Why Do We Forget So Fast? Questioning Kenya’s National Psyche

 

There is something unsettling about how quickly Kenya absorbs tragedy, mourns loudly for a few days, and then seems to return to normal before the wounds have even begun to close. It happens so often that one begins to wonder whether forgetting has quietly become part of our national survival instinct. A disaster occurs, lives are lost, outrage rises, questions fill television screens and social media timelines, leaders issue statements, investigations are promised, and then slowly another topic takes over. Attention shifts. Anger cools. The nation moves on. But the tragedy itself does not disappear. The people who buried loved ones do not move on at the same speed as the public conversation. The parents who lost children, the families waiting for answers, the communities carrying fear, all remain with consequences long after headlines fade.

The recent floods should have stayed longer in our national conscience. Across different parts of Kenya, people died in floodwaters, homes were destroyed, roads disappeared under water, families were displaced, and livelihoods were swept away. For several days the country paid attention. Videos circulated of people trapped on rooftops, roads collapsing, vehicles submerged, and neighborhoods overwhelmed by water. Questions emerged about poor drainage systems, blocked waterways, weak urban planning, corruption in public works, and failure by authorities to prepare despite repeated warnings. Yet almost as quickly as those questions came, they began to disappear. The floodwaters reduced, and national attention moved elsewhere, while those who lost family members or property remained in the long shadow of that disaster.

The same pattern had already appeared before. Shakahola massacre should have permanently shaken the conscience of this country. Hundreds of people died in horrifying circumstances, and the nation briefly stood in disbelief that such suffering could unfold undetected for so long. We debated cults, religious extremism, institutional negligence, and how vulnerable citizens can be manipulated when systems fail them. But after the first wave of horror, public attention weakened. Yet for the families still identifying bodies, for communities still trying to understand how so many lives were lost, the story did not end simply because cameras moved away.

Then came the demonstrations of 2024, when many young Kenyans entered the streets demanding accountability, economic justice, and dignity. Some never returned home. Some were shot. Some were injured. Some disappeared. For a brief period, names and faces mattered deeply. Videos circulated widely, and public anger rose sharply. There were demands for accountability, demands for restraint, demands for justice. But again, another week came, another issue emerged, and the country adjusted itself emotionally as if pain had already expired. Yet families who lost sons and daughters did not receive closure simply because public attention moved on.

When Hillside Endarasha Academy fire happened, the nation cried together because children represent a kind of innocence whose loss unsettles everyone. Parents had taken children to school expecting lessons, routine, and safety, not funerals. Questions emerged immediately about school inspections, overcrowding, emergency exits, fire preparedness, and whether warnings had been ignored. For a few days there was genuine collective grief. But grief in Kenya often seems to have a very short public life, even when private suffering continues for years.

The discovery of bodies in sacks at Kware dumpsite shocked the country because even in a nation familiar with disturbing headlines, there are moments that still force disbelief. Human bodies hidden in sacks, dumped where waste already suggested neglect, created immediate horror. A suspect, Collins Jumaisi Khalusha, was presented quickly, creating hope that answers were coming. But when reports later emerged that he had escaped from Gigiri Police Station, the story became even more disturbing. Instead of deepening national insistence on answers, even that began to dissolve into ordinary conversation.

Now fresh concern rises again after reports from Kericho of another suspected mass grave, with bodies reportedly found in sacks. The details immediately awaken memories of earlier tragedies because patterns begin to feel too familiar. When similar forms of horror appear repeatedly, society should become more determined to understand what is happening beneath the surface. Instead, too often, we risk becoming emotionally conditioned to shock without sustained demand for truth.

This raises a difficult question about our national psyche: have we become emotionally exhausted, or have we slowly accepted that answers rarely come? Many Kenyans live under constant pressure—high taxes, unemployment, expensive living conditions, insecurity, political tension, and personal survival struggles. It is understandable that emotional energy is limited. People cannot remain permanently outraged when daily life itself already demands so much psychological strength. Yet exhaustion alone cannot explain why serious national tragedies lose urgency so quickly.

Part of the problem may be that repeated disappointment teaches people not to expect much. When investigations drag for months without visible results, when few resign, when prosecutions rarely satisfy public concern, and when institutions appear more reactive than transformative, citizens begin lowering expectations. Outrage becomes tiring when it repeatedly meets silence. People move on partly because remaining emotionally invested in unanswered pain becomes exhausting.

But that emotional retreat has consequences. When public pressure fades too early, systems that failed remain comfortable. If flood deaths fade too quickly, poor planning survives. If protest killings fade too quickly, impunity survives. If school tragedies fade too quickly, unsafe institutions survive. If bodies found in sacks become another short-lived headline, then failure itself becomes normalized.

Kenya must resist that normalization. We must become a society that remembers long enough to ask difficult questions until answers are unavoidable. Who failed? Who ignored warning signs? Who benefited from negligence? Which officer, official, institution, or authority did not do what they were required to do? Which files are being delayed? Which reports are incomplete? Which prosecutions are moving, and which are quietly slowing down?

Justice should not depend on how long a story trends.

A mature nation does not only mourn; it investigates, follows through, and insists on consequences. People responsible for negligence, corruption, abuse of power, concealment, or criminal conduct in national tragedies must face courts, prosecution, and where guilt is proven, imprisonment. Not because punishment alone heals grief, but because accountability teaches society that human life cannot be treated cheaply.

We must also choose not to become passive consumers of tragedy. Citizens must keep asking after headlines disappear. Journalists must continue following unfinished stories. Civil society must refuse silence. Leaders must understand that statements are not substitutes for action. Public memory must become stronger than political distraction.

Because these tragedies are never as distant as they seem. The flooded road may be one you use tomorrow. The school may resemble one attended by someone you know. The protest victim may be someone your family could have stood beside. The missing person may belong to a neighborhood like yours. The body in a sack may belong to someone who simply left home expecting to return.

A country becomes better when it refuses to allow grief to expire before truth arrives.

And perhaps that is what Kenya must now choose: not endless outrage, but disciplined memory, civic seriousness, and a refusal to let tragedy pass without consequence. Because if we keep forgetting too quickly, we may slowly teach future systems that even the most painful losses can simply wait until public attention moves elsewhere.