Lecturers during a past strike./FILE
There’s a slow, quiet rebellion brewing in Kenya—not on the streets, but in the weary hearts of ordinary citizens. Every payslip, every supermarket receipt, every boda fare whispers the same truth: we are being governed without being served. The government’s love language has become taxation. Each new fiscal policy reads like a desperate plea for survival, not a strategy for prosperity.
For millions of Kenyans, the tax debate is no longer a matter of economics; it’s about dignity.
It’s about the frustration of a hustler who wakes up early to toil, only for the state to slice away his sweat before it even dries. When taxation becomes punitive rather than productive, citizens begin to question not just policy but the very purpose of government.
The promise of shared prosperity has quietly mutated into a politics of extraction—a model of governance whereby the state views its citizens not as partners in development but as convenient revenue sources. The ‘bottom-up’ dream that once energised the political imagination of the nation now feels like a cruel joke, inverted into a top-down scramble for taxes.
It is not that Kenyans dislike paying taxes. On the contrary, they understand that taxation is the lifeblood of any functional state. What angers them is the perception—often backed by evidence—that their money does not translate into services. That instead of roads, schools and hospitals, they are funding the comfort of a political class whose lifestyle mocks their daily struggles.
The government’s moral authority to tax is anchored on trust. When trust erodes, so does compliance. That is why citizens are increasingly finding creative ways to evade taxes, not because they are lawless, but because they feel cheated. This quiet revolt is not merely economic; it is psychological. It reflects a broken social contract between the ruler and the ruled.
The framers of our 2010 Constitution envisioned a fiscal democracy in which public resources would serve the people and where taxation would be tied to tangible social outcomes. But what we have instead is a widening gulf between revenue collection and service delivery. Kenya now has some of the highest taxation rates in the region, yet one of the poorest returns on social investment.
Every other week, a new levy emerges — on fuel, on mobile money, on bread, on salt, on airtime. Even death is taxed, through inflated burial fees and permits. The state’s insatiable hunger for revenue has stripped governance of its human face. It is easier today to pass a tax than to pass a law that benefits citizens.
In the process, the government has turned citizens into reluctant participants in their own oppression. We are being overgoverned—regulated, taxed, monitored and fined - but underserved. Counties collect levies from mama mboga and boda riders, yet garbage piles high in towns. The national government announces billions in revenue, yet hospitals lack gloves and drugs. The math no longer adds up.
This dissonance between taxation and service delivery is feeding a dangerous sense of alienation. When citizens no longer see themselves reflected in the nation’s economic story, patriotism fades. People begin to retreat into private survival—choosing shortcuts, bribes, and side hustles over civic duty. That is how nations decay quietly: not through coups or revolutions, but through disillusionment.
And while the government insists it is broadening the tax base, what it is really doing is deepening public resentment. There’s a world of difference between fiscal innovation and fiscal oppression. Expanding the tax net without expanding the service net is bad governance. It breeds resentment, inequality, and ultimately, resistance.
Across history, revolts rarely start with politics; they start with hunger. The French Revolution, the Arab Spring, even Kenya’s own calls for multiparty democracy – all were born of economic frustration before they became political movements. When the burden of survival exceeds the hope of reform, people push back. Sometimes with their voices, sometimes with their silence, sometimes with their ballots.
But this is not just a government problem; it is a moral problem. It reflects the spiritual emptiness of leadership that has lost empathy for the governed. We cannot tax our way into prosperity without ethics, efficiency and empathy. Fiscal discipline must begin with those who govern, not those who hustle to live.
True reform will not come from new taxes but from a new ethic of governance—one that values prudence over opulence, service over self and citizens over systems. Before the government asks Kenyans for more money, it must first show where the previous trillions went. Accountability is the only language citizens still understand.
It is time to reimagine taxation as a tool for empowerment, not punishment. That requires rebuilding public trust, curbing waste, and investing visibly in public welfare. Citizens must feel the impact of every shilling they contribute—in classrooms, in clinics, on roads, and in livelihoods.
Anything less is daylight robbery dressed as patriotism.
The
quiet revolt of overtaxed Kenyans is not just an economic reaction; it is a cry
for justice. A country that taxes bread
but subsidises luxury vehicles has lost its moral compass.
