By David Odhiambo- Diaspora Times UK Senior Correspondent.

The uproar in Mandera over the alleged presence of Jubaland forces inside Kenya has exposed one of the most uncomfortable truths in Nairobi’s Somalia policy, a truth the government would rather hide behind denials and vague explanations. For years, Kenya has justified its involvement in Somalia as part of a necessary war against al-Shabaab. This war began in October 2011 when the Kenyan Defence Forces launched Operation Linda Nchi, and was later folded into the African Union Mission in Somalia. What began as a bold attempt to push the militants away from Kenya’s borders has slowly evolved into a complex entanglement with Somali regional politics, especially with Jubaland, the federal state bordering Kenya whose troops have fought side by side with the KDF. Now, as ATMIS draws down and transitions into a new AU mission, and as Kenyans watch reports of Jubaland units allegedly operating in Mandera, the public is asking whether the government is quietly outsourcing part of its own security to foreign fighters.

The government’s official line has been swift and categorical: there are no Jubaland forces on Kenyan soil, and reports to the contrary are nothing more than baseless rumors. Yet this denial does little to erase a decade of documented collaboration between the KDF and Jubaland, collaboration that has included joint operations, training exercises, and intelligence sharing. Kenya’s buffer-state strategy is no secret, even if officials prefer to downplay it. Since the liberation of Kismayo from al-Shabaab in 2012, Kenyan commanders have worked closely with Jubaland leader Ahmed Madobe, treating his regional forces as essential partners in holding ground that the KDF could not permanently occupy. For Kenya, a strong, friendly, and semi-autonomous Jubaland was a shield against infiltration from across the border. For Jubaland, Kenyan training, supplies, and political support meant survival in a contested federal system where Mogadishu has always sought to clip its wings.

This background explains why the Mandera story has resonated so strongly. To residents in the border counties, the line between Kenya and Somalia is porous, with cross-border trade, family ties, and shared clan identities. Reports of armed men from Jubaland training or operating near Mandera strike at the core of sovereignty, and the government’s quick denial cannot erase the fact that Kenya has openly trained Jubaland units before, albeit inside Somalia. ATMIS press releases detail Kenyan-led programs in Dhobley where the KDF themselves taught Somali and Jubaland security forces patrol procedures, roadblock management, and counter-IED tactics. Joint handovers of forward operating bases, like the one at Kuday, have been carried out with explicit trilateral coordination among KDF, Somali National Army, and Jubaland forces. This is not speculation; it is the official record of Kenya’s involvement in Somalia.

As the African Union gradually winds down its mission, with ATMIS scheduled to hand over full responsibility to Somali forces, the stakes are even higher. Al-Shabaab remains potent, probing newly vacated bases and launching cross-border attacks whenever the opportunity presents itself. Both Mogadishu and the AU have warned that too-rapid drawdowns could leave dangerous vacuums in Jubaland and Gedo, vacuums that would directly threaten northeastern Kenya. In such a context, Kenya has every incentive to quietly deepen cooperation with Jubaland, ensuring that someone is ready to hold the line as AU troops depart. Yet this very logic raises political questions. If Jubaland units are being trained or staged too close to or inside Kenya, who authorized it, and under what legal framework? Where is parliamentary oversight, and what role does the Kenyan public have in shaping a security strategy that directly affects their sovereignty?

The political optics are delicate. Mogadishu has long accused Kenya of meddling in Somalia’s internal affairs by favoring Jubaland and its president Ahmed Madobe. Ethiopia too, with its own designs in Somalia, watches closely, and any suggestion of Kenyan training bases for Jubaland inside Mandera would spark regional unease. For the Kenyan government, therefore, public denial is the only option, even if the reality on the ground involves cross-border hot pursuit, staging near frontier lines, or temporary accommodations that blur legal boundaries. By insisting that no foreign troops are on Kenyan soil, Nairobi protects itself diplomatically, but the local population in Mandera remains unconvinced, having witnessed the ebb and flow of armed men across the border for years.

To frame the issue as Kenya admitting defeat would be misleading. Kenya is not defeated, but it is stretched. Counterinsurgency is expensive, politically costly, and difficult to sustain indefinitely. Relying on local Somali partners is a strategy of necessity, not surrender. Yet the cost of secrecy is growing. Kenyans deserve clarity about what exactly their government is doing with Jubaland, what limits exist on cooperation, and what rules of engagement apply when Kenyan sovereignty is at stake. If Jubaland troops are ever present on Kenyan soil, even temporarily, that is a matter for Parliament, not for quiet security-sector deals hidden from public scrutiny.

What the Mandera controversy really reveals is a gap between policy and communication. For over a decade, Kenya has bet on Jubaland as its frontline against al-Shabaab, and for the most part, the strategy has held. Attacks in northeastern Kenya have never ceased, but they could have been far worse without KDF-Jubaland cooperation. The question now is not whether Kenya should work with Jubaland, but how transparent and accountable that cooperation should be. Nairobi can no longer afford to hide behind denials when evidence of long-term collaboration is a matter of public record.

The African Union is leaving, al-Shabaab is waiting, and Somalia’s fragile federal balance remains unresolved. In this volatile mix, Kenya’s security choices will shape not only the future of Mandera but the stability of the entire Horn of Africa. Kenyans deserve to know whether the line between defending the nation and compromising sovereignty is being blurred in their name. They deserve to hear whether their government has entered into any formal agreements with Jubaland regarding training or basing rights, and they deserve to see oversight mechanisms that prevent secretive security deals from undermining the republic’s democratic foundations.

The truth is simple: Kenya has relied on Jubaland before, it continues to rely on Jubaland today, and it will likely do so tomorrow as ATMIS gives way to a smaller AU presence. Denials will not erase this fact. What will matter is whether Nairobi has the courage to speak openly about it, to publish clear rules of engagement, to assure both Mandera residents and the broader nation that no decisions affecting their sovereignty are made in the shadows. Until then, the question will linger, whispered in border towns and shouted in political rallies: whose boots, exactly, are on Kenyan soil, and under whose authority do they march?

Disclaimer: This report is based on publicly available information, official African Union and ATMIS releases, media reports, and independent political observation. It does not assert undisclosed military deployments as established fact but raises legitimate questions of accountability, sovereignty, and governance in line with the constitutional right to critique public policy. The views expressed do not amount to an accusation of criminal guilt against any party, but reflect a call for transparency, public oversight, and ethical leadership in matters of national and regional security.