Kamukunji Grounds at peace!
Today is Saba Saba.
Funny how it only stirs something when you say it in Swahili. Say “the seventh of July,” and most people will blink and move on. But say Saba Saba—and something activates. The air stiffens. Memory stirs. Passions rise. It’s not just a date. It’s a scar. A story. A mirror.
But this year feels… different.
No placards. No sirens. No leaders bellowing into aging microphones.
Just Kamukunji Grounds, wide and waiting under the Nairobi sun. And four strangers—young, unarmed, unbothered—walking in from the far corners of the country, like an accidental compass pointing to something new.
Amina, a tech innovator from Garissa, is here to install an open-source WiFi node for schoolchildren—just one part of a dream she calls ShujaaHub.
Kimani, grandson of a Mau Mau general, comes every year to this ground to remember. This time, he’s brought a drum.
Chebet, a spoken word artist from Kericho, carries only her voice. She’s debuting a piece called We Are Not the Lines Drawn On a Map.
And Odhiambo? A culinary artist from Kisumu. He’s lugged a pot of mbuta stew and enough ugali to feed whoever comes hungry—physically or otherwise.
None of them were invited. None needed to be.
The Convergence
They meet at the old fig tree. The one elders say heard the first whispers of resistance. There’s no programme. No emcee. Just offerings.
Amina sets up the WiFi and waves a small device at a group of kids chasing a flat ball across the dust. “Free Internet!” she calls out. They abandon the match without a second thought. Soon they’re gathered around her, learning how to upload stories to ShujaaHub.
Kimani sits cross-legged, eyes closed, and begins to beat the drum. Not in protest—but in memory. In rhythm. His feet trace slow movements from long ago—the kind the resistance once danced in caves and forests. A few children try to mimic him, limbs flailing in joy. The sound carries.
When he stops, Chebet rises. Tall. Graceful. Her voice slices through the air like truth:
“We came from the Rift and the Coast and the Mountain and the Lake
But what bound us was not land—it was longing.”
Silence falls. Not out of reverence—out of recognition.
Then Odhiambo ladles out stew, chatting up a boda boda rider from Kathonzweni who chuckles, “Aki, if I’d known this was happening, I’d have brought mangoes. Historic occasion, bana!”
People begin to gather. Not for a march. Not for a spectacle. But because it feels right. A girl types out her grandmother’s story—about how she survived the Emergency—then uploads it to ShujaaHub.
A teenage boy records Kimani’s drumbeat and makes it his ringtone. Then he airdrops it to anyone within Bluetooth range.
A city council cleaner joins Chebet’s chorus with an old hymn. Two uniformed police officers stop—not to disperse—but to listen. No slogans. No t-shirts. No hierarchy.
Just people. Just Kenyans.
Memory. Possibility. Stew.
On this day at Kamukunji, the ground remembered.
And maybe—just maybe—so does the country.
That the future of Kenya will not be shouted into existence.
It won’t be forced through manifestos or fists.
It will be made—quietly, defiantly, and together.
But that is vision 2030 – what happened to that blueprint by the way? On this saba saba day, we are on the edge of hope. Hoping that the memories from today will part of the poems in 2030 and beyond.
For now, I’m gobsmacked by Kenyans—and how much we mirror our politicians. We defy order like it’s a national sport. Last Friday, I was at the bank, ticket number in hand like a passport to the pearly gates, waiting my turn like a decent human being. Then in waddles a certain Kenyan—of notable presence—straight to the cheque counter. No ticket. No line. No shame.
I wasn’t going to let that fly.
I marched up to the counter and said, “Excuse me, I have a number. I’m in line.” Then I waved my hand across the banking hall like a prophet with a shepherd’s staff and declared, “All of us are waiting. One of us does not get to skip the wilderness.”
The woman looked at me calmly and said, “I’m only here to check my balance.”
“And I’m only here to shepherd my flock,” I replied. “But I’m ahead of you.”
She opened her mouth for a retort, but the people nearest the counter burst out laughing. I hadn’t meant to be funny—only to make a point. About ethics. About respect. About manners. About the kind of order that doesn’t need a uniform to enforce it.
Because weeh! This madness isn’t just at the top. It starts in the queues.
Muthoni Thangwa 