By Morris Wambua

On June 25th, 2024, young Kenyans left their homes with nothing but conviction in their chests and placards in their hands. They didn’t carry weapons. They carried hope. They didn’t chant hate. They chanted for justice.

By noon, many lay in pools of blood outside Parliament, shot by the very forces sworn to protect them, in a capital built on promises that never arrived.

Their crime? Daring to believe they had a voice.

Now, let’s talk about the people who killed them.

They wear tailored suits. They sit behind microphones and marble desks. They speak in tongues—English, Kiswahili, and the language of deceit.

They are presidents, parliamentarians, cabinet secretaries, governors, commissioners, and advisors. When they’re not plundering public coffers, they’re polishing their halos in front of TV cameras and church altars.

The same men and women who couldn’t lift a finger to save our youth were quick to fold their hands in prayer the following Sunday. Because in Kenya, even murder can be sanctified—so long as it is state-sanctioned and politely ignored.

Let’s not mince words.

What happened on June 25th was not a protest gone wrong.

It was not a clash.

It was a massacre.

It was a message. And the message was simple: In this country, the youth are expendable. Their lives end where political discomfort begins. And what followed was even more grotesque.

You would think the sight of young bodies riddled with bullets, the wails of mothers in mortuaries, and blood-soaked flags would have jolted the national conscience. But no.

Instead, we witnessed a grotesque parade of cowardice in Parliament and beyond. Leaders lined up, not to mourn, not to demand accountability, but to massage the president’s ego, as though the
nation had merely stubbed its toe, not buried its children.

One MP, barely able to form a sentence, blamed “external influences.” Another implied the youth were “on drugs” because apparently hunger, grief, and generational betrayal must now be symptoms of substance abuse.

And then came the sycophants. Those polished parrots from the ruling party who praised the police for “restoring order,” without a whisper about the skulls that were cracked open in that so-called restoration.

They all had something to say. Except remorse.

And then, predictably, they went to church.

Oh, how swiftly they ran to pews once the smoke cleared. Like clockwork, they appeared on Sunday morning. Faces solemn, clothes pressed, Bibles in hand, quoting Scripture as if Christ Himself would give them a front-row seat in heaven.

Some even dropped donations into church projects as though blood money could somehow baptize their conscience.

They ask for peace while funding violence. They call for calm after unleashing chaos. They lift Bibles with one hand while the other signs off on repression.

But we see them.

We know them.

These are not leaders. These are frauds in holy robes, politicians who have mistaken the pulpit for a PR agency.

The tragedy of Kenya isn’t just corruption. It’s the moral rot at the heart of power. These people don’t just fail. They fester.

This is not a system gone wrong. This is a class of people who were never right to begin with.

Most of them are not overwhelmed. They are not misguided. They are not victims of a complex system.

They are the system. And that system is evil. They weren’t corrupted by politics. They arrived corrupt, pre-loaded with entitlement, tribalism, and inherited greed. They’ve never known a Kenya where leadership means service.

Only power. Only profit.

They are not merely bad apples. They are a poisoned orchard.

And that is why reform won’t save us.

You cannot fix a house built on graves.

You cannot beautify a regime that kills its children and expect dignity to bloom.

The only cure is demolition—peacefully, constitutionally, completely.

We must deny them power at the ballot box the same way they denied our youth the right to protest in the streets.

They say “all politicians are the same.”

That’s the lie they’ve fed us to keep us paralyzed.

But look again. Look closely. They are afraid. Not of foreign influence, not of economic collapse, but of a thinking, angry, organized electorate.

That is what haunts them.

And that, fellow Kenyans, is where hope lives.

In the hands of the youth they tried to silence. In the voices they underestimated. In the growing refusal to be pacified with handouts, praise songs, and empty slogans.

This generation does not want handshakes. It wants power. Not borrowed influence. Real power. The power to end this wretched cycle of betrayal.

We must never again elect men and women who saw the blood on June 25th and called it rain.

Never again vote for someone who posted Bible verses while young bodies were being loaded into morgues.

Never again elevate those who responded to death with deflection, or those who watched
silently as the future of Kenya was extinguished on live television.

This is not about vengeance.

It is about survival.

Because the youth killed on June 25th are not just victims. They are symbols. Of every young life this country has buried under false promises.

Unless we act, more will follow. More funerals. More hashtags. More mothers kneeling over graves, planting flowers in the soil of state betrayal.

Enough.

Let us build a new political order. Not one founded on tribal arithmetic, but national ethics.

One where leadership is not inherited like land, but earned through integrity and sacrifice.

One where politicians don’t need to be cleansed at the altar because they live lives that require no cleansing.

The first bullet fired on June 25th killed a protester. The ones that followed tried to kill a generation’s spirit.

But here’s the thing about youth: you can shoot their bodies, but you cannot kill their memory.

You cannot silence their rage.

You cannot outrun what they are becoming.

June 25th will not be forgotten.

We saw who stood with the people.

We saw who stood with power.

And when the time comes, we will remember every coward, every apologist, every church-going Judas who traded our blood for access to power.

And may their careers end as shamefully as they have lived them.

Viva!