Eng Owade

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[Eng Owade @SolomonLusi]

@pry_loc Nope but I find that figure so attractive

[Eng Owade @SolomonLusi]

@nathanrobe @AlinurMohamed_ A Kenyan average monthly salary is between 55k to 75k. Subject this to all the deductions and inflation. Minus all the expenses; rent, food, school fee, transport and tell me how many people can actually afford to pay house help that much

[The Government Critic 🇰🇪 @magwaz3]

This video is not getting enough retweets

[Eng Owade @SolomonLusi]

@Belive_Kinuthia No one has a problem with the president renovating the statehouse but everyone has an issue with the amount used to do so. It's almost twice the amount TZ used to build a new statehouse

[Eng Owade @SolomonLusi]

@UtdSaint1 Bournemouth were 2 points behind us in Dec, now they are 10. You can see the improvement right?

[Eng Owade @SolomonLusi]

@calvinokello4 Make this make sense, the "affordable housing " is built using money illegally deducted from our payslips, built on a public land then sold to cartels who sell them to the public at a profit. Who's that helping the needy population?

[Moussa 🇰🇪 @NaksLfcRed]

@Broadbasedgal @muriaso You lie like your president.
Suluhu is complaining.🤣🤣🤣

[Eng Owade @SolomonLusi]

@Czooba Mbape

[Eng Owade @SolomonLusi]

@OnagiTv @AlionyaRoseline Can you name any officer who's been arrested for the killing? Let's be honest, realistic, the crime has been done what's the best form of justice? How arresting Babu would have impacted the DJ's recovery?

[Eng Owade @SolomonLusi]

@Adele_lide I'll leave this here

[Eng Owade @SolomonLusi]

@KijanayaKabras This guy generally means they're gonna employ 5 million goons and arm them

[Eng Owade @SolomonLusi]

@gpdkaluma @WilliamsRuto @DrOburu_O Who are these people you're referring to? Or the hired goons you guys sent after @orengo_james in a funeral the other day?

[Eng Owade @SolomonLusi]

@Ameerah_Oumarr Uko fiti

[Eng Owade @SolomonLusi]

@therealantoh Next time show us evidence , there's no connection whatsoever between the party and Edwin Sifuna. You're just another blogger chasing engagement and bag

[jacob juma @kabetes]

Condolences to Arsenal fans much as I know that you are inconsolable right now. Be assured that you will be among the top 4 at the end of it

[Eng Owade @SolomonLusi]

@cheruiyotkb What's the best MMF platform you can recommend?

[Eng Owade @SolomonLusi]

@ItsAmahAdoma Women enjoy/benefit more from sex than men

[Eng Owade @SolomonLusi]

@CcpWakarima @AtworiYa Ni place of issue hujui inamaanisha nn ama shida ni gani mkuu?

[Eng Owade @SolomonLusi]

@AnselmKJr Kindly share her contact

[Kingpin of Kenya @ClintonObonyo]

I am Dr. Clement Munyao Katiku, once a senior neurosurgeon at Kenyatta National Hospital, where I spent years operating on the most delicate parts of the human brain—saving lives one careful incision at a time. I graduated with my MBChB from the University of Nairobi in 1980, earned a Master's in Human Medicine and Pathology there in 1987, and went on to complete a Master's in Forensic Medicine in Scotland in 1991. My hands were trusted in the operating theatre. My mind was sharp. My life was dedicated to healing.

But one ordinary day, around 2005, everything changed because of a simple, everyday choice thousands of Kenyans make without a second thought: I bought a second-hand mobile phone.

It was affordable, nothing fancy—just a functional handset I picked up from a mortuary attendant I knew at KNH. I bought it for my daughter, a student at Moi University at the time. It was only for Kshs 2,000. She needed it for school, for staying in touch. I handed it over without suspicion. Later, she passed it to her boyfriend. That was it. A chain of innocent hands.

What I didn't know—what no one could have imagined—was that the phone had a dark history. It once belonged to Moses Gituma, a senior official at the Central Bank of Kenya and brother to the then-Commissioner of Police, Mathew Iteere. Moses had been brutally robbed and murdered. His killers took his belongings, including that phone, which somehow made its way through the underground market until it landed with the mortuary attendant who sold it to me.

Police were tracking the stolen device as part of their investigation into the murder. When they traced it, they arrested my daughter's boyfriend. He pointed to her. She, in turn, led them to me in Nairobi. I cooperated fully. I told the detectives exactly what happened: "I bought this phone second-hand from someone I trusted at the hospital. I had no idea it was stolen, let alone connected to a killing." I spoke the truth calmly, expecting reason to prevail.

It didn't.

They charged me with the murder of Moses Gituma. The chain ended on me,Hadi wa Leo,sijui mbona. I told them about mortician but that didn't matter. The prosecution's case rested heavily on the phone—its possession, the chain leading back to me. There were no eyewitnesses tying me to the crime scene. No fingerprints on any weapon. No confession. No direct evidence of robbery or violence from my side. Yet in the eyes of the law, "ukipatikana na evidence, ni wewe." Circumstantial proof was enough.

In 2009, the court convicted me and sentenced me to 30 years. I appealed, believing justice would correct the error. Instead, the appeal backfired—the sentence was enhanced to death. Later, like many others on death row, it was commuted to life imprisonment after presidential clemency and policy changes.

That was over 20 years ago. I've been in Kamiti Maximum Security Prison ever since, serving time for a crime I maintain I had nothing to do with. The mortuary attendant who sold me the phone was never charged. The real killers were never fully brought to justice in connection with this trail.

In here, I haven't wasted away. I trained as a paralegal and help fellow inmates with their legal papers, fighting for their rights the way I wish someone had fought harder for mine. I still practice medicine informally—attending to sick prisoners, treating wounds, offering advice, saving lives even behind these walls. It's the only way I know to keep my purpose alive.

I lost my career, my freedom, my family time—everything. But I hold on to hope. I speak out when given the chance, like in interviews from prison, to remind people: be careful with second-hand phones. The "curse" is real for some. What seems like a harmless bargain can unravel a life.

My name is Dr. Clement Munyao Katiku. I was a neurosurgeon who saved brains. Now, I fight to save my own story from being forgotten in this place. One day, I pray, justice will be served