Not the biggest bully being threatened by mtu mdogo with a website

If ever there was proof that brains terrify bureaucracy, it’s this: a quiet, dreadlocked web developer, a laptop, and a bit of code. Rose Njeri Tunguru, the soft-spoken mother of two, was apparently too intelligent to be left unbothered by a government that breaks into a sweat at the sight of an Excel spreadsheet. 

Njeri is not the most imposing of persons, but like the Biblical David, she understands that size doesn’t always win fights. Not in the city, at least. “Akili mjini, nguvu kijijini,” wahenga walinena.

Last week, the government did what it does best—respond to reason with repression. Njeri, skilled in writing code, dared to develop a platform named Civic Email, which, horror of horrors, allowed citizens to email Parliament their thoughts on this year’s Finance Bill.

She was arrested by not one, not two, but a brigade of 15 mean-looking detectives from the Directorate of Criminal Investigations (DCI), the kind they send to nab wezi sugu. Because nothing screams “national threat” like a mother trying to save you from a sugar tax. 

Embarrassed by the ridicule they would attract for arresting someone for using her brain, the “sleuths” did not deploy their composition writer to announce the high-profile “pounce” on social media.

In court, the DCI claimed Njeri’s platform "jammed Bunge’s email systems." Yes, in a plot twist worthy of a low-budget spy film, the nation’s highest legislative office was brought to its knees... by emails. The inbox, that ancient tool of bureaucratic laziness, was reportedly overwhelmed, proving once and for all that Kenya’s Parliament runs on dial-up internet, overcooked egos, and paperweight degrees. 

But this was no act of digital terrorism. Njeri didn’t hack the Pentagon; she just made it easier for Wananchi to say, “No, we’d rather not be taxed into extinction.” Her app allowed citizens to send objections to the Finance Bill using Parliament’s own publicly advertised email addresses. She gave the people a megaphone, and Parliament promptly had a meltdown.

Njeri’s lawyer, Ndegwa Njiru, with the exasperation of a man forced to argue with a brick wall, explained that the charges were non-existent in the actual law books. “You can’t take a plea for an offence that doesn’t exist,” he said, likely resisting the urge to ask the court whether this was a hearing or a badly written play. 

Njeri had been arrested while attending a graduation ceremony. Someone thought the proper response to a woman celebrating academic excellence was to be sandwiched between plainclothes officers and bundled off for, well, thinking too much.

After her release on a Sh100,000 bond, Njeri told journalists she thought her arrest was “ridiculous”—a gross understatement on par with calling Mt Kenya a hill.

“Wamenilalisha cell siku nne,” she recounted, noting she was held without knowing her crimes. It turned out she was locked up because someone in Bunge didn’t know how to sort their inbox. 

Remember high school fights? That glorious era when classroom brawls were more predictable than Chemistry lessons and way more entertaining? There was always that one moment—the towering giant of Form Four getting pummelled by a pocket-sized Form Two firecracker. The aftermath was legendary. Laughter echoed in corridors. Teachers shook their heads in exaggerated disbelief: “Unapigwa aje na mtu mdogo hivyo?” 

Well, fast forward to 2025, and guess who’s reliving their high school trauma? That’s right—the Government of Kenya, now playing the role of the oversized bully who just got head-butted by a soft-spoken coder from Embakasi. 

Lest we forget, this government has a rich history of being terrorised by small entities. Butere Girls saw what Mtema Kuni saw with their poorly written Echoes of War play that served its purpose of calling out poor governance.

The government treated them like Baba’s supporters, deploying the most potent tear gas, reserved for hard eyes that just won’t cry.

It shouldn’t surprise us that the long-handed government freaked out over Rose Njeri. A woman, coding from her living room, dared to question taxation—and boom, a national emergency. Clearly, this government’s motto is: “If it’s smaller than us and smarter than us, arrest it.” 

In typical irony, the very government that called for public feedback on the Finance Bill is now crying sabotage when the public actually responded. It’s almost poetic. You ask for transparency, someone gives it to you, and suddenly it is cybercrime!