18th June: We are collecting our anger(s). Our criticism of the government is still laced with humor – some light, some morbid – but we cope. The mood of my country is in one accord. Everyone in Kenya is bantering about the finance bill; it should be rejected, most people say. Dennis, a friend in Uganda, sends me a TikTok clip of our president citing Scripture that I later confirm he has misquoted. I wave away Dennis’s clip by sending back a laughing emoji. He writes back, “Kakati, you guys have a good president. He even knows the bible.” His response veers me to a different feeling, a furious one. I want to lash out at his ignorance. I want to scold him for believing in the demeanor our president wears whenever he stands on public podiums. “Ssebo, he is a liar….LIAR,” I tell my friend, hoping the capital letters will stress that this man we have as a president is deceiving. So deceiving but not smart enough; we the people are already cracking through his lies. Dennis and I chat more and more and more about the situations in our countries.
25th June: I have never been to any protest until this day. A poster is passed around: wear black, carry a flag, a handkerchief and a bottle of water. I do exactly that. I get to town at around 9 a.m. but head first to a friend’s office. I want to do some work before joining other protestors in the streets. I should let you know that on this day our fury is brimming. We are all breathing fire. Inhale. Exhale. It’s rage. More expositions have been done. Of the elites squandering public resources. Of their embezzlement of project funds. Of their disregard for our demands, thinking them negligible. Our numbers, however, are growing. Many have declared that, whatever it takes, we shall die for our country, and so shall it be. From my friend’s office I look down the street. I observe how slow the city is. The normal shrieks of the road are absent; I can’t hear the honking of onrushing motorists; it is not business as usual. I log into X, scroll and scroll through tweets by comrades. It is apparent that today is going to be bigger, hopefully better. #RutoMustGo trends. I tweet the same hashtag. I want him to go so bad. My reason is common: we want good governance.
*
Before the 18th, before the 25th, before June, before 2024, we had a general election in 2022. I was based in Uganda then but keenly followed events happening back home. I had been in Uganda for about four years. My longing for home was too great to ignore. On most evenings I would walk along the streets of Kabalagala to Kansanga then climb up and down the hills leading to Bunga and at times extending to Ggaba. These walks were deliberate. Being an emerging writer, I had borrowed this proclivity from the likes of A.K. Kaiza, Kiprop Kimutai, Emmanuel Iduma, Billy Kahora and other writers who had enforced in me, through their interviews or essays, that long walks had a way of enhancing the imagination. On every walk I carried a notebook. I recorded events, scribbled poems and convinced myself that I was connecting with nature, the same nature that gives context to stories. While in Kampala I endeavored to visit as many literary events as I could, mostly frequenting readings at Goethe-Zentrum and meetings at the Femrite collective.
I had familiarized myself with Kampala by the frequent use of SafeBoda, which was relatively affordable and also dependable, especially for one who didn’t speak Luganda. This is how I got to acquaint myself with the Kenyan community in Uganda, finding my compatriots here and there by motorcycle taxi, and this is how I learnt that there was a polling station at the Kenya High Commission in Kololo. It was there that I registered to vote. All that remained was for me to wait for Voting Day: 08-08-2022.
I am an impatient type. Having seen how long the queues can be, I assumed that this would be the case even at the embassy in Kampala. This meant that on the appointed day I braved through the dawn cold, having cut my sleep short by some hours, so that I was at the polling station by 5 a.m. I voted and interacted somewhat with the other Kenyans who walked in to cast their ballots, but then we got dispersed by security people who did not want a crowd to grow. We had to leave, many of us convinced that our favorite candidate, not for me the one who would be declared the victor, was going to win. The wait began: minutes stretched into hours, hours into a day, then two days during which anxiety took hold of me. I would stay up late streaming the vote counting that was happening at the Bomas of Kenya. I watched the figures change gradually. I saw four election commissioners walk out of the tallying center, refuting the figures by the commission. At this sight I lost faith. Faith in the eventual outcome. Faith in the possibility of a better government. Faith that my preferred candidate was going to win. When the results were announced, some days later, I, we, had lost. I sulked in my tiny room in Kabalagala, kicked saucepans around, and, in a hurting voice, cursed what had become of us. Kenya, I felt, had lost once again.
When the squander of resources resumed, and the embezzlement of funds continued, I wasn’t surprised. When bwana rais appointed clueless, narcissistic leaders into vital positions, I laughed at those who believed in his ability to be a good leader for Kenya. When he went on to forcefully impose bills onto the citizens, I grew angry but conceded my fate, knowing that the good president depends very much on the deadly arsenal of state machinery. But this would only take him far. We the people would soon exact our revenge.
*
And so, on 25th June, as I stand in a friend’s office by the window, leaning in, squinting my eyes to watch the streets, I feel pride swell in me. I am doing this for my country, a voice in my head says. I walk sluggishly around the office, mumbling, reciting a line that I vaguely remember reading somewhere else: To Kenya, my first truest love … I pause, walk to my friend’s desk and scribble lines which even now remain incomplete. While writing those lines, I am not sure whether they amount to a song, a poem or an epistle to Kenya. Nothing is clear to me except that I am positively prejudiced, that we are trapped, and that, later in the day, we will be collectively wounded.
During the protest we chant in celebration of our patriotism. We hoist the flags we have carried. We dance in the streets, making rounds through the central business district. No violence. No ulterior motive. The message is one: #RutoMustGo. We block those trying to destroy property. We do Instagram lives, make TikTok videos, take photos, do some of the things that can prove once upon a time we poured into the streets to try to salvage our country. Near the central police station they throw teargas at us. The bold ones among us throw the canisters back at the police. Police officers laugh at what they think is a game, laugh so hard that they tilt their heads as we disperse for safety. To them the fight for a better country is a game. Sad! As the sun goes down, we use its last splits as our alarm to end our day. We separate. Everyone should go home. This government does obscene things in the dark, a faceless leader instructs.
At night, back in my house, I follow the intense shootings at Githurai. I panic at every gunshot that pierces the air through my screen. I hear frantic voices pleading not to be shot. Bwana rais doesn’t call off the shootings. Many are killed. The numbers are downplayed. I text Dennis, “Is he still a good president?” But before he responds I turn off my data in an attempt to dissociate from this reality. I am sore. I am wounded. Tears spell my face. In my notebook I write: Kenya’s spine is breaking; the president is making sure of this.
29th June: My book club meets up for our monthly meeting. We have been reading The Shadow King by Maaza Mengiste. We elevate our discussion of the book to accommodate the current situation in Kenya. We follow through the violences during a liberation struggle. We question whether we really know the taste of freedom. We push back to examine whether we are winning or actually losing. We make certain deductions, mostly basing on a particular question: Will this moment fizzle out without achieving anything?
We decide that we shall meet up on a designated date to have a Yoga session. Y, a member who happens to be a yoga instructor, accepts to give us a free session. Maybe all that we need in a period of oppression is to realize that all we have is one another. And to this we clasp our hands and, in a chorus, utter a loud Amen.▪
Cover image: Illustrated for TWR by Farouq Ssebaggala