A Suit with No Spine
In halls draped with cavernous ceilings and velvet chairs, Kenya’s lawmakers mill in silence. Their collars are starched; their ties, pristine. Yet, they stand mute as if their trousers hold their tongues. Those men and women of the National Assembly and Senate might as well be mannequins when bullets tear through unarmed protesters. A well-cut suit doesn’t sharpen the mind, and these legislators show vacancy where conviction should dwell.
It’s June, and the pressure weighs heavy. Protests engulf Nairobi and counties beyond. But the august chambers of power merely rehearse decorum, resuming debates on minor scandals while people continue to vanish in the night. The recent assassination of MP Charles Ong’ondo Were is barely a ripple in their sessions—even as CCTV footage shows a motorcyclist firing at point blank apnews.com+5aljazeera.com+5amnesty.org+5thetimes.co.uk+1en.wikipedia.org+1. They wear suits like armor, but in practice they are defenseless, watching their society crumble under bullets and fear.
Streets Drenched in Fear
Nairobi is drained of its usual hum. Stores close early. Men and women huddle on street corners, eyes scanning alleys. Fear has come in whispers. Brothers Jamil and Aslam Longton slipped into their cybercafé one afternoon—never to return until 32 days later, bruised, beaten, emptied by thirst and hunger aljazeera.com+1hrw.org+1. Each morning, mothers wake hoping their children step out alive; each night, they steel their hearts for the knock that never comes.
Between June 2024 and early 2025, eighty-two people have been reported abducted, with nearly thirty still missing aljazeera.com. Activists demand answers, but the government responds with echoes—denials, distractions, and hollow condolences. Police records mark victims as “road accident” or “mob justice,” instead of admitting the truth reuters.com. The void of real accountability is mirrored in the silence of the ivory towers.
The youth, Gen‑Z or otherwise, refuse to stay silenced. They take to social media—TikTok, X, Instagram—and suddenly the tragedy of a finance bill, proposals for punitive taxes, hits every aching pocket theguardian.com. Their protest is loud, clever—not childish outrage but a fierce claim to dignity. When tear gas canisters fall into their ranks, they meme, record, tease. One senator even asked, “How do you teargas a baddie?” theguardian.com.
These young voices stormed Parliament on June 25, 2024. The chamber burned, the mace was taken, and nineteen people fell dead in the streets—many shot by police theguardian.com+2en.wikipedia.org+2theguardian.com+2. History recalls politicians still clothed in that autumn’s suits, faces vacant, speeches measured, but minds empty. Their silence deafens.
Forgotten Pulpits, Broken Promises
When the finance bill crashed through, Kenyans awaited fury or remorse. Instead, they got bland assurances. The next morning, President Ruto vetoed the bill, but the damage was done en.wikipedia.org+9en.wikipedia.org+9hrw.org+9. Parliament carries on debating peripheral issues—like the comments of Deputy President Gachagua—while MP George Koimburi gets dragged from a church and left beaten in a coffee field peopledaily.digital+1en.wikipedia.org+1.
Senator Joe Nyutu went public: no politician is safe from the night fog. He implored the ICC to step in peopledaily.digital. Even as one of their own collapses beaten at dawn, parliament reconvenes, words travel, pens scratch, and nothing real shifts.
Tyranny in Plain Clothes
It’s been months. Bodies surface in rivers and morgues. Families peel back sheets only to find “accident” scribbled in morgue logs reuters.com. Operation Action Team, part of the Criminal Investigations Directorate, moves through towns in unmarked SUVs, snatching anyone branded a dissident reuters.com. Police turn cursing litanies against protesters into spreadsheets.
On June 9, police fired tear gas at activists demanding the truth behind blogger Albert Ojwang’s death, officially labeled a head injury in custody—yet activists suspect murder youtube.com+5apnews.com+5theguardian.com+5. Through it all parliament dons its suit, murmurs in hushed tones, applauds a meaningless motion or two, and calls it governance.
Runaway Safety for the Wealthy
There’s a cruel arithmetic in all this. The well‑off have suitcases waiting. Their passports are stamped; their bank balances insulate them. They can slip away when night comes. But the hawkers and boda‑boda drivers—those whose voices the Gen‑Z voices echo—have nowhere to run.
A senator’s home has underground security. That same senator may choose to legislate on petty slights, all while a line forms at morgues and families sift through morgue books altered by police . Bullet holes in jerseys. Broken glass. Brooms sweeping up evidence. That’s the elite’s version of civic housekeeping. Someone else does the cleanup.
When Even Kings Arrive in Silence
In late April and May, the Dutch royals graced state visits. King Willem‑Alexander and Queen Maxima arrived to pomp. Meanwhile, abductions hummed in the background. Activists flooded requests to cancel the visit. Amnesty Kenya pointed to 80+ disappearances, police crackdowns, detentions of critics apnews.com. The royals never brought it up in public. One wonders if they heard themselves breathe over the sound of broken families.
When even visiting monarchs turn a detached eye, the parliamentarian in his suit is free to ignore it too. And so those suits become co-conspirators, by accident or design.
Conclusion: Suits Can’t Talk, Dogs Don’t Bark
A dog that doesn’t bark sees danger. A suit that never speaks during the worst moments is a lie. Kenya drifts toward decay, and those who could protest are home counting the price of milk. The men and women in Parliament should know: when a country’s shield crumbles, everyone bleeds. Not only the poor and the brave protestors, but the suits too—except theirs might stop staining once dyed with red.
The blindfold doesn’t fall on those who can flee, but as one senator warned, no one is safe—not really—when public trust evaporates . We can watch or we can howl. Those seated at the head table? They’ve chosen silence.
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