The hashtag is #RutoMustGo.
You have graced my screens so much these days, it almost takes me back to that one time I thought, maybe you could be the guy to help us fix things.
I blame my lady hormones; you embody the spirit of my narcissistic, emotionally unavailable father, who also like you needs everyone to constantly listen to his ever-flowing, self-centred mumble jumble word vomit. You say a lot without saying anything, but somehow you have said everything but it’s not anything we did not know.
Apparently, I’m bound to look for my father in every man with influence, which would explain why I cast my ballot for you in my first-ever election thinking, maybe he is just misunderstood. It was daddy issues. You’re a bad man. You have become a familiar disappointment. This is what patriarchy does. We are both damaged; you by your ego, and me by egos like yours.
I can see your daughter fight tooth and claw to get your approval. Will you finally see her? Will you finally give her the attention she so desperately craves so we the people can be spared another wig reveal?
The Twitter streets are calling her Wiggy-G. I can empathise with her pain, but I choose not to. I can't believe you all sh*t in toilets worth a lifetime of my paychecks and you can’t afford a stylist for the delusional, self-appointed first daughter and champion of some people she calls the ‘youth’.
We the people, your new opposition, also don’t know who these ‘youth’ are because it is public knowledge that the worst thing to happen to your daughter is wig blindness. At the same time, our mothers wail in their homes because you killed us in the streets we marched in peacefully. Eight bullets to the body of a 12-year-old and you proudly sit in your highchair, with your legs crossed, lips drier than the lies that you spit, and call us criminals.
It must be the audacity of the white men you’re so eager to please.
The cops will shamelessly walk to us in the streets, mocking us and intimidating us, all for the honour of a man who sent their brothers to die in Haiti protecting these white men.
Your face has become exhausting. Your words have become fuel for my hate as well. I don’t hate you in the way you hate an enemy. I refuse to allow myself to embody that kind of venom. I hate you in the way I love revolution.
I hate you in the way I worship freedom. I hate you in the way I value my individuality. It’s different. It’s poetic. I don’t want to hurt you, but I need to dismantle you.
This is what the ancestors fought for. You are what they fought. Long live Jacob Juma.