President William Ruto.
In the theater of Kenyan politics, where the stage lights are dim and the props are always stolen, William Ruto’s regime has stumbled into a rare scene; doing the right thing.
Not because it suits his conscience. But because it’s the only move left.
One year after the youth uprisings lit up our streets, the Kenya Kwanza regime is suddenly talking about tax cuts, revising university fees, and taking aim at corruption.
It feels less like a moral turn and more like a man who’s been cornered, calculating his next escape.
If you were in Nairobi in June, you know what cracked the dam. It wasn’t just anger about food prices or a broken job market. It was the killing of a young teacher who had dared to show the country what police brutality really looked like.
The news of his death spread fast, turning simmering frustration into a wave that crashed through every major town.
From Kisumu, Nakuru, to Mombasa, the streets filled with youths chanting “Ruto must go”, with their phones livestreaming every tear gas canister unleashed, every beating, every abduction.
Demonstrators protest on Harambee Avenue on June 12, 2025 demanding justice for Albert Ojwang who died in police custody at Nairobi's Central Police Station.
The regime’s first instinct was to smother it. Label the protests criminal. Drown them in force. Send unmarked vans to collect dissidents in the early hours.
Turn the state’s social media machinery on full blast, painting the youth as foreign-funded anarchists. It was the same old script: distract, delegitimise, divide.
But the script fell apart. This generation doesn’t wait for newspapers. They track police vans in real time.
They document their kidnappers’ faces. And they don’t stop when you scare them; they simply adapt.
Kenya Kwanza’s economic miracle (the bottom-up gospel) had already collapsed by then. Jobs for hustlers? Affordable housing? Still a levy collectors love, citizens hate.
By mid this year, youth unemployment rate was near 40 per cent, inflation was eating 12 per cent of every shilling, and debt had swollen to 75 per cent of the GDP.
Instead of fixing it, the government hiked taxes on essentials and guarded the tax-free privileges of its inner circle. Every “reform” seemed to land hardest on the same people who’d been promised the most.
When the protests spread, the government treated the crisis as an image problem, not a policy failure. A cabinet reshuffle here, a scapegoat there.
Rigathi Gachagua’s allies were purged in a show of “house cleaning.” The president kept touring global investment forums as if nothing at home was burning. But the burn was deep.
By July, survival instincts took over. The brutality had brought threats of sanctions. The killings had made global headlines. Amnesty International, the UN, even foreign investors were now naming Kenya’s abuses out loud.
And so came the pivot: allegedly, fuel and food taxes are to be trimmed, a halt to abductions, families of the dead compensated. University fees lowered.
Police and soldiers given raises to keep them loyal. Corruption “tackled” through cosmetic arrests.
On paper, this looked like a turning point. The World Bank noted Kenya’s projected 4.7% GDP growth and praised “structural reforms.” But paper is thin. None of these moves were born from conviction.
They were extracted by force. By the relentless pressure of a generation that refused to be silent. This wasn’t a leader changing his heart. It was a man saving his seat.
Even the so-called empowerment programs tell on themselves. In Mt. Kenya, millions have been handed out in the form of aprons for traders, reflectors for boda boda riders, token grants for women’s groups.
Sh100 million in a month, targeted with surgical precision where political loyalty needs shoring up. Deputy President Kithure Kindiki calls it grassroots upliftment. Most people call it buying votes early.
Meanwhile, the political reform promises made after the 2024 protests, like creating an official opposition role, are still stuck in limbo. The machinery of sycophancy grinds them down, because real change would mean loosening the grip on power.
Ruto’s style has always been transactional. Morality is currency, and he spends it only when the cost of doing nothing is higher.
Tackling unemployment is not an act of vision; it’s an act of containment. Fighting corruption isn’t about justice; it’s about optics. And the entire nation finally know it.
These protests are not the breakdown of democracy. They are democracy itself, stripped of ceremony and decorum, driven by people who understand that rights unused are rights lost. They’re demanding systems that work.
Tenders that don’t need bribes. Jobs that can survive the climate crisis. A government that doesn’t treat theft as a perk of office.
And now, Wanjiku is watching. The polls already show the erosion: Ruto’s approval has slid below 30%, trust among the young is almost gone.
What the past year of youth uprisings created was a permanent political awareness, leaderless and unshakable. Even within Kenya Kwanza, the cracks are widening. Gachagua’s impeachment exposed how quickly allies can turn into liabilities.
If Ruto imagines a second term is in reach, he’s looking through fog. The odds point toward a one-term presidency. PR stunts won’t fix that. And this time, the people will be better organized, better connected, and even less patient.
The reality is simple. Reforms done under duress may win you time, but they don’t win you loyalty.
This government leads reluctantly; the people are setting the rhythm. Virtue pursued for gain is no virtue at all. And in Kenya today, everyone can see the game being played. The hustler may hustle ,but the youth are writing the ending.
