By Violet Auma ||violetmedia8@gmail.com
In a crisp military uniform, 24-year-old Derrick Oduor stands with pride and humility.
The disciplined, sharp-eyed officer now commands respect, but the scars of his past have never left him.
Few know that just eight years ago, Derrick was a frightened teenage boy locked behind the cold iron gates of Shikusa Borstal Correctional Centre in Shinyalu, Kakamega County.
At just 15, he was an inmate, stripped of freedom, warmth, and dignity. Today, he is a living testament to the power of second chances.
It was in 2016, during the third term school break, when Derrick, then a Form Two student, made a decision that would haunt him for years.
Raised by his father and stepmother, Derrick was a typical teenager searching for belonging. He found it, unfortunately, in the wrong place.
“We were on holiday, and some boys I used to hang around with introduced me to their hustle. They would hack into people’s phones and transfer money through M-Pesa. It looked easy, thrilling, and fast. I was curious, and I was foolish,” he says.
On his very first trial, Derrick was arrested.
“I had never even been to a police station before. Suddenly I was in handcuffs, facing police officers, courts, and confusion. My parents were devastated,” he recalls.
He admitted guilt in court, hoping for leniency, but was instead sentenced to serve three years at Shikusa Borstal Institution, a facility meant for young offenders.
Life inside Shikusa was a world away from the home he had left behind. Derrick still remembers his first night with painful clarity.
“There were no blankets, no mattresses. We slept on the bare cement floor. The cold was unbearable. You are given one shoe, and that’s it. That night, I cried silently,” he shares.
With nothing but a thin prison-issue shirt and trousers, Derrick battled both emotional and physical torture. The experience was harrowing.
“You start questioning everything. How did I end up here? Will I ever be accepted again? Will I get out and have a life?”
Despite the despair, Shikusa had something many prisons lacked: reform. Through education, mentorship, and a strong management team, the institution slowly transformed Derrick’s view of life.
“We had officers who saw us as more than just criminals. They encouraged us to go back to school. They made us believe we still had a future,” Derrick says.
He returned to class and began working hard. With every passing day, he shed the identity of a delinquent and embraced that of a student.
He learned not only academics but also discipline, responsibility, and resilience.
“I realized I had to use the time wisely. I had messed up, yes, but I was still young. I could still make something of myself.”
By the time Derrick completed Form Three inside the correctional facility, he had changed. His mind was focused, his heart determined.
Upon release, Derrick returned home. But his welcome was far from warm. The stigma of being an ex-offender clung to him like a shadow.
“I would hear whispers. Some relatives said I was cursed. Others didn’t want to associate with me. It hurt, but I had to keep moving,” he recalls.
He rejoined school and completed Form Four with impressive grades. But applying for jobs was another mountain to climb.
“Everywhere I went, people asked about my past. I applied for certificates of good conduct, and thankfully, because I was a juvenile, I was eligible and got it. That opened doors.”
One of those doors was the Kenya Defence Forces.
Joining the military had always been Derrick’s dream. His grandfather had served in the police force, and growing up, he looked up to men in uniform.
“When I finally wore that uniform, I cried. It wasn’t just about getting a job. It was about proving to the world, and to myself, that I was worth more than my past.”
Today, Derrick is not just serving the nation but also serving as a beacon of hope. He frequently visits Shikusa to mentor young boys who find themselves in the same dark place he once was.
“We’ve created an alumni group of former Shikusa inmates. Some are in the police, some in different sectors of government. We go back and speak to the boys. We tell them, ‘You can make it out. You can turn your life around.'”
Derrick believes more needs to be done to support juvenile offenders. He has recommendations for the Ministry of Correctional Services:
“Many officers, when they get transferred to these facilities, treat the kids like hardcore criminals. But these are children. They need mentorship, not punishment.”
He also emphasizes the role of parents in guiding their children.
“My relationship with my stepmother was strained. That pushed me into looking for acceptance elsewhere. Parents need to listen more, understand more, and guide their children through these turbulent teenage years.”
To young people, Derrick has a heartfelt message:
“Check your circle. Know who your friends are. Peer pressure can ruin your life. Avoid drugs, avoid criminal groups, avoid shortcuts.”
He applauds government efforts encouraging youth to use digital platforms to earn a living.
“The President talks about youth embracing technology. That’s the way. Let’s use our phones for business, not for crime.”
Today, Shikusa looks different. Inmates have uniforms, warm clothing, and better facilities. But Derrick wants more reform. He wants testimonies like his shared widely.
“If I ever write a book, Shikusa will be a big chapter. It molded me. It gave me a second chance. I owe them.”
As he looks ahead, Derrick dreams of rising through the military ranks and continuing to advocate for the rehabilitation of juvenile offenders.
He wants his story to be proof that no matter how far one falls, there is always a path back.
“Everyone deserves a second chance. Let’s stop judging. Let’s start supporting. Because I am here today not just because I changed—but because someone believed I could.”
