A Champagne Budget on a Soda Economy.

This year's Budget Day passed with little fanfare. The media paid it little attention, and online chatter was muted. Even Parliament was a near-empty shell as the Treasury Cabinet Secretary delivered his speech, with rows of empty seats in what was once a crowded chamber. Most Kenyans now hear the big numbers and even bigger words as hollow. For the average citizen, Wanjiku, the grand figures in the budget have become an alien language, disconnected from the harsh realities of daily life. The silence and apathy surrounding this once-dramatic event say more than any official rhetoric: the national budget has lost its soul.

Once a national spectacle.

Not long ago, Budget Day was one of Kenya's most anticipated events. It was the year's economic spectacle, a moment that brought the country to a halt. Shops would close as radios blared the live broadcast, and families would huddle around televisions, hanging on every word the Finance Minister spoke. Even the President would attend Parliament on that day, as a show of respect for the gravity of the situation. The Finance Minister's iconic act of holding aloft the budget briefcase, which Kenya inherited from colonial times, signaled the release of the country's financial plan. That leather briefcase carried not only papers back then, but also the weight of Kenyan hopes and worries. The announcements inside could elicit cheers or groans across the country: a tax cut on bread flour (unga) could boost the market, whereas an increase in kerosene prices could cause anxious whispers in households by nightfall. Budget Day was Kenya's own version of a holiday, a day when we all held our breath, believing that the minister's words held the promise of prosperity or the threat of hardship for the coming year.

From Ceremony to Charade.

Fast forward to today, and the grand ritual has devolved into a mere formality. Nowadays, the national budget receives less respect than a kitchen budget. The exercise has the feel of a protocol play, a ceremony turned charade. Years of fiscal mismanagement and flagrant disregard for public finance laws have reduced Budget Day to an empty spectacle. Budgets are now constructed using questionable math and cynical politics: inflated revenue targets, illegal loans, and token public "participation" have become the norm. Each year brings a new set of promises that push the law to its limits—or outright violate it—leaving wananchi (the people) jaded. Every violation of the rules, every shilling that goes unaccounted for, erodes public trust even more. What was once a sacred agreement between the government and its people has devolved into a meaningless exercise, more pantomime than policy. Kenya's Finance Minister raises the iconic briefcase on Budget Day 2025, a once-revered ritual that now feels hollow. The tradition endures even as its substance fades.

Indeed, much of Budget Day's decline in significance is intentional. The 2010 Constitution and subsequent laws aimed to democratize and simplify the budgeting process. Key budget details are now expected to be presented and debated in Parliament well ahead of the big day. By the time the Cabinet Secretary enters August House with the briefcase, the "big secret" has largely been revealed. All that remains for Kenyans is the spectacle: a few last-minute tax changes, the thud of a briefcase on the table, and pages of lofty prose that "sound and signify nothing." The tradition continues, complete with flashing cameras and ceremonial poses, but it has become a hollow ritual. Budget Day now has all the pomp of the past but none of the pulse.

Borrowed Time and Broken Promises

If the pageantry is hollow, the contents of these budgets are even more concerning. The numbers revealed are frequently less a financial plan than a wish list written in smoke. Consider the official 2025/2026 budget, which proposes a Ksh 4.2 trillion spending plan against projected revenues of Ksh 3.3 trillion. This optimistic projection is part of a dangerous pattern. For years, the Treasury's forecasts have proven to be overly ambitious, creating a structural deficit. In the 2023/2024 fiscal year, revenue collection fell short of the target by over Ksh 200 billion, a trend seen the previous year (2022/2023) with a shortfall of around Ksh 120 billion. This consistent failure to meet targets means the nearly Ksh 900 billion deficit for the upcoming year is not just a projection; it's a near certainty that must be plugged with more debt. To describe such a plan as prudent would be generous; to call it sustainable would be naive. Essentially, the government is writing a massive blank check, which will be paid for with debt the country cannot afford. It's like trying to water a garden with a dry well. Kenyans are being asked to expect higher taxes today and higher debts tomorrow, all to fund a champagne banquet on a soda budget.

Worse, these budgets are not only unrealistic but are framed against a background of illegality. Kenya's debt anchor is legally set at 55% of GDP in present value terms. However, that ceiling has been hit and cracked; today, the country's debt has surpassed its statutory limits. Every additional shilling borrowed today is technically one too many. Borrowing more than the approved limit is not only bad policy but a violation of the very laws meant to safeguard the nation's fiscal health. Financial experts and civic watchdogs have warned that much of this new debt may not be considered legitimate "sovereign" debt at all, as it was incurred outside the scope of constitutional approval.

A budget that casually suggests more borrowing when our credit cards are maxed out isn't worth the paper it's printed on. It is essentially an admission of failure—a document that seeks to legalize the illegal. By drafting such a budget, the authors are confessing to economic wrongdoing. They are potential perpetrators of a massive fiscal swindle, concealing their actions behind technocratic jargon and hoping no one notices the crime. However, Kenyans have noticed. We see through the euphemisms to the stark reality: our country is living on borrowed time and stolen opportunities. Each year of recklessness is a debt imposed on our children and grandchildren, without their consent and contrary to the spirit of our laws. This is more than mismanagement; it is a betrayal of the public trust, which history will condemn harshly.

Towards Moral Reckoning

How did we arrive here? This question haunts Kenya's collective conscience as Budget Day loses significance. But perhaps the more important question is: how do we get back? An elegy, after all, is more than just a song of lamentation; it can also be a call to remembrance and renewal. To restore Budget Day's lost glory, we must hold our leaders to a higher standard. Transparency, honesty, and accountability cannot be mere buzzwords in a speech; they must guide every shilling budgeted and spent. The budget should return to being a people's pact, based on real numbers, within legal constraints, and aimed at genuine development rather than political pageantry. The current state of affairs is rich with irony. The budget, which was once a beacon of planning and prudence, has now become a symbol of excess and evasion. Reversing this trend will require moral courage. It will require lawmakers who prioritize country over party, economists who speak truth to power, and citizens who refuse to be sedated by empty promises. It entails rekindling the spirit that once made Budget Day feel like a national celebration: the sense that we're all in this together, that the nation's ledger reflects our common values and aspirations. Until that happens, we're left singing a requiem for what once was.

Finally, this commentary serves as both a lamentation and a warning. Kenya's Budget Day will be a hollow echo until we remember the substance that made it meaningful. The low fanfare and dwindling interest are only symptoms of a deeper problem: a breach of trust between the government and the people. It's time to mend that rift. It is time to transform this elegy into a revival song. Only then can the Kenyan budget be transformed from a mere piece of paper to a living instrument of our national destiny—not a deception, but a promise fulfilled.