By Isaac Dan Bw’Onyancha
President William Ruto’s politics unfolds like a masterfully staged drama, performed by a lead actor who commands timing, spectacle, and the art of illusion. Every gesture is calculated, every pause deliberate, every glance a signal. The audience is held captive between applause and disbelief, unable to turn away.
Act One opens with the Bottom Up drama. The mountains rise as the backdrop. Dust swirls on rugged paths. Hustlers, traders, and farmers flood the stage. The actor steps forward, breaks the fourth wall, and speaks directly to the gallery. Each word lands like a drumbeat. The ensemble moves with rhythm and purpose. Hands clap, feet stomp, voices rise in unison. The mountain cast is alive. The stage vibrates. Applause roars. Act One closes, leaving loyalty and conviction planted like flags on highland peaks.
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The lights fall, and a hush sweeps the hall. Stagehands move unseen, like ghosts. Sets slide away. Costumes change. The air shifts. Anticipation thickens.
Act Two bursts open with a blinding contrast. Glass towers and polished streets replace mud and dust. Order, discipline, and aspiration dominate the scenery. The Singaporean script begins. To capture the low lake audience, Baba’s unfulfilled Canaan is christened Singapore, which excites the audience, evoking fond memories of Baba’s promises and leadership. The diction sharpens. The gestures are precise. The lead actor moves through the set with the grace of a seasoned performer. Former antagonists are subtly recast. Former critics are drawn into the spotlight. Singapore becomes symbol, a gleaming prop, promising discipline, efficiency, and arrival.
Every motion is choreographed. Every conflict absorbed into the narrative. Controversy transforms into momentum. Opposition becomes foil. Applause rises unpredictably from corners once hostile. Traction for a second term is not begged; it is orchestrated.
This is Kenya’s theater of the absurd. Scripts shift like scenery. Sets change like moods. The protagonist remains constant, a figure commanding attention in a hall suspended between incredulity and awe. Friend and foe remain in their seats, caught in the motion, spellbound by performance, unsure whether to cheer or protest, yet unable to leave. Here, the curtain has not fallen, and the audience watches the play of power unfold like a storm, choreographed in light, shadow, and the unbroken tension of a stage that will not release them.
The author is a seasoned Thespian who uses theater as an effective communication tool about society
