Uhuru Kenyatta decided to take off his slippers and dressing gown and get back into the game, like someone who wakes up in the morning in a palace and discovers that the four-poster bed is too big and too empty, and the dust in the room tells stories of a recent past that he has not taken kindly to.
The former president, son of the father of the nation Jomo Kenyatta, called a press conference, looked journalists in the eye after “so, so, so long”, as Madame sang, and spoke of past romantic disappointments, especially that with William Ruto, his former deputy and now adversary, and made it clear – with that gentle cruelty typical of old kings – that even Raila Odinga, the former rival he once supported, is not doing too well in his popularity ratings. The long-standing love triangle with its hateful tribal flavour, between the Kalenjin president, the former Kikuyu and the wavering Luo opponent, still has its protagonists on stage.
From his pulpit in Nairobi, during the Jubilee party's national convention, Uhuru made things clear: the party will be present everywhere, in all elections, with the seriousness of those who know they still have a specific weight in Kenyan politics, and with the promise, suspended in time like a theatrical announcement, to say more about the alliance with Azimio La Umoja, now defunct after the former opposition leader Odinga's decision to join the government with the lover he betrayed. But what is most striking is the generational nostalgia: Uhuru's statement sounds like a message to himself and his old comrades, but also like an invitation to the country's young people. A generation without tribes, determined and resolute. The generation that, according to Uhuru, knows what it wants and is not afraid to take it, whatever the cost.
Yet, between the praise of young people and the theatricality of the speeches, a hint of bitterness emerges. His programmes, those he had planted as seeds of progress and above all of security and health now seem like withered flowers or, worse, eroded by improvised reforms. According to him, the new government's experiment is not working as it should, and the people, as always, are paying the price for politics. The old president observes, shakes his head, and decides: “I'm coming back, even if only behind the scenes, because someone has to remember what it means to do things with a modicum of common sense.”
Ultimately, Kenyan politics remains a tragic comedy, with old protagonists returning to the stage, young people trying to write their own scripts, and citizens watching with a mixture of hope and resignation. Uhuru Kenyatta, with his announced return, seems to be saying that no one can really afford to stand by and watch. The important thing, for the peace and stability of this country suspended between leaps and limping walks, with too many people still forced to crawl, is that political conflicts do not (re)turn into tribal clashes.