I do not feel safe enough to express myself.
One year after Kenya's security forces killed more than eighty people during youth-led protests, the bereaved returned to parliament not with anger alone, but with flowers — only to find barbed wire where their grief sought to land. The state, having learned to manage dissent through barriers and arrests rather than bullets, transformed a day of mourning into a test of whether memory itself can be suppressed. What endures in Nairobi is a question that outlasts any finance bill or compensation fund: who is accountable when those sworn to protect become the ones who kill?
- Families of the dead arrived at parliament with flowers and found barbed wire — the government's answer to grief was a physical wall and 355 arrests across the country.
- A mother stood fifty meters from where her son died and said she did not feel safe enough to speak — the silence of the living now mirrors the silence imposed on the dead.
- Tear gas, mounted police, roadblocks, and a near-empty capital revealed a security apparatus that had refined its methods: make commemoration itself feel dangerous.
- A $15 million compensation fund announced by President Ruto was rejected by human rights groups as opaque, exclusionary, and a substitution of money for justice.
- With 2027 elections approaching, the mothers holding flowers outside parliament have become an unresolved political force that no rhetoric or payout has yet managed to dissolve.
Two years after security forces killed more than eighty people during Kenya's anti-government protests, families returned to parliament on Thursday carrying flowers and wreaths. What they found instead was barbed wire strung across the grounds and a capital sealed off by roadblocks. By the end of the day, police had arrested 355 protesters nationwide. The crowds were a fraction of what they had been in 2024 — a visible shrinking of public defiance, though not of private grief.
Jacinta Anyango came to honor her twelve-year-old son Kennedy, killed on the city's outskirts two years earlier. Her question to the government carried the weight of both mourning and warning: who does the president expect to vote for him if he keeps killing us? Caroline Mutisya stood fifty meters from where her son Erickson died and said she did not feel safe enough to speak. The heavy police presence had done its work.
The 2024 protests had begun over proposed tax increases, swelling into a movement that forced lawmakers to flee as demonstrators stormed parliament. The government withdrew the finance bill, but the security response left wounds that have not closed. A BBC investigation found police had deliberately targeted protesters. In the aftermath, dozens disappeared — some found beaten, others found dead. Extrajudicial killing became not an abstraction but a lived national reality.
In Mombasa, hundreds marched in black and Kenyan flags. In Nairobi, tear gas met stone-throwing crowds, police on horseback dispersed gatherings, and fires rose in the Githurai area. The state had learned from 2024: control the space, make dissent costly, limit what memory is allowed to become.
President Ruto acknowledged the right to protest while warning against those who would cause chaos. His estranged former deputy urged activists to stay home in symbolic boycott. Last week, Ruto announced a nearly $15 million compensation fund covering documented abuses between 2017 and 2025 — framed carefully as neither a price for life nor a reward for violence. Human rights organizations rejected it anyway, citing excluded victims, insufficient amounts, and a lack of transparency.
The families outside parliament with flowers pressed against barbed wire represent an accountability that no fund can settle. They want the officers who gave the orders to stand before them. They want an apology. They want to know why their children are dead and why those responsible remain free — a demand that grows louder, not quieter, as 2027 draws near.
Two years after security forces killed more than eighty people during Kenya's anti-government protests, families returned to parliament on Thursday to demand accountability. They came with flowers and wreaths, only to find barbed wire strung across the grounds—a physical barrier between the bereaved and the building where their children died. Police had arrested 355 protesters across the country by day's end and sealed off central Nairobi with roadblocks, transforming the capital into a near-ghost town. The turnout was a fraction of what it had been in 2024 and again last year, a visible shrinking of public defiance.
Jacinta Anyango stood outside parliament holding flowers for her twelve-year-old son Kennedy, killed in clashes on the city's outskirts two years earlier. "All I want is for the government to bring the officers responsible for killing our children before us and let them apologise," she told the BBC. The question she posed cut deeper than a demand for justice: "Who does the president expect to vote for him next year if he continues killing us like this?" Caroline Mutisya had come to honor her son Erickson, who died just fifty meters from where she stood. But the heavy police presence made her afraid to speak. "I do not feel safe enough to express myself," she said.
The 2024 protests had erupted over proposed tax increases, drawing tens of thousands into the streets and eventually forcing lawmakers to flee as demonstrators stormed parliament. The government withdrew the finance bill. But the security response left a wound that had not healed. A BBC investigation found that police had deliberately attempted to kill protesters. In the days that followed, dozens of people vanished—allegedly abducted by security forces. Some were found beaten. Others were found dead. The term "extrajudicial killing" entered the national conversation as a lived reality, not an abstraction.
In Mombasa, hundreds of young people marched through the streets dressed in black, draped in Kenyan flags, calling for justice and an end to unlawful killings. In other cities, demonstrations were sparse and subdued. In Nairobi, security forces fired tear gas. Protesters threw stones. Police on horseback dispersed crowds. In the Githurai area, flames and smoke rose as demonstrators lit fires during clashes with officers. The security apparatus had learned from 2024: control the space, limit the gathering, make dissent costly.
President William Ruto acknowledged that people had a right to protest but warned that those "mobilised to destroy property or cause chaos" would face consequences. His former deputy, Rigathi Gachagua, now a political rival, urged young activists to stay home instead—a symbolic boycott rather than a street presence. Last week, Ruto announced a compensation fund of nearly fifteen million dollars for almost two thousand victims of protest-related human rights abuses documented between 2017 and 2025. He was careful to frame it: not a price for life or pain, not a reward for violence. Human rights organizations rejected the plan anyway, citing excluded victims, inadequate payouts, and lack of transparency.
Ruto faces mounting pressure as 2027 approaches. Critics say his government has failed to deliver on campaign promises. He insists otherwise, claiming his administration has fulfilled most of its pledges and is ready to defend its record. But the families standing outside parliament with flowers on barbed wire represent a different kind of accountability—one that compensation funds and political rhetoric cannot address. They want the officers who gave the orders to stand before them. They want an apology. They want to know why their children are dead and why the people responsible remain free.
Citas Notables
All I want is for the government to bring the officers responsible for killing our children before us and let them apologise.— Jacinta Anyango, mother of 12-year-old Kennedy, killed in 2024 clashes
I came here today to remember my son who was killed just 50 metres from parliament buildings. But I do not feel safe enough to express myself.— Caroline Mutisya, mother of Erickson, killed during 2024 protests
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why did the police barricade parliament with barbed wire? What were they afraid would happen?
They were preventing families from laying wreaths at the building itself—controlling the symbolic geography of grief. If you can't touch the place where your child died, you can't fully claim that death as a public fact.
The turnout was much lower than in 2024 and last year. Does that mean people have given up?
It might mean they've learned the cost. When you arrest 355 people in a single day, when you seal off the capital, when you make it clear that gathering will be met with tear gas and horses—some people decide the risk isn't worth it. That's not surrender. It's exhaustion.
Ruto announced fifteen million dollars in compensation. Why did human rights groups reject it?
Because money doesn't answer the question Jacinta Anyango asked: who killed my child, and will they face justice? Compensation is an admission of harm. But without accountability—without naming names, without trials—it feels like the government is trying to buy silence.
What does the 2027 election have to do with this?
Everything. Ruto needs votes. The families at parliament represent a constituency he's losing. If he can't show that he's holding his own security forces accountable, why should anyone trust him with power again?
Is there any sign the government will prosecute the officers responsible?
Not in the reporting. The deputy police chief said roadblocks were about keeping criminals out. No one has been charged. That silence is its own answer.