“It’s Ojwang,” my mum said. “I have to stay online.”
I didn’t think a phone call could carry so much weight. My mum was calling from Mbita-Kenya, pacing in the house, while I was thousands of miles away—across borders, time zones, and seasons. She had barely slept. “I need to follow this Ojwang story,” she said, pausing every few seconds to refresh her Twitter—now X—feed.
A few hours later, my boyfriend called from another country. He had been following the Kenyan news all day, as he often does. When I visited him some months ago, I noticed how he immersed himself in it—streaming local channels, flipping between NTV, Citizen, and even lesser-known YouTube political panels. It was his way of staying connected. On this call, his voice carried more than just concern. “I just need to say it out loud,” he told me. “Imtoke.” That Swahili word didn’t just express anger; it carried the weight of frustration and fatigue.
Then came my mum’s second call, this time more anxious. “Your brother hasn’t come back. He left yesterday morning and isn’t picking up his phone.” She tried to sound calm, but I could hear the worry beneath her words. “There have been kidnappings and missing persons cases,” she whispered. “I’m really worried.”
The death that changed the conversation
Albert Ojwang was not a public figure in the traditional sense. He was a teacher and a writer, known for his honesty and boldness. Earlier this year, he had shared a post critical of Deputy Inspector-General Eliud Lagat, raising concerns about corruption. Not long after, he was found dead in a Nairobi police cell.
The official explanation pointed to a fall, but the postmortem suggested otherwise: bruises, head trauma, and neck injuries. CCTV footage from the police station had reportedly been altered. What began as a social media post had ended in tragedy, and with it came a wave of grief and questions.
A movement beyond one man
The protests that followed Ojwang’s death reflected more than the loss of one life. Crowds gathered in Nairobi, Mombasa, Kisumu, Nakuru, and other towns, demanding answers. The chants—“Justice for Ojwang!” and “Stop Killing Us!”—spoke to a broader frustration with patterns of injustice.
From where I was, I watched the news late into the night. My boyfriend did the same, and we exchanged calls between updates. We tried to make sense of it, to process the scenes unfolding on our screens.
During one of the demonstrations, a young hawker named Boniface Kariuki was fatally shot. The government responded by arresting two police officers, and Deputy Inspector-General Lagat stepped aside as investigations began. Yet for many, these actions felt like only the beginning of a much longer conversation about accountability.
Echoes of 2024
It wasn’t the first time the streets filled with voices demanding change. Just a year earlier, in 2024, young people—especially Gen Z—had led nationwide protests against a Finance Bill that many felt placed an unfair burden on ordinary citizens. The demonstrations were as much about economic policy as they were about trust, transparency, and inclusion.
What made that moment remarkable was how seamlessly digital organizing turned into real-world action. Messages shared on social media became marches. Live streams became evidence. The protests made an impact—the bill was eventually withdrawn.
Where we are today
Ojwang’s death has brought that spirit back to the surface, but with deeper questions about what has changed and what remains. The Finance Bill for 2025 has passed, albeit with some amendments following public feedback. Certain clauses, including ones linked to data privacy concerns, were dropped. Yet, for many, the sense of vulnerability persists—whether in the streets, online, or at home.
My mum now hesitates to let my brother stay out late. “They’re picking up young men,” she told me quietly. “Sometimes, for nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Each time I call and he answers, it feels like a small relief.
Signs of resilience
Despite the uncertainty, what stands out is how young people continue to find ways to engage. From peaceful demonstrations to legal challenges, from creative digital advocacy to community organizing, they are reshaping how citizens participate in national dialogue. The calls for accountability, fairness, and reform remain steady.
What is clear is that this is no longer just about individual incidents. It’s about a collective journey, a nation grappling with difficult questions, and a generation finding its voice.
A shared story
Though I am far from home, I feel part of this story with every call I make, every update I follow, and every conversation I have with loved ones. My mum is living it. My boyfriend follows it closely. My brother navigates it daily.
Distance can feel isolating at times. But it has also shown me that the desire for justice, dignity, and peace crosses borders. It lives in the voices that refuse to go quiet, in the families who worry and hope, and in the countless small acts of courage that are shaping Kenya’s future.
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