Ruto taking bullets so that Kenya can complain in peace now, reap later

Let’s be honest. William Ruto’s presidency sometimes feels like being stuck in a matatu where the driver has cranked mugithi to full blast, fare has just doubled, fuel is dangerously low, and yet he insists he knows the route. The passengers — that’s us — complain, protest, even plead. Still, he drives on, convinced he alone sees the destination. The real question is whether Ruto is simply a stubborn man deaf to his passengers, or whether he is deliberately absorbing the political slaps so that Kenya, eventually, can stop being caricatured as a hustler nation in perpetual struggle.

Take housing. Daniel arap Moi once sold us the Nyayo dream of homes for every citizen, but it curdled into a lottery of connections and patronage. Kibaki and Uhuru mostly left the sector to private developers who erected gated castles in the sky while ordinary Kenyans settled for fresh coats of paint on rusting mabati. Ruto has swung into the scene with the Housing Levy, wielded like a sledgehammer against the pockets of Kenyans. The outcry is loud — “hii pesa inatoka wapi?” — but projects are indeed sprouting across counties, masons are finding work, and the unlikely possibility of apartment blocks reaching dusty villages suddenly seems real. The scheme is deeply unpopular, yet undeniably bold.

Healthcare tells a similar story. NHIF has long been the relative who swears repayment but never delivers. Every president knew it was a broken promise, none wanted to wrestle with the cartels feeding on it. Ruto tore up the plate and replaced it with SHIF, introducing fresh deductions that have left workers furious. Still, this is a rare instance of a president walking into the kitchen rather than peeking at the menu from the door. It may collapse under its own weight, or it may finally drag healthcare into accountability. Either way, he dared where others hesitated.

On education, Ruto inherited a mess. Moi saddled a generation with 8-4-4 and its stress-laden folders. Kibaki tinkered but kept the skeleton intact. Uhuru hurled CBC at bewildered parents and promptly disappeared to his farm, leaving families scrambling for manila paper and empty Pringles tins. Ruto, to his credit, did not pretend it would go away. He has hired teachers, strengthened TVET colleges, and taken ownership of CBC like a true hustler embracing a burdensome side hustle. The system remains flawed, but at least the man is not hiding under the bed as the chaos unfolds.

Infrastructure is perhaps the toughest balancing act. Kibaki built superhighways, Uhuru cut ribbons on SGRs and expressways, but both left Kenyans choking on debt. Ruto, unlike his predecessors, has sworn off reckless borrowing. Instead, he is extracting revenue directly through heavier taxation. It hurts, deeply, but he insists it is the only way to keep building without sinking further. Genius or madness? That verdict belongs to time. For now, Kenyans are enduring the pain of his fiscal faith.

Which brings us back to the question: is Ruto a visionary strategist willing to be hated in the short term, or just a hard-headed leader mistaking stubbornness for courage? For decades, presidents have dodged unpopular reforms, preferring applause to jeers. Ruto, by contrast, seems oddly comfortable being cast as the villain in season one, gambling that by season two the audience will cheer. It is a perilous script. If his gambles pay off, he will be remembered as the president who took the blows so that Kenya could stand taller. If they fail, his legacy will be that of the man who taxed Kenyans into despair.

But whatever the outcome, one thing stands out: where his predecessors danced gingerly around the fire, Ruto has stepped directly into the flames. And perhaps that, more than anything else, is what makes his presidency both unsettling and fascinating.