When President William Ruto traversed the country in the run-up to the 2022 general election, he had irresistible promises to the electorate, painting a future so radiant it could rival the Biblical Garden of Eden. 

At rallies such as those in Bayusuf Grounds in Hola and Tarassa, Tana River county, the then deputy President pledged robust economic reforms that would create jobs, lower the cost of living and lift millions out of poverty. 

Ruto promised to pump Sh200 billion annually into agro-processing, textiles, leather, manufacturing, value addition and housing — all aimed at empowering the youth and reducing unemployment. 

His criticised his opponents’ economic strategy and laughed them off as no ambitious enough such that it felt like child’s play. According to Ruto, his competitors were “negative, clueless and lacking in agenda.” 

“The difference between us and the others is that they have no plan to solve your problems,” Ruto declared. 

Now in his third year in office, the grand promises of the Kenya Kwanza Plan officially branded as the Bottom-Up Economic Transformation Agenda (BETA) have begun to ring hollow for many Kenyans. 

The Plan was anchored on three pillars: defending the Constitution, institutionalising politics and creating jobs through a bottom-up economic model. Ruto campaigned as a champion of constitutionalism, vowing to implement long-stalled provisions such as the Judiciary Fund and police financial autonomy. He positioned himself as the antidote to the BBI-driven push for an imperial presidency, promising to shield the Judiciary and other state institutions from executive overreach. 

He rallied against ethnic kingpins and personality cults, championing the strengthening of political parties and public institutions. His UDA party, he claimed, was a national movement grounded in inclusivity and accountability. 

On job creation, he underscored the crisis of over 800,000 youths joining the labour market annually, with the sluggish formal sector unable to absorb them.

His bottom-up approach, he said, would direct resources to the grassroots and grow the economy from the base of the pyramid. 

He pledged to lower the cost of living through production subsidies, expand access to affordable credit, and cut taxes. 

To his credit, some pledges were fulfilled. For instance, the Judiciary Fund — which had been in limbo since 2016 when the Judiciary Fund Act was passed — was finally operationalised in July 2022. But for many Kenyans, the more pressing promises remain unfulfilled, and the sense of betrayal is growing. 

“He said he would support the fisher folk as part of the bottom-up agenda, but it was all lies. Nothing has changed. If anything, things are worse now because of taxes and the cost of living,” says Musa Farah, a fisherman in Mombasa who attended Ruto’s economic forum at Bandari Maritime Academy. 

Civic education 

Given the disconnect between campaign promises and actual governance, the question remains how voters can make informed and wise choices in future elections when manifestos, when the very documents meant to guide them, often fail to deliver? 

With the country gripped by political uncertainty and economic pain, a broader question emerges “Are campaign manifestos merely tools of seduction rather than blueprints for governance?” 

Political analyst Maimuna Mwidau argues that the problem is deeper than broken promises. She says it is a fundamental disconnect between political rhetoric and economic reality. 

“You’re looking at a political class selling dreams to an electorate that often doesn’t question the gaps,” she explains. “For instance, Ruto said he’d deliver universal healthcare — but did he ever explain how he’d fund it, especially with claims that government coffers were empty?” 

Mwidau says a knowledgeable voter would expect clarity on how big-ticket items like housing and healthcare would be financed. 

“When a leader promises universal health coverage, they should say which budget cuts or reallocations will fund it. But that level of planning is often missing in our politics,” she notes. 

She contends that even well-meaning plans like the affordable housing project falter under economic scrutiny. 

“The idea sounds good on paper — create jobs and decent homes for the poor. But the math doesn’t add up. How many jobs are actually created? Are they sustainable or just casual labour?” 

Worse still, Mwidau notes that it is the tendency of new regimes to overhaul existing systems just to discredit predecessors. 

She also faults political parties for abandoning civic education after elections. 

“Parties receive public funds meant for civic education — but do they ever return to explain their manifestos in forums? No. They hold rallies, not citizen engagements.” 

Mwidau likens campaign promises to marketing pitches. 

“They’re selling a product. So, the manifesto is glossy, ambitious — often resembling something out of a highly-developed country. But voters rarely ask: how will this be achieved?” 

On his part, Pwani University Associate Professor Dr Hassan Mwakimako believes part of the problem lies in how manifestos are crafted — by elites, for elites. 

“Manifestos are designed by political leaders, not the people. That’s why leaders don’t feel bound to them after elections,” he says. 

Mwakimako, who participated in shaping Ruto’s 2022 campaign, reveals that initial attempts to incorporate grassroots voices were abandoned when they became too binding. 

“If MOUs had been signed with counties, the President would have had to implement their economic proposals. That threatened the central grip on power.” 

He cites Mombasa’s perennial water shortage — a campaign favourite — as an example of how public problems are maintained for private gain. 

“Nearly 60% of Mombasa’s water is lost through leaks, yet water trucks never run dry. That tells you cartels benefit from the crisis. The issue remains unsolved because it serves political and economic interests.” 

The growing public frustration points to a broader crisis of credibility in Kenya’s political promises. 

President Ruto’s administration is not the first to fall short, but for many voters — especially those who believed they were the intended beneficiaries of the bottom-up model — the sense of betrayal feels personal. 

According to analysts, in the end, the 2022 campaign may go down as another chapter in Kenya’s long history of manifestos that dazzle before elections but disappear in the fog of governance. 

“The challenge now lies in bridging the gap between the fantasy of campaign season and the gritty reality of public service… “ says Mwidau.