It is almost the unwritten rule that what happens behind the walls must remain secret, a practice that is letting Gender-Based Violence (GBV) thrive undeterred in many urban and rural homes.
But this silence has been broken by none other than former Nairobi Governor Mike Mbuvi Sonko, a man who knows how best to attract attention.
Evidently, Sonko’s campaign against GBV is not born of political opportunism or a scheduled public awareness drive. It is born of raw, parental terror.
The rage witnessed in him was triggered by an incident involving his daughter, Salma Mbuvi, who had allegedly been assaulted by the husband.
In a video that went viral, the former governor is seen ranting at his son-in-law, accusing the man of habitually battering his daughter. At one point, one of his bodyguards slaps the helpless, shaking man.
The incident, which Sonko later described as unfortunate, mirrors what happens in most homes across Kenya.
“Today, we received a distress call from our daughter that shook us to the core, her voice trembling, her spirit broken,” Sonko posted on social media. “No mother or father can sit still when their child is hurting.”
Salma had called her mother in tears. Her words, simple yet profoundly heartbreaking, laid bare the casual cruelty that defines many abusive relationships: “Can you come for me… I just asked for breakfast, and I was slapped twice.”
A visibly emotional Sonko detailed his personal intervention. He rushed to the scene, not as a former governor with security detail, but as a father.
While his security personnel were ready to retaliate against the alleged perpetrator, a man Sonko says he had generously supported, even buying him a Range Rover Vogue, paying his rent, school fees for his children, and covering all family bills, the governor held back.
His reason was protective: he refused to expose his grandchildren to violence.
However, Sonko’s support came with a fiery and public condemnation, and a stern warning to the man.
He vowed that his family will pursue the matter through the law, insisting that such incidents must no longer be swept under the carpet, regardless of who is involved.
“If my own daughter can face harassment in her own home, what about the countless young women and men in Kenya who suffer silently?” he posed.
“If children of the wealthy are being beaten, what about the daughters of the poor?”
An ugly scene it was; but it exposed the devastating truth: the privilege of wealth offers no bulletproof vest against violence.
If the walls of a wealthy family could hold this secret, what horrors unfold in the thousands of tiny, cramped flats that make up most of Nairobi’s individualistic society?
Sadly, in many city estates, violence has tragically become background noise; a familiar, unsettling soundtrack playing behind the bustle of everyday life. The majority of GBV cases never make it to the public eye; they live and die in mabati courts and bedsitters, in the very places we call home.
This reality is painfully familiar to people like Maina Kariuki, a caretaker in Zimmerman, who is on the frontlines of the crisis. He witnesses the unravelling of families behind thin doors: women slipping out with bags at midnight, men thundering down corridors, and children hiding in stairwells.
“We caretakers are the first responders,” Kariuki says, “but we have no training, no protection, no authority.”
The man has intervened and been attacked, called police who arrived too late, and helped women flee only to watch them return days later. Each night, when a scream splits the silence, Kariuki is torn between risking his life and living with the weight of inaction, knowing there is no safe choice, only peril in every direction. And statistics confirm the scope of this invisible epidemic.
According to Centre for Rights Education and Awareness (CREAW-Kenya) report of 2022, out of 3,762 cases of GBV reported, women accounted for a staggering 2,985.
The Kenya Demographic Health Survey (KDHS) paints an even grimmer picture, finding that over 40 percent of women have experienced physical or sexual violence from intimate partners at least once in their lives.
The threat is not abstract; for four out of every ten Kenyan women, it is a lived, terrifying reality. The victims are often stuck in a cycle of isolation. The KDHS 2022 report notes that among women aged between 15 and 49 who have ever experienced physical violence, 42 percent never sought help and never told anyone.
This profound silence is the lifeblood of the violence. The vulnerability is highest in certain regions: violence by an intimate partner hits Bungoma and Embu counties highest at 48 percent, followed closely by Migori at 47 percent and Murang’a at 43 percent.
Murang’a also holds the unenviable record for the highest number of women who had two or more sexual partners in the past 12 months (11 percent), a fact experts hypothesise might be linked to violence and retaliation.
The crisis is compounded in informal urban settlements, where the most vulnerable are often teenage mothers. Boera Bisieri, a communication expert who has worked with community-focused initiatives, points out the devastating sequence of events these young mothers face.
“One of the hardest realities these young mothers face is stigma,” Bisieri explains. “Many are treated as though their pregnancy is a moral failure rather than a situation that requires support and understanding.”
Once pushed out of home, often while still children themselves, they are confronted with unforgiving urban poverty. With no stable income and no family support, they are forced into a survival mode, making them acutely vulnerable to exploitation by partners, employers, and even the systems meant to protect them.
The loss of education is often immediate and permanent. The chances of a young mother returning to school are slim, and without education or vocational skills, economic independence becomes impossible.
The cycle of poverty repeats itself, trapping both the young mother and her child. This is where the most silent GBV cases go unreported; the victims are forced to remain in abusive situations simply because they need a place to stay or someone to help care for the baby.
The emotional toll is immense. These young girls face deep mental health struggles, trauma, shame, guilt, depression, and anxiety, often with no safe space to process what they are going through. Because mental health is still heavily stigmatised, many of these girls suffer in the deepest silence.
But why, even when help is available, do victims choose to remain silent?
Paul Njogu, a Nairobi-based doctor and psycho-social consultant, argues that the growing silence is not a sign of apathy but a logical response to a system that has repeatedly failed them.
Many survivors or victims, he explains, experience institutional betrayal, from police dismissal to medical delays and stalled court processes. This creates a state of learned helplessness and the belief that reporting will not change anything.
The trauma itself is debilitating. The justice process often triggers a cognitive overload that forces survivors to withdraw.
In today’s digital age, the fear that one’s pain could go viral adds yet another psychological barrier.
When alleged perpetrators wield money, influence, or political power, survivors recognise the structural imbalance and often feel reporting is futile or dangerous.
In such an environment, Dr Njogu notes, silence becomes a survival strategy
Survivors are, technically, not without legal protection.
Lawyer Essendi Kenneth notes that the Protection Against Domestic Violence Act, 2015, allows victims to obtain interim or final protection orders, with violators facing fines of up to Sh100,000 or a year in prison or both.
The Sexual Offences Act prescribes no less than ten years to life for rape or sexual assault, while defilement carries sentences ranging from 15 years to life.