Life is a daily struggle for Mary Wangui. The 74-year-old is recovering from a stroke that nearly snuffed her life. Six months ago, it was impossible for Mary to share the tragic story of her seven dead children.
She sits pensively under a tree on a sunny day, counting her losses and facing the uncertain future, wishing it was her who had died.
What pains her most is the fact that three of her children were killed by police, while one died of stress.
“Oooi Mbugua…Why did they have to shoot you 11 times? Did they have to do that?”
Simon Mbugua was her last born but was the first casualty of police bullets.
Six months later, twin son Peter Gitau was also shot by police in Korogocho, where Mary still lives. Gitau’s twin brother, who was a crusader against police killings, was also killed by unknown people outside his door.
“Did God keep me this long just to see the cruel hand of the police take away my sons?”
For more than eight years, Wangui, has lived in frustration. She has been living in fear and desperation in her one-roomed mabati house in the expansive Korogocho slums.
Police have since become her number-one enemy. “Mimi hutetemeka nikiwaona
(I shake every time I see them). They turned my life into hell,” she says with a heavy stammer.
When we met Mary, she was on her fourth session of counselling. She fell into depression in 2011, which led to memory and speech loss.
Mary with her counselor, Damaris Mungai, at her house in Korogocho slum
UNTOLD STORY
The first time Mary shared her story was during the launch of Machozi Ya Jana community dialogues, held in Korogocho by the International Justice Mission and other partners within the police reform working group. She could not talk then, as relieving the burden of her loss was too painful.
Though she remembers all her dead children and how they met their deaths, she struggles to remember when they were born or when they died.
Accompanied by her daughter-in-law and her counselor, Mary sits under a tree, tightly holding her chin.
Tears roll down her cheeks as she seemingly digs deep the memories of her children.
Her daughter-in-law, Rosemary Nyambura, says their mother never used to stammer, and that she is even better now after speech therapy. “Mum had completely lost her speech and went for years without talking,” Rosemary says.
For the four years she could not communicate, Mary would hear and reason everything out in her head but words could not get out. “I could hear and understand everything around me but was unable to speak,” she said as the counselor, who sat closely next to her, patted her back.
Her last born son, Simon Mbugua, was the first child to fall on the hands of the police. “Imagine shooting my young boy 11 times. Why, why, why? It’s very painful.”
The counselor gets out a handkerchief for Mary to wipe out her tears. All through the interview, she would throw in light moments to reduce the tension on her client.
Simon was with a friend in Korogocho slum when both of them were shot dead by police officers.
His sister, Regina Njeri, remembers that day like it was yesterday. “It was midday when they shot our Mbugua. He had 11 bullets on his 21-year-old body,” she remembers. They would later learn that Mbugua was a case of mistaken identity. “Police were after some criminals but they mistakenly shot the two,” she says.
Death did not give the family breathing space, as Peter, the sixth child in the family, would be shot dead less than a month after Mbugua’s burial. “Peter was arrested in Baba Ndogo, and after not returning home for three days, we started looking for him and even reported a missing person. We found him at the city mortuary with three bullets on his chest, his legs and hands tied,” she says.
Peter had been shot by the police on claims of being a criminal.
In both instances, the family had to dig deep into their pockets and pay Sh1,000 for each of the bullets used to kill their children.
“I learnt then that when police shoot you, the family pays Sh1,000 for each of the bullets used before the body is released for burial,” Regina says. For Mbugua, the family paid Sh11,000 and Sh3,000 for Peter.
The whole family was broken. Hopelessness and frustration set in. Diseases got a new home in them. Their mother and the elder sister slipped into depression. Within no time, death snatched another member of the family. The sister could not survive the stress.
“Stress killed my daughter, so in one way or the other, I blame the police for it,” Mary says.
Thing were going south really fast for the family. Mary was hit by stroke and she lost her speech and never spoke a word for four years. Life became expensive. “Mum was sick and we had to get money to take her to hospital,” Regina says.
The two remaining children, Regina Njeri and Dominic Mwaura, look at family pictures at their mother's house in Korogocho slum
NO RESPITE
Bad luck kept following the family as their other brothers, Anthony and Boniface, eventually succumbed to tuberculosis, while Njuguna got stabbed to death by unknown people in Korogocho. “It was too much for everyone,” Regina says.
Mary adds: “The only child I have lost to natural causes is Anthony, and though I feel bad for losing him, it’s not as painful as those who were shot. It’s pure injustice.”
The final blow came when the only child who had had an education was shot dead at the entrance of his home.
Stephen Nyaga was the golden boy of the house. He was the only one who had gotten an education in the family. The only one who had completed secondary education. “The rest of us either dropped off in primary or ended up only with a KCPE certificate,” Regina says.
Nyaga, who they fondly refer to as Nyash, was a critic of the police and due to the pain they had endured as a family, he started following up on the deaths of his brothers.
He became a human rights activist and even secured a job as a presenter at Koch FM.
Nyash would be shot dead one evening as he approached his gate after work in Korogocho. “He was shot right outside the gate,” Regina says, sobbing.
Nyaga’s wife, Rosemary Nyambura, says he had become vocal, especially on radio, and complained a lot about police brutality in the slum. She suspects this was his undoing.
“It was in February 2012 at around
8pm,
when I received a call from my neighbours. I went out and found my husband lying in cold blood just outside the gate. He had been shot six times,” she remembers.
She was left to cater for her two young children.
They reported the killing to the police station but got nothing apart from an OB number.
“We cannot say with certainty that the police killed Nyash, but we are highly suspicious and we wish someone would help us follow up,” she says.
The mother of one of the eight youths killed by police in Mukuru kwa Reuben slums in 2016 speaks during #MachoziYaJana dialogues on June 15 last year / IJM
COUNSELLING SESSIONS
Their counselor Damaris Mungai says their case has been traumatising even to her. When she started working on them in October last year, Mary, could not even speak. Eight year later and after losing seven children, Mary had not mourned any of them and she had so much pain inside.
“My first session with her was very difficult. She has a very painful story, which she had never had a platform to share without being judged. So I allowed her to just let it out at her own pace as I comforted her,” Damaris says.
Their second session was easier. Mary had started remembering bits of all her dead children. “I wanted us to deal with each child at a time. A session for each child and to let her mourn each of them,” she says.
On the third session, she was asked to go with her other family members so they could grieve and mourn together as a group.
Damaris says the whole family is progressing well, although they have a long way to go. “We have to deal with each of the deaths and process their pain individually,” she says.
However, the remaining two children are filled with anger, bitterness and hopelessness. Though they are grown ups, Damaris says they have been pushed to the limit.
When we visited them in their two-roomed shanty in Korogocho, we found Mary and her two remaining children perusing through an album.
Mary welcomed us in. She lives here alone. Her children left the slum out of fear.
“I feared for my children and I had to move to Lucky Summer,” says Regina, who washes clothes for a living.
She says she hates Korogocho with a passion, since it took away her siblings.
“Here there is no hope,” she says, adding that even her 19-year-old son was arrested there and has been in remand for a year now.
His brother, Dominic Mwaura, a garbage collector, refused to speak but sat through as we talked.
Regina is worried that by killing young people in the slums, Kenya might end up wiping out a whole generation.
“Killing young people is not the solution. They should be arrested, taken through the legal process, and if found guilty, reformed in jail,” she says.
“During the Machozi Ya Jana Campaign community dialogues on extrajudicial killings, a recurring message from the young men was their experience of oppressive and violent policing within their neighourhoods increases their inclination to violent extremism. This may explain why young people are no longer afraid of being killed because they have lost all hope.
It is paramount for police officers follow the due process of the law by arresting and charging lawbreakers as opposed to killing them, this builds the trust of the community in the police and empowers officers to focus on actual crime prevention” IJM Director of System Reform Wamaitha Kimani said.