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“Mr Speaker, Sir, we are here to address you.”
These words and the circumstances under which they were uttered will for years remain a symbolic moment in Kenya’s political history. For decades, Kenya has been considered a beacon of democracy in the region. However, this badge did not come easy. It was earned with the blood of the many protesters that fought for the liberation of the country. Sadly, more than six decades later – and five governments since independence – blood continues to be a constant feature in the quest for a truly democratic state. Kenya’s history of political protests has had five waves of political agitation, each bringing to the fore fundamental questions around legitimacy, agency, elite deafness, and a reflection on the social contract between the elites and the masses.
The pre-independence resistance (up to 1963) sought freedom from colonial rule and an end to racial domination that had excluded the majority from both political and economic spaces. The political protests of this period are often attributed to the Mau Mau uprising, nationalists organising, and trade union movements. Characterised by brutality and countless deaths, the agitation led to a hard-won independent state. In the 1980s–1990s, just three decades after independence, Kenyans again found themselves excluded from the promise of independence by a political and economic elite that sought to commercialise the people’s independence for their own selfish gains. Led by opposition politicians, the clergy, students, and civil society, this second wave of protests were a fight against Moi’s dictatorship and a struggle for political pluralism and civil liberties. Repression was fierce, but there were some hard-won gains – an end to one-party state rule and the eventual end of Moi’s repressive and kleptocratic twenty-four-year rule in 2002.
The optimism and patriotism that followed the historic elections of 2002 will pretty much be etched in the memories of Gen X-ers and millennials who lived through the post-independence and Moi eras. But lost in this optimism was that the extractive elite structures that had long characterised Kenya’s politics hadn’t really been eliminated. Rather, elites had just changed aisles, and politics was still an arena for elite bargain and self-preservation by excluding the masses. As multipartyism took root, attention turned to elite impunity characterised by corruption scandals such as the Anglo Leasing scandal, and tribalism in public service. This is why it was no surprise that, just slightly over three years of the National Rainbow Coalition (NARC), elite fragmentation emerged, throwing the country into a deeply divided referendum. One that, thankfully, ushered in a new constitution. Protests in this third wave (2002–2007) were led by what was then a vibrant civil society and were centred around anti-corruption campaigns and demands for better governance.
The fourth wave of political protests (2007–2022) clamoured for electoral justice and the right for people’s votes to count. Sparked by flawed electoral processes, these protests centred on the right to vote and have it count. The 2007/08 post-election violence will perhaps remain the most historic, although the 2013 and 2017 post-election protests still symbolised the quest for a just and fair electoral process. These electoral events saw protesters take to the streets to fight against what they considered sham processes that were designed to benefit political elites in complete contempt of the people’s voice in what was considered a democratic state. Many protesters were met with unnecessary brutality and bloodshed. But these protests nonetheless brought some gains. The Kriegler Commission laid the groundwork for an electoral overhaul, embedding electoral reforms in the 2010 Constitution. But while some form of reform was achieved, credibility, fairness, and trust in the electoral processes that followed remained elusive. And with each broken promise, public faith drained away further, setting the stage for a new kind of agitation by the masses, more so as the political elites converged after every lengthy electoral dispute, following which they would be co-opted and accommodated at the proverbial political table. The people once again became pawns in a political game every electioneering period.
With the political class having established a rhythmic framework for elite consensus disguised as national unity – government of national unity, post-election handshakes, building bridges initiative, broad-based government – the rift between the ruling class and the citizens deepened. What became clearer over time was that these were only but disguised frameworks that had the face of inclusion, but deep underneath served as tools for protecting elite interests while excluding the masses. While boomers and X-ers had long been accustomed to these performative political “reforms”, and while we millennials were suffering moral fatigue from these political charades and had become somewhat politically aloof, a generation not bearing this burden of political trauma was slowly coming of age and entering the political space. Well educated, politically aware, globally connected through the power of technology, and with clarity of mind regarding the power of their agency, Gen Zs were nobody’s political hostages.
And so came in wave five of political protests – the Gen Z revolt of 2024 against a political elite so deaf and so detached from the lived realities of their constituents, a class of “representatives” quick to represent party interests with a nauseating, almost cultic allegiance to the executive in gross contempt for what they were actually elected to do – represent the people. Leaderless, loud, fearless and not tied to party or tribe, Gen Zs came out in numbers, driven by disappointment in the vacuum created by legislators who had abandoned their mandate. But did we have to get here?
Absolutely not. You see, back in February of the same year when Treasury released the draft bill, many young people took to social media to express their displeasure at the regressive taxation that was the Finance Bill 2024. Many of the taxes introduced were going to hurt an already overtaxed population struggling with unemployment and weakened payslips. All the while, and stretching back to 2013, we were made spectators to grand corruption as though the elites were in a race to see who would deplete public coffers fastest. Politicians took to TikTok and church podiums to display opulence of questionable provenance. Meanwhile, ordinary Kenyans were told to tighten their belts as debt repayment was choking the public coffers and hence more taxation was unavoidable. A captured parliament, broken and detached from its representational role where legislators no longer felt accountable to citizens, continued to contemptuously tell us that the bill was here to stay. What this meant, therefore, was that formal representation as envisioned in the constitution had collapsed. Parliament, effectively the house of the people, no longer cared for the people and had opted to become a rubber stamp for executive decisions.
But even then, Gen Zs’ first option was not to take to the streets. They first took to digital protests, making it clear on social media platforms that the bill was an overreach. Rather than listen, they were met with lectures on why “this was right for the country”. The result? A deaf and dismissive elite, completely removed from the lived realities of their constituents. Recall the reference to these legitimate digital protests as “digital wanking”? Still, the streets were not the immediate next step. Protesters resorted to direct engagement with their representatives through what famously became the “salimia mheshimiwa” protest. Phone numbers of lawmakers were shared and people were encouraged to write to their members of parliament detailing why they opposed the bill. A few reasonable voices heed the call, but the majority stuck to the old politics of party before people and chest-thumped their way into the debate on the floor of the house. June 25th was the day set aside by the Speaker for a vote on the bill; it was very clear the bill was going to pass, all avenues through which the people could be heard having been shut down, a direct insult to the people whose delegated authority legitimises the role of parliament. So, what happens when representatives no longer represent?
“Mr Speaker, Sir, we are here to address you.”
Even during Kenya’s fiercest fights for democracy during the second liberation, parliament remained a fortress untouched. Protesters may have spilled blood, but they never crossed that line. On June 25, 2024, Gen Zs did. Not in violence, but in an act of symbolism. They entered the house that claimed to speak for them and made it clear that those in that house no longer represented them. The people stepped in to take back their House. “Mr Speaker, Sir, we are here to address you.” These words must not merely be understood or taken as words crafted for a viral meme, but rather as a profound political statement that was deliberate, defiant, and instructive. In that single sentence, the protesters distilled the crisis of our time – the collapse of representation and the desperation to reclaim agency. These words should not be dismissed as youthful drama or social media theatrics. They are a mirror held up to the political class – a plea, a warning, and a call to reflect by a people determined to bring a moral correction to a system that had forgotten its purpose. Their breach of parliament on June 25 was not just protest, it was a symbolic repossession of a system that had long abandoned them. This was a generation that stood up to the political elite to let them know that they would no longer be the collateral damage to their deals and selective governance.
But the political elite, accustomed to their old rhythmic political frameworks of elite consensus and as if loudening their deafness, completely missed or intentionally overlooked this correctional intention altogether. A visibly angry president addressed the nation, terming protesters criminal elements. The political class picked from the old political playbook and made calls for the “leaders” of the movement to engage the executive in talks. But being very aware of what “talks” during previous protests had meant – co-opting opponents and expanding the “table” to maintain exploitative political structures that consistently exclude the masses for elite self-preservation – the calls were largely rejected. So, what did the political class miss back then and continues to miss even now? How is it that what led to Gen Z agitation remains unaddressed to date?
What made the June 25th protests extraordinary was not just that protesters breached parliament. It is what the breach symbolised. This generation isn’t asking for a seat at the table. They’re asking: “Who built this table? Who does it serve? And do we even want to sit at it?” Unlike previous waves that fought to expand inclusion within existing political and economic structures, Gen Zs are questioning the structures themselves. They’re calling out a state that extracts more than it protects, leaders who govern for themselves and not for the people, and institutions that have become hollow rituals of representation, disconnected from the lived realities of those they are mandated to serve.
June 25th wasn’t just a protest. It was meant to be a renegotiation of a weakened social contract. A redefinition of what citizenship, representation, and governance ought to mean in a republic. And the young people did it outside the usual vocabulary of politics. No manifestos. No party flags. No tribal alliances. Just one raw, defiant question: “If you cannot represent us, who gave you the right to govern us?” In breaching parliament, Gen Zs didn’t just enter a gate, they crossed into the republic’s deepest wound, the broken promise that power belongs to the people. Their protest wasn’t about entering the halls of power through talks and negotiations meant to co-opt. It was about rewriting the terms of belonging.
One year down the line, it may feel like much of what was expected out of the protests is yet to be achieved. Yes, moral fatigue may be weighing many of us down. But may the symbolism of what June 25th represents never be lost from our memories. May the spirits of those we lost and continue to lose in this struggle continue to fuel the power within us to always rise to the occasion. May the history of the liberators that came before us remind us that future generations will judge us on the account of what we did to preserve and expand the freedoms we inherited from those that came before us. And, yes, the road to freedom may be long and paved with state violence, and we will get fatigued from time to time, but may we be reminded that the journey requires the strength and resilience of those who refuse to yield. In the end, the social contract is only broken if people give up. And one thing is clear, Gen Zs have the resilience and courage not to give up but renegotiate this contract.
Will the deaf political class wake up from their deafness? For any politician willing to listen, June 25th is a syllabus on what has gone wrong, and what must urgently be set right. It may take time, but the sanctity of the People’s House will be reclaimed. And as we walk this journey, we shall constantly remind you that that is the People’s House. And WE SHALL reclaim the honour and dignity of its representational role and the legitimate course of speaking for and in the interest of citizens.
