How to Survive the Kenyan Government: A Masterclass in Mass Misery and National Betrayal

The Kenyan government is the undisputed champion of turning governance into a tragicomedy. The show they run is a mix of Shakespearean tragedy, Kafkaesque absurdity, and Nollywood-level exaggeration, except it’s painfully real. If there were a Guinness World Record for collective ineptitude, they’d win without breaking a sweat, proving to the world that when you reach the bottom, you can always dig deeper.

Picture this: a government that is deaf to the cries of its people, blind to their suffering, and utterly indifferent to the wisdom of experts. It’s like a stubborn chef who insists on using salt instead of sugar in every recipe, even after the kitchen burns down. The Constitution? Oh, they’ve read it—not to uphold it, but to find loopholes for exploitation. The rule of law is treated as a vague suggestion, a decorative relic of some forgotten past when justice mattered.

Separation of powers? They’ve turned it into a grotesque ménage à trois, where the Executive, Legislature, and Judiciary are tangled in a corrupt embrace, whispering sweet nothings about kickbacks and cronyism. In this government’s universe, checks and balances are outdated concepts, like dial-up internet or landline telephones.

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This government has perfected the art of partnering with society’s worst elements. Thieves? Welcome aboard. Child molesters? Let’s draft some laws together. Killers and rapists? Here’s a government contract. Their motto seems to be, “If you can’t beat them, make them Cabinet Secretaries.”

Education, once a beacon of hope, has been reduced to a cruel joke. Teachers are overworked, students are under-resourced, and the curriculum seems to have been designed by people who think critical thinking is a subversive act. In this dystopia, a degree is worth less than the paper it’s printed on, and graduates are left to hustle in the streets or flee the country.

The pinnacle of their achievements? Transactional democracy. Every decision, every policy, every handshake is a carefully calculated transaction. Loyalty is auctioned to the highest bidder, and patriotism is a quaint concept reserved for dusty history books. The youth, the supposed future of the nation, are treated like an inconvenience, their dreams crushed under the weight of unemployment and empty promises.

Law-abiding citizens are seen as fools who haven’t figured out how to game the system. Old people, who should be revered for their wisdom, are left to rot in poverty. Women, who carry the weight of the nation on their backs, are systematically silenced, sidelined, and subjugated.

Meanwhile, the government’s VIP list includes robbers, scammers, and a who’s who of societal rot. They’ve turned the country into a safe haven for con artists and criminals, a paradise where the only qualification for success is a complete lack of moral fiber.

Scammers are celebrated like heroes. “Wash wash” fellows flaunt their ill-gotten wealth, while hardworking Kenyans can barely make ends meet. Rapists and killers roam free, their heinous acts conveniently overlooked because they’re well-connected or politically useful.

This government doesn’t know the first thing about governance. They’ve replaced it with hustling—the kind that bleeds citizens dry while enriching the already bloated few. Their policies are meticulously designed to create despair, sow division, and crush hope. Governance has been reduced to a series of backroom deals, where the only thing that matters is who gets the largest slice of the national cake.

Kenya is on fire, and the government is busy fanning the flames. Inflation is sky-high, healthcare is a nightmare, and infrastructure projects are little more than shiny façades masking corruption. The country’s natural resources are auctioned off to the highest bidder, with no thought for future generations. Environmental conservation? Only if it’s profitable.

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The recent proposal to tax Kenyans into oblivion—from their daily bread to their hard-earned pensions—is a testament to their cruelty. It’s as if they’ve decided that suffering is a national policy. The Social Health Insurance Fund (SHIF) is a farce, a scheme to funnel public money into private pockets while ordinary Kenyans are left to die in overcrowded hospitals.

Every day under this regime is a lesson in survival. Kenyans have learned to endure power blackouts, water shortages, and skyrocketing food prices. They’ve mastered the art of queuing for basic services, only to be turned away because of “system failures.”

But how much more can we endure? The government’s incompetence is not just an inconvenience; it’s a death sentence for millions. Farmers are being driven off their land, small businesses are collapsing, and entire communities are being erased by policies that prioritize profit over people.

This government must go, not tomorrow, not next year, but now. The time for silence is over. The time for waiting is over. We cannot afford to be spectators in our own downfall. Kenyans must rise, not with weapons, but with unity, resolve, and an unshakable demand for accountability.

The future of Kenya depends on us. It depends on our ability to see through the lies, to reject the politics of division, and to demand a government that serves the people rather than itself. This is not just a fight for survival; it’s a fight for the soul of our nation.

So let us stand together, as Kenyans, as brothers and sisters, as custodians of a better tomorrow. Let us reject this government and all it represents. Let us rebuild Kenya from the ashes of their incompetence. And let us do it now, before it’s too late.

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