When Kenya descended into bloodshed in the wake of the 2007 general election, the world watched in disbelief. Over 1,300 people were killed, hundreds of thousands were displaced, families were shattered, homes torched, and neighbors turned against each other overnight.
We called it election violence. But was it?
The truth is more uncomfortable than the slogans, the press briefings, or the reconciliatory church prayers we clung to in the aftermath. What happened in 2007/08 was not simply about a stolen vote. It was the cracking open of decades-old wounds — social, economic, tribal, and political — that we, as a country, had consistently refused to face.
We blamed the devil. We called for peace. We urged forgiveness — often from the very people who had been violated. But we never stopped to ask: What were we really forgiving? What had we truly understood?
The Road to Rupture: Seeds Sown Over Decades
To understand the violence of 2007/08, we must step back — far back.
Land: At the heart of Kenya’s post-independence politics lies land. The redistribution that never was. The promises that were betrayed. The settler farms that were handed to loyalists. The deliberate concentration of land ownership among a few political families while millions remained squatters on ancestral soil. Nowhere was this more volatile than in the Rift Valley — where the Kalenjin communities felt their ancestral lands had been taken by Kikuyu settlers after independence.
Ethnic favoritism: Since independence, political power in Kenya has largely revolved around ethnic arithmetic. Presidents favored their own, whether through public appointments, development budgets, or access to opportunities. This created entire generations who believed statehood and tribe were inseparable.
Impunity: From the assassinations of Pio Gama Pinto, Tom Mboya, JM Kariuki, Robert Ouko — to the Goldenberg and Anglo Leasing scandals — Kenya perfected the art of sweeping trauma under the rug. Each injustice buried became fertile ground for future rage.
The Rift Valley question: While the violence was presented as a Luo-Kikuyu political rivalry between Raila and Kibaki, on the ground the most brutal violence happened between the Kalenjin and Kikuyu communities. The roots of this enmity run deep. During the Kenyatta and Moi regimes, Kikuyus had been settled in parts of the Rift Valley that the Kalenjin communities considered ancestral land. During the 1992 and 1997 elections, clashes had already erupted under the guise of land grievances, leaving thousands dead or displaced. What happened in 2007 was not new — it was an explosion waiting for the next political match.
Moi’s legacy of ethnic anxiety: There was a long-standing fear, especially during Moi's reign, that a Kikuyu-Luo alliance would create a political juggernaut that marginalized other communities. Moi had worked tirelessly to prevent this, often playing communities against each other to maintain his grip on power. But ironically, the supposed unity between Raila and Kibaki collapsed in 2002, and in 2007, the alliance between Raila (Luo) and Ruto (Kalenjin) reawakened unresolved historical tensions with Kikuyus.
By 2007, all it took was a spark. And the spark came.
The Trigger: A Stolen Election, or Just the Final Straw?
The 2007 general election was a tightly contested race between incumbent President Mwai Kibaki and opposition leader Raila Odinga. Early tallies showed Raila leading. Then suddenly, in the dead of night, the numbers flipped. The Electoral Commission declared Kibaki the winner. He was hurriedly sworn in, in an afternoon ceremony at State House.
The outrage was immediate. But the violence that followed was not evenly distributed.
In parts of Rift Valley, violence turned ethnic — Kikuyus were targeted by communities who felt they had historically been displaced and politically excluded.
In Nairobi, Kisumu, Eldoret, and Mombasa, protests morphed into riots, looting, killings.
Police responded with disproportionate force, killing hundreds of unarmed civilians.
It wasn’t just election violence. It was accumulated bitterness finding an exit.
Religion and Repression: When We Blamed the Devil
Kenyans are deeply religious. And in 2008, religion did what it often does when confronted with systemic failure: it offered comfort, but not clarity.
Churches filled. Forgiveness was preached. People prayed. But the spiritual framing — that we had been ‘visited by the devil’ — robbed the country of a moment to wrestle with its collective complicity.
The violence wasn’t abstract evil. It was human. Planned, participated in, and ignored by human beings. It was fueled by inequality, identity politics, and our silence.
In forgiving too quickly, we erased victims. In praying too loudly, we drowned out truth.
The Aftermath: Band-Aids and Broken Systems
The peace deal brokered by Kofi Annan led to a coalition government. Raila Odinga became Prime Minister. Kibaki remained President. Kenya breathed again — but nothing fundamental changed.
No high-profile convictions. Even after the ICC named six suspects, including Uhuru Kenyatta and William Ruto, the cases collapsed.
IDPs remain un-resettled. Thousands never returned home. Others were silently reabsorbed into poverty.
The same leaders recycled. Those accused of incitement and complicity went on to be re-elected.
We moved on without moving forward.
Where Are We Now?
We like to say we’ve healed. But what we’ve done is forget.
The internally displaced persons (IDPs) are still largely unaccounted for. Some remain in camps. Others were dumped in far-flung counties with a few iron sheets and sacks of unga and told to start over.
We do not hear their voices. There are no national memorials. It is not in our schoolbooks. There are no national days of remembrance.
There are children who were born in camps and became adults there — undocumented, unseen.
There are perpetrators who walk free and victims who were told to move on.
The silence is haunting. And convenient. Because as long as we don’t talk about it, no one has to be held accountable.
We forgot because remembering is expensive. It demands truth. It demands justice. And we are a nation still allergic to both.
Could It Happen Again?
Yes.
Because the ingredients remain:
Ethnic-based politics.
Youth unemployment and hopelessness.
Political impunity.
Economic exclusion.
Untouched historical grievances.
The 2022 elections were largely peaceful — but not because we healed. Because we were tired. Gen Z turned away. Millennials stayed disengaged. Boomers retreated.
But fatigue is not healing. Silence is not peace. And unaddressed injustice is merely delayed eruption.
The Lesson We Refused to Learn
Kenya’s 2007/08 violence wasn’t inevitable. It was engineered — by decades of inequity, ethnic manipulation, and impunity.
We need new language for what happened. Not just post-election violence, but a national reckoning. A moment when the mask fell off.
If we don’t tell the truth about what happened, we will never build a country where it cannot happen again.
Peace is not the absence of noise. It is the presence of justice.
Reflection:
It’s terrifying to realize that in Kenya, great injustice can happen to you — and the country will move on like nothing ever did. You’ll be told to forgive. To pray. To heal. But no one will return what you lost. No one will carry what was broken. You are, in the end, on your own.
Comments
Post a Comment