Eight years on, families of those killed in the Lake Nakuru crash still waiting for closure

Eight years later, Rahab Nyawira still speaks of Sam Gitau as though he were alive, as though the passage of time has done nothing to dim her memories of the man she loved.

"When I last heard his voice, it was just a quick call. He said he wouldn't make it home that night, but would come the next day so we could resolve a minor disagreement. He told me, 'When I leave Narok, make sure I get you home'," That was our last conversation.

The following morning, news broke that a private helicopter carrying five people had plunged into Lake Nakuru moments after take-off. Among the passengers was Sam Gitau, her 22-year-old partner and a communications officer working in the campaign team of the current Nakuru Governor, Susan Kihika.

At the time, Rahab was two weeks away from giving birth.

"I gave birth without him,' she says, her voice tightening. "He never got to see the daughter he was so eager to meet. When he found out I was pregnant, he was overjoyed. He’d often joke, ‘Kwani sisi tumebeba ndovu? She’s not coming?’”

Their daughter, Shirley Susan Wairimu, turns eight next month. Gitau had insisted on her middle name, Susan, before his death.

"We argued about the name,' says Nyawira, smiling faintly. “He wanted to name her after his boss, but I didn’t. When he died, I decided to use both names. It felt right, like he was still part of that decision.”

In the days after the crash, Nyawira says she was surrounded by promises of support, a job and help with raising her child.

“They said they’d stand by me. But none of that happened," she says quietly. "The governor’s husband helped once or twice when I was in a tough spot, but mostly it's just been me and my child."

After a long pause, she adds, “I haven’t found another life partner. Maybe he set the bar too high. He was so intentional and focused he knew exactly what he wanted for our future.”

Years later, Nyawira says she has never received closure: there has been no official report, no detailed explanation of what happened and no information about why some bodies, including Sam’s, were never found.

“Sam gave everything to that job,” she says. “He was asthmatic, but he’d rush out without a sweater because he was so committed. I just wish his dedication hadn’t been forgotten.”

Nyawira, now a small business owner running Rey’s Kitchen, believes her partner’s memory deserves better.

“I’m not asking for anything for myself,” she says. "But his daughter deserves to be remembered she’s the daughter of a man who worked so hard. Politics can be so cruel.”

She hopes to hold a small memorial one day. ‘I’ve wanted to do something maybe visit the lake or do something he loved. I just haven’t found the strength yet.”

When we reached her for comment, Sam’s mother, Margaret Wairimu, could barely speak about her son.

"I don't like the month of October," she said quietly before ending the call.

On that tragic morning of October 21, 2017, Veronica Muthoni, Anthony Kipyegon, John Njuguna Mapozi and Captain Apollo Malowa also lost their lives. The helicopter, which was owned by Flex Air Charters and registered as 5Y-NMJ, had just taken off from Jarika County Lodge en route to Narok for Jubilee Party campaigning when it crashed into the lake, barely seven minutes into the flight.

It took over 25 days to locate the wreckage and recover three of the five bodies. Despite an extended search, two bodies, including Sam’s, were never found.

For David Gachuki, the father of the late Veronica Muthoni, grief has softened with time, but has never vanished.

“She was my firstborn,” he says simply. “She had big dreams. All that ended that day. You learn to accept it, because there’s no other way.”

Today, Lake Nakuru remains calm its wide, reflective surface betraying nothing of the tragedy beneath.

Since then, politics have shifted and campaigns have come and gone, but the pain of those who lost loved ones in the crash remains.

For Rahab, Margaret and David, the Lake Nakuru helicopter tragedy is not just a headline; it is a silence they live with every day.