Dishes. Laundry. Lunch. I know what to do. I have done it many times before. But I could care less today. My father’s lunch will have to be simple. Ugali and eggs with leftover greens. The dishes, I will clean better tomorrow and the unfolded laundry will have to wait on the couch because the morning is almost at 10 a.m. and I am already late.
We are to meet in town, my three siblings and I. Sibling One will leave their home via Mombasa Road around noon. We are making room for Sibling Three and Sibling Four who have morning exams at Chiromo and Juja campuses. Lastly, from our home in Eastlands, I will need to sneak past our father, who is not working today but has asked, “Namnataka nini nyinyi young people?”
His wife, our mother, is somewhere in Mwingi with her phone switched off after giving in and saying, “Mimi mnanistress na mkitaka kwenda muende!” That is not the plan,. To stress her out. No.
At this moment, my needs are neither idealistic nor brave. More likely selfish and naive. Everyone on my timeline has a record of last week’s protest on the 18th. My writing acquaintances were all present and so was Sibling One who has convinced us we will be safe today. Even though Rex Maasai was shot last Tuesday, twice in the back, while leaving work.
In me, there also exists a need to band with my peers and say, “Ruto Must Go!” I do not know much about the President. I hear he has four children, like our family, or maybe more. Save for one daughter’s, I do not know their faces. And I do not know much about the government. But I know it is failing.
I am 26, friendless and hopeless. Twice a week, I work at the Maasai Market in the CBD. Najua kupatana Nation Center should not take more than ten minutes from the junction between Tom Mboya Street and Ronald Ngala. We rely on Jogoo Road where the cops and touts change money like routine and often, if a matatu is pulled aside on the road, passengers will advise the driver and tout, “Mpatieni kitu tufike haraka.”
Am I directly affected by the Finance Bill? A bit. There are rumours that anyone over 25 and still living at home will begin paying a fee. With what money? And does managing a household count as taxable labour? However, my real ‘Fuck Kenya’ moment occurred over the weekend.
I stood on an aisle inside a Naivas store calculating and contemplating what brand of sanitary pads was both affordable and in enough numbers to last my cycle. After years of relying on Kotex, I was forced to switch to Soft Care because the first is now outside my price range. Should I quietly accept these subtle but budget altering changes?
Past 11 a.m., my father is still seated on the couch, and clearly not planning on leaving. On TV, the CBD is clean and mildly okay. Protestors are chilling next to the police, some with placards that read, “Reject!” and “#OccupyParliament!”
The police are in anti-riot armour but smiling. Some are even speaking to protestors, who have toothpaste smeared under their eyes. The protestor’s flags are either in hand or attached somewhere on their bodies or bags, with bottled water and snacks. No one will teach you that maandamano requires glucose.
I know the streets and buildings on screen. This is Kimathi Street, Jamia Mosque, and the Macmillan Memorial Library. Even when the cameras bend away towards the outside of the Bank of India (BOI) on Kenyatta Avenue, with the I&M building in the background, I can see some form of teargas in the distance but the masses are jovial. Online, statuses are sharing locations and updates. The police gun barrels and muzzles are vertical, lowered and facing downwards. This posture will not last.
Today, the plan is to head into Parliament, where a third reading of the Finance Bill is happening. The plan is to walk into the August House, where laws are made. By 2 p.m., the Bill sails through with a win of 195 votes against 106.
On TV screens, the atmosphere is changing. There are clouds of teargas now. Sirens overpowering screams. Water cannons layering skin in perpetual itch. Gunshots somewhere. The message is out: wamefanya ile kitu! I am angry. I am shocked. I am horrified. The gun barrels are now horizontal and on TV. The TV screen goes blank.
On the siblings’ group chat, we are worried and texting.
“Msikuje tao,” Sibling One says, stuck in South B or somewhere else off Mombasa Road.
“Sibling Two, we baki tu home na Sibling Four, we baki Juja!”
“Saa naenda wapi na huku tu ni gunshots?” Sibling Four says.
“Sibling Three, in case wastorm Chiromo, wewe lie low,” Sibling One says.
“Do not make noise, or threats. Wako trigger happy,” I add. “Ujifiche. Sawa?”
It takes nearly an hour for Sibling Three to reply. In the meantime, Parliament is stormed.
TV signal is still lost and only one TV station is reporting almost-live, but I would rather believe my peers. I check across apps. X. TikTok. Insta. I need info. There are reels and posts showing some parts of Parliament burning. How anyone got in and immediately started a fire, I do not know.
On my timeline though, the warning is clear. Tokeni tao. Ishieni. Wanaua watu. Please go home. Kenya ni a criminal state. Guys, please go home.
On the afternoon of June 25th, I learned that death is an action, a feeling, a calling, a taste, a silence, a witness even.
Fortunately, before 7 p.m., Sibling Three walks in. They were forced to share an overpriced Uber or a classmate’s relation had a car. Yes, form ilikuwa kupatana tao but a woman plans and her government, and the gods, laugh.
The morning of June 26th is synonymous with reliving a COVID-19 day. All we are talking about is death. Death on Parliament Road. Death along City Hall Way. Death in Githurai. Death in Ongata Rongai. Brain matter outside Parliament. A 12 year-old with eight bullet wounds. All we have for breakfast, lunch and supper is death. `
