I have experienced a great many things in my life. I’ve been stopped for speeding, I’ve been involved in accidents, and police have grilled me for no specific reason—but by far, my worst experience was sleeping in a cell at Buruburu Police Station. This qualifies as one of the top worst experiences of my life.
I drive for Uber and Bolt sometimes, and I’ll admit, this was my fault. I was wrapping up my work at around 11:30 PM and decided to grab a drink at an establishment on my way home. I was about five minutes away, so I figured it would be fine to sample my drink along the way. Little did I know there was an alcoblow roadblock just ahead. Now, I’m not advocating for drinking while driving—this is just my account. As I approached, I saw traffic building up and assumed it was an accident, only to discover it was an alcoblow operation.
I was still within legal limits for Blood Alcohol Concentration, but since my car is registered as a PSV, I’m not allowed even a trace of alcohol while operating it. I was tested, found positive, and immediately loaded into the police truck—famously called Mariamu. Many others suffered the same fate, and we sat in that truck at the side of the road for close to two hours. Fortunately, I was wearing a hoodie and hadn’t carried any valuables, which I would soon realize was a blessing.
Since this is Kenya, you can always try pulling connections to get out of trouble. I tried mine, but they didn’t work. And so, we were shipped off to the police station, stripped of our phones, and herded into the cell block.
The funniest (or rather, most irritating) thing I noticed upon arrival was how rude and arrogant the police officers were. Most of us cooperated, myself included. There was an older man who was finishing up a phone call and politely requested two minutes to wrap up. A female officer insisted he hand over the phone immediately, despite other people still using theirs. She wouldn’t hear any of it. Then there was this younger officer—a guy with a bit of long hair and a fade—who nearly beat the man up, even though he was old enough to be his father. I hadn’t even stepped into the cell yet, and the nonsense had already begun.
Fast forward—we’ve been thrown into the main cell block. Now, what you need to understand is that this block isn’t just for traffic offenders or petty crimes; we were placed in the same cell as hardened criminals. I later found out that one of the men inside had shot someone at point-blank range. His life was basically over, and this was his home now.
There’s a procedure when you enter the cell. The long-term inmates take you straight to the toilet. There, they search you for valuables. If they find anything they like, they take it—simple as that. These guys have nothing to lose and can inflict serious harm. I watched it happen to several people. Watches, necklaces, even pocket change—all gone. Fortunately, my pockets were empty, my wallet was in the car, and I wasn’t wearing anything of value.
The worst part? That young officer with the fade knew what was happening and found it amusing. Every time someone complained about getting robbed inside, he’d laugh. It was basically an organized system. Even the Ethiopian immigrants being held in a separate area weren’t spared; their belongings were also looted.
That place is the worst place to be. Imagine being crammed into a tiny, suffocating space with dozens of sweaty, unwashed bodies. The stench of urine and feces is overpowering. You can’t sit—there’s no space. So, I stood for about 12 hours straight, exhausted but unable to do anything about it.
One of the few bright moments came when we were being processed for release. One of my cellmates complained to a different officer that his belongings had been stolen by a specific guy in the cell. Now, I liked this officer. He summoned the guy and delivered the hottest slap I’ve ever seen. The entire cell went silent. The thief promptly returned all the items he had taken. That, at least, felt like justice.
Eventually, my connections came through, and I was released—traumatized but free.
How the System Can Be Improved
After experiencing this firsthand, I can confidently say that Kenya’s prison system isn’t designed to reform anyone. If anything, it makes criminals worse. But from my perspective, there are simple ways to improve it:
- Basic sanitation – The cells shouldn’t reek of urine and feces. A little hygiene goes a long way in maintaining human dignity.
- Respect for detainees – Everyone deserves their one phone call upon check-in. There’s no reason for police to treat every person like a convicted felon.
- Separation of offenders – Non-criminal offenders (traffic violators, petty offenders) should be held separately from dangerous criminals. Mixing them up is not just unfair—it’s unsafe.
- Detaining vehicles, not people – For minor traffic offenses, allow people to go home and return the next day for processing and to collect their vehicles. There’s no reason to throw first-time offenders into a cell with murderers.
- Speedy processing – Keeping non-criminal offenders locked up for more than 12 hours is unnecessary. The police should process and release people promptly instead of making them rot in a cell for half a day.
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