TikTok and the fight to control narratives in Kenya

 

On 17th February 2026, the Kenyan National Assembly took up a debate that has been simmering in the background for years: the potential banning of TikTok. At first glance, this may seem like just another argument about social media and misinformation. But the issue is far deeper, it’s a battle for influence, a struggle over who gets to control narratives in an age where every smartphone is a broadcasting platform.

TikTok, unlike traditional media outlets, is inherently difficult to control. Legacy media, the newspapers, TV stations, and radio channels that dominate the Kenyan information ecosystem have always operated within predictable frameworks. There are editors, regulatory bodies, and institutional practices that can be influenced or pressured to shape stories. A narrative can be guided, a perspective amplified, and inconvenient truths muted. In contrast, TikTok is decentralized. Anyone with a phone can create content, reach thousands, or even millions, and contradict official narratives. Its power lies not in the algorithm alone, but in its ability to democratize influence. This is precisely what makes governments and institutions uneasy.

The argument presented in public discourse is often framed around misinformation and social harm. Critics claim TikTok spreads fake news, disrupts young people’s attention spans, and erodes values. Yet, if we pause for a moment and look at the broader landscape, this reasoning appears selective. Legacy media in Kenya has long shaped public opinion with narratives that suit specific political and corporate interests. Newspapers have published stories with slanted perspectives, TV anchors have echoed government talking points, and even official statements are broadcast as unchallenged truths. If misinformation were the real concern, the systemic, centralized control exercised by these institutions would arguably be more dangerous than the decentralized chaos of TikTok.

The real tension lies in control or rather, the lack of it. TikTok challenges the monopoly on narrative that powerful actors have relied upon for decades. It allows voices outside the corridors of power to be heard. It enables citizens to fact-check in real time, challenge misinformation, and hold leaders accountable in ways that were previously impossible. For a regime that has openly signaled intentions to manipulate electoral processes, any platform that empowers citizens to independently verify information is a threat. TikTok isn’t dangerous because of what it spreads; it’s dangerous because it cannot be fully controlled.

This concern intersects with broader questions about civic participation and democracy. During past elections, the Independent Electoral and Boundaries Commission (IEBC) focused heavily on banning phones in polling stations a measure framed as protecting electoral integrity. Yet, when you consider the possibility of electoral fraud by those in power, restricting access to phones and independent information channels is not a safeguard it’s the final line of defense being dismantled. Citizens are left without the tools to independently verify results, challenge irregularities, or even document their voting experiences. In this context, banning TikTok is more than a tech issue; it is a political maneuver aimed at consolidating influence and reducing the space for dissent.

Reflecting on this, the debate about TikTok in Kenya is emblematic of a global struggle: the tension between centralized power and decentralized influence. Social media platforms like TikTok represent a new era where control is dispersed, where narratives are not dictated from above, and where ordinary citizens can shape conversations. For those accustomed to controlling what the public sees, hears, and believes, this is a threat.

The fight over TikTok is not about the app itself it is about the principle of influence. It’s a reminder that technology is never neutral, and that access to information is inseparable from political power. In an era where democracy is increasingly contested, the ability of citizens to access uncensored, independent voices may be the most critical safeguard we have. If the final lines of defense phones in voters’ hands, platforms that enable scrutiny are removed, the consequence is not just a social media ban; it is a weakening of democratic resilience itself.

TikTok will not disappear from the global stage. Its algorithms, trends, and content will continue to shape conversations worldwide. What Kenya chooses to do, however, will speak volumes about the balance between control and freedom, influence and voice, central authority and citizen empowerment. The question is not whether TikTok is dangerous it is who we allow to define “danger,” and whose voices get to count in shaping the nation’s future.