Why Kenyans No Longer Trust Ruto's Government

On the third anniversary of William Ruto's presidency, 64 per cent of Kenyans believe the country is headed in the wrong direction. That’s nearly two out of every three citizens expressing disillusionment with a government that has, over the last three years, proudly branded itself as inclusive, broad-based, and people-driven. How does such a deep crisis of trust emerge under a leader who has spent practically every week traversing the country, holding rallies, launching projects, and assuring Kenyans that he is working for everyone?

The answer lies in the widening gulf between words and lived reality. For all the photo-ops and speeches about unity, ordinary Kenyans feel little tangible change in their daily lives. The bread-and-butter struggles, skyrocketing food prices, rising taxes, joblessness, and collapsing small businesses drown out whatever slogans the government projects. Kenyans are asking themselves a simple but profound question: If this is an inclusive government, why does it feel so exclusive when it comes to relief and opportunity?

Let’s start with the most visible culprit: The economy. Taxes have become suffocating, not just for the middle class but also for the hustlers President Ruto once promised to uplift. Fuel prices, transport costs, and basic commodities are increasingly out of reach for many households. Parents struggle with school fees, while graduates roam the streets unemployed. The economic undertow is so severe that people no longer believe reassurances from the Treasury or State House. This disconnect between government optimism and citizen despair explains why many Kenyans are tuning out official communication. A press conference telling people “things will improve” means little when someone’s rent is due, and their salary or lack thereof, can’t cover it. The government seems unable to grasp the urgency of the economic pain, or worse, appears indifferent to it.

Beyond the economy, there is a second layer of discontent: Performance. Kenyans are not blind to the fact that their leaders are busy. The President and his deputy have been everywhere, launching roads, meeting delegations, attending prayer services, presiding over harambees. Yet, the political theatre does not translate into meaningful governance.

Unity, as Kenyans are beginning to realise, cannot be staged. A photo of the President dining with one community today and another tomorrow does not erase the structural inequalities, policy failures, or corruption scandals that define the Ruto administration. To the public, it feels like leadership has chosen optics over substance. The endless roadshows project energy but not delivery. Kenyans are essentially asking: What is the endgame of this broad-based government? Is it an actual development strategy, or just a survival mechanism for those in power?

Some defenders of government argue that the real issue is communication. If only citizens better understood the reforms underway, they say, trust levels would rise. But that argument is increasingly hollow. Kenyans are not uninformed; they are unconvinced. Communication is only as strong as the truth behind it.

What the government faces is not a communication gap but a credibility collapse. People have stopped listening, not because they don’t hear, but because they don’t believe. Three years of broken promises, recycled rhetoric, and exaggerated achievements have trained the public to tune out. In such an environment, even genuine progress risks being dismissed as propaganda.

There is also a deeper, less tangible but equally critical factor: Moral authority. Kenyans want a leader who can speak to them with honesty and humility, who acknowledges the country’s pain without sugarcoating or blaming external forces. Instead, Dr Ruto's government often appears defensive, more interested in silencing critics than engaging them. The rhetoric of unity rings hollow when citizens see little empathy for their suffering and even less accountability for failures.

This erosion of moral authority explains why Kenyans no longer grant this administration the benefit of doubt. Trust, once broken, is difficult to repair. Without it, even well-intentioned policies face scepticism. 

A government that loses public trust faces more than bad headlines. It faces paralysis. When citizens stop believing, they also stop cooperating. Policy becomes harder to implement, taxes harder to collect, and public patience thinner by the day. The risk is not just political unpopularity but social instability.

For Kenya, where democracy is still fragile and institutions are weak, such a collapse of trust is dangerous. The government’s legitimacy depends on being seen as both capable and honest. Right now, it struggles to be either.

If the President truly wants to reclaim public confidence, he must abandon slogans and embrace substance. That begins with tackling the economy head-on, cutting unnecessary taxes, investing in job creation, protecting small businesses, and cushioning the most vulnerable. It also requires humility in leadership: Acknowledging missteps, communicating honestly, and showing empathy.

Unity cannot be manufactured through endless rallies. It must be felt in the lived experiences of citizens when their children attend affordable schools, when their businesses thrive, and when their taxes are put to visible, accountable use.

Until then, the broad-based government remains just that: A slogan without substance, a promise without delivery. And as long as 64 per cent of Kenyans see their country heading in the wrong direction, no amount of political roadshows or staged inclusivity will convince them that the remaining two years of the Ruto administration will be different.