The 2024 Gen Z revolt wasn’t just a series of protests; for those of us on the front lines, it was a harrowing brush with mortality. I was there covering the events, starting with the historic June 25th uprising and the subsequent demonstrations. Many times, I missed death by a whisker, narrowly escaping a speeding bullet, a blunt teargas canister, or the chaos of a literal mob. I survived three near-death experiences. Once at the hands of a mob, and twice at the hands of the police.
As the protests intensified, I became increasingly vocal about media freedoms and the constitutional right to picket. But that visibility came with a price: a suffocating paranoia.
I began constantly checking my rear-view mirror when I was driving and looking over my shoulder when on foot, convinced I was being followed.
I even instructed a friend to check on me at set intervals so that if I went silent, they would know exactly where to begin the search for my body.
During those dark days, I realized something terrifying: I was more afraid of ending up in a police cell than being killed by a mob in the streets.
The New Rogue Frontier
For years, the fear in Kenya centered on enforced disappearances, people being snatched from their lives only for their bodies to surface weeks later in sacks, dumped in rivers or forest thickets.
But recently, a more localized horror has emerged. The police cell, once intended as a place of legal processing, has become a “death chamber.”
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The statistics are frightening. Between 2024 and early 2026, over 20 Kenyans have died in police cells under mysterious circumstances.
Human rights bodies suggest the number of police-linked killings could be as high as 50.
The timeline of these tragedies reveals a disturbing pattern of negligence and alleged brutality that refuses to be ignored.
On May 29, 2024, at Kambuu Police Station in Makueni, a heart-wrenching case involving a minor saw the one-and-a-half-year-old child of Ms. Zipporah Muteti die in a cell.
During a debt collection dispute, an officer allegedly slapped Ms. Muteti, but the blow struck the baby instead.
Despite the child’s visible agony, officers reportedly refused medical attention and locked both mother and child in a cell, where the infant eventually succumbed to his injuries.
This horror continued into January 2026 at Othoro Police Station in Rachuonyo, where Timon Otieno was arrested for allegedly vandalizing security lights.
The following day, his father, John Ogwang, found him dead. While the police claimed it was a suicide, the family reported visible physical injuries on Timon’s body; yet, no arrests have been made.
Most recently, on March 12, 2026, 23-year-old Boda Boda rider Jack Leon Matoke was arrested in Kawangware at 7:00 p.m. Just four hours later, his body was already at the City Mortuary. Police claimed he used his T-shirt to take his own life, a narrative the family vehemently disputes due to gross inconsistencies.
A Pattern of “Suicides” and Silence
The “suicide” narrative has become the standard police script. Whether it is a foreign national like Alexander Monson, who died at Diani Police Station (a case that eventually saw four officers convicted of manslaughter), or the recent surge of local youths, the explanation remains the same.
However, independent investigations often tell a different story. In June 2025, teacher and influencer Albert Ojwang died at Nairobi Central Police Station. Police claimed he “banged his head against a wall,” but an autopsy proved he was strangled.
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This sparked further tragedy when Boniface Kariuki, a vendor protesting Ojwang’s death, was shot at close range by a masked officer.
The Legal and Moral Collapse
Security experts argue that it is the police’s duty to ensure that a suspect is protected as investigations proceed.
According to Article 49 of the Kenyan Constitution, every arrested person has the right to be treated with dignity, to be brought before a court within 24 hours, and to enjoy freedom from torture or cruel and degrading treatment. These are not suggestions; they are constitutional mandates.
Relatedly, the National Police Service Act provides strict guidelines for the treatment of detainees. But it is one thing for the law to be written and another for it to be observed. This is the reality that surviving families battle with daily.
When 17 deaths occur in detention in a single year (as reported by the Independent Medico-Legal Unit (IMLU) in late 2025), and 20 more occur in a single four-month window in early 2026 (per the Independent Policing Oversight Authority (IPOA)), we are no longer looking at “isolated incidents.” We are looking at a state-sanctioned crisis.
A Crisis of Safety
The irony is harsh. Cells that ideally should be a refuge for suspects to await their day in court have become more dangerous than the streets themselves.
The lack of serious government investigation into these “mysterious” deaths points to a silent endorsement of extrajudicial executions.
If we cannot be safe in the hands of those sworn to protect us, then in whose hands are we safe?
The Kenyan government must stop using police cells as death chambers and restore the rule of law before the cell becomes a graveyard for our entire justice system.
