They said, “Sisi ni Serikali” (We are the government) with a chilling finality, a phrase meant to instill fear, to silence dissent. That’s what the family of John Mutua, the man who ripped my Doreen away from this world, told me. Their words echoed in the hollow space where my laughter used to reside, a constant reminder of the powerlessness that gnawed at me.
Doreen, my vibrant, beautiful daughter, was gone. Murdered by the very man who swore to love and cherish her. The details are too raw, too fresh a wound to delve into. Suffice it to say, the justice system, slow and overburdened, offered little solace. The police investigation dragged on, court dates were postponed, their faces, etched with a practiced indifference, offered no hope.
Days bled into weeks, then months. Grief, a suffocating shroud, threatened to consume me. But amidst the crushing despair, a flicker of defiance sparked within me. I wouldn’t let them win. I wouldn’t let Doreen’s memory be another statistic, another forgotten face in a never-ending queue for justice.
One day, as I sat on Doreen’s bed, surrounded by the remnants of her life – a half-finished drawing, a well-loved teddy bear – a conversation with a neighbor sparked a memory. She’d mentioned a place called Famous Traditional Doctors, known for their traditional healing methods. It was a long shot, I knew, but at that point, I was clutching at straws… Continue Reading.
