Mary Nanzala, a 38-year-old woman from Chwele Village, arrives at the Huduma Centre in Bungoma Town at 8:30 a.m. She travelled for one and a half hours, paid her fare and left her 63-year-old mother to care for her four children back at home. She carries all the documents she was told to bring to obtain her children’s birth certificates, as she plans to apply for their inclusion in the Social Health Fund. At the counter, however, she is informed that one more letter is required from the chief to certify that they are her biological children. Nobody can explain why it was not included in the original instructions. She must return another day.

Elsewhere in Lolgorian, a village in Kilgoris County, Ng’iyo, a young man, submits his views during a public-participation forum conc erning deforestation. He speaks passionately about the proposed policy that will affect his community if trees are cut to pave the way for the new railway line. His contribution is recorded, the meeting ends and photographs are shared online. Six months later, the policy is approved, but he never hears whether his views were considered. In Shimo La Tewa Constituency in Kilifi County, residents watch a development project stall despite media reports indicating that funds have been allocated to it. The project signboard slowly fades, no explanation is given and nobody takes responsibility. These scenarios may appear to be separate experiences, but they communicate the same message: the voices, time and expectations of citizens do not matter. This is how trust in public institutions is eroded; not through one dramatic national crisis, but through small, repeated moments of silence, frustration and powerlessness.

Public discussions about trust frequently focus on whether citizens believe political leaders or support institutions. However, citizens do not experience governance as an abstract concept. They experience it through queues, application forms, hospital waiting rooms, police desks, court dates, public meetings, procurement notices and unanswered complaints. The real test of governance therefore occurs far from the podium. It occurs when a public officer must decide whether to explain a delay in service or dismiss a citizen. It occurs when a public institution receives critical feedback and chooses either to listen or to become defensive. It occurs when citizens contribute to a discussion and wait to see whether their contribution will have any visible consequence. For several years, public institutions have approached trust as something citizens should offer to government. When confidence diminishes, the natural response is often to communicate more: hold press briefings, issue statements or explain institutional achievements. Communication is key; however, it cannot compensate for an experience that citizens perceive as unfair.

A social-media campaign may sometimes work, but it cannot replace a functioning complaints system; a polished message may never repair an unexplained rejection; and a public-participation forum cannot build confidence if critical decisions have already been made. Trust starts to rebuild when institutions make themselves accountable in practical ways. What if every public office clearly displayed its service requirements, processing timelines and complaint procedures and followed them? What if every public consultation concluded with a simple report declaring: “This is what citizens suggested; this is what we considered; this is what we could not change; and these are our justifications”? Imagine if communities could easily follow the journey of a public project—from budget allocation and procurement to implementation and completion. Imagine if citizens making complaints received a tracking number, regular
updates and a reasoned decision within a defined period.

None of these measures sounds radical. Yet, together, they could revolutionise the relationship between citizens and government. This transformation also requires a different understanding of criticism. Democratic institutions should not fear citizens who ask difficult questions. Journalists, civil society organisations, academics and community groups often draw attention to problems that formal reporting systems have ignored. Their scrutiny can serve as an early-warning mechanism, allowing institutions to identify weaknesses before frustration grows into deeper public anger. Constructive disagreement is not evidence that democracy is failing. In many cases, it is evidence that citizens still believe public institutions can do better. Technology could support this renewal; however, it cannot take the place of human relationships at the centre of governance. A digital portal could make services faster for one citizen while excluding another who lacks digital literacy, internet access or official documentation. A caring and responsible digital government must therefore ask not only, “Can this service be placed online?” but also, “Who might disappear from view when we do so?” Rebuilding trust ultimately requires institutions to pay attention to the small experiences through which citizens
judge the entire state. Respecting a citizen’s time, explaining a decision, correcting an error and acknowledging a legitimate grievance may appear administratively modest. Democratically, however, these actions are significant.

A citizen should not need personal connections to obtain a public service. Participation should not end when the meeting closes. Transparency should not stop at publishing documents that few people can understand. Complaints should not disappear into institutional silence. The Trust Summit 2026 should ensure that the theme of “trust”, which sounds attractive, does not end merely with declarations, but with commitments that citizens will eventually see, experience and assess. Democracy may be celebrated at the podium, but it is judged in the queue. If public institutions want citizens to trust them, they must begin by making every encounter with the state more competent, fair, transparent and humane.

By Dr. Anne Maureen Syallow