If you were to ask 16-year-old me whether a day would come when I’d go to the streets and chant “#RejectTheFinanceBill2024”, I would probably have called you mad. The goal has only been one. To leave. Leave the country. Leave in search of better opportunities, a better life.
Unfamiliar with the constitution, unaware of the stages a bill goes through in parliament, all that changed in a matter of days. Information circulating on social media removed the log in my eye. Time to remove the speck in everyone else’s eye.
We’re not like our parents, that much is now clear. They belong to a generation that is still crippled by the fear instilled in them by the Moi regime.
I woke up early in the morning fuelled by nothing but rage. Seven days of rage had been decreed. Rage plus courage to come out and protest, not knowing what lay ahead.
At first, my mother thought I was joking when I told her that I was heading out to the protests. Fear was written all over her face as she tried to warn me of the dangers, even playing the kairĩtu card; you’re a girl, only men will come out. I did not let her words get to me. I didn’t relent. After all, we were coming in peace, armed only with our phones, eating KFC as we marched. An Uber would take us all safely back home. I left the house carrying a tote bag with a bottle of water, a book, and lip-gloss.
Public transport vehicles were nowhere to be found and social media was reporting that all the major arteries leading into the centre of Nairobi were blocked. But I soldiered on, heri nitembee. Me who barely averages 5,000 steps weekly. The irony.
Luckily, I did eventually find a matatu into town. I settled into my seat and I eased myself into the feud between Vimbai and Dumisani at the Khumalo Hair and Beauty Treatment in Tendai Huchu’s The Hairdresser of Harare.
The matatu was filled with chatter and I could tell that most if not all of the passengers were headed for the protests. As we drove down Jogoo Road, I saw people carrying placards and blowing whistles and vuvuzelas.
Just before we entered the Central Business District, the matatu came to a halt and the makanga announced, “Mwisho ni hapa” while banging on the body of the already battered vehicle. Most vehicles were either leaving the CBD or stationed in parking slots. Crowds were gathered at every corner, chanting, dancing, waving placards. I made a quick stop at Bus Station and bought a mask. Ready for the battlefield. Twende!
Never go to a protest alone. First I had to find my friends who were somewhere along Kimathi Street. Figure out a way to get there while dodging the water cannons and the teargas canisters being launched into the crowds. And don’t forget the pickpockets taking advantage of the running and the stampedes.
Near the Archives, a young lady approached me, requesting that I take a video of her waving her placard and chanting, “Ruto Must Go”. I agreed. Then she suggested that we move to the other side of town, the population on this side being too “ghetto”: “Heri twende hizi sides za GPO juu huku si unaona watu ni wa ghetto.” But did it matter? We were all here for one cause – to protest over-taxation, unemployment, corruption, etc.
We walked. Teargas, the strong smell of change, bringing us to tears, making us sneeze. The mask truly helped. I wouldn’t say the same about applying toothpaste beneath the eyes to counter the stinging effect of teargas. Completely useless. Young men, the “returning officers”, were throwing back teargas canisters at the police. I lost my new acquittance in the crowds and the running.
I found my friends on the street newly renamed Rex Masai Avenue. May his soul rest in perfect piece together with the souls of all the people who died during the protests. Theatre came to the streets. A young man stood on a tree branch looking down as the crowd below threw stones at him, shouting, “Zakayo shuka!”. Zakayo, Zaccheus, the reviled tax collector of Biblical lore.
The maandamano were also an occasion for reunion; in between dodging teargas and water cannons, we met with friends we hadn’t seen in ages. Fleetingly. “Mtaongea after maandamano.”
For some, the maandamano were the occasion to find a partner, a maandamano babe. Someone actually came up to me and asked for my number. Incredulous, I was like, is this person even serious?! There was even a guy waving a placard that offered “free hugs”.
We made a pit stop kuweka mafuta, as my friend Kamwaro would put it. We took some shots of gin in a dingy alleyway as we commented on the great turnout; there were more people on the streets than on the previous Tuesday. It was a Kenyans for Kenyans initiative, with many Good Samaritans handing out bottles of water to quench the bitterness of the teargas. Some even gave out smokies. And I think that’s just one of the beautiful things about this country; together we stand, divided we fall. No more mtu wa mlima na mtu wa lake. We are Kenyans. Period!
We heard the news as we walked towards Uhuru Park. #OccupyParliament had actually happened. I couldn’t believe it and quickly went on social media to check that the news was true. You can imagine the shock, the excitement, when I saw photos of people eating inside parliament. I simply couldn’t believe it. Then my friend Kimberly called to warn me that I should leave as people were being shot. I was in no hurry to leave, though. The feeling was more like siku ndio imeanza.
The crowds were now making their way towards parliament. The police continued to lob teargas canisters at us, jacking up the adrenaline and seeming to give us a boost. “Tuko wengi, hawawezi tuua sote” went the chants. They can’t kill us all. It felt and smelt like the Battle of King’s Landing in Westeros.
My friends and I still went on to Uhuru Park. On our way there, we found people sitting on park benches placed in the middle of the road. Curious, I went over for a chat and one of them showed me a teargas canister and a live bullet that he had collected as souvenirs.
A second call came in. It was my mother warning me that the army was on its way. Still, I did not relent. We’re not yet done. “Be fearless,” as Atwoli would say.
People threw stones at the ambulances and luxury vehicles driving past; word was that they were evacuating the M-pigs from parliament.
Then, suddenly, things got real. Structures inside Uhuru Park were ablaze, gunshots rang out. We ran for it. At first, we ran towards All Saints Cathedral only to run into army personnel coming the other way. We were at a crossroads: either run towards State House or towards Upper Hill. State House, we said. Wrong! Armed police were already stationed at the Serena junction. The sound of gunshots. We ran to a nearby parking lot, jumped over fences and ran all the way up Valley Road. Haven’t run like that since high school cross-country.
At some point my brain went like, “This can’t be the day that I die! Not like this at least!” My step-grandfather died on the 25th of June last year (rest in peace Oma). It was on another 25th of June that I got into a car accident. The angel of death sure does seem to lurk in the vicinity on this date.
Regroup, re-strategise. How to get back to the centre of town and find transport home. It was around 5 p.m. People were leaving work, so we decided to blend in and walked towards the CBD. We still could hear the sound of gunshots. Stones and burning tyres were strewn all over the roads. It was a mess.
Then the looters struck and the vandalism started. I saw an electronics shop being broken into and people leaving with all sorts of appliances, young men and women hoisting up newly acquired 56-inch television sets, air fryers, microwaves. A taint on the protests that were meant to be peaceful and devoid of lawlessness.
No public transport vehicles were being allowed into the CBD so we had to walk all the way to Ngara. The police were still not yet tired. And nor were the protesters; the evening shift was taking over from where we left off.
As we made our way to Ngara, we laughed at the sight of people carrying seats they had taken from parliament. A boda boda carrying a young woman and a mattress went past. It’s an insane country that I live in.
Most of us did reach home safe and sound. Some of my friends and family called to ensure I was safe. And of course, the relief on my dear mother’s face upon my return.
The protests ignited in me a flame of patriotism. It felt good to stand for something. To be out in the streets, exercising my freedom of expression. Not hiding behind a screen, but being on the ground. Would I do it again? Yes, a hundred times. Even the dating game has changed. Now the first question on the first date is, “Did you go for the maandamano?” If the answer is no, then reject! Because, also, how do you teargas a baddie?
