Steven Mongi never imagined that doing the right thing would destroy his life. For decades, he believed in justice, loyalty, and service to his country. But in a single, terrifying moment, those ideals were shattered—leaving him to navigate a world where the lines between right and wrong were suddenly, heartbreakingly blurred.

Born in Nairobi County in 1965, Steven grew up in a bustling family of nine children. In December 1989, he realized his dream of joining the Kenya police, entering the elite General Service Unit. For years, he served with pride, believing his badge would always protect him—until one fateful evening changed everything.

It was just after 7 p.m. Steven was on his way to work, armed as usual. As he neared his destination, a gang of thugs ambushed him. They knocked him to the ground, stealing everything they could—except for his concealed pistol. The chaos escalated quickly. When the criminals realized he was armed, they lunged for his weapon. In the desperate struggle that followed, Steven fired a single shot, striking one assailant in the chest.

His colleagues, alerted by the gunfire, rushed to the scene, but the attackers had vanished—along with Steven’s pistol. Unknown to him, the thugs had taken the gun to the police station, spinning a story that would turn Steven’s world upside down. They claimed to have disarmed a “thug” who shot one of their own. By the time Steven and his colleagues arrived at the station, that false narrative had already taken root. Because the criminals had reported first, they were treated as the complainants, not Steven.

He was locked in a cell for four days while police investigated. Still, Steven clung to his faith in the system. He was innocent, he thought—surely the truth would come out. After his release, he was placed on indefinite suspension, stripped of his badge and forced to wait for the outcome of an investigation that seemed to drag on forever. Days turned into months, months into a year. He was left in limbo, unable to work, his reputation in tatters.

When the case finally reached court, the charges against him were staggering: robbery with violence, a crime that carried only two sentences in Kenya—life imprisonment or death by hanging. The evidence was thin, but the word of the assailants, who had reached the station first, carried more weight than Steven’s. Only the diligence of the investigating officer saved him from the worst. After reviewing the facts, the officer reduced the charge to grievous harm.

But the ordeal was far from over. In a justice system plagued by corruption and backroom deals, Steven was approached for a bribe by the judge himself—a bribe he refused to pay. On the day of judgment, he handed his belongings to his wife, suspecting he would not be coming home. His fears were realized: sentenced to three years in prison, without the possibility of a fine, for a crime he did not commit.

The shock was overwhelming. “I just thought maybe it is a punishment. Maybe the judge will release me,” Steven recalled. But as he was loaded into the prison van and taken to Nairobi’s notorious Kamiti Maximum Security Prison, the reality set in. His wife began a tireless campaign to appeal his sentence, and after ten months behind bars, Steven was finally released. But freedom came at a steep price.

Returning to his police camp, Steven found himself an outcast. His colleagues shunned him, and his superiors pressured him to leave. “I had no company because my company denied me. The headquarters denied me. I had nowhere to work,” he said. Still, his salary continued to arrive each month, a lifeline in the midst of chaos. But the harassment continued. He was eventually forced out of the camp, denied any official letter of dismissal, and left to fend for himself.

For years, Steven wandered from job to job—manual labor on farms, construction sites, anything to survive. Eventually, he found work as a security guard, the only career he could pursue with his background. It was a far cry from the life he’d once known. “At my age now, I think I’m going to an age that my age wants somewhere to relax though. I’m working with a security firm. But at my age, I think it’s hard. It is I work because there’s no otherwise but it’s hard with my age because most of the time I work at night duties.”

He never received the pension or benefits he was owed. The only payment was from a women and children’s pension scheme, not the full compensation he had earned through years of service. Attempts to clear his name or seek justice fell on deaf ears. “I didn’t have anybody who can hold me because one thing I know about the government—even if you had friends at the government and now you are not with them, you are somehow like a stranger to them. Nobody can help you. So I just gave up.”

Steven’s story is a cautionary tale about the fragility of justice and the dangers of misplaced loyalty. He acted in self-defense, reported himself, trusted the system—and was punished for his honesty. “An act of self-defense should never have landed him in jail. Definitely not,” says the journalist who brought his story to light. “This man has already suffered so much and yet I still see strength in him.”

Today, Steven lives quietly, working long nights and dreaming of peace. If given the chance, he says he would urge Kenya’s leaders to support those who serve. “After leaving the forces, so many people from the forces who leave forces, they leave the forces crying. And after leaving the forces crying, they have many challenges outside here… If the government see look at these people and try to fix them somewhere, I think there is still a place they can hold these people so that this frack or whatever happens in the country can reduce.”

His message is one of resilience, but also of warning. “There are some things that an ex-soldier can do. There are so many things in the government an ex-soldier can do and that can manipulate many things in the government. Instead of the ex-soldiers who are outside here, being idle, no jobs, their mentality can be very dangerous to the government because they know the arms, they know the weapons.”

For Steven Mongi, justice was not served. But his story endures—a testament to the courage it takes to do the right thing, even when the world turns against you. And perhaps, in telling his story, the world might finally listen, and change might begin.