There was a time when the village believed a police or military officer was manufactured differently from ordinary human beings. The uniform was supposed to come with a permanent supply of courage, a face carved from granite and, preferably, tear ducts sealed by government regulation. A policeman could arrest a thief, confront a mob and stare down danger but cry? Never. Not even on his deathbed.
Then came the recent pass-out, and social media gave the village a small cultural earthquake.
Videos of newly graduated officers embracing parents, spouses, and relatives flooded our phones. Some cried openly, tears running down faces that had supposedly been trained to remain unshaken. Mothers cried. Fathers cried. Officers cried. Even the village, after recovering from the shock, quietly wiped its own eyes.
Perhaps we have misunderstood the uniform.
Behind every stern officer is somebody’s child who once returned home muddy, somebody’s daughter whose mother worried through the night, somebody’s husband, wife, brother, or sister. The pass-out ceremony merely reminded us that before the uniform acquires authority, it belongs to a human being.
But Village Wisdom has one question: what happened to the old police or military mythology?
The village was deliberately taught that an officer should never be seen crying. Apparently, the police officer was expected to report for duty with courage in the pocket and emotions left at home with the laundry.
Then the Gen Z generation arrived, carrying TikTok, Instagram, and an entirely different understanding of public expression. They did not receive the memo about dying behind the sunglasses.
We have seen officers dancing in uniform, posing for social media and occasionally turning the solemnity of the uniform into something resembling a weekend challenge. Some serving officers have even been filmed handing their firearms to civilians so they can adjust gowns, take photographs or participate in fashionable poses.
That is where Village Wisdom stops laughing.
A tear does not compromise an officer’s authority. A hug does not make the uniform weak. But a firearm is not a fashion accessory. A police weapon does not become harmless because somebody wants the perfect photograph.
Perhaps the Kenya Defence Forces and other security institutions need to add a new chapter to their training manuals: “The Uniform in the Age of Social Media.”
It should teach officers when to cry, when to dance, when to pose and, most importantly, when to put the phone away.
The lesson should not be to manufacture emotionless robots. A force that cannot embrace its mother may eventually forget why it serves the public. But neither should social-media freedom become a licence to dilute discipline, operational security or respect for firearms.
The old village wisdom said, “A uniform must remain a uniform even when the person inside it is dancing.”
Perhaps Gen Z requires a slightly updated version:
Dance if you must, cry if you must but never let the TikTok trend pull the trigger.
