From left: Charles Osewe Adero, 30, Dorin Jane and Peter Macharia, 27, who were all reported missing following the anti-government protests.
Two months ago, the streets erupted in a wave of protests that swept across the nation like a storm.
The air was thick with the acrid smell of tear gas, the ground trembled under the weight of marching feet, and the chants of thousands vibrated through the cities, demanding a better future.
The youth protests, mostly of the Generation-Z (Gen-Z), typically born between 1996 and 2012, fuelled by an age group desperate for a better Kenya, gripped the nation in a wave of unrest for weeks.
What started as peaceful demonstrations quickly spiralled into chaos, leaving behind a trail of destruction, death and despair. Claims that the protests had been infiltrated and police brutality made things even worse.
But as the dust settled and the noise subsided, the aftermath of the Gen-Z protests revealed a grim reality — lives had been lost, and some young people had simply vanished.
Now, their families’ lives have become a relentless cycle of anxiety and despair, as they make daily appearances at hospitals and mortuaries, hoping against hope that they will not find their children's names on any list.
The horror deepens when rumours surface that a body has been dumped—these parents rush to the scene, driven by the agonising fear that it might be their child.
They live with the terror that any moment could bring the news they dread most, yet feel compelled to be there, ready to identify the body, ready to confront the unimaginable.
This is their new reality—a life shadowed by the constant threat of despair, a horror they must endure each day in the desperate search for their missing children.
The government response has been one constant line: No one was abducted, and if they were, the State had no such information. This is despite witnesses claiming those involved in the abduction were security officials in civilian clothes.
“Any family whose child or kin went to demonstrations whether it is last year or this year and never came back, I want to know their names so that I can take firm and decisive action because as I talk to you today, I do not have a name of someone who has been abducted or disappeared,” President William Ruto said in a Kisumu Town Hall meeting on August 29.
But for these families Nation.Africa talked to, the talk that the government does not even know the whereabouts of their kin causes even more pain.
Joseph Obenge Nyangare is one of them — a father clinging to hope, and who wakes up each day with a singular, haunting purpose: to visit another hospital, another mortuary, praying that today might be the day he finds his son, Charles Osewe Adero, 30.
Since June 25, when Charles vanished during the anti-government protests, Joseph’s life has become a relentless journey through the shadowed corridors of grief and uncertainty.
We met Joseph at Kenyatta National Hospital, where his search had brought him once again. His voice trembled as he spoke, the weight of his ordeal evident in every word.
“I’ve been to more mortuaries than I ever imagined, trying to find my son. Each time I walk in, I pray I don’t recognize any of the bodies, but at the same time, a part of me wonders—what if I do? What if this endless search finally comes to an end, even in the worst possible way? I never thought I’d see so many bodies, so many young faces, all because I’m looking for my boy. Every time I leave, I carry their faces with me, like a weight pressing down on my heart, because I know somewhere, out there, other parents are doing the same. We’re all searching, hoping, waiting for the nightmare to end,” he said.
On that fateful day, Charles and four of his friends had joined the protests, a peaceful demonstration that quickly spiralled into chaos.
Amid the confusion, as teargas filled the air and protesters scattered, Charles hesitated. His friends watched in horror as police officers, armed with clubs, descended on him. Before they could react, Charles was handcuffed and dragged away. That was the last time they saw him.
Joseph and his son’s friends thought Charles would turn up at one of the police stations. But after numerous trips to the authorities, they were met with only silence.
“I’ve gone to every station, knocked on every door, hoping to hear even a word of where he might be. I’ve talked to officers, pleaded with them, begged for any information, no matter how small. It’s always the same answer—nothing. No one knows anything, no records, no arrests logged. It’s like he never even existed,” he said.
As Joseph walked past the gates of the KNH mortuary once more, his steps were slow, burdened by the weight of unfulfilled hopes. His health, already fragile, is failing him under the strain of the relentless search. Yet, his wish remains heartbreakingly simple.
Charles, a trained boxer, was known for his bravery.
His father remembers him as a determined young man who never shied away from standing up for what he believed in, even if it meant facing danger. But now, that same bravery might have led him into the clutches of a brutal crackdown.
“I don’t know if he would have backed down. But he’s always been someone who stands his ground, no matter the cost. Maybe that’s why he’s gone,” he said.
Daniel Kaniu, a 38-year-old taxi driver, was abducted at a restaurant in Juja, Kiambu County, on June 18th, the first day of the protests.
CCTV footage captured the chilling moment when masked men violently forced him into a grey pickup, shattering his family’s sense of safety.
Now, his wife, Joyce Njara, sits in quiet agony every day, praying that today will be the day her husband walks back through the door.
Her heart breaks a little more each time she faces their three children, still waiting for their father to come home.
“They don’t understand why he’s not here,” she whispers.
That fateful morning, Daniel left for work as usual, his warm smile lighting up their modest home.
At 2:45 p.m., they spoke on the phone. Daniel sounded tired but was in good spirits, sharing his day with her like always. Less than an hour later, everything changed. When his friends told her they couldn’t reach him, panic surged through her.
“The last time I spoke to him was around 2:45 p.m., and now it feels like we’re trapped in a nightmare. Every day is a painful routine of hospital visits and trips to the mortuary. I’m left asking, where is my husband? Where is the father of my children? How do I explain to them that their dad is missing? All we have is a heart-wrenching video of him being dragged into a pickup, and that’s it. Someone out there knows something, but they’re keeping it from us. The uncertainty and the silence are unbearable,” Ms Njara says.
Alice Wambui sits in her small, dimly lit house, clutching an old photograph of her son, Peter Macharia, 27.
Her tired eyes, swollen from sleepless nights, are fixed on the front door as if waiting for him to walk through it any moment.
She tries to piece together the fragments of the day he vanished, but all she’s left with is a deafening silence.
“I was told Peter was taken to Kenyatta National Hospital with a gunshot wound. But they said he was discharged... and since then, I don’t know where my boy is.”
When he did not come back home on June 25, Alice tried not to panic. Peter had his struggles. Depression sometimes pushed him to withdraw for days.
Maybe he just needed time. But when night fell, and the next day arrived with no sign of him, her worry grew into dread.
"I kept telling myself not to think the worst. I stayed up all night, staring at the door, praying for it to open and hear him say, 'Mom, I’m okay.' But that silence... it was unbearable."
By the 26th, she couldn’t bear it any longer.
They went out, with friends, neighbours, and relatives, but the search yielded nothing. No one had seen Peter.
Two days later, they braved it all and went to the mortuary, hoping for the best, but somehow prepared for the worst.
"The thought of my boy lying somewhere cold and alone haunted me. My legs felt heavy as we walked inside. My heart was racing, torn between the hope that he was still alive and the fear that I would find him in that place. But he wasn’t there. He was nowhere," she says.
The days since have been a blur of hospitals, police stations, and endless waiting. Each lead feels like another dead end.
The toll on her is visible — her frail body slumps with exhaustion, but it’s the weight of uncertainty that crushes her spirit.
“Every time I hear footsteps outside, my heart skips, thinking it’s him. I’m afraid I’ll never see him again. How does a mother live without knowing where her child is?”
The tears she tries to hold back finally fall, and in that moment, Alice Wambui's grief becomes palpable — the kind that grips a mother when her worst fears are inching closer with every passing day.
But as long as her son is missing, she refuses to give up the fight.
Dorin Jane was the heart of every protest.
A passionate 22-year-old, always at the forefront of the anti-government demonstrations, her voice was her weapon, and her spirit, was untamed.
But on June 25, as the sun sank beneath the horizon, she disappeared. No one in her family has heard from her since.
Jane was full of life—spirited, energetic, and determined to fight for justice. Her cousin, Newton Kyallo, desperate for answers, posted on his X handle, pleading for information. But since that day, Kyallo’s life has never been the same again. Threats have become part of his daily existence, each one more terrifying than the last.
One of the chilling messages he received read, “Continue searching for your cousin. You’ll end up like her. You’re next in line.”
Fear has gripped him, leaving him torn between protecting his family and continuing the search for Jane.
“I have a family to protect,” Kyallo confided in a trembling voice.
But deep down, a heavier thought gnaws at him—he fears Jane may never return. "There’s a possibility that she’s long gone," he said, his voice heavy with sorrow. “If she’s alive, maybe, just maybe, she’ll resurface someday and come back home.”
Jane’s mother, Kyallo’s aunt, has been inconsolable, her grief deepening with each passing day.
As a family, they’ve combed through hospitals, police stations, and mortuaries, holding onto any sliver of hope. But their search has been fruitless.
During their last visit to City Mortuary, Kyallo recalls the attendant’s haunting words: over 200 mutilated and unidentified bodies lay in the cold storage.
The weight of this revelation was too much to bear, suffocating any lingering hope. They left the mortuary, shattered, the image of what might have become of Jane burning in their minds.
The silence, the unanswered questions, and the endless waiting have left Jane’s family in a state of limbo, unsure whether to mourn or keep searching for the girl whose laughter once filled their home.
Elsewhere, the Kamau family has been plunged into a nightmare that seems never-ending.
Emanuel Kamau, a young man filled with dreams, joined the protests determined to stand up for what he believed in. But he never returned home. Now, his family is left in agonizing uncertainty, desperate for answers.
“Every morning, we wake up hoping this is all a terrible dream, that Emanuel will walk through the door like he used to, we are scared. We don’t know if he is okay, whether he’s eaten or not. This is heart-wrenching, and it’s left my parents confused and broken.” Said Hannah Kamau his sister.
Since that fateful day, the Kamau family has searched every hospital, mortuary, and police station in the city. Each step feels heavier with time. Emanuel’s sister described the harrowing experience: “We’ve seen bodies—bodies of young men like my son—but I haven’t found him.”
Emanuel’s sister clutches a photograph of her brother, her eyes clouded with worry.
“We used to laugh, and dream about our future together. Now, I don’t know where he is, or if I’ll ever see him again,” she mutters, staring into the once joyful home.
The Kamau family has been reaching out to anyone who will listen, calling on the authorities for help, but answers have been slow in coming.
“We just want to know,” Margaret pleads. “If they’ve taken him, if he’s gone...we need to bury him with dignity. He deserves that, at least.”
The script is not any different for Mr Jamil Longton Hashim, 42, and his brother Aslam Longton, 35, together with Mr Bob Michemi Njagi who are believed to have disappeared following the anti-government protests. Despite the court reigning in on their fate, they are yet to be freed.
Last Friday, Acting Inspector General of Police Gilbert Masengeli, having snubbed the court six times, was ordered to appear in person to explain the disappearance of the three men.
The Independent Policing and Oversight Authority in August wrote to the police station demanding to know the whereabouts of the three men.
The Kenya National Commission on Human Rights (KNCHR) recorded 66 cases of disappearances, with the cases being linked to anti-government protests that rocked the country in June.
According to the commission, at least 60 people were killed and 601 injured in clashes with the police.
Some of those who had been declared missing were found alive, though almost all of them do not want to discuss what they went through at the hands of their abductors.
According to the Missing Persons database – a website with information on disappearances – a total of 37 people have vanished since June 25. Those still being held by police are 23, while 100 have been found alive. Eight people who disappeared were found dead.
