Kenya, We Are Bleeding—But We Are Not Broken

There’s a quiet kind of fear settling over Kenya right now. It's not loud like a campaign rally, not sharp like a gunshot—though both are in the air. It's the kind of fear that lives in the pauses between conversations, in the tearful eyes of mothers watching the news, in the sighs of tired fathers coming home from work, unsure if they’ll make it through the next week. It’s a fear we’ve known before. And it’s a fear we swore we’d never feel again—not after 2007.

But here we are.

Another young voice silenced. Another name turned into a hashtag. Albert Ojwang is not just another statistic. He was a teacher, a blogger, a son of this soil. Arrested, brutalized, and found dead in police custody in June 2025. They say he spoke too boldly about the powerful. They say he defamed a Deputy Inspector General. As if speaking truth, or even daring to ask questions, is now a crime in our Republic.

We’re told he took his own life. But the bruises on his neck, the trauma to his head, the silence from those in uniform—none of it sits right. None of it feels like justice.

Instead of accountability, we get teargas. Instead of reform, we get denial. And when we take to the streets, to mourn, to ask why, the same heavy boots march in, the same rifles are raised, and yet again, another life is lost. It’s the same script, just a different name.

How many more?

This isn’t just about Ojwang. It’s about the culture of brutality that has taken root in the very institutions meant to protect us. It’s about a nation that forgets too quickly and forgives too easily when the powerful are involved. We’ve been conditioned to move on. But we can’t afford to keep moving on. Because each time we do, another line is crossed.

And while we’re grieving, while we’re protesting, another fire brews: the return of tribal undertones. You hear it in WhatsApp groups. You see it in political memes. You feel it in the jokes about “cousins”—coded language for ethnic blocs being quietly mobilized. It might sound like banter to some, but for those of us who remember the bodies on the streets in 2007, it sounds like a match being struck too close to dry grass.

Kenya’s greatest weakness is also its greatest strength: our diversity. It can build or it can break. And right now, it’s being used like a knife—cutting, dividing, deepening wounds that never truly healed. If we don’t name it for what it is—tribal politics rebranded as community loyalty—we risk bleeding out again.

What’s worse is the silence from the top. We hear statements, but we don’t see action. We’re told the President is “concerned,” that the situation is “unfortunate.” But concern doesn’t bring justice. Concern doesn’t fix the broken spine of a system that lets killers wear badges and call it duty.

But amidst the grief, I also see courage. I see students standing in the rain demanding verity. I see mothers holding candles and each other. I see journalists risking threats to keep the light shining. I see a generation that refuses to be silent—not because they want trouble, but because they want change.

We may be afraid. But we are not defeated. The spirit of Kenya is louder than the boots on our necks.

To those in power: we’re watching. And more importantly, we’re remembering.

To the police: you swore an oath to protect us, not bury us.

To every Kenyan: now is the time to choose peace, not passivity; unity, not uniformity. Let’s refuse to be divided. Let’s refuse to be silenced. Let’s refuse to go back.

We cannot relive 2007. We must write a different future.

Not just for Ojwang.

But for all of us.