On the night of July 13, 1991, St Kizito Mixed Secondary School in Meru became the site of one of the most horrifying school tragedies in the country’s history.

What began as a student protest escalated into a night of terror that left 19 girls dead and 71 others brutally raped. The events of that night remain a painful scar in the memories of survivors and a dark chapter in Kenya’s education history.

For those who lived through that night, the memories remain vivid. Salome Mutua, then a Form Four student, recalls the sheer terror.

“We had just settled in for night preps when the lights went out. We assumed it was a normal blackout and went back to our dorms. Not even in our wildest dreams did we imagine the boys would turn on us—they were like our brothers,” she says.

At 10 pm, the tranquility of the night was shattered. A group of male students, furious over grievances against the school administration, stormed the girls’ section. Their chants grew louder, their frustration boiling over. The girls, sensing danger, crammed into one dormitory and locked the door. The dormitory, built to accommodate 70, now held more than 200 terrified girls.

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Then came the stones, hurled at the dormitory, breaking windows and sending shards of glass flying inside. The girls remained silent, hoping the attackers would leave. But at around 1am, the boys returned—this time with a terrifying determination. They broke down the dormitory doors, dragged girls outside, and subjected them to unimaginable brutality.

When the attack began, the girls tried everything to protect themselves. They used beds to barricade the doors, but the weight of so many bodies on top of the furniture caused the beds to collapse, crushing some of the girls underneath. Many died from suffocation and injuries inflicted by the broken metal bed frames.

The girls’ screams echoed through the night, but no help came. The school’s watchmen were nowhere to be found. The police, stationed not far from the school, failed to respond in time. By morning, the full horror was evident: 19 girls were dead, crushed or suffocated in the overcrowded dormitory, and 71 had been raped.

Investigations later revealed that the attack was not spontaneous but had been brewing for months. The male students had been protesting over unfulfilled demands, including access to eggs from the school’s poultry farm and milk from the dairy unit. The school principal, James Laibon, had received threatening fliers months before the tragedy but had been assured by authorities that the threats were not serious.

When their demands were ignored, some boys planned to retaliate. A chilling justification later emerged: the belief that some teachers had romantic ties with female students. “If the teachers can have them, why not us?” one of the attackers reportedly claimed. The attack was not just about school grievances—it was about power, violence, and a deeply rooted culture of impunity.

Mary (not her real name), a student leader at the time, remembers the struggle to protect the younger girls.

“The Form One and Form Two students clung to me, terrified. I tried to calm them, but when the boys broke the doors with stones, the younger girls panicked and ran to a corner. The boys started dragging girls out to the field. Some of them had their faces covered, so I couldn’t recognise them,” she recalls.

Too late

In the morning, the police finally arrived, but it was too late. In the aftermath, the authorities launched investigations, and 39 male students were arrested and charged with rape and murder. The trial lasted a year. On July 30, 1991, the accused were photographed smiling outside a Meru court, a chilling contrast to the trauma their female classmates endured.

One of the arrested boys, who later served two and a half years in prison, insists he was wrongly accused.

“I was in Form Two and had been at the school for only three weeks. That night, I was drunk. The police found me in the morning, still intoxicated, but in court, they claimed I had organised the attack,” he says.

Another former student, a day scholar at the time, recalls being advised to go into hiding as police arrested all male students indiscriminately.

The St Kizito massacre left deep scars, not just on the survivors but on the entire community. Many of the perpetrators faced severe consequences—some died young, others struggled with mental health issues, and those who went to prison found reintegration into society difficult.

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Despite the scale of the tragedy, there was little psychological support for the survivors. Mary recalls the immediate return to normalcy after the incident. “We were taken to other schools and started exams almost immediately. There was no counseling, just silence. We had to pretend everything was fine,” she says.

The trauma left many girls unable to speak about their experiences for years. Counseling psychologist Jacqueline Gathu explains that silence is common among survivors of sexual violence. “Even today, conversations about sex and assault are shrouded in stigma. Many survivors blame themselves, and society reinforces that shame,” she says.

Njuri Ncheke Council chairman Adriano Aruyaru recalls the anger and sorrow that gripped the community.

“We wanted to cleanse the school traditionally, but since it was a Catholic institution, we couldn’t,” he says.

Former teacher Stephen Muchena reflects on the misplaced rage that fueled the massacre.

“The boys had come back from a sports trip, angry that the school had not paid for their participation. That anger had to be directed somewhere, and unfortunately, it was the girls who suffered,” he says.

The tragedy forced authorities to reconsider school safety policies. St Kizito was split into two separate schools—St Cyprian for boys and St Angela for girls.