Al-Shabaab is like a weed that won’t die. On July 7, the Somali militant group steamrolled into Tardo, a scrappy junction town in central Somalia’s Hiiran region, sending 12,500 families fleeing.
Five days earlier, it had seized Muqokori, inching to within 50 kilometres of Mogadishu. For 18 years, this insurgency has evaded annihilation despite the might deployed against it. Why? While Somalia gives it sanctuary, Kenya’s almost-open democracy, fractious pluralism, and economy unknowingly provide it with oxygen.
In Mandera and Wajir, which border Somalia and Ethiopia, unemployment hovers at 70 per cent, and public services are threadbare. Youth face bleak futures.
Al-Shabaab exploits this despair, offering $300 a month and a warped sense of purpose. For politicians, the stakes are just as stark. Kenyan elections are won by razor-thin margins—sometimes a single percentage point. In 2022, President William Ruto campaigned in Garissa, promising roads and bursaries, not military crackdowns. With 2.5 million Kenyan Somalis—six per cent of the population—votes in these counties can tilt the national outcome. Talking tough on terror risks alienating communities already bruised by decades of neglect and suspicion dating back to Nairobi’s 1960s Shifta War.
This electoral tightrope explains why Kenya buries its scars from Al-Shabaab’s atrocities: the September 21, 2013 Westgate Mall attack where 67 died; the April 2, 2015 Garissa University massacre in which 148 were killed; and the January 15, 2019 DusitD2 bombing where 21 lives were lost.
Al-Shabaab, unbound by ballots, thrives on spectacle. Each September, it revives Westgate on social media, gloating over Nairobi’s humiliation. Every April, it marks Garissa, framing slain students as revenge for Kenya’s role in the African Union Support and Stabilisation Mission in Somalia (AUSSOM)—and its fighters killed there as “martyrs”. In January, DusitD2 is spun as a strike on sinful capitalist Kenya.
In Uganda, Al-Shabaab exploits the July 11, 2010 Kampala bombings where 74 died, and the May 26, 2023 Bulo Marer attack in which 54 soldiers were killed. Its May videos parade Bulo Marer’s captured rifles, mocking AUSSOM’s 6,000-strong Ugandan force. These anniversaries double as recruitment ads, painting Mogadishu as a Western puppet and AU troops as invaders.
And the violence isn’t about to stop. On March 10, militants attacked a Garissa police post, killing six officers. On July 7, an IED in Mandera killed two civilians. Al-Shabaab claimed both on X as hits on “crusaders”, exploiting the porous border and 2023 flood-damaged terrain to vanish.
These campaigns disseminate propaganda portraying Kenya as vulnerable, thereby recruiting new members. Kenya’s five-year electoral cycle and two-term presidential limits are both its glory and its cage. Elections drain billions; Sh40 billion ($300 million) in 2022, starving border security and deradicalisation programmes. Ruto’s 2022 campaign prioritised voter-friendly projects over drones for the Boni Forest, Al-Shabaab’s hideout. Security analysts argue that his reshuffle of the National Counter-Terrorism Centre after taking office delayed operations, allowing Al-Shabaab to build up and seize territory.
Fear of alienating voters
Then the geopolitics kick in. Kenya’s role in AUSSOM, its 2011 invasion of Somalia, and its influence over Kismayo port are all used to paint it as a meddling neighbour. In Mombasa, the 2024 arrests were spun as religious persecution. In Jilib, a February 24, 2020 US airstrike, blamed on Kenya, killed civilians. Al-Shabaab pounced. A strongman regime could ignore votes, flood Mandera with troops, and silence critics. Ethiopia’s iron grip on its Somali Region shows this can choke insurgents—but it also risks rebellion. Kenya’s pluralism can’t afford that. A strongman might crush Al-Shabaab faster but would fracture Kenya’s soul.
But Kenya’s democracy may also be its secret weapon. By 2027 or 2032, a new president will inherit this war. It could flip the script: build a counter-propaganda machine—a civic Al-Kataib powered by local voices. Flood X and TikTok with stories of survival, betrayal, and truth. Not government spokespeople, but imams, mothers, and ex-fighters. Second, pour money into Garissa and Wajir—schools, clinics, jobs—to give youth in the region opportunities before Al-Shabaab gives them guns.
Third, secure the border with drones and a finished fence, not just troops, to choke Al-Shabaab’s Boni Forest hideouts. Fourth, push AUSSOM for precision strikes to deny Al-Shabaab civilian casualty propaganda.
Al-Shabaab feeds on silence, on marginalisation, on Nairobi’s fear of alienating voters. But if Kenya turns its democracy from a defensive posture into a creative weapon, it might finally starve the insurgency, which might be the ground where Al-Shabaab is finally effectively weakened—or beaten.
The author is a journalist, writer, and curator of the "Wall of Great Africans". X@cobbo3
