The pain I feel for those my generation lost is strange and untamable, deranged and unpredictable. It defies description and exists outside any dialect. The moment I think I have nailed it, the feeling vanishes and leaves a void. I get goose bumps every time I think about it.

I still smell the gunfire on Parliament Road. The atmosphere triggers memories that invade me like armies of fire ants stinging. Across my cheeks, arms, and feet. Even my ears vibrate with echoes of screams, dragging me from one psychological vortex and throwing me into the next. It happens as I sip my coffee. When I am listening to a podcast. When I am lying in bed.

Rex Kanyike Maasai, Mathew Njoroge, Kevin Mwawasi, Beasley Kogi, David Chege, Ericson Kyalo Mutisya, Ibrahim Kamau Wanjiru, Kennedy Odhiambo Maina, Kennedy Njeru, Duncan Onsongo, Wycliffe Kane Mwende, Emmanuel Giggs Tata, Benscot Onyango… and every other soul coldly murdered by the police. You really deserved better.

Flashback, 25th June 2024

Tracking Shot: Legs sprinting.

We are in hell, and there is no turning back.

We are all running for our dear lives. Literally. Things have become very real, and panic is setting in. I am panicking even more, because my parents have no idea I am out on the streets. Is this how we die? I keep thinking. First and foremost, I cannot run to save my life, and there is so much teargas that my lungs feel like they are burning. A stranger thrusts a tube of toothpaste into my hands, urging me to apply it under my eyes. I do, even though I know it is a temporary solution.

Survival instincts take over. The overwhelming desire to see my brother, escape this hellscape, and finally hug my sisters again keeps my legs moving despite the pain. My friend Steve and I rush inside a nearby shoe store, looking for a spot to hide. There is no chance. A teargas canister rattles across the floor, hissing loudly. Suffocating in the cramped room, we have no choice but to return outside. We barely clear the doorway before two heavy police boots cut us off.

My hands shoot straight up. I am completely unarmed—holding a flag in my right hand, a water bottle in my left, and a sling bag against my side. I begin crying because I do not have any emotional bandwidth left. Let them think I am a coward; I do not give a fuck. I am in my twenties, and I am terrified of dying.

I cannot help but wonder what is going through their minds when they look at our faces. They likely view us as nothing more than young, misguided people who somehow still deserve a bullet in the head.

“Msichana… Nyinyi ndio mnaleta vurugu, sindio?” the officer barks. 

“Hapana officer. Sisi ni peaceful protestors,” I stammer.

“Wapi ID?”

As the crowd begins hurriedly ransacking their bags and pockets, a painful realization hits: I left my ID at home, today of all days. Steve pleads our case and explains that we are University students, an attempt to persuade them that we are not a threat.

A cruel, ugly sneer covers the officer’s face, “Nyinyi sio wa University of Nairobi?” 

I turn to Steve, shaking. We are so dead, I think. 

Neither of us knows what to say. We swallow hard, completely confused, before finally choking out that we do not go to the University of Nairobi. We have no idea why he is asking, and the mystery only amplifies the panic. But inexplicably, that answer satisfies them. They wave us through. Years later, that moment still haunts Steve and I.

We drag ourselves forward. Shoulders slumped, stomachs inward, feet blistered to the bone, and necks itching under the filth of our clothes. It is the dirtiest I have ever been. At this point, it does not feel like a march for freedom anymore but an agonizing crawl toward death.

Present Day, A Week After 25th June 2024

Medium Shot: A kanjo cleaner drags her broom across the sidewalk’s pavement.

This is not the CBD I remember from June 25th. Not even close. Where is all the blood? The scattered stones? The bodies? Where are the flags? And the dogs that were barking at us—ruff ruff ruff, grrrrgrrrr? Where are the police vans and freight trucks that roared past while we marched along the uneven ground? Where is the sound of gunfire? Where are the deep, brusque voices that called us “goons?”

I scan the crowd walking past me. Men in tailored suits and ties. Women in neat blouses and blazers. It makes me sick. Are we really going to pretend like the 25th meant absolutely nothing? We are going to sit at our desks, typing away on our machines like lunatics, pretending the whole thing was a collective fever dream? Watch the news like it is a recap of some mindless sitcom?

I want to shut my eyes, open them, and find myself back in the morning of the 25th. Maybe we could have done things differently. Maybe the President could have done things differently. I am deeply irritated by how orderly everything is. I hate how easily I am forced to fit back into the routine of it. Where are the bodies of my comrades? A tear falls as it all comes rushing back. I am a completely different person than I was on that day, so why does the city not reflect that?

Sure, there are things that are broken, but why the hell is the ground so spotless? Lacking dirt, blood, and bullets? In my ignorance, I did not realize that I was wiping away traces of sweat from a memory that would so quickly be scrubbed clean.

Flashback, 25th June 2024

Wide Angle: My parents’ house.

Time slips away before my eyes, and I feel like a shell of a person. Walking through the door, the journey feels like a total blank. I do not get how I made it back in one piece. The minute I step inside, my family is hysterical; my phone has been off the entire day. I am exhausted, traumatized, and starving but the smell of food makes me sick to my stomach.

“Umekuwa wapi siku yote?” my Mum demands, scrutinizing my face. My eyes are horribly bloodshot. I look like I smoked ten blunts back-to-back.

“Are you on drugs, Masika?” My Dad adds salt to the wound.

Honestly, at this moment, I am willing to confess to snorting cocaine if it means keeping them from finding out I was at the protest. I cannot bring myself to tell them that I literally risked my life today to fight for my generation’s future.

“I was at a friend’s place in Rongai,” I lie, voice shaking. “But got stranded on the way back because of the Gen Z protests.”

“Hao magurubezi sio Gen Z,” my Dad snaps.

There is no direct English translation for magurubezi. It is one of those Chonyi words adapted from Kiswahili that basically translates to rowdy, violent thugs.

I do not bother arguing. Instead, I claim that I must have inhaled some leftover teargas while trying to commute home. It is a completely flimsy excuse, but it has been such an agonizing, exhausting day. I just want to crawl under my blankets and cry myself to sleep.