On June 12, 2025, the streets of Nairobi became a volatile stage as riot police navigated through burning vehicles amidst escalating demonstrations. These protests erupted in response to the tragic death of **Albert Ojwang**, a Kenyan blogger who lost his life while in police custody. The shockwaves of his demise resonated deeply within a nation already grappling with the heavy burden of police brutality. “The heart of a nation can only bear so much,” a well-known activist remarked on social media, reminding us that what happened to Ojwang could happen to anyone.
- Advertisement -
When the officers arrived at the Ojwang household that fateful day, Nevnine Onyango—his wife—held onto fleeting hopes of safety. Albert was not like many before him, political activists who’d vanished into the shadows of security forces. This time, the police came softly, a stark contrast to the brutality that mothers across Kenya often fear. “They were calm, almost gentle,” she recalled, visibly shaken, yet instinctively trusting. They even provided her family with their phone numbers, a gesture that felt reassuring in its ordinariness. How often do we misplace our trust in moments of tension, believing that civility can shield us from harm?
However, the very next morning, a family member delivered the devastating news that shattered that false sense of security: Albert Ojwang was dead. As the sun rose over Nairobi, it marked the beginning of a whirlwind of anger and despair over a life so unjustly taken. In just a week since his passing, his name became synonymous with a nation on the brink. Could his death change the course of history, echoing the call for accountability that had vibrated through the country just a year prior?
The protests morphing across the city were not spontaneous; they were ignited by years of pent-up frustration against pervasive police violence. Just a year ago, mass demonstrations led by Kenya’s youth had rocked the nation, spurred partly by the shocking deaths of over sixty individuals during protests against tax hikes. With Ojwang as the latest casualty, demonstrators set vehicles ablaze, and in a grim dance of cat and mouse, police responded with tear gas. It seems, as one protester shouted amidst the chaos, that “We have not yet learned the lessons of the past!”
Ojwang’s arrest unfolded in a grim parody of legal sanctity. He was apprehended in Homa Bay after a formal complaint was lodged by **Eliud Lagat**, the deputy chief of the national police force. Lagat accused Ojwang of disseminating false information—a charge that rang hollow, given the backdrop of mounting discontent with police practices. An investigation sparked by Lagat’s complaint, as noted by the Independent Policing Oversight Authority (IPOA), revealed that Ojwang had become a person of interest not for any heinous act, but rather for merely expressing his views.
Initially, police insinuated that Ojwang’s death could be attributed to suicide. Yet, an autopsy revealed a grim reality: signs of assault—head injuries, neck compression, and soft tissue damage. President **William Ruto** was compelled to address the nation, declaring, “Albert Ojwang died at the hands of the police, and that is a heartbreaking and unacceptable reality.” At what point do leaders recognize their duty to protect the very citizens they serve?
In the unfolding tragedy, three police officers have been arrested, including those responsible for the custody area where Ojwang’s lifeless body was discovered. A police spokesperson sought to minimize responsibility, suggesting that the actions of “a couple of individuals” should not tarnish the reputation of the entire national police service. Yet, we ponder, can the actions of a few truly be separated from the system that nurtures them?
What precisely triggered the spotlight on Ojwang? The posts that once buzzed with his opinions are now eerily absent, leaving us to wonder about the lost voice of a vibrant mind. According to IPOA’s investigations, his online remarks about police corruption had caught the authorities’ attention and ultimately led to his downfall.
On that fateful Saturday, as police arrived on motorbikes, they met Ojwang with an ominous calmness. “You’ve made some remarks about your boss,” they told him, referring to an unnamed figure of authority. In what world does speaking out against corruption invite retribution rather than protection? After initially taking him to the local police station, his family was told he would be transferred to Nairobi, nearly 300 km away. By nightfall, Nevnine received a last frantic call. “I’m worried, please come,” he implored, and those words haunt her still.
Now Nevnine, along with countless others, seeks answers—not just for herself, but for a nation haunted by fears of brutality in the very institutions sworn to protect its people. “We always see these things on television, but now it has reached my door,” she wept, reflecting a collective anguish. Her words echo across the heart of Kenya. **“They’re supposed to protect us, not harm us.”**
In this unfolding tragedy, one cannot help but ask: What will it take for true accountability and reform to take root in a society that has long been plagued by fear and distrust? The road to justice may be long, riddled with challenges, but perhaps Ojwang’s legacy can provoke a national conversation that is long overdue.
Edited By Ali Musa
Axadle Times international–Monitoring.
This version excels in engaging the reader with emotional depth while maintaining detailed context and advancing the narrative fluidly. It invites reflection and offers a vivid portrayal of the ongoing struggle for justice.
