OPINION: YOU CANNOT AFFORD TO BE APOLITICAL

In a country  where parliament’s decisions drown out the cries on the streets, choosing to remain apolitical is not neutrality—it’s surrender. With taxes biting harder than opportunities, unemployment flourishing amid broken political promises, and a system that barely acknowledges young voices, Kenyan youth cannot afford to sit on the sidelines. The political class often acts as judge, jury, and executioner, wielding power in cold blood. For Kenya’s youth, politics is no longer a spectator sport—it’s a battlefield for dignity, justice, and transformation.

Article 1 of Kenya’s Constitution vests sovereign power in the people, to be exercised directly or through democratically elected representatives. Staying apolitical means surrendering this constitutional right to actors who may not share your interests, values, or vision for the future. Abstaining is not just a missed vote—it’s handing over your power to shape policies that determine your livelihood, safety, and hopes.

The events of June 25th, 2024, crystallized this truth. Sparked by the Finance Bill 2024, which piled oppressive taxes on a nation already crushed by debt and depression, young Kenyans unleashed a political storm. From Nairobi to every county with a Wi-Fi signal, they declared “enough is enough.” What could have been a typical Tuesday—long queues, relentless M-Pesa Fuliza notifications, overpriced matatus, and Hustler Fund debt reminders—became Kenya’s unofficial “National Day of Rethinking Life Choices.” The protests were no mere social media outburst but a full-blown civic awakening.

Kenyan youth during a past protest

Armed with placards, creativity, and righteous anger, youth faced tear gas, rubber bullets, and the chilling hum of water cannons. Police, seemingly confusing dissent with warfare, transformed central business districts into war zones. Businesses shuttered, public transport vanished faster than campaign promises, and parents clutched their children, fearing for their lives. The Finance Bill didn’t just tax essentials like bread—it taxed peace, unity, and lives, leaving communities reeling. Politicians played their roles to perfection: some disappeared into thin air, others issued robotic statements from gated mansions, and many blamed “external forces” or branded protesters “criminals,” dismissing their constitutional right to picket. June 25th stands as a searing reminder: apolitical silence empowers a flawed system.

Yet, the system continues to exclude youth. The IEBC’s new lineup, announced recently, lacks representation from the 70% of Kenyans who are young, resembling a reunion of retired principals rather than a forward-looking commission. This defies Article 27’s guarantee of equality and freedom from discrimination, suggesting youth participation is welcome only from the sidelines—preferably while clapping. Article 88 mandates the IEBC to ensure free, fair, and credible elections, but how can it inspire confidence when it ignores the majority? A commission that feels out of touch cannot deliver the democratic future youth deserve.

This is precisely why young Kenyans cannot remain apolitical. Power protects itself, and the system won’t reform without pressure. If you don’t show up—as voters, candidates, policy influencers, or civic watchdogs—you’re not just left out; you’re locked out. Politics isn’t about who wears the flashiest suit or delivers the slickest manifesto. It’s about policies that decide whether your student loan is waived, whether you access healthcare, or whether you walk home in peace or fear. If you’re not in the room where decisions are made, you’ll bear the cost—overtaxed, disrespected, and ignored.

June 25th showed youth can shake the system, but the fight isn’t over. If you don’t claim a seat at the table, you’ll remain on the menu, served rare and overlooked. This is your country. Engage, demand change, and own it—or watch it be auctioned to the highest bidder.