NAIROBI, Kenya- It is a peculiar thing to write about someone at the centre of attention.
The noise on the socials, the chants, the rage, the disbelief– they are all converged here.
A different kind of wonder envelops these circumstances; a wonder that allows for clarity, for reflection, and for a voice that perhaps, in the cacophony of life, was not heard enough.
No longer defined by a body that walked the streets, but by a spirit that watched and hoped, and now, watches and hopes still.
It hurts to think of the pain.
Pain of knowing your strength, your quiet resolve, the way you carry the burdens of your family with dignity, could be catapulted into the limelight by chilling happenings.
The recounted struggles of our forebears for Uhuru, for a Kenya where a man could earn an honest living and hold his head high.
The stories of colonial oppression, of betrayal, and later, of the promises that seem to fade with every passing government. A belief that Kenya was our inheritance, not just a place to survive, but a nation to build, to cherish.
They say the President even mumbled an apology. That “apology” was as stale as yesterday’s bread, a calculated belch after choking on our collective rage.
And now, this callousness is precisely what we fought against. It’s the dehumanization that allows unchecked power to thrive.
It’s the arrogance that believes a life can be extinguished and the struggle simply forgotten.
Albert Ojwang. He was picked up, ‘taken, for a tweet’. A few words, typed on a phone, that supposedly “offended someone” high up. And for that, he was silenced.
“Unalived,” as their callous cronies now whisper, trying to make an execution sound like an unfortunate accident.
This is about control. It’s about a government so brittle, so insecure in its power, that it fears a single thought, a solitary word, a voice from the digital ether.
It’s a demonstration of calculated cruelty, a chilling message sent to every Kenyan with a smartphone: dare to speak, and you might disappear. This wasn’t some riot gone wrong; this was a targeted act against the freedoms.
The audacity! To hear their lackeys, their paid mouthpieces, talk about Albert Ojwang’ and others like him being “unalived” as if it were some unfortunate mishap. As if someone can simply cease to be.
They whisper about “hooligans” and try to paint our rightful rage, our desperate need for a voice, as chaos.
A basket of lies woven so tightly that they almost believe it themselves. Their jars of cold hearts hold no empathy, no remorse for the mothers who will never hug their sons again, the fathers whose hopes for a better future died with their children.
This isn’t just political disagreement; it’s a profound, chilling dehumanization of their citizens, punishing them for the simple act of thought and speech.
The very institutions meant to protect us are being weaponized. Albert was taken from his home in Homa Bay by police, held at the Central Police Station in Nairobi, and died under unclear circumstances.
This incident, among many others, paints a grim picture of an untrustworthy security apparatus where segments operate with impunity. They act as instruments of intimidation, silencing critical voices rather than upholding the law.
Theoretically, the Independent Policing Oversight Authority is meant to hold these officers accountable.
But its effectiveness seems as thin as a politician’s promise. The lack of clear, public investigations and prosecutions for cases like Albert’s leaves IPOA looking like a compromised, mere formality that fails to deliver justice to grieving families or deter future abuses.
This systemic failure underscores why any official apology rings so hollow.
