The fallacy of the monopoly of violence

“Why are you guys so angry?”

I was asked this question last year by someone, who now seems ready to storm Parliament all by himself. The rage took the stairs, but it got to him nonetheless.

We did warn you last year: Staying silent won’t save you; obeying this regime’s orders and instructions won’t save you; minding your own business won’t save you and staying home won’t save you. As long as you keep thinking you can outrun injustice, that you can outwork a terrible economy, that you can safeguard yourself against impunity, and that you can outplay a regime hellbent on playing with no rules, the price you pay for civility might very quickly be your own life. 

For too long, the Kenyan government has danced with the flames of public discontent, stoking them with arrogance and brutality. The youth, once dismissed as apathetic, have become the pulse of a nation teetering on the edge of revolution. The cold-blooded shooting by the police of a mask vendor, Boniface Kariuki, on June 17, 2025, in the heart of Nairobi’s Central Business District, was not just an act of violence — it was a moment in a country’s consciousness. And history whispers that such sparks can ignite infernos. The Arab Spring began with a street vendor’s death in Tunisia. Kenya’s own reckoning may have begun with a bullet to a mask seller’s head.

The government has misread the room for years. President William Ruto’s administration, cloaked in the rhetoric of economic progress and global appeal, has failed to grasp the depth of the youth’s frustration. The death of Albert Ojwang, a 31-year-old blogger and teacher, in police custody on June 8, 2025, poured fuel on this smouldering rage, with attempts at covering up the tracks bordering dangerously on an insult on the nation’s collective intelligence.

Shooting of face mask hawker

The mask vendor’s shooting was no isolated tragedy. It was a grotesque display of a regime that no longer bothers to hide its contempt. The young man, hawking face masks to protesters choking on tear gas, was shot at point-blank range. Videos show the officer walking away, unashamed, as the vendor bleeds out on Moi Avenue. Kind-hearted Kenyans carried him to safety, but the image of that moment — a man gunned down for selling masks — has seared itself into the national psyche. It echoes the self-immolation of Mohamed Bouazizi in Tunisia, a street vendor whose death in 2010 set off the Arab Spring. Like Bouazizi, Kenya’s Boniface Kariuki was not a revolutionary by design. He was a citizen, scraping by, caught in the crosshairs of a state that sees its people as collateral damage.

This government’s playbook is predictable, yet deadly. When protests erupted over Ojwang’s death, police met peaceful demonstrators with tear gas and rubber bullets. But something uglier emerged on June 17: armed goons, some arriving on motorbikes, attacking protesters while police stood by or, worse, marched alongside them. These weren’t random thugs. These were State-sanctioned militia, paid for by a regime that just won’t shut up about the thin budgetary constraints they have to navigate, but always have reserves for meting out violence on its citizenry.

The government’s response only deepens the wound. Interior Cabinet Secretary Kipchumba Murkomen’s comparison of youth protests to terrorism is not just tone-deaf, it is a deliberate attempt to criminalise dissent. Amnesty International Kenya called it “deeply ironic,” and they’re right. A State that shoots unarmed vendors and shields killers has no moral ground to lecture anyone on terror. Murkomen’s talk of regulating demonstrations is a thinly veiled threat to choke free expression further. 

The youth are not a monolith, but their grievances are. Unemployment, corruption and a budget that squeezes the poor while sparing the elite have created a powder keg. The government’s failure to address Ojwang’s death, coupled with the shooting of Boniface, has eroded what little trust remained. Deputy Inspector General Eliud Lagat’s decision to “step aside” for a probe feels like a hollow gesture, too little, too late. Protesters don’t want investigations — they want accountability and consequences and they want it now!

This moment feels different

Kenya is not failing. It is the regime that’s crumbling, a parasite feeding on a nation’s resilience. The youth are the fever, burning out the infection. It shall get hot, and either the body, or the parasite will survive. Can’t be both.

June 25 could be the tipping point. Unlike last year, when protests forced a Bill’s withdrawal, this moment feels different. The streets are angrier, more charged, the demands are bolder. The hashtag #TotalShutdown isn’t just a slogan — it’s a vision of a country grinding to a halt until the rot is excised. The government could de-escalate, but history suggests it won’t. It will deploy more tear gas, more goons, more bullets. And each act of violence will only swell the crowds. A regime so coddled up behind the peaceful nature of the Kenyan people has deluded itself into believing they hold monopoly of violence. This is not about reform anymore. It’s about uprooting a system that has failed totally.

The Arab Spring taught us that regimes fall when the people refuse to bend. Kenya’s youth, battle-hardened by last year’s crackdowns, are not blinking. They’ve seen their friends disappear, their heroes die, their futures shrink. They’ve seen the peaceful suffer violence, the quiet become collateral damage, innocents die at the hands of state sanctioned goons, and might have landed at the conclusion that painkillers just won’t do it. This country needs surgery.

The mask vendor’s blood on Moi Avenue is their blood. Albert Ojwang’s death is their death. The government has fanned these flames for too long, mistaking patience for weakness. On June 25, when the youth flood the streets, they won’t be asking for dialogue. They’ll be demanding a new Kenya. And if the regime doesn’t listen, it may find itself swept away by a tide it can no longer control. The spark has been lit. 

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