When The Law Becomes Lawless: Murkomen’s SHOOT Orders, Shock The Country

In a nation founded upon the blood-stained parchments of constitutionalism, where Lady Justice clutches her scales with trembling hands, the chilling echo of Kipchumba Murkomen’s directive—that police should shoot any citizen who dares approach a police station—rips through the conscience of a republic teetering dangerously on the precipice of state-sponsored lawlessness. It is a declaration not merely of incompetence but of outright war against the Constitution of Kenya (2010), the Bill of Rights, and every shred of democratic civility.

Let us begin by tearing open the cadaver of this madness. Article 26 of the Constitution explicitly guarantees every person the right to life, with deprivation permitted only as permitted by law. Murkomen, in his wisdom—or rather the catastrophic absence thereof—has single-handedly attempted to override this sacred article with what amounts to an unconstitutional fatwa, a shoot-to-kill decree absent of judicial process, proportionality, or rationality.

This is not a slip of the tongue; it is the manifestation of a creeping authoritarianism now garbed in the robes of security rhetoric. The Interior Ministry is not a rogue paramilitary franchise. It is a constitutional office bound by Article 10—national values and principles of governance—which demands the rule of law, human dignity, equity, and social justice. Yet Murkomen seems to believe he was appointed not by the Constitution but by the ghost of Idi Amin.

When a Cabinet Secretary, sworn to uphold the law, becomes its primary assassin, we enter the dark theatre of democratic cannibalism. Murkomen’s directive violates not just one but several cornerstones of our legal architecture. Article 238 on national security states clearly that the security of Kenya shall be pursued in compliance with the law and with the utmost respect for human rights. Evidently, Murkomen missed that memo—or perhaps he wiped his boots with it.

Let’s pause and examine the absurdity of the order. Imagine a citizen rushing to report an emergency—a robbery, a lost child, a domestic violence case—only to be greeted not by an officer, but by a bullet, courtesy of Murkomen’s policy of terminal customer service. The police station, once a sanctuary of refuge, transformed overnight into a licensed abattoir.

If satire had muscles, it would struggle to carry the weight of this tragedy. What next, Mr. Minister? Shall we install guillotines outside police stations for those who look suspiciously curious? Will the Interior Ministry soon publish a loyalty questionnaire to be filled in before seeking police help—Answer incorrectly, and we execute you on the spot?

The Penal Code of Kenya under Section 203 defines murder as the unlawful killing of another person with malice aforethought. It does not add, “unless ordered by an ill-advised Cabinet Secretary on a podium with a microphone.” This decree amounts to a public incitement to commit murder—an offence punishable under Section 96 of the Penal Code.

Further, this command squarely violates the National Police Service Act, Section 61, which outlines the use of force. Firearms are permitted only when less extreme measures are ineffective and the threat is immediate—for example, to save lives, not to shoot civilians approaching a government building out of suspicion, curiosity, or desperation.

Read Also: You’re Not Broke, You’re Just Leaking Money Like The Corrupt Government Of William Ruto

In giving such an order, Murkomen not only breached the Constitution but engaged in what the Rome Statute calls crimes against humanity—murder committed as part of a widespread or systematic attack directed against any civilian population. Kenya, being a signatory, must consider whether its Cabinet is manufacturing impunity at industrial scale.

Let’s not sugarcoat it—this is an order to license extrajudicial executions under the phony pretext of protecting “armories.” Never mind that the Constitution already empowers the police to secure installations using proportionate and legal means. Murkomen’s order ignores the due process prescribed by law and catapults Kenya back to the darkest chapters of its history: the Wagalla Massacre, Nyayo House torture chambers, and the enforced disappearances under the guise of security.

Every lawyer worth their salt would file this under abuse of office, as defined by the Anti-Corruption and Economic Crimes Act, Section 46. Public officers who use their office improperly to confer an improper benefit—or, in this case, enable illegal killings—commit an offence.

One wonders if Murkomen has confused his job title. Is he the Cabinet Secretary for Interior or the Commander of Public Executions? Has the Constitution been replaced with a ‘Murkomen Doctrine,’ where suspicion alone is grounds for execution without trial?

This reckless command is a spit in the face of Article 47, which guarantees every Kenyan the right to fair administrative action that is expeditious, efficient, lawful, reasonable, and procedurally fair. Nothing—nothing—in this abomination qualifies as lawful, reasonable, or fair.

Moreover, Article 244 of the Constitution demands that the National Police Service strives for the highest standards of professionalism and complies with constitutional standards of human rights and fundamental freedoms. Apparently, the Cabinet Secretary believes that bullets now substitute for professionalism.

It’s a grim comedy: the police, who have a constitutional duty to serve and protect, are now encouraged to shoot anyone who mistakenly believes that walking into a police station is a civic right rather than a capital offence.

This recklessness sows the seeds of anarchy. It manufactures a society where fear of the state replaces trust in it, where police stations become zones of sanctioned murder rather than havens of security. The social contract fractures—irreparably.

Let us interrogate the cascading consequences. First: the immediate collapse of public cooperation with law enforcement. If approaching a police station risks a bullet, citizens will simply not report crime. Community policing dies. Intelligence gathering dries up. Criminal networks flourish, knowing the public fears the police more than them.

Second: vigilante justice. When the police become executioners, citizens will naturally conclude that they are on their own. Mob justice, revenge killings, and the emergence of parallel justice systems become inevitable. Welcome to Somalia 2.0.

Third: international embarrassment. Kenya, once a beacon of constitutional democracy in the region, now broadcasts to the world that it conducts state-sponsored executions based on suspicion. Expect travel advisories, diplomatic rebukes, and sanctions.

Fourth: the courts. The Judiciary, if it retains a backbone, should immediately declare this directive unconstitutional. A constitutional petition under Articles 22 and 258 should be filed, challenging the violation of rights and the threat to life.

Let’s talk about criminal liability. Under both domestic law and international statutes, Murkomen could be personally culpable. The chain of command does not exonerate individual responsibility for unlawful orders. Nuremberg made that clear. “I was following orders” is not a defense; “I was giving them” is even worse.

Under Section 128 of the National Police Service Act, a police officer is obligated to disobey unlawful orders. The tragedy is that most officers, driven by fear or indoctrination, may comply regardless—leading to a bloodbath whose authorship rests squarely at the feet of Murkomen.

Even the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, to which Kenya is a signatory, stands violated. Article 3 guarantees the right to life, liberty, and security of person. Murkomen, with the flourish of a rogue pen and a microphone, trampled it.

The political class must not be silent. Silence equals complicity. The National Assembly’s Departmental Committee on Administration and National Security must summon Murkomen, grill him, and—if integrity means anything—recommend his immediate dismissal.

Civil society must not tweet and move on. This is a constitutional emergency. The Kenya Human Rights Commission, Amnesty International, the Law Society of Kenya—all must rise, litigate, protest, and resist.

And where is the Office of the Director of Public Prosecutions? Where is the Independent Policing Oversight Authority (IPOA)? This is the precise moment their existence is justified. Failure to act renders them accomplices in state-engineered murder.

Let’s address the elephant in the room. This is not a mistake; it is a pattern. Kenya’s security apparatus has long danced on the graves of the Constitution—enforced disappearances, torture, executions disguised as “thwarted crimes.” Murkomen simply said the quiet part out loud.

The social media gaffe is not the problem; the underlying belief system is. It is the normalization of brutality as governance, the substitution of bullets for justice, and violence for administration.

Legally, Murkomen has also breached the African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights, ratified by Kenya, which guarantees the inviolability of human life under Article 4.

In terms of international criminal law, the doctrine of command responsibility applies. Leaders who fail to prevent or punish crimes committed by subordinates are themselves culpable. This was the jurisprudence at the Yugoslavia and Rwanda tribunals.

The long-term danger cannot be overstated. Once extrajudicial violence is normalized, it becomes a tool for political suppression. Today it is those who approach police stations; tomorrow it will be protestors, journalists, opposition politicians.

Imagine the precedent: If Murkomen can order killings outside police stations, what stops another CS from ordering the army to shoot striking workers, students, or journalists? The slope is not just slippery; it is greased with blood.

This order also decimates the trust between state and citizen. No development, no investment, no nation-building is possible where the state itself is the predator. Investors do not put money in firing ranges disguised as countries.

For those whispering that this is “just rhetoric,” remember: Rwanda’s genocide started with rhetoric. Nazi Germany’s Holocaust began with dehumanizing speeches. Violence begins with words. Murkomen’s words are loaded guns.

The courts must not wait for dead bodies to pile up. A conservatory order suspending the implementation of this directive must be issued immediately. The Constitution demands preemptive action, not post-mortem regret.

Religious leaders—who have become disturbingly mute on issues of governance—must rediscover their prophetic voice. Or shall we rewrite the Bible to include “Thou shalt shoot thy neighbour if they look suspicious”?

A true security expert knows that security is not the absence of crime but the presence of justice. Murkomen has confused policing with butchery.

The President himself, William Ruto, must be put on notice. By allowing Murkomen to remain in office, he inherits the blood debt of every citizen unlawfully killed.

Murkomen’s continued tenure is an existential threat to the Constitution, national cohesion, and the very idea of Kenya. If unchecked, his recklessness will outlive his career and haunt generations unborn.

In closing, this is not merely about one man’s folly. It is about whether Kenya will allow its Constitution to be replaced by microphones, egos, and bullets.

The choice is stark: Murkomen’s Kenya or the Republic of Kenya. One must die for the other to live.

Read Also: How Not To Run A Country, Ruto Style: June 25Th