By Kepher Otieno - Reporter
Kenya, 14 January 2026 - The violent growl of bulldozers slicing through concrete, iron sheets and glass along the Nairobi–Kikuyu railway corridor this week was not just the sound of demolition—it was the unmistakable roar of the State reasserting its authority over land, power and privilege.
In an operation that quickly escalated into a political and legal storm, illegal structures sitting on the railway reserve were flattened, sweeping away businesses, vehicles and livelihoods, and in the process dragging some of the country’s most powerful political players into the glare of public scrutiny.
What made the operation explosive was not just its scale but its symbolism. Among the structures brought down was a high-end car wash linked to Kiambu Governor Kimani Wamatangi.
In a country where political office has often acted as a shield against the law, the demolition of a facility associated with a sitting governor sent shockwaves through political circles and beyond.
Authorities were unapologetic.
They said the land in question was a protected railway reserve and had been illegally occupied for years, undermining a major commuter rail expansion project meant to decongest Nairobi and unlock economic growth in satellite towns.
“This land does not belong to individuals, no matter how powerful they are. It belongs to the public,” officials said as machines chewed through concrete and twisted steel.
“We gave notices. We allowed time. Those who ignored the law did so at their own risk.”
The operation, they said, was part of a broader plan to rehabilitate the old metre-gauge railway and create new commuter stations, including a mini terminal at Strathmore, to ease pressure on the city’s choking roads. For years, planners had complained that encroachment on the rail corridor had made expansion impossible.
“Every time we try to build, we find shops, car yards, warehouses and even permanent buildings sitting on the railway line,” officials said. “That is why public transport has remained crippled. You cannot modernise railways when the tracks have been turned into private real estate.”
The demolition therefore became more than a routine enforcement action. It became a confrontation between public interest and political privilege.
As the dust settled, critics quickly accused the State of political witch-hunting, pointing to the involvement of a high-profile governor. But authorities rejected that narrative outright.
“This is not about politics. This is about land and the law,” they said.
“If anything, this operation proves that political office is no longer a licence to break the rules. If you have built on public land, you will go, whether you are a hawker or a governor.”
That assertion struck at the heart of Kenya’s long and bitter history of land grabbing, where politically connected individuals have for decades carved out chunks of public land with impunity, often in the full knowledge that enforcement agencies would look the other way.
This time, the bulldozers did not stop.
Businesses that had operated for years on the rail reserve watched helplessly as their investments were reduced to rubble. Some cried foul, saying they had obtained permits from county authorities. But national agencies dismissed those claims.
“You cannot issue permits for land you do not own,” officials said. “A railway reserve is not county land. It is protected national infrastructure. Any document purporting to legalise occupation there is null and void.”
The statement was a thinly veiled jab at county governments that have been accused of either turning a blind eye to encroachment or actively profiting from it through illegal approvals and rent-seeking.
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In political terms, the demolitions have now opened a dangerous fault line. Supporters of the Kiambu governor have framed the action as an attack on devolution and county authority, arguing that national agencies are using infrastructure projects to undermine elected leaders.
But officials countered that devolution does not include the power to grab national assets.
“Devolution does not mean chaos,” they said.
“You cannot hide behind county offices to take over railways, highways and pipelines. There must be order.”
Beyond politics, the demolitions have revived a deeper public debate about how Kenya balances development with livelihoods. For many small traders and workers who depended on the businesses that were destroyed, the operation was devastating.
Yet authorities insisted that the long-term benefits far outweigh the short-term pain.
“You cannot sacrifice millions of commuters so that a few people can run businesses on a railway line,” they said. “Public transport is a backbone of the economy. When trains move faster and more efficiently, businesses grow, jobs are created and cities become more livable.”
They warned that if encroachment was allowed to continue, Nairobi would remain trapped in gridlock, with roads overwhelmed and rail projects permanently stalled.
“This is a fight for the future of the city,” they said. “Either we reclaim our infrastructure now or we keep choking forever.”
The demolition of structures linked to a sitting governor has also raised uncomfortable questions about accountability. How did such developments come up on protected land in the first place? Who approved them? Who collected rents and fees?
“These buildings did not fall from the sky,” one official said.
“Someone allowed them to be built. Someone benefited. That is why we are not stopping at demolitions. We are following the money and the approvals.”
That warning has sent shivers through political and bureaucratic networks that have thrived on land irregularities for decades.
As bulldozers moved on, the message was clear: a line had been drawn on the sand—or rather, on the railway ballast.
“The era when public land was treated as private property is coming to an end,” added the official.
“We will not apologise for enforcing the law.”
Whether that bold declaration marks a genuine turning point or just a momentary show of force remains to be seen. But one thing is certain: the Nairobi–Kikuyu demolitions have jolted Kenya’s political establishment and reignited a national conversation about power, privilege and the rule of law.
In the rubble of flattened buildings lies a bigger story—one about a State struggling to reclaim its authority, a political class being forced to confront its own excesses, and a public desperate for infrastructure that actually works.
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