In the breathtaking hills of Elgeyo Marakwet, where green pastures meet open skies, an 90-year-old woman, Cheptanui Sinyei Rotich, lives a quiet life on the land she inherited from her late mother. But what should have been a peaceful retirement in the serenity of nature has instead been consumed by nearly five decades of unrelenting legal battles and deep personal anguish.
Sinyei’s homestead, a 44-acre plot in Kapcherop village, has been at the center of a bitter dispute since 1978, when her ownership of the land was challenged by seven alleged land grabbers, including two of her own estranged sons. With the backing of local administrators, these individuals have repeatedly tried to seize what rightfully belongs to Sinyei. Over the years, the battle has drained her emotionally, physically, and financially.
The journey to her homestead is not an easy one. Narrow dirt roads wind through the lush hills, and when the Hubz team arrives, rain is falling heavily. Yet her humble home stands steadfast, surrounded by the very land she’s fought for all these years—a land that was once a source of pride, now overshadowed by years of struggle.
As Sinyei reflects on her long fight, her words are marked by a quiet strength and unwavering determination. “I have fought for this land for 48 years,” she says softly, her voice carrying the weight of the decades. “The justice system has failed me.” Her battle began when she returned to care for her elderly mother and was immediately met with resistance from land grabbers determined to force her off the land.
Her daughter, Mary Rotich, who has become her primary caregiver, paints a picture of a family trapped in a constant state of fear and uncertainty. “They’ve blocked the feeder road to our home and to the church,” she says, tears welling up in her eyes. “We can’t even take my mother to worship. Our lives are completely disrupted.” The dreams they once had of developing their land and building a better future have been crushed under the weight of this unending struggle. “We wanted to expand the farm, make it more productive, but instead, we are stuck,” Mary explains. “We’re prisoners on our own land.”
The family’s suffering goes far beyond legal battles. Over the years, Sinyei and her children have faced violent confrontations from the alleged land grabbers and their supporters. Mary recalls the terrifying moments when their home was raided, and they were beaten. “They came in, attacked us, and left us humiliated,” she says, her voice breaking with emotion. “We live in constant fear of what they might do next.”
These violent attacks have left physical scars, but the emotional wounds run deeper. Mary herself has endured severe injuries, including a broken hand, and has faced legal harassment meant to intimidate her into silence. “The system is meant to protect us, but instead, it is the cause of our pain,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief.
Sinyei’s story is also a reflection of deeper systemic issues within Kenya’s judicial system. Despite the Judiciary’s efforts to clear a backlog of cases, Sinyei’s case—like so many others—remains unresolved. It has moved from one court to another for nearly five decades, with little to show for it. Activist Kimutai Kirui, who has been a vocal advocate for justice in the region, has sharply criticized the judicial system. “This case has dragged on for so long,” he says. “It should have been resolved long ago. If something so straightforward cannot be settled, what does that say about the state of justice in Kenya?”
The family has now turned to Kenya's Chief Justice, Martha Koome, hoping for intervention. “We plead with the Chief Justice to hear our cries,” Sinyei says. “We need justice before it’s too late.”
Adding to their burden are allegations against local officials, including Chief Andrew Chemaringo of Kapcherop. The Centre Against Torture has accused him of colluding with the land grabbers, allegedly orchestrating harassment and even forcing Sinyei to sign fraudulent documents. “They used soot from a sufuria to make me press my thumbprint on papers I didn’t understand,” Sinyei claims. Despite her numerous complaints, those documents remain hidden, and the harassment continues unabated.
Mary and the family have been subjected to more than just intimidation from the land grabbers. Local officials and police have threatened them, demanding bribes, and blackmailing them for money. “They even demanded Ksh 200,000 from my sister in Norway,” Mary reveals. “We are constantly being harassed. There’s no peace in our lives.”
The chief is also accused of blocking rural electrification projects, halting road construction to their home, and using his position to prevent anyone from assisting the family. The Centre Against Torture has condemned these actions, calling for an investigation and prosecution of the officials involved. “Public servants are supposed to serve the people, not cause them harm,” a spokesperson for the organization states.
For Kirui, the situation is clear: “If we cannot protect our elderly and vulnerable, then we’ve failed as a society. We cannot stand by and allow this injustice to continue.”
As the rain continues to fall on Sinyei’s homestead, the elderly woman and her daughter remain resolute. Their fight is not just about land—it is about dignity, about the right to live in peace, and about the pursuit of justice.
“We’ve waited long enough,” Mary says, her resolve unshaken. “It’s time for the courts to act.”
Sinyei’s battle is not just her own. It is a painful reminder of the struggles many vulnerable Kenyans face in their pursuit of justice. Her story speaks to the systemic failures within the judiciary and the complicity of local authorities. For Sinyei and her family, justice cannot come soon enough, but their hope for a better tomorrow remains undiminished.