In the sweltering heat of Kenya’s political arena, few sagas have gripped the nation quite like the 2020 impeachment of Mike Sonko, the self-styled “people’s governor” whose flashy gold chains, rescue missions and populist swagger once made him the most talked-about leader in Nairobi. Ousted amid allegations of corruption and abuse of power, Sonko’s removal was a dramatic fall for a man who rose from the streets to command one of Africa’s biggest cities. Five years on, with fresh courtroom testimony and a regional court questioning the fairness of Kenya’s own judiciary, the 2020 impeachment is no longer a closed chapter — it is an open wound that could reshape how Kenya treats its fallen leaders.
The impeachment was finalized on Dec. 17, 2020, after a whirlwind of debates in the Nairobi County Assembly and two tense special sittings in the Senate. Sonko, born Gideon Mbuvi Kioko, faced four charges: gross violation of the constitution, gross misconduct, abuse of office and committing crimes under national law. To his critics, he was a chaotic governor whose administration brought Nairobi to its knees; to his die-hard supporters, he was a reformer targeted for daring to disrupt powerful cartels. Today the case is forcing Kenyans to ask whether impeachment really means the end of a political life — or whether it can be overturned.
Sonko’s rise had been the stuff of legend. A product of Kwale High School and a self-made millionaire in the matatu transport and real estate businesses, he earned the nickname “Sonko” — Swahili slang for a rich, flashy boss — long before politics. He burst onto the national scene as Makadara MP in 2010, became Nairobi’s first senator in 2013, and in 2017 swept to the governorship with nearly a million votes, promising to clean up City Hall.
Chaos followed almost immediately. His deputy, corporate executive Polycarp Igathe, resigned within months, citing constant public humiliation. Sonko then orchestrated the impeachment of County Assembly Speaker Beatrice Elachi. Projects stalled, revenue collection faltered and public spats became routine. “The cartel in this city is too big,” Sonko once pleaded to then-President Uhuru Kenyatta, hinting at shadowy networks he claimed were sabotaging him.
The breaking point came in December 2019 when Sonko was dramatically arrested on corruption charges linked to irregular payments worth Sh20 million ($155,000). Barred from office, he fled to Voi before being recaptured. Under intense pressure, in February 2020 he signed away control of health, transport, planning and public works to the national government’s Nairobi Metropolitan Services, headed by Maj. Gen. Mohamed Badi. Sonko now calls that handover a “grave mistake” forced on him by powerful figures in the Kenyatta administration.
He insists his real crime was reform: digitizing revenue collection to stop daily theft and refusing to allow uncompensated demolitions in informal settlements. “I digitized the whole system, and the cartels that used to siphon funds every day were furious,” he said in a recent interview.
By mid-2020 the Nairobi County Assembly moved to impeach him. The motion, tabled on Dec. 3, accused Sonko of refusing to assent to key budget bills, violating anti-corruption laws and engaging in conduct that eroded public trust. Debate was fierce. Assembly members highlighted revenue losses running into billions and cited instances of alleged misconduct. In a crushing vote, 88 of 122 members backed removal — only 14 opposed.
The matter then moved to the Senate, which sat as a quasi-judicial body on Dec. 16 and 17. Evidence included documents showing Sonko’s failure to assent to legislation and testimony about governance breakdowns. His defense team argued the process was rushed and politically motivated, pointing to the forced handover of functions to the national government. After hours of deliberation, senators upheld all four charges: gross violation of the constitution (27-16), gross misconduct (28-15), abuse of office (27-16) and crimes under national law (24-19). Sonko was officially out, automatically barred from holding public office under Chapter Six of the constitution on leadership and integrity.
“This is not the end,” Sonko declared outside the Senate chamber, vowing to fight on.
He did. Kenyan courts, culminating with the Supreme Court in 2022, upheld the impeachment, finding the process legally sound. Sonko accused the judiciary of bias, particularly Chief Justice Martha Koome, whom he claimed had prejudged his case in public remarks.
Refusing to quit, Sonko took his fight to the East African Court of Justice in Arusha, Tanzania. On Nov. 28, 2024, the regional court delivered a partial but stunning victory: it ruled it has jurisdiction to examine whether Kenya’s Supreme Court violated the East African Community Treaty by mishandling his appeal. The judges highlighted possible breaches of natural justice, transparency and the rule of law — principles enshrined in the treaty. While the court cannot overturn the impeachment itself, it awarded Sonko costs, allowed him to amend his petition and warned that failure to address his claims would cause him irreparable harm.
The ruling electrified Sonko’s supporters. In July 2025, during his ongoing corruption trial, former county finance executive Winfred Gathagu testified that State House officials had orchestrated the entire ouster, holding meetings to fabricate evidence and pressure staff into supporting impeachment. Gathagu insisted Sonko never approved irregular payments and that his only role was budgeting.
This week Sonko clashed publicly with Jubilee Party Secretary-General Jeremiah Kioni, who declared that impeachment is a permanent disqualification — “once impeached, permanently impeached.” Sonko shot back on social media, telling Kioni to settle his own scores with former Deputy President Rigathi Gachagua without dragging him in. Citing Article 193(3) of the constitution, Sonko insisted disqualification only applies once all appeals are exhausted. “My cases are still under review,” he said.
Political analysts say the saga carries huge implications. It tests the limits of judicial independence and the power of regional courts to check national judiciaries. A final victory for Sonko could give hope to other impeached leaders, including Gachagua. Sonko has already hinted at running again in 2027 — possibly in Machakos or another county. Supporters flood his pages with messages: “Uhuru killed your dream, but God will change your story.”
Critics, however, remember the stalled projects, lost revenue and public drama of his tenure and argue he should stay out of politics. Sonko counters by pointing to tangible achievements: Dandora Stadium, new fire stations, modern markets. “I never stole a single coin,” he recently posted. “Corruption was fighting back.”
From a daring 1998 prison escape — reportedly disguised as a woman to attend his mother’s funeral — to the governor’s mansion and now the corridors of regional justice, Mike Sonko’s life mirrors Kenya’s rough-and-tumble politics. “Aluta continua,” he declared after the EACJ ruling — the struggle continues.
As his petition advances in Arusha and his corruption trial grinds on in Nairobi, Kenyans are left watching one question: Can this most colorful of politicians force the country to reopen a case many thought was buried forever?
