05/10/2025
Edward Zakayo shares his SAD 😔 😟 STORY
"I was born to run, and since 2015 I have carried only one dream — to change my life and my family’s life through athletics. I trained with pain, discipline, and hope. But today, I sit broken, suspended not because of doping or dishonesty, but because of something so small, so human — a lost phone — and because of powerful people who never wanted to listen to my side of the story.
It all started on November 29th, 2023, after a race in Spain. I was exhausted. I had run, finished the competition, and traveled the same day without rest. My body was so tired I could barely think. During my connection flight in Dubai, I realized too late that I had forgotten my small hand luggage bag inside the plane. Inside that bag was everything — my phone, a power bank, and the only access I had to my ADAMS account to update my whereabouts.
I begged the airline staff:
“Please, I left my bag on the plane. My phone is inside. Can I go back?”
They told me firmly:
“No, you cannot. For security reasons, once you exit you cannot re-enter. Report it to lost and found.”
I rushed there, but they said, “The flight is under cleaning process. Your bag will be brought here in four hours.”
Four hours? I had only thirty minutes before my connection flight to Nairobi. If I missed it, my manager would never forgive me. With pain in my heart, I left without the bag.
Back in Kenya, I tried to reach Emirates using someone else’s email, but no reply ever came. That phone was gone. And with it, my lifeline to ADAMS.
I explained my situation to ADAK officers who came to our camps and even those who collected my samples. One of them told me, “Just replace your Safaricom line.” But when I went to Safaricom, they said, “We cannot. That line is still active in Dubai. Come back when the phone switches off.”
So I waited. Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.
Finally, in April 2024, I managed to replace the line. ADAK called me to meet them at Lornah Club. I went with hope, telling myself: “This nightmare is finally over.”
They looked into my account. One officer said:
“You don’t have any missed tests.”
I smiled. “Yes, I know. I have been careful,” I told them.
But after that, they refused to correct my whereabouts. They left me confused. Then, suddenly, they turned around and gave me a missed test. I asked one officer on the phone, “Did you even check my whereabouts before going to Kapsait?”
He snapped at me:
“That’s not your business!” — and he hung up.
That was the moment I realized this was no longer about rules. This was about something else.
In May 2024, during the National Trials, humiliation followed me like a shadow. I went to collect my race number at Kasarani. From morning until night, AK and ADAK officials sent me back and forth like a child. “Go to ADAK.” Then, “Go back to AK.” Seven times I moved between those tables. I was tired, hungry, but determined. At last, a white man with long hair wearing an ADAK shirt looked at me with pity and said:
“You don’t have any problem. Pick your number and go.”
But by then, it was too late. My chance was already lost.
Instead of representing my country, I went to Nigeria. I ran. I won. Then I went to Gabon. Then Istanbul. Every race I ran with tears inside me, but I told myself: “At least I can still provide for my family.”
I trained hard for the Copenhagen Half Marathon on August 9th, 2024. That race was my hope. That race was going to feed my siblings, keep my sister in school, and prepare me to welcome my unborn child.
Then, on August 6th, 2024, one call shattered everything. My agent’s voice was heavy:
“My brother… do you know you are suspended?”
I was silent. “What? How? Who told you?”
He sent me screenshots of his conversation with Athletics Kenya officials. They told him directly:
“Your athlete is suspended.”
I felt my knees go weak. I asked him, “Why now? Why after all this time? Why let me train, run, suffer, and then destroy me?”
That month, my wife was two months pregnant. I looked at her, carrying our child, and I felt helpless. Instead of joy, our home was full of tears.
From August 6th until December 2024, I went through hell. ADAK kept summoning me to their offices in Nairobi. Many times, I traveled from Iten without money, sometimes without food. I begged drivers:
“Please, help me reach Eldoret. I don’t have fare.”
Sometimes they helped, sometimes they refused. When I reached Nairobi, I often walked into ADAK’s offices on an empty stomach. I came to realize something: they were watching me, measuring me. One voice inside me whispered, “They want to see if you have any strength left to defend yourself.”
When they discovered I was alone — no lawyer, no powerful person behind me — they concluded my case and confirmed my suspension.
That decision killed me inside. Not once have I ever used banned substances. Not once have I ever thought of cheating. My only mistake was losing my phone, a simple mistake any human being can make. But because I am poor, because I cannot pay lawyers, because I have no protection, they destroyed me.
Now I am at home. My sister risks being sent home from school. My pregnant wife asks me, “What will we eat? What will happen to our baby?” I have no answer. Sometimes I sit and cry alone.
Since 2015, athletics has been my life. Athletics is sweet, full of opportunities. But behind it, there are snakes. Officials who eat from our sweat, who smile at us in public but stab us in secret.
I thank Barnabas Korir — he tried to help me, but even he could not save me.
Now I ask myself: “What was my crime? Was it losing a phone? Was it being poor? Was it daring to dream when I came from nothing?”
This is my story. A story of hope turned into ashes, of a career destroyed not by drugs, but by blackmail, corruption, and power."
