8 Days at Central Police

8 Days at Central Police

May 2019

Of Albert -

Brought back what I had buried.

Memories that sat quietly…

Until silence was broken by a loss.

I do not write to accuse.

I write to remember.

To reflect on an experience that carved itself into my soul—

Eight days and nights at Central Police Station.

We were sacrificed—

So someone else could rise.

Torn from our routines,

Dragged through whispers dressed as truth,

And handed over without a chance to breathe.

Even the DCI kept asking,

“Did they really do what’s being alleged?”

Because truth has a way of standing on its own,

Even inside locked doors.

We stood—

No room to sit.

No space to lie down.

Only a wall to lean on

And faith to hold onto.

Then came the infamous last cell—

Next to the toilets,

Where dignity goes to die.

For a few hours,

That cell became my home.

I will never forget.

At night, the cries came.

“Wananiua! Wananiua!”

Over and over again.

We tried to see what was happening…

But it was the order of the nights,

Echoes from neighboring cells,

Too painful to forget, too loud to silence.

We were torn.

Families torn.

Careers paused.

Headlines written before truth could speak.

But who is God?

The same day he was shown the door,

A quiet door opened for me.

No spotlight.

Just grace, gently replacing grief.

That season did not break me.

It carved me.

And from that carving, strength rose.

Because storms end.

And fire, though fierce, does not always consume.

It came.

And it passed.

And still—

I remember.