History will not remember President Ruto as the leader who lifted Kenyans out of poverty, but as the man who turned the Statehouse into a charity tent for the poor he helped create.

There is an old saying—when the gods want to finish you, they first make you mad and confused. Today, that proverb found its stage at the lawns of the Statehouse, Nairobi. The Governor of Nairobi, standing before a crowd of bussed-in residents from Mathare, Korogocho, and Kibera, called for an “occupation” of Statehouse—not the symbolic kind Gen Z had in mind when they sought to reclaim the people’s house, but a state-choreographed performance to showcase President William Ruto’s supposed popularity among the youth.

The spectacle was as transparent as it was tragic: desperate citizens promised a trip to the seat of power under the guise of “empowerment,” only to be paraded before cameras as proof of a leader’s connection to the people. Moments after the staged celebration, the youth in attendance began receiving M-PESA messages confirming deposits of Ksh2,000 each. They were also issued chairs, tents, sewing machines, and other token equipment—trinkets of political appeasement in exchange for their presence. Even Sakanja, in a moment of careless honesty, declared that this was not the end—more would be ferried to the Statehouse for the same charade. The so-called empowerment was nothing more than handouts, funded not by any approved parliamentary budget but by taxpayer money siphoned into the shadows of political expediency.

This is the governance model Ruto has perfected: bypass real policy, ignore the machinery of institutional planning, and operate on overnight whims. While the country drowns in unresolved disappearances, abductions, killings, crippling unemployment, and deepening poverty, the Head of State prefers to throw parties in Statehouse gardens and call it economic reform. It is the political equivalent of spraying perfume in a rotting room—fragrant for a moment, putrid forever.

But will this brand of “empowerment” build schools, equip hospitals, end corruption, or deliver justice for the disappeared and the dead? Or is it simply the currency of a confused regime—spending public money to buy loyalty while the nation’s wounds deepen?

The absurdity becomes clearer when imagined elsewhere. Picture the President of the United States inviting busloads of unemployed citizens to the White House, distributing envelopes of cash, and declaring it “empowerment.” In mature democracies, such stunts would trigger congressional investigations, resignations, and possibly impeachment. In Kenya, they are broadcast live as leadership in action.

Ruto’s presidency has abandoned any pretense of a structured economic vision. He is ruling like a man adrift, confusing photo opportunities with progress, bribery with development, and staged applause with legitimacy. The “empowered” will return to Mathare, Korogocho, and Kibera to find that nothing has changed—their children will still go hungry, their rent will still be unpaid, and their futures will still be stolen. Only one man will have gained: a President buying time, and perhaps votes, with the people’s own money.

Disclaimer: The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author in their capacity as a political analyst and journalist. They do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of The Diaspora Times or any of its affiliates.

From The Editorial Desk of The Diaspora Times