African voters are naive about their constitutions. Ruthless, corrupt elites will not suddenly start sharing power just because a legal document says they must

The newspapers are full of it, it dominates our TV screens and radio broadcasts, and no conversation is complete without mention of power-sharing and devolution, sub-clauses and amendments. Yes, I'm talking about the constitution. Not, as it happens, the Iraqi constitution: Kenya, my current base, is in the throes of a constitutional debate as impassioned as anything in Baghdad.

If the shadow of Saddam Hussein has loomed over the Iraqi process, its Kenyan equivalent has been haunted by the former president Daniel arap Moi, who retired in 2002 after an opposition election win. By the time he quit, Moi had concentrated vast executive powers in his hands, subverted the judiciary and crushed human rights, while successfully sidelining Kenya's two largest tribes, the Kikuyus and Luos.

The incoming government swore to change all that with a constitution that would share national revenue around and, crucially, trim presidential powers. A prime minister's post was envisaged, earmarked for the Luo leader Raila Odinga. Funny how a few months in State House change one's perspective. After much foot-dragging, President Mwai Kibaki has finally asked the public to vote on a constitution that, many experts reckon, would actually give him even more power than his predecessor.

This U-turn is causing much gnashing of Kenyan teeth. The frustrated Raila and four other government ministers have launched a "No" campaign, which may shatter the fragile coalition government. We can expect bloodshed as they take their protest to the streets.

Although the entire process has certainly been an exercise in political cynicism, I can't help wondering whether the expectations of ordinary Kenyans were too high. Gazing across a continent where rewriting the constitution is a near-universal pastime, it seems to me that African voters have become naive about the true force and meaning of a legal document.

A ruthless, corrupt elite that enjoys a monopoly on both power and national revenue is not suddenly going to start sharing just because the constitution says it must. However ingenious the constitutional straitjacket devised by the churchmen, lawyers and activists who make up the groups campaigning for change, the lunatic will thrash his way to freedom. Kenya's post-independence constitution was amended 28 times in 33 years to allow such delights as one-party rule, political detention and the banning of political parties.

New constitutions in Cote d'Ivoire and Zambia, far from shoring up individual rights, have prevented high-profile candidates standing in elections they looked likely to win, making a mockery of multi-party democracy. In Namibia, Malawi and now Uganda, adoring parliamentarians launched the same process with one aim in mind: giving the Big Men yet another term in office.

Poring over every paragraph and comma also risks distracting public attention from the fact that leaderships don't actually require legal sanction to tackle glaring social imbalances or heal political rifts. In Kenya, for example, President Kibaki was always free to pre-empt the debate about whether to have a prime minister by giving Raila some key ministries and involving him in important decisions. He chose instead to surround himself with tribal cronies.

A good constitution is a good start, but it's not enough. It must be buttressed by parliamentarians with backbone, a free press, neutral judiciary, military chiefs who believe in civilian government, an apolitical civil service and, above all, a widespread will to turn theory into practice. None of these elements develops overnight, but without them the

lawmakers, whether in Kenya or Iraq, are wasting their time. Constitutions alone can't tame predatory regimes.

Flicking through the local press, I find myself thinking back to the constitutional redrafting process I followed most closely. It was 1994, and the opposition in what was then Zaire had grouped together with civil society to draw up a document that would transform Mobutu Sese Seko from feared despot to ceremonial figurehead.

Day after day I sat in the gloomy public gallery in the People's Palace watching delegates bicker in beautiful French over - surprise, surprise - whether or not Zaire should have a prime minister. It was an exasperating experience and weeks passed with little achieved. Despairing, I asked a diplomat, "Does any of this stuff actually matter? Is Mobutu going to come to heel just because of a piece of paper?"

He laughed derisively. He was right. The constitutional debate droned on and on, buying time for a morally bankrupt regime. When Mobutu was finally toppled, three years later, it was because a rebel group had marched to the doors of his mansion. That carefully drafted constitution, with all its elegant clauses and amendments, mattered, in the event, not a jot.

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