The Baton Never Dropped

In Kenya, fear of the police did not begin with independence. It began in the days of the British Empire, when colonial askaris patrolled the streets and villages, rifles slung on their shoulders, trained not to serve justice but to enforce obedience. Their orders came from the Crown, not from the people. And when the flag changed in 1963, the uniform changed too, but the system behind it remained intact.

That system did not disappear. It simply evolved. It learned how to speak Kiswahili, to salute the Kenyan flag, and to operate beneath a new constitution. But for many ordinary citizens, the fear never left. It only changed uniforms. In June 2025, that fear turned fatal once more. This time, it claimed the life of Albert Omondi Ojwang.

Albert was a teacher, a blogger, a husband, and a father. He was arrested in Homa Bay after allegedly insulting the Deputy Inspector General of Police in a social media post. Two days later, his body was found at Nairobi Central Police Station. Authorities claimed he took his own life. But an independent autopsy told a different story—blunt-force trauma, neck compression, and signs of torture. His wife, Diana Ojwang, stood before a grieving nation and said what needed to be said: “My husband was tortured to death. He was silenced.”

Albert’s death was not an exception. It was the latest entry in a long, painful chapter of Kenya’s history. To understand how we got here, we must first look back.

During the Mau Mau Uprising in the 1950s, more than 1.5 million Kenyans were held in British detention camps. These were not ordinary prisons. They were sites of calculated violence. Torture, rape, and murder were carried out systematically—not by fringe elements, but by officers in uniform. These were state-sanctioned atrocities. The British government only began settling lawsuits for these abuses in the 2010s, long after the suffering had passed and the graves had been filled.

After independence, the British administrators left, but the machinery of repression remained. The same colonial policing structure was inherited by the new state. The laws were copied. The formations preserved. The mission unchanged—protect the powerful and keep the people in check.

In the 1980s and 1990s, this logic found its most visible expression in the heart of Nairobi. Nyayo House. A government building on the surface, but beneath it, a basement that held cold-water torture cells, isolation chambers, and interrogation rooms where the screams of political prisoners echoed for years. People like Koigi wa Wamwere, Wanyiri Kihoro, Maina wa Kinyatti, and many others were imprisoned there for speaking their minds. One survivor recalled how interrogators poured freezing water over him for days, repeating the same question until his own name began to slip away. Today, Nyayo House is still used by government offices. Its corridors are polished, its files neatly stacked. But the legacy of its basement still haunts the country.

There were those who resisted. In 1990, Reverend Timothy Njoya joined a march for multiparty democracy, carrying only a Bible. Police beat him and cracked his skull in full view of the nation. Later, he reflected, “They broke my head, but not my conscience.” Around the same time, Professor Wangari Maathai, armed with nothing but seedlings and conviction, fought to protect public land. She was beaten, dragged by her hair, called mad, and jailed. But she kept speaking. She once said, “I am a Kenyan before I am a woman. And I will speak.”

These stories are not ancient history. Their echoes are with us still.

Since 2024, a disturbing trend has emerged across the country. More than 80 Kenyans—mostly young, outspoken, and politically active—have been abducted by masked men in unmarked vehicles. Some were later found alive but traumatized. Others have not returned at all. The Kenya National Commission on Human Rights reports that at least 29 individuals remain missing. Among those who survived is university student Billy Mwangi. He recalls being shoved into a van by strangers. “I thought I was going to die,” he said. “They kept telling me, ‘Tweet again. Let’s see.’”

The Independent Policing Oversight Authority, charged with investigating such abuses, has admitted to being blocked by the very institutions it is meant to oversee. Kenya is, in effect, witnessing the return of a police state. Not in name, but in practice.

When Albert Ojwang’s death came to light, something shifted. Thousands of Kenyans took to the streets in cities like Nairobi, Mombasa, Kisumu, and Nakuru. They demanded answers. They called for justice. Their voices rose together: “Stop killing us.”

The response was swift and familiar. Tear gas. Water cannons. Batons. In one case, a protester was shot at close range, live on camera. A bystander lost their life. Still, the crowds returned the next day. This was no longer just about Albert. It was about all those who had died nameless in police custody, all those disappeared in silence, all those who never made it into headlines.

Kenya’s transition from colonial rule was never a clean break. The baton of brutality was not discarded. It was passed from one set of hands to another. From colonial officers to independent police chiefs. From a foreign governor to local commanders. The structure was never dismantled. It was repurposed. Yet through it all, the spirit of resistance has survived. In the forests of Mount Kenya. In the basements of Nyayo House. In the marches on Uhuru Highway. In the hashtags that trend late into the night. The Kenyan people have not forgotten how to speak, even when every word comes at a price.

Albert Ojwang’s name must not fade. It should be remembered not just as a victim, but as a mirror. A reminder of what this country has endured, and of what it must still confront. His death must not be filed away or explained away. It must be reckoned with.

If justice does not come from the top, then it must rise from the ground. From the voices of ordinary citizens. From communities that refuse to forget. From the pens of writers, the courage of witnesses, the insistence of mothers and fathers who demand answers.

The baton is still swinging.

But so are we.

And this time, we are holding on.