The tragic death of Albert Ojwang, a blogger and teacher who died in police custody under suspicious circumstances, has exposed the deep seated problems within Kenya’s law enforcement and political systems, raising fundamental questions about justice, power, and impunity. At the heart of this scandal is Deputy Inspector General (DIG) Eliud Lagat, whose complaint against Ojwang for alleged defamation triggered a chain of events culminating in the young man’s brutal demise. Yet, despite being the central figure in this saga, Lagat has remained notably silent, shielded by a system that seems more invested in self-preservation than accountability. Inspector General (IG) Douglas Kanja, who initially echoed the absurd police narrative that Ojwang died by “hitting his head against a cell wall,” has since been compelled to retract this claim amid mounting evidence of torture and foul play. However, his appearance before the Senate, alongside the Directorate of Criminal Investigations (DCI) and the Independent Policing Oversight Authority (IPOA), was a lesson in contradictions, obfuscation, and institutional cowardice. The disconnect between their testimonies, ranging from conflicting timelines of Ojwang’s booking to the mysterious tampering of CCTV footage at Central Police Station, paints a picture of a system in crisis, where truth is the first casualty.
The philosophical foundations of this case highlight the broader decline of moral authority within Kenya’s power structures. Lagat’s decision to weaponize the police against a critic, despite Kenya’s 2017 abolition of criminal defamation, reveals a concerning regression into authoritarianism. By invoking the Cybercrimes Act to justify Ojwang’s arrest, Lagat not only abused his office but also exposed the vulnerability of Kenya’s democratic progress. The law, ostensibly designed to protect public order, was instead used as a tool for personal vendetta, reducing the state’s coercive apparatus to a private militia for settling scores. This perversion of justice is emblematic of what philosopher Hannah Arendt termed the “banality of evil,” the bureaucratic ease with which ordinary individuals enact atrocities under the guise of procedure. Lagat’s silence in the face of these allegations further intensifies the suspicion that his actions were not merely misguided but calculated, serving as a chilling reminder of how power corrupts absolutely.
President William Ruto’s belated acknowledgment that Ojwang died “at the hands of the police” was a rare admission of state culpability, yet it rings hollow against his administration’s inaction. Ruto’s plea for patience and vigilance, while investigations unfold, follows a familiar script, one that has played out in countless cases of police brutality, from the extrajudicial killings of the Moi era to the post-election violence of 2007. The pattern is unmistakable: a tragic death, public outrage, promises of accountability, and ultimately, silence. The fact that Ruto has not demanded Lagat’s suspension, despite the DIG’s direct involvement in the case, suggests a tacit endorsement of impunity. It is a Faustian bargain: the president protects his loyalists, and in return, they shield him from the fallout of their crimes. This symbiosis of power and violence is not unique to Kenya; it is the hallmark of regimes that prioritize control over justice, where the state’s monopoly on violence is exercised not for the people but against them.
The Senate’s interrogation of IG Kanja exposed the systemic failures that led to Ojwang’s death. Senators questioned Kanja about the absurdity of the initial suicide narrative, the choice to take Ojwang to an inadequately equipped hospital, and the mysterious tampering of CCTV footage. However, Kanja’s responses were evasive, deflecting blame to IPOA and the DCI, as if the National Police Service were merely a passive observer in its own misconduct. This institutional buck-passing is not merely incompetence; it is a deliberate strategy to diffuse accountability. The French philosopher Michel Foucault’s concept of “disciplinary power” is relevant here: the state’s ability to regulate behavior through surveillance and punishment is not just about enforcing laws but about maintaining hierarchies of power. By refusing to hold Lagat accountable, the police and political elite send a clear message: dissent will be met with violence, and the system will close ranks to protect its own.
The public outcry over Ojwang’s death has been met with a mix of performative gestures and outright defiance. While IPOA has pledged to investigate all 17 officers involved, including Lagat, the lack of immediate arrests, contrasted with the swift action in other high-profile cases like the murder of MP Ongondo Were, betrays a double standard. The filing of two petitions to suspend Lagat, including one seeking his private prosecution for murder, underscores the erosion of public trust in state-led investigations. Yet, the silence of Interior Cabinet Secretary Kipchumba Murkomen, who has been more preoccupied with political squabbles than addressing the crisis, epitomizes the moral bankruptcy at the highest levels of government. His clash with Nandi Senator Samson Cherargei, in which Murkomen resorted to personal attacks rather than addressing the substantive issues, reveals a leadership more invested in survival than service. The Greek philosopher Plato’s warning in The Republic, that a society ruled by self-interested guardians is doomed to tyranny, feels eerily prescient in this context.
Ojwang’s death is not an isolated incident but a symptom of a deeper malaise. The recurrence of police brutality, from the torture of suspects at Kamukunji Police Station to the unresolved murders of activists like Father Allois Cheruiyot Bett, points to a culture of impunity that transcends individual administrations. The philosopher Giorgio Agamben’s notion of “bare life” is relevant here: Ojwang, like many before him, was reduced to a body without rights, his humanity stripped away by the very institutions sworn to protect it. The fact that his father’s grief became a national spectacle, a performative site of mourning rather than a catalyst for change, speaks to the commodification of suffering in Kenya’s political space. The state’s response, when it comes, will likely consist of token arrests, cosmetic reforms, and empty rhetoric, all designed to placate public anger without dismantling the structures that enabled the crime.
Ultimately, the Ojwang case compels Kenyans to confront an uncomfortable truth: that the social contract between the state and its citizens is broken. The government’s primary duty, to protect life and liberty, has been subordinated to the interests of a predatory elite. The philosopher Thomas Hobbes’s Leviathan posited that without a sovereign to enforce order, life would be “nasty, brutish, and short.” Yet, in Kenya, the sovereign has become the source of the brutality it was meant to curb. The question now is whether this moment will galvanize a genuine reckoning or fade into the annals of forgotten injustices. For Ojwang’s family and a nation weary of empty promises, the answer will determine not just the fate of DIG Lagat or IG Kanja, but the soul of Kenya itself.
#JusticeForAlbertOjwang
#EndPoliceBrutalityKE
