Why Kenyans Protest Against President Ruto is Dead end
On Wednesday, June 25, the streets of Nairobi stirred with a fierce energy. The kind of energy
that felt familiar, but this time it was heavier. This time, the voices were louder, the faces
younger, and the determination impossible to ignore. Thousands of Kenyans protest most of them Gen
Z, flooded the streets to mark the one-year anniversary of the 2024 anti-tax protests that left the
nation shaken. But this wasn’t just a day of remembrance for these broken youths. It was a
resurgence and a day of reckoning.
What began last year as an outcry against suffocating tax hikes has grown into a bold,
unrelenting movement. The protesters are now unafraid of threats, water cannons, or even
bullets. These young people aren’t waiting their turn to lead. They are leading Now.
They are the pulse of the streets and the architects of digital resistance, coordinating protests through
TikTok and WhatsApp, creating viral hashtags that echo across the globe, and putting their
bodies on the frontlines of a state increasingly hostile to its own citizens.
This year’s demonstrations are not just a memorial of lives lost; they are a mirror held up to
everything still broken. The bloodshed in 2024 hasn’t dried in public memory. Names of the
fallen are still chanted in the crowds, scrawled across t-shirts of relatives and friends who lost
someone, lifted high on cardboard signs. And this is no longer just about tax.
The ongoing kenya protest is about broken trust; it’s about a rigged system that fattens the rich while
choking the poor. It’s about a government that borrows billions, yet hospitals go without
medicine and students without school fees. It’s about brutality dressed up as “crowd control,”
and a leadership that brands dissent as terrorism.
The June 25 Kenyans protest erupted not in isolation, but in the middle of a deeper national crisis. The
Finance Bill 2025, widely seen as yet another tone-deaf attempt to squeeze already struggling
citizens, was the final straw. Kenya now happens to be a country where corruption has become
institutionalized, and economic hardship is a lived experience. Now the youths have found their
voice in anger. They are not asking for change. They are demanding it. And they are daring the
system to try and stop them.
How Peaceful Demonstrations Became a National Tragedy
To understand the fire burning through Kenya’s 2025 uprisings, we must look back at the spark
that set it all ablaze, and this is the anti-tax protests of 2024. What began as peaceful resistance
against economic hardship quickly descended into one of the most harrowing displays of state
violence in Kenya’s recent history.
Here’s how it all unfolded.
The First Finance Bill of June 18, 2024
The Kenyan government introduced the Finance Bill 2024, proposing sweeping tax hikes that hit
ordinary citizens the hardest. Among the most painful proposals were a 16% VAT on bread,
increased fuel levies, a new motor vehicle circulation tax, heavy taxation on digital content
creators, taxes on sanitary pads and diapers.
And for many Kenyans, especially the unemployed, the youth, and low-income earners, it felt
like a brutal blow in a country already drowning in inflation, joblessness, and ballooning public
debt. Online outrage erupted under hashtags like #RejectFinanceBill2024 and
#OccupyParliament
How The Digital Mobilization Began From June 20-22, 2024
Kenya’s digitally savvy youth had no choice than to mobilize quickly. TikTok, X (formerly Twitter),
WhatsApp, and Instagram became tools of resistance. Protest art, legal tips, meeting points,
and voice notes circulated rapidly.
This was unlike any previous movement because it was completely citizen-led, with no political
party behind the movement. A new generation, many just barely adults, rose with placards,
memes, and fierce questions that basically asked why they should suffer for the greed of those
in power?
The first wave of Kenyans protesting began when tens of thousands poured into the streets of Nairobi,
Mombasa, Kisumu, Eldoret, and Nakuru. protests that began peacefully where people sang the
national anthem and waved handwritten signs that read: “We Are Tired”, “You Tax Our Pain”,
“You Cannot Kill Us All”.
But by midday, the mood changed.
Police responded with tear gas, water cannons, and rubber
bullets, especially near Parliament in Nairobi. Dozens were arrested. Many were injured. Still,
the crowd held strong and their voices only grew louder until the climax.
On June 27, 2024, a livestream death went viral which changed everything after a 21-year-old
protester, Rex Masai, was shot by police in broad daylight. The moment was captured live on
video. He was unarmed, trying to flee when a bullet tore through his thigh. Footage showed him
collapsing on the pavement, bleeding, as fellow protesters screamed for help. He died in
hospital hours later.
He became the face of the movement. Like a martyr for a cause too urgent to ignore. A symbol
that in Kenya, speaking up can get you killed. But silence, now, was no longer an option.
On June 28-30, 2024, as word of Rex’s death spread, the streets filled with even more fury.
Thousands joined from across the country. But the police doubled their crackdown. The
government issued threats. Journalists were harassed. Livestreams were interrupted. But the
resistance only grew bolder.
The clashes turned deadly as tensions reached a breaking point, leading to more loss of lives.
In Mombasa, Kisii, and Nakuru, at least 12 more protesters were killed—many shot at close
range. Some were teenagers. Some were women. Some were bystanders. The government’s
official death toll stood at 23. But human rights groups reported at least 35 dead, over 300
injured, and hundreds detained, of which many were without trial.
The international media finally began reporting. But world leaders, including Kenya’s Western
allies, offered little more than silence. Once again, African blood failed to move the West’s moral
compass.
Fast forward to one year later, the 2025 Finance Bill was introduced.
What’s in the 2025 Finance Bill And Why It Reignited National Anger.
The year may have changed, but Kenya’s government appears to have learned nothing from the
blood-soaked kenya protests of 2024.
Barely twelve months after the country mourned the youth
gunned down for resisting oppressive taxes, the administration introduced another finance bill
which many citizens say is crueler, greedier, and more tone-deaf than the one that sparked
nationwide chaos the year before.
To the average Kenyan, this bill is not just a fiscal document. It is a betrayal in black and white.
A death sentence hidden in economic jargon. A bold declaration from the government that it
intends to fund its excesses by choking the very people it swore to serve.
Here’s a breakdown of key provisions in the 2025 Finance Bill:
1. Reintroduction of the Motor Vehicle Tax (Now at 2.5%)
This tax was rejected in 2024 after public outcry and the death of protesters. But in 2025, the
government sneaked it back in as a “motor vehicle circulation levy,” a tax that would charge
2.5% of a vehicle’s value annually, capped at Ksh100,000. For a country where owning a car is
not luxury but often survival (especially for gig workers, Uber/Bolt drivers, and small business
owners), this tax felt like an insult.
People are angry because it disproportionately affects low-income earners and small-scale
business owners. Also, it comes at a time when fuel prices are already at historic highs. And the
government made no real effort to cut wasteful spending before turning back to citizens for more
money.
2. Increased Excise Duty on Mobile Money Transactions (Again)
Mobile money, like M-Pesa, Airtel Money, etc, is the lifeblood of Kenya’s informal economy. Yet
the bill proposed increasing excise duty on money transfers and digital wallets, making it more
expensive to send, receive, and withdraw money. And the people are angry because it hits the
poor and the hustlers the hardest, especially those who rely on daily microtransactions.
It also threatens to slow down Kenya’s digital economy, which has been praised globally. And lastly, it
shows the government is willing to tax innovation but not corruption.
3. 16% VAT on Bread (Still Not Reversed)
One of the loudest battle cries in 2024 was: “You taxed our bread!” Yet, the 2025 bill did not
reverse the deeply unpopular 16% VAT on bread. Kenya’s a country where bread is a staple for
millions, the failure to remove this tax became symbolic of elite detachment from the lives of
ordinary people. Their voices scream that bread is not a luxury but survival. And this tax,
combined with higher fuel and transport costs, pushed food prices even further out of reach.
4. Digital Content Creators Taxation (Again)
Just like last year, the government targeted content creators, influencers, and digital freelancers,
many of whom built online careers in the absence of formal jobs. This time, it proposed more
withholding taxes and compliance hurdles, making it harder for young creatives to earn freely.
The government knows fully well that the digital space is one of the few employment avenues
Gen Z carved out for themselves. Rather than support innovation, the government appears to
be penalizing it. It signals that the state sees every rising Kenyan not as potential, but as
revenue.
5. New Eco-Taxes and ‘Green’ Levies Without Clear Benefits
The bill introduced eco-levies on plastic packaging, electronics, and even phones under the
guise of environmental responsibility. But Kenyans quickly pointed out that the funds from
similar levies in previous years disappeared into corruption.
There’s no transparency about how the money will be used. Rather it raises costs of basic
commodities without improving the environment, and the people believe this is greenwashing,
meaning the government is using climate language to push greed.
We can go on and on but the core problem is that the billion is being passed heartlessly. More
than any single tax, the Finance Bill 2025 reignited anger because it symbolized the same cruel
governance that led to the deaths in 2024. It proved the fears of protesters were valid: that
Kenya is governed by leaders who tax the powerless to preserve the powerful.
This brings us to the final aspect of this article. And the question here is:
If Ruto goes, does the system go with him?
We’ve seen that the protests continue swell and the cry for President William Ruto’s resignation
grows louder even in the global headlines, but the harder, more uncomfortable question people
seem to forget is what happens if he actually steps down? Would his departure mark a genuine
turning point for Kenya or simply serve as a symbolic gesture, a well-timed sacrifice to protect a
deeply broken system?
To understand what’s at stake, we must look beyond the man himself and into the machinery
that made him.
The presidency, after all, is just the visible tip of a much deeper rot. Kenya’s crisis isn’t only
about William Ruto, it’s about a system built for extraction, not governance. It’s a structure
rooted in decades of corruption, elite capture, rigged institutions, and constitutional loopholes.
Yes, Ruto’s leadership has aggravated the pain, seeing it has ushered in oppressive taxes,
extravagant government spending, and dismissive rhetoric that mocks the struggle of ordinary
citizens. But Ruto is not the beginning of this decay. He is its product.
Think about this, if Ruto steps down, the system he emerged from remains untouched. The
same political elite will hover over the vacancy, ready to insert a loyal successor. The same
parliament that shamelessly passed the Finance Bill could simply replace him with a political
twin. The deep state will still control the country’s money, security apparatus, and elections.
The judiciary that has been largely silent in the face of public outcry will remain in place, robbed and
complicit. Unless Kenya dismantles and rebuilds this entire structure, a presidential resignation,
no matter how historic, could turn out to be little more than cosmetic.
Under the current constitution, Ruto’s resignation would automatically elevate Deputy President
Rigathi Gachagua to the top seat. For many Kenyans, that scenario is not a relief, it’s a
nightmare waiting.
Why?
Because Gachagua is widely viewed as disconnected from the real struggles of young and
urban Kenyans. His past remarks, often tribalized and tone-deaf have painted governance as a
game of political shareholding reserved for loyal allies. If Ruto leaves and Gachagua ascends,
the outrage might only deepen.
For protesters and the families of those who’ve already died, it
would feel like swapping one head of the same serpent for another. Unless his resignation is
followed by a full political reset like a dissolution of parliament, a transitional government, and
fresh elections, I’m afraid that many Kenyans will consider it an insult to the sacrifices already
made. Still, there’s another possibility.
The past two years have seen a political awakening like no
other. Kenya’s youth have led a powerful, grassroots resistance movement that has shaken the
foundations of state power without the backing of any political party.
If that energy evolves from protest into political consciousness, the country could witness the rise of a new civic force: young, independent leaders who are unbought and unafraid; digital-era coalitions capable of
tracking and holding MPs accountable; constitutional reforms designed not to protect power but
to distribute it. There’s potential for a mass voter reawakening, one that treats the ballot not as
routine, but as revolution.
Globally, Ruto’s resignation, should it happen, would make waves. It would be the first time in
post-independence Kenya that a sitting president steps down due to sustained street protests.
The world will watch, but not necessarily in solidarity. Foreign investors, global banks, and
Western governments aren’t cheering on the protestors, they’re watching to protect their
financial interests. The people must define what this moment means for Kenya, not let CNN,
Reuters, or the IMF craft the story.
If Ruto falls, it’s the protestors, those who bled, marched, and
mourned who must shape what comes next.
For real change to take root after a resignation, certain steps must follow immediately. Kenya
would need a civilian-led transitional council—not just a handoff to Gachagua. Parliament must
be dissolved to remove the very lawmakers who approved suffering with their pens.
A People’s Charter—crafted by civil society, youth leaders, and faith institutions—must outline urgent
national reforms. Fresh elections should be organized under both international scrutiny and
local grassroots oversight. And the country must pursue healing: justice for the dead,
reparations for victims, and a public anti-corruption reckoning that sees at least some of the
untouchables finally held accountable.
If Ruto does resign, it would be historic, but it must only be the beginning. Because this was
never about just one man. It has always been about ending a culture of impunity, breaking an
economy built on punishment, and unlearning a politics defined by betrayal. If Kenya’s youth
stop at removing Ruto, they risk being handed another shiny illusion by the same architects of
their suffering. But if they press forward by organizing, resisting, educating, and rebuilding, then
they can forge a new Kenya.
A country that belongs to them not just by birthright, but by vision
and justice. Because in the end, a protest might remove a president. But only a revolution can rewrite a
nation.
Post Comment