Tear Gas in a Sanctuary: Political Theatre or Tragedy in Mt. Kenya?

Sunday, January 25, 2026, will be remembered with anguish by worshippers at Witima ACK Church in Othaya, Nyeri County. Congregants seeking solace in a sacred space found themselves engulfed in panic as tear gas canisters were deployed during a service attended by former Deputy President Rigathi Gachagua. Women, children, and the elderly fled in confusion, some climbing fences to escape the choking clouds, their faces etched with fear and disbelief. The images that emerged a sanctuary transformed into chaos resonated painfully with Kenya’s collective memory of the Kiambaa Church massacre in 2007, when dozens of Kikuyus were mercilessly slaughtered in a post-election frenzy. That history lingers, and yesterday’s events reopened old wounds.

                                                  The Othaya Church Chaos and Timelines

The circumstances surrounding the disruption are as politically charged as they are tragic. Eyewitnesses and video footage confirm the deployment of tear gas, and reports circulated of alleged live bullets. Gachagua himself reported being safe after the chaos, but the damage both physical and emotional had already been done. In a region where religion and politics are deeply intertwined, and where the church played a pivotal role in mobilizing support for Dr. William Ruto’s rise to the presidency, the mere suggestion of violence in a place of worship triggers alarm far beyond Othaya.

President Ruto’s ascent was built in no small part on the moral credibility and influence of the church in Mt. Kenya. Pastoral networks and faith-based endorsements lent weight to his campaigns, reinforcing his image as a leader with a conscience aligned to spiritual values. Any implication that his administration could condone attacks in a sanctuary would be politically catastrophic. It is therefore highly improbable that the president’s machinery would orchestrate such an incident. Political logic, history, and optics converge to make that scenario almost inconceivable.

Yet, the question lingers: could Gachagua himself, perhaps seeking sympathy or political mileage, have staged this disruption? In Kenya’s history, political theater is not unknown, and crises even tragic ones have occasionally been leveraged to consolidate personal relevance or to energize a base. Gachagua, as a senior figure in the opposition and a prominent leader of the Kikuyu community, has both the motivation and the platform to draw attention through dramatic events. But staging an attack in a house of worship, knowing the presence of women, children, and elderly worshippers, would be a morally reckless gamble, one that risks alienating supporters more than it consolidates them.

The strategic calculation, however, may not need to be as literal as “staging an attack.” By being physically present during the chaos, by surviving and later narrating his ordeal, Gachagua inevitably occupies the moral high ground in the immediate aftermath. Sympathy is generated, questions are raised about security, and attention focuses on him. In a region where memory of past injustices such as the Kiambaa massacre remains vivid, the visual and emotional resonance of such an event amplifies its political potency, whether intended or not.

Beyond individual calculations, the ethical and social consequences of attacking a congregation are severe. Religion, in Kenya as elsewhere, operates at the intersection of emotion, identity, and community. Violent intrusion into a sacred space undermines trust, fractures social cohesion, and evokes fear across generations. Congregants are left traumatized, the moral authority of the church is questioned, and political actors who are associated with or benefit from the event are inevitably tainted. The spill over is unpredictable: while some may rally in defence of the aggrieved, others recoil, leading to polarization that complicates governance and community stability.

Politically, the potential beneficiaries of such incidents are difficult to identify. Opposition actors with ambitions to consolidate a base may gain temporary attention, but the long-term costs public anger, media scrutiny, and moral condemnation often outweigh transient advantages. For the governing coalition, especially President Ruto’s administration, the optics are profoundly negative. Mt. Kenya’s Kikuyu community, whose support has been critical for the current government, is highly sensitive to historical grievances and the sanctity of religious spaces. Linking the administration to violence in churches even indirectly would be anathema to its political and moral legitimacy.

Analysts cannot ignore the historical resonance either. Images of tear-gassed children and women recalling Kiambaa Church ignite deep-seated fears of post-election violence targeting specific communities. This is precisely why leaders and communities must approach such incidents with restraint, prioritizing thorough, transparent investigations rather than speculation or opportunistic narratives. The state must guarantee that perpetrators, if any, are held accountable, and that security protocols for houses of worship are reassessed to prevent repetition.

Ultimately, the Othaya incident underscores a painful tension in Kenyan politics: the collision of moral authority, political ambition, and the emotional weight of historical memory. While the likelihood of the president’s involvement is low, the potential for political exploitation by other actors remains. Analysts must therefore evaluate not only the immediate chaos but also the broader implications for communal trust, intergenerational trauma, and political stability.

A thorough investigation is imperative. It must untangle fact from speculation, identify those responsible, and restore confidence in the sanctity of religious spaces. Political leaders especially in Mt. Kenya must unequivocally distance themselves from acts that could be construed as targeting or endangering specific communities. The last thing that should be associated with President Ruto’s administration is violence against Kikuyus in a church. This incident, whether accidental, staged, or opportunistically leveraged, is a reminder that political theatre at the expense of sacred spaces has consequences that reverberate far beyond the immediate event.

In a nation still grappling with memories of post-election violence, images of fleeing children and tear-gassed congregants demand more than commentary, they demand accountability, reflection, and moral leadership. In the political chessboard of Mt. Kenya, no gain justifies the human cost of attacking faith, trust, and community.

Innocent Musumbi-Ndungata