For this A Long Talk, Justine Wanda, Meran Randa, and Glo Gakuru talk about art and literature as instruments of liberation.
Yvonne: Hello, it’s wonderful to have all three of you here. Thank you for agreeing to this conversation. I thought the three of you would form an insightful group because, in interconnected ways, each of you harnesses creativity as a vehicle for political action. Justine, you employ satire to deliver incisive political and social critiques. Meran, your commentary examines how art and politics continually influence one another. Gakuru, your activism and essays show us how literature, feminism, and radical ideas can become revolutionary tools. Together, you hold the space to explore art and literature as instruments for liberation, which is especially topical to us given their usage during maandamanos*. This topic is central to your work, and I look forward to your conversation on how creative expression not only reflects resistance but also energises it, providing the language, confidence, and vision needed for transformation.
Gakuru: This sounds great!
Justine: Thank you, Yvonne. This sounds awesome.
Meran: I’m excited for this!
Yvonne: Great! Let’s begin with this: In your view, how do art and literature go beyond reflecting struggles to actually sparking resistance and shaping the liberatory energy we saw during maandamano?
Meran: I’d say that art and literature have always been tools of resistance. To create, the heart of an artist has to first rebel against its surroundings. To resist the urge of the ordinary. In my piece about music as a tool of resistance in Kenya, I wrote about how the first thing the colonialists did was to ban native music, instruments, and language. And how authoritarian rulers seek to control art and artists, as seen in Kenya.
In art, people find a common ground where thoughts can roam freely, often landing on resistance or just wanting to improve the present. To create art is to think beyond the self, which is why it is such a powerful tool. Kamaru said he started singing as a boy in the forest. His first songs were sounds of resistance. He and other artists went on to be fierce defenders of justice. In the present day, we see entertainers becoming civic educators through their art. We are seeing more and more musicians, actors, and poets lead the charge in seeking better for the collective. We are seeing songs adapted for the resistance. Even in our online spaces, the way we communicate within our resistance is memes, music, and jokes. To lighten the load of the struggle and also to easily communicate with each other. Art connects us more effectively than anything else. I’d say a great example of this is largely meme culture. Even during critical moments like the Adani deal, the memes that emerged then further fuelled and disseminated information in a palatable manner. Memes are short and humorous. To combine that with the heavy message of the movement ensured a larger audience could be educated. Especially the youth who use social media as a village.
I personally started making history content then. Writing threads on Twitter and Substack articles to fill an information gap I saw. We were aware of our present but not past resistance, or even how we got to where we are now. As a self-identified historian and researcher before anything else, I find that a lot of historical context is missing in our resistance culture. Understanding how we got to where we are today and the methods used by our predecessors is a missing link that could advance our resistance efforts. Armed with knowledge of what they did in the past, we could greatly improve our methods, learn tactics we didn’t know before and understand our present with references to the past and what it took to get where we are. As much as we have adapted our resistance efforts to the present times, those who came before us forged their experience in the struggle. This means we stand to learn from them even if we live in different eras.
Gakuru: Art and literature, after reflecting on daily struggles, go further to interrogate dynamics in society and the ideologies informing their decisions, then offering a resolution. It can do this by staging contemporary or historical struggles and offering a resolution based on this. Art moves to actually fuel resistance when it interrogates dynamics, and the oppressed in said dynamics resist oppression. In the maandamano season, this kind of art was used as a tool for political organising to get to the root of oppression. Art often reflects collective consciousness—the dominant ideas shaping society. For art to drive change, it must help the masses interrogate and analyse their conditions, then direct them toward change. That is when art becomes a tool for political organising and resistance.
For instance, in my neighbourhood, a mural of the photo of David Chege’s body and comrades waving the flag after his shooting was painted at the height of maandamano season. A play titled “The Bullet and the Flag” was also staged at the community social hall during this period for community members to engage with. The play was staged by the social justice centre where I volunteer, and so I was part of the team creating art for political organising within my community.
On a personal level, I experienced art as a form of resistance when I encountered a youth group in Kayole and another in Dandora that had a movement of flooding the streets with political messaging through art. This was a wake-up call for me as an artist, too, to start using my personal works in the interest of people’s resistance to oppression. Kenyan protest art is pointing us towards the emancipation of the Kenyan masses from economic oppression. From the messaging itself, it is clear that the people’s consciousness has reached the conclusion that there is no sovereignty, and the art clearly reflects this.
Justine: Art and literature tap into the quiet rage, fuel questioning, and give the masses a language to voice, disrupt, and act. My favourite example is also meme culture, which is deeply embedded in online political discourse. As long as it’s contextual, most people understand the root causes and are able to show up. As a comedian, it’s hard to separate how I show up from my craft because art begets work, and they feed into each other. During maandamano and even after, music, laughter, and reading have remained central in fueling the conversation and encouraging people to take up a cause and follow through.
Yvonne: Was there a specific meme or moment of satire that really captured the spirit of maandamano for you? How did humour and comedy in your own work help people process or act during those tense months? And how has your comedy fed your activism (and vice versa)?
Justine: Kibet Bull’s memes and satirical work were a complete standout. The memes were built into traditional cartoonist satire, and everyone knew what the shadow figure was. This birthed a wave of commentary/communication/laughter that directly addressed pertinent issues such as corruption, the destruction of institutions, and the dangers of bad governance. I’ll try to get a thread of all the memes, but the search function on Elon’s app is a black hole. I have faith, though.
Comedy is the love of my life, truly, so what people were engaging in was me processing extremely traumatic events the best way I knew how. I can’t fully speak to how my work helped people process those difficult months, but seeing people laugh in the comment section and receiving DMs from fellow sufferers in this KK economy saying my work is providing an escape and information, fuelled my creativity.
Art begets work in that I couldn’t exist outside of it due to the nature of my work/art. I wanted to make something good/funny/impactful, but my comedy isn’t independent. It draws heavily on traditional journalism, music (especially rap), and multiple artistic inspirations. Blending these various moments of truth/hurt/fear into work that helps raise awareness on issues/stories that don’t make it to traditional media helped me keep my activism alive. This mutual respect for other people’s art during that time allowed me to question how I could elevate my own comedy while staying on message.
Gakuru: As an avid fan of the Fake Woke With Justine series from its inception, I can say that the blend of serious analysis with sprinkles of humour was both cathartic and insightful. It was especially fresh to witness this twist in journalism at a time of heightened tension and a series of traumatic events flooding the country. Incredible work. Props to you, Justine.
Justine: Thank you so much, Gakuru! This means a lot to me. Your article, Love, Lust, and Late-Stage Capitalism: SZA’s Ctrl and the Politics of Being a Hot Mess, should be in the hall of fame of articles. SZA is one of my fave artists, and the existential nature of her music was so perfectly captured in this piece (for the girls that get it/been through it/are at it). I wish music journalism were done this way.
Gakuru: I’m so glad you enjoyed it. Turning it into a series. I hope you like the next one. Spoilers: It will involve Mr Lamar.
Justine: Already sat.
Meran: Hard agree with you, Gakuru, on Justine’s work. A great example of someone who consistently sticks to the message while remaining true to their art form.
Justine: Thank you. My question to both Meran and Gakuru would be: How do you distinguish between what is escapist for you and what is inherent to the movement?
Meran: On escapism: It is easy to fall into a space where the jokes and fun override the message of the movement. But what has been helpful for me is to always return to the message. I’ve seen this even within the movement as a whole, having to remind each other what is at stake. And bringing each other back from distraction.
Gakuru: I love your response on escapism, Meran. The primacy of content over the form art takes. To answer Justine’s question: I think the separation does not exist because even in the most minute things, one can infer political meaning. This, however, can be mentally taxing if one is not tempered, and they become overwhelmed mentally and emotionally. So, how I relax is by interacting with art that cultivates revolutionary optimism in me. From Cuban jazz to songs of struggle. This kind of music, centred on the wins of the people in the past, present, and what a people’s society would like, is my go-to. To intentionally engage and promote music that is anti-people is not only escapist but a betrayal of the masses. However, I think it is anti-intellectual not to analyse popular culture, and so we interact with this kind of art, centring our analysis of whose interests it’s pushing and whose values it promotes, appropriating it where possible but always championing pro-people art.
Yvonne: At various points, you all have written/spoken about neoliberalism, protest, and the feminist struggle. We recall the state’s use of sexual violence during maandamano—not just as repression, but as a way of weaponising misogyny already present within the movement. What role does creative work play in unpacking this layered violence, both from the state and from within the movement itself?
Gakuru: Sexual violence unleashed by the state is not necessarily a special form of violence. During popular uprisings, the ruling class is holding on for dear life, and so they throw anything and everything they can at anyone opposing their rule. At this point, the kind of violence needed to sustain oppressive rule intensifies, and oppressed genders are at the receiving end. Women and queer people now fight double, sometimes triple the oppression, accompanied by violence. Patriarchy, which buttresses the capitalist mode of production that requires violence to sustain itself, and capitalism as the target of destabilisation during uprisings, becomes a weapon. Creative work can be used to shed light on these issues. However, in the hands of the state, creative work can be used to blur socially exploitative relations and result in revisionism.
It is important to note that when dealing with sexual violence, the gender essentialist line of thought that results in separatism should be completely avoided, because it fragments the masses, undermining their ability to emancipate themselves from oppressive rule. Here is where creative work makes a comeback because this kind of work can drive correct ideas, and we have witnessed that. Art can, and has, cultivated correct ideas and uprooted wrong ideas. An example of this is Joy Wanga’s exhibition. Last year, a day after the #EndFemicideKE march, artist Joy Wanga did a red shoes exhibition at KNT, where she collected shoes from victims of femicide for the exhibition. She also did an accompanying analysis of the class of the families that were mostly affected by this kind of violence. Another artist from the same event (can’t remember her works, but I photographed them both) did a powerful performance on the use of sexual violence as a way to silence women, to strip them of their power and belittle their capabilities in any kind of meaningful work.
Justine: Couldn’t agree more with Gakuru on this. I got into comedy without rose-coloured glasses, but the job surprised me. Unlike most art forms, stand-up comedy is not only subjective, but the feedback is instant. Whatever I spoke about and built on, being funny was more important to me than proving a point. The work involved layering messages into it so that the takeaways were not too obvious. I have comedic bits on feminism, being groped at my former workplace, and going on an accidental catcalling tour. All these jokes point to the sexual harassment that many women face on a daily basis, which I hope to shed light on in my work. It’s a very difficult line to tread in the beginning, but I make sure to give the audience the benefit of understanding the points I’m trying to make subtly or overtly.
I’ve been lucky that my work has been well received, but the intention is key. I recently worked on a series of stand-up comedy shows, where I used ticket sales to contribute to Usikimye’s fight against gender-based violence. In my comedy set, I speak on community protection and how maandamano is, essentially, group work. I can’t fully write the bit here as it’s not fully formed, but I’m making sure to highlight the layers within which oppressed groups of people have to navigate the world, how they are viewed, and how to make sure my punchlines can punch across and still send the message home. I just did these two scratch shows: Strong Dependent Woman and Raw and Unfiltered. There’s still one Strong Dependent Woman final show coming up, too. All these shows are fundraisers to fight against GBV.
Gakuru: Nice work, Justine!
Meran: Wow, just seen this, Justine. Great work! You are unrivalled.
Justine: Thank you, Meran. Thank you, Gakuru.
Meran: Creative work provides a mirror for society to examine itself before projecting outward. It is a collective conscience that ensures we recognise how we participate in oppression, even before we condemn leaders. It is a call to examine our belief system and the actions that lead to societal vices. The examples that Justine and Gakuru have given, including the GBV exhibition and Justine’s comedy show, as well as our collective writing, have served as a call to action for all to acknowledge their role in the violence. Online feminists were the first to point out that online misogyny morphs into offline violence. And how this is then hijacked by the state as a divisive tool. They pointed out that revolutionary solidarity is ineffective when a split already exists within the community. Whether based on gender, class, or age. Any division is divisive. True solidarity, required to topple repressive structures, only comes when we move as a single-minded collective.
Yvonne: How do you all find grounding in/for your work? Gakuru, as a member of CPM-K, how does communism influence your work and guide your activism and praxis? And Meran and Justine, do you have any such affiliations that influence and/or ground your work?
Gakuru: Yes, I am a cadre in candidature in the Communist Party Marxist-Kenya. Communism informs my praxis by having the basic principles of Marxism-Leninism as my guiding ideology. I am not an artist for art’s sake, nor do I make art or get involved in art circles solely for community or to enjoy art. I acknowledge that art is a tool, and when in the hands of the people, it can be used as a tool for political organising and ideological persuasion of the working class. It deepens my analysis of contemporary struggles. Going beyond activism that is issue-based and to long-term organising for the people to take political power. Communist ideas remind me that art is not just a society’s mirror but a hammer with which we shape it.
Meran: I wouldn’t say I’m part of any official or established groups, but I’ve been aligning myself with women and women-led initiatives, as they are the groups with whom I share similar ideological views. I have some things in the works with Justine, even just this conversation. In my work, I seek out women who are in the same spaces, engaged in the same fights. I find that solidarity with women steers me on the right path to all the issues I’d like to engage with. In doing that, I’ve expanded my vision and engaged with things I wouldn’t otherwise. Seeing the work of women such as Justine and Gakuru, and others who merge history, civic education, GBV, and other women-focused issues, has inspired me to continue working from an intersectional standpoint, as they do so very effectively. Women have been at the forefront of our revolution, particularly, so it’s a formula that works.
Justine: I literally can’t wait for our joint projects, truly. And what you say about women-led initiatives is also how I strive to operate. I saw a video the other day that detailed how people are aware politically, but they struggle to make that connection socially, so it’s really great to strive to bridge that gap and even surpass it.
Meran: Yes, my last Substack post, Hierarchy in a Society of Thieves, highlighted this very thing. How the ills we call out leaders for are present in everyday society. And how collective change must start with the individual.
Gakuru: Geez, I am so elated to be in such a space with such amazing women. I love it so much!
Meran: Me too! It is quite a privilege to be each other’s sounding board.
Justine: I absolutely love Hierarchy in A Society of Thieves.
Meran: This is great praise!
Yvonne: I can’t wait to see your upcoming works. As multilinguals in a country with diverse languages, how do you choose which language best carries your message, and what does that choice say about who you’re writing with and for?
Justine: I really wish the world came with subtitles because training as a stand-up comedian requires all sorts of understanding of language. Satire even pushes that further. Most of my work is in English to accommodate as wide an audience as possible. However, considering that most of the stories I cover are in Kenya (sometimes the East African region), I use Kiswahili/Sheng all the time. I’m sure this doesn’t translate for anyone who doesn’t understand what I’m saying, but as long as the joke is good and the message is home, I’m happy. Language is so critical because it carries specific nuance and feeling that is almost always lost when you change it. I’ll give an example: I referenced a Wakadinali song in one of my recent videos. This is Kenyan pop culture/Sheng—a language that has been demonised or even looked down upon in the past, but is adopted by many due to popularity and the need to connect. When I wrote that joke, I knew if no one understood the reference, it would just get lost in there, but I’m okay with it. To the one person who appreciated it, that meant everything.
Writing for everyone is a tough ask, especially in a country where there are so many intersections of language and the meaning they carry. I have a segment called Fact or Wana (Kikuyu for “nonsense”), but everyone who understands Sheng and how this word is used understands what I mean. I’m working on incorporating various languages into my jokes, even if most of the video is in English. Doing this means that the cultural integration that is all around us can be reflected as much as possible. Language to me means being seen, heard, elevated and respected, so the choice of it matters.
Meran: As someone whose primary medium was Twitter before, I’d relay information in a mix of languages, including Sheng, English, and Kiswahili, to make the message easily digestible to different audiences. However, the internet is a fickle place, and I lost my first account for answering a politician in a way she wasn’t pleased with. So, I decided to diversify my mediums. I now write on Substack, where I admittedly mostly use English as it’s the language I use for long-form prose. I am also doing podcasts, lectures, etc. I did one with Justine where we mixed all three languages and also discussed the very heavy topic of governance in a jokey gameshow way.
Yvonne: What would you say are the advantages and drawbacks of the mediums you use[d] most (e.g. videos, tweets) over more “traditional” written mediums, such as essays?
Justine: Well, the biggest drawback is context and the little interaction with people that comes with it. I worry sometimes that if I share a story and then it develops further, I really can’t do much to change it. And sometimes, depending on virality to pass messages is a bit like a broken telephone. If someone doesn’t have the full context, they wouldn’t know what I’m talking about. In case help is needed, there’s no direct way to help. Also, if, as a person who creates and shares on platforms, the fatigue of creating daily can actually make you mad. I have to research, write jokes, shoot, edit and upload in a matter of hours. It doesn’t allow you much time to interrogate, but I also have to be careful and always cite my sources, especially if the story is sensationalised. The advantage is that I get to write as many jokes as I want. I care deeply about the stories and policy breakdowns I do, but honestly, the core is my jokes. It’s almost like performing daily, which is both exciting and terrifying in itself.
Yvonne: All of your works primarily exist in the digital space and take various forms of digital media. In an age of GenAI and epistemicide, where both digital and physical archives are destroyed every day and replaced with misinformation, what does it mean to create a literary archive of resistance? What roles do your writings play in this?
Justine: The enshitiffication of the internet makes me so furious. I don’t know about you, Gakuru and Meran. Everything feels so bad now, every third post is an ad, and there are words we can’t even use. We’ve seen new words to describe sexual assault and even murder being replaced, and I am guilty of using these new words so that the TikTok algorithm doesn’t demand the removal of my video. Many of us are enslaved by the algorithm and the rules that are introduced to us to ensure we do not make the establishment mad or uncomfortable with our truth. Words are changing meaning, losing meaning, and being eternally shelved so that the platform you’re on doesn’t delete your whole account. In extreme cases of people living in war zones and documenting the atrocities against them, their accounts are sometimes completely erased so that no trace of their truth can be found. Given these occurrences, some people are archiving every video to protect against this erasure. Personally, I never delete any video I’ve created, so just in case the platforms shatter or they completely lock us out, I’ll have my own copies.
Gakuru: I value physical media, and in the era of state propaganda and revisionism, I try as much as possible to have my essays, videos, and other political writings stored on both the cloud and physical media. I’m talking printing the essays and storing them in a folder.
Meran: Just creating anything from your brain now is resistance, as AI usage is everywhere. Just this week, we saw a newspaper article that was published with an obvious AI prompt left in by mistake. Aside from diversifying mediums of creation and communication, I’d say that every single interaction with another person is a form of resistance in this age. I also echo Gakuru’s sentiments of having physical copies of everything I write. I am moving away from all my writing being digital. The in-person lectures also serve as an archive for me, because I meet people face to face and share my thoughts with them in person. Just knowing that something I’ve said may stick with a person and they carry that information with them is enough for me. Much similar to the traditional methods of oral literature being passed from generation to generation. This is also a way to avoid the censorship that comes with online spaces, which are fickle and under surveillance. A lesson learnt from the loss of a social media account I used as an archive and a channel for activism.
Justine: Generative AI is currently making the internet worse with many people trading slop back and forth, especially if they’re not interacting with other media or don’t understand what the preservation of their language, story/culture, and image means for now and the future. To the people who create and push back from being drowned in filters and fake Studio Ghibli renderings of themselves, I salute you all. My little part in the collective resistance is to use language that matters, even if that means getting only 500 views. Those are probably 12 people who took the time out of their day to watch and like the video, and many others who scrolled past it, but maybe they’ll revisit it.
Meran: I mourn the death of hard-hitting journalism—once defined by integrity and truth in the face of impunity. Today, many news outlets fail to report adequately on important issues. Mainstream outlets appear to serve powerful interests, twisting facts to satisfy financial or external pressures. Journalists too often neglect their responsibility as the public’s voice and as reliable sources of information.
Justine: Heh! I mean… if they cut down the political jibber jabber that floods the daily news, especially on traditional mainstream media, and replace it with contextual, people-led, truthful stories, there would be such a huge shift in how people view themselves on the political stage. The issue is advertising and ownership, so the money dictates what truth is and, in turn, what journalism is.
Meran: This, plus the vastness of the digital space, has led the ordinary mwananchi to seek out alternative sources of information, such as Justine’s videos and Gakuru’s writing. I look forward to this space expanding and more and more talented people using their art as a form of activism and a conduit for relaying important information that affects us as citizens. I wish to see all kinds of artists joining the fight. Animators, painters, musicians, etc. All possible forms of art are being used to inform the masses.
Justine: I agree. However, there’s so much disconnection/fragmentation of the art scene that people either don’t experience art or interact with each other as frequently due to survival, or even interact with art as a form of resistance due to how classed some of these art forms are. Most artists don’t get the opportunities to interact with other artists unless intentionally. As a comedian, I draw a lot of inspiration from other works, but between trying to survive economically through my work and just living, it takes some time to build relationships with other artists. Some artists can only get their work done if they have commissions, live in areas with stable power, and don’t experience the many systemic issues in the country. However, artistes with more privilege are likely to interact with other artistes and even work with them. Also, Nairobi, for instance, is highly segregated as neighbourhoods have certain points of focus (bars, wines and spirits). Finding social halls, art centres, community theatre spots, etc, is uncommon unless they leave their neighbourhoods and go elsewhere. And those who work in these spaces, if their work becomes popular, it’s more likely to see it put up in galleries in other wealthier neighbourhoods than in their own neighbourhoods. However, musicians are working to bridge this gap with their initiatives. For example, Sauti Sol expanded into academies and children’s books. Octopizzo also uses his platform incredibly well, too. I may be forgetting some artists, but their work is usually from what they can manage. There are barely cross-cutting frameworks for artists to interact without leaving their neighbourhoods. However, other artistes get money, and even though they retain friendships, it’s still tough to build relationships with other artistes if their incoming resources are a bit focused on expanding their careers; also, there is very little institutional support.
Meran: I wholly agree. A return to accessible third spaces that nurture community. Before colonisation, we practised this in our villages. People would gather communally to make and consume art. After colonisation, social halls became third spaces for gathering in urban areas. Now, communal art spaces are largely exclusive, catering only to those who can access them. And they’re also not enough. To access art, one has to leave the community in which they live.
Justine: 100%. That’s why the Mathare Social Justice Centre, founded by Wanjira Wanjiru, is such a beacon. The centre really works to provide this in a community (literature, grassroots organising, tree planting) that is continually targeted yet abandoned when it comes to critical support for social services, let alone art. It’s so dysfunctional that the NGO-ification of community and art is a thing, as these organisations end up standing in for what should be a given. I truly agree with Meran. How we see ourselves is deeply rooted in how we’re represented and what we have access to. Shifting the conversation on art, literature, and creativity can change so much for people working with minimal resources and support, if any at all.
Yvonne: What kind of literary future do you hope to help shape — as writers, artists, and thinkers committed to liberation?
Justine: Fiction is such an easy genre to read if you’re fundamentally escapist like me. What I would love to do is, essentially, contribute to and encourage curiosity about world-building in the writing done and in how comedy is performed, written, studied, and taught. There’s such an immense opportunity to weave the slapstick/farce comedy we’re so used to with more layered works. The Kenyan school system (especially 8-4-4 survivors) went through the depths of being beaten and punished out of their sense of whimsy and curiosity. For us to enjoy all the new ways to engage with literary works, we have to build an environment where reading/communicating in any language is not seen as a gateway to “Huyu anasema?” (Kiswahili for “What is this person saying?”) and more of “How do I understand what this means?” I would like my work to be a beautiful balance of how people enjoy comedy and how they engage with larger, more difficult topics. If my work provides comic relief while also enabling more people to go deeper into what ails our society/politics, and adds a sense of possibility/perspective and growing imagination, then I’d be extremely elated. Our reality sometimes feels like fiction because “Sasa huku ni wapi?” (Kiswahili for “Now where is this place?”, a phrase used to express the absurdity of circumstances in the country.) So if this tremendously bad reality can exist, then we can rebuild the world again.
Meran: I hope to be part of a literary future where all forms of being Kenyan are platformed. Not just politics, wildlife, or urban experiences, but all facets of Kenyanness are being written about. Not the usual tales of African suffering that have until now formed the majority of acceptable African literature. As Justine said, a shift in the stories being told would have each and every one of us see ourselves in the larger context. Representation matters because it enforces our existence. If I exist enough to be the subject of the art I consume, then I must really matter in the grand scheme of things. Humans need acknowledgement of their humanness by other humans. If you see me, then I see myself. These varied experiences would serve to unite us as we see all forms of our existence acknowledged. I hope for a literary future where art once again becomes a community project. Just as it was used in the past to frame community experiences, and socialisation, education, and leisure were available for all. Oral literature, singing, dancing, and drumming were, in the past, community activities that brought people together in shared experiences. A return of art to that communal aspect that includes all members of the community, each with their role to play.
*Maandamano[s] – Popular protests in Kenya that peaked in 2024 when President William Ruto’s government passed an unpopular IMF-backed finance bill despite public objection. The bill was intended to raise the tax burden to repay odious debt (most of which was lost to government corruption), despite Kenyans already being severely overtaxed and overburdened. The government responded to the protests by murdering hundreds of Kenyans and abducting thousands more, with some missing to this day.
