When a Hyena Wants to Eat Its Children: How the Kenyan State Is Using Terror Laws to Silence Its Own People

In recent days, the Kenyan government has unveiled a chilling strategy in its crackdown on public dissent: charging over 70 protesters with terrorism. This move, widely condemned by civil society and global observers—including CNN’s Larry Madowo—marks a dangerous escalation in the state’s response to civil unrest. It represents not only a gross overreach of the criminal justice system but also a disturbing betrayal of the very principles of democracy that the government purports to uphold.

Terrorism, as a legal concept and security threat, carries grave implications. It is meant to address acts that deliberately inflict widespread violence and fear in pursuit of ideological, political, or religious objectives. Kenya, tragically, has known real terrorism. From the 2013 Westgate Mall siege to the DusitD2 complex attack in 2019, the nation has paid a heavy price, losing hundreds of innocent lives. Families still mourn their loved ones, and communities continue to rebuild from the trauma. These attacks were clear, calculated acts of mass violence aimed at destabilizing the country. To now equate peaceful protesters—or even those expressing their frustrations through civil disobedience—with such heinous acts is not just a legal fallacy, it is a moral insult to the victims of real terror.

By invoking the Anti-Terrorism Act against protesters, the state is sending a clear message: dissent will not be tolerated. This is not about national security. It is about political insecurity. Governments that enjoy legitimacy and trust do not fear placards and chants. They do not respond to cries for justice with armored vehicles, live bullets, and spurious terrorism charges. What we are witnessing is a systemic effort to redefine protest as a crime and transform legitimate grievances into threats to national stability. In reality, it is not the protesters but the government’s actions that are destabilizing the nation.

The abuse of anti-terror laws to target civilians is a textbook example of authoritarian creep. In democratic societies, the criminal justice system is designed to uphold the rule of law, to protect citizens, and to ensure justice is done. In authoritarian regimes, the same system is often repurposed to punish opposition, intimidate civil society, and insulate those in power from scrutiny. Kenya is increasingly walking the line between these two realities. The recent charges are not an anomaly but part of a larger pattern: disregard for court orders, extrajudicial killings, arbitrary arrests, and the systematic erosion of civil liberties.

The metaphor could not be more apt: when a hyena wants to eat its children, it first accuses them of smelling like goats. In other words, when the government wants to crush its own people, it first paints them as threats. The state’s sudden discovery of terrorism in peaceful protests is not about justice. It is about control. It is about reframing the narrative so that the real perpetrators of oppression appear as victims of national unrest, and those demanding dignity and democracy are cast as enemies of the state.

This strategy does not emerge in a vacuum. It is enabled by a lack of institutional independence, especially within law enforcement and the judiciary. Prosecutors who should be the guardians of justice have become instruments of executive will. The police, entrusted with the safety of the public, now serve the singular purpose of silencing it. When law is no longer a shield for the people but a sword wielded against them, a nation ceases to be governed by laws—it is ruled by force.

The implications of such weaponization are far-reaching. First, it dilutes the purpose and effectiveness of genuine anti-terror efforts. If terrorism can mean anything the government dislikes, then it means nothing at all. Intelligence agencies and counter-terror units will be distracted chasing youth with placards instead of real threats plotting harm. Worse, it trivializes the pain of past terror victims. Families who lost loved ones at Westgate, Mpeketoni, Garissa University, and elsewhere did not suffer so their tragedy could be turned into a political tool. They deserve remembrance and respect—not the dilution of the term that describes their loss.

Secondly, the government’s tactic deepens the divide between citizens and the state. Trust, once lost, is hard to regain. When people see courts rubber-stamping baseless charges, when they see police attacking rather than protecting, and when they watch elected leaders justify oppression in the name of order, they lose faith—not just in the current regime, but in the very idea of government. A population that believes it cannot be heard peacefully will eventually find other ways to speak, and history shows us those methods are rarely quiet or orderly.

It is also essential to consider the psychological and generational cost of these actions. The youth, who have been at the forefront of recent protests, are watching closely. Many of them were born after the days of Moi’s authoritarian regime and have grown up believing in a new, democratic Kenya. They believed in the 2010 Constitution, the promise of devolution, the dream of an open society. To be arrested, brutalized, and labeled terrorists simply for demanding accountability is to have that dream violently stripped away. What remains is a generation disillusioned with the system and alienated from the national project.

Yet, there is reason to hope—and to fight. The backlash against these terrorism charges has been swift and vocal. Human rights organizations, independent journalists, international observers, and ordinary Kenyans have raised their voices. Social media has become a powerful tool to expose and document state excesses. Even in the face of repression, civic energy is growing, not shrinking. This moment, as dark as it is, presents an opportunity to reclaim the soul of the republic.

The Kenyan Constitution, often quoted but rarely respected by those in power, remains a powerful instrument for change. It enshrines the right to protest, the freedom of expression, and the obligation of government to act in the public interest. The courts, when independent and courageous, have the power to strike down unjust charges and protect civil liberties. The media, when free and fearless, can keep the spotlight on state abuses and amplify marginalized voices. Most importantly, the people—when united and organized—can demand and achieve reform.

What Kenya needs now is not more laws, but more leaders who respect them. Individuals like former Chief Justice David Maraga and Senator Okiya Omtatah have consistently demonstrated a commitment to constitutionalism and human rights. Maraga's legacy as a jurist who stood up to the executive, even annulling a presidential election, is etched in history. Omtatah, known for his relentless legal activism, has spent years using the very system the state now seeks to weaponize to protect the people from that same system’s abuse. Their example stands in stark contrast to those who bend the law to serve power.

In a functioning democracy, disagreement is not a crime—it is a sign of life. Protests are not threats—they are expressions of a healthy, engaged citizenry. The role of government is not to silence its critics but to listen to them, to learn from them, and to serve them. To use anti-terror laws against protesters is to confess a failure of leadership. It is to admit that one cannot persuade, only punish. That one cannot lead, only rule.

Kenya must do better. For the sake of its future, for the integrity of its institutions, and for the dignity of its people, the government must stop criminalizing dissent. The terrorism charges must be dropped. The real terrorists—the ones who kill indiscriminately in the name of ideology—must be pursued with the full force of the law. But young Kenyans demanding a better future are not terrorists. They are patriots.

In conclusion, when the government begins to equate protest with terror, it is not protecting the nation—it is protecting itself from accountability. And in doing so, it becomes the very threat it claims to fight. Let us not forget: the real danger is not in the streets. It is in the halls of power where the law is bent, rights are trampled, and truth is silenced. If we are to preserve Kenya’s democratic soul, we must reject the weaponization of justice and insist that, even in dissent, the people are sovereign.