Kenya’s heart has always beat to the rhythm of its people: Diverse, vibrant, and resilient. For decades, our nation has been celebrated as an island of peace amid a troubled neighbourhood. Not too long ago, it seemed we had finally bid farewell to the shadow of tribalism. Intermarriages flourished, friends from different communities exchanged playful banter without malice, and being “Kenyan” began to mean more than being Kikuyu, Luo, Maasai, Kamba, or Kalenjin. It was a fragile hope and a whisper of a unified future.
Yet today, that sense of Kenyan unity has been drowned out by the sinister drumbeats of social media abuse. In an era of unprecedented freedom of speech, the old wounds of tribal profiling and ethnic dominance have resurfaced in our national discourse when we should have outgrown them.
Now, tribalism has returned with a vengeance, cleverly disguised in the glitzy, gaslighting culture of social media. It hides behind hashtags, X Spaces, tweets, posts, and blogs. Negative ethnicity, redefined in subtle, insidious ways.
Gen Z, the very generation we pinned our hopes on, is now driving this trend or, as they’d say, “injecting” it, using not machetes or rallies, but TikTok videos, X posts, and Instagram stories. “Which tribe is the worst?” “Which tribe would you never date?” “Which tribe has the worst leaders?” These questions litter our digital spaces.
These aren’t just jokes; they are kindling. A tweet is retweeted, a TikTok joke ripples outward, a casual Facebook post is shared widely. What begins as laughter slowly morphs into stereotypes, then insults, hate and, ultimately, bloodshed. It’s cloaked as “cultural pride,” but this isn’t the Kenya of old, where we danced to Benga renditions, shared Kamba tales, and celebrated Luhya festivals together. Now, accents are mocked, dating preferences are tribalised, and viral insults earn cheers instead of shame. It’s rage in disguise, spreading faster than ever.
Kenya’s history is a graveyard of warnings. In the 1990s, the Rift Valley bore the brunt of ethnic violence. Over 1,500 died, and 300,000 fled. In 2007, post-election violence ignited the worst tragedy of all: More than 1,000 were killed, and many more were displaced. Each time, it started small, just like a politician’s dog whistle, a rumour in a market, a “joke” in a bar. Words became weapons, and Kenya paid in blood.
The script hasn’t changed, only the stage. TikTok is the new rally, X the new street corner, Instagram the new pub. A single post, liked and shared, spreads hate faster than any 1990s radio broadcast. And it’s not just the content; it’s the mindset. Politicians once divided us for votes; now we divide ourselves for clout. The 2007 violence showed how quickly words escalate: “41 against 1” became machetes in weeks. Today’s viral tribal jabs are no different. They are the spark, and Kenya is dry tinder.
The writing was on the wall then, but we ignored it. Now, as the 2027 elections draw near, we are not far from where we stood in 2006, if the current wave of social media hate is anything to go by. Back then, the public discourse pointed to a bad ending. What did we do? We laughed, shrugged, and said, “It’s just politics.” But it’s never just politics. Perhaps it has everything to do with social injustices. But good politics is always a panacea to such issues, but the divisive politics, such as the one currently going on,portends anarchy.
Mr Toroitich is a communication lecturer and researcher
By Benedict Toroitich