How Not To Run A Country, Ruto Style: June 25Th

You wake up at 5 AM, not to build hospitals, not to fix roads, not to feed children. No. You wake up to wrap Parliament in barbed wire, turning the seat of the people into a crime scene. A literal crime scene, because that’s what it has become — a headquarters for organized looting, deceit, and elite criminal enterprise.

As the sun rises over Nairobi, the air doesn’t carry the smell of hope. It carries the stench of fear from a government cowering behind barricades, hiding not from bandits, not from terrorists, not from cartels—but from the truth. From the raw, painful truth served cold by an angry, betrayed, and tired generation.

This is the only country where the government deploys military-grade armored vehicles, water cannons, riot police, and sharpshooters—not to fight al-Shabaab, not to fight cattle rustlers, not to stop the daily bloodbath in Baringo, Turkana, or Kerio Valley—but to fight children with flags, mothers with placards, and youth with courage.

How do you explain a government that does not fear bandits who slaughter citizens daily? A government that does not fear cartels bleeding the economy dry? A government that embraces murderers seated comfortably in high offices, sipping tea bought with taxpayers’ blood—but trembles, collapses, and soils itself at the sound of a youth shouting, “Hatutaki!”

How do you describe a leadership so allergic to accountability that it would rather shut down the entire internet than answer a simple question like, “Where is the 11 billion you used to repaint State House walls?” Imagine a government so brain-dead that instead of feeding children dying of hunger in Turkana, it’s busy drafting tenders for more teargas, more bullets, and more body bags.

It takes a special breed of incompetence—a cocktail of arrogance, ignorance, and pure evil—to wake up every day and ask yourself, “How can we ruin Kenya even more today?” And my God, they execute it with military precision.

This is a government that deploys more security to fight school-going children with smartphones than it has ever deployed to fight the sugar cartels, oil cartels, maize cartels, or the thieves who keep the price of unga higher than school fees.

Picture this — you drive through Nairobi and see Parliament wrapped in enough barbed wire to fence the entire Maasai Mara. You see more anti-riot police than you’ll ever see doctors in a public hospital. You wonder — is this a Parliament or a maximum-security prison? Correction. A prison has more integrity.

Read Also: Rise Up for Change: Why Gen Z, Gen X, And Millennials Won’t Stop Protesting Until Their Demands Are Met

Because in a prison, criminals are locked inside. In Parliament, criminals are the ones locking the people outside.

The only thing that multiplies faster than locusts in this country is government lies. Yesterday, they said they wanted to listen to the youth. Today, they are jamming signals, shutting down TV stations, arresting journalists, and suffocating dissent like a cartel suffocates competition. This is not governance. This is an abusive relationship with the state.

Instead of buying ambulances, they buy water cannons. Instead of building classrooms, they import tear gas. Instead of hiring doctors, they hire online bots to trend hashtags defending stupidity. This is a government whose development blueprint is: bullet for every voice, bribe for every politician, barricade for every street.

How do you explain a government that sends ministers to funerals of murdered protestors with the same plastic speeches about “regrettable loss,” yet the next day buys more rubber bullets instead of school desks? This isn’t leadership; it’s organized state vandalism of a nation’s soul.

Their fear is loud. It screams from every barricade. It echoes from every armored truck parked next to Parliament. It drips from every poorly crafted statement by cowards pretending to be Cabinet Secretaries. Because they know — when the youth rise, no amount of barbed wire can hold back the flood of justice.

How do you explain that a government which has never found money for NHIF reforms, for free sanitary pads, or for improving Jua Kali, somehow finds billions overnight to fund police overtime to beat up taxpayers? Where does this sudden efficiency come from when the goal is oppression?

You realize Kenya isn’t poor. No. Kenya is held hostage by a mafia with neckties, hiding behind flags, masquerading as leaders. A mafia whose only skill is looting, lying, and laundering failure into national policy.

And let’s not pretend it’s just cluelessness. This is intentional stupidity. They know exactly what they’re doing. Every time they raise taxes, it’s a declaration of war against the poor. Every time they arrest a Gen Z protester, it’s because they know the truth spreads faster than their propaganda.

Imagine a President who has never declared war on poverty but has declared war on TikTok, declared war on X (Twitter), and declared war on Telegram. A government whose biggest fear isn’t terrorism but trending hashtags.

You want to talk about the digital economy? This is the only government in the world that taxes influencers but shuts down the internet when influencers influence the wrong thing—accountability.

Instead of fearing the youth, why don’t you fear the real criminals—the ones who smuggled fake fertilizer, the ones who stole Covid funds, the ones who sell guns to bandits? Oh, wait—you can’t. Because they are sitting with you at the Cabinet table.

A government so clueless it holds National Security Council meetings not to solve insecurity but to figure out how to suppress memes. Imagine grown men in suits, paid by taxpayers, sitting around a mahogany table discussing how to stop Photoshop and satire.

They’ve built a government where stupidity is a KPI (Key Performance Indicator). Where every week, someone in Cabinet stands up, grabs a mic, and asks, “How can I embarrass this country more than my colleague did last week?”

Imagine deploying 5,000 police officers to fight protestors in Nairobi while Samburu, Baringo, Turkana, and West Pokot are daily war zones run by bandits. Because you don’t fear the men who shoot guns. You fear the youth who shoot TikTok.

They say they are fighting crime. No. They are fighting criticism. They say they are protecting property. No. They are protecting privilege. They say they are keeping the peace. No. They are keeping the poor quiet.

And when all else fails, when bullets, teargas, internet shutdowns, and media blackouts don’t work, they retreat to their final refuge—the church. Suddenly, they remember God. They run to pulpits, hijack Sunday services, and perform miracles of hypocrisy.

This is a government that never attends the launch of a hospital, but you’ll see the entire Cabinet at the launch of a new fuel tax. They never show up to distribute relief food, but they’re always front and center when auctioning off another state corporation to their cronies.

And still, they ask, “Why are the youth angry?” Maybe because the only job you’ve given them is being funeral photographers for their fellow protestors shot dead by state bullets.

Maybe because while your children are in London and Dubai, their children are in the streets dodging bullets for asking, “Why is unga Kshs 250?”

Or maybe because this country was never broke — it was just robbed. Robbed in broad daylight by suits who now dare to call themselves leaders.

This is the government that promised hustlers heaven but delivered them hell wrapped in taxes, hunger, and teargas.

A government so creative it can invent new taxes faster than it can fix potholes. So innovative it can silence journalists faster than it can fix healthcare. So committed — not to service delivery, but to making corruption look like policy.

If stupidity were an Olympic sport, this regime wouldn’t just win gold — they’d host the entire tournament.

And here we are, watching a government so terminally insecure, it builds a digital firewall against Telegram but can’t build a cancer center for Kenyans dying by the thousands.

But here’s what they fear more than bullets, barricades, and blackout orders. They fear the teacher who stands up. The mother who says, “Enough.” The student who tweets, “No more.” The boda boda guy who shouts, “Hatutaki!” The market mama who screams, “We are tired.”

Because they know — once the people wake up, you can no longer govern them with lies, threats, or staged prayers.

Kenya doesn’t need bullets. Kenya needs books. Kenya doesn’t need barricades. Kenya needs jobs. Kenya doesn’t need armored vehicles. Kenya needs ambulances.

And no matter how many signals you jam, no matter how many stations you switch off, and no matter how many youths you lock up—this truth is louder than all your lies:

You can kill the messenger, but the message has already gone viral.

Read Also: The Tragic Tale Of Chebukati: Kenyan Gen Zs Have No Respect For The Wicked Dead, It Is Merry For Them