An African proverb warns, “Until the lion tells the story, the hunter will always be the hero.”

Kenya stands on the brink of a seismic shift in its political landscape, propelled by a youth-led movement that defies the country’s entrenched norms. Known as the Gen-Z movement, this uprising is remarkable not just for its fervor but for its independence—no political or ethnic ties, no singular leader. The spark was the contentious Finance Bill 2024, a piece of legislation many feared would deepen Kenya’s already stark economic divide. On June 25, this generation took to the streets and Parliament, pressuring the National Assembly to reject the bill. Thousands marched in protest, only to be met with a harsh crackdown. Tear gas choked the air of Nairobi, and peaceful demonstrators found themselves detained, assaulted, and even killed. The nation is now in the throes of a political crisis that raises a critical question: What lies at the heart of this unrest?

President William Ruto, once hailed as Kenya’s savior, is facing a backlash threatening to unravel his administration. In the lead-up to the 2022 elections, Ruto presented himself as the embodiment of the Kenyan dream—a man of the people who had risen from selling chickens to holding the nation’s highest office. He promised affordable housing, relief from economic strain, and a brighter future for the working class. His campaign platform, centered on the “hustlers” he claimed to champion, struck a chord with many. Under his leadership, Kenya was to become a beacon of economic development, and he, the self-styled “hustler-in-chief,” would lead the way.

Central to Ruto’s campaign was the Hustler Fund, an initiative allowing Kenyans to apply for small loans through a user-friendly online platform. Yet, the reality fell far short of expectations. Most Kenyans found themselves unable to borrow more than 2,220 Kenyan shillings—roughly $16—barely enough to start a small business, let alone change a life. Budget cuts had already crippled the fund, and while it did provide some benefits, they were often overshadowed by the program’s flaws. Audits revealed troubling loopholes, including loans granted to individuals who should not have been eligible. As the cost of living continues to rise, such meager support does little to alleviate the financial burdens facing Kenya’s working class, who now demand more than just survival—they want accountability and the ability to thrive.

The public’s growing discontent boiled over on July 7, when Nairobians gathered to honor those who had fallen victim to the government’s brutal crackdown. Among the dead was David Chege, a beloved Sunday school teacher and IT professional, shot in the head by police. His body lay in the street, covered by fellow protesters waving the Kenyan flag—a stark symbol of the state’s indifference. The killing of 29-year-old Rex Masai during the early days of the protests had already ignited the Seven Days of Rage, a campaign that has since grown into a nationwide movement. Reports of protesters being abducted, harassed, tortured, and murdered have only fueled the flames of resistance.

What makes this movement particularly potent is its demographic composition. Kenya’s youth, who make up 80% of the population, are united in their anger. The usual divisions of regional politics, tribal affiliations, or centralized power do not bind their revolution. For the first time, the political elite is witnessing the rise of a force it cannot easily control—a generation that has lost faith in its leaders. The country’s record-high unemployment rate has only deepened this sense of betrayal as young Kenyans watch the political class flaunt their wealth in new luxury cars and lavish donations to community projects. At the same time, the average mwananchi (citizen) struggles to make ends meet.

The Finance Bill was the final straw. It became a lightning rod for public outrage, encapsulating the growing divide between the ruling elite and the people. Once simmering beneath the surface, economic inequality is now a boiling cauldron of discontent. The Swahili phrase “salimia yeye” (confront them) has become the rallying cry of the Gen-Z movement—a call to action against those who prioritize their wealth and power over the welfare of the people.

This new political age is fraught with danger and uncertainty. Kenya’s youth are stepping into an unknown future, carrying the weight of history and the hopes of their forebears. Their cause has transcended national borders, drawing support from the Kenyan diaspora in cities like Washington, London, and The Hague. The movement’s critique of global neoliberal institutions, including the World Bank and IMF, resonates with similar struggles worldwide, fostering a sense of international solidarity.

In the face of mounting pressure, President Ruto attempted to quell the unrest by engaging directly with the youth on social media. Thousands participated, voicing their frustrations and demanding change. In response, Ruto disbanded his government on July 11 and swore in a new one on August 8, notably including his political rival Raila Odinga. But the move has done little to restore confidence; instead, it has deepened the sense of uncertainty. Demonstrators continued to take to the streets, protesting the swearing-in ceremony meant to signal a fresh start. The hashtag #NaneNaneMarch quickly gained traction, calling for further action.

As Kenya teeters on the edge of a new era, the road ahead is perilous. The loss of life underscores the high stakes involved, yet the resolve of the nation’s youth remains unshaken. The Gen-Z movement is not just a local phenomenon; it is a source of inspiration for youth-led uprisings in countries like Nigeria and Uganda. The eyes of the world are on Kenya as it navigates this critical juncture in its history.