The heart-wrenching testimony of a mother who watched her daughter die in a hail of police gunfire while trying to earn an honest living.

In the unforgiving concrete jungle of Huruma, survival is a daily negotiation. For Caroline Akinyi, that negotiation happened over a frying pan of tilapia, the proceeds of which were meticulously saved to pay for her daughter's education. That hustle ended in tragedy on Saturday night when her daughter, Sheryl Adhiambo, was shot dead right in front of her customer's eyes. The phrase "Alikuwa anachoma samaki" (She was roasting fish) has become a haunting refrain in the estate, a testament to the innocence of the victim and the brutality of her death.

The Hustle That Ended in Death

Sheryl was not just a student; she was the engine of her family's hope. On weekends, she swapped her white clinical coat for an apron, standing by the roadside to help her mother boost their income. Witnesses describe a chaotic scene where police officers, chasing a phone snatcher, opened fire with complete disregard for the civilians in the line of fire. One bullet, fired with reckless abandon, found its mark in Sheryl's chest.

The tragedy highlights the precarious lives of Nairobi's working class:

• The Sacrifice: Sheryl was balancing a demanding medical course with the harsh reality of manual labor to make ends meet.
• The Trauma: Her mother, Caroline, is now a shell of a woman, having witnessed the violent death of her child in their place of work.
• The Injustice: The police initially refused to record the statement, terming it an "accidental discharge," a euphemism that enrages the community.

A Community in Mourning

The "fish spot" where Sheryl died has been turned into a makeshift shrine. Candles flicker in the wind, placed there by fellow students and customers who remember her polite demeanor and bright smile. "She told me she wanted to be a nurse so she could help people like us," recalled a neighbor, fighting back tears. "Now she is gone because a policeman couldn't aim."

This story is not just about a shooting; it is about the criminalization of poverty. In neighborhoods like Muthaiga or Runda, police do not fire stray bullets into crowds. In Huruma, it is an occupational hazard. Caroline Akinyi is left with a pile of unsold fish and a coffin to buy, a cruel irony for a mother who was working to secure a future that has now been buried.

As the teargas clears from the streets of Huruma, the silence that remains is deafening. It is the silence of a dream deferred, of a white coat stained red, and of a mother asking a question God himself seems unable to answer: Why her?