The baton strikes cracking protestors' skulls in Nairobi's streets today carry echoes from a darker past—the rhythmic thuds of colonial askaris beating African laborers in 1920s Thika, the gunfire that cut down Mau Mau fighters in Aberdare forests, the sickening crunch of steel against bone when a police Land Rover crushed George Morara's car in 1969. Kenya's police brutality is not an aberration but a tradition, meticulously preserved across generations of political change. What began as a colonial instrument of subjugation has evolved into the ruling elite's most reliable weapon for subjugation, its violence never dissipating.
The origins of this systemic brutality trace back to the very formation of the colonial police force—an institution designed not to serve but to dominate. Before European occupation, African communities maintained order through social systems of elders' councils, age-set accountability, and communal justice. The British replaced these with local administration and the police force modeled on Ireland's Royal Irish Constabulary—an organization born to quell rebellion, not protect citizens. The first recruits of the Kenya Police were often Sudanese mercenaries and Somali horsemen deliberately chosen for their ethnic distance from local communities. Their mandate was clear: enforce colonial extraction by any means necessary.
This ethos manifested horrifically during the 1920s Harry Thuku protests against forced labor and the kipande identification system. Police opened fire on unarmed demonstrators outside Nairobi's Central Police Station, killing at least 25. The pattern repeated during Mau Mau uprising—interrogation chambers where castration pliers and electrified batons became tools of state terror, concentration camps where "screening" meant torture until confession. The Hola massacre of 1959, where 11 detainees were beaten to death for refusing forced labor, wasn't an outlier but standard procedure. Colonial documents later revealed chilling bureaucratic euphemisms: "compelling force," "vigorous persuasion," "special treatment"—all codewords for state-sanctioned torture and murder.
Independence Without Transformation
When the Union Jack lowered in 1963, Kenyatta's government inherited this police machinery intact—down to the same British-trained officers who had tortured Mau Mau suspects. Far from dismantling the colonial police model, independent Kenya perfected it. The 1965 assassination of Pio Gama Pinto, the 1969 Kisumu massacre where police executed Jaramogi Odinga's supporters, the 1975 murder of Josiah Mwangi Kariuki—each atrocity reinforced the same lesson: the police existed to protect power, not people.
The language of oppression remained remarkably consistent across decades. Just as colonial District Commissioners ordered "firm handling" of natives, President Kenyatta infamously ordered, "'Wajaluo waswagwe kama unga' (Crush the Luo like flour), which led to 1969 Kisumu massacre. In 2023, Interior Cabinet Secretary Kithure Kindiki ordered police to deal 'firmly and decisively' with protesters, language that echoed historical directives. The resulting crackdowns—live ammunition, mass arrests, and fatal shootings of unarmed demonstrators—revealed a continuity of colonial-era policing. The weapons had evolved from sjamboks to tear gas canisters, but the doctrine stayed unchanged: dissent equals disorder, and disorder demands brutal suppression.
A People Under Siege
The scars of institutionalized police violence run deep in Kenya's collective memory. From childhood, we learn to view men in uniform not as protectors, but as predators. I remember those early school days when teachers would ask about our dream careers - never once did any classmate aspire to be a police officer. We all understood they represented not safety, but systematic oppression. This fear followed me into adulthood. I eventually stopped attending nighttime football matches altogether after repeated arrests for so-called "loitering" - our crime simply being young men enjoying sports. Even today, the sight of a police Land Cruiser - still ominously called "Mariam," hearkening back to its notorious role in 1980s Mwakenya crackdowns - triggers an instinctive urge to flee. Their checkpoints serve not as security measures, but as thinly-veiled extortion points, perpetuating a cycle of fear and exploitation.
This pervasive terror stems from deliberate policy choices. Police barracks—isolated compounds separating officers from civilian life—create a warrior caste mentality. Six-month training periods (shorter than some vocational courses) ensure recruits learn force application rather than community engagement.
The Illusion of Reform
The 2010 Constitution's promise of police reform proved largely cosmetic. While "Service" replaced "Force" in official nomenclature, the Kenya Police Service's conduct remains indistinguishable from its colonial predecessor. The Independent Policing Oversight Authority (IPOA) investigates less than only 7.6% of police killings, with convictions rarer than leopard sightings in Nairobi National Park. Even the murder of six-month-old Baby Samantha during 2017 election protests did not stop the state from promoting the shoot-to-kill policy.
The recent killing of Albert Ojwang'—brutally tortured to death in police custody—laid bare the farce of police reform. IPOA's so-called investigation has degenerated into a cynical charade, scapegoating junior officers while shielding the true perpetrators. Meanwhile, the proposal to integrate police into communities—a crucial step toward accountability—collects dust in parliamentary archives, deliberately shelved by elites who recognize that maintaining officers' alienation from the public is key to preserving their oppressive power.
Decolonizing Public Safety
I have long questioned the adequacy of police training in Kenya. A mere six months of preparation is woefully insufficient for the immense responsibilities officers bear and the high expectations the public rightly holds. While I cannot speak to the exact curriculum, such brief training seems absurdly short—police work demands far more. Ideally, officers should undergo two to three years of rigorous preparation, comparable to legal training. They must thoroughly master the law they are sworn to enforce, yet today's rampant arbitrary arrests and unlawful detentions prove how little many understand it.
But legal knowledge alone is not enough. Officers need comprehensive training in psychology and life skills—how to recognize human stress responses, de-escalate tensions, and regulate their own emotions. They must learn that the people they encounter will often be fearful, angry, or desperate, and that effective policing requires empathy, not just force. Physical fitness matters, but so does cultivating a genuine spirit of service. Above all, they must internalize that their ultimate allegiance belongs not to any individual or institution, but to the laws of Kenya and the people they protect.
True police reform begins with transforming training from a rushed formality into a serious professional preparation. Only then can we expect officers to act as guardians of justice rather than instruments of oppression.
Second, we must break down the barriers between police and communities. The colonial-era practice of housing officers in isolated barracks needs to end. Police should live among the people they serve, sending their children to local schools, shopping in neighborhood markets, and experiencing firsthand the challenges ordinary Kenyans face. This proximity would foster accountability and understanding that is impossible when officers remain an occupying force rather than community members.
Living among the people will compel officers to act justly, for they will be known and their actions scrutinized. When they murder an innocent man, they will have the community to answer to. When they engage in corruption, countless fingers will point their way. Like teachers, doctors, and lawyers, police officers must be accountable to parents, neighbors, and the communities they serve. They will strive to maintain professionalism because their reputation and acceptance depend on it. Should they misbehave, the community will reject them—forcing them out. This proximity will instill in them a heightened sense of accountability.
Third, the National Police Service must sever from executive control, becoming answerable to judicial rather than political masters. It is painfully clear that the police force has been reduced to a mere instrument of the executive, acting on political orders rather than upholding the rule of law. By remaining under executive control, the police service only amplifies the unchecked power of those in office. We see this in the abduction of political dissidents—carried out by officers following directives from above. We see it when court orders are ignored because the police, beholden to the executive, refuse to enforce rulings that contradict their masters’ interests. This blatant subversion of justice proves that the police must be freed from executive domination. Only an independent police service—with robust oversight mechanisms—can restore its rightful duty: serving the law, not the whims of power.
Ultimately, the responsibility also rests with us, the Kenyan people. For too long, the police have preyed upon our lack of legal knowledge. How often do we find ourselves paying exorbitant bribes for minor traffic violations? We must cultivate the courage to face legal consequences when we err - after all, our courts generally administer fair justice. The climate of fear perpetuated by police intimidation must end. When officers accuse us of wrongdoing, we should calmly insist on proper charges and due process in court, rather than succumbing to the easy escape of bribery.
The Fire Next Time
As Kenya approaches its next election cycle, the specter of police violence looms large. The same colonial playbook—mass arrests, media blackouts, extrajudicial killings—awaits deployment. When a GSU officer recently told protesters "I have license to kill," he revealed more truth than intended. That license was signed in 1895 when the first colonial policeman set foot in Mombasa. Revoking it requires not just reforming institutions, but exorcising the colonial ghost still whispering in every policeman's ear: "They are not your people. They are the enemy." Until that voice falls silent, the beatings will continue.
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