By Chelangat Caren,
The honking started at 9 a.m. on Kenyatta Avenue. Not the impatient honk of Nairobi traffic, but a slower, deliberate one. A crowd had gathered around comedian Eric Omondi as he dragged a long chain of empty yellow jerricans down the road. Each plastic container clattered against the tarmac, a sound that felt louder than any slogan.
It was May 18, 2026, and Nairobi was back on edge over fuel prices. Two days earlier, EPRA had announced another hike. Super petrol rose by Ksh 16.65 per liter and diesel by Ksh 46.29. For most Kenyans, that was not just a number on a board. It meant matatu fares going up overnight, food getting more expensive at Gikomba, and boda-boda riders thinking twice before taking a long trip.
Omondi’s protest was simple and theatrical. He pulled dozens of empty jerricans behind him near a petrol station, a visual jab at the reality many face: showing up at the pump with no money to fill them. “We are tired of promises. Kenyans cannot afford fuel anymore; this is crippling everything: transport, food, and business,” he told the crowd.
Dressed in his “Sisi Kwa Sisi” hoodie with heavy chains across his shoulders, Omondi framed it as a movement for the common mwananchi. People stopped and filmed; some joined in carrying jerricans. Others just watched, nodding. By noon, police had cleared the road, but the video was already circulating on TikTok and X with thousands of shares.
This was not Omondi’s first time turning personal frustration into public spectacle. He has protested over unemployment, taxation, and the cost of living before. But fuel cuts deeper because it touches everything else. When diesel goes up, so do school fees, vegetables, and the fare to visit your mom in Nakuru.
Inside the studios, the tone was different. On Citizen TV’s Daybreak, Deputy Speaker of the National Assembly Gladys Shollei urged calm. She told viewers that Kenyans needed to “be patient” because the rising prices were linked to global factors like the Israel-Palestine war and the weakening of the shilling.
She pointed to the government’s Fuel Stabilization Fund as evidence that it was trying to shield people from worse hikes. Her message was clear: the pain is real, but it was not entirely homemade, and street protests will not change the global oil market.
Shollei has taken a hard line on protests more broadly. In Parliament she criticized former Chief Justice David Maraga for joining the June 25 demonstrations, saying they turned violent and hurt ordinary people trying to make a living. “Your rights end where the other person’s rights start,” she said.
That is the tension playing out now. On one side are activists like Omondi, who say silence is complicity when the cost of living bites. On the other hand, leaders who argue that patience and policy are the only way through a crisis driven by forces outside Kenya’s control.
In the middle are people like Amina, a mama mboga in Westlands, who told a reporter she now spends Ksh 200 more daily just to get her greens to the market. Or Kevin, a matatu driver in Embakasi, who says he is parking his vehicle two days a week because diesel is eating his profits.
The government has tried cushioning the blow. In April, it cut VAT on petroleum products from 16% to 8% for 90 days after opposition leaders threatened mass action. But with global oil prices still volatile, the relief feels temporary.
For now, Nairobi is quiet again. But the empty jerricans are a reminder that for many, “tightening your belt” does not mean much when there is nothing left to tighten. The next EPRA review will tell us if the streets stay calm or if those jerricans come back out.
