The Chaotic Chorus Of A Collapsing Country Caught In Corruption’s Cruel Chords
The Mt Kenya Times 
A wild tune of deception, betrayal, and broken promises where the rhythm is murder, the lyrics are lies, and the chorus is chaos?
By: Midmark Onsongo
Worth Noting:
- Where is the sustainability the government promised? Since taking power, we’ve seen nothing but a deepening crisis. Can anyone point to a single achievement, one verse in this tragic ballad where the people actually benefit? Our farmers are struggling, our youth are jobless, and every initiative is mired in inefficiency or corruption.
- Do we even have leaders? Or do we have rulers, dictators without titles, who play us like strings on a guitar, plucking our patience and strumming our hope until there’s nothing left? Sustainability, like the promises of better days, has become an empty verse.
- And trust? Trust, once the steady beat of our collective hope, has been shattered into a million discordant pieces.
Do we have a country, or is this just country music? Because lately, Kenya feels more like a poorly written song—where the verses don’t rhyme, the melody is off-key, and every note strikes with the sharp sting of betrayal. One minute, we’re promised harmony, justice, and prosperity. The next minute, the tune changes, and we’re left with nothing but sour notes of corruption, a dissonant symphony of impunity where those meant to lead the chorus abandon the stage, leaving us in discord. Is it really a government, or is it a broken jukebox, endlessly replaying the same old tired tracks of empty promises and misplaced power? If this is a song, it’s not one anyone wants to dance to. What happened to the opposition? What happened to the voice of the people? We are left humming along to a hollow silence where there should be resistance. No IEBC to keep elections in check, no MPs to fight for the citizens—they’ve all become MPIGS, gorging themselves on the people’s resources while singing a different song in private. Our Chief Justice, Martha Koome, is crying for justice in the same courts she presides over, a cruel irony that paints a grim picture of our broken judiciary. If the Chief Justice herself is seeking justice, then what hope is left for the ordinary Kenyan? Justice, like a fading echo in a forgotten tune, drifts further away each day.
Where is the sustainability the government promised? Since taking power, we’ve seen nothing but a deepening crisis. Can anyone point to a single achievement, one verse in this tragic ballad where the people actually benefit? Our farmers are struggling, our youth are jobless, and every initiative is mired in inefficiency or corruption. Do we even have leaders? Or do we have rulers, dictators without titles, who play us like strings on a guitar, plucking our patience and strumming our hope until there’s nothing left? Sustainability, like the promises of better days, has become an empty verse.
And trust? Trust, once the steady beat of our collective hope, has been shattered into a million discordant pieces. Imagine, the former Deputy President William Ruto—once the heartbeat of power—now stands before the nation, crying to his successor, President Uhuru Kenyatta, pleading for his life, begging him not to kill him. Is this a government or a mafia? Has our president, the man who promised to unite us, become a killer? How many has he killed in this quiet war of power? If Ruto knows him, and if he truly fears for his life, what does that say about the man in charge? Should we be afraid too? How many others have disappeared into the shadows, silenced forever by those with the power to kill without question? How many Kenyans have been swallowed by the abyss of extrajudicial killings, buried in shallow graves while the government whistles a happy tune?
The truth is, abductions, forced disappearances, and cold-blooded executions are not just stories whispered in dark corners—they are the reality we live in. Human rights activists, lawyers, and even police officers have vanished without a trace. We are told to believe these are isolated incidents, but can we, when the evidence points to a pattern, a system that operates in the shadows? The president, our so-called leader, remains silent, deaf to the cries of the bereaved families, blind to the bodies that turn up in rivers, in forests, and in unmarked graves. Is this silence complicity? Or is it simply the sound of a man who has become too powerful, too detached, to care? Mr. President, you promised to protect us. But who will protect us from you?
Yet, we are told everything is under control. That the government is working, that reforms are coming, that prosperity is just around the corner. But where is the evidence? Where are the new jobs, the affordable healthcare, the housing projects? Everywhere you look, there is only decay. The roads are full of potholes, schools lack basic supplies, and hospitals are underfunded and overcrowded. This is not a country on the rise; it is a nation in freefall, with a government that has become deaf to the needs of its people, and blind to the suffering it perpetuates.
And as if that were not enough, the police—those meant to serve and protect—have become the tools of oppression, enforcing laws selectively, brutalizing the poor, and turning a blind eye to the wealthy and powerful who flout the very laws they swore to uphold. Extrajudicial killings have become so common, they barely make the headlines anymore. Every day, another body is found, another life is taken, and we move on like it’s just another line in a never-ending song of despair. Who is writing this melody of murder and impunity? Is it the state, or are we all complicit by our silence? We are a nation adrift, caught in a storm of our own making. And now, Mr. President, we are asking you—no, we are pleading with you—what are you doing? What is this government that promised so much but has delivered so little? You may not be holding the knife, but your silence, your inaction, cuts deeper than any blade. The people are dying—by the hand of hunger, by the hand of poverty, by the hand of violence. Is this what you envisioned when you took that oath of office? It’s not just the land of freedom that is being stolen from us; it’s our very lives. Mr. President, we may be afraid, but we are not fools. We see the abductions, the intimidation, the calculated dismantling of opposition, and we know that this is no longer a democratic nation—it’s a dictatorship in all but name. But we cannot live in fear forever. We cannot allow the country we love to be turned into a graveyard for dissent.
So do what you want with us, Mr. President. If you want to kill us, go ahead. If you want to silence us, go ahead. But know this: you cannot silence the truth. You cannot kill the will of the people forever. The song will end, and when it does, the chorus of justice will rise louder than ever before. We are tired of the music of violence. We want peace. We want justice. We want a government that works for its people, not against them. So as we stand at this crossroads, Mr. President, the choice is yours. Will you lead us into a future of prosperity and justice, or will you continue down this path of destruction? The nation is watching. And we are ready to sing a new song.
This article was scripted by;
MIDMARK ONSONGO, SGS
(Socio-Geographic Scholar)
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