When Kipchumba Murkomen was appointed Cabinet Secretary for Interior and National Administration in December 2024, many expected a shift in tone—but few anticipated the sharp directive he issued in late June 2025. In response to violent anti-government protests that erupted across the country, Murkomen told police officers that they were free to shoot and kill anyone who attacks police stations. His exact words—“Guns are not decorations”—have since ignited national debate.
The directive, which came after a chaotic June 25th protest day where police stations were torched and dozens of officers injured, was blunt. Murkomen framed the protests not as democratic expression but as coordinated violence, “terrorism disguised as dissent,” in his words. He argued that law enforcement had shown restraint for too long in the face of increasingly aggressive crowds and that it was time officers defended themselves without hesitation.
But what does a “shoot-to-kill” order actually mean in practice? In policing terms, it removes the conventional escalation-of-force framework. Rather than using non-lethal methods to disperse crowds or subdue suspects, officers are authorized to use their firearms with the intention to kill, particularly in situations where they or state infrastructure are under attack. While this may seem appropriate in extreme cases—such as during a terrorist attack—it becomes far more complex, and controversial, when applied to domestic protests.
Kenya’s Constitution guarantees the right to peaceful assembly. That right, however, is not absolute. If demonstrations turn violent, police may use force—but only proportionate and necessary force. Kenyan law, like international standards set by the United Nations, emphasizes that lethal force should always be a last resort, used only to protect life.
Murkomen’s directive appears to lower that threshold. He made it clear that police do not need to hesitate, and if necessary, could “kill five or six” in order to contain a larger threat. He also promised state protection and legal support for any officers who act under his order, even if they are later challenged in court.
Civil society organisations and human rights groups quickly condemned the directive. Groups such as Inuka Kenya ni Sisi! and a coalition of Nakuru-based civil organizations called the order unconstitutional and dangerous. They argue that it invites abuse, lowers accountability, and risks turning protests—already emotionally charged—into deadly confrontations.
The context surrounding Murkomen’s directive is important. The June 25 protests were not isolated events; they were part of a broader youth-led movement challenging what they view as economic mismanagement, rising taxes, and a lack of transparency from the Ruto administration. These demonstrations have increasingly drawn heavy-handed police responses. At least 16 people were killed during the latest round of protests, with many others injured or arrested. The Interior Ministry has claimed that many of the demonstrators were not just protestors, but armed gangs exploiting the chaos.
Murkomen’s shoot-to-kill order, then, reflects not just a security response—but a political statement. It signals a government that views some protests as insurrection rather than civic dissent. It also raises profound questions: Can the state maintain order without sacrificing constitutional rights? Where is the line between protection and repression? And what happens when the very people calling for change are treated as enemies of the state?
As public pressure grows and global eyes turn toward Kenya’s approach to civil liberties, the coming weeks may determine not just how the directive is implemented, but how it reshapes the social contract between government and citizen.
