We have already lost too much to afford apathy.
I remember the first time I came across Not Yet Uhuru. I was young, too young to fully grasp the weight of those words. All I knew was what I had been taught: Kenya got independence. The flag was raised. The colonizers left. So I wondered, innocently, why not yet Uhuru? Weren’t we already free?
At that age, independence felt like a finished story. A victory sealed and archived in textbooks.
But maybe the truth is this: we gained independence, yes, but ironically, we fell into the hands of new colonisers. Not foreigners this time. Our own. Fellow countrymen who learned the system, mastered it, and turned it into something that serves them at the expense of everyone else.
So was it ever really Uhuru?
Many years later, and no, I am not that old😅, I finally understand.
Because here I am, in my twenties, not just living in Kenya, but fighting for it. Fighting for my future. Fighting for those coming after me. And nothing prepares you for that realization, the moment you understand that the freedom you assumed you inherited is still under construction… or worse, being actively taken apart.
At 20, I did not expect to have already attended protests. That was never part of my vision board. I did not imagine a version of myself glued to the TV, tracking government decisions, analyzing policies, asking questions like: what have they taken this time? What bill are they pushing now? What excuse are they giving for stealing our future?
But here we are.
We saw it during the Finance Bill protests. We showed up. We spoke out. We risked our lives. And what did we get in return? Dismissal. Gaslighting. Leaders telling us we were paid. Leaders implying our anger was manufactured. Even now, as young people register as voters through movements like Niko Kadi, the same script continues : “they’ve been paid,” “Gen Z is not patient enough to queue and vote,” “they can’t change anything.”
But we already proved them wrong.
They said rejecting the Finance Bill online meant nothing. Yet we shook the country. We forced conversations. We reminded them that power does not only sit in offices, it also lives in the people.
We are not children.
We are adults who want functioning systems. Systems that work. Systems that serve.
And maybe that is what unsettles them the most.
Because, as the line from Sarafina! goes: they fear you because you are young, because you are many, and because you are not afraid.
And they should be.
Because this generation is paying attention.
We are asking questions they cannot easily deflect. We are connecting dots they hoped we would ignore. We are refusing to inherit silence.
And yet, even within us, there are voices of doubt. The ones who say, “ataiba,” “you don’t know him,” “it won’t change anything.”
But let’s be honest, how do you expect change if you have already surrendered in your own mind?
You cannot be a loser in your own brain.
You cannot lack even the smallest imagination of a better country and still expect one to exist.
Because change begins there, in the belief that something different is possible.
And with that belief comes responsibility.
It is our responsibility to vote, but not blindly. Not emotionally. Not because someone is a celebrity, an influencer, or knows how to trend online. This is not a popularity contest. This is not entertainment.
We are choosing leaders.
Leaders who must understand their roles. Leaders must be competent. Leaders who must serve, not perform.
Because one of the biggest problems we have as a country is that politics has become too lucrative. It is no longer just leadership; it is business. A profitable one. And when leadership becomes business, the people become customers at best… and collateral damage at worst.
That is how you end up with leaders who do not care whether people die.
We saw it. In the protests. In the comments. In the silence that followed.
We are also seeing it now, in careless remarks, in misplaced priorities, in a government that seems more concerned with optics than with actual lives. A government that does not prioritize public hospitals that millions depend on, but somehow finds urgency in systems that only they can afford.
And still, we are told to trust them.
But trust must be earned.
And right now, what many people feel is not trust, it is urgency.
Because we cannot afford another five years of poor governance. We cannot afford to keep recycling the same mistakes, hoping for different results. History has already warned us: those who fail to learn from it are doomed to repeat it.
And we refuse.
We refuse to repeat it.
We refuse to normalize it.
We refuse to be silent about it.
Because maybe now I finally understand what Not Yet Uhuru meant.
It meant that independence without justice is incomplete. That freedom without accountability is fragile. That a country can be politically free but still socially, economically, and systemically bound.
So no, we are not yet Uhuru.
But we are closer than we think, if we choose to act.
We have already lost too much to afford apathy.
And if they fear us for being young, many, and unafraid, then maybe, just maybe, we are finally moving in the right direction.
So again, the question is not why not yet Uhuru?
The question is, will we finally do what it takes to make it so?
And now, let me ask you
Are you a registered voter?
If not, use this link to find an IEBC registration center near you and take that step.
#TukoKadi
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