Gen-z youths in Kitengela in a protest to mark one year since their colleagues were killed as they protested finance bill 2024.[ Jenipher Wachie, Standard]
It began in Kenya, with a storm brewing online. Hashtags against the Finance Bill trended, memes sharpened into slogans, and soon the anger that had lived on screens spilt into the streets.
What followed was not the weary protest culture of yesteryear, but something altogether different, raw, unfiltered and distinctly Gen Z.
Under the rallying cries of #RejectFinanceBill2024 and #OccupyParliament, the movement echoed patterns seen in Nigeria’s #EndSARS protests: decentralised, leaderless and digitally native.
They came draped in flags, armed with placards and smartphones, their water bottles doubling as fuel for the long marches.
Solidarity became their anthem, sung not in hushed tones but in booming unison that echoed across cities and towns.
This was not simply a protest; it was a performance, a spectacle fueled by energy, humour and an unshakable sense of belonging.
The world took notice. What started in Nairobi spread like wildfire. Youth uprisings ignited in Sri Lanka, Britain, Bangladesh, Indonesia, and, most recently, Nepal.
Each carried its own flavour, but all shared the same defiance. In Nepal, young demonstrators not only flooded the streets but also cleaned up the litter afterwards, a quiet but radical gesture of ownership.
They went further still, electing a leader through a poll conducted on Discord with the “Youth Against Corruption” server ballooning to more than 130,000 members, a distinctly Gen Z act that blurred the line between protest and digital community.
In what will go down in history as one of the most unconventional yet modern methods of political transition, Nepal elected its interim Prime Minister through Discord, following a week of intense, youth-led protests that led to the collapse of the KP Sharma Oli government. It was proof that for this generation, rebellion is inseparable from innovation.
Why this generation? Why Gen Z, more than any other, seems wired to rebel? The answer lies partly in the conditions of their upbringing.
They were born into the digital age, raised with connectivity as their native language. Injustice anywhere is instantly visible everywhere.
A chant in Nairobi can be amplified in Dhaka within hours, a police crackdown in Colombo can inspire solidarity posts in London within minutes.
Despite repressive measures, such as increased police presence and threats of legal prosecution, Gen Z activists have led protests that ultimately forced governments to reconsider their proposed policies.
Smartphones are not simply tools of communication for them; they are weapons of mobilisation, platforms of visibility, and archives of resistance.
Where older activists once needed months to organise, Gen Z can ignite a movement in hours with the right hashtag.
This digital fluency also shaped their sense of identity. Gen Z has since metamorphosed into Gen Zote (All generations) to refer to a mindset that transcends age boundaries but retains its revolutionary core.
To exist, in their eyes, is to be seen, and to remain silent in the face of injustice is to vanish. Protest becomes both duty and identity: as much about demanding accountability as about declaring one’s presence.
The protesters have declared themselves “tribeless, leaderless, partyless,” embodying a new form of political organisation that defies traditional structures.
Unlike their elders, they do not compartmentalise politics as something separate from personal life. For them, to live is to be political, and to resist is to affirm existence.
Fear, too, has lost its hold. Previous generations often cowered before the state, cowed by the weight of its machinery. Gen Z stare it down.
They strip fear of its potency by laughing at it, remixing it, and turning it viral. Tear gas becomes content, arrests become badges of honour. Their defiance is at once serious and satirical.
They know how to shock, but they also know how to laugh—and the two together make a potent weapon. In their hands, rebellion is not the exception but the default.
In Kenya, this fire carries particular force. The country’s young people are both enabled and betrayed by their circumstances. They are technologically savvy, fluent in the rhythms of the online world, but also shaped by an education system that gave them the language to question leadership.
Free primary education introduced under President Mwai Kibaki exposed them early to works that laid bare corruption and betrayal.
Timothy Arege’s Mstahiki Meya, with its satire of post-independence greed and moral decay, and Francis Imbuga’s Betrayal in the City, a haunting drama of silenced citizens, were not abstract texts but living mirrors of their society.
Gen Z grew up reading about betrayal and corruption, only to find those same betrayals unfolding around them.
The specific grievances that sparked the Kenyan protests were deeply personal to this generation. The Finance Bill 2024 proposed taxes that would have directly impacted their daily lives, from increased costs on essential goods to higher taxes on digital services that form the backbone of their connectivity and economic opportunities. This wasn’t just economic policy; it was an assault on their way of life, their dreams, and their digital native existence.
Yet education without opportunity breeds frustration. Unemployment remains a constant wound. Graduates find themselves without work, their aspirations colliding with poverty and disillusionment.
This dissonance, between learning about justice and living without it, between being schooled and being excluded, has sharpened their fury. It is not simply economic frustration but a deeper moral injury: the sense of being promised a future and then denied it. The protests have been fueled by growing wealth inequality and government corruption, with over 50 people killed in clashes with police in various countries, demonstrating the high stakes and genuine desperation driving these movements.
Voices from the protests capture this mood. Leonard Karoki, a young demonstrator, believes the movement has ensured that Gen Z can no longer be ignored.
“After the 25th, people finally listened. Our voices are louder now. Change for us means change for society, and when society changes, leadership must follow. Accountability, empathy—these can no longer be optional. Leaders promised jobs and opportunities, but they have failed us. We will not wait quietly.” His words echo the sense of betrayal and urgency that defines the movement.
Thomas Kiambi, another young protester, is even blunter. “We were born into a broken system, but unlike our parents, we know how to make noise the world can hear. The internet is our parliament, the streets are our podium, and our memes are sharper than their speeches. That is why they fear us. We don’t just protest, we perform, and everyone is watching.”
The sophistication of their digital organising is unprecedented. Gen Z activists have used social media platforms like TikTok to frame their protests, creating compelling narratives that transcend traditional media gatekeepers.
Their use of memes, viral videos, and coordinated hashtag campaigns has created a new language of resistance that is both deeply local and universally understood.
They’ve mastered the art of making their struggles visible, shareable, and impossible for authorities to suppress.
Yet it would be a mistake to see their movements as fuelled by anger alone. Gen Z are not only protesting what is broken; they are also modelling what might be possible.
Their movements carry a striking sense of ownership.
In Nepal, their decision to clean the streets after protests symbolised not only discipline but also responsibility: this is our country, and we will look after it.
In Kenya, too, protest camps have displayed resourcefulness and creativity. Supplies are crowdsourced, strangers share information as if they were lifelong friends, and art and music are created in the middle of confrontation.
Medical tents are staffed by volunteer doctors and nurses, legal aid is provided by sympathetic lawyers, and citizen journalists document everything in real-time.
These flashes reveal something more than opposition: a glimpse of the society they wish to build. Collaborative, accountable, and hopeful, it stands in stark contrast to the one they resist.
What we are witnessing is not just a series of isolated protests but the emergence of a new political generation—one that refuses to accept the failures of the past as inevitable features of the future.
They are not just demanding change; they are demonstrating what change looks like when it is organised from the ground up, powered by technology, and guided by an unshakeable belief that a better world is possible.
Their fire is not destructive; it is illuminating, showing us all what politics could be when it truly serves the people it claims to represent.
In their hands, the future is not a distant promise but an immediate demand. And they will not be ignored.