The sequence of events of 25th June 2024 fails me. I saw a lot. Those following the events of the day from TV sets at home say a lot more happened. And now I harbour the guilt of forgetting. Maybe this is my brain’s way of making sense of this day. Or maybe the memories, just like every other, are fading with time. I try to hold onto whatever I remember, hoping this small, inadequate act is enough to honour those we lost.
“Kiki, you have to get home,’’ my sister is saying on the phone ‘‘Now!”.
I do not know what time it is. We have been at it for hours. The call with my sister is on loudspeaker and I am holding my phone tightly, moving it back and forth from my ear to my mouth in an attempt to hear and answer her. We do not communicate. The noise of the dancing group drowns our voices. I hung up.
I can’t hear you. I am okay. I shoot my sister a text, hoping she will pass it along to my parents and the other 13 relatives who have since called.
I stare at my sister’s response in disbelief. They are killing people in the streets. They have shown it on Citizen Live. Please just leave. This is the first time I am hearing this. I am caught in the middle of it and I do not yet know the magnitude of the “it”.
The previous week, on 20th June 2024, they shot Rex Maasai. You know who they are, the shooters. What followed was a unanimous call to action and condemning police brutality. We doubled down on our quest to be heard. The demands: accountability, rejecting the punitive finance bill and the ushering in of a new dawn in the country’s leadership with the slogan #RutoMustGo.
The previous day on an X Space, one by one, we take turns expressing our frustrations with and at the government. The recently passed Finance Bill 2024 is the main point of contention. The bill has disproportionately burdened low-income earners by increasing VAT and other taxes on essential commodities such as fuel and sanitary towels in an effort to increase revenue and address its budgetary deficits. This comes at a time when we are still grappling with the introduction of the Social Health Insurance Act (SHA), whose efficiency is questionable at best, and the Housing Levy, another tax on the already overtaxed payslip. I remember the jabs, maybe because they carry more wit than the trauma that befell D-day; someone on that space says that maybe the government should take his net pay and he, the deductions.
I recall the morning. I have never known fear like this before, but I have also never felt anger like this before. On the previous day’s X Space, the message was one. If each one of us shows up, for Rex Maasai, for ourselves, for each other, it will be enough. The parliamentarians will be having a session later in the day. Our demands remain the same, and our hashtag of the day is #OccupyParliament.
I have been to the previous protests, and I know the dos and the don’ts.
They do not keep you alive, as I have come to know, but they are good to know. Mats are not allowed in the CBD after a certain time, because movement is restricted as of 10-ish a.m. You should not wear bright colours. I assume this one is so that whatever dirt you accumulate comes off easily, because if I say it is to be less conspicuous so as not to be killed, I will be lying. Those of us who bore the martyr mantle were not dressed in the hottest colours. Carry water, a fully charged phone, and write your name and ID number on a piece of paper and keep it in your pocket in case they need to identify your dead body. A face mask and rubbing some toothpaste beneath our eyes goes a long way. This one was helpful. And finally, do not forget your Kenyan flag. You want to appear patriotic yet non-threatening.
The mats drop us off at the Nyayo Stadium roundabout on Mombasa Road. That is as far as they are allowed into the city center. We are high in spirit, unaware of what lies ahead. We step off the overcrowded mat that has ferried as many of us as it could. I am among strangers who are quickly becoming friends. Outside is quiet and loud simultaneously. The normally busy and lively Nyayo roundabout is deserted, save for the cops strategically scattered every 20 metres. They are dressed in their green uniform, geared for war. They are wielding guns and rungus. These ones are friendly. They let us through as long as we walk to town and abandon the mats.
My friend Twitty holds my hand tightly as we walk alongside other Kenyans chanting a plethora of slogans; “RutoMustGo”, “When we lose our fear they lose their power”, “You cannot kill us and lead us”. Our chants are drowned out by louder ones coming from the direction we are headed. Tear gas canisters and smoke grenades go off in the distance every few minutes. My eyes itch from the sting of the chemical burn hitting us in the downward breeze, and I bring my hand up naturally, without thinking to rub on them. I rub the toothpaste from under my eyes into my eyes. The itch graduates to a sear, and my eyes well up. We are getting closer. A tear gas canister goes off closer, then right behind us. The chants die down, we scatter.
Twitty is still by my side when we make it to the CBD. I still see familiar faces, a few of those we alighted with from the mat. I have tried calling my other friends who are coming from the other side of town. The cell phone network has been unstable, but I have deduced that my friends have most likely been barricaded at the Koja Mosque roundabout. They are playing cat and mouse games with the police. Hopefully, they will find a way through and join us. Today, we occupy parliament.
I cannot quantify the time lapse. Now we are on Kimathi Street. The street is filled with people, mostly young, a few older folks with us. We are at a standstill, the few moments in between when the police are not on our heels. A group stands with us. I forget their names. They carry placards with different but similar messages. On the boy with the Nike waist bag’s placard is a caricature of a fat, balding man greedily devouring food from several plates. The placard reads, “Tumbo lisiloshiba.”
A girl (his younger sister, I learn) hangs tightly onto his arm. Her placard reads, “It’s so bad even the introverts came out.” The other two guys are dressed in matching all-black outfits and balaclavas. They are both equally energised and animated. They seem like friends who go back a long way since they keep making references that only they understand. They hold tight to their colourful placards that say, “Zakayo Shuka!” and “The devil wears a Kaunda suit.”
When the Steam Steam Shuka chants die down, the mirrored pair see the opportunity and seize it. They break into the anthemic Anguka Nayo song, which, after three exaggerated and repeated steps, we all, even those with two left feet, join in on.Someone is passing around water in branded water bottles. I grab two. I pause and pour one on myself and drink the next in one go. That is my fifth, no sixth, water bottle of the day.
A man in a red Manchester United jersey, black jeans and black shoes has been carrying around a knapsack sprayer and has come to our rescue several times. Every time we are tear-gassed, he appears like a ghost and sprays us with cold, clean water to neutralise the stings. My face is swollen and puffy from the many cleansings, and my eyes are red. I have abandoned the mask I came wearing. It is now all the same. My feet hurt, and I have sustained several bruises from tripping over and hitting surfaces. We are mostly running blind, to nowhere in particular.
Now we are on Moi Avenue. I remember because we have spent such a long time here, I do not know how long, but enough for me to realise Sasa and Sawa malls, though similar in architecture and side by side, are two different malls. I have mastered their differences. The music starts again, but this time we are not the ones singing. Someone has a portable bluetooth speaker and a playlist. We are in Jamaica singing along to Tarrus Riley’s dancehall hit Don’t Come Back and then we are dancing to Gengetone Subaru ya Mambaru imecome and back to church with Zakayo Shuka.
Jittery, we dance on with little care for synchrony. We remain alert, darting our eyes to all corners with every step. I think I see DJ Grauchi on an elevated surface like a prophet about to speak blessings to his congregation. The crowd seems to be holding him high up. Kudade is playing up next. Gunshots rend the air in the distance. It is calm here. Calm for the day happening in the next street, where death lives. My phone is ringing nonstop. I hold Twitty’s hand and fall behind the crowd, trying to answer. It is my sister.
