I remember watching a clip of the Gen Z 2025 protests in Kenya — a sea of humanity, more than a thousand people, filling one of the nation’s major highways. They moved together in unity, voices raised, banners high, a symbol of youthful energy and civic awakening. Motorists had avoided that route entirely, leaving the protesters to claim the tarmac as their own.
At first glance, it looked like a scene of peaceful defiance and democratic engagement. But my security mind could not shake a darker thought: what if someone had chosen that moment, that vulnerable gathering, to turn a vehicle into a weapon?
It is not a far-fetched fear. Around the world, we have seen lone-wolf attackers use motor vehicles to inflict mass casualties in minutes. The 2016 Nice attack in France, where a truck drove into Bastille Day crowds, killing 86 people. The 2017 London Bridge attack, where a van plowed into pedestrians before the assailants attacked with knives. Even in the United States, in Charlottesville, Virginia, a single driver turned a peaceful protest into a scene of chaos and death. The weapon in each case was not a bomb or a gun — it was something as ordinary as a motor vehicle.
In Kenya, we have not yet fully reckoned with this risk. Our conversations about terrorism often focus on explosives, firearms, or infiltration across porous borders. Rarely do we ask: how secure are our public gatherings from vehicle-based attacks? When I saw that highway filled with Gen Z protesters, I thought of how a single individual with malicious intent could have driven into that crowd, leaving tragedy in their wake. Hundreds could have been injured or killed before anyone could react.
Africa has not been spared from similar threats. In Nigeria, during political rallies and religious gatherings, there have been documented attempts where armed groups used vehicles to breach security perimeters. While some were stopped in time, others caused injuries before security forces could respond. In Somalia, Al-Shabaab operatives have repeatedly used vehicle-borne attacks — sometimes to breach gates, other times directly targeting people. These incidents show that vehicle attacks are not just a Western concern; they are a tactic that can appear anywhere, especially where crowd protection is minimal.
Kenya itself has faced situations that reveal how easily a vehicle could be misused. During past political rallies in Nairobi and Kisumu, sudden vehicle movements through crowds have caused panic, even when unintentional. In 2017, during tense post-election demonstrations, there were moments when police trucks or private vehicles found themselves in the middle of protest groups, creating dangerous stampedes. While these incidents were not deliberate attacks, they underline how vulnerable such gatherings can be to intentional harm.
We often imagine vehicle-based threats coming from strangers, but the truth is more unsettling: sometimes the danger is from those we know. There have been tragic cases in Kenya where family members have driven with the intent to harm or kill others in the car. A single moment of anger, despair, or mental instability can turn a routine trip into a deadly event. And do not forget even family members can be lone wolves who use motor vehicle for attacks. This is why it is important to be alert, even when the person behind the wheel is a friend or family member. Watch their behavior, their mood, their speed, and their focus. If you sense recklessness or emotional instability, do not ignore it — speak up, suggest a pause, or refuse to proceed.
Public transport users face another kind of vulnerability. In Kenya, thousands die every year in road accidents, many of which are caused by reckless driving, speeding, or driver fatigue. Yet, a common habit among passengers is to enter a matatu, bus, or taxi and immediately fall asleep. Sleeping in a moving vehicle may feel like trust, but in reality, it can be dangerous. It means you are not observing the road, not noticing risky overtaking, mechanical problems, or signs that the driver is impaired or a lone wolf. Alert passengers can — and often do — save lives by warning drivers to slow down, avoid dangerous maneuvers, or stop the journey altogether when necessary.
What makes vehicle-as-weapon attacks so dangerous is their simplicity. They require no sophisticated planning, no smuggled weaponry, and no expensive resources. The attacker — whether a terrorist, a criminal, or even a reckless driver — needs only a vehicle and an opportunity. In open, unprotected public spaces or in moments when passengers are inattentive, that opportunity is tragically easy to find.
This is not about discouraging peaceful assembly or instilling fear into everyday travel. On the contrary, it is about ensuring that both public gatherings and personal journeys remain safe. That means integrating crowd protection into protest planning, encouraging public vigilance in public transport, and breaking the habit of blind trust behind the wheel.
In other countries, simple measures such as heavy concrete barriers, parked buses, or reinforced fencing have been used to block vehicular access to protest routes. In Kenya, similar methods could be applied — even temporary measures like police vehicles positioned strategically along protest corridors can act as deterrents.
But security is not just the work of the police or event organizers. As citizens, we must cultivate awareness in every journey, whether we are in a protest, a matatu, or a family car. Our vigilance can make the difference between safety and tragedy.
The Gen Z protests showed the passion and power of citizen voices. But they also revealed, at least to me, the vulnerabilities we too often overlook. Motor vehicles are an everyday part of life — but in the wrong hands, they can be turned into weapons of terror. Recognizing this does not weaken our democracy; it strengthens it. For in a truly secure nation, freedom of assembly must walk hand in hand with proactive measures to protect those who assemble, and alertness in daily travel must be as natural as fastening a seatbelt.
At first glance, it looked like a scene of peaceful defiance and democratic engagement. But my security mind could not shake a darker thought: what if someone had chosen that moment, that vulnerable gathering, to turn a vehicle into a weapon?
It is not a far-fetched fear. Around the world, we have seen lone-wolf attackers use motor vehicles to inflict mass casualties in minutes. The 2016 Nice attack in France, where a truck drove into Bastille Day crowds, killing 86 people. The 2017 London Bridge attack, where a van plowed into pedestrians before the assailants attacked with knives. Even in the United States, in Charlottesville, Virginia, a single driver turned a peaceful protest into a scene of chaos and death. The weapon in each case was not a bomb or a gun — it was something as ordinary as a motor vehicle.
In Kenya, we have not yet fully reckoned with this risk. Our conversations about terrorism often focus on explosives, firearms, or infiltration across porous borders. Rarely do we ask: how secure are our public gatherings from vehicle-based attacks? When I saw that highway filled with Gen Z protesters, I thought of how a single individual with malicious intent could have driven into that crowd, leaving tragedy in their wake. Hundreds could have been injured or killed before anyone could react.
Africa has not been spared from similar threats. In Nigeria, during political rallies and religious gatherings, there have been documented attempts where armed groups used vehicles to breach security perimeters. While some were stopped in time, others caused injuries before security forces could respond. In Somalia, Al-Shabaab operatives have repeatedly used vehicle-borne attacks — sometimes to breach gates, other times directly targeting people. These incidents show that vehicle attacks are not just a Western concern; they are a tactic that can appear anywhere, especially where crowd protection is minimal.
Kenya itself has faced situations that reveal how easily a vehicle could be misused. During past political rallies in Nairobi and Kisumu, sudden vehicle movements through crowds have caused panic, even when unintentional. In 2017, during tense post-election demonstrations, there were moments when police trucks or private vehicles found themselves in the middle of protest groups, creating dangerous stampedes. While these incidents were not deliberate attacks, they underline how vulnerable such gatherings can be to intentional harm.
We often imagine vehicle-based threats coming from strangers, but the truth is more unsettling: sometimes the danger is from those we know. There have been tragic cases in Kenya where family members have driven with the intent to harm or kill others in the car. A single moment of anger, despair, or mental instability can turn a routine trip into a deadly event. And do not forget even family members can be lone wolves who use motor vehicle for attacks. This is why it is important to be alert, even when the person behind the wheel is a friend or family member. Watch their behavior, their mood, their speed, and their focus. If you sense recklessness or emotional instability, do not ignore it — speak up, suggest a pause, or refuse to proceed.
Public transport users face another kind of vulnerability. In Kenya, thousands die every year in road accidents, many of which are caused by reckless driving, speeding, or driver fatigue. Yet, a common habit among passengers is to enter a matatu, bus, or taxi and immediately fall asleep. Sleeping in a moving vehicle may feel like trust, but in reality, it can be dangerous. It means you are not observing the road, not noticing risky overtaking, mechanical problems, or signs that the driver is impaired or a lone wolf. Alert passengers can — and often do — save lives by warning drivers to slow down, avoid dangerous maneuvers, or stop the journey altogether when necessary.
What makes vehicle-as-weapon attacks so dangerous is their simplicity. They require no sophisticated planning, no smuggled weaponry, and no expensive resources. The attacker — whether a terrorist, a criminal, or even a reckless driver — needs only a vehicle and an opportunity. In open, unprotected public spaces or in moments when passengers are inattentive, that opportunity is tragically easy to find.
This is not about discouraging peaceful assembly or instilling fear into everyday travel. On the contrary, it is about ensuring that both public gatherings and personal journeys remain safe. That means integrating crowd protection into protest planning, encouraging public vigilance in public transport, and breaking the habit of blind trust behind the wheel.
In other countries, simple measures such as heavy concrete barriers, parked buses, or reinforced fencing have been used to block vehicular access to protest routes. In Kenya, similar methods could be applied — even temporary measures like police vehicles positioned strategically along protest corridors can act as deterrents.
But security is not just the work of the police or event organizers. As citizens, we must cultivate awareness in every journey, whether we are in a protest, a matatu, or a family car. Our vigilance can make the difference between safety and tragedy.
The Gen Z protests showed the passion and power of citizen voices. But they also revealed, at least to me, the vulnerabilities we too often overlook. Motor vehicles are an everyday part of life — but in the wrong hands, they can be turned into weapons of terror. Recognizing this does not weaken our democracy; it strengthens it. For in a truly secure nation, freedom of assembly must walk hand in hand with proactive measures to protect those who assemble, and alertness in daily travel must be as natural as fastening a seatbelt.
