The Mt Kenya Times 
President William Ruto
He questioned its worth in 2010 but now finds himself chained by the very words he despised
By: Midmark Onsongo
Worth Noting:
- Ruto’s struggles are palpable, his governance entangled in the web of laws he once wished undone. His battles with the judiciary—especially his spats with former Chief Justice David Maraga—reveal the simmering tension. The constitution’s firm stance on judicial independence has clipped his wings, forcing him to dance to a tune he never wanted to hear.
- His attempt to resist the Supreme Court’s rulings during the 2022 election petition was a bitter pill to swallow. How does a man reconcile with the system he once sought to dismantle? Perhaps, as the Kikuyu proverb goes, “The stick that beats the dog is always nearby.”
Imagine, just for a moment, a man who stands at the gates of a palace he once condemned, holding the key forged from the metal he sought to melt. President William Ruto, the current president of Kenya, is that man—leading under the constitution he once vehemently opposed. His journey from fierce critic to head of state is nothing short of poetic irony, a tale too rich in contradictions to ignore. He is a shepherd now bound by the fence he vowed to tear down. This is not just leadership—it is a paradox in motion, a man sentenced to govern by the rules he swore to break.
In 2010, Kenya birthed a new constitution, a beacon of hope for many but a symbol of betrayal for others. Ruto stood among the dissenters, loudly decrying the document as a disaster waiting to happen. He called it flawed, warning that it would wreak havoc on governance, and history bears witness to his bold defiance. Together with figures like Daniel Arap Moi, then the retired president, and a cadre of loyalists, Ruto campaigned vigorously against it. The referendum on August 4, 2010, became a battlefield, with Ruto standing firm on the “No” side while the likes of Raila Odinga and Mwai Kibaki championed the “Yes” camp. Yet, the people spoke—67% approved the constitution, rendering Ruto’s warnings an echo in a vast wilderness of reform.
Fast forward to 2022, and the irony is thicker than the air in a humid coastal market. Ruto ascended to power on August 9, now tasked with upholding the very constitution he so passionately disowned. The document he once described as “dangerous” is now his playbook, each clause a ghost reminding him of battles lost. Is this justice, or is it fate’s cruel jest? How can a man walk so confidently in shoes he once refused to wear? The constitution, like an old foe turned lover, watches him closely, waiting for him to stumble, as though whispering, “You wanted none of me, yet here you are.”
Ruto’s struggles are palpable, his governance entangled in the web of laws he once wished undone. His battles with the judiciary—especially his spats with former Chief Justice David Maraga—reveal the simmering tension. The constitution’s firm stance on judicial independence has clipped his wings, forcing him to dance to a tune he never wanted to hear. His attempt to resist the Supreme Court’s rulings during the 2022 election petition was a bitter pill to swallow. How does a man reconcile with the system he once sought to dismantle? Perhaps, as the Kikuyu proverb goes, “The stick that beats the dog is always nearby.”
The irony deepens when considering the economic constraints that Ruto faces. The constitution’s devolution structure, lauded for empowering counties, has become his financial straitjacket. With 47 counties demanding equitable funding, Ruto’s government is stretched thinner than a beggar’s last coin. He must bow to the same governors he once predicted would be puppets of a bloated government structure. His economic recovery promises, now more like bitter laughter in the wind, are choked by the same legal frameworks he rallied against in 2010. What could be more ironic than watching a man choke on his own prophecy? The symbolism of Ruto’s presidency is not lost on the keen observer. It mirrors the Greek tragedy of Oedipus—destined to meet the fate he tried so desperately to avoid. His government is hounded by the ghosts of constitutional fidelity, with critics sharpening their blades of scrutiny. Each day, he must confront his past, his political rivals—like Raila Odinga—reminding him of his treacherous journey from No to Now. Does he remember, when the cold winds of doubt creep in, the rallies where he stood defiantly against the constitution? Or does he sleep soundly, a man resigned to fate’s twisted sense of humor?
The deafening irony extends beyond the halls of power to the very people Ruto serves. The Kenyan people, weary yet resilient, watch their president navigate the storm he once forecasted. They, too, are bound by the constitution, now both shield and sword, ensuring governance by the law. And yet, they cannot help but wonder: Did Ruto’s “No” hold merit? Are they now living the nightmare he tried to prevent, or is this the inevitable burden of leadership—learning to walk a path you swore never to tread?
In a world governed by irony and paradox, William Ruto stands as a living testament to both. He is the embodiment of the adage, “He who laughs last, laughs longest.” But in Ruto’s case, perhaps it is the constitution that is laughing, and it is not laughter borne of joy but of vindication. His story is one for the history books, a cautionary tale of how power humbles even the most defiant among us. Whether he leads with grace or stumbles under the weight of his past, one thing is clear—William Ruto is trapped in a dance with destiny, and the constitution is leading.
This article was scripted by;
MIDMARK ONSONGO, SGS
(Socio-Geographic Scholar)
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