In Kenya today, a new word has taken root in the mouths of ordinary citizens: “Wantam.” It is not just slang. It is not just despair. It is a survival anthem. Every time a family organizes a harambee for hospital bills, they whisper it. Every time parents sell land or borrow heavily to pay school fees, they sigh it. Wantam has become the language of a people abandoned.
Meanwhile, the government insists on singing its old chorus: “Tutam.” We will do it. We will build. We will fix. We will deliver. Yet the reality mocks the rhetoric. Roads remain half-dug trenches. Clinics stand empty without drugs. Ghost stadia rot in weeds. Power cuts return like bad dreams. Everywhere you turn, Tutam has collapsed into dust.
But a new generation has stopped waiting. They no longer believe the slogans. They no longer chant the hymns of the powerful. They have chosen Wantam. It is a bitter declaration: “We need it now. We are doing it ourselves because you failed us.”
Of course, the loyal few still echo Tutam. They are the beneficiaries of brown envelopes, the apologists of stalled projects, the faithful who confuse handouts with progress. Yet even their voices are drowned out daily by the growing chorus of discontent. The potholes speak. The inflated electricity bills speak. The joblessness speaks.
And what they all say is simple: Wantam.
The tragedy is not that Kenyans have to say it. The tragedy is that they must keep saying it for needs so basic—health, education, infrastructure, dignity. The greater tragedy is that the government still believes Tutam is enough to pacify a hungry nation.
But history has a way of humbling empty promises. And when the cries of Wantam finally rise above the lies of Tutam, it will not just be a slogan. It will be a reckoning.
Meanwhile, the government insists on singing its old chorus: “Tutam.” We will do it. We will build. We will fix. We will deliver. Yet the reality mocks the rhetoric. Roads remain half-dug trenches. Clinics stand empty without drugs. Ghost stadia rot in weeds. Power cuts return like bad dreams. Everywhere you turn, Tutam has collapsed into dust.
But a new generation has stopped waiting. They no longer believe the slogans. They no longer chant the hymns of the powerful. They have chosen Wantam. It is a bitter declaration: “We need it now. We are doing it ourselves because you failed us.”
Of course, the loyal few still echo Tutam. They are the beneficiaries of brown envelopes, the apologists of stalled projects, the faithful who confuse handouts with progress. Yet even their voices are drowned out daily by the growing chorus of discontent. The potholes speak. The inflated electricity bills speak. The joblessness speaks.
And what they all say is simple: Wantam.
The tragedy is not that Kenyans have to say it. The tragedy is that they must keep saying it for needs so basic—health, education, infrastructure, dignity. The greater tragedy is that the government still believes Tutam is enough to pacify a hungry nation.
But history has a way of humbling empty promises. And when the cries of Wantam finally rise above the lies of Tutam, it will not just be a slogan. It will be a reckoning.
