By Martin Masai
Dorothy Nasimiyu Sabina Muoma was not a rumour.
Not a street myth.
Not a whispered cautionary tale.
She was born on December 1, 1971, at Lang’ata Barracks to Lukas and Rose Muoma.
A bubbly, intelligent child.
The second born in a large, tightly knit family.
She died on February 3, 2026, at 8:00 PM at Moi Teaching and Referral Hospital.
Between those two dates is a story Kenya needs to confront honestly — and urgently today. Tomorrow will be too late.
The Making of a Lawyer
Dorothy’s education was deliberate and accomplished. From St. Peter’s Cleavers Primary to Khalsa Primary South C, then Kenyatta University Primary School where she completed her KCPE in 1985.
She proceeded to Moi Nairobi Girls Secondary School and sat for her KCSE in 1989.
In 1991, she travelled to India to pursue a Bachelor of Laws (LLB) at Dr. Ambedkar Marathwada University in Aurangabad, graduating in 1996. She began an LLM at Baroda University, but tragedy struck in January 1997. A serious accident broke both her feet.
During recovery, she was diagnosed with schizophrenia.
That diagnosis would define — and challenge — the rest of her life.
But it did not defeat her.
After treatment, she returned to Kenya, enrolled at the Kenya School of Law in 1999, and in 2003 was sworn in as an Advocate of the High Court of Kenya.
She had earned her place in the legal fraternity.
A Career Interrupted
Dorothy worked in several law firms between 2003 and 2010 before joining the Attorney General’s office under the NALEP programme. She served as Assistant Registrar in charge of the Kisumu office until 2014.
Then illness intervened again.
The official family eulogy is clear: she lost her job in 2014 due to sickness.
Not incompetence.
Not scandal.
Sickness. Her employer abandoned her.
In 2016, she attempted to rebuild, founding Lukas Muoma & Associates. But the illness made it impossible to sustain the firm.
Schizophrenia is relentless when medication lapses. It erodes routine. Stability. Employment. Dignity.
Dorothy’s journey became one of hospital admissions and recovery cycles. Her family fought for her. Her brother John stood by her consistently. Relatives pooled support.
But love, in Kenya, often carries the burden that institutions should shoulder.
The Final Admission
In January 2026, Dorothy was admitted to Moi Teaching and Referral Hospital with severe sepsis in her left leg.
Doctors treated her aggressively. Her hemoglobin levels remained persistently low despite blood transfusions.
On February 3, she requested chips and anti-nausea medication. She fell asleep before the food arrived.
When she woke, she began vomiting severely. Resuscitation attempts failed.
At 7:30 PM she was declared unresponsive.
At 8:00 PM she was pronounced dead.
She was 54.
The Woman Beyond the Illness
The tributes from family during her burial tell us who Dorothy truly was.
A devoted aunt who organized Zoom calls so her nieces could speak to their travelling father.
A patient woman who bought more milk when a child kept spilling it at supper.
A sister who fought childhood bullies alongside her brother.
“She silently taught me that love is shown through actions,” her niece Natalie said.
Even during sickness, she asked about others first.
That is who schizophrenia was battling — not just a lawyer, but a loving, thinking, vibrant human being.
The Hard Question
Dorothy’s death is tragic.
But it is not isolated.
Mental health deterioration in Kenya is no longer anecdotal. It is visible. It is audible. It is everywhere.
How many more trained professionals must quietly lose jobs because of untreated psychiatric illness?
How many more families must shoulder medication costs alone?
How many more hospital corridors must double as the only safety net?
Kenya’s Mental Health Act exists on paper.
Public psychiatric units are overstretched. County health budgets prioritise visible emergencies — roads, water, politics (where they can rapidly steal)— while invisible illnesses advance unchecked. No one is interested.
Yet,Schizophrenia is manageable with consistent treatment, structured support, employment protections, and community acceptance.
But when medication lapses due to cost or stigma… when relapse leads to job loss… when job loss leads to instability… when the employer ditches you like a hot potato…the decline is not spiritual. It is systemic.
Dorothy’s story forces us to confront a disturbing pattern: we only speak loudly about mental health at funerals.
We eulogize resilience.
We praise courage.
We whisper about “what happened.”
Then we go quiet again.
Until the next burial.
A National Reckoning
Dorothy Nasimiyu Muoma lies buried in Bungoma beside her parents.
But her life leaves us with a verdict.
Mental illness is not a private embarrassment.
It is a public health emergency.
Journalism, the legal profession, the civil service, the Ministry of Health, county governments, the Judiciary, professional bodies — all must answer this:
What mechanisms exist to retain, protect, and rehabilitate skilled professionals diagnosed with chronic mental illness?
Where is structured workplace accommodation?
Where is funded long-term psychiatric follow-up?
Where is early intervention before collapse?
How many more Dorothys must die before firm, funded, enforceable action is taken?
Because if an Advocate of the High Court — internationally trained, professionally accomplished, fiercely loved — can deteriorate without sustainable systemic support, then the crisis is deeper than we admit.
Dorothy’s life was not just a biography.
It is a warning.
And warnings, if ignored, become patterns.
The question is no longer what happened to Dorothy.
The question is:
Who is next — and will we act before their funeral programme is printed?
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