Beyond the Ashes: Hope Rising in Nakuru
When I arrived in Nakuru, Kenya, in the wake of the 2008 post-election violence, I could still feel the tension in the air. Though the clashes had subsided, fear lingered. People spoke in hushed tones, casting wary glances over their shoulders. Even the youngest faces bore traces of suspicion—after all, many of the attackers who had razed Nakuru were teenagers eager to prove themselves to the outlawed Mungiki sect.
Kenyans refer to this period simply as “the clashes.” It was more than just political turmoil—it was a collision of ambition, deep-seated tribal divisions, and years of unresolved grievances. Officially, the Kenyan Red Cross reported a death toll of around 1,200, but the true number, I believe, was far higher. In the end, more than 600,000 people were displaced from their homes.
My first day in Nakuru, I hired a taxi and surveyed the devastation. Entire communities had been wiped out. I visited what had once been the home of my friend, Joseph Mambo. Where Sarah and I had once shared tea with Joseph and his wife, there was now only ash, glass, and debris. The pain of loss was everywhere.
For ten days, I traveled from Nakuru to Bungoma, moving through the heart of the destruction, carrying a message of hope to the churches. Along the roads, small and large IDP (Internally Displaced Persons) camps stood as makeshift sanctuaries for those who had lost everything. Families huddled together, waiting for an end to the suffering.
In Nakuru alone, there were two such camps. At the Show Ground Camp, 3,000 Kikuyu people sheltered in 800 tents. At Afraha Stadium Camp, nearly 1,600 Luo, Luhya, and Kisii families found refuge in just 205 tents. My first walk through the camps was met with skepticism. Who was this mzungu? Just another outsider looking for a photo opportunity? No. I was there to listen, to pray, to stand beside them in their grief.
Day after day, I returned. I prayed for the sick and wounded. I held dying children and watched God heal them. One man, a bicycle repairman, had been ambushed on his way to work. His head, arms, and back bore deep cuts, and both his arms were shattered. In another tent, I found a little girl—no older than three or four—her tiny arms wrapped in bandages, burned from a tragic fall into a pot of scalding water. The clinic had no ointment; the family had no money for a doctor. I mourned with parents who had buried their children, and I listened as they cried out in frustration.
One man voiced the pain of many: “Why should I return to the land where the blood of my family still wets the ground?”
Yet, even in this place of suffering, God was working.
Among those I met was Pastor Robert Chenane. He had come to Nakuru with a vision to start a church, but the violence had destroyed his home and left his family of eleven crammed into a single tent. His dream seemed impossible. Many local pastors avoided the camps, unwilling to engage with those displaced by the conflict. But I encouraged Robert to see the opportunity before him. Every day, he sought me out, and together we prayed.
After I returned to the U.S., Robert continued his ministry in the camp, distributing supplies, offering comfort, and holding fast to the belief that God was still at work. When the day came to disband the camp, forty families followed him.
Forty families—people whom the government had called dogs, deemed unworthy of fair relief.
Forty families—forgotten by the world, but not by God.
From the ashes of tragedy, a new church was born. Hope had risen in Nakuru.