In the early 2010s, if you were a senior police officer in Kenya’s Rift Valley, chances are you knew Joshua Waiganjo or at least believed you did.
He cut a commanding figure: immaculately dressed in a starched blue police uniform, adorned with the insignia of a Police Commissioner, and carrying himself with unquestionable authority. He flew in police helicopters, chaired high-level security meetings, and moved freely within the upper ranks of the force.
At the height of his influence, Waiganjo reportedly had the power to hire, fire, and transfer police officers.
There was just one problem.
Joshua Waiganjo was not a police officer.
A Commissioner Who Never Was
Waiganjo was a primary school dropout who had decided to play the role of a lifetime. With no formal training, no force number, and no appointment letter, he embedded himself at the Provincial Police Headquarters in Nakuru, operating in plain sight for nearly five years.
His success rested on a simple but powerful insight: Kenya’s bureaucracy is deeply hierarchical. Authority is rarely questioned especially when it appears to come “from above.”
Senior officers, some with decades of experience, never demanded credentials. The uniform, the confidence, and the commanding tone were enough. They saluted and complied.
Living the Perks of Power
Waiganjo did not live like an ordinary officer. He enjoyed government vehicles, a driver, and a bodyguard. He attended sensitive security briefings and participated in major operations, including missions linked to the volatile Suguta Valley, following the infamous Baragoi massacre.
For years, no one stopped to ask how a man with no known history in the service had risen so high.
The Cracks Begin to Show
The charade began to unravel in early 2013 during a high-level security meeting convened in the aftermath of the Baragoi tragedy. While traveling in a police helicopter with top commanders, Waiganjo’s conduct raised eyebrows.
He struggled with basic tactical discussions. More tellingly, he failed to observe standard police protocols including the most basic saluting procedures. Not once. Not twice.
One senior officer noticed. Then another.
Quiet whispers turned into scrutiny.
A Ghost in Uniform
When the National Police Service finally checked its records, the truth landed with seismic force.
There was no record of Joshua Waiganjo ever being recruited, trained, or commissioned.
He was, quite literally, a ghost in uniform a man who had hijacked the identity and authority of the Kenyan police force for half a decade.
The fallout was swift and severe. Senior provincial police bosses were suspended, and the nation was left asking an uncomfortable question:
If one man could fake being a Police Commissioner for five years, who else is pretending?
Arrest and Aftermath
On 4 January 2013, Waiganjo was arrested and charged with multiple offences. True to character, he remained defiant, at one point claiming he was a secret agent acting on “orders from the very top.”
To some Kenyans, he became an unlikely folk hero—a symbol of how blind obedience and weak systems can be exploited. His story exposed a culture of unquestioning authority and institutional complacency within the bureaucracy.
Today, his name has taken on a life of its own. In some circles, to “Waiganjo” is to fake it convincingly, boldly, and at scale.
His story remains both hilarious and deeply unsettling a reminder that power is often little more than a costume, worn confidently.
Joshua Waiganjo stands as Kenya’s most successful impostor, and a living lesson that sometimes, the only impossible thing is what has not yet been tried.
