President William Ruto, when he publicly read and signed the Presidential Decree ending the vetting of Kenyans seeking IDs in border counties at the Orahey Grounds, in Wajir Town/PCS
BY ABDILLE YUSSUF MOHAMED
In a moment laden with historical weight and deep symbolism, President William Ruto stood in Wajir and signed a proclamation abolishing the vetting of Kenyan Somalis seeking government documents.
In doing so, he ended decades of discrimination that had cast a long shadow over an entire community, violating the very constitution that guarantees equal rights to all citizens. This act, reminiscent of Martin Luther King Jr.’s famous I Have a Dream speech, signified more than just a policy change—it was a statement of justice long overdue. King, speaking on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in 1963, declared that America had given Black citizens “a bad check,” one marked “insufficient funds.” But he refused to believe that the “bank of justice” was bankrupt. Instead, he called on America to rise from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Similarly, President Ruto’s decision in Wajir was an acknowledgment of past wrongs and an assertion that justice can no longer be delayed.
For decades, Kenyan Somalis were subjected to a vetting process that cast them as perpetual suspects in their own country, a bureaucratic burden that their fellow citizens did not have to bear.
With the stroke of a pen, Ruto consigned this discriminatory practice to history, affirming that the Constitution is not a hollow promise but a living document that must protect all Kenyans equally. However, the injustices meted out to northern Kenya extend far beyond the vetting process. The region, which accounts for nearly a third of Kenya’s landmass, has remained economically marginalized due to historical neglect.
The infamous Sessional Paper No. 10 of 1965, which prioritised investment in areas deemed “economically viable,” institutionalized this neglect, effectively limiting government development efforts to specific parts of the country while leaving vast regions, including the north, in the periphery of national growth. Additionally, the nation has systematically underestimated the population of northern Kenya in consecutive census counts, a deliberate move aimed at ensuring the region does not receive its fair share of resources.
Representation in government, allocation of national revenue, and access to development funds have all been skewed against this vast and resource-rich area, perpetuating a cycle of underdevelopment and exclusion. But the President’s vision did not stop at ending historical injustice. In what at times felt like a prophetic declaration, he spoke of northern Kenya as the nation’s “newfound land”—a future breadbasket teeming with potential. Long marginalised and often dismissed as barren, this region, he suggested, could become a pillar of national prosperity. Just as King dreamed of a nation where individuals would be judged by the content of their character rather than the colour of their skin, Ruto’s vision points toward a Kenya where no region or community is left behind. The challenge now lies in turning this vision into reality. Policy shifts must follow, investments must flow, and most importantly, attitudes must change. The proclamation in Wajir was not just a legal correction—it was a moral reckoning. It was an acknowledgment that for too long, a section of Kenyans had been made to feel like second-class citizens. By ending the vetting process, Ruto has sent a powerful message: the future of Kenya must be built on inclusion, justice, and equal opportunity. Much like King’s speech helped shift the course of American history, Ruto’s moment in Wajir may well be remembered as a turning point—a moment when Kenya chose to step out of the shadows of discrimination and into the light of true national unity
