I have just finished reading President William Ruto’s commissioned report by the Technical Working Group on Gender-Based Violence including femicide, which was chaired by former Deputy Chief Justice Nancy Baraza. Between 2022 and 2024, over 1,600 Kenyan women died in what the Kenya National Bureau of Statistics and United Nations Development Programme define as femicide.
Key findings show that women between the ages of 30 and 44 are the majority of victims. Intimate partner violence is responsible for almost eight out of every ten femicides, with wives being killed by their husbands most frequently. What’s even more infuriating about this crisis is that it can be fixed.
Counties leading in femicide cases are Nairobi, Meru and Nakuru; areas with high urbanisation pressures, marked inequalities, and higher alcohol and drug abuse than other regions. But this is less of a criminal issue than it is one of institutional regression and ineptitude.
The report discloses the role played by communities and families in the obstructing justice. “Domestic murders,” we are told, “are regularly funnelled into clan meetings, compensation payouts or forced mediation-arrest agreements.”
Far too often, mechanisms framed by perpetrators as cultural or restorative are weaponised to silence survivors and shield offenders. When families withdraw complaints or obscure crimes, authorities move no further, and violence prevails.
Kenya is not lacking laws and policies to address gender-based violence (GBV) against women and girls. We are failing women and girls in how these laws are implemented, coordinated, and whether or not people are being held accountable for their actions. Kenya has one of the most progressive constitutions in the world and enough laws to protect women from GBV. We have the Sexual Offences Act, the Protection Against Domestic Violence Act, and the Prohibition of Female Genital Mutilation Act. The Constitution promises Kenyan women dignity, equality, security, and justice for crime victims. But when these survivors go to police stations, they are turned away. When they go to hospitals, there are no trained staff to take their statements or treat them. When they go to court, cases drag on for years. When they want to live in peace, their families pressure them to “solve” these cases outside the justice system.
Femicide cases are lumped into homicide statistics that mask the gendered motivations of the murders and impede coordinated responses for prevention, prosecution, and allocation of resources. If we can’t name the crime in the law, how will policy ever truly grapple with it? And how will that policy ever be properly funded? Too many women are dying at the hands of their abusers and too many systems have failed survivors for us to sit around and accept that GBV against women is “normal”. We have women being raped, robbed of their livelihoods, psychologically abused, tortured and killed. But we have not recognised that these killings follow a discernible pattern. They are not isolated incidents perpetrated out of rage.
Equally disturbing is how technology is being used to inflict harm. Acts of online harassment, cyber-stalking and intimacy share violate increasingly used as tools of entrapment, intimidation and humiliation against women. At times social media can be a positive tool for awareness and fuelling necessary outrage. Too often, it becomes a forum for victim-blaming and shame campaigns. Cruel images are trafficked unchecked. This new frontier of violence will continue until online spaces are governed by clear ethical standards and accountability measures. There must be consequences for virtual abuse. Otherwise it will continue to breed lethal violence offline.
Of equal concern is what is described as the state of data management in the country. At present, Kenya does not have a central, real-time reporting system for GBV or femicide cases. Officers generate statistics from case intakes at police stations, while health facilities track GBV through patient visits. Prosecutors compile case files while judiciary provide court data, “each operating independently of one another and oftentimes publishing conflicting numbers.” As a result, patterns go unnoticed. Responses are misguided. And policy remains piecemeal and reactionary. If we don’t count it, we will forget about it.
There are several very clear steps we can take. From recognising femicide as a legal category, criminalising interference with GBV cases, to halting the use of ADR for violent crimes, time-limiting GBV trials and categorising GBV and femicide as national emergency, the bench marks for progress are spelled out in black and white. GBV response and prevention desperately needs increased investment and remains dependent on donor funding. Shelters in some counties are non-existent. Many lack trained staff and clear protocols for referral. Instead of asking where funding will come from for the proposed National GBV and Femicide Response Fund, lawmakers should be asking how they can afford not to have one. Police, health workers and judicial staff should be trained in trauma-informed practices.
GBV is not women’s problem. It’s a constitutional crisis, a healthcare burden and a barrier to development.
