Unanswered call: Wife searches missing husband in warzone

Milcah Wangila Mutoka' wife, at her home in Teso North.[Martin Ndiema,Standard]

At a small, sun-drenched home in Ikapolok village, Teso Subcounty, the silence is a breathing agony, a stark contrast to the dedication that once defined the man who now exists only as a fading photograph.

Five months have passed since the last fragmented call, when Milcah Wangila spoke with Oscar Mutoka, her husband of 17 years. Mutoka, a 39-year-old father of three and former military man, had barely been gone three months—driven across continents by the desperate hope for greener pastures in Russia—when he suddenly vanished from all communications.

He left his family, believing that a promised job would be the lifeline they needed, a way to stave off the grinding poverty at their door.

For seven years, Mutoka served his country in the military, first as a serviceman and later promoted to Corporal, facing down terror in assignments across the continent. He served in Somalia on the Linda Nchi Mission and was part of the rescue efforts during the infamous Westgate Mall terror attack in September 2013.

Life after KDF

In 2015, he resigned from the Kenya Defence Forces (KDF), hoping to venture into construction, and spent the next nine years doing odd jobs. Life outside uniform proved brutally unstable. After a short contract as a coach for the Busia County tug-of-war team, Mutoka found sporadic work with the County Government of Busia, assisting with clerical duties at the Busia Teaching and Referral Hospital.

He worked for six months without pay, pending contract renewal, and began contemplating better opportunities. Jobless and desperate for over half a year, he explored any opportunity that came his way.

On April 11, 2025, a friend connected him with a seemingly golden opportunity.

“Hi, there is a job I was linked to by a friend and apparently I am needed to go and do medical and sign some papers. I was requesting if you have anything to help me with transport to Nairobi. Am currently having 1,000,” reads a section of the SMS sent by his friend on 11 April 2025 at 4:41 pm.

He was to meet his friend in Nairobi, beginning the process of seeking opportunities abroad. After connecting with an agency and undergoing medical examinations, he became stuck until his agent secured Sh10,000 as a compromise in place of the Sh30,000 initially demanded for his ticket, visa, and accommodation.

He was originally scheduled to travel on June 22, 2025, but finally left on June 26, due to logistical challenges.

“I paid his bus fare to Nairobi since he was broke at the time and requested my little support,” Milcah recalls, her voice heavy.

All along, Mutoka had not revealed the nature of his mission or the job he had been promised. 

Upon arriving in Russia, he contacted his wife via video call to confirm his safe arrival. It was only after reaching Moscow that he disclosed his mission to his family. Together with allies, he said, they were headed on a two-day train journey to Rostov for military training.

“We are in St Petersburg, travelling to Rostov by train. That’s a two-day journey by train,” read another SMS sent to Milcah by Mutoka on July 6 2025 at 3:41 pm.

“He assured me that the place was very safe,” Milcah says, holding on to that last shred of confidence he offered. Their communication continued for two weeks while he awaited processing of his money and planned to buy a Russian SIM card. July 16, 2025 was the last day they exchanged messages.

“Am good, still not having a line. That’s the problem,” was the final SMS sent by Mutoka on July 16, 2025 at 9:28 pm.

Today, his name is another whisper in a growing, terrifying list. His wife’s pleas echo into a void.

The agents who facilitated the journey are unreachable; the State offers only bureaucratic blockades; and the vast, cold expanse of Russia holds no answer. All Milcah has are screenshots of their chats.

War so near

For her, the war is no longer a distant headline. It is the hollow space next to her in bed, the hungry eyes of their children, and the persistent, nauseating twist of uncertainty in her gut.

She paces the small sitting room, clutching the last picture of her husband in military gear that he sent shortly after landing in Russia—a smiling, dedicated man who promised to return a hero. Now, his absence has only deepened their destitution.

Whatever little money she had has dried up, leaving mounting debts from loans taken to finance his travel. The children’s school fees loom, most critically for their first-born daughter, poised to join Grade 10 next year after sitting for her Kenya Junior School Education Assessment (KJSEA) exams in late October. “He went to secure a future for us. But with his whereabouts unknown, even after seeking answers from his agent as well as the State, the family lives in dismay, only hoping for the best,” Milcah says, her voice a whisper, brittle with unshed tears.

The emotional toll is devastating. “We lost touch when my children were doing their exams. My boys did not perform well. I do not know how my KJSEA girl will perform. They are really affected. My children are asking difficult questions,” she notes.

Milcah’s days are a wearying loop of appeals to faceless offices. Her husband’s sister, Mary Olendo, who lives in Nairobi, went to the Russian Embassy seeking answers after they failed to reach Mutoka. The embassy was of little help, denying knowledge of the man. She later filed a missing person report at Buru buru Police Station. The answer remained the same: “We do not have any information.”

The government’s response has been a masterclass in bureaucratic indifference.

Her 30-year-old neighbour, Mwana Idi Ichumar, whom The Standard found at Milcah’s home, describes Mutoka as a generous family man who maintained strong family bonds even when he was kilometres away.

Another neighbour, Priscilla Inya, urged authorities to ban all overseas recruitment agencies that send job seekers abroad without verifying their safety or employment. “This family is suffering mentally. They don’t even know if he is alive or not,” Inya said.

The lack of information on proof of life or confirmed death has kept the family in cruel limbo. They cannot claim social security benefits, nor can Milcah legally seek support as a widow. They are trapped in a perpetual state of waiting for a call that may never come—a victim of the conflict as surely as any soldier struck by shrapnel.

Mutoka’s story has become a potent symbol of the invisible spillover of challenges caused by the war Russia has waged against Ukraine—a crisis fought not only on the frontlines but in the hearts of vulnerable families thousands of miles away.

The silence is the true cost of war, measured in a mother’s anxiety and a child’s forfeited education.