Walk into a rehab centre, and you expect care, safety, maybe even hope. But for patients at Ahadi Rehabilitation Center in Githunguri, Kiambu, that hope was shattered by neglect and squalor—and it took an unannounced inspection by NACADA and local health officials to break that secret open.
The inspectors didn’t just find a place that cut corners—they found a disaster zone. Beds were little more than torn, dirty mattresses tossed onto cramped floors, patients looked visibly sick with no nurses or doctors to help, and the air in the dorms was stuffy. In the kitchen, food was stored in ways that made food poisoning seem inevitable, while toilets and showers—barely usable—cranked up the risk of infectious disease. The team saw first-hand how basic hygiene, nutrition, and dignity had been tossed aside.
And it wasn’t just about dirt and neglect. There was a complete absence of staff who actually knew how to treat addiction or mental health problems. Instead, vulnerable men and women were packed in, as if the whole place was set up for profit, not for healing. Dr. Anthony Omerikwa, NACADA’s CEO, didn’t mince words: he called it a "human warehouse," a place where people were stashed and forgotten for cash, not cared for. He pointed out how patients’ recovery—and basic human rights—had been deliberately trampled.
This closure is more than a local scandal—it’s a wake-up call. NACADA now plans to conduct surprise checks everywhere to weed out these so-called treatment centres that run without licenses, qualified staff, or any professional standards. The Ahadi Centre’s patients have already been whisked away to better, licensed places, but it’s a snapshot of a much bigger problem.
To put it in perspective, Kenya has around 3.2 million people who need help with substance use, but only 139 out of 255 inspected facilities officially meet NACADA’s minimum standards. That leaves thousands of people and families hunting for help in a system where most options just aren’t safe. It also raises the specter of human trafficking and criminal exploitation hiding behind the signboard of “rehabilitation.”
Dr. Omerikwa and his team are now urging everyone—families, patients, friends—to check if a centre is actually licensed before admitting anyone. You don’t have to play detective: NACADA offers an official list and a toll-free number, 1192, for anyone to check or report sketchy operations. They want transparency, not secrecy, to be the gold standard of care from now on.
If there’s one lesson from the Ahadi saga, it’s that NACADA is serious about changing broken rehab culture in Kenya. Shutting down exploitative centres sends a message: recovery should be safe, decent, and above all, human.