I have never before been to a protest. Now, I’m standing at the very back of the crowd, my heart thumping with every blast. I’m scared out of my mind. My hands are shaking and I can feel goosebumps rise on my skin every time we run from the teargas the police lob at us.
The day is very bright, but that’s because the country is burning. For weeks now, following the release of the Finance Bill 2024, something has been simmering, and now, it has reached boiling point. It’s funny what you witness when the people are finally tired of the bullshit being fed to them. It’s almost like there is a collective mind, and everyone is thinking what the other is thinking such that even the words they form sound the same.
I am not a political person. I am not a money person either. My embarrassing lack of knowledge about these two topics – topics that actually rule the word – is, well, embarrassing. Every time someone starts to talk about politics or money, it’s like my ears clog up, and all I can hear are muffled voices that act like a soundtrack to my thoughts.
So why am I – someone who is completely naive on these matters and who is constantly afraid of everything – here along with thousands of other young Gen Zs, occupying the entire Uhuru Highway?
Simple. It can all be attributed to friendship. See, I am not here alone. Walking with me are my two of my best friends; before coming here we spent an hour painting the protest T-shirts we are now wearing and one of them came with placards bearing slogans like How Can You Teargas A Baddie? and A MauMau in My Soft Girl Era.
This is what the government has done to us. Instead of bonding over cheap drinks and boy talk, we are here, bonding over our collective anger at the government. But if we are being completely candid, I still feel that I am not angry enough even as I stand here shouting our collective rage and running the same collective run.
This can partly be attributed to the feeling that I am not as knowledgeable as I think the rest of the people around me are. Knowledge. It all boils down to the sharpening of the mind, and in this matter, my mind feels like a blunt object, barely able to cut through the noise and really understand the deep issues that lie beneath the surface.
I feel dumb, is what I am trying to say. I feel dumb standing here as someone who has barely been able to go through and understand the articles of the Bill. I feel dumb as someone who has never really been able to concentrate on a political speech for more than a minute. I feel dumb as someone who does not have her finances in order and whose money and life choices would put even the devil to shame.
I feel dumb, and yet, here I am. When one of my best friends – whose courage can only be described as outstanding – suggests that we move closer to the frontline, I take her hand and we wade through the crowd. We are the baddies wearing tights, protest T-shirts, and armed with masks, glucose, handkerchiefs and water. This is not the time to let my weaknesses show.
We get near the frontline, and here, the collective sound is louder. We hold our placards up, we raise our voices with the rest, we take pictures and selfies to post on social media later, and we laugh at the group of protesters riding atop a blue Clean Water lorry and spraying water to minimise the effects of the teargas.
But our eyes never leave the police officers walking on the expressway above us. Every now and then, when they are fed up with our shouts, or just bored and needing to see some drama unfold, they throw teargas canisters straight at us. We run, of course, and as we run, we try to resist rubbing at the bitter sting in our eyes and our noses.
Apart from lobbing teargas canisters, the police seem to be keeping their distance. They do nothing much except indulge us in this game of cat-and-mouse. But considering that this protest is taking place in the wake of the killing of Rex Maasai – shot dead by a police officer as he was peacefully protesting – and after the unlawful arrest and kidnapping of numerous political influencers, there is no denying that there is fear running through our veins. Fear and anger. Those are the two ingredients pushing us to go back when the teargas has cleared from the air.
Later on, one of my friends suggests that we cross over to the other side of the highway. The plan is to find our other friends, and as we hold hands again and run as fast as we can across the road and beneath the expressway with the police officers hovering above us like some kind of angry gods, something clicks in my mind; maybe it is just anger running through our veins, not fear.
We reach the other side of the road, and that’s when we hear the news. Parliament has been occupied. The people across the road, guys our age, are mobilising each other to join the protests in parliament. We want to join them and continue demonstrating our courage. Of course. But even I, as politically dumb as I am, understand that this is now war. If parliament has been occupied, it’s only a matter of time before the police stop keeping their distance.
We look at each other and decide there and then to lay down our arms. The fear is back, a powerful fear that comes from knowing that with just one stroke of bad luck something could go terribly wrong. We go back across the road, and as we walk across Uhuru Park, the only sounds that come from us are those of needing safety.
We get back to the house, exhausted and hungry and still boiling with rage; we turn to social media and watch numerous videos of protestors shot dead at parliament; we listen to the president calling us criminals and terrorists on live television. And when we sleep that night, we dream of a country where we would be less afraid.
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