The Diabolical Cleverness of Ruto’s Politics of Poverty

For a long time, I struggled to understand why President William Ruto’s regime keeps pushing projects that make little economic sense to ordinary Kenyans. I wondered why a government facing a debt crisis, collapsing household incomes, high unemployment, weak purchasing power and a restless population would still insist on expensive projects whose economic returns are either unclear, delayed or politically exaggerated. Then it became painfully clear: the problem is not that the regime does not understand economics. The problem is that it understands political control too well.

This is the centre-piece of its political strategy. Political optics matter more than economic sense. The launch, the billboard, the motorcade, the press statement and the choreographed photo opportunity have become more important than productivity, jobs, exports, food security or industrial recovery. A project does not have to transform lives. It only needs to create the image of motion. It does not have to return money to the economy. It only needs to return applause to the podium. That is the tragedy of Kenya today: we are being governed by people who understand the political value of poverty better than the economic value of prosperity.

An economically empowered population is an existential threat to this kind of regime. A citizen with a job is harder to manipulate. A young person with a payslip is harder to hire as a heckler. A farmer with a reliable market is harder to frighten with empty promises. A trader with affordable credit is harder to silence with political favours. A worker who can pay rent, school fees and medical bills is harder to drag to rallies on a weekday. Poverty is not just a social condition in Kenya; it has become political infrastructure. It supplies crowds, it manufactures loyalty, it creates desperation, and it lowers the price of human dignity.

That is why reviving industries would be politically dangerous to the current order. Revived industries would create jobs. Jobs would end the dependence on handouts. Jobs would reduce the number of idle young people available for political mobilisation. Jobs would give citizens the confidence to question power because a person who earns from work does not need to kneel before a politician to survive. The factory floor is one of the strongest antidotes to political slavery. It gives people routine, income, skill, discipline and bargaining power. That is exactly why any regime that thrives on dependency will never be fully committed to industrial revival.

The same logic applies to agriculture. If Kenya seriously built irrigation dams, supported farmers with real inputs, secured markets, invested in storage and protected local production, the country would have abundant food. Abundant food would weaken one of the oldest political weapons in this country: hunger. Food scarcity has created a whole economy of manipulation. It has justified questionable importation deals, emergency procurement, inflated contracts and campaign-season generosity. It has enabled politicians to arrive in villages with relief food as if they are saviours, when in truth they are beneficiaries of a system that failed to feed its own people.

A well-fed population cannot be easily wooed using a bag of maize flour. A food-secure citizen does not clap because a leader has arrived with rice. A farmer who is supported properly does not need to be photographed receiving fertiliser as though government has performed a miracle. Food security changes politics because it gives people independence. When people are not hungry, politicians must compete on serious ideas. They must explain how they will grow incomes, reduce taxes, protect savings, create value chains, build factories and expand markets. Hunger allows lazy politics to survive. Abundance forces leadership to think.

Electricity follows the same logic. If Kenya built serious hydropower capacity and lowered the cost of power, industries would breathe again. Manufacturers would expand. Small factories would return. Cold storage would become cheaper. Welders, millers, processors, bakers, carpenters and producers would compete better. Lower power costs would reduce the cost of doing business and increase the number of people earning from productive work. But once again, cheap power would create independent citizens. It would shift economic power from political offices to workshops, farms, factories and enterprises. For a regime that survives through control, that is not a small threat; it is a political earthquake.

This is what makes Ruto’s political economy so chillingly clever. It is not merely about bad policy. It is about the management of dependency. Whether by design, arrogance or cynical convenience, the result is the same: the people remain under pressure, and a pressured population has less time, less energy and less confidence to demand better. When citizens are busy looking for rent, school fees, food, transport and hospital money, they are easier to exhaust politically. Suffering becomes a cage. Survival becomes a full-time job. Accountability becomes a luxury. That is how a country is subdued without openly declaring war on its people.

The most dangerous thing about this model is that it can disguise itself as development. A government can borrow billions, launch projects, cut ribbon