![THE LAST DRINK - When Love Turns to Possession[Author is a local leader and upcoming scholar, PhD student]“Let the one w...](https://img4.medioq.com/628/991/1360089036289911.jpg)
03/09/2026
THE LAST DRINK - When Love Turns to Possession
[Author is a local leader and upcoming scholar, PhD student]
“Let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone.” — John 8:7
There are stories that begin with love and end with weddings.
Others begin with attraction, wander through forbidden corridors, and end with somebody walking away with a broken heart.
And then there are stories where love—or what people called love—ends with the terrifying sound of a gunshot.
The reported story of Doris Murei and Constable Kirwa belongs to that darker category.
Doris was reportedly married, had children and had a job. She had a family and a life beyond the relationship that would eventually dominate public discussion after her death.
Yet somewhere along life's complicated road, she reportedly became romantically involved with Kirwa.
That immediately invites judgment.
Why would a married woman seek another relationship?
But before we pick up our stones, perhaps we should remember that human beings are complicated.
We may never know what was happening inside her marriage. We may never know what she was searching for, what she was running from, or whether what outsiders describe as romance looked entirely different from inside her world.
Those answers may have died with Doris.
Then comes Kirwa.
If he knew that Doris was married, what exactly did he believe he possessed?
Her affection?
Her loyalty?
Her exclusivity?
Her life?
According to the account surrounding the tragedy, Kirwa encountered Doris drinking in the company of another man. What followed allegedly transformed jealousy into violence and a complicated relationship into irreversible tragedy.
And here lies the terrible contradiction.
A man becomes involved with a woman who reportedly belongs to another relationship, yet becomes enraged by the possibility that she might also be involved with somebody else.
The heart whispers: “She betrayed me.”
Pride answers: “How could she do this to me?”
Anger screams: “She must pay.”
And somewhere between those emotions, reason can disappear.
But betrayal is not a death sentence.
Infidelity is not a capital offence administered by an angry lover.
A broken heart does not confer the powers of judge, jury and executioner.
If Doris betrayed Kirwa, he could have walked away.
If she lied to him, he could have walked away.
If she humiliated him, he could have walked away.
If another man had taken the place he thought belonged to him, painful as that discovery might have been, he could still have walked away.
Because sometimes the bravest thing a wounded man can do is turn around and leave.
Go home.
Call a friend.
Cry if you must.
Pray.
Take a long walk.
Stand on a busy street and watch humanity passing before you. Thousands of people are living, searching, hoping and longing to love and be loved. Eventually you realise that the person who broke your heart was never the last human being capable of loving you.
A replacement can be found.
A life cannot.
And we must resist another temptation: turning Doris's death into an investigation of how many men might have been in her life.
Was there a third?
A fourth?
A fifth?
We simply do not know.
Death cannot become permission for society to manufacture a sexual history for someone who can no longer answer for herself.
There are questions about Doris that may remain unanswered forever.
But there are equally uncomfortable questions society should ask about Kirwa and men who respond to rejection, betrayal or jealousy with violence.
Who taught us that losing a lover means losing our dignity?
Who taught men that walking away makes them weak?
Who convinced us that possession is love?
And why does the sentence—
“If I cannot have you, nobody will”
still find residence in the minds of some people?
That is not love.
Love does not need a coffin to prove its intensity.
There is another uncomfortable paradox.
Suppose Doris's husband had discovered the alleged affair.
Would he have been justified in killing her?
Of course not.
Would he have been justified in killing Kirwa?
No.
Pain might explain rage.
It does not excuse murder.
This is where the story stops being merely about Doris and Kirwa.
It becomes a mirror.
Somewhere today, another Doris may be hiding a complicated relationship.
Somewhere, another Kirwa may be reading messages on a phone, trembling with jealousy.
Somewhere, a husband or wife has just discovered an affair.
Somewhere, somebody has been rejected.
Somebody has been replaced.
Somebody's pride has been crushed.
Somebody is sitting alone allowing anger to negotiate with the heart.
To that person:
Walk away.
Your heart can deceive you when it is wounded.
Your pride can convince you that today's humiliation will last forever.
It won't.
Do not make a permanent decision because of a temporary emotional storm.
Tomorrow you may discover that the person you thought you could never live without was simply one chapter in a much longer book.
Doris's choices, whatever they truly were, belonged to Doris.
They could be criticised.
They could have consequences.
They could end relationships.
But they could never justify taking her life.
And Kirwa's alleged actions should remind every man—and every woman—that passion without self-control can become destruction.
One moment of uncontrolled rage can leave children without a mother, families grieving, another family carrying shame and sorrow, and the person responsible facing consequences that may follow them for the rest of their life.
Nobody wins.
The lover is gone.
The anger eventually cools.
But death remains.
So, go well, Doris.
May those who loved you find strength, especially the children and family left behind.
And to Kirwa, if the allegations against him are established: shame on the choice to answer emotional pain with lethal violence.
To the critics already sharpening their stones, remember the words of Jesus:
“Let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone.”
Condemn wrongdoing, yes.
Question our choices, certainly.
But learn something from the tragedy.
Because there may be many untold stories of forbidden love, betrayal, jealousy and wounded pride happening behind respectable doors.
The only difference is that the curtain has not yet been lifted.
And perhaps that is the greatest lesson of all:
When love ends, let it end.
When trust breaks, walk away.
When jealousy burns, give it time to cool.
Lose the relationship if you must—but never lose yourself.
Because a broken heart can heal.
A bruised ego can recover.
Another love can come.
But the dead do not return.
**** To be continued***
