Behold the ignominious unraveling of William Ruto, a wounded lion limping through the savannah of Kenyan politics, his once-mighty roar reduced to a pitiful whimper. Barely three years into his presidency, the man who ascended to power with the swagger of a conqueror now staggers under the weight of his own failures, a clown in a tattered costume, his mane matted with the blood of his own miscalculations. What was meant to be a carefully choreographed descent into autocracy, a spectacle reserved for the emboldened audacity of a second term, has erupted prematurely in a cacophony of chaos, a tragic opera performed by a cast of fools.
The parallels with his predecessor, Uhuru Kenyatta, are as undeniable as they are pathetic, yet Ruto’s collapse is a far more grotesque spectacle, a circus of incompetence that makes Kenyatta’s excesses seem almost methodical by comparison. Kenyatta, at least, had the luxury of a second term to unfurl his repressive repertoire. His deportation of Miguna Miguna was a brazen opening act, followed by a grim parade of atrocities: the brutal suppression of protests stained with the blood of innocents like Baby Pendo, the chilling discovery of bodies floating in River Yala, the farcical constitutional charade of the BBI, and the suffocating curfews that choked dissent. His sycophant, David Murathe, crowed with prophetic arrogance about a “tougher Uhuru,” and Kenyans, seduced by the opiate of continuity, handed him the reins to their detriment.
Ruto, however, lacks the patience, the cunning, or perhaps the basic competence to orchestrate such a calculated crescendo. His is a regime in freefall, a wounded beast thrashing wildly in its death throes, each desperate lunge exposing the fragility of his rule. Abductions, enforced disappearances, extrajudicial killings, and trumped-up court cases – these were meant to be the sinister flourishes of a second term, tools to cement his dominion. Instead, they spill forth now, haphazard and frenzied, the kicks of a dying horse, each spasm a testament to a man in abject panic.
The seismic upheaval of June 25, 2024, was the arrow that pierced the lion’s flank, a wound from which he cannot recover. That day, the Kenyan people, roused from their slumber, tore through the veneer of his authority, exposing the trembling coward beneath.
The once-charismatic orator, whose honeyed words could sway crowds, now dreads the public square, where shoes fly like missiles of disdain, each one a stinging rebuke to his faltering reign. Churches, once sanctuaries for his sanctimonious posturing, have become hostile arenas where his presence invites jeers and scorn. International jaunts, once a hallmark of his globetrotting bravado, are now curtailed, his ambitions clipped by the weight of domestic unrest. Even the act of governance – whether plundering public coffers or reshuffling his administration – requires the humiliating ritual of groveling before coalition partners, a leash that chafes his dwindling ego and binds him like a circus animal performing for scraps.
Picture him, if you will, as a mangy lion, once the king of the savannah, now a pitiful creature skulking in the underbrush, his roar drowned out by the laughter of hyenas. His court is a motley crew of sycophants and propagandists, a gaggle of deluded jesters who still cling to the fiction of his grandeur. These advisors, with their inflated egos and empty promises, spin tales of a resurgent Ruto, a phoenix poised to rise from the ashes.
But their words are as hollow as a drum, their delusions as brittle as glass. They whisper of strategies and comebacks, of a leader who will reclaim his throne, but their rhetoric is a house of cards trembling in the wind. They are the blind leading the blind, a chorus of fools serenading a sinking ship, oblivious to the water lapping at their feet. Their master, the wounded lion, is no longer the flavor of the week; he is a relic, a fading footnote in a story that has already turned the page.
Consider the absurdity of his predicament: a president who cannot even fund school examinations, the most basic of governmental duties. The national exams, a rite of passage for Kenyan youth, hang in limbo, a casualty of his fiscal ineptitude. Classrooms stand empty, students left adrift, their futures sacrificed on the altar of his mismanagement. And yet, this is but one wound among many. Healthcare budgets, the lifeblood of a nation’s well-being, are slashed with the recklessness of a butcher, hospitals left to wither while citizens gasp for care. How does a leader who cannot fund exams, who starves the sick to feed his own ambitions, dare to dream of completing his term? The audacity is laughable, a punchline delivered by a clown who has forgotten his own act. Each policy failure, each budgetary blunder, is another gash in the lion’s hide, bleeding out what little legitimacy he has left.
The Finance Bill 2025, once a tool to flex his fiscal muscle, now looms like a guillotine, its presentation fraught with the terror of reigniting the flames of public fury. Ruto, the wounded lion, paces nervously before it, his tail tucked between his legs, his advisors whispering platitudes while the nation sharpens its pitchforks. Does this quivering figure inspire confidence? Does this shadow of a leader, dodging the gaze of his people, resemble a king? Far from it. He is a marionette, his strings pulled taut by the collective will of a nation that has tasted rebellion and found it intoxicating.
The era of Ruto’s reign is not merely waning; it is a sinking ship, its hull breached by the tempest of June 25th, its captain clinging to the mast, shouting commands to a crew that has long since abandoned him.
His propagandists, those purveyors of falsehoods, scurry like rats on that sinking vessel, spinning narratives of stability and strength. They paint him as a visionary, a lion yet to reclaim his pride, but their words are as flimsy as cobwebs, torn apart by the slightest scrutiny. They speak of “reforms” and “progress,” but the nation sees only chaos and decay. Their delusions of grandeur are a carnival mirror, distorting reality to prop up a leader who is little more than a caricature. They are the court minstrels, strumming out-of-tune lutes while the castle burns, their songs drowned out by the cries of a people betrayed. And Ruto, their hapless muse, stumbles through the wreckage, a wounded beast too proud to admit defeat, too weak to fight on.
The imagery of his downfall is vivid, a tapestry woven with threads of humiliation. He is a lion, yes, but one whose claws have been dulled, whose teeth have been broken. The savannah he once ruled now bristles with thorns, each step a reminder of his diminished stature. The vultures circle overhead, sensing the end, while the hyenas – his detractors, his disillusioned allies, his awakened citizens- nip at his heels, drawing blood with every taunt. His once-proud mane, a symbol of his authority, is now a tattered rag, singed by the fires of public outrage. The watering holes where he once drank deeply – the public’s trust, the nation’s coffers – are dry, their surfaces cracked and barren. He roars, but it is a hollow sound, echoing in an empty wilderness where no one listens.
To entertain the notion that this beleaguered figure could complete his term, let alone harbor delusions of re-election, is to indulge in a fantasy as absurd as believing a fallen star might reclaim its place in the firmament. Ruto is no longer the master of his destiny; he is a prisoner of his own failures, chained to a throne that crumbles beneath him.
His advisors, those architects of his demise, continue to peddle their snake oil, but the nation is no longer buying. The people have seen the lion’s wounds, have heard his feeble growls, and they know the truth: his time is over. The era of Ruto is a sinking sun, its light fading into the horizon, leaving only shadows in its wake.
And what of those who still cling to his cause, those loyalists who snort the fumes of their own propaganda? They are the addicts of a lost cause, high on their own supply, stumbling blindly toward oblivion. As the adage goes, those who grow intoxicated on their own delusions are doomed to fall, and fall hard. Ruto’s propagandists, with their grandiose visions of a resurgent regime, are merely hastening that collapse, their every word a nail in the coffin of his presidency. The nation watches, not with awe, but with derision, as the wounded lion staggers on, each step a mockery of his former glory.
The curtain is falling, and the audience, once captive, now roars for the finale of this sorry spectacle. The stage is littered with the debris of his reign – unfunded exams, gutted healthcare, broken promises, and the ghosts of those lost to his repression. The wounded lion, William Ruto, is no king, no leader, no savior. He is a clown in a crumbling circus, a loser counting his days, a dying horse kicking futilely against the inevitable. His era is not merely ending; it is being buried, swept away by the tide of a nation that has found its voice and will not be silenced. The savannah awaits a new dawn, one where the lion’s roar is but a memory, and the people, at last, are free.
