arena.
Yet, there is also calculation. By resigning early, Owalo frees himself to organise, fundraise and crisscross the country without the handcuffs of office. He avoids legal traps that could later invalidate his candidacy. And he crafts a narrative of principle—“I left because the law and ethics demanded it”—that will play well with voters weary of leaders who cling to state perks while campaigning.
The irony is sharp. Ruto himself once rode a wave of insurgent politics against a sitting president, arguing that democracy thrives when competition is not strangled by incumbency.
Owalo is now borrowing that script, turning it against his former boss.
“Kenya deserves a contest unclouded by office,” his letter insisted, a line that reads like both a legal justification and a political challenge.
Whether Owalo’s bid will gather real traction is another question. The presidency is a brutal marathon, and technocratic reputations do not always translate into mass appeal.
But his resignation has already achieved something tangible: it has opened the 2027 race from inside the fortress. It has reminded the political class that the law is not a footnote but a gatekeeper, forcing clarity when ambition collides with power.
In stepping down, Owalo has traded proximity to authority for the long, uncertain road to it.
He leaves behind a State House desk for the dust of the campaign trail, betting that legality, ethics and timing can together become a launchpad. As his letter put it, “the people must decide.”
In Kenyan politics, that is both a constitutional promise and a daring provocation.
Kepher Otieno is a senior journalist and columnist based in Kenya.
The opinion expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of Dawan Africa.



