In an increasingly digitized public economy, Kenyans are the latest to leverage digital platforms to steer a social movement and have expanded the field of digital activism in innovative ways.  

What began as social media users expressing their frustration by wielding the #RejectFinanceBill2024 and #RutoMustGo hashtags has evolved into one of the largest movements against corruption and poor governance in Kenyan history. Opinion polls as early as June 2023 revealed that 75 percent of Kenyans did not approve of the Finance Bill, giving the government a year’s notice to rework the bill. Economists also opposed it, as taxation on essential services for a population of which 40 percent live under the poverty line is typically ill-advised. Once the government blatantly defied public opinion and implemented it anyway, mass unrest was certain.

As the movement quickly gained momentum, generating over 600,000 impressions on X within the first week of protests, the Kenyan political class was clear in their belief that the online calls to action would yield no tangible results. David Ndii, the president’s economic advisor and a notorious rabble-rouser, mocked the Kenyan “keyboard warriors,” tweeting, “Politics is a contact sport. Digital activism is just wanking.” Other MPs joined Ndii’s taunting, like Karen Nyamu, who suggested TikTok users were joining the protests only for views. 

There is a glaring irony in Ndii jeering at social media users despite his own keyboard warrior origin story—beyond being a renowned economist, his long-standing criticism of corrupt Kenyan politicians gained him fame as a personality on Twitter (now X). At the height of his popularity, the current president of Kenya, William Ruto, was the deputy president under former President Uhuru Kenyatta, a regime infamous for its obsessive borrowing, rife corruption, and high cost of living. “Have you ever found anything positive with @WilliamSRuto?” one Twitter user asked Ndii in 2018, during one of Ndii’s many online rants. In response, Ndii tweeted, “@WilliamSRuto is a megalomaniac psychopath with no good needs, just an endless trail of death and destruction that will not end until he is stopped.”

Only six years later, Ndii willfully accepted a seat at the table to dine alongside the “psychopaths” he once criticized, like Ruto. Ndii represents an archetypal Kenyan bureaucrat that rivals rogue comic book villains akin to Batman’s Harvey Dent (a.k.a Two-Face)—the longer leaders enmesh themselves in the intoxicating power of national politicking, the easier it is to rationalize joining the same rigged system that enables corruption. This is far from fiction, however, and Ndii’s actions have real consequences. In his role as economic advisor, Ndii is one of the main masterminds behind the punitive IMF-backed Finance Bill, which increases taxation on basic goods and services, including cancer treatment and more—a dystopian future disproportionately affecting the poorest Kenyans, while these politicians continue their insatiable consumption as the second-highest-earning MPs per capita. 

The Kenyan government’s initial stance of underestimating the power of online mobilization was dubious. Digital activism is not new—the impact and reach of the Arab Spring protests relied on Twitter, due to social media’s ability to rapidly disseminate information globally, unlike traditional activism; the 2020 Black Lives Matter uprising in the US marked a significant new era expanding our conception of digital protest, as visual platforms like Instagram took center stage. These protests showcased the impact of digital activism, leveraging the internet and social media as key platforms for mass mobilization and political action, setting the foundation for innovative means of digital activism in Kenya. As a result, when the Kenyan government provoked Kenyans to prove whether digital activism could truly work in the realm of crooked politics, keyboard warriors, myself included, swiftly used whatever tools or resources were at our disposal—including articles like this one—not because we had anything to prove to politicians, but for the sake of Kenya’s democratic future. 

In the crucial days leading up to Parliament’s second reading of the bill on June 20, posters about occupying Parliament began circulating like wildfire. Nobody knew where the posters originated—the protests were leaderless, organic, and tribeless, generating significant interest in mobilization—but everyone wanted to take part. Since then, calls to action have taken many forms across several platforms such as X, Facebook, Instagram, and TikTok. These include eye-catching infographics detailing the mismanagement of public funds, an AI chatbot decoding the bill, and a satirical diss track remixing Kendrick Lamar’s “Not Like Us.” Moreover, TikTok users coordinated videos breaking down the bill in ethnic languages. 

One of the more controversial digital tactics used by protesters was a form of hacktivism—leaking personal information to allow protesters to spam MPs with WhatsApp or SMS messages. Posters were shared across social media encouraging protesters to “SMS your MP.” Tweets shared MPs’ contact details with cheeky slogans like “salimia MP wako” (“say hi to your MP”). MP Stephen Mule’s phone was reportedly spammed with over 30,000 messages urging him to vote against the bill. 

Unlike in other democratic nations where MPs are obligated to respond to constituents, Kenya has no public participation policy, meaning there are few forums in Kenya for people to meet their MPs or express their concerns, which has contributed to their inaccessibility and impunity. These protests and coordinated actions represent an urgent turning point in Kenyan history where politicians are finally being held accountable and stripped of their status as self-anointed saviors.

The spamming of MPs numbers by Kenyan protesters also confirms that WhatsApp is an emerging frontier for digital activism. Social movement scholars explain that WhatsApp’s accessibility has the potential to involve everyone, turning “politics into an everyday affair.” Organized tactics such as these WhatsApp messages further prove that our conception of connective action is rapidly expanding—digital activism is not limited to content dissemination (e.g., information and political education); it depends more on how it is used to obtain the most effective rapid response from public servants. 

Many politicians felt that leaking contact information was an infringement of MPs’ right to privacy. In support, the Office of the Data Protection Commissioner (ODPC) issued a statement warning protesters to stop or risk prosecution, citing Article 31 of the Constitution of Kenya and the 2019 Data Protection Act. This newfound rigorous application of data protection rights is puzzling at best—the same legislation that was invoked to protect MPs also mandates that the Kenya Revenue Authority (KRA) keep the public informed about what data is being collected and why. Yet the ODPC failed to push back on the proposed Finance Bill despite containing a clause exempting the KRA from provisions of the Data Protection Act. Considering that the KRA has been implicated in government corruption amounting to over KSh 9.3 billion, this inaction makes the inconsistency clear—data privacy is not meant to protect the average Kenyan as much as it is meant to protect elected officials from government accountability and transparency. 

At this juncture, it’s evident that digital activism played a significant role in amplifying the impact of the #RejectFinanceBill2024 and #RutoMustGo protests. However, this movement highlights the pitfalls of digital media as the internet has also empowered state censorship and surveillance, undermining digital activism’s transformative potential. Allegations suggest the Kenyan government, in collusion with a leading network provider, momentarily shut down the internet during protests. Accusations of data sharing by Safaricom to facilitate protester surveillance further support this claim, despite Safaricom’s doubtful explanation of an undersea cable repair. NetBlocks confirmed the internet disruption, reporting that it also affected neighboring countries Uganda and Burundi, suggesting possible state-sanctioned censorship.

Another frequent criticism is that digital activism often fails to result in policy change. Take the example of Nigeria’s #EndSARS movement, which was scrutinized by digital media scholars for lacking leadership and a comprehensive strategy and for failing to directly engage policymakers to implement reforms. With that nuance in mind, did Kenyans truly succeed in translating online activism into institutional changes?

Ultimately, using structural change as a metric for success or failure is narrow and rudimentary. Those who critique digital activism for failing to materialize into policy change, such as in the case of #EndSARS, fall into the trap of viewing digital media as a “great equalizer,” leveling the playing field for protesters to negotiate with the state. How realistic is dialogue when your government is willing to go to great lengths to silence you? The government has a history of making significant efforts to suppress freedom of speech, including social media bans, intimidation, abduction, and even killing protesters, as seen with the tragic deaths of 50 demonstrators and counting.

As the uprising continued, suspicions began to rise that the government paid bloggers with large followings to spread misinformation and deter citizens from joining protests. These bloggers conducted smear campaigns against prominent activists and threatened to leak their addresses. They also attempted to push “counter-hashtags,” like #RejectTokeaTuesday, to discourage protesters. Moreover, government spokespeople falsely promoted the government’s narrative that the protests were funded by the Ford Foundation, a claim the foundation has debunked. While speculative, the government’s history of using bloggers to smear campaigns during the 2017 elections indicates a willingness to employ such tactics. 

Given these limiting factors, it would be misguided to suggest that the protests in Kenya were ineffective simply because the overall goal of Ruto’s resignation was not achieved, while ignoring the movement’s successes, such as awareness building and mobilization—including those who have been exploited by the social media digital economy.

Protesters are clear on the movement’s significance, noting they learned more about Kenyan politics in weeks than they had in previous years. The civic education and logistical coordination was remarkable—a powerful counter to the politics of divide and conquer that have plagued Kenya since independence, with politicians fostering tribal divisions and ethnic violence. The movement also disproved MP Karen Nyamu’s claim that TikTokers joined protests merely for views without understanding the bill—a moment that signifies a positive future for Kenyan politics where ethnic solidarity gives way to credible leadership.

Moreover, celebrating the gains of technology ignores the tech giants’ complicity in poor content moderation and the exploitation of African content moderators and AI workers. Companies like Meta, Scale AI, and OpenAI run “digital sweatshops” where workers are paid two dollars per hour, violating international labor standards. In May, over 100 Kenyans wrote an open letter to US President Joe Biden, ahead of Ruto’s state visit, urging him to hold tech companies accountable and end “modern-day slavery” in the country’s tech sector. This compliance is urgent for the sake of securing these workers’ labor rights. Additionally, content moderation is crucial for digital advocacy and activism, as the lack of it leads to misinformation and incitement of violence, as seen during Kenya’s 2017 elections, which compromised its integrity.

On June 19, two-faced Ndii slyly tweeted the following, suggesting a truce between the government and the public: “Well done. I challenged you and you rose to the occasion. We promised to change our political conversation from politics of personalities and tribes to politics of issues. Thank you for helping us deliver.” The implication is that the online mobilization surrounding the bill was the government’s intent—all indications suggest, however, that it is more likely that the current administration underestimated the power of digital protesting. Hence, they felt threatened and resorted to totalitarian tactics like abducting protesters to intimidate and silence the movement.

Kenyan “keyboard warriors” truly came, saw, and conquered. President Ruto conceded and withdrew the Finance Bill. We might not have achieved all our goals, but raising civic awareness and exposing the illegitimate political class is a solid start toward real change. Crucially, the gains achieved from this movement will expand social movement organizing and scholarship worldwide. Whether the austerity measures will be curbed or the president will resign remains to be seen, but one thing is for sure: the revolution will be digitized.