A Song of Protest || Amanda Nechesa

0

 

Image Credit: Unsplash

A Song of Protest

by Amanda Nechesa 



Sitasimama maovu yakitwalaaaa. 


Juliani’s Utawala is in the air. Everywhere there is a song of protest and Kavi finds herself becoming a singer. She has no idea where she got this voice from; she has worked so hard to keep it quiet—to be observant but not opinionated, to be passionate but not an activist. 


Now, however, something in the air has changed. As she continues reading the document on her phone, her anger bubbles, and when she tries to talk, her voice turns into a song of defiance. She sings it everywhere—to her followers on social media, to her friends when they come to visit, to her mother when she calls, to her mama mboga when she buys vegetables, to even herself as she showers. 


Because something in the air has changed, something, surely something in the country has to change too. There’s just so much that a country like Kenya can bear before the citizens reach the brink of breaking, and this was it. The economy has been declining steadily ever since the general elections in 2022 when the country decided to put that “man” into power. And now, with the bill Kavi is reading on her phone, she feels matters will only get worse. Wasn't it enough that she could barely afford her state of living at the moment? How was she, a young woman with nowhere to fall back to, expected to afford her expenses if the new bill came to pass? 


Hatuwezi endelea hivi. We cannot continue like this.


Her phone pings, and as she reads yet another headline of items that will be overtaxed, she feels suffocated in her seat, her whole body bubbling with unreleased tension. She needs to get out there, she decides. She needs to march, to protest, to sing her song even louder amongst her brothers and sisters—people who share this tightness in her chest with her. 


***


The day is Thursday. All around Kavi there is smoke. The girl beside her wearing a white crop-top is chanting something but Kavi cannot hear what. Her focus is on the armed police just a few steps from her. This is the first time she has ever been to something like this, and at first, the terror of what could happen almost made her abandon her singing.  


This changed the moment she was pushed into the thick of it. As she sang alongside her brothers and sisters, the fear slowly shaded itself from her body. What remains now is anger and frustration; and the more she glares at the police, the more her resentment rises. 


How can they threaten to harm them when they are merely practising their rights? It is injustice on top of the injustice, and they are all piling up into a huge mountain in Kavi’s throat. She finds it hard to swallow her voice.


Aende! Aende! 


The singing of the girl beside her finally reaches her ears, and Kavi joins in, fist in the air. 


Aende! Aende!


Time moves slowly when it happens. One second Kavi’s singing is occupying the air, the next second, the singing is replaced by a blast. Everyone around her suddenly gets wings. The dust, the smoke, the legs barely touching the tarmac—they all muffle together to form a new sound. The sound of freedom. 


Kavi’s eyes are like a bitter pool. The tears are running down her face rapidly and she wants to rub her nose badly. Her legs are moving fast along her brothers and sisters but because of the blurriness of the tears, she cannot see where she is going. She panics. Looking back is no option, standing still is neither; what happens now is movement, and so she moves. 


Someone grabs hold of her hand. She cannot see who it is, only flashes of white, but she is thankful. Whoever it is seems to know what they are doing; they move together amid the clamour for freedom. 


Her heart is nearly out of her chest when the person finally stops, forcing her to stop with them. She crouches, hands on her knees, catching her breath. When she rises, she recognizes the girl on the white crop-top who was beside her in the protest. 


“A–sa–nti!” she mutters between gasps of catching her breath.


“Karibu. That was crazy!” the girl says, and Kavi nods. 


The girl suddenly gets a bottle from her bag, hands it to Kavi. 


“For your eyes,” she says. 


Kavi silently takes the bottle, pours some water into her hand, and washes the bitterness out of her eyes. For a moment, when she feels relief, she thinks how easy it would have been if this is all that was needed—for someone to take water, pour it into the oppressed, and cleanse the bitterness out. 


“Asanti tena,” she says to the girl, who just smiles at her, “I’m Kavi.” 


“I’m Serah,” the girl says, holding out her hand. 


As Kavi shakes it, she takes a minute to really observe her. Serah, as she has just introduced herself, is a picture of freedom. Her hair—black and long dreadlocks—is tied loose in a bun; her white T-shirt, which she has paired with black tights, has the words “RejectTheFinaceBill” printed on one side and “Zakayo Shuka” on the other side in large red letters, and her face—dark, high cheekbones, brown eyes—is dripping with sweat. 


Beneath all these, there is something defiant about her. Kavi tries to place it—maybe it’s the way she smiles so calmly even though they have just been out of a mind-exhilarating experience? Or is it the way her eyes hold her, as if daring her to say fuck it to everything? Or is it the handshake? The softness of her hands is undeniable, but the grip with which she holds Kavi’s hands makes her think there is nothing soft about Serah. 


Whatever it is, it makes Kavi very intrigued and very scared; the kind of ‘scared’ that makes her think something about this encounter will change her whole life. 


“This must be your first march,” Serah says. 


“Yeah. Is it that obvious?” 


“Haha, yeah, very much,” Serah laughs. 


“Um, okay but -” Kavi starts to say but Serah cuts her off.


“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh like that. I mean, it’s very commendable that you came, you know?” 


“Yeah, I know. I am actually not much of an activist, but this time, I felt I had to be. Something about this shit, it’s not right.” 


“It’s bullshit, that’s what it is. We cannot keep silent anymore and I am so glad young people are waking up, you know? Embracing the country as their own.  That’s, I mean, that’s very powerful. Nimechoka na sisi being on the sidelines. We cannot allow this bill to pass, and that man, up in his state house, will be the downfall of us if we don’t do something about it. He cannot continue doing this to us, I mean, it’s time something changed!” 


Kavi feels the resistance in her heart rising with every word Serah says. She is right, this is not right. Her anger and frustration are coming back, and for the first time since they stopped, she takes a proper look at where they stopped. 


The street is less crowded; only one or two three people are passing by and all the shops are closed. A distance from them, she can still hear the singing continue, and she wants to join in again, but the smoke she sees in the air reminds her that this has ceased to be child’s play; this is the real deal. 


“Let’s go back,” she finds herself saying nonetheless, and she is yet again surprised by her voice.


Serah raises her eyebrows, shocked at what Kavi has blurted out. 


“Allrrrright, loving the energy. But first, let’s get some energy back into our system okay? We don’t want you falling again.” 


There is some teasing in Serah’s voice, and Kavi blushes, unable to hide the racing of her heart. She pretends to focus on the smoke in the air as Serah leads her to a shop. 


“We need glucose, water, and a mask and handkerchief for you.” 


Kavi just nods. She admits, she was in way over her head when she decided to come to protest without any company, and without any protection. If she hadn’t met Serah, who even knows what could have happened? 


They reach the first shop and find it closed like the rest. The second, the third, the fourth—they are no help either. They are almost giving up when suddenly they see a guy their age coming their way carrying a bottle of water on one hand and a protest banner on the other.  


“Hey, where did you get that?” Serah yells. 


“Just across the road, in some narrow passage beyond Tom Mboya. It’s not very far,” the guy shouts back. 


“Alright, thank you. And VIVA!” Serah says, holding her fist up in the air.


“VIVA! We must NOT STOP!” the boy replies, passion for the fight clear in his voice.


Somewhere within Kavi, the song of protest rises. She falls into step with Serah as they continue with their mission. Now that they have a clear destination in mind, they are more relaxed. They both breathe out, and Serah is the first to break the silence. 


“So what do you do?”


“I am an artist. Well, not really. I am an assistant to a painter, but one day I want to paint like them.” 


“Oh that’s impressive. I am sure you have all it takes.” Serah smiles, and there is a way her lips curve that make Kavi’s heart start to race again.


“What do you do?” she asks and shifts her eyes. 


“Well, you are actually in my office at the moment,” Serah says and laughs at her joke, “I am an activist and this is what I do. I fight, I live, and I fight again.” Serah replies, her eyes shining with pride. 


Kavi looks at her; at the passion displayed clearly in every aspect of her being, and for a second, she can see her face so clearly painted on a canvas. She wishes she had the talent to be the one painting her, but she has a feeling Serah would not care much either way if she was still an amateur. 


She parts her lips, ready to say something to Serah, when suddenly they realise they have reached the narrow passage the boy pointed them to. They sigh in relief.


***


The shop is 200 metres away, a mobile money agent outlet bearing a bold, green M-PESA print. Three middle-aged men are huddled around the shop, saying something to themselves or trying to buy something.


Kavi and Serah pay them no attention as they draw closer to the shop. Almost 50 metres away now. Kavi walks, Serah walks. One of the men turns around. Kavi recognizes him.


Coming for the protest, she might not have paid much attention to what she should carry, but she’s surely paid enough attention to the police’s faces to recognize any of them anywhere. He is now in civilian clothes, but there was no mistaking the right scar across his face. It is definitely that police officer she saw earlier in the protest! 


Kavi freezes. Before she can alert Serah on what is happening, the officer looks up, spots them. His eyes go hard. Kavi watches with bated breath as he signals the other two men, and when they turn, and she recognizes all three faces, the ground comes to a standstill. 


It all happens in a matter of three seconds, but to Kavi, several lifetimes seem to have passed. First, Serah puts two and two together fast. She looks at Kavi, Kavi looks at her. They pass the message with their eyes. Second, the officers look at each other. They pass the message with their eyes.


Third comes the run; Serah grabs Kavi’s hand, firm and strong, and they turn back, ready to acquire wings and attempt to fly themselves into freedom. The three are behind them, shouting commands Kavi and Serah cannot get themselves to follow.


Suddenly, there is a blast. And there is darkness. 


***


The time is 9:00 PM and the country is counting its losses. Everywhere there is a song of grief. The eyes are glued to the screens, the hands clutching the hearts. The headline in the news read:  Over fifty young protesters died today in the protests. Over fifty!


The country moans. As they display the names on the screen, one name stands out to a listener, deep in her grief, and she gasps. 


Kavi, Kavi, Kavi.


Serah sings as she lets one tear drop. 




Amanda Nechesa

Amanda Nechesa is a writer and poet from Nairobi, Kenya. She has work published or forthcoming in Brittle Paper, Isele Magazine, Kalahari Review, Efiko Magazine, Qwani, The Kenyan Standard Newspaper, and elsewhere. She is also an in-house writer for Qazini Magazine.

When she’s not writing, you’ll find Amanda in places she’s not supposed to be, looking for a muse. Find her on twitter @little_nirvanas and Instagram @amanda_nechesa


Post a Comment

0Comments
Post a Comment (0)
Fiery Scribe Review