A Broken Promise
Ruto’s ascent in 2022 was carefully crafted. His campaign mastered digital tactics, targeting youth on TikTok and YouTube with promises of the “Hustler Nation.” He promised to uplift the ordinary citizen, defeat entrenched political dynasties, and build a new Kenya. The strategy worked. He clinched a narrow win and framed his presidency as a revolution against impunity and patronage.
But by 2024, the promises felt like echoes in abandoned halls. His finance bill proposed heavy taxes on fuel, digital transactions, and food commodities. This turned online enthusiasm into rage. Students who had once supported him turned into his fiercest critics. What followed was not just disillusionment but eruption—gatherings that began with chants and satire evolved into public grief and fury. The betrayal cut deep. When bullets met slogans, the mask of reform fell.
The MOU Misstep
ODM’s decision to enter into an MOU with the Ruto regime marked the beginning of its credibility collapse. The party that once led mass boycotts, street protests, and constitutional reform campaigns had now agreed to sit beside those accused of killing its base. The explanation given was “national unity” and “stability,” yet it was hard to distinguish that from surrender.
There was no consultation with supporters, no public debate. The MOU was rushed and closed-door. Ruto gained the symbolism of unity, while ODM walked away with portfolios and the trappings of state power. For a party that once fought police teargas, now having tea at State House felt like a betrayal. ODM MPs tried to assure their constituents that they were “working from within.” But every time a protester died, every time police abducted a student, those words rang hollow.
A Glittering Distraction
Government offices come with benefits: luxury vehicles, international travel, bodyguards, and budgets. Many ODM leaders, once firebrands in Parliament, adjusted quickly to the opulence. They praised development projects, echoed the President’s messages, and attended press briefings with smiles that masked discomfort. For the public, it was jarring. Yesterday’s rebels had become today’s bureaucrats.
The gap between the ODM elite and their voters widened. In Kisumu and Kibra, youth unemployment soared. In Migori and Mathare, police cracked down on protests while ODM ministers remained silent. The perks were evident; the price was silence. And that silence created a vacuum that social media influencers, independent journalists, and Gen Z protest leaders began to fill.
The Crackdown and the Cost
The Finance Bill protests morphed from economic resistance to a brutal chapter in Kenyan history. The police deployed water cannons, live bullets, tear gas, and undercover officers. Detainees were taken to unknown locations. Some were later found dumped in forests and rivers, their bodies bloated, their names trending posthumously.
Ruto spoke of “security threats,” calling protest organizers foreign-funded agents. Yet the response was local and organic, driven by anger. Civil society groups demanded independent inquiries. ODM’s silence in Parliament during these crackdowns was not just noticed—it was remembered. When death squads roamed Nairobi and activists went missing, the party said nothing of substance. That silence cost lives.
Gen Z’s Blood River
Billy Mwangi was a 22-year-old university student known for his sharp memes and satire. His disappearance sparked hashtags, online vigils, and street graffiti. Days later, his body surfaced near Thika River. The government claimed it was a criminal matter. The autopsy suggested torture. His story was one of dozens.
Social media became both a weapon and a target. Those who posted live from protests were tracked and arrested. Journalists were warned. Internet blackouts hit parts of Nairobi during major protests. ODM ministers sat in cybersecurity committees, but nothing changed. The party became part of the machinery that monitored dissent. The people they once represented were now labeled threats.
Leadership in Limbo
By 2025, ODM didn’t know what it stood for. Its base felt abandoned. Some leaders argued for a return to the streets; others warned against it. Raila Odinga, once the symbol of defiance, issued carefully worded statements supporting youth voices while praising the President’s commitment to stability. It was political tightrope-walking. Few bought it.
Meanwhile, shadowy figures like Farouk Kibet and Oscar Sudi appeared to wield unchecked power. Decisions on appointments, budgets, and police deployments seemed to come from unnamed operatives. Parliament looked paralysed. ODM’s youth league tried to rally support, but turnout was low. The party had lost the moral clarity to lead a revolt—and the political strength to shape policy.
Rise or Retreat
With trust in government at rock bottom, and opposition diluted, Kenyans faced a harsh question: wait or act? Many no longer believed elections could fix anything. Civil disobedience, mass walkouts, and online boycotts gained traction. Yet repression was swift. Still, the defiance persisted.
No regime can kill 50 million people. That idea fuels a quiet storm beneath daily routines. In classrooms, matatus, and market stalls, people talk of leadership without fear. The Ruto regime, sealed in blood from June 2024, survives on inertia. But its end is no longer unthinkable. It begins not with leaders but with citizens.
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