File image of President William Ruto
By Professor Peter Ndiang’ui, Fort Myers, Florida
On Monday, May 11th, 2026, Kenya was wrapped in grief and disbelief as the body of the slain Tabuga Parish pastor, Rev. Julius Ngare Ndumia, was laid to rest in Mathakwaini Village, Nyeri County. A pastor has been murdered in a most heinous, brutal manner.
A servant of God has been cut down in cold blood. A shepherd of souls has been silenced in violence, and Kenya is expected to move on as though this is just another headline.
But it is not. This is not ordinary grief. This is a national wound.
Rev. Julius Ndumia of Tabuga Parish was not just another citizen. He was a man who stood in pulpits preaching peace, hope, repentance, and righteousness. Yet his life was extinguished in brutality in Nakuru—sending shockwaves through the church and shaking whatever remains of our national conscience.
And in that moment of national mourning, the question that still hangs in the air is unavoidable: what did the Head of State, President William Ruto, offer to a grieving family and a wounded nation?
Kshs 2 million.
No visible anguish. No deeply personal tribute that reflected the magnitude of the loss. No strong national address that captured the horror of a pastor murdered in cold blood. No urgent assurance that justice would be swift and uncompromising. Instead, what the nation saw was a transaction wrapped in silence: token money that felt like the legendary 30 pieces of silver of Judas, was presented where moral leadership was desperately needed.
And Kenyans at home and abroad watched. Stunned. Hurt. Angry. Asking a painful question: Is this the value of a pastor’s life? A compensation for life lost? An envelope? A figure announced in passing? A political gimmick?
A man of God has been murdered. Yet what the grieving family received, through representatives of the State, felt to many like a cold substitution for presence, empathy, and leadership. This was not just the burial of Rev. Ndumia. It was the burial of a husband, a father, a son, a brother, and a spiritual guide to many. And the nation did not come asking for money. It came seeking comfort, truth, and justice.
When leadership fails to speak to pain, even generosity can feel hollow. At the very least, the nation deserves clarity. What exactly was that money meant to represent? Funeral assistance? Compensation for life lost? Sympathy? Because when human life is reduced to an unexplained cash gesture, it risks sending a message no society should ever normalize – that dignity can be priced and grief can be settled.
Meanwhile, silence from key offices responsible for national security has only deepened public anguish. Where is Interior Cabinet Secretary Kipchumba Murkomen? Where is Kithure Kindiki? Where are the voices that rise quickly in political defense but grow faint in moments of national tragedy?
Kenya is asking uncomfortable but necessary questions: Why does clarity disappear when a pastor is the victim? Why does justice appear slow when the slain are servants of the altar? Why does secrecy seem to replace transparency when accountability is most needed?
And yet, beyond the grief, there are deeper wounds: CCTV cameras exist. Witnesses exist. A community exists that is still traumatized. So why does the truth feel distant? Why does closure feel delayed? The church is not asking for speculation. It is demanding answers. And the answers coming of two miserable young people is not convincing. Who is or are the masterminds behind such a terrible beastly act?
Though the miserable Kshs 2 million felt like an insult, Ruto should know that no amount of money, however large or small, can console a widow who will never hear her husband’s voice again. No envelope can comfort children who now live with absence where presence once stood. No such gesture can replace the pain of parents burying their child. No political gesture can restore a congregation shaken in its faith and safety.
What Kenyans expected from their President was not symbolism. It was moral gravity. A leader visibly shaken by injustice. Words that carried weight. A commitment that justice would not sleep. Instead, what many perceived was a gesture stripped of emotional depth at a moment that demanded it most.
If the intention was genuine compassion, then why did it feel so detached from the pain it was meant to heal? In contrast, many Kenyans have quietly noted the presence of leaders who chose proximity over publicity in moments of mourning.
Among them, former Deputy President Rigathi Gachagua, who has often been seen standing with grieving families in person, away from cameras and spectacle – an act many interpret as presence-driven leadership rather than performance-driven politics.
We also acknowledge the role played by the church community, particularly the Presbyterian Church of East Africa pastors and clergy who stood firmly with the family in their darkest hour. Gratitude is also due to Hon. Geoffrey Wandeto for his sustained presence and compassionate leadership to the family and the Kenyan community throughout the mourning period.
But let it be said clearly: this moment was not about optics. It was not about staged generosity. It was about humanity. Mr. President, the church is not a marketplace. The blood of a pastor is not a bargaining chip. And grief is not a transaction that can be settled with publicized token figures. The family and the people of Kenya were not asking for money. They were asking for leadership that feels. Leadership that mourns.
Leadership that demands justice without hesitation. Instead, they saw something else – an unsympathetic, heartless president, and they are left wounded by what they witnessed.
Kenyans are not blind. They know the difference between presence and performance. Between compassion and calculation. Between leadership and symbolism. And above all, there is a higher courtroom than politics.
God is watching.
