In Kenya, as in many countries across the world, street protests are often framed as the unfortunate result of political failure. As the logic goes, the inability of state institutions to translate popular sentiment into political, legislative and regulatory action to address grievances undermines trust and leaves the streets vulnerable to eruptions of popular discontent.
In this telling, protests are viewed as a political problem with grievances expected to be legitimately addressed using the mechanisms – coercive or consensual – of the formal political system.
Like its predecessors, the increasingly paranoid regime of Kenyan President William Ruto has also adopted this view. While generally acknowledging the constitutional right of protest, it has sought to paint the largely peaceful and sustained Generation Z demonstrations and agitation of the past 16 months, which have questioned its rule and policies, as a threat to public order and safety and to delegitimise the street as an avenue for addressing public issues.
The killing and abductions of protesters as well as the move to charge them with “terrorism” offences, borrowing a leaf from Western governments that have similarly criminalised pro-Palestinian and antigenocide sentiments, are clear examples of the state’s preferred response. At the same time, there have been repeated calls for the protesters to enter into talks with the regime and, more recently, for an “intergenerational national conclave” to address their concerns.
But framing protests as a dangerous response to political dissatisfaction is flawed. Demonstrations are an expression of democracy, not the result of its failures. The Generation Z movement has shown that transparency, mutual aid and political consciousness can thrive outside formal institutions. Activists have made the streets and online forums sites of grievance, rigorous debate, civic education, and policy engagement.
They have raised funds, provided medical and legal aid, and supported bereaved families, all without help from the state or international donors. In doing so, they have reminded the country that citizenship is not just about casting ballots every five years. It is about showing up – together, creatively and courageously – to shape the future.
The Generation Z movement is in many respects a reincarnation of the reform movement of the 1990s when Kenyans waged a decade long street-based struggle against the brutal dictatorship of President Daniel arap Moi. Today’s defiant chants of “Ruto must go” and “Wantam” – the demand that Ruto be denied a second term in the 2027 election – echo the rallying cries from 30 years ago: “Moi must go” and “Yote yawezekana bila Moi (All is possible without Moi).”
Centring the struggle on Moi was a potent political strategy. It united a broad coalition, drew international attention and forced critical concessions – from the reintroduction of multiparty politics and term limits to the expansion of civil liberties and, crucially, the rights of assembly and expression.
By the time Moi left office at the end of 2002, Kenya was arguably at its freest, its spirit immortalised in the Gidi Gidi Maji Maji hit I Am Unbwogable! (I Am Unshakable and Indomitable!)” But that moment of triumph also masked a deeper danger: the illusion that removing a
Moi’s successor, Mwai Kibaki, hailed then as a reformist and gentleman of Kenyan politics, quickly set about reversing hard-won gains. His government blocked (then tried to subvert) constitutional reform, raided newsrooms and eventually presided over a stolen election that brought Kenya to the brink of civil war.
One of his closest ministers, the late John Michuki, had in 2003 revealed the true mindset of the political class: Constitutional change to devolve the power of the presidency, he claimed, was necessary only so “one of our own could share power with Moi”. Once Moi was gone, he averred, there was no longer need for it.
