upepo
Elder Lister
By Prof. Gitile Naituli
President William Ruto’s signing of the Land Bill 2024 into law marks one of the most consequential and dangerous policy shifts in Kenya’s post-independence history. Behind the polished language of “modernization,” “rationalization,” and “reform” lies a quiet but sweeping reconfiguration of who controls Kenya’s most sacred resource: its land. It is not merely a legal reform; it is a structural takeover that risks converting millions of Kenyans from landowners into tenants and a sovereign nation into a marketplace for corporate and foreign interests.
Land, in Kenya, is not just a means of production. It is the foundation of our identity, memory, and freedom. From the Mau Mau struggle against colonial dispossession to the constitutional battles for land justice, the question of land has always been the question of nationhood. To own land in Kenya is to belong to have a stake in the promise of independence. That is why any law that alters this delicate balance must be examined not through the lens of economics alone but through the deeper lens of justice and sovereignty.
The Land Bill 2024 cloaks itself in reformist language, promising efficiency and investment. Yet, beneath its technocratic surface lies a dangerous centralization of power. The law grants the executive unprecedented control over land allocation, valuation, and conversion. By moving key decision-making away from communities and devolved institutions into the hands of the national government, it reverses the spirit of devolution that was enshrined in the 2010 Constitution to protect citizens from the abuses of a centralized state.
Even more alarming is the introduction of new taxes on freehold land. For the first time in our history, ordinary Kenyans who have held ancestral land for generations will now have to pay annual levies simply to retain what already belongs to them. The state, in essence, is positioning itself as landlord over its own citizens, a profound betrayal of the principles of independence. For many small-scale farmers and rural families already struggling with high costs of living, these taxes will be unbearable. Land that has sustained them for generations could soon be auctioned off to settle tax arrears or absorbed by wealthy interests circling for profit. Equally troubling are the provisions that open the door to long-term foreign leases. Under this law, foreign entities can lease Kenyan land for up to 99 years, the same duration used during colonial times to entrench foreign control. History is repeating itself, not with gunboats and settlers, but with contracts and corporate seals. In a world where global investors are desperate for agricultural land, Kenya’s soil could soon be in foreign hands, producing for export while local communities face displacement and hunger.
The Bill also undermines the mechanisms for addressing historical land injustices. Placing new procedural hurdles and narrowing the scope for review, it effectively closes the chapter on the unresolved pain of past displacements, from the Coast to the Rift Valley to the Mau Forest. It tells communities that their suffering is no longer a priority, that the state has moved on to more “pragmatic” concerns. But how can a nation move forward when it refuses to confront the injustices that define its past? Those who defend the Land Bill call it modernization. But modernization without justice is simply dispossession by another name. Kenya does not need to “reform” its land laws to please investors; it needs to protect its people from exploitation. Development that strips citizens of their land is not progress. It is regression.
The most insidious part of this law is its quietness. There was no national conversation, no broad consultation, and no open debate. Like many dangerous policies, it was presented as an administrative necessity, technical, neutral, and inevitable. But make no mistake: this law reshapes the moral contract between the Kenyan people and their government. It transforms land from a shared inheritance into a commodity, from a birthright into an asset class.
We must remember that the story of Kenya began with a land struggle. The colonial government dispossessed African communities of their fertile soil to create settler plantations. The Mau Mau rose not because of ideology but because of injustice, the denial of land and dignity. The 2010 Constitution sought to end that legacy by recognizing land as a public trust, to be administered for the benefit of all Kenyans. The Land Bill 2024 erodes that principle, reintroducing through law what colonialism once imposed by force.
If this law is allowed to stand unchallenged, its consequences will be generational. Within a decade, we may see a Kenya where the majority of citizens lease land from corporations and the state; where farmers are displaced to make way for “special economic zones”; where land becomes collateral for debt, not a guarantee of belonging. The soil that fed our ancestors and anchored our freedom could become an instrument of bondage once again.
This is not an abstract danger. It is already happening. Across the country, communities are being displaced in the name of development. In Lamu for ports, in Isiolo for resorts, in Naivasha for flower farms, and in Laikipia for foreign ranches. The Land Bill 2024 simply formalizes this pattern, turning land grabbing into government policy.
Kenya must not sleepwalk into recolonization. Citizens, civil society, and county governments must resist this law with every constitutional tool available. Parliament failed to protect the people; the courts must now step in. But beyond litigation, there must be a moral awakening, a collective insistence that the land belongs to those who till it, not to those who trade it.
Land is not a commodity. It is the living memory of our ancestors, the cradle of our culture, the measure of our sovereignty. Surrendering it in silence is to betray the blood that brought our freedom.
The Land Bill 2024 is not progress. It is a quiet coup. A legislative theft of the people’s inheritance. If we do not speak now, we will wake up one day to find that the soil beneath our feet no longer belongs to us, and that the struggle for land, once thought won, has only just begun.
President William Ruto’s signing of the Land Bill 2024 into law marks one of the most consequential and dangerous policy shifts in Kenya’s post-independence history. Behind the polished language of “modernization,” “rationalization,” and “reform” lies a quiet but sweeping reconfiguration of who controls Kenya’s most sacred resource: its land. It is not merely a legal reform; it is a structural takeover that risks converting millions of Kenyans from landowners into tenants and a sovereign nation into a marketplace for corporate and foreign interests.
Land, in Kenya, is not just a means of production. It is the foundation of our identity, memory, and freedom. From the Mau Mau struggle against colonial dispossession to the constitutional battles for land justice, the question of land has always been the question of nationhood. To own land in Kenya is to belong to have a stake in the promise of independence. That is why any law that alters this delicate balance must be examined not through the lens of economics alone but through the deeper lens of justice and sovereignty.
The Land Bill 2024 cloaks itself in reformist language, promising efficiency and investment. Yet, beneath its technocratic surface lies a dangerous centralization of power. The law grants the executive unprecedented control over land allocation, valuation, and conversion. By moving key decision-making away from communities and devolved institutions into the hands of the national government, it reverses the spirit of devolution that was enshrined in the 2010 Constitution to protect citizens from the abuses of a centralized state.
Even more alarming is the introduction of new taxes on freehold land. For the first time in our history, ordinary Kenyans who have held ancestral land for generations will now have to pay annual levies simply to retain what already belongs to them. The state, in essence, is positioning itself as landlord over its own citizens, a profound betrayal of the principles of independence. For many small-scale farmers and rural families already struggling with high costs of living, these taxes will be unbearable. Land that has sustained them for generations could soon be auctioned off to settle tax arrears or absorbed by wealthy interests circling for profit. Equally troubling are the provisions that open the door to long-term foreign leases. Under this law, foreign entities can lease Kenyan land for up to 99 years, the same duration used during colonial times to entrench foreign control. History is repeating itself, not with gunboats and settlers, but with contracts and corporate seals. In a world where global investors are desperate for agricultural land, Kenya’s soil could soon be in foreign hands, producing for export while local communities face displacement and hunger.
The Bill also undermines the mechanisms for addressing historical land injustices. Placing new procedural hurdles and narrowing the scope for review, it effectively closes the chapter on the unresolved pain of past displacements, from the Coast to the Rift Valley to the Mau Forest. It tells communities that their suffering is no longer a priority, that the state has moved on to more “pragmatic” concerns. But how can a nation move forward when it refuses to confront the injustices that define its past? Those who defend the Land Bill call it modernization. But modernization without justice is simply dispossession by another name. Kenya does not need to “reform” its land laws to please investors; it needs to protect its people from exploitation. Development that strips citizens of their land is not progress. It is regression.
The most insidious part of this law is its quietness. There was no national conversation, no broad consultation, and no open debate. Like many dangerous policies, it was presented as an administrative necessity, technical, neutral, and inevitable. But make no mistake: this law reshapes the moral contract between the Kenyan people and their government. It transforms land from a shared inheritance into a commodity, from a birthright into an asset class.
We must remember that the story of Kenya began with a land struggle. The colonial government dispossessed African communities of their fertile soil to create settler plantations. The Mau Mau rose not because of ideology but because of injustice, the denial of land and dignity. The 2010 Constitution sought to end that legacy by recognizing land as a public trust, to be administered for the benefit of all Kenyans. The Land Bill 2024 erodes that principle, reintroducing through law what colonialism once imposed by force.
If this law is allowed to stand unchallenged, its consequences will be generational. Within a decade, we may see a Kenya where the majority of citizens lease land from corporations and the state; where farmers are displaced to make way for “special economic zones”; where land becomes collateral for debt, not a guarantee of belonging. The soil that fed our ancestors and anchored our freedom could become an instrument of bondage once again.
This is not an abstract danger. It is already happening. Across the country, communities are being displaced in the name of development. In Lamu for ports, in Isiolo for resorts, in Naivasha for flower farms, and in Laikipia for foreign ranches. The Land Bill 2024 simply formalizes this pattern, turning land grabbing into government policy.
Kenya must not sleepwalk into recolonization. Citizens, civil society, and county governments must resist this law with every constitutional tool available. Parliament failed to protect the people; the courts must now step in. But beyond litigation, there must be a moral awakening, a collective insistence that the land belongs to those who till it, not to those who trade it.
Land is not a commodity. It is the living memory of our ancestors, the cradle of our culture, the measure of our sovereignty. Surrendering it in silence is to betray the blood that brought our freedom.
The Land Bill 2024 is not progress. It is a quiet coup. A legislative theft of the people’s inheritance. If we do not speak now, we will wake up one day to find that the soil beneath our feet no longer belongs to us, and that the struggle for land, once thought won, has only just begun.