The State, in all its pompous arrogance and khaki-stained pride, released a press statement so odious in content and hollow in humanity that it reverberated through the bones of the nation. A nation already bruised by injustice and now spat upon by those sworn to protect it. That press release, allegedly penned by an institution that mistakes its badge for a divine halo, was meant to soothe. Instead, it scalded. Albert is dead. Executed. And in place of justice, we received a flimsy declaration soaked in bureaucratic rot and impunity.
The content of the statement did not read like an apology, nor an acceptance of institutional failure. It bore no mourning. It was not written by a pen guided by conscience, but by trembling fingers clutching the last fibers of a crumbling edifice of lies. The press release, crafted in the cold language of disdain, essentially told the people of Kenya: “We killed him. And we will do it again.” That is the chilling subtext of their excuse-laden narrative.
It was not merely a public relations blunder—it was the philosophical equivalent of dancing on Albert’s grave. A grotesque charade parading as accountability. And all of it was manufactured by minds conditioned not to think but to obey, not to empathize but to neutralize. We must ask: what kind of institution thinks it proper to defend murder with such linguistic clumsiness and moral bankruptcy?
We should not blame the paper on which it was written, nor the typewriter keys that clicked in apathy. No. We must trace the fault to the architects of the institution—the Inspector General and the Director of Criminal Investigations, whose signatures may as well be inked in blood. If there is to be justice, let it begin at their desks.
And yet, the stench of the problem lies deeper. A nation cannot plant cassava and expect to harvest pineapples. For years, we have entrusted our security to individuals whose primary qualification was not character nor intelligence, but the mere fact that they failed everywhere else. Ds and Es in O-levels—the academic euphemism for “we gave up”—have become the passport to police service.
Are we to be surprised, then, that a force built on the academic rubble of mediocrity cannot string together a coherent press statement, let alone understand the depth of pain inflicted by a wrongful death? The tragedy is not only Albert’s; it is the tragedy of a system that rewards failure with a uniform and a gun.
Let us imagine for a moment that Socrates were alive today and wandered into Kenya’s police college. He would be arrested before he could ask his first question. “Why?” he’d inquire, “do we train men in guns before training them in thought?” But our police academies, sanctuaries of command and control, have no room for questions. They specialize in obedience, not wisdom.
Is it any wonder, then, that a police officer can shoot a man in cold blood and sleep peacefully that night? Is it any wonder that the press release did not mention Albert’s name until the fifth paragraph, as if his identity were a footnote to his murder? This is not law enforcement. This is sanctioned barbarism cloaked in epaulettes.
Something is terrifying about a state that does not blush when confronted with its sins. The tone of the statement was not sorrowful—it was smug. It assumed that we, the citizens, are so dumb, so broken, so used to grief, that we would gulp it down like porridge. But we are not numb. We are awake. And we are angry.
When the state treats life as expendable, when it hides behind weak grammar and pitiful logic, when it gaslights the public instead of grieving with them, it loses its moral authority. Kenya is bleeding, not just from bullets, but from bureaucratic cowardice. We are being governed by people who cannot distinguish between duty and ego.
And who are the men who wrote and approved that release? If they were carpenters, the table would collapse. If they were doctors, the patient would die of laughter before the illness got him. But because they are policemen, they kill—and expect praise.
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Perhaps it is time we stopped using exams as jokes. Ds and Es are not badges of courage. They are a warning sign that someone did not master the basic disciplines of logic, communication, or empathy. And when such people are handed guns and batons, society is not being protected—it is being occupied.
Why do we recruit our peacekeepers from the ranks of the rejected? Shouldn’t we, instead, demand that those who carry the law in their holsters be those who understand justice with their hearts and their minds? That those with the power to end life first prove that they understand the value of it?
Albert was not a criminal. He was not a threat. He was a human being, gunned down by the very people paid to protect him. And the press release that followed? A moral catastrophe. A bureaucratic necrophilia—violating the dignity of the dead with the cold fingers of institutional indifference.
This is not just about one press release. It is about a culture. A doctrine of violence dressed in the robes of order. The IG of Police must resign, not because resignation will bring Albert back, but because it is the barest, most basic gesture of accountability left in a nation teetering on the brink of militarized madness.
The DCI boss, too, must be held accountable—not simply for what was done, but for what was said in that disgraceful excuse of a statement. To justify murder is to murder twice. First the body, then the truth.
And as for Parliament, which has watched in silence, your complicity is noted. You feast in the halls of power while the people mourn in alleyways and morgues. The blood cries out, and you respond with silence or, worse, with strategic tweets.
It is not enough to reform the police service. We must recreate it. Tear it down to its roots and rebuild it with vision, with philosophy, with courage. Begin at the point of recruitment. End the practice of hiring those who could not read, write, or reason their way through high school. Not because intelligence alone makes a good officer, but because a lack of it guarantees a bad one.
We need officers who understand the Constitution. Who understand that “protect and serve” is not a slogan, but a sacred trust. To wear the uniform is to become a guardian, not a god.
Let us be clear: this is not elitism. It is realism. To place deadly force in the hands of those unequipped to wield it wisely is an act of societal suicide. To keep doing so after Albert’s murder is nothing less than madness.
And what of the mothers? The fathers? The siblings who must now live in a country where a press release is their only consolation after a loved one’s execution? Is this the Kenya we imagined when we voted, when we paid our taxes, when we recited the national anthem?
A state that kills its children and then shrugs its shoulders is not a state—it is a syndicate. A cabal of cowards pretending to be custodians of justice.
We do not want poetic condolences. We want structural change. We want every D and E recruit in the police service to be re-evaluated. Not with vengeance—but with vision. If they have grown, retrain them. If they have not, release them.
There is no shame in being academically weak. But there is shame in allowing that weakness to command weapons and write press releases that mock the dead. Police work requires strength of body, yes—but also clarity of mind, and purity of heart.
Where is the national outcry? Where is the clergy? The academia? The media? Have we all gone mute in the face of state-sponsored executions and the insult of poorly written rationalizations?
We are governed by a cult of impunity. But even cults fall. They collapse under the weight of their absurdity. And this press release—this linguistic corpse—is their death knell.
Reform is not enough. We need a revolution of the mind, of the system, of the soul of policing itself. And that revolution begins with refusing to be lied to so brazenly.
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