They swapped one name for another. Promised change. Then raised allowances. Again. Different jackets, same hunger for contracts. Kenyans aren’t dumb. They’ve been watching the same movie for sixty years. Just with worse acting. New faces read from old scripts. Shiny manifestos. Shady deals. The real tragedy? It keeps working—until now.
This isn’t about one man. Not Gachagua. Not Ruto. Not Raila. Pluck them out, another copy walks in. Kenyans are not falling for it anymore. They’ve stopped memorizing slogans. No one’s clapping for ground-breaking ceremonies that never break ground. No cheering for borrowed tractors and empty promises. It’s over.
They wear ties. But the potholes keep widening. They read speeches. But kids still sit on dusty classroom floors. They launch food drives. But their wives shop in Paris. They cut ribbons. But taps stay dry. Kenyans have finally stopped respecting suits without solutions.
1963 wasn’t freedom. It was a shift in wardrobe. New anthem, same theft. Flags waved, coffers drained. You thought it was about colonialists? Nah. The handover just moved power from foreign masters to local vultures. Jomo sat. The looting started. The seeds planted then birthed today’s billionaires. Not innovators. Looters.
From Muthaiga to Karen, the cream of theft resides in leafy silence. The rest scavenge for coins. No one builds wealth on merit. Only tenders. Only inflated figures. The clinics rot. The roads break. But convoy budgets grow. This isn’t mismanagement. It’s a lifestyle.
Moi dragged it further. Kibaki sprinkled grammar over it. Uhuru came with PR. Ruto arrived with Bible verses. But the rot? Untouched. They swap drivers. The bus still stinks. You don’t clean a septic tank with a new toilet seat.
Tribal games have always been their biggest trick. They shout names. You fight neighbors. They eat together later. You bury loved ones. They hug in VIP lounges. You get fired for memes. They get cabinet slots for scandals. Tribal loyalty never bought medicine. Never paid fees. Never saved your job.
It fed only one group—the politicians. They created fake wars. So you’d forget real hunger. You defended them on radio. They ignored you at funerals. They wear party colours. You wear pain. Now, people are tired. Youth aren’t lining up anymore. They stopped chasing empty campaign songs.
Facebook warriors have muted. WhatsApp groups have gone quiet. Millennials won’t chant for motorcades. Gen Z won’t dance for fuel-guzzlers. They’ve unplugged. No applause for thieves in blazers. No likes for staged tears on Citizen TV. This isn’t protest. It’s quiet refusal.
The promises are predictable. A dam. A stadium. A scholarship. Then silence. Then blame. Then debt. Then fresh promises. Repeat. Add a TikTok influencer. A flashy launch. Photos with smiling children. Then… nothing. Kenyans have memorized the moves.
WantAmNotAm doesn’t mean a clean face in a rotten team. It’s rejection of the entire circus. Not one new player. But no stage at all. No rehearsals. No applause. If you dined with thieves, you’re out. No second chances. No explanations. Burn the whole playbook.
Convoys don’t impress anymore. Titles don’t scare. If you can’t show working hospitals, shut up. If your county can’t supply clean water, stop tweeting. If your budget can’t buy chalk for schools, don’t tell us about international trips. Respect is now earned in service, not titles.
Nairobi shouts. But it doesn’t feed. It talks. But rarely fixes. It trends. But never transforms. People now know the real energy is outside the city. In dusty villages. Silent towns. In farmers who don’t watch primetime. In welders without press passes. This movement isn’t televised. It’s lived.
Podiums are dead. The real shift is in refusal. Refusal to tip a cop. To cheer an MP. To retweet a liar. People are switching off. That’s power. Not marches. Not placards. But withdrawal of attention. A famine of trust.
Every generation gets a moment. This is ours. Not loud. But precise. Not dramatic. But final. The old ways don’t work. The loudest mouths now get laughed off stage. The youth don’t care about slogans. They care about food, fees, Wi-Fi, working taps. If you can’t deliver, they ghost you.
Don’t stare at the circus. Look at the system. The fake budgets. The ghost workers. The tender mafias. The handshake deals. The unqualified relatives. That’s where change must hit. Not on TV panels. But on IFMIS logs. On contract records. On supply chain audits.
Watch the new ones. The ones who don’t trend. Who haven’t stolen airtime. Who show up with ideas, not slogans. They’re not fighting for power. They’re already fixing things. Away from headlines. No entourage. Just tools. Real work, not press releases.
They don’t want fame. They want results. You won’t see them at rallies. You’ll see their work in working boreholes. In functioning dispensaries. In school feeding programs that don’t collapse. They’ve bypassed politics. Built direct paths to communities.
And that’s what scares the system. No hunger for office. No handshake meetings. Just refusal. Total disconnect. That’s the real revolt. That’s the shutdown.
This generation won’t be bribed with branded T-shirts. Or fooled by fake outrage on podiums. They don’t care who shouts the loudest. They care who works the hardest. Who returns calls. Who shows up without cameras.
The movement doesn’t tweet. It acts. It doesn’t organize meetings. It delivers water tanks. It doesn’t write memos. It clears trash. It doesn’t beg for airtime. It repairs footbridges. Quietly. Consistently.
WantAmNotAm is not a campaign. It’s a walk-out. A refusal to clap. A decision to ignore titles. It has no leader. No headquarters. No anthem. It thrives in DMs. In saccos. In youth groups. In family WhatsApps. In boda savings circles. In late-night brainstorms in mabati kiosks.
You can’t arrest it. Can’t regulate it. Can’t host it for dinner. It’s not looking for tenders. It’s building its own systems. Ones without kickbacks. Without lunch allowances. Without official cars. Without gatekeepers.
No manifesto will match its clarity. No rally will match its momentum. No slogan will capture its depth. Because it’s not noise. It’s a shift. A final one.
And if you’re still wearing the old jackets, shouting the old lines, waving the old flags, you’re already left behind. Kenya is moving. Quietly. Relentlessly. WantAmNotAm isn’t coming. It’s already here.
No seat for jokers. No microphone for thieves. No relevance for past failures. The game’s changed. The script’s been tossed. The crowd has left the stadium.
They’re outside. Planting. Coding. Welding. Cleaning. Organizing. Innovating. Not waiting for permission. Not asking for meetings. Just moving. Post online , action in the village. Join the movement today.
About The Author
