A year after Endarasha tragedy: Parents still haunted by dormitory that fire killed 21 boys

On the night of September 5, 2024, the silence of Nyeri’s highlands was broken by flames that consumed more than wood and iron sheets.

At Hillside Endarasha Academy, a boys’ dormitory caught fire, trapping 164 children in their sleep. By morning, 21 boys were gone.

The news spread with a heaviness that words could barely capture.

Families rushed to the school, others to hospitals and morgues, clinging to fragments of hope that their sons had survived.

Instead, what they found was confusion, grief and unbearable loss.

The boys, among them Brandon Mugo, Roy Victor Muturi, John Komu, Immanuel Maina, Samvin Munene, Timothy Weru, Kent Mungai, Ferdinard Karuku, Kevin Kabogo, Travis Kariuki, Lewis Machira, Collins Muriithi, Robinson Theuri, Bernard Warutere, John Munga, Michael Muriithi, Lewis Maina, Emmanuel Kiragu, Earnest Mwangi, Timothy Wamai and Success Wanjau, never came home.

Memories that haunt

For the families left behind, memories are both a source of comfort and a knife that twists daily.

Speaking to the Star on Thursday, Cyrus Chege (father to Roy Victor Muturi), Esther Wanjiru (mother to Samvin Munene) and Timothy Kinuthia (father to Brandon Mugo), narrated their ordeal and waited for a justice that seems to escape them by the day.

“He is my firstborn,” recalled Chege, his voice breaking. “I got this boy when I was 28 years old.”

“Every morning when he was at home, the first thing he would do after waking up was run into our bedroom and say, ‘Good morning, dad’. That’s what I miss so much.”

For Timothy Kinuthia, who lost his son Roy Brandon, life has been drained of its rhythm.

“It has not been easy. These are the kids who meant everything to us. My boy was jovial and full of promise. He was even ahead of me in technology. He would pick my phone and figure out features I didn’t even know existed,” he said.

“We were robbed of very unique children with bright futures. What hurts most is we still don’t know what really happened.”

Irene Wanjiru, another grieving parent, remembers her son as a dreamer.

“He was a footballer. He wanted to be a pastor. I wish he had survived so that he could reach what he was inspired to be,” she says, her eyes misty.

The absence is felt in the smallest moments: an empty chair at the dinner table, a missing laugh in the compound, mornings that start with silence instead of cheerful greetings.

The search for sons

The night of the fire was chaos. Parents ran between hospitals, police stations and the school, desperate to trace their sons. Many were met with conflicting information.

“I was in Meru when I received the call,” Wanjiru said.

“I tried to reach home, to reach other parents, but I had no response from my son. I travelled overnight, but by the time I arrived, it was too late.”

Kinuthia described the haunting hours he spent moving from one facility to another.

“At first, I was told my son was at Mary Immaculate Hospital. Then I was redirected to PGH, then to the mortuary,” he said.

“Back at the school, there was confusion everywhere. Parents were shouting, calling their sons’ names…I didn’t see my son.”

For many families, closure never came. DNA testing was the only way to identify some remains, and even then, parents were left doubtful.

“Some of us never believed we buried our sons,” Kinuthia said quietly.

“We were given tags, DNA reports, but no real answers.”

Chege recalled how he was referred to Mary Immaculate Hospital by a teacher at the school.

Upon arriving, he was told that two boys had been rushed to the hospital, but one had passed away. The other had been referred to another hospital.

“A teacher told me my son had been referred, so my friend and I drove there. Upon arrival, I was told he had taken a turn to the worse and was referred to Mathari hospital,’ he said.

The first glimpse he took was of Roy being wheeled to an ambulance. At Mathari, they were referred to the Kenyatta National Hospital (KNH) burns unit. He had to take him to Nairobi by the road.

“I walked with that boy on his last journey, from hospital to hospital, until he passed away in Nairobi,” he said with a sad sigh.

Roy, the Grade 2 boy, is among the two easily recognisable boys. Many of the 19 others had been burnt beyond recognition.

The silence

If the fire burned their children’s bodies, the silence that followed has burned their souls.

In the year since the tragedy, parents say neither the government nor the school has reached out to explain what happened.

No investigation report has been shared. No post-mortem results have been issued.

“Since we buried our sons, we have never gotten any information,” Wanjiru said.

“No post-mortem, no DNA results, no investigation findings. We don’t know what killed our sons. We don’t even know what we buried.”

Kinuthia echoed the sentiment.

“Not a single government officer has come back to us. Not even our local leaders. We feel abandoned.”

As of Chege, his pain is visible as he says that the government investigators and pathologists had grown to be confidants during that period, only for them to completely withdraw after.

He scrolls his phone to show us a photo with an official.

“We were really close. I would call him and tell him how I was after the tragedy, and he would assure me that they were doing everything possible to get us justice.”

“But now, when I call, he does not answer my calls.”

DNA reports

The parents’ anguish is worsened by doubts over the identification process. Some of the bodies were burnt beyond recognition.

“It was horrific,” Kinuthia recalled walking through the remains of the burnt dormitory.

“You could only see a form in ash, a shape of what once was a boy. Some parents buried what they were told were their sons, but they are not sure.”

He adds, “Until proper reports are released, their minds will never rest.”

Abandoned 

The parents recount how they tried to follow up. They visited local DCIO offices, the Directorate of Criminal Investigations (DCI) and even regional and national offices.

“In the early months, we visited the DCIO’s office, the regional bosses, even Nairobi,” Chege said.

“We were told investigations are ongoing. But one year later, nothing. The officers we spoke to no longer pick our calls.”

At first, detectives were responsive. Parents recall the homicide director working day and night in the days after the tragedy. But once the burials were done, communication ceased.detective

“We need the government to act. We need to know what caused the fire and what next. We need justice,” Chege said.

He bitterly added, “the government controlled everything from howwhat's I was to travel through seeking help for my son, to the mortuary process, the Requiem Mass and the burial.”

He added that he was even told by officials that his son’s body did not belong to him.

“I was told, ‘That child belongs to the government.’ Imagine that. From the beginning, everything was controlled. Even when and where we could bury our children.”

“Now, since they owned the boys, let them answer our questions.”

The cost of grief

Beyond emotional pain, the tragedy has drained families financially and physically. Some were forced to relocate due to trauma and health struggles.

“I had to move from my former place because of my health, and even my daughter’s health,” Wanjiru said. “It has really cost us a lot.”

Medical and mortuary bills added to the burden.

Chege recalled how he was made to sign forms at Kenyatta National Hospital to clear fees for his son’s body, despite earlier assurances from the government.

“Even the morgue fees, I had to pay,” he said.

“Only later did the county refund some of it.”

For the parents, no financial compensation could ever ease the pain.

“Even if we were paid, no money can bring back our sons,” Wanjiru said.

“All we want is justice and answers. If we know what caused the fire, maybe we can heal. And maybe other children can be spared.”

Chege added, “Our children had dreams, talents, and bright futures. If they had been given a chance to live, they would have been better people for this country.”

A demand to the government

The parents’ message to the government is simple but urgent: Tell us what happened.

“We are not only speaking for ourselves,” Chege said. “Not every parent has the strength to face the media. But we carry their voices.”

“We ask the government: release the reports. Let us know what caused that fire. Hold those responsible to account.”

They believe answers could prevent similar tragedies in other schools.

“If we know what happened, maybe the government can implement measures to protect other children,” Wanjiru said.

“We don’t want other parents to go through what we went through.”

In what looked like a light and what parents hope will spark into justice, Interior Cabinet Secretary Kipchumba Murkomen confirmed that the Director of Public Prosecutions had recommended an inquest into the matter.

“It is true we are yet to release the report. However, I can confirm that an inquiry case will be opened in Nyeri court as directed by the DPP,” Murkomen said in August. 

Justice for the 21 boys

As the anniversary passes, the parents’ grief is unchanged.

Their wounds remain open, deepened by silence. What they want is not money, not empty condolences, but justice and truth.

“The work of government is to protect,” Chege said.

“Our boys cannot march in the streets to demand their rights. But we, as their parents, will not stop asking for justice.”

For now, the graves in Endarasha remain silent, but the parents’ voices grow louder.

They want their sons remembered not just as names on a tragic list, but as children who had dreams, laughter and futures stolen by flames, and by a system that has yet to give them answers.