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CITY GIRL: I will never forget day I was in the thick of a protest


I do not consider myself an adrenaline junkie. I am not the bungee jumping types that jumps over cliffs as if I have nothing to live for.

Okay, maybe I like to cycle 27km across the magnificently beautiful Hell’s Gate National Park with my friends or walk for 23km, from Enkasiti to Olooloitikosh (Kajiado), but that’s as far as my thrill seeking takes me.

I am just a simple curious cat. Which is why on Monday morning, when I sauntered to work shortly after 9am, I found the editor assigning my colleagues the stories of the day. As you already know by now, the big story on Monday was the Cord protests. I stood there as the editor shared the spoils among the journalists, clearly jumping me over.

In my usual kimbelembele fashion, I asked if I could go and cover the protests, seeing as nobody had asked me to go.

I have never covered demos and riots in my six short years as a journalist. Normally, I like to steer clear of trouble – well, save for this column. You know, write stories that will not get me arrested and questioned at the CID headquarters or worse, summoned before a tribunal to explain if I know the difference between the articles ‘the’ and ‘a’.

Occasionally, I am sent to the slums to do those woiyee stories – which I dread and maybe asked to cover one or two press conferences, which I find painfully boring. Or sometimes, I am asked to process poorly written press releases.

It is usually the interesting, society and social feature stories that turn me on.

I could see the look of concern on the poor editor’s face when I asked to go. “I will be fine,” I said, as I slipped into my flats. An hour later, I was basking in my own adrenaline along University Way, where the action was.

BABA’S ARRIVAL

I don’t know if you have ever been part of a demo, but it is the most electrifying experience. Oh, the power of group think! You think you are invincible, indefatigable and not even a bullet can kill your spirit. You are charged and ready to conquer this enemy called the government.

I could feel the zeal in the air. The verve was palpable, engulfing like a cat-five hurricane. My blood was getting hotter, my heart was doing backflips and my temple was pulsating like a weird underwater creature.

The air was thick with defiance, as the protestors taunted the police, chanting “tumemiss teargas”. They danced along the once busy highway with methodical caution – not too close to the police but also close enough to show them who is boss.

Finally, the moment we were all waiting for arrived. The arrival of Baba in his full glory, flanked by his human orbit of aides and sycophants. The legion of the cretinous busybodies mobbed him, waiting to hear from him.

The police assumed formation, locked their helmets, cocked their riot guns, fondled their teargas canisters and the mighty water cannons zoomed to life, ready to launch.

By this time, my colleague and I had crossed over from the Anniversary Towers gate to the University of Nairobi side where the GSU had formed a ring.

My colleague, a tough cookie and a veteran at covering these kind of fluid circumstances, told me “It’s better to be hit by a stone from the protestors than a bullet from GSU”. I’m sure she meant well, but those words will forever haunt me.

I don’t know when the first teargas canister was launched. The last thing I recall was flirting with a few GSU guys (it was important because I wanted them to remember me later). I had not finished explaining to them exactly what I do at Nation Media Group before a sea of humanity rushed towards me. I dropped my notebook and run for my life.

THE DRAMA

“Njoki kuja hivi (come this way, Njoki),” my colleague screamed. She was right behind the GSU officers who remained firm against the melee. Somehow, I found her. “Ukienda huko UoN utagongwa ushangae (if you go towards UoN, you’ll be beaten up),” she warned.

But I didn’t care. I cared more for the sting of the teargas on my face. My eyes were watery, my nose running and I was sneezing like a goat on cocaine. I’d lost my bottle of water – my only hope – and I was dying to rub my face, against the my colleague’s advice. Apparently, rubbing your face off teargas makes it worse.

The drama died, but only momentarily. I was telling my colleague how badly I needed to use the bathroom when a massive stone landed next to me, missing my head by inches. My first instinct was to bend and run towards the GSU, which I did.

Apparently, some of the protestors had jumped over to the university grounds and were throwing stones at the GSU.

“Wacha kurusha mawe wewe! Utagonga mama (stop throwing stones lest you hit her),” a GSU officer shouted as he held out his hand to me.

That, my readers, was the closest I have come to death. I took a decision that no story was worth my life (or head).

My respect for journalists who put their lives on the line to bring us such stories multiplied a hundred fold, and so should yours.

I thank God I returned to the newsroom in one piece, albeit with a full bladder pulsating in protest. The teargas has since worn off and I have stopped sneezing. My notebook is still missing.

That said, let it be known that I would rather eat my own shoes than come anywhere near a demonstration. Call me a coward, I don’t care, I have learnt my lesson.