In the heart of Nairobi, the grand dome of Kenya’s Parliament still gleams beneath the midday sun, a symbol of power, democracy, and the people’s voice. Yet inside those chambers, silence lingers where voices once rose with passion. Five empty seats, five unlit microphones, and five stories of leaders who once carried the hopes of their people.
Since the 2022 General Election, Kenya’s Parliament has lost at least five Members of Parliament, to death, resignation, and even violence. What began as a symbol of national renewal has quietly turned into a story of grief and unanswered questions.
In Banisa, Hon. Kullow Maalim Hassan’s sudden death in a road accident left his constituents in disbelief. He had been their bridge in tough times, a leader known for compassion in a land often forgotten by development. His absence left not only a political gap but a wound in the community’s heart.
In Malava, Moses Malulu Injendi succumbed to illness, leaving a constituency that still mourns. He had promised to bring education and hope to children of farmers, and now his dreams remain unfinished.
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Then came the darkest chapter, the assassination of Kasipul MP Charles Ong’ondo Were in Nairobi. The news of his shooting shook the nation to its core. His death was not just a crime scene; it was a message of fear that rippled through every leader who dares to stand for justice.
Elsewhere, Opiyo Wandayi of Ugunja left Parliament after being appointed to Cabinet, a peaceful transition, but one that still left voters without their elected representative.
And in Magarini, the seat fell silent not by death but by decree, the court nullified the 2022 election, plunging the constituency back into uncertainty.
Five different stories, one painful truth: a Parliament built to speak for all Kenyans now carries echoes of loss and waiting.
The Constitution demands that by-elections be held within 90 days of a seat falling vacant. Yet in some of these constituencies, months have turned into years without representation. The Independent Electoral and Boundaries Commission (IEBC), weakened by leadership disputes and resource gaps, has struggled to meet the constitutional deadline.
For the people, democracy has paused. Children wait for bursaries that will not come. Roads remain unbuilt. Development stalls because no one is there to table their needs in the National Assembly.
In Kasipul, residents still visit the late Ong’ondo’s office, staring at the locked door as if expecting him to return.
In Banisa, elders speak of a voice that once carried their hopes to Nairobi, now replaced by silence.
When a Member of Parliament dies, Kenya does not just lose a leader, it loses a piece of its democratic heartbeat.
Every empty seat is a reminder of the fragility of public service and the dangers that sometimes come with representing the people.
These tragedies raise painful questions.
Who protects those who protect our democracy?
Why do by-elections delay while citizens remain voiceless?
And how can a government claim to serve the people when some of its own remain unrepresented?
The answers will not come easily. But the urgency is clear: Kenya must rebuild trust in its institutions. It must protect its lawmakers and ensure that death or resignation never means silence for an entire constituency.
As dusk falls over Parliament, the portraits of these fallen MPs seem to stare back, as if asking, “Who will continue what we began?”
Their memories remain alive in every village, every school, and every dream they once fought for.
Hon. Kullow’s laughter in Banisa.
Hon. Ong’ondo’s fearless voice in Kasipul.
Hon. Malulu’s dedication in Malava.
Hon. William Kipkorir Injendi in Baringo
Hon. Mohamed Bidu in Isiolo South
They are gone, but their legacy whispers through the walls of Parliament.
In the end, this is not only a story of loss, it is a call to remember, to act, and to rebuild faith in the democracy they served.
Because true representation means no Kenyan should ever be left without a voice, not in death, not in delay, and not in silence.
